ALEXANDER FUCKING TURNER

⊘ 18+ ⊘

[angleafterangel]

˖ ݁.✧ meet me ˖⋆。⟡‧˚ masterlist ˚‧。⊹ ²ⁿᵈ blog ⋆꙳.⟡

masterlist

All my smutty little stories about Alex Turner. None of them are connected—just different vibes, different years, same obsession.

Hiding Tonight (2011)

≈2.6k words. Angst. Ex-lovers. Goodbye letter. Emotional heartbreak. No smut.

My Mistakes Were Made For You (2008)

≈5.4k words. Angst. Bandmates to lovers. Guilt/passion/cheating tension. Oral sex.

She's Thunderstorms (2010)

≈4.2k words. Established couple. Somnophilia. Reunion sex.

Miracle Aligner (2016)

≈4.4k words. Angst. Drug use/OD scare. No smut.

I Wanna Be Yours (2011)

≈ 4.3k words. Romantic smut. Friends-to-lovers.

505 (2019)

≈ 5.3k words. Angst-heavy smut. Cheating / Ex-lovers / Hotel affair. Bittersweet.

Sweet Dreams, TN (2016)

≈ 2.1k words. Playful smut. Reunion / Long-distance. Light-hearted.

Arabella (2013)

≈ 2.4k words. Glamorous smut. One-night stand / Strangers-to-lovers. Rockstar fantasy.

Do Me a Favour (2005)

≈ 5k words. Angst / Breakup. Emotional heartbreak. Established relationship. No smut.

She Does The Woods (2016)

≈ 3.8k words. Threesome smut. MMF / Festival hook-up. Casual.

You’re So Dark (2014)

≈ 1.7k words. Dark & teasing smut. Hate-sex / Power play. Rough & intense.

Temptation Greets You Like Your Naughty Friend (2013)

≈ 4.7k words. Seductive smut. Teasing / Hotel rendezvous. Slow-burn tension.

Dangerous Animals (2009)

≈ 2.3k words. Intimate & tender smut. Domestic / Established couple. Passionate.

More coming soon… probably when I should be doing something more productive.

⚠︎ All stories are explicit (+18).

Themes may include explicit sex, unsafe sex, alcohol use, smoking, and occasional violence.

𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊’𝓇𝑒 𝓈𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝒶 𝓈𝓉𝓊𝓃𝓃𝑒𝓇

𝒮𝑒𝓃𝒹 𝓊𝓈 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝓈𝑒𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓇𝑒𝒹

𝐿𝑒𝓉’𝓈 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇

[angleafterangel]

˖ ݁.✧ meet me ˖⋆。⟡‧˚ masterlist ˚‧。⊹ ²ⁿᵈ blog ⋆꙳.⟡ ˖

meet me

frizzy hair, shabby tattoos, fucking awesome sunnies, cute little bows… and a fucking sick unhinged obsession for alex turner.

hi, i’m lola (she/her, 25). i’ve been lurking on here for a while, and finally decided to show my face.

i’m actually gonna ramble because my brain is a mess but here goes:

i love my cats, i love music, i love to write—and em dashes. the colour black. pasta and potatoes in every shade and shape (inclusivity). the beach, and make-up. and i love rewatching films i’ve already seen. i wish i’d been born one or two decades earlier. i love glasses and sunglasses—and yeah, that’s how i make a living.

i’m constantly making up scenarios in my head just to survive the day, and i could spend hours watching people’s hands—they actually tell you so much about them.

and i fucking love the word fuck. like, deeply. to fuck, fuck you, fuck off, fuck me, fucking hell, you fucking fuck, what the fuck, for fuck’s sake, fuck this, fuck that, fuck everything, i’m fucked…

not much left sadly. i’m as deep as a puddle

anyway, nice to meet you

Meet the plonkers: nike & frijol

[angleafterangel]

I fucking love my pinterest feed

[angleafterangel]

˖ ݁.✧ meet me ˖⋆。⟡‧˚ masterlist ˚‧。⊹ ²ⁿᵈ blog ⋆꙳.⟡

≈2.6k words. Angst. Ex-lovers. Goodbye letter. Regret / Forgiveness / Nostalgia. Emotional heartbreak. No smut.

Hiding Tonight (2011)

"𝐸𝓋𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽 𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇'𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝓂𝓈, 𝓌𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃'𝓉 𝓃𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝓅𝓁𝒶𝒸𝑒"

The envelope rested on the mat, slipped through the letterbox while he slept. Alex knew it was hers the instant his gaze fell upon it—that familiar, restless slant of the handwriting, at once precise and fevered. Pale morning light slanted through the tall sash windows, glinting off the paper as he turned it slowly in his hands. On impulse, he raised it to his face: faint dandelions, chilled skin, the lingering trace of her pulse at the wrist. A sharp contraction tightened in his chest—an old ache resurfacing.

There was no time to indulge it. The day unfurled before him, relentless as a northern moorland road: interviews tethered to the new score, the slick machinery of promotion that still chafed like ill-cut tailoring. He placed the letter on the hall table with deliberate care and stepped out into the damp London streets. The city was already in motion, its pulse indifferent—buses sighing across glistening tarmac, market stalls clattering to life, the slate-grey sky pressing down.

All day it smouldered against him, a quiet ember lodged beneath his ribs, drawing his thoughts back to the silent flat. Amid polished answers about soundtracks and spectral northern influences and the peculiar dislocation of feeling weathered at twenty-five, his mind kept slipping toward that unopened missive. He delivered the expected half-smiles for the cameras, nodded in rhythm, spoke with measured restraint of transmuting another’s story into sound. Yet the letter exerted its own gravity, an undertow beneath the surface calm.

Part of him yearned to abandon the schedule mid-sentence, to hasten home and tear it open amid the familiar confines of his walls. The wiser part—the one that had learned the cost of rushing certain ghosts, of letting them spill too soon into the daylight—counselled patience.

He carried the weight through sterile sound checks and stilted pleasantries, through the acrid remnants of cold coffee and the ceaseless murmur of London traffic, through brief squalls of rain that traced erratic paths down his car's windshield.

By evening, when he finally turned the key, the city’s grey had surrendered to a deeper indigo. Rain had turned the pavements to mirrored obsidian, fracturing the glow of sodium lamps. The flat received him with its familiar hush—the unmistakable scent of old books and the humming of the fridge. He poured a careful measure of whisky, its glass cool and heavy in his palm, lit a cigarette from the crumpled packet on the counter, and retreated to the armchair that bore the long imprint of solitary vigils. The turntable stood ready, a record already poised upon it—something languid and smoke—from another era. He set the needle down, let the crackle breathe into the room like an old friend clearing its throat, then retrieved the envelope. The seal gave way under his thumb with a crisp, decisive rip.

The paper unfolded with a soft resistance. Not the sheet itself, but everything she had decided to lay across it—the weight of months, perhaps years, of turning memories over in her hands.

He began to read.

My dearest Al,

I hope this finds you well. I hope the songs are coming easier these days and the weight of everything isn't pressing too hard on you. I've started this letter more times than I can count, only to fold it away again. Today I finally let it stay.

I think of our beginning quite a lot these days. I close my eyes and I see — and almost can feel — your hand closing over mine across that Gino's white tablecloth, already stained burgundy from the glass you knocked over the moment I came through the door. You were proper lost, love. Mouth half-open, words scattered somewhere between the salt cellar and the flickering candle. I thought, right, this is going to be one of those evenings that ends with polite smiles and separate taxis home. Awkward as new boots on unfamiliar feet.

But after Edoardo brought you another measure, and then another, something inside you loosened. Your thoughts spilled out raw and sideways — the shapes of songs not yet written, the way certain streets carried memories that weren't even yours. I sat there with my fork hovering, wine warming between my fingers, and felt the sudden pull: the desire to crawl inside that mind of yours and stay there for a while, seeing how everything connected. That was the moment I started falling. Or at least the moment I can still taste now, years later. Not fireworks. Just the quiet click of two odd-shaped keys turning in the same lock.

God, we were young.

I need to tell you I'm sorry.

Sorry I didn't say how much I loved you when the words still came easy. Sorry for the nights I turned deranged, picking fights until everything frayed. Sorry for keeping you up until the small hours — fucking or shouting or crying into your neck — only for you to drag yourself to the studio the next morning wrecked. Sorry I didn't respect you better when you tried to hold things steady. Sorry for being such a capricious mess, swinging between moods and pushing you away then pulling you back. Sorry I never tried hard enough to fit in with your family, sitting at their table feeling like I didn't belong and making sure you felt it too. Sorry for every time my insecurity dragged you down with me, convinced you didn't want me enough. Sorry for the times I made you choose between me and the work when I knew how much it mattered. And sorriest for dragging the ending out so long that I started treating you like the problem, because by then I'd begun resenting you for still being the best thing that ever happened to me.

So here I am, asking for forgiveness in that selfish way people do when they already know they don't deserve it

When I tried to understand where it all began to rot, I kept coming back to four things. I'm laying them out as honestly as I can after all this time.

He leaned back, pulse quickening against his ribs, a hard knot lodged in his throat that refused to dissolve.

First — the pills I never took, and the way I pushed you away when you went quiet.

I'd gone to the doctor during one of those low patches where everything felt underwater and getting out of bed took real effort. They gave me something to steady the anxiety. I took it for a short while and it helped — the days felt lighter, the relationship was in a good spell, so I told myself I didn't need it anymore. I stopped the tablets and dropped the therapy. Stupid. Because when the next low came, it hit harder than before. But worse than the drop itself was what I did with it. When you came home quiet, needing space to think after the studio, I couldn't let you have it. I pushed. I filled the silence with demands and accusations, convinced your stillness meant I was losing you. I punished the very quiet that let you create the music I loved so much. That was mine. All mine.

Alex lowered the page to his knee. The cigarette had consumed itself in the ashtray, leaving a frail tower of ash that trembled with the slightest vibration, so he lit another. The music now grated, each note brushing too close to raw nerves. He rose, crossed the room, and lifted the needle. Silence descended, profound and watchful, pierced only by the distant thrum of the city far below.

He could see her as if she sat opposite him on the worn rug—knees drawn up beneath her chin, fingers twisting the hem of one of his old jumpers, that volatile mix of shame and steel in her eyes. The way her mouth would press thin and she swallowed before she forced the difficult words out. The faint tremor in her voice before the difficult truths emerged. He pinched the bridge of his nose, holding back the pressure that hovered just short of tears.

Alex remained standing for a moment in the newfound silence. The flat felt larger somehow, the shadows in the corners deeper as in old photographs. He returned to the armchair, picked up the letter again, and turned the page with measured care—the paper whispering against his fingers.

The second belongs mostly to you — the way the work swallowed you until there was almost nothing left for anything else, including yourself.

You threw yourself into it completely. Studio sessions stretching into days, tours bleeding into months, the constant pull of the next idea, the next deadline, the next stage that demanded everything. You disappeared so deeply into that world that you stopped noticing what you yourself needed — proper rest, quiet mornings, time that wasn't measured by songs or schedules. The relationship became something you tried to fit into the gaps between commitments rather than something you protected with the same attention. I know it wasn't cruelty. It was the shape of your days and the drive that made you who you are. But it still left gaps between us that grew wider, and I didn't know how to bridge them without making everything worse. That distance was yours, and mine was the way I reacted to it.

The third belongs to both of us — the way we never learned to do the ordinary, grinding work that might have let us last.

We were brilliant at the intensity — the late nights talking until the birds started, the desperate closeness. But we never got good at the quiet mornings after. We didn't build the small habits that keep love alive when the spark dims: sitting with the difficult conversations until we actually heard each other, forgiving before resentment set in, checking in even when we were tired or distracted. We planned forever in grand moments but never put in the steady effort it takes to make something last through ordinary days and hard seasons. That failure sits on both of us.

Alex’s mouth twitched with bittersweet recognition. He could conjure her so sharply: that untamed spark in her eyes, her laughter filling the car like music. He had loved it fiercely once, that wild vitality of hers that turned ordinary days into fleeting odysseys. The memory carried the faint scent of motorway service station coffee, cigarette smoke curling from the open window, and the symphony was her voice singing along to whatever tape was playing.

And the last point — the one that feels like the root of everything — is nobody's fault.

We were simply too young and too raw when we found each other. We loved fiercely and messily, but we didn't have the experience or the tools to make it endure. We met at the wrong time in our lives. Two odd souls who clicked perfectly but didn't yet know how to love without breaking things along the way. That one just is.

Alex tapped the ash carefully into the tray. He observed the slight smudge where her hand might have rested too long, the ink catching the light in places where the pen had pressed harder. The thought brought a quiet ache, grounded and ordinary: the slow realisation that they had both been clumsy architects of their own undoing, young and fiercely certain they had time to fix what they kept breaking.

I'm sorry, Al. For my part in all of it. For the pills I abandoned, for pushing when I should have waited, for letting resentment grow where patience should have lived. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. The one who made the world feel like somewhere I might actually belong. I hate that we let it twist. I hate that we were too young and too proud and too certain we had time.

It wasn't anger that rose in him reading this—only a lucid, bone-deep weariness, the clarity that arrives when one confronts a mirror long avoided. The easy deflection, the instinct to keep things moving forward with a joke or a change of subject rather than wade into the murk of her darker days. It had seemed kind at the time, a way to protect what they had from sinking. Now it read as careless, a quiet failure of presence.

In his mind she leaned forward slightly from her spectral place on the rug, her expression softening as if watching him absorb the words. He blinked once, hard, pushing back against the sting, and kept going.

I hope you can forgive me. I know you will, because you've always had that rare kind of mercy in you — the one that could look at someone's worst and still remember the best of them.

I'm still struggling to forgive myself for the parts I broke beyond repair. Some nights the weight of it sits heavy and I don't know how to set it down. But I'm trying, every single day, even when it's hard.

If you've read this far, thank you. I won't ask you to write back. I just needed you to know that I see the beauty and the mess now. The pure love we carried. Maybe that's enough. Maybe it has to be.

Take care of yourself, love. Write the songs only you can write. Be the strange, brilliant man I fell for all those years ago. I'll be doing the same, somewhere down the line.

Always,

Arabella

The words settled deep behind his sternum, a calibrated pressure that momentarily robbed him of breath. The prickle behind his eyes came without the slow build he might have braced against—sudden and helpless, like rain breaking after a long, heavy sky. The first tear slipped free, tracing a hot path down his cheek, followed immediately by others. He pressed the heel of one hand hard against his eyes, but it only seemed to loosen the knot further. A quiet, shuddering breath escaping as the tears fell onto the page in dark constellations. He let them come. For once, he surrendered to it entirely—no deflection into nicotine haze, no retreat into another record, no restless motion to deflect the ache.

She lingered in his imagination, perched lightly on the arm of the facing chair now, regarding him with quiet empathy. Her fingers twitched as if wanting to reach across the space between them but holding back, giving him the room to feel it fully. He could almost discern the faint floral ghost of her shampoo, the subtle bloom that once clung to linens long after she'd left the bed in the mornings.

Alex sat motionless for a long while after the final line, the tears still slipping silently before slowing to a stop. He made no immediate move to wipe them away, letting the salt dry in faint, uneven tracks against his skin.

Eventually he stood, legs a little unsteady, and crossed to the window. He looked out over the rain-slicked streets below, the city lights fractured and shimmering in puddles, the occasional car passing with its tyres hissing softly on the wet road. No grand gestures came to him. No sudden catharsis or dramatic resolution. Just the quiet, messy knowledge that certain loves refuse tidy conclusions; they simply change shape, settling deep into the marrow for a long time—if not forever. He thought of all the small, deeply human ways they had failed each other—the missed bridges, the unspoken needs, the youthful certainty that intensity alone could sustain them—and yet somehow, in the middle of it all, they had built something worth remembering.

Eventually, he emptied the untouched whisky into the sink with a quiet resignation. Some wounds no longer required numbing. With meticulous care, he refolded the letter, his fingertips tracing the creases one final time. Then he went to bed, the faint scent of dandelion still clinging to his nostrils, and the taste of salt lingering on his lips.

[angleafterangel]

˖ ݁.✧ meet me ˖⋆。⟡‧˚ masterlist ˚‧。⊹ ²ⁿᵈ blog ⋆꙳.⟡

≈5.4k words. Emotional angst. BF/bandmates to lovers. MM first-time encounter in the studio. Oral sex. Guilt/passion/desire.

My Mistakes Were Made for You (2008)

The morning light in Arabella's Shoreditch flat arrived like it always did in February: flat, stubborn, the colour of pale, frosted silver. It slipped between the curtains and settled on the scattered clothes, the rumpled sheets and her Leica bag hanging on the door handle.

They woke up tangled, still heavy with sleep. Alex pressed his face into the warm crook of her neck and breathed her in. When he shifted on top of her, it felt less like fucking and more like continuing a dream. He moved slowly, almost lazily, hips rolling in a rhythm that matched the rain tapping against the window. Arabella’s fingers traced idle patterns down his spine, sometimes digging in when pleasure hit intensely, sometimes softening as if she was soothing him. She came with a surprised little exhale against his mouth. That made him go crazy—a sharp, sudden rush that pulled him under. He followed shortly after, burying himself deep and staying there, trembling slightly.

“Morning,” she said, soft and a little amazed, still catching her breath. “Waking up feeling this good this early…” She trailed off with a small, pleased sound. He just smiled and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

Her head rested on his bicep now, dark hair fanned across his arm and neck, one leg hooked over his. For a stretch of minutes, it felt uncomplicated, the kind of easy warmth that made reality fade into the background—the city beyond the window might as well have been on another planet.

She traced idle circles on his stomach with her fingertip. "You're miles off," she said quietly, not accusing, just noting it.

He exhaled a short breath, half-laugh. "Studio's in my head, that's all. There's a vocal on this song that keeps sitting wrong. Miles reckons we need to swap the mic again, see if we can get it less... I don't know," he huffs.

Arabella shifted, propping her chin on his sternum so she could meet his eyes. Hers were sharp, watchful. "Half eight in the morning and you're already weighing microphone choices. Brilliant."

She said it with the faint smile she often wore when teasing him about the record, the one that usually ended with her pulling him closer. But this time the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. Alex felt it—the small fracture line opening between them—and tried to paper over it the way he usually did.

"Come on, it's not like that," he murmured, running his hand down her bare back. "We're right in the thick of it. Everything feels urgent."

She paused, letting the quiet hang between them, then rose onto one elbow. "Fancy Columbia Road today? The flower market's on. We could stroll down afterwards, find a spot by the canal if the weather holds. Just a real day off, no schedules."

She said it casually enough, but Alex felt the weight behind it. She'd been dropping these gentle plans more often lately, testing the water. He kept his tone light, Sheffield vowels slipping through as they did when he was trying not to sound harsh. "Sounds decent, that. But the string players are booked for two. I need to be there early, get the arrangements locked in before Miles starts pacing holes in the carpet."

Arabella nodded once, slowly. She reached for the cigarettes on the nightstand, lit one, and took a long drag. The smoke curled toward the ceiling. "Right. Course you do."

She passed him the cigarette; he took it, relieved to have anything other than her disappointed eyes to focus on.

"I'm not blowing you off," he said after a moment. "You know how it is when you're in the middle of something like this. It eats your whole head."

She watched him smoke, her expression carefully neutral. "Yeah, I do know. I've watched it eat your head for a while now. Every time we get close to making actual plans, the studio wins. And I sit here like a lemon, rearranging my own shit around your availability."

Alex handed the cigarette back. He sat up against the headboard, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "Arabella, come on. I'm not trying to make you feel like that."

"Aren't you?" Her voice stayed low, but the edge was there now, honed from weeks of swallowing it down. "Because it's starting to feel like I'm the warm body you slot in when the band's not demanding every second. You turn up, you're funny, you look at me like I matter, we fuck, and then you're gone again. Even when you're physically here."

He felt the first prick of defensiveness. Guilt was already there, thick and all too familiar, but so was the exhaustion of trying to split himself in two. "That's not fair. I told you right at the start this wasn't going to be straightforward. The record's the biggest thing I've ever done. Me and Miles, we're living in that studio. It's not neglect, it's just... the work's got its teeth in me right now."

She stubbed the cigarette out, harder than needed. "Nice way of saying you've got time for me when it suits you. I cancelled a shoot yesterday because you said you might be free in the afternoon. Then you texted at three saying you were still tracking guitars or whatever." She paused for dramatic effect. "Again."

Alex rubbed his face with both hands. At first, the apology came easily, because part of him knew she was right. "I'm sorry. Genuinely. I hate that I keep doing this to you. Once we've got these tracks down properly, it'll ease off. I swear."

For a second, she softened, looking at him with something close to hope. But then she shook her head. "I'm not some idiot who doesn't understand ambition, Alex. I left my town for this big city when I was eighteen. I get pouring everything into what you love. But I can't keep being the person who waits around feeling like an afterthought. It's starting to make me resent you, and I don't want that."

The resentment comment landed like a spark on dry tinder. Alex felt his jaw tighten. He'd come here straight after a long night at the studio, chosen her bed over crashing at his own place, which was closer, and still it wasn't enough. The guilt twisted into frustration.

"I'm doing my best here," he said, raising his voice ever so slightly. "You think I like feeling pulled in half? The band's relying on me, Miles is relying on me, and every decision feels like it could sink the whole thing. I come here to switch off for a bit, not to get another bollocking."

Arabella's eyes flashed, a wry smile crossed her face—that stupid smile that always threw him off balance, annoying, but impressing him all at once. "A bollocking? That's what you call me asking for one full day where I don't feel like I'm competing with a fucking microphone?"

She stood up, wrapping the sheet around herself, suddenly looking smaller and more exposed. Alex got out of bed too, reaching for his boxers. The room felt colder now; the intimacy of an hour ago—hell, of just a few minutes ago—had already faded.

"I said I was sorry," he muttered, pulling on his jeans. "What more do you want?"

"I want you to actually mean it instead of using it as a full stop so you can get back to the studio quicker." Her voice more shrill, frustration cracking through. "You're so fucking charming when you want to be, Alex. You say the right things, you make me laugh, you make me feel good. Then you disappear into that world of yours and I'm left wondering if any of it was real or just convenient."

He yanked his shirt over his head, buttons half-done. "Convenient? Jesus Christ. I'm not some prick using you for a shag and a nap. I like you. Really. But right now the record's swallowing me whole and I don't know how to do both properly. If that's not enough for you, then maybe we should just call it."

The words came out sharper than he intended, born of tiredness and the sting of being seen too clearly. Arabella stared at him, cheeks flushed.

"Maybe we should," she said quietly, though her eyes were bright with angry hurt. "Because I'm not going to keep shrinking myself so you can feel less guilty about choosing the studio every single time."

Alex grabbed his boots, shoving his feet in without sitting down, almost tripping over. The anger sat hot in his chest now, mixed with regret he didn't have the patience to unpack. "Fuck! You want me to pick? I can't. Not today. Not this week. I've got work to do." And, just like that, he was already choosing.

He pulled on his coat by the door, the argument ringing in his ears. She stood in the middle of the room, sheet clutched tight, looking equal parts furious and wounded. For a second he almost stepped back toward her, but the frustration won.

"I'll ring you later," he said tightly.

"Don't bother," she shot back.

She closed the door behind him harder than necessary, the sound echoing down the stairwell as he descended. Outside the air was damp and heavy with the threat of rain. Alex lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, inhaled deeply, and started walking toward his car, jaw clenched. Behind him, in the flat, Arabella sank onto the edge of the bed and let out a long, shaky breath, the kind that came when you realised you'd pushed someone you cared about.

The row had left them both raw, neither fully right, neither fully wrong—just two people caught in the uncomfortable space where real life refused to bend around good intentions.

The studio in Dalston felt like a bunker cut off from the rest of London, especially on a damp, grey day like today. The kind of place where the outside world shrank to a distant hum—traffic on Kingsland Road, the occasional siren, nothing that could compete with the low thrum of amps and the click of tape machines. Alex arrived later than usual, coat still damp from the walk from the car park, carrying the morning's row with Arabella like a bruise he couldn't hide. His shoulders were tight, his mind replaying her words in loops; the way her voice had cracked just enough at the end, making him feel like the greatest villain in this story. She felt convenient. Like an afterthought

He pushed the heavy door open and stepped into the control room. The smell hit him first—stale cigarette smoke, instant coffee, warm electronics, and that faint metallic tang from the guitar strings. The engineer, a quiet bloke called Rick, nodded at him without much ceremony. Miles was already there, perched on a stool with his Gibson across his lap, picking out a riff that sounded jagged and alive.

"Alright?" Miles said, glancing up. His Scouse accent wrapped around the word like it always did, casual but observant. He clocked Alex's face immediately. "You look haunted, mate."

Alex dropped his bag by the sofa and sank into it, rubbing his temples. "Rough morning. Nothing a cup of coffee can't fix," he lied.

But of course, it didn't. During the first couple of hours it gnawed at him while they worked. The band filtered in one by one—the drummer, James, cracking jokes about last night's hangover; the bassist, Steph, quietly setting up his rig. They dove back into 'The Chamber,' the track that had been tormenting them for days. Miles wanted it darker, more unpolished, like it had been dragged through gravel, he said. Alex pushed for clarity in the vocal, something that cut through the noise without losing its ache.

They ran the song six, seven times. Sweat started to bead on foreheads. Miles paced the live room between takes, guitar slung low, gesturing wildly with one hand. "No, no—let's strip the reverb right back on the bridge."

Alex leaned into the mic, headphones clamped on, and tried again. His voice came out rougher than usual, frayed at the edges from the argument and the lack of proper sleep. Every time he hit the high note on the chorus, he felt Arabella's eyes on him from memory, that mix of hurt and anger. It bled into the performance. Miles noticed, shot him a quick thumbs-up through the glass after one particularly raw take.

By late afternoon the string players arrived—two violinists and a cellist who looked mildly terrified of the controlled chaos. They spent a painstaking hour layering the arrangement, Miles and Alex huddled over the console, debating swells and dynamics. The work was intense, all-consuming. For stretches it pushed everything else out: the fight, the guilt, the way Arabella had stood there wrapped in a sheet looking small and hurt, bracing for him to leave. Music had always been Alex's escape hatch. Today it felt more like a pressure valve.

As evening crept in, the others started peeling off. James muttered something about needing real food that wasn't from the corner shop and a beer. John had plans with his girlfriend. Rick packed up his notes and left them to it with a quiet "Lock up properly, yeah?" The studio fell into a different kind of quiet once the door clicked shut. Just the two of them now.

Miles rummaged in the small fridge and pulled out a bottle of red—cheap French stuff they'd been working through for weeks amongst other stuff. He poured generous measures into two glasses. They took them into the live room, sat on the floor with their backs against the wall where the soundproofing foam served as a comfortable backrest.

"Proper session today," Miles said after a long sip. He stretched his legs out, trainers scuffed and worn. "You were on fire on that last vocal. Whatever's eating you, bottle it and bring it in every day."

Alex gave a dry laugh and drank. The wine was rough but welcome, warming the knot in his chest. "That obvious, is it?"

"You've got a face like a wet Wednesday."

"Yeah. Arabella." Alex picked at the glass' rim, staring at the opposite wall. "Had a right go at each other this morning. She wanted to do summat, the full romantic afternoon. I told her strings were coming in. Started civil enough, but then..."

He trailed off, replaying it, as they made quick work of the remaining bottle of red. Miles waited, patient in that particular way of his—restless energy banked down for once.

"She laid it all out," Alex continued eventually. "Said she feels like spare parts. Convenient when I've got a few hours free from this place. I apologised at first. I really am sorry, Miles. But she kept going so I snapped. Told her maybe we should just pack it in if she can't handle the timing." He shook his head. "Felt like shit saying it. Still do. She's good, you know? Sharp, witty and level-headed. Doesn't take any of my usual patter. Makes me laugh without trying."

Miles nodded slowly, swirling the wine in his glass. "Sounds familiar. This record's a demanding bastard. Eats your time, your head, everything. I've not had the bandwidth for any of that dating nonsense in months. I haven't even had the time to miss it."

He took another drink, then added, more quietly, almost offhand but with something underneath: "Though there's someone on my mind lately. Can't shift it even when we're in here hammering away at tracks till midnight. But with all this going on..." He gestured vaguely at the mics, the guitars, the tangled cables, then stared straight at Alex. "Not the moment to complicate things. Know what I mean?"

The words landed with unexpected weight. Alex looked at him sideways. Miles stared him straight in the eye, a faint half-smile playing on his lips, but his shoulders had tensed just slightly. The light from the lamp fell directly on his high cheekbones, casting a faint shadow across his fair face. His hair was messy after the long day. There was something in the tone—guarded, mysterious, like he was testing the water, dipping just a toe in.

Alex felt the shift in the room. The fight with Arabella had left him raw, unanchored, craving something solid. Miles had always been that: co-conspirator, sounding board, the one who understood the strange alchemy of turning late nights and half-formed ideas into something real. The wine, the exhaustion, the strange electricity that had built between them over months of shared intensity—it all tilted.

He set his glass down carefully. For a long moment he just looked at Miles, heart picking up pace. Then, acting on impulse rather than sense, Alex leaned across the small space between them and kissed him.

It wasn't polished. It was urgent, a little clumsy, born of too many feelings with nowhere else to go. His hand found the side of Miles' neck, thumb brushing the warm skin just below his ear.

Miles went still for half a breath, then pulled back sharply, eyes wide. He stared at Alex for a long second, completely thrown.

“What the fuck, Al?” he said, a mix of surprise and disbelief. There was no anger, just that familiar Kane bluntness. “You proper just went for it, didn’t you?” A short, stunned laugh escaped him, like he didn’t know whether to take the piss or take it seriously. “Jesus Christ, mate… I wasn’t expecting that.”

Alex felt the heat rush to his face, his stomach twisting. He pull away. “Shit — I… fuck. Misread that completely. Sorry. That was—”

Miles stared at him, eyes dark and wide in the low light. A flush had crept up his neck. He pressed his mouth with his fingers but didn't shift away. The spilled wine from his knocked-over glass was soaking into the floorboards, unnoticed.

The studio felt smaller, heavier, charged with everything that had just cracked open between them.

The next morning dawned grey and bleak; a ruthless cold settled in, the sort that makes even those least sensitive to it pull up the collar of their coat. Alex had barely slept. He'd gone back to his own place after the studio the night before, mind spinning like a tape machine left running, replaying the kiss in loops until it felt both inevitable and completely mad, mixing like a nightmare with Arabella's words—sharp little echoes beneath it all. He hadn't phoned her. Couldn't face it yet. Deep down, he wasn't even sure he wanted to, really.

He pushed open the studio door just after eleven, hair still damp from the rain, carrying five takeaway coffees as a weak peace offering to the room. The place already smelled lived-in: yesterday's wine spill faintly acrid underfoot, guitar cases stacked against the wall, ashtrays full. The rest of the band was already settling in.

Miles looked up from the console, grinned that easy, lopsided grin of his. "Morning, Turner. You're alive then."

"Something like that," Alex replied, keeping his voice steady. He handed over one of the coffees. Their fingers brushed, and Alex felt it like a small electric current. Miles didn't linger on it. He took the cup, nodded thanks, and immediately launched into the day's plan with the same restless energy as always.

"Right, lads—let's hit 'Separate' again. I want to try that new bridge arrangement with the strings bleeding into the chorus. Al, your vocal on the last take yesterday had proper bite. Let's chase that."

And just like that, Miles was Miles: professional, focused, light where it counted. No meaningful glances. No awkward pauses. He ribbed Alex about his pronunciation on a particular line the way he always did, Scouse accent thick with mock disapproval. "You're swallowing the words again, Sheffield. Spit it out like you mean it."

Alex tried to match the rhythm. He sang, played, argued over a guitar part with genuine heat when it mattered. The work pulled him in, as it usually did. But underneath, the tension sat low in his stomach. Every time Miles leaned over the console beside him—close enough that Alex could feel his warmth—the memory of the kiss flared hot and unbidden. Miles, for his part, gave nothing away. He was the same co-pilot he'd always been: generous with ideas, quick with a joke when a take fell flat, utterly unbothered on the surface.

The hours slipped by in that intense, focused haze. They nailed a couple of takes that felt close to perfect. The string players returned for tweaks. Laughter broke out when James flubbed a fill spectacularly and blamed the coffee. It all felt disarmingly normal, which somehow made Alex's internal state worse. By late afternoon the guilt over Arabella had mixed with a restless curiosity about Miles, leaving him quiet between takes.

Eventually the others started drifting. James packed up with a wave and a "Don't stay too late, you two maniacs." The door shut behind the last of them, and the studio exhaled into a deeper quiet. Just the low hum of equipment and the rain tapping against the high windows.

Alex was gathering his stuff briskly when Miles spoke from across the room, his tone deliberately casual, the sort of lightness that masked something sharper underneath.

"So," Miles said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms overhead with a quiet groan, "you going to tell me what that was about last night, then? Coming at me like I was the fix for whatever mess you left with Arabella."

Alex felt the heat creep up the back of his neck. He zipped up the bag even though there were still a few things scattered around, eyes fixed on the motion. The sheepishness was genuine, heavy in his chest. "Fuck's sake, Miles. I was half-cut. Still properly rattled from that row with her in the morning. She had me all twisted up, feeling like I'd shown myself up as exactly the sort of unreliable sod I hate being. Then you mentioned someone being on your mind, all mysterious and complicated... I misread the whole bloody moment. Can we just leave it at that?" he asked softly.

Miles let out a soft chuckle, but there was no real mockery in it—just a low, knowing warmth that made the air between them feel thinner. He stood up slowly and crossed the small space, stopping close enough that Alex caught the familiar layered scent of him: cologne faded by the long day, and the faint trace of cigarette smoke that always clung to his clothes. It was grounding and disorienting all at once.

"You misread it," Miles repeated, tasting the words as if they amused him in a quiet, private way. His eyes held Alex's steadily now, searching without pressure. "That's really the line you're going with?"

Alex opened his mouth to reinforce the denial, to push it all back into safer territory, but Miles moved first. This kiss wasn't the impulsive collision of the night before. It was intentional, unhurried, Miles' hand rising to cup the side of Alex's jaw with a surprising gentleness that caught him off guard. There was consideration in the touch, as though Miles had been weighing the possibility through every take and conversation that day, and had decided the risk was worth it.

Alex pulled back after a handful of seconds, heart thumping hard against his ribs, the edge of the mixing desk pressing into his lower back. "What the fuck, mate? I told you—I was in a state... it was a mistake. We've got this record swallowing us whole. Everything else is just noise right now."

Miles didn't step away. He stayed right there in Alex's space, thumb brushing lightly along his cheek before dropping. That half-smile lingered on his lips, easy but edged with something deeper. "Bollocks, Alex. You don't make mistakes like that. Not with me." His voice had dropped lower, carrying the weight of years of shared late nights and half-spoken understandings. "And I'm not buying the 'state' excuse. Not when you've been watching me all day like... that."

The words landed with quiet precision, peeling back the last of Alex's defences. The pull was undeniable now—the years of creative kinship sharpening into something physical, urgent, and undeniably mutual. Before Alex could muster another deflection, Miles closed the gap again. This kiss went deeper, messier, tongues sliding, breaths mingling warmly, an invitation that didn't ask permission so much as extend it. Alex's resistance frayed, then gave way entirely. His hands found Miles' waist, gripping the fabric of his shirt as the moment tipped from tentative exploration into shared need. Miles' teeth gently nibbled at his lower lip, a new and unexpectedly vivid sensation that sent a low shiver through Alex's frame.

Miles reached beside Alex and turned the lock on the studio door with a quiet, decisive click. Then he began to move lower, kissing along the line of Alex's jaw, nuzzling it lightly—Alex recoiled a little, involuntarily—then down the side of his neck, fingers working the buttons of his shirt open one by one with patient focus. His mouth traced a slow, deliberate path across Alex's chest, then further down the taut line of his stomach. Alex's breathing had gone shallow, tense but threaded with soft, involuntary sounds he couldn't quite suppress.

When Miles reached the waistband of Alex's jeans, his fingers rose to the belt buckle. Alex's stomach tightened in a mix of nerves and anticipation.

"Jesus, Miles..." The words came out rough, half-protest, half something far more surrendered.

Miles looked up at him, eyes dark but patient, the same steady expression he wore when coaxing a stubborn section of a song into place. "Relax," he murmured, reassuring him. It cut through the swirl of uncertainty like warm water.

Without rushing, Miles eased the belt open and lowered the zip. He pressed his palm against Alex through the fabric of his boxers first—a slow, exploratory touch that mapped the shape of him. Then his mouth followed, kissing along the hardening length, warm breath filtering through the thin cotton. Alex clicked his tongue and let out a heavy sigh. He had only been half-hard at the start, the unfamiliarity and lingering awkwardness holding him back, his body still somewhat rigid against the desk. But Miles took his time. The kisses grew more deliberate, the pressure firmer and more assured, and gradually—inevitably—Alex hardened fully under the attention.

Miles finally tugged the boxers down just enough. The first proper touch of wet heat drew a sharp, unsteady breath from Alex, his hand flying to grip the edge of the mixing desk until his knuckles whitened. Miles didn't hurry—slow, deep pulls mixed with precise flicks of his tongue and the steady, confident pressure of his hand. It felt better than Alex had allowed himself to imagine in those two or three rare, half-acknowledged moments over the years. Less strange than expected. Just intensely focused, attuned, from someone who already knew the contours of his moods and creative impulses better than nearly anyone else.

Eventually, Alex's hand moved from the desk to the back of Miles' head. He stroked the nape of his neck, running his fingers through his hair, brushed lightly over his ear, the touch careful, almost tender. Miles made a low sound of approval that vibrated through him—Alex tilted his head back. The build was steady and patient, the rhythm unhurried, until the edge became impossible to hold back.

"Fuck— Miles, I'm—" Alex's voice came out thick and broken. A desperate warning.

Miles didn't pull away. If anything, he took him deeper, one hand pressing firmly at the base. The release hit hard and sharp. Alex came with a choked groan, trembling as the aftershocks ran through him, hips stuttering once before stillness claimed him.

For a long moment the only sound was Alex's ragged breathing. Miles stayed there a little longer, then eased back gently. With careful, unselfconscious movements he tucked Alex back in, zipped his jeans, and fastened the belt again. He stood up slowly, wiping his mouth with his fingers.

They stood close, neither speaking straight away. It was as if the light were gradually coming on around them, reminding them that they were there, in the studio. Alex's chest was still rising and falling unevenly, his body humming with residual pleasure, but a nervous energy had crept in behind it—uncertain, alive, complicated. He buttoned up his shirt meanwhile.

Their eyes met and held. In that long, wordless look, something fundamental shifted between them. A line they had both been circling, perhaps for longer than either had admitted, had finally been crossed, and there was no neat way back. What remained felt raw and fragile: years of easy friendship and creative partnership refracted into something new, deeper, and undeniably physical. It was terrifying in its implications. It also felt, in the quiet honesty of the moment, strangely inevitable.

Miles' expression was soft, almost wondering, as if he felt the full weight of it too. Alex searched his face and found no regret there—only the same quiet recognition looking back at him, mixed with a trace of that familiar restless fire.

The rain outside had picked up, drumming harder against the windows like it was trying to get in.

Miles pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, lit two, and passed one over.

"Well," Miles said eventually, exhaling toward the ceiling, "that's one way to break the tension on a Monday."

Alex let out a short, surprised laugh that cracked some of the weight in his chest. "You're a prick for making this feel almost normal."

"Almost?" Miles raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Mate, we just spent twelve hours pretending nothing happened while layering strings on a song about emotional distance. Normal left the building weeks ago."

Alex took another drag, watching the smoke curl and disappear into the ventilation grate. He remembered sharing a cigarette with Arabella too, before the argument, and his lungs suddenly emptied, causing him to inhale a large mouthful of air. "I don't know what I'm doing," he admitted quietly. "With her. With this." A pause. "With any of it. The record's the only thing that's made sense for months, and now even that feels... different."

Miles stared at the mixing desk like it might hold answers. "Same. I meant what I said last night. Someone's been taking up space in my head. Didn't plan on it complicating the one good working relationship I've got." He glanced sideways, his expression more open than Alex had seen in months. "But I'm not sorry. Feels like we've been writing toward it without realising."

Alex studied the glowing tip of his cigarette for a moment, then laughed again—quieter this time, more inward. He looked at Miles intently, really looked, taking in the faint flush still lingering on his cheekbones. After a long drag, he exhaled all the smoke in one slow, steady stream, then leaned in with a dubious, almost hesitant movement and kissed the corner of Miles' mouth. It was awkward, tentative, the sort of half-committed gesture that betrayed how unsure he still felt about this new territory.

Miles let out a low chuckle, blowing warm air onto Alex's cheek. His eyes crinkled with amusement.

Before Alex could pull back or mutter something defensive or even casual, Miles turned his head slightly and kissed him properly—slow, sure, and unhurried, the kind of kiss that carried both reassurance and quiet hunger. Alex melted into it for a few seconds, then turned his head just enough to rest his temple against Miles' forehead, his nose brushing his sideburn.

They stayed like that, smiling—small, private smiles that held equal parts disbelief, relief, and the giddy uncertainty of stepping into something unknown. No grand declarations, no rush to define it. Just the two of them in the dim studio light, sharing the same air, the rain keeping its steady rhythm outside as if the city itself had decided to give them this pocket of time.

[angleafterangel]

˖ ݁.✧ meet me ˖⋆。⟡‧˚ masterlist ˚‧。⊹ ²ⁿᵈ blog ⋆꙳.⟡

Happy pride month!

[angleafterangel]

˖ ݁.✧ meet me ˖⋆。⟡‧˚ masterlist ˚‧。⊹ ²ⁿᵈ blog ⋆꙳.⟡

(≈4.2k words. Established couple. Somnophilia. Rimming. Reunion sex. He's really needy)

She's Thunderstorms (2010)

It was the kind of scorching, sticky July afternoon New York excelled at. Arabella left the office where she works and headed for her flat; on her way to the freedom offered by the front door, she bumped into at least ten colleagues (who would have thought it? with around 5,000 employees in the tower, from different companies, there were seemingly enough people to make it impossible to keep running into the same ones on your block). Everyone made the same comment about the ridiculous heat and how badly they wanted—or how lucky our protagonist was—to go home.

All the while, Arabella could feel an unpleasant trail of sweat down her back, along her side (where her skin, beneath her top, brushed against her Louis Vuitton), and between her breasts, sliding down until it gathered into little pools in her new Chanel blouse.

When she stepped out onto the street, any hope of finding a gentle, indulgent breeze evaporated completely. She took another five steps towards the kerb and waved for a taxi, but despite having lived here for a few months, she still felt completely ignored by the hectic pace of New York life. After several tries, Rachid stopped beside her—though not before performing some daredevil manoeuvre that earned him a string of honks and insults from his fellow drivers and commuters in the overfull road.

When she reached the high-rise building where she shared a home with her partner, she paid the Indian driver she'd almost become half-friends with her ever-so-generous 27.99 dollars (for only five blocks) and headed for the lift, where she would press 65. The truth was, the floor had incredible views—high enough that she didn’t have to face the curious, prying gazes from nearby buildings. And thank goodness for that, because the couple’s habit was to hold nothing back when making love in any corner of the apartment (though it might have been different if they’d had neighbours. Although Arabella didn’t believe that, honestly.)

Anyway, the views were a constant: an obedient, muted blue, briefly interrupted here and there by a couple of clouds some days, and degrading into an orange haze typical of pollution. At the street corner it felt like floating in the same sky, even though the magic wasn’t quite as complete. For despite the height, the unmistakable, clichéd sound of traffic managed to push its way through the 200 metres below.

A fall from that height, Arabella thought, would turn her body to dust before it even touched the ground, occupied as it was by the city beneath.

It was a strange thought. She wasn't thinking of jumping, obviously. Always so curious, she also wondered why she barely ever saw pigeons through the huge windows. She knew they could fly higher than 1000 metres, so that couldn't be the reason. In the end, she decided it must be because there'd be no food and nowhere safe for them to shelter. She wasn't going to jump. No. Not when she was in one of her best moments.

A few months earlier, Alex (her partner) had asked her to come and live with him in New York.

They’d met a year and a half ago at one of his concerts, and the truth was she’d never, ever thought (or even imagined) that after several nights they would end up building a relationship beyond fleeting passion. The truth was, Arabella had always pictured him rather differently—of course, she hadn’t really known him yet. But after dates and details and lyrics and touches, Arabella had learned that Alex Turner was an incurable romantic. And their relationship wasn't perfect. When nothing else was going on—when all the things mentioned above weren't taking over—discussions and distance would creep in (even if they were in the same city, in the same building, in the same room). What can you say... they were both stubborn in the way that made them want to be right.

And without ever really naming it, one day they found themselves celebrating their anniversary after a year together—the date had been improvised, and maybe at some point slightly debated as well—but this time it hadn’t ruined the date.

When Alex decided to move to the States (crossing the pond, as they say) it felt like an ice-cold bucket of water thrown over everything. They considered leaving it all behind, and even genuinely tried. But if it wasn’t one thing, it was the other—they would always end up calling, or when he came through London, they would see each other. And well, apart from love, if it was luck or misfortune, the sex was incredible. Both of them had started to believe the reason was precisely the friction they kept creating in their couple: the inevitable run-ins that made nearly every rendezvous end in reconciliation. And we all know making love to patch things up is the best kind of sex.

So one night they were tangled up in sheets, skin sticky and hot, but held together as if it was life itself. There were so many touches and kisses, all of it threaded through a silence that gave them room to reflect. And Arabella was ready to tell him that if they weren’t going to be together again, she would rather put an end to those stray nights when Alex stopped by that port and let them both get on with their lives.

And then, out of nowhere, Alex said it. “Do you want to move in with me? We’ll make it work.”

And even though it wasn’t an immediate yes, within a month Arabella was packing up the life she’d fought for so hard and had already built in her beloved London—and heading on a flight of about seven hours to Brooklyn.

To sum it up, the start was all passion—they couldn't stop being on top of each other. Then things cooled down a bit, not because of anything they chose, if you asked them... Alex was being pulled into the studio. A new album was taking shape there—not as ambitious as the last, but one where Alex was letting himself bare his soul the way he hadn't yet done musically. And Arabella, after getting her work visa sorted, had managed to join the same company. She was meant to start straight away, but you know how it is: American bureaucracy is a thing of beauty—or, at least, of stubborn nonsense.

It wasn't at all like London. New York simply wasn't her place. She didn’t know whether it was because she was English, since her beloved compatriots lacked that big, ambitious streak for pretending and consuming. Or maybe it was simply that she was starting to think she might not actually want to move after all. So she rejected the Yankees, even though they didn't really treat her badly—except she was tired of them trying to imitate her accent.

Did she want to be with Alex? Fuck, yes. But both of them were from England—so why did they have to live there? Yes, it was more convenient, easier for Alex. But he'd painted it as temporary. And now he was tossing out little phrases like "Deadass" or "Say less." Or saying things like, “I’m not going anywhere near Central Park. Let’s go to Prospect instead. There are fewer tourists.”

And Arabella would think: darling, we’re the tourists.

But now Alex was looking for somewhere more lowkey, because the fever of living big in a new city had burned out—since, well, it wasn't new anymore.

In any case, Arabella managed to make a friend at work (and outside it). Amber was the living image of what you picture when you think of New York: every day a different outfit, no fixed style except whatever was fashionable at the time. More handbags and shoes than books or trips, but she was a good friend—and, even though not in every respect (or, fine, in almost none), she was sensible when it came to relationships. She’d had several herself, despite being 22.

And Amber’s advice made perfect sense: first, to have patience; second, don’t ruin the relationship because of a past decision.

Since she was already here, the best she could do was enjoy it. Make a life for herself in this wonderful, frantic city.

So instead of waiting for hours and hours until her boyfriend came back from recording—or from drinks—or from some concert trip, or whatever Alex got up to in his busy life—Arabella made more friends. A fairly interesting, wildly varied group, one that shared the same uncertainty: about having changed city, even changed continent, among other things (including hobbies).

She’d also started going out with Amber’s group—exclusively girls—and their plans always, always involved going out to drink at night, dressed impeccably, and flirting. The last two weren’t followed 100% by our protagonist.

The dressing-up thing: Amber treated Arabella like a mannequin, and Arabella took it as a night of costumes. Depending on the mood or room, she would even invent a character. And as for flirting, Arabella found it fun and flattering to see that she had no trouble finding suitors—causing, on multiple occasions, jealousy among the girls—but she never crossed any line.

I don’t know what your lowest level of infidelity is, but Arabella cut it off instantly the second a hand slipped past a boundary—like brushing suggestively and insistently anywhere on her body.

And other things she did—following Amber's advice—meant she began to enjoy the apartment too. Especially when Alex was there, but more so when he wasn't. The apartment she’d once dismissed because it made her feel like she was pretending to be more than she really was. And yes, she came from a humble family, and Alex had too, if she was being honest. But now he could afford it. And even though he could have looked for something a bit more discreet, he was delighted to share it with her—to make sure she felt comfortable—and, if it was possible, to do it loudly (never the best word, but you know what she meant).

So when she came back from work, Arabella dropped her keys and bag on the little table in the hallway, put her Louboutin in the shoe rack by the entrance (they didn’t happen in London—but apparently in this branch of the company it was almost mandatory to turn up looking polished), went to the fridge for a very cold Budweiser, then went to the bathroom, where she undressed and had a shower while she drank her cold beer with whatever she was currently obsessed with playing in the background. Today it was Brothers.

When she came out of the shower, Arabella dried herself, put on a fresh, loose dress that reached her thighs—an audacious zebra print. The fabric fanned out, letting the cool air from the AC slip everywhere, and added to the genuinely necessary shower and the beer, Arabella was in her best mood. She weighed whether to open another beer, but between this morning’s shift on a Friday, the long week, and the way the beer was already hitting her, she decided that a deserved nap was the better idea.

The living room was one of the parts of the apartment Alex was most proud of. The rest was just as it had been when he rented it: that in-between modern and contemporary minimalism that dominated this era. It was dull, cold, and soulless—the two of them once joked about it while they were cuddled up in bed after a long session where they’d assessed it room by room (the evaluation wasn’t rushed and didn’t exactly have much judgement behind it).

But he decided to put his own touch on the living room. And, no surprise at all—certainly not for Arabella—it was a completely different style. It was a proper grand lounge setup: bold colours, dynamic patterns, and furniture choices with neo-seventies design. A sneak peek into the head of Alex.

At first she'd hated the feeling of leather from the corner sofa brushing against her skin whenever she sat down in shorts. But now she loved lying there, because it stayed so cool and firm—perfect for her occasional rests after work. The black leather of the wide couch stayed pleasantly cool during the nap thanks to the air conditioning. So Arabella lay face-down in the corner of the sofa, with another two metres of sofa stretching under her feet. This is heaven, she thought while stretching out and closing her eyes. She opened them briefly once more to look at the sky around her and smiled—because yes, literally, heaven.

Her breathing slowed, and she slipped into a deep, heavy rest so complete that she didn’t hear the key in the front door, didn't hear it shut. She didn't hear Alex moving things at the entrance—his suitcase, his bag, his guitar case.

And she didn't hear the soft voice—slightly tired and rough—calling out.

"Bella? You home?"

Then Alex turned the wall that separated the hallway from the living room and saw her there—stretched out. Her legs looked miles long, starkly white against the colour of the leather. Above that: a small dress tangled around her, covering very little of her bottom.

Alex took a few steps towards her and saw her angelic, sleepy face. Her cheeks were pink from the heat, squashed into the cushion—also leather. Her small mouth, which looked babyish when she slept like this, slightly open, with a little thread of drool creating a little pool.

Arabella’s gentle breathing made Alex’s chest tighten. He stroked her hair then. He was afraid of waking her, but he couldn’t help himself in that moment.

He went to put his things away in the bedroom, trying not to make a sound. In normal circumstances, he would have woken her already. In fact, he had almost done it. Because he hadn’t expected her to be asleep. Arabella wasn’t the type for naps.

So reason number one for letting her rest a little longer was that she must have been genuinely exhausted.

The second reason—actually the main one—was that Alex had come back as a surprise. He hadn’t been expected to return until next week. But when the last Ohio date was cancelled due to the weather, instead of being annoyed like he might have been in other circumstances, he was eager to get back to her. Lately he’d been finding it too hard to be away from home for more than one or two weeks at a time (maybe this last record had hit harder than he’d thought).

Anyway. He was going off on a tangent. The real second reason was that Alex was going to wake her soon—but in a way that had occurred to him the second he saw that dress tangled around her legs and what he thought was proof that there was basically no resistance left anywhere.

You’re like this around the apartment when I’m not here? he thought, unable to disguise his excitement.

First, he showered. Alex guessed the bathroom air was still slightly charged, and the vanilla-and-peach smell from Arabella’s body wash suggested that she’d washed just a short time ago as well. Great, he muttered to himself. He loved how good Arabella smelled from that soap—but above all, he loved how even the faintest trace of summer sweat wasn’t there to get in the way of fully savouring her skin.

As soon as he came out, he didn’t bother dressing. He padded into the living room on tiptoe and, thank God, she was still there, lying down, still out of it. He climbed over the far arm of the sofa and crawled slowly towards her, stopping just short of touching her—pausing as he let himself decide how much he could get away with. He let out a lost-man sigh. Drunk on the view, and to guarantee himself even more access, he moved Arabella’s leg, taking her foot between his fingers. She wasn't wearing anything. Not a thing.

Alex dropped his head to the sofa.

Then he carefully inched himself a little closer and kissed her calves, the back of her knees, and her thighs. Arabella shifted slightly, but with Alex between her legs she couldn't close them.

He stayed still, waiting—on edge, to see if she was going to wake up or not. Wishing for the second. Even if only for a while longer. When she woke, he wanted to be properly between her legs.

For his luck, she didn't.

Alex carried on. He kissed the short remaining distance until her bottom, took her in his hands, and kissed the peach-coloured skin of her. He buried his face there and inhaled—and an involuntary growl escaped him, making him lift his head again to check that it hadn’t woken her either.

So he decided to control himself. He needed his plan to be fruitful all the way through.

He settled carefully, separating Arabella’s firm cheeks with gentle hands—hands that seemed not to be registering anything to her, asleep as she was.

Then he licked from below up to the crack. She was already a little wet, and Alex couldn’t help thinking that maybe she’d been thinking about him right before she fell asleep—just like he’d been thinking about her every day for the past three weeks, falling asleep with a painful erection that he only managed to calm from time to time because the heat was unbearable to ignore.

And feeling that sticky wetness unmasked just how little patience Alex had. His next licks became more insistent, pushing further and further: his tongue entered her opening, though in that posture it could only reach the tip. He tried again to go further, but still couldn’t—so he travelled back from there and focused on the other opening. He kissed and played with it using his tongue. So concentrated, he almost startled when Arabella shifted slightly and made a nearly inaudible sound—like a breathy moan. It seemed she was slowly coming back out of Morpheus. Alex moved faster.

“Al?” she whispered, and that made him smile. She could have said another name—confirming his worst travel-nightmares: that she used his absence to meet up with some Josh… or maybe a Cole.

Alex didn’t answer. He grabbed her hips and, carefully but firmly, turned her on the sofa by rotating her on her axis, drawing a complaining sound from her because he’d woken her. Arabella only half understood what was happening. Between the exhaustion that made her limbs and eyelids feel heavy, she relaxed again in that position.

Now that she was awake, Alex dropped the delicate approach and replaced it with pure desperation. He grabbed her legs, lifted them over his shoulders, and exposed her—ready for him. And from that position, with the stubbornness we mentioned earlier, he pushed his tongue into her cunt twice more, making her sigh. Now she finally moved one hand, gripping his hair.

"What are you doing here? You weren't supposed to be back till next week," she asked, her voice still sugary from sleep—and slightly horny too.

He only hissed for her to be quiet. Then he kissed her bottom lips as if it were her mouth. He focused on the clitoris—insistent, but applying the exact pressure that such a sensitive part deserved. When he heard her agree and take pleasure in it, he kept that rhythm and added another point of pressure: a finger, to the extent he could reach inside her.

And now Arabella fully moaned. Alex let out an incredulous laugh.

“God, I missed hearing you like that,” Alex admitted—continuing immediately, almost without managing to finish the sentence—because he was already busy giving Arabella pleasure.

He didn’t stay there long. His erection was too insistent. The towel he’d been using was already pressed into the side a while back, and now he needed release—so urgently it made him think either he’d finish right then—or he might actually explode. Alex crawled a little higher between her legs and kissed her mouth, a bit rough, making her whine.

“Easy, Al,” she pleaded, her brow furrowed. But the moment he apologised properly, looking her in the eyes, she smiled—mouth crooked, eyes narrowed in a way that showed complete honesty and trust. Alex melted completely.

“I missed you,” she said, watching him still, then her hand slid between both their bodies and wrapped around Alex’s cock. Alex shuddered exaggeratedly.

That gesture, and how hard he was, told Arabella exactly how desperate he was. In other circumstances, she’d tease him a little. But she'd missed him so much. She missed his face waking up beside hers. Missed his music playing until the late hours without letting her sleep. (Not that it was worse than the ghostly silence that used to exist when he was away—because it wasn't. Not even close.) She missed the smell of freshly made coffee that seemed to exist only when he was around.

Arabella positioned him at her entrance and pulled her hand away to wrap it around his neck. Alex pushed his hips in, sinking into her until the end. He sighed and she moaned at the intrusion—more wanted than he could possibly imagine. Even as she moved her hips to start that frantic rhythm she needed so badly, Alex still paused for a moment, staying there, sunk, holding for several long seconds.

"Fuck, Bells... this is the absolute heaven," Alex murmured, and Arabella laughed at his over-the-top phrasing. And because she’d said exactly the same thing about half an hour or an hour earlier, lying there with no idea about the surprise.

And before she could say anything, Alex began to move.

The rhythm was fast and desperate. Unfortunately for Arabella—who would have kept going for hours—and luckily for Alex, who needed to come right now, propelled by a primal instinct, everything unraveled into his orgasm in less than 15 minutes. His face buried in her neck, his high, sharp sounds matching the spasms of his dick inside her.

When it finally faded, he didn't move away. He didn't try to get out of the warm haven of her. He collapsed fully onto Arabella instead, throwing his entire weight down like surrender.

Arabella laughed and covered his forehead, his cheek, his hair in kisses until he lifted himself slightly and slid out of her.

"Fuck, you were really in need," she said, amused.

And again, Alex didn't respond—more than aware that she hadn't cum. Ignoring completely that his semen was still flowing inside her, Alex lowered himself again with renewed energy. This time, it wasn't dulled by lack of sex. He sucked at her entrance until he reached her most sensitive point, where he sucked quickly and expertly. He varied the pulses with his lips, then introduced his fingers again—this time two.

Arabella immediately fell apart into brazen moans.

For a moment she’d even thought he might leave it alone—like he didn’t know her well enough, or the other way round.

After demonstrating his love for her in various ways, her moans stopped being exaggerated and became honest. Alex loved it when they stopped being screams and turned into broken sounds mixed with strong, guttural breaths—signs that she was nearing climax. He loved reading her body that well. He knew exactly what he had to do now to make her jump into the void.

Either powerful and gentle sucking on her clitoris combined with brushing the tip of a finger at the internal spot close to her navel. Or, if he was still able—and now he definitely was, after hearing her like that—he went back inside her. And that was what he did.

With a fast move, Alex rose onto his knees, which drew a complaining moan from Arabella, because she was right there on the edge. He lifted her legs up so they were stretched high, and drove himself into her with a single thrust. Incredible, he thought—how only a few more pushes had been enough for her cunt to pulse her orgasm outside of her system, right around his cock.

Alex looked down at her. Her dress was wound around her ribs, one breast pushed out. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her mouth open and twisted, making sounds of pure pleasure. He smiled because he adored knowing perfectly how to get her to look like that. It was one of his favourite ways of seeing her.

After that, both of them moved to the shower—where, for your information, they were absolutely determined to go for more again. They barely had time to rinse off the soap properly before they were hopping back into it, stumbling into the bedroom, getting everything wet as they went. But it didn’t matter. All they could think about was making up for lost time.

Oh, being 24. That youth and that ability to fuck endlessly without ever getting exhausted.

And in moments like this, it didn’t matter where you were—London or New York, heaven or the most exhausting yet wonderful city. You were with him. You loved him, and he adored you.

[angleafterangel]

˖ ݁.✧ meet me ˖⋆。⟡‧˚ masterlist ˚‧。⊹ ²ⁿᵈ blog ⋆꙳.⟡

(≈4.4k words. Cheating-adjacent/Angst. Physical confrontation. Drug use/OD scare. Non-graphic. No smut.)

Miracle Aligner (2016)

The party had started brilliantly. Lights low, music loud, the usual crowd crammed into that studio space in Dalston—Alex's bandmates, old friends from the industry, a few faces from the label, everyone laughing, spilling drinks, swapping stories. For the first few hours it felt like the old days: Arabella on his arm, dancing badly, stealing kisses that tasted of vodka and the small, careful lines of coke they'd each done across the night. Just enough to sharpen the edges, not enough to send them flying.

But by the time the taxi pulled up outside the flat in Hackney, the night had soured. The ride home started silent, then turned barbed. Alex stared out the window, jaw tight. Arabella picked at the hem of her dress, the residual buzz curdling into something anxious and mean, flashing that silent disappointment face at him every chance she got.

Now the front door slammed behind them with enough force to rattle the frame. Alex flicked on the hallway light harshly, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the back of the sofa. Arabella kicked her heels off aggressively; one skittered across the wooden floor and disappeared under the coffee table.

"What a fucking night, innit?" she started, voice already tight as she followed him into the open-plan kitchen. "You barely looked at me after midnight. I stood there like a spare part while you held court with your mates."

Alex went straight for the cupboard, pulling out the good whisky and a heavy tumbler. The liquid glugged as he poured himself a generous measure. He looked every bit the 2016 version of himself—sharp-featured, hair falling messily over his forehead, that restless, brooding energy barely contained by drink and the dying remnants of cocaine.

"I was catching up with people, Arabella. It's not every day the whole crew's in one room. You know how it is."

“Trust me, I know exactly how it is,” she shot back, leaning against the kitchen island, arms folded so tightly her nails dug into her skin. “You spend all night laughing with everyone else and then throw me a measured smile whenever you remember I exist.”

He took a long swig, wincing slightly. "You're exaggerating. Again. You were talking to Amanda and that lot for ages. Don't act like you were abandoned."

"Talking to Amanda because you left me standing there!" Her voice rose. "I watched you for twenty minutes with that fucking girl from the label. Your hand on her back the whole time, like she was whispering the meaning of life in your ear."

Alex set the glass down a little too hard. "For fuck's sake, not this again." He ran a hand through his hair. "I was just talking. That's how any of this keeps going—the music, the tours, paying for this flat. Or have you forgotten whose name's on the lease?"

Arabella's eyes flashed. "There it is. Always the reminder, isn't it? Your flat. Your money. Your success. I'm just the nice accessory who hangs off your arm until it's inconvenient."

"That's not what I said," he replied, voice rising. He stepped around the island toward her, frustration pulling his shoulders tight. "But Christ, you do love twisting everything round, don't you? Just like that shit when we first met—you remember that? When you were still seeing what's-his-name behind my back for weeks? I let it go, Bella. I fucking swallowed it because I loved you. But every time we row, suddenly I'm the villain again."

She gave a bitter, wet laugh, tears starting to prick at her eyes. "Of course you bring that up. Years ago. And I chose you. I've chosen you every single day since. But you can't let anything die, can you? One mistake and it's ammunition forever."

Alex moved closer, anger making his movements sharp. His face was flushed, eyes glassy from drink. He was only a couple of feet away now. "Because it still fucking hurts when you throw accusations at me like I fuck anything that looks at me. You're paranoid. You always have been when you've had a few."

Arabella stepped right into his space, chest heaving, mascara starting to streak. She could smell the whisky on his breath, the faint trace of cigarette smoke from the party. For a second it looked like he might grab her arm or shove past her—the tension in his posture was unmistakable.

“Come on then,” she said, voice trembling with fury and pain. “If I’m such a paranoid slag—if I’m that fucking mental to you then just do it. Hit me. Go on. Fucking hit me!”

She gave him a weak, frustrated shove at the arm.

Alex's face twisted—disgust, hurt, rage all flashing across it. "Don't be so fucking ridiculous, bloody maniac—"

"HIT ME!" she screamed, right in his face, the words came out in a painful, shameful roar.

In the chaos he swiped his hand across the counter in frustration. The glass flew, smashing hard against the wall beside her in an explosion of shards and splashing whisky. She turned her head sharply away—half a reflex, half a prayer—so the sting wouldn’t catch her. The sharp smell filled the kitchen. Arabella flinched at the sound but didn't back down, sobbing now, ugly and raw. Alex was shouting too, voice hoarse, his own eyes wet.

"I can't fucking stand you when you get like this!" he yelled. "You push and push until everything's broken!"

"Yeah, well maybe everything is already broken!" she screamed back, voice cracking completely. Tears streamed down her face. She turned sharply, the reminder of whose flat this was sitting like acid in her chest, and ran down his corridor.

She slammed the bedroom door behind her, then straight into the en-suite bathroom. The harsh fluorescent light flickered on. Arabella gripped the edge of the sink with both hands, staring at the wreck in the mirror—smudged black eyeliner, flushed cheeks, wild, red-rimmed eyes. Her chest rose and fell too fast, hyperventilating between ugly sobs. She could still hear him in the kitchen, cursing under his breath, the clink of the whisky bottle as he poured himself another.

"Bloody hell..." she heard him raising his voice, thick with exhaustion and drink.

Her hands wouldn't stop shaking as she yanked open the mirrored cabinet. There it was—the small orange bottle of OxyContin, half-full from that root canal pain a year ago or so. She'd told herself a dozen times to bin them. She never had.

Her fingers closed tightly around the bottle.

Arabella stood there under the harsh bathroom light for a long moment, the orange bottle clutched in her fist like a lifeline or a grenade—she wasn't sure which. Her chest still heaved, sobs catching irregularly as the argument replayed in her head on a vicious loop. His flat. His money. His success. The words burned. She could hear faint sounds from the kitchen: the clink of glass, the pour of liquid, a muttered curse. Alex was still out there, drinking himself deeper into it, no doubt. Part of her wanted to march back and scream some more. Another part just wanted it all to stop.

"Fuck this," she whispered to her reflection.

She shook several OxyContin into her palm—two? maybe three? She didn’t count properly, she didn't care. Swallowed them dry with a gulp from the tap, the pills catching briefly in her throat before going down, leaving a strong salty and bitter taste there.

She turned the tap on the shower, letting the water run hot, steam filling the big en-suite. Not a long soak—she didn't have the patience—but enough to try and scrub the night off her skin. She stripped quickly, yanking the dress down after struggling with the zip. Her fingers, clumsy with rage, couldn't get the damn thing. In frustration she twisted and pulled hard. The zip gave way with a sharp rip, tearing the delicate fabric along the seam. The dress—one of her favourites—pooled at her feet, ruined. She kicked it aside with a bitter laugh that turned into another sob.

The water was scalding. She stepped in anyway, hissing at the heat, and stood there for a few minutes, letting the steam blur everything. Thoughts raced wildly: He doesn't even see me anymore. Just the girl on his arm when it suits him. That girl from the label, laughing at his jokes like I used to... And bringing up that old shit from when we met—like I haven't spent years proving I chose him. The coke paranoia mixed with the drink made it all feel enormous, apocalyptic. She scrubbed at her skin until it was pink, then red, then got out, dripping, and wrapped herself in a towel.

She moved on autopilot, getting ready for bed as if routine could fix something. She pulled out a pack of makeup remover wipes and started on her face—black streaks of mascara mixing with the beige of the concealer, coming away in ugly, greyish smudges. Then the cleanser, cool and foaming, splashed on with cold water from the sink. It felt grounding for a second. She changed her underwear, stepping into a plain pair of black knickers, and tugged on an old t-shirt—one of Alex's, faded from years of wear, soft against her skin.

Then she climbed onto the big bed, the one that felt too large when they fought like this. The sheets were cool. She lay on her side, facing the far window where the curtains were half-drawn, letting in the orange glow of the streetlights outside.

At first, nothing. Her mind kept spinning, wild and relentless. He's probably out there right now thinking I'm the crazy one. Maybe he is texting someone. That short-haired girl. Or worse — remembering why he puts up with me at all. The anger sat like a stone in her chest, heavy and sharp. She replayed the smashed glass, the way his face had twisted when she'd screamed at him to hit her. Part of her had meant it. Part of her had wanted the release of it, the proof that it was all as broken as it felt.

But slowly—ten, fifteen minutes in—the Oxy began to creep in. A treacherous warmth spread through her limbs, softening the edges. Her breathing slowed. The racing thoughts didn't vanish, but they dulled, as if someone had turned down the volume on a too-loud radio. Calmer now. Almost floaty. Maybe it'll be okay, she thought hazily. We've been here before.

Then the high shifted, turning all over the place—not euphoric, but detached and strange. One moment a wave of heavy sadness pulled tears from her eyes as she stared at the window, watching distant car lights flicker. The next, a muddled clarity: memories of the party bleeding into old fights, the good nights when Alex looked at her like she was the only thing worth writing songs about. It all blurred into soft, dangerous colours.

Her eyelids grew heavy, but her mind still flickered between fragments—anger flaring, then sinking under the opioid weight. She pulled the duvet higher, curling tighter on her side.

From the kitchen she heard another faint clink. Or was she just imagining it? Just to know Alex was still out there. She wondered vaguely if he'd come to bed, if they'd shout more, or if the pills would pull her under before any of it mattered.

The bedroom was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. Arabella lay on her side under the duvet, the old t-shirt twisted around her, one leg bare. The Oxy had taken hold by then. Her thoughts had slowed to a heavy drift—fragments of the argument, the shower’s warmth still clung to her skin, even after she’d dried, a vague sense of regret that felt far away and unimportant. Sleep had pulled at her in thick waves.

Alex stayed in the kitchen a good while longer, finishing his drink in silence. The anger had burned down into something tired and heavy. Eventually he stood, a little unsteady—gravity seemed to pull at him, dragging him backwards—and walked down the corridor. He pushed the bedroom door open without turning on the light, just the faint glow from the hallway behind him.

"Arabella," his voice was gravel, rough from the whisky. "Come on... let's not leave it like this tonight."

No answer. He moved closer to the bed, the mattress dipping as he sat on the edge. He shook her shoulder gently. "Hey. You awake?" Still nothing. He shook a bit harder, frowning. She felt limp, breathing slow and shallow. For a moment he thought she'd simply passed out from the drink and the come-down. It wouldn't be the first time.

He reached over and switched on the bedside lamp, that was when he saw the small orange bottle on the table, lid off, a few pills scattered. He then flicked on the main overhead light. The sudden brightness made him squint. His stomach dropped.

"Shite..." He breathed harder, the alcohol haze clearing fast in that sharp, ugly way fear brings. "Bells. Hey—" He shook her again, properly this time. No response. He pressed two fingers to the side of her neck, feeling for her pulse. It was there, but slow. He tried lifting one of her eyelids. The pupil was tiny. Too small. Unresponsive.

His hands started shaking. For a few seconds he simply stared at her, trying to process the stillness, the too-slow rise and fall of her chest. He knew enough to be afraid.

He turned sharply and moved to the bathroom, his steps clumsy. In the top drawer of the cabinet—among old prescriptions and half-used remedies—lay the Narcan nasal spray. They had kept it there for months, a quiet precaution after certain uneasy rumours had begun circulating in their circles about unpredictable additions finding their way into the usual late-night offerings.

Alex yanked the drawer open so hard it nearly came off its runners. In his hurry he caught his little toe hard on the edge of the bed frame, sending a sharp bolt of pain up his foot, but barely registered it.

Fumbling with the packaging, he nearly dropped it twice.

"Fuck... come on," he muttered under his breath, his voice tight and raw. His chest rose and fell quickly, the fog of the evening clearing in the cold rush of fear.

He rolled her onto her back and administered one spray into her nostril. As he waited for it to take effect, he pulled her closer to the edge of the bed. Fear gripped him in a way he had rarely known. When she still didn't stir, he half-carried, half-dragged her into the en-suite, her bare feet sliding limply across the floor. He lowered her onto her knees in front of the toilet and leaned her forward.

From Arabella's side, it was all disjointed and slow at first, then brutally sudden.

She had been far under, floating in thick nothing, thick as a black treacle sea. Then came a rush—her body jolting, lungs pulling in air like she'd been underwater too long. Everything felt wrong.

Cold, hard tiles under her knees. Someone's hands on her. Fingers in her mouth, pressing down deep on her tongue, trying to trigger her gag reflex. She retched hard, coughing and heaving, a thin string of bile coming up. Her heart was racing now, too fast, and her skin felt clammy and electric.

"Alex...?" Her voice came out weak and confused, so frail that only the first syllable could be made out. The bathroom light was too bright. She didn't fully understand where she was or why she was kneeling there, gripping the toilet rim. Panic started creeping in, heavy and disorienting. She felt sick again and leaned forward, another dry heave shaking her.

Alex knelt behind her, one hand holding her hair back, the other on her back. He was breathing hard, almost panting. His voice was quiet, tight, not his usual articulate self. "You're— you're alright, love."

She stayed there on her knees, trembling, tears leaking out without her really crying. A cold weight settled behind her sternum. Her mind felt scrambled: flashes of the argument, lying on the bed staring at the window, and now this. She was scared shitless, but it came out in small, confused waves. What if she'd gone too far? What would he think? Her body didn't feel like hers yet.

He stayed close, quiet except for his own heavy breathing, rubbing her back in slow, unsteady circles. The whisky was still there in his system, but the scare had cut through most of it. He didn't say much more. He just kept her there, making sure she stayed upright.

The Narcan did its work in its own time, five minutes or so that stretched out in the small, brightly lit bathroom. Arabella remained on her knees, gripping the porcelain, her body slowly coming back to itself in uneasy stages. Her breathing deepened, no longer the shallow, dangerous rhythm from before, but the return felt jagged and wrong. Her mind lagged behind, foggy and disconnected.

Alex stayed behind her, one hand still resting on her back. For a long minute he couldn't move. The adrenaline had left his hands trembling so badly he couldn't trust them. He swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the floor tiles, trying to steady himself.

Eventually he reached forward, flushed the toilet, and closed the lid with a soft click. Then, carefully, he guided her up and sat her on it. She swayed slightly.

"Easy," he murmured, voice low and unsteady. He didn't look at her directly, his face pale and drawn, hair falling across his eyes.

Arabella sat there, bare legs cold against the porcelain, the old t-shirt damp with sweat. What the fuck happened? The thought looped slowly, thick and distant. The harsh light, the taste of bile, Alex's hands on her like she might break. Fear sat low in her belly, quiet but persistent. She felt out of herself, untethered, as if her body belonged to someone else and she was only watching.

Alex stood up slowly, still shaky. He reached into the shower cubicle and turned the water on, adjusting it until it ran warm. Without saying much more, he helped her out of the t-shirt, easing the fabric over her head. His movements were gentle, almost methodical, though his fingers trembled as he hooked them into the waistband of her knickers and slid them down her legs. She let him. There was no room for modesty now.

He guided her into the shower cubicle. Arabella leaned heavily against the tiled wall and then slid down until she was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out awkwardly in front of her. The warm water drummed steadily on her head and shoulders, flattening her hair and running in streams down her back.

Alex knelt on the bathmat just outside the cubicle, one knee planted on the damp surface and the other leg braced behind him. He leaned his upper body inside as far as he could reach, the knees of his trousers darkening as they absorbed the spray. He squeezed a measure of shower gel into his palm, worked it into a thin lather, and began washing her with careful, practical movements — his soapy hands moving over her arms, her shoulders, the length of her back where it rested awkwardly against the tiles. The clean, faintly woody scent of the soap rose with the steam, cutting through the stale traces of the night.

Arabella sat there under the water, eyes half-closed. Soft, exhausted sobs slipped out of her every few breaths. Not the raw, angry crying from the argument, but something quieter and deeper, almost involuntary. Tears mixed with the running water on her face. The knowledge of how close it had come sat in her bones, of the blank stretch of time she couldn't account for, of how heavy and unreliable her limbs still felt. The dread sat in her like a dull, persistent ache that made her shoulders tremble.

"Shh," Alex whispered, barely audible over the sound of the water. His voice was low and cracked. He kept washing her, rinsing the suds away with slow handfuls of warm water. He looked worn raw, eyes red-rimmed, jaw tight. The whisky had burned off enough to leave him exposed. "It's alright. I'm here."

She cried softly as he cleaned her, the water streaming down her body. Exhaustion pressed in from every side—the fight, the pills, the violent jolt back into consciousness. Everything felt fragile and slightly unreal. For now, she simply let him do it, too drained and too scared to do anything more than sit there and breathe.

Eventually the water ceased with a hollow metallic clunk. The sudden quiet felt startling. Only the faint, irregular drip from the shower head remained, along with the soft sound of their breathing in the small, steamy space. Alex got to his feet first, his wet knees leaving dark patches on the bathmat. He reached for the oversized towels on the heated rail, unfolding one and wrapping it around Arabella with slow, careful hands.

The thick cotton enveloped her, warm and slightly rough against her damp skin. He dried her slowly—shoulders first, then arms, the curve of her back—as though afraid that any haste might unravel what little composure remained.

She stood there unsteadily, the fog in her mind lifting in reluctant increments. The fear lingered, a low, persistent ache beneath her ribs. What have I done? The question surfaced again and again, quieter now but no less insistent.

Alex dried himself with brisk, distracted strokes, then guided her back into the bedroom. The overhead light cast long shadows across the unmade bed, the scattered clothes from earlier, the small orange bottle still sitting accusingly on the bedside table.

He picked up a clean t-shirt from the drawer and paused, jaw tightening.

"Right," he said at last, his voice low and edged with exhaustion. "Let's get you dressed and then we're going to the hospital."

Arabella's stomach twisted. She shook her head slowly, the motion heavy. "No... no, Al. We cannot go to the hospital. We have... all of this— They'll ask questions and it'll be..." Her sentence trailed off. She swallowed, trying to find the thread again. "I'm— I'm okay. Look at me."

He stood holding the t-shirt, eyes fixed somewhere near her collarbone rather than meeting her gaze directly. The sensible part of him—the part that had cut through the liquor like cold water—knew the risks. Overdose reversal was not the end of it. But the practical weight of their situation pressed in. He exhaled slowly, visibly wrestling with himself.

"Arabella, you weren't responding, your breathing... it was wrong," he said, bewildered. "This isn't something we just sleep off."

She reached for his arm, her grip weak but insistent. "I know. I know it was stupid. I just... I'm okay now. Truly. Taking me there will turn this into... Please, Al. I'm feeling much better."

The silence stretched. He rubbed a hand over his face, shoulders tense, clearly torn between responsibility and the messy reality of their life together. Minutes seemed to pass before he finally gave in, the fight draining from his posture through a deep sigh.

"Okay. Whatever you want."

Alex peeled off his damp shirt and trousers, letting them drop in a damp heap on the floor. He pulled on another t-shirt and some loose lounge trousers, then turned his attention to her.

He helped Arabella into a fresh top with gentle, methodical movements, easing the fabric over her damp hair and down her back. Then came a pair of soft jersey shorts. She moved slowly, still unsteady on her feet, and he supported her patiently as she stepped into them. Once they were both dressed, they made their way to the bed.

Alex lay down first and drew her close, settling her against him—his chest warm and solid against her back, one arm draped heavily over her waist. His hand moved in slow, absent caresses along her arm and hip, the touch more instinctive than conscious. The room felt smaller somehow, the faint orange glow of the streetlamps had now been replaced by the early dawn light, which filtered faintly through the half-drawn curtains, casting pale patterns onto the back wall.

They lay like that for a long while, the quiet broken only by the occasional distant sound of traffic. Then his breathing changed. It hitched once, then again. A soft, involuntary whimper escaped him, quiet and raw, followed by another. His chest trembled faintly against her. Tears, warm and silent, slipped onto the skin at the back of her neck, where he had buried himself.

Arabella's chest tightened. She whispered his short name, but he turned away abruptly, rolling onto his back. One arm came up to cover his eyes. Another whimper broke through, this one thicker with emotion.

"This is too much," he said, the words broken and slightly high-pitched, barely above a whisper, yet heavy with implication. Too much fighting. Too much spiralling. Too much of whatever their relationship had become.

The fear that gripped her then was deeper than the earlier panic. She knew what lay beneath those words—the weariness, the question of whether they could keep doing this. She turned towards him, propping herself up slightly on one elbow, her hand resting on his chest.

"No, Al. Please." Her voice was fragile but steadying. "I love you so, so much. More than I know how to say." A pause, otherwise the following words would come out in a stutter. "Let's get clean, both of us. Let's make it work. I'm sorry I shouted at you. I'm sorry for pushing, for dragging us here again. I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose you. We've been through worse. We can still fix it."

He remained silent for a long moment, chest rising and falling with a tremble under her hand. The occasional quiet sob still slipped through, but his free arm eventually moved, wrapping around her once more and pulling her close. Not forgiveness, exactly, but a reluctant anchoring. They lay entwined like that, the night stretching ahead of them, fragile and uncertain, the weight of everything unsaid still hovering in the darkened room.

[angleafterangel]

𝒥𝑒 𝓉’𝒶𝒾𝓂𝑒… 𝓂𝑜𝒾 𝓃𝑜𝓃 𝓅𝓁𝓊𝓈

[angleafterangel]

˖ ݁.✧ meet me ˖⋆。⟡‧˚ masterlist ˚‧。⊹ ²ⁿᵈ blog ⋆꙳.⟡

(≈4.4k words. Romantic smut. Friends-to-lovers)

I Wanna Be Yours (2011)

The flat was hushed, the only light coming from the string of fairy lights draped lazily across the headboard and along the windowsill. Their soft golden glow painted shifting patterns across the walls and over the rumpled sheets. Arabella lay curled against Alex's chest, her cheek resting on the warm curve of his bicep. One of his arms was wrapped securely around her waist, holding her close, while his fingers traced idle, feather-light patterns along the bare skin of her back.

So far it had all been foreplay. They undressed slowly on his sofa, between gentle kisses and others that weren't quite so gentle, but all of which were new to them; the half-finished film lighting the sensual tangle of their bodies so intimately that they couldn't bring themselves to stop. 

Alex was the first to cross the line, his mouth fully focused on her, giving her such an easy and intense orgasm that the only way she could thank him was by returning the favour, and when Arabella had composed herself, she took him by the hand and led him to the bed, and didn't stop until she had savoured every part of him from the outside in.

For a long moment neither of them spoke. The quiet felt heavy, charged with everything they'd finally let loose. 

"You're quiet," Alex murmured eventually, his voice low and a little rough around the edges, tinted with worry, the Sheffield vowels soft but still unmistakable.

Arabella swallowed, her throat tight. "So are you," she answered, trying and failing to keep her voice steady.

His thumb continued its slow journey across the back of her hand. "I don't know what to say, like."

"Then don't say nowt," she whispered, though the words cracked halfway through.

He pulled her in tighter, his breath warm against the sensitive skin just below her ear. "Can't. Not when it's you."

Her chest tightened painfully. "This isn't right, Al."

"Why?" There was a quiet plea in his tone now, edged with something that sounded dangerously close to hurt. "'Cause we're s'pose to be just mates? Or 'cause you're scared?"

Arabella tensed, the words landing like small stones in still water. He was right. She was terrified. Her fingers curled against his side, nails pressing lightly into his skin as the silence stretched between them, thick with all the things they'd never dared say before.

When he spoke again, his voice had dropped even lower, the vulnerability in it cracking something open inside her chest.

"Or... d'you not feel the same?"

She felt the question like a hook behind her ribs. I do, she thought, the confession loud in her head. I have done for years. That's the whole bloody problem. You never saw me that way, so I taught myself to stay in the friend-shaped box. At least that's what I thought. And now look at us.

His eyes searched hers in the low light, the hand resting at her shoulder tightening just a fraction, as though he feared she might slip away if he let go.

"Then why..." he whispered as if he could read her mind, voice cracking on the last word. "If you feel the same, why's it so wrong?"

The question hung there, raw and exposed.

Arabella buried her face against his chest, breathing him in—that familiar scent of warm, raw skin after sex, faint cigarette smoke, and something that was simply him. Her lips moved against his skin as she finally spoke, the words muffled and hesitant.

"The problem is... I don't think I feel the same."

She felt his whole body go still beneath her. His heart, which had been steady a moment ago, gave a hard, painful lurch.

"What d'you mean?" he asked quietly, the restraint in his voice almost painful to hear.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, her gaze meeting his for only a couple of seconds before dropping to his collarbone. "I don't..." She let out a small, shaky huff of laughter that held no real humour. "God, this is hard." A pause. "I don't want this to be casual, Al. Friends with benefits or... whatever you call it."

The words tasted bitter on her tongue. She knew he wasn't exactly in the market for anything serious right now. The thought of him with other women—casual, easy, meaningless—sent a sharp sting through her chest. He was young, ridiculously attractive, clever in that quiet, devastating way, and on top of everything, he was Alex Turner. She understood it. She just couldn't bear to be another hook up in a long line of them.

Her eyes began to water at the idea that this might mean everything to her and very little to him. Before he could see it, she pressed her face back into his chest, letting his warmth and scent wrap around her like armour, something she could keep with her long after tonight.

Alex went completely still the moment her face returned to his skin. The little huff of laughter, the tremble in her voice—it all hit him at once. And then something inside him simply snapped.

His hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her wavy hair.

"Bells," he murmured, low and rough with emotion. "Look at me."

He waited, giving her the space to hesitate, before gently tilting her chin up with two fingers. His thumb brushed away the dampness on her cheek caused by a lone tear that he hadn't even realised was there until that moment.

"You think this is casual?" He shook his head slowly, eyes locked on hers with quiet intensity. "You honestly think I'd let just anyone get this close?"

A quiet breath left him, almost disbelieving.

"You've been my person for years, love. The one I ring when everything's gone to shit. The one who sees straight through me when I'm putting it on." He swallowed hard. "If any of tonight felt casual... I wouldn't be bricking it right now."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "So what are you saying, Al? 'Cause I thought..." She hesitated, suddenly terrified of saying the words in case she'd got it all horribly wrong. "I thought you didn't do the boyfriend thing."

The word felt strange in her mouth. She'd spent so long training herself not to associate it with him—at least not where she was concerned.

Alex let the statement settle between them for a moment, the silence heavy. He drew in a shaky breath, bit the smile tugging at his mouth, the fear of the unknown sitting like ice in his chest.

"I didn't," he said finally, voice quiet and serious. His eyes searched hers, willing her to understand. "Not anymore after..." He stopped himself, unable to say her name, and he continued, "but the idea of you with anyone else..." His jaw tightened, slightly thrown off by this sudden jealousy and possessiveness, and he tried to soften it. "Nah. Can't have that."

His fingers flexed slightly in her hair, almost involuntary.

"The idea of you thinking this is casual?" He met her gaze without flinching. "God, Bella."

His free hand found her chin again, tilting it gently higher so he could look directly into her eyes.

"I don't want any of it. The casual stuff. The one-night things. Other girls." He said the last two words as if they left a sour taste on his tongue. "None of it."

Arabella looked up at him. When the words 'other girls' left his mouth, her lips pressed into a thin line and she swallowed hard. Unwanted images flickered through her mind like frames from a bad film: Alex laughing low with someone else, fingers laced with her, him holding another woman like he was doing with her right now, disappearing into the night while she stood on the sidelines pretending it didn't cut. She had watched it happen too many times.

Alex saw the change in her face instantly—the flicker of pain, the way her mouth tightened—and it hit him like a blow to the ribs.

"Arabella..." His voice dropped, raw and quiet. "Every time I was with someone else... it felt wrong. Like I was pretending the whole time. Because all I could think about was how much I wanted it to be you."

He cupped her face with both hands, holding her gently but surely, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones as if she were something precious he was only just learning how to keep.

"I didn't even know how to want anyone else," he continued, voice low and rough around the edges, "when my heart's been yours for years."

A quiet huff of disbelief escaped him, almost self-mocking.

"You really thought I wouldn't do the boyfriend thing?" He gave a small, crooked smile that didn't quite hide the nervousness in his eyes. "Maybe not... until you. But for you? I'd learn. I'd try every damn day."

A soft laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it, warm with affection and relief.

"You're an arsehole, Alex Turner."

He froze for a few seconds then a surprised laugh burst from him, shaky and genuine, his eyes glistening in the low golden light.

"Yeah," he admitted, voice thick. "A massive one."

He pulled her fully against him, forehead resting on hers, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.

"But I'm yours," he whispered. The words were sure. Final. "So if you'll have this arsehole... I'm not going anywhere."

Her heart lurched hard. Is this really happening? The thought rang so loudly in her head that for a split second she was terrified she'd said it aloud. She bit her tongue just in time.

Alex's eyes moved slowly over her face, reading every flicker of vulnerability, confusion, and lingering doubt. His hand came up to cup her cheek, fingers tracing the softness of her skin with aching tenderness.

"I really want you to believe me," he murmured, voice barely above a breath. "The feelings. The words..." He leaned in closer, their foreheads still touching. "The way I've been thinking of this for so damn long."

She gave his chest a playful shove, though there was no real force behind it. "You should've fought harder, then... Done summat earlier."

The next words tumbled out before she could catch them, her cheeks already warming. "'Cause I've been dreamin' about this since... the moment we met."

Mortified, she immediately covered her face with one hand. "And now I'm going to shut up."

The playful shove barely moved him, but her admission made Alex's breath hitch. He exhaled slowly, a mix of surprise and quiet elation threading through his voice.

"Since we met?" he asked, almost disbelieving.

He gently pried her hand away from her face, needing to see her eyes. "Gosh, don't," she muttered, rolling her eyes even as the blush deepened across her cheeks. She could feel how red she went, and it embarrassed her beyond words. For Alex, though, it felt truly endearing, sending an electric shock from his chest to his cock, causing it to twitch involuntarily. 

"Yeah, Al. Well... maybe a month after we met." She offered a sheepish smile, completely unaware of the effect she had on him. "At first it was just fangirling, obviously—though I tried to act cool. Then I realised how fucking attracted I was." Her voice softened as her hand began to move, stroking slowly down his side from his pecs to his hip, savouring the warmth of his skin and the firm muscle beneath her palm. "When things shifted into proper friendship, I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world. You're so intelligent, so interesting in ways most people aren't..." Her fingers continued their gentle exploration, coming back up to his cheek, jaw, earlobe, neck, shoulder—as though she were finally allowed to touch him without restraint. "And as time went on, the feeling only grew. I couldn't do anything about it. It was like watching a sunrise. All I could do was sit there and admire it, you know?"

She let out a quiet sigh, the sound full of years of carefully guarded longing.

Alex's heart hammered steadily in his chest as her words settled over him. He wasn't used to feeling this exposed, this undone. He'd always been good at keeping things close to his chest.

"Christ," he muttered, voice thick with emotion, staring at her intently with a clearly strained expression. "You've been carrying this for that long, and I was too blind to see any of it."

His hand moved to her cheek again, thumb tracing the line of her lower lip with careful reverence.

"I've been standing in your light all this time... and I never even noticed."

Arabella smiled, closing her eyes for a moment at the warmth of his touch, then opening them to meet his gaze. His eyes were that familiar warm brown, scattered with flecks of dark green and honey that caught the fairy lights. She noticed how his pupils had swallowed almost the entirety of his irises.

"To be fair, I got pretty good at hiding it." She kept his gaze, still half-convinced this might dissolve if she blinked too hard. "But... I suppose there's no need for that anymore."

Her voice lifted slightly at the end, almost a question.

"No," he agreed, soft but certain. "No more hiding it."

His free hand found her waist, fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path up her side, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

"No more denying what we both feel."

His eyes held hers without flinching.

"Bells..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Believe this. Me."

She couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face. She probably looked like an idiot, but right now it was only the two of them, nothing left between them. She shifted closer beside him, pressing every inch of her skin to his—chest to chest, the heat of his belly against hers, the unmistakable press of his hips, his thighs, his growing arousal. A fresh wave of warmth flooded through her, not just from their nakedness but from the dizzying relief of finally letting herself want him without shame. A sigh escaped her lips.

She slid her hand to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his long, soft hair, and gently tilted his head toward hers. When their lips met, the kiss was slow and deep, carrying every unspoken thing behind it. She still couldn't quite believe she was allowed to do this.

Alex's breath caught the moment her mouth found his. The kiss quickly deepened, turning hungry yet tender. His hands tightened on her waist, pulling their bodies impossibly closer. It felt like years of quiet hunger and relief crashing together at once.

He rolled them smoothly so she hovered above him, her legs bracketing his hips. The kiss grew more urgent, the intimate slide of skin against skin making the air feel thick and electric. The simple fact that they had finally named what lived between them only heightened everything.

Alex broke the kiss just enough to look up at her, his voice rough and low.

"Bella..."

She felt him hard and ready beneath her again, and she knew without question that he could sense the overwhelming heat radiating from her too. She leaned back slightly, meeting his darkened eyes.

"Al..." she breathed.

His hands gripped her hips with quiet urgency. His gaze moved over her—the flush on her skin, the way her hair fell loose around her shoulders into his in a beautiful mess.

"I need you to—" he started, voice strained with want.

The words sent a fresh spark through her. She was more than ready, her body already aching for him, but she loved the way he drew things out, unlike all of her previous eager partners; the way he made her feel every second.

Alex's eyes darkened further as he watched her. A slow, cocky half-smile curved his lips.

"Come here," he murmured.

In one fluid motion he reversed their positions, hovering over her now, caging her gently with his arms. Arabella fell to one side and had to adjust her weight, and Alex accidentally tugged her hair ever so slightly, but there wasn't a hint of awkwardness  in the motion; that was what made it authentic. They moved as one now. 

Arabella's breath caught at the shift—at the solid warmth of him above her, the way the air between them seemed to thicken, at how Alex leaned in to press a wet kiss to her neck. She tilted her head to grant him more access, the word slipping out soft and willing. "Please..."

A quiet rumble of approval rose from his chest, vibrating through her core. His hands moved slowly down her body, reverent and unhurried, tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her hips, as though committing her to memory by touch alone. Every deliberate stroke left trails of warmth that made her skin prickle.

His voice dropped to that dark, velvet timbre she was already addicted to, before it was ever directed to her, before this night. She already knew that voice intimately — she’d heard it countless times in her dreams.

He leaned closer, breath warm below her ear. "Just tell me one thing before we lose ourselves completely," he murmured, voice rough with restraint. "Are we really doing this? No more running?"

He drew back just enough to meet her eyes, searching.

"I want nothing more than this," she whispered, the sincerity in her voice steady and clear.

That was all he needed. His expression softened, vulnerability flickering beneath the surface. He reached up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear with surprising gentleness.

"Then stop worrying," he said softly, a promise wrapped in the words. His knuckles traced down her cheek, lingering at her jaw. "Just let me take care of you."

His thumb brushed slowly over her parted lips. She exhaled a quiet 'yes' against it.

He leaned in, mouth tracing a slow path from her earlobe to the curve of her shoulder, each kiss deliberate and lingering. One hand slid beneath her back, lifting her momentarily, drawing her closer, while the other found her thigh, lifting it gently to bring her even nearer. The press of him against her was teasing at first—a slow, heated promise that drew a soft sound from her throat.

"Still sure?" he asked hoarsely, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Yes, Al... please."

He laughed at her almost desperate tone, "I'm just messing with ya now."

His control finally gave way. He captured her mouth in a deep, consuming kiss, pouring years of unspoken longing into it. Then his lips wandered lower, slow and reverent, to her chin, where their saliva mingled, then tasting the saltiness on her collarbone, the soft swell of her breast. Every touch felt like a claim and a question at once.

When he finally moved to join them, it was with aching care—a slow, deliberate slide that stole the breath from both of them. He stilled for a long moment, forehead pressed to hers, simply feeling her wrapped around him, the overwhelming tightness and rightness of it. He moved once, a low groan escaped him, raw and heartfelt.

"Fucking right for me," he whispered against her lips.

She arched into him, chasing the fullness, fingers threading through his hair. "I'm yours," she breathed, the words heavy with need.

He answered with a slow, powerful roll of his hips, setting a rhythm that built gradually, relentlessly. His hand pinned her wrist above her head with gentle firmness while the other gripped her thigh, holding her open to him. Each deep, measured movement sent sparks racing through their veins, drawing soft, broken sounds from her lips that he drank in greedily.

"You feel that?" he murmured hot against her ear, voice rough. "How perfectly we fit... like I was always meant to be right here."

Arabella's head fell back, a quiet moan escaping as pleasure coiled tighter inside her. He shifted the angle slightly, drawing another gasp from her, his name slipping from her tongue like a prayer.

He changed their positions again with effortless grace, pulling her astride him so she could move at her own pace. His hands settled on her hips, guiding but not demanding, eyes dark and intent as he watched her.

"Take what you want," he said, voice low and thick. "I love seeing you like this... Lost in it."

She moved above him, slow at first, then with growing confidence, chasing the building heat between them. He adjusted his hips to meet her, one arm wrapping around her waist to pull her flush against his chest, the new closeness making everything more intense. His mouth found her throat, pressing open kisses there while his hand slipped between her ass cheeks, touching her with perfect, knowing pressure, unraveling her further for what felt like an eternity.

"You're close," he whispered against her skin, voice raw. "Don't hold back. I want to feel it."

The pleasure crested suddenly, overwhelming her. She came with a trembling cry of his name and a curse, body tightening around him in waves of pure sensation. Alex held her through it, watching her with something fierce and reverent in his gaze, his own control fraying at the edges, as his soft moans betrayed him.

Only when her tremors began to ease did he let go. With a deep, guttural groan he buried his face in the crook of her neck and followed her over the edge, pulsing deep inside her as pleasure crashed through him in long, shuddering spasms.

"Bells..." he breathed into her damp skin, voice wrecked and tender.

They stayed locked together for a long while, breathing hard, hearts hammering in sync. He collapsed back, easing them both down onto the mattress, pulling her against his chest and wrapping her in his arms. He pressed soft, lingering kisses to her temple, cheek, hair—gentle now, almost worshipful.

"You're so damn beautiful," he whispered, voice hoarse.

Arabella let out a soft, breathless laugh, still glowing and a little dazed. "That was... brilliant, Al."

A lazy, satisfied grin tugged at his lips. He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and brushed a kiss to her forehead. "'Brilliant' doesn't even come close," he teased gently. "Try 'life-changing'."

He drew her up closer—causing them to pull apart with a shared gasp—arm secure around her waist, burying his face in the crook of her neck with a contented sigh. "I don't think I can move for a week."

She laughed quietly, pressing her face to the pillow, beside his head. "Good. Let's stay like this forever, then."

He smiled against her hair, fingers tracing lazy circles over her bare back. "I like the sound of forever."

After a comfortable silence, he pulled back just enough to look at her, a wry, playful glint in his eyes. "You know what else I like the sound of?"

"What?" she asked, still smiling.

"My name on those pretty lips of yours." His voice was low, teasing, but his gaze was sincere. He leaned in, brushing a light, lingering kiss over her mouth. "Keep saying it. Every chance you get."

She blushed, remembering how freely his name had fallen from her lips earlier—something new and intoxicating. "Every chance I get," she promised softly, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of his nose. He let out a warm, rumbling laugh.

"If I'd known all it took was a film night, a couple of beers and one suggestive look, I'd have tried it years ago," she added, half-teasing.

Alex raised an eyebrow, amusement dancing across his features. "Wait— you're telling me that's all it would've taken? Me getting you drunk and pulling the sad-puppy eyes?"

She laughed, the sound light and easy between them.

"Fancy getting some food?" she suggested eventually, her stomach rumbling in agreement. Now she was curled on the bed beside him.

He chuckled, reluctantly sitting up and stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied groan. "You read my mind. I'm starving."

He stood and offered her his hand. "Come on. Borrow whatever you like."

Arabella slipped into his Stone Roses t-shirt he’d been wearing earlier. It hung loose and wide over her frame, the soft fabric brushing her thighs like a secret. She glanced around for her black lace knickers, cheeks warming when she couldn't spot them straight away.

Alex leaned against the doorframe, watching her with quiet amusement. "Pretty sure we abandoned them in the kitchen," he said, voice dry.

"Right," she replied with a sheepish smile. That was exactly where everything had begun hours earlier.

He laughed low in his throat and scooped her up effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her through the flat. In the kitchen he set her gently on the counter—the same one where he’d eaten her out completely until she was quivering around his tongue earlier—his hands resting warm on her bare thighs. His gaze flicked down to the crumpled lace on the floor.

"There they are," he teased softly, giving them a playful tug with his foot. "Right where we left them."

He picked the knickers up and slid them slowly up her legs, pressing soft, lingering kisses along her calves and inner thighs as he went. She stepped down to help him and once they were settled, he straightened, kissing her neck and then her lips with unhurried affection.

"Y'know," he murmured against her mouth, "I could get very used to this."

"Yeah?" she breathed, smiling into the kiss.

"Having you here... in my clothes... letting me take care of you." His thumbs traced slow, teasing patterns just beneath the hem of the T-shirt. He pressed another kiss below her collarbone, eyes lifting to meet hers. "Feels right. Like it was always heading here."

She nodded, heart full, and pulled him closer for one more kiss.

In the quiet glow of the kitchen, with the city humming faintly beyond the windows, the night felt new—tender, charged, and exactly where they were meant to be.

[slutdge]

i love being a pervert online with all of you

[angleafterangel]

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(≈ 5.4k words. Angst smut. Cheating / Forbidden. Bittersweet)

505 (2019)

You wake up in your bed, skin lightly damp from a nightmare—or perhaps just an uncomfortable dream you can no longer recall. The curtain is not entirely drawn, and today the sun has decided to blaze as though it had confused its season and forgotten it is winter. That's what the gentle but biting breeze is for: to remind you that this is not just any December, but one of the coldest in recent years.

And yet none of that is what occupies your mind. No.

Tonight you are going to see him, and your concentration has narrowed to the fistful of nerves lodged somewhere between your stomach and your chest—nerves that have not left you in peace for roughly five days.

Dylan is not beside you. He’s probably left for work early, even though it’s Sunday. Lately he has been consumed by a case that will not let him sleep, and his attention has drifted so far from you that his absence barely registers anymore.

You cannot quite remember the last time you went to bed together or woke to find him still there, still warm, still close enough to share a quiet coffee in your minimalist flat in Primrose Hill. You cannot remember the last time he brought you flowers, though you never really saw the charm in them—but when you first met, it was his most imaginative gesture, and you found it truly endearing. You cannot remember the last time you made love in a way that was not a mere transaction of fluids, reduced to the clinical purpose of conceiving a child—a child designated to bind you tighter now that the passionate early years appeared to have run their course, now that the unspoken agreement seemed to be that the future mattered more than any reckless, youthful present.

You sigh and take a long sip from the glass of water on the bedside table. The ring sits there beside it. It is beautiful, though some mornings you find it difficult to put on—you tell yourself it pinches your finger, yet in the seven long months it has been yours you have not once found the time to have it resized.

It is not that you do not love him. You owe him a great deal. He appeared during one of your worst chapters—and still he stayed. He held you steady, nursed you through the spiral, helped you claw your way back out of the loop (even though, every now and then, that loop returns without permission or warning). He became refuge, then shelter, then home, and now you are getting married and at last you may build the family you so desperately desire (desired). Stable. Firm. Settled. Present. Real.

The day passes quietly, almost without incident. Only twice does the evening cross your mind, and on both occasions your first impulse is to come up with a convincing excuse to stay away. But your brain does what it has always done in these situations: it persuades itself that this is truly what you want—or what you ought to want. And somewhere beneath it all you know you will go, because you want to see him. Only to make sure he is well. Perhaps to share your news, cordially, over a drink.

The hour approaches and although the nerves threaten to buckle you, you decide to ignore them. The shower feels divine. You catch yourself singing again, moving your body to the music the way you haven't in what feels like a long time—the Beatles, the Stones, Bowie, the Bee Gees—hips swaying, voice unguarded, momentarily untethered from all the quiet compromises of your present life.

You sweep your hand across the fogged mirror to see yourself clearly. Tonight you feel like taking care with your appearance, because something inside you feels right. You let the towel fall and regard your figure: skin smooth and taut, stomach firm, that single freckle just above the waistband of your black lace underwear, your waist curving into the shape you have grown, at last, to appreciate. At thirty—only just turned—you can say with some certainty that you are in your prime. It does not truly matter, not really, and yet today it seems to call out to you. There were times when your body had been among your deepest vulnerabilities (though he always made you feel beautiful inside it), but there is something quietly powerful about being the one to tell yourself.

You choose a champagne silk dress with fine straps and a cowl neckline. The fabric drapes over your generous breasts in a manner that is undeniably flattering, cinches your waist with an effortless ease, and as it descends—grazing lightly over your hips—it falls in a liquid cascade to your ankles, revealing the delicate heeled sandals that replaced your brown Converse a couple of years ago—the ones that were once black.

That was the moment you decided you needed to become someone else—to change, to pay closer attention to your image and align it with your career, now that you no longer traded records in that little shop in Camden (that music-drenched life was left behind, along with him), and instead design interiors from the comfort of your spacious, well-regarded studio.

Perhaps, too, it owed something to the look of quiet disapproval from your future mother-in-law when you arrived at a family lunch in your favourite Pink Floyd t-shirt and worn-through jeans, hand in hand with her perfect son—a woman for whom, if you were being honest, you would never be enough.

You spend a few minutes longer than usual on your makeup. Foundation, concealer, blush, bronzer, eyeshadow, mascara, and then red lipstick over your full lips—the reddest you can find, unconsciously chosen to attract attention (his attention)—but when you finish, the face staring back at you is one you barely recognise, and you cannot help but laugh. You identify at once the nerves that have a very specific name and surname, and you decide to wash your face, breathe deeply, and apply the barest hint of colour to your cheeks and lips with the same creamy lipstick. (He always preferred you natural, even back when you were pale and your dark circles carved themselves deeper beneath your eyes because you insisted on wringing every last hour from the night.)

As you attend to the final details—running your fingers through your bob, which has nearly dried on its own, brushing your teeth, fastening the pair of simple diamond studs into your pierced lobes (a gift from him, bought on a trip together in 2015)—you notice that the sweet, buoyant sound of Herb Alpert trickling from the speaker has been steadily descending in volume, and you realise that Dylan has arrived home.

When he enters the bedroom you wait for some remark about how you look, some small flare of desire—you are conscious of how well this dress fits you—you wait for him to cross the room and tear it from your body so that you would have to choose another. But the man who walks through the door in his suit and tie and furrowed brow is not the one who would react that way, and you loathe the sharp sting of guilt that accompanies such a comparison.

Dylan approaches you and you turn your head for the customary show of affection. You pucker up, but receive only a soft, distracted kiss on the cheek, and your expression twists with disappointment—though almost imperceptibly. Your fiancé makes for the en suite and from there you hear him raise his voice slightly:

"My head is about to split open. Today was especially brutal—the bastard simply refuses to cooperate, no matter how many times I explain I'm on his side."

Dylan continues his monologue while you are already halfway to the bathroom. You place a hand on the bare skin of his chest and lean in to press a brief kiss to his mouth.

"I cannot lose this case, Arabella. I simply can't," he exhales heavily, and looks spent.

You think about how little he resembles the man you met a couple of years ago—the one with the passionate gaze, half-buried behind towers of psychology, philosophy, and law. Always eager to share every last fragment of his fervent, expansive knowledge with you. The man who, the moment he laid eyes on you, could not contain the urge to have you—and though the sex was never the most savage you had known (you had known savage, for better or worse), there had been a reverence in him, an attentiveness, a tenderness that disarmed you entirely.

You watch him in the mirror. His gaze does not return the same attention this time. He is focused on undressing for the shower.

"Listen, you don't have to come if you're too tired, Dy," you suggest gently. (Is it really about his tiredness? Or would you rather be free? The guilt floods in again.)

"Don't worry, I'll come along for a bit. I want to meet your friends." And then he does lean in to kiss you properly on the lips, and you exhale with quiet relief—though something in you lags behind it, slow to follow—perhaps after all you will find a way not to ruin everything, and all you need is to know you are not alone in this.

Outside the venue you park the Mercedes. You do not switch off the radio because it was never on—Dylan's head is still pounding—but if you are being honest, music never followed him everywhere the way it followed... And it does not matter, you tell yourself. It is part of the change.

For a reason you cannot identify (no—truly, your brain is an expert in self-deception), your heart quickens into a frantic rhythm, uncomfortably insistent, blooming into something close to nausea as you cross the threshold of the distinguished hotel. A doorman receives you both and treats you as though he already knows precisely what you have come for. He takes your coats with practised courtesy and guides you through to the adjoining restaurant, where several tables are occupied but the room is far from full—lending it an air of effortless elegance without ever tipping into contrived exclusivity.

The space is beautiful, possessed of an intimacy achieved through the exquisite selection of furnishings and tones: warm light spilling from golden Flowerpot lamps hanging low enough to nearly graze the impeccable white tablecloths, MR20 chairs flanking each table. A delight, you smile—occupational hazard. You feel that the extra effort you put into your appearance has not been wasted.

You arrive at the table, which is already half-occupied. You spot Katie immediately, her belly round at roughly five months, and you move to embrace her—it has been so long. Beside her is Jamie, whom you do not hesitate to pull into a hug as well, and you introduce your fiancé. You linger for a while in easy conversation—how everything is going, the new album and the success it is enjoying, the backache and cramps their second child is inflicting on her, your debut feature in Frame Magazine. But every now and then your gaze drifts, discreetly, past your friends toward the entrance.

And then you see him.

It strikes you as strange that he has come alone. The last you heard involved his relationship with that French girl—the one who had caused such a stir—but when he is beside you, greeting you with studied casualness, you pretend to know nothing of it and you do not ask.

When you introduce Dylan, you think you catch a brief twitch along his jaw, but you decide it is your imagination. He volunteers that Louise could not make it—something about commitments in her hometown, the recording of a single or something of the sort. You could not explain it even to yourself, but a thin, needling jealousy settles in your chest at the mention of this singer.

Over the course of dinner and the lingering conversation that follows, you exchange few words and fewer glances, and you feel relief—this is proving far easier than you feared.

One whisky too many sends a sudden wave of heat rolling through your body and you step outside to smoke a cigarette, but more than anything, to breathe. It has been roughly forty-five minutes since Dylan left—his headache had finally won—and part of you wishes you had gone with him, but it has been so long since you were with the people who used to be your greatest source of laughter and joy, and you have felt that warmth again tonight, so you have decided to stay. A little while longer, at least.

Alex moves toward where you are standing and you are not aware of his approach until you sense his presence at the edge of your vision—and then a soft gust of air carries his scent to you: smoky, musky, so achingly familiar that it presses its insistent finger directly into the tender nerve of your nostalgia.

You allow yourself a small, trivial conversation with this man who is slightly taller than you even in those heels, whose skin is a shade more sun-touched than the last time you saw him—perhaps a year ago now—whose hair is also somewhat longer and dishevelled, and whose expression is calm, more mature, carried by tired eyes that remain attentively fixed on yours. (And you could swear that when your own gaze wandered to the landscape beyond the terrace, his travelled slowly, deliberately, across your body). But you decide to ignore that as well. The conversation does not extend beyond the short life of your cigarettes, and you return to the dining room together with the others.

Jamie and Katie are the first to leave, then Matt, since Amelia has fallen asleep across two Barcelona chairs pushed together to form a makeshift bed.

Miles offers to drive Alex home on the grounds that he has perhaps drunk more than is advisable—or at least more than what used to be his proven limit, established after one or two minor incidents of no real consequence—to be behind the wheel. Alex declines, and Miles can do nothing but wish him well. Then he turns to you and says he hopes it will not be so long until next time.

You feel strange. It has been a wonderful evening—some part of you had been bracing for something to go wrong, ready to flee the way you used to when you lacked the strength to confront the fact that it was only ever self-sabotage, that quiet refrain you repeated to yourself: I don't belong here. That was partly what created so much distance between you. (Among other things).

Now you find yourselves alone again, but calmer. The air is pleasant on the heated terrace, there are very few people left and they are strangers who require no attention whatsoever. Alex offers you another cigarette and this one you smoke in silence. Seated beside you, you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, and something deep within your core stirs with a feeling you have not experienced in a very long time. A slow, liquid pull, like a tide answering a moon it has spent months pretending to have forgotten. But you maintain your composure—and the distance (though not physically).

It amounts to nothing, because the moment Alex stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray, he turns toward you with an abrupt, almost involuntary movement, one hand closing around your chin, drawing your face to his. Without thinking, without asking, Alex presses his lips to yours. Every barrier you have built, every alarm wired into you, fires at once—screaming at you to pull away, to sidestep the trap, to leave. But instead your fingers thread into his hair, softer even than you remembered now that it's free of pomade; your lips part and your tongue tastes that longed-for, familiar flavour—warm, faintly smoky, faintly sweet—and the years between collapse like a house made of cards.

When you separate you remain only centimetres apart, breathing hard, wanting more. His hand is still holding your flushed cheek; his thumb traces a frantic rhythm across your cheekbone. Your hands still cling to his chestnut hair.

Then Alex seems to falter. He draws back to a more cautious distance.

You wish it had not happened this way, but the fine lines of your expression betray disappointment and sadness at his sudden withdrawal—your brain doing what it does best, (because it is not rejection at all, only guilt, his and yours).

"Shit. I'm sorry, Bells," Alex whispers.

Not once does he glance around in search of curious eyes, and that surprises you, because ordinarily it would have been his very first reaction after slipping like this. Now it is you who projects calm—perhaps even surrender. Somewhere over the course of so many years you have come to accept that there are addictions from which it is nearly impossible to escape, especially when placed in contact with another handsome enhancer like several measures of Macallan.

And that tranquillity—for want of a better word—and your lack of verbal response (or perhaps that reaction was more than enough) seems to take effect in Alex.

The next thing you know, Alex is asking for a room in that very hotel. In the lift to the fifth floor you stand at a prudent distance from one another and convince yourselves that nothing will happen, that you will use this night to put a full stop to this undefined relationship—one final evening to close the cycle, to reach an understanding—and nothing more.

And you know it won't be like that. You know it perfectly bloody well. And you understand in that moment that all those tricks your brain has been running aren’t as human, or as uncontrollable, as you’ve been telling yourself. They're a pantomime. A conscious one. Built with more deliberation than you ever had the nerve to admit, designed to ferry you back, to that same room, that same skin. A desperate arrangement to avoid committing to a life you both know wouldn’t survive the weight of your differences—differences that have been there from the start. And yet one you cannot bring yourself to abandon either, because of all the other parts that slot together so obscenely well that staying away feels less like discipline and more like suffocation.

And right then, in that hairline fracture of clarity, you don't feel so fantastic anymore. And the night is no longer going well. And you make yourself the promise—the same tired, dog-eared promise—that yes, this will be the last time. That you'll lay it bare, and walk out. Back to your flat. Your bed. Your fiancé.

Alex closes the door behind him.

You walk further into the cavernous room, every step loaded with intention. You're going to sit down. You're going to say it. You're going to end this. But before you reach the chair he catches your wrist—not roughly, roughness was never his dialect unless asked—and one fluid tug later your mouth is on his again. Only this time the kiss isn't fed by memory or soft-focus longing. There's a thirst in it now, something raw and bottomless, as though he's been crossing a desert for months and you are the first water he's found. Your hands fly to his chest and push, and he steps back, because he has always stepped back when you've asked, which is exactly why you so rarely ask.

One pace apart, you see him properly. He looks shattered. Smaller than he should. Desperate in that quiet, unbearable way he has where his whole body seems to be asking a question his mouth refuses to form. You recognise it instantly, because the very same want is flooding every corner of your own body, pooling in your chest, your throat, the backs of your knees. You part your lips to speak—to say this is done, Al—but you know what you want. And you know you can't keep it. So your greedy, selfish heart decides to drink from the well one final time.

You close the gap in one stride and kiss him, and the sound he makes—a small, wrecked sigh that vibrates against your lips—dismantles whatever remained of your resolve. Your unsteady hands work open his shirt buttons, one by one, until the fabric slides off his shoulders and collapses like a dark surrender on the pale carpet. Alex catches your bottom lip between his teeth and his hands gather the silk of your dress, dragging it up past your thighs until it bunches at your hips and he can lift you, and your legs lock around him with a muscle memory so deeply etched it frightens you. Four deliberate steps and he lowers you onto the bed, following you down without breaking contact—not for a breath—because he knows with an animal instinct that if he pulls away now you might think, and thinking has always been the thing that ruins this.

When his mouth finally leaves yours it is only to drag itself along the line of your jaw and down the column of your neck, slow and open and burning, and you seize the pause to murmur his name—the short one—and it stops him. He lifts his head. Your eyes meet. You are both carrying the same expression: exhaustion, submission, guilt. And beneath all of it a desire so uncontrollable, so enormous, it has the shape of a tiger pacing behind an open cage.

Then he kisses you more softly. More slowly. With a reverence that says I know, Arabella. And that undoes you more completely than the hunger ever could. You push him again—not away, but over—and climb on top of him. Straddling his hips you feel him hard beneath the straining, insufficient zip of his trousers, and you watch him watching you from below as you peel the gold dress over your head with a patience and a tenderness so uncommon in these reunions that something shifts behind his eyes—a devastating recognition that something has changed, that nothing will be the same after tonight. His hands rise to trace your figure, mirroring your delicacy, consenting to your unspoken decision without a single word exchanged. And the fact that he understands you so completely in this moment presses against your chest like a fist, and your mind drifts—just for five seconds, no more—to the parallel life where you understand each other fully in every respect and are happy together. Five seconds.

Alex slides one calm hand from your collarbone down to your chest, touching both breasts with a cartographer's attention, memorising the geography of you, building a map he will fold carefully and lock inside the vault of his memory the moment you walk out that door. Meanwhile your hands find his waistband, undo the button, drag down the zip, and you pull trousers and boxers away until they are gone and the playing field is level. Standing at the edge of the bed you slip the black lace down your hips and let it fall to the floor, and from there you climb back over him, kissing every freckle and scar and imperfection with your eyes closed, because you have long since memorised the route—you could trace it in the dark, in your sleep.

You guide him to sit back against the headboard and settle yourself over him again. Without a single layer left between you the excessive heat of his skin against yours is almost unbearable, and the waiting becomes impossible to prolong. Mid-kiss you reach between your bodies and position him at your entrance and slide down—so slowly and exquisitely—and the pleasure is so immense that both your mouths break apart to share a single, mutual sigh, eyes locked. And when you begin to move you understand, with a clarity that is practically violent, why keeping the distance has always been so impossible.

Your hands circle his neck—an act driven by dark passion and the dangerous illusion that you can control everything this easily—and he adores it. The rhythm climbs. The friction of him inside you is sublime, dragging against every nerve ending as though your bodies were designed in the same factory, and your moans prove it, spilling freely now, and he cannot take his eyes off you, watching with open reverence how obscenely, how divinely well you fit together.

After a maddening while, Alex gently unravels your grip on his throat and sits forward; without waiting for instruction you turn and lower yourself onto your hands and knees. He enters you from behind with a decisiveness that lights entirely new fires—different angles, different depths—and your moans sharpen and climb. Every thrust travels electrically from your belly to your centre, radiating outward like a current you couldn’t interrupt even if you wanted to. After a spell of frantic motion he slows deliberately, and your fingers twist the sheets into fists at the pleasure of it. You can feel every single inch of him now, every ridge, every subtle shift, every point where your oversensitive skin meets his, and the connection becomes so incendiary that your back arches of its own accord to grant him access you didn't know you still had to give.

And he knows your body far too well not to recognise that you're not there yet. But Alex is on the brink, and he knows exactly what to do. One firm hand presses the small of your back down until you are flat against the mattress, legs still parted, face half-buried in the pillow, and from there he enters you again. In this position his torso moulds itself to your back, chest to spine, and his lips graze the nape of your neck, the shell of your ear—drawing faint, involuntary shivers—then your cheek. And there, with his mouth against your skin, he whispers it.

"Bells, I've missed you so much."

And the words land somewhere between your ribs and detonate quietly.

He begins to move with more insistence now, rolling his hips with precision, and in this position he hits the exact spot—the one that makes your vision swim and your thoughts dissolve into white noise—over and over and over, relentless, and part of you doesn't want to finish because finishing means this is done, truly done, and so you press your face into the pillow and repeat it like a plea, like something you are begging the universe to make true: "I can't— I can't, Al," as though saying it enough times could delay the inevitable.

But then Alex comes undone inside you —a low, shattered sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest, mixed with curses as he buries his face beside yours on the pillow-and the spasms of his orgasm pulse through you in waves, triggering your own, and the combined ecstasy stretches the fall into something endless, a freefall with no floor, both of you trembling, gasping for air, clinging to the wreckage of each other.

"I love you," he manages, his voice breaking.

You answer him and for once there's no doubt about it. As painful as it is.

The aftershocks finally, mercifully, subside. And you stay joined, without moving. The only sound in the room is breathing-ragged, gradually slowing —until you notice you can't quite fill your lungs because his full weight is still draped over you, and you shift beneath him, just barely, and he understands and rolls to the side.

You turn your heads on the pillow and look at each other. Your faces share the same expression now—something loose, something released, the tension of months unspooled in a single hour. He cleans you up first, then himself, with a quiet domesticity that stings more than it should, and the exhaustion that follows is total and absolute and leaves no room for conversation. You fall asleep tangled together, his chest pressed to your back, his arm heavy across your waist, his breath warm and steady against your shoulder. The way it always was. The way it will never be again.

You wake before checkout but not by much. For a few seconds you don't move—you just feel him there, the heat of him along your spine, the weight of his arm, the slow rhythm of his sleeping breath—and you commit it to memory with the same careful, desperate attention he gave your body hours ago. Then you get up. You leave him there, alone in the sheets, and you go to dress.

In the bathroom you rinse your mouth, splash water on your face, and check the mirror for damage. No smudged mascara. No trace of last night's makeup at all, really—it was kissed and sweated and wept away long before you noticed. You look tired. You look like someone who has made a decision that will cost her something enormous. You look, for the first time in months, like yourself. Stripped back from all the pretending.

When you step back into the room Alex is already standing, already dressed, as though he knew the choreography of this final morning without being told. The bed behind him is a disaster—sheets wrenched loose, pillows displaced, the physical evidence of everything you are about to pretend never happened.

You walk toward him softly, and despite everything you laugh. A short, startled, involuntary thing. Because his impossible, ungovernable hair is standing in every direction at once. You reach up with both hands to smooth it down, fingers combing through the dark chaos, coaxing it to stay put—and you are thinking of nothing, truly nothing, just the texture of his hair between your fingers—when the tears come—tears you didn't know you were carrying, heavy and graceless, falling before you can catch them.

And Alex—Alex, who has weathered every version of you with the same steady, quiet, infuriating composure—Alex crumbles.

His breath catches. You watch his eyes fill too, slower, more contained, like something arriving without his consent. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he tries to swallow it down. But they're there.

He catches a tear on your right cheek with the pad of his thumb, drags it gently toward your ear until it vanishes into your hairline, and his thumb stays there, resting against your temple, and you can feel the tremor in it, the barely perceptible vibration of a man who has spent his entire adult life building a cathedral out of composure and is watching it come down brick by brick because you are crying—because he has never, never once learned how to hold himself together when you cry.

Alex doesn't say anything. He pulls you into him and his arms close around you fully, one hand spanning the back of your skull, the other pressing flat between your shoulder blades, and he draws you into him with the gravity of someone who knows this is the last time—and means to do it properly. Your cheek presses against his chest. His heartbeat is loud and fast beneath the cotton—completely at odds with his silence, completely at odds with the stillness of his arms. You close your eyes and let yourself be held. Because there is no version of strength or self-preservation or moral clarity that requires you to refuse this. Not in the last minutes of something that was, for all its wreckage, the truest thing you have ever felt.

His chin comes to rest on the top of your head. You feel his chest expand with a breath that goes in steady and comes out shattered.

You stay like that. A minute. Three. Five. Long enough for both your breathing to slow into something that almost resembles calm. Long enough for the tears to dry on your cheeks and on his shirt.

Neither of you says goodbye. You don't need to. You both know this can't happen again. The guilt had gone past the point where either of you could carry it without it hurting more than anything else.

You step back and reach the door to room 505.

You don't turn around.

The latch clicks shut behind you and the sound is small and final and completely ordinary—which feels painfully wrong.

[angleafterangel]

˖ ݁.✧ meet me ˖⋆。⟡‧˚ masterlist ˚‧。⊹ ²ⁿᵈ blog ⋆꙳.⟡

(≈ 2.1k words. Playful smut. Reunion / Long-distance. Light-hearted / Mirror sex)

(a/n: the stars ⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎ mark pov switches. second person → first person bleed is deliberate. if it feels disjointed that’s kind of the point.)

Sweet Dreams, TN (2016)

You arrive at Heathrow on a wet June evening in 2016, the kind of English drizzle that makes everything feel softer at the edges. Your long, wavy brown hair is still slightly damp from the shower you took in Nashville before the flight; it falls heavy down your back, catching the overhead lights as you wheel your suitcase through arrivals.

Twenty-five years old, small-boned, the silver septum ring glinting every time you turn your head. People glance, then glance again—something about the contrast between your delicate features and the steady, unflinching way you meet their eyes. You have always looked breakable until you open your mouth or hold someone's gaze a second too long.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

I had been standing by the barrier for twenty minutes, heart knocking against my ribs like a faulty metronome. Three months since LA—three months of waking up in hotel rooms with your name already bitter on my tongue, of staring at the ceiling and feeling the flat, metallic ache of everything without you. I'd rung you at 2 a.m. my time one night in Paris, voice rough from too many cigarettes, and said the words before I could talk myself out of them: "Come to London. Stay with me, I'll show you the city. I just... I can't seem to settle without you in the same country." You'd laughed, low and warm, and said yes like it was the easiest decision you'd ever made.

When you walk through the doors I feel the relief hit me like a drug. You're smaller than memory allows—five-four, that heart-shaped face with its scatter of faint freckles across the bridge of your small nose and the tops of your cheeks, rosy lips already curving into the smile I've been replaying on loop. Your deep brown eyes find mine and hold. I step forward, arms sliding around you before either of us speaks. You fit against my chest like you were carved for the space.

"Alright, love?" I murmur into your hair, breathing you in—vanilla, warm skin, the faint trace of Tennessee summer that somehow survived the Atlantic.

You tilt your head back. "Better now."

The drive to Dalston is quiet in the best way. Rain streaks the windows. My hand rests on the gearstick, knuckles brushing your thigh every time I change down. I keep stealing glances: your beautiful, dolly profile, the way your blouse clings slightly from the humidity, the gentle rise of your breasts beneath it, the curve of your hip against the seat. I am freshly off the road, still carrying the low hum of tour adrenaline and the sharper ache of missing someone I had no right to miss this badly. But here you are, more than real, and every mile that passes feels like the first honest breath I've taken in weeks.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

You watch terraced houses, glowing pubs, the wet neon of Hackney slide past, already feeling the pull—the quiet certainty that whatever happens next begins inside his apartment. You came for London, for promised canal walks and food markets, for the man who made you laugh until your sides ached in that dim bar off Sunset or the privacy of his LA lounge. But the moment his hand settled at the small of your back in arrivals, the city faded to background noise.

Inside the flat the air is warm, scented with coffee and the faint ghost of cigarettes. Records line the walls like silent witnesses. Alex sets your bag down, turns, and for a long moment you simply look at each other across the living-room floor.

Then he crosses the space and kisses you.

It is not urgent. It is careful, almost reverent—his mouth learning yours again, the soft give of your lower lip, the tiny catch in your breath when his tongue brushes yours. His hands frame your face, thumbs tracing the faint freckles on your cheeks. You feel delicate in his arms, small frame pressed to his taller one, but the way you kiss him back—slow, deliberate, unafraid—makes something in his chest tighten with recognition. You are not fragile. You are steady, and that steadiness undoes him.

Then it deepened. Your silky hair caught in his fingers as he tilted your head back, his mouth sliding from yours to your throat—open kisses that left heat blooming under your skin.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

We smoked a joint on the sofa, legs tangled, the turntable spinning a low Miles Davis record—Kind of Blue, the trumpet soft as smoke. The weed settled over us like warm honey, slowing time, sharpening every touch. I watched you inhale, lips wrapping around the paper, then lean forward to pass it back, your deep brown eyes half-lidded, that silver ring catching the lamplight. You looked like something out of a dream I hadn't known I was having.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

You felt the high bloom warm and heavy behind your ribs, loosening the last knots of jet lag while sharpening every nerve. The Miles Davis trumpet drifted low, almost underwater. Legs still tangled on the sofa, your skirt already rucked high enough for his hand to rest possessively on the inside of your thigh, thumb tracing lazy, maddening circles. Three months apart had stripped away any patience for slow seduction; what remained was bone-deep want.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

I kiss you first—deep, open-mouthed, no preamble. Tongues slide slow at first, then hungry, the faint taste of weed and whisky shared earlier mingling with sugar and want. You moan softly into it, fingers curling into the open collar of my dark shirt. My hand pushes higher under your skirt, finds the damp lace of your thong, and I press my trained fingers there. You're soaked, Arabella; I groan against your mouth because the realisation physically hurts.

"Fuckin' hell, Bells," I rasp, voice gravel-thick with three months of quiet torment.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

You don't speak. You just shift forward, straddling him fully, skirt bunching higher around your hips. His fingers hook the thin fabric of your thong, shove it roughly aside. He frees himself one-handed—trousers undone just enough, cock thick and hard, flushed dark. You sink down in one desperate glide, both of you gasping at the sudden stretch, the perfect, overwhelming fullness. No slow build. You're both too far gone for that.

The rhythm is immediate, hungry—your hips rolling hard to meet his upward thrusts, wet sounds mixing with jazz. Mouths stay fused, kissing sloppy and urgent between moans. You grip his shoulders; he grips your ass under the skirt, guiding you faster, deeper. Every stroke hits that spot inside you that makes your thighs quiver. The high amplifies it all: the drag of him inside you, the heat of his palms, the low, broken sounds he makes against your lips.

After minutes of frantic, sofa-bound fucking he growls low, arms banding tight around your waist. Without pulling out—still buried to the hilt—he stands, lifting your small frame effortlessly.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

Your legs lock around my hips, arms around my neck, one hand buried in my hair tightly. Each step I take drives me deeper; you whimper into my neck, kissing me messily the whole way—open-mouthed, desperate, barely breathing.

Halfway across the parlour I slow. The tall antique mirror leans against the wall, chipped gilt frame catching the low lamplight. I lower you carefully and I turn you, press your front to the cool glass, your hands bracing on the frame. From behind I re-enter in one firm thrust, deeper now in this new angle. You arch, pushing back against me.

My hands move to your blouse—still half-buttoned from earlier. I grab fistfuls of fabric and yank; buttons pop and scatter across the floorboards with soft pings. The blouse falls open. I shove the cups of your tiny lace bra down roughly, freeing your full, perfect boobs. They spill out, heavy and smooth, nipples tight from the cool air and arousal. In the reflection I see it all: your small face—freckles stark against pink cheeks, deep brown eyes glassy, long brown hair wild, silver septum piercing hanging from your small nose; your breasts bouncing with each hard thrust; me behind you, hair falling forward, eyes locked on your reflection like I'm memorising every flicker of pleasure across your features.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

He pounds into you steadily—deep, punishing strokes that make the mirror rattle faintly against the wall. You're both moaning openly now: your low, keening sounds, his rough curses. One hand grips your hip; the other reaches around to palm one breast, thumb rolling the nipple in time with his hips. Then he slips it between your thighs, fingers finding your clit, circling tight and precise.

The pleasure coils viciously fast. You're close—thighs trembling, breath fogging the glass—when your foot slips on the oak parquet. Sweat-slick skin, the frantic rhythm, the force of his thrusts: your shoulder jars back harder than intended. The mirror's wooden holder creaks once, then gives. The whole thing tips forward, crashes to the floor with a sharp, splintering crack. Glass shatters across the boards in a glittering web.

You both freeze.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

I pull out, arms banding around your waist to haul you back against my chest, away from the mess. My breathing is ragged, concern cutting through the haze.

"Bells—fuck, are you alright?" Hands gentle now, roaming your shoulders, your arms, your bare back—checking for shards, for blood. Barefoot as we both are, the floor suddenly dangerous. "Did it cut you? Let me see, love."

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

"I'm fine," you manage, still trembling from the edge of orgasm and sudden adrenaline. You turn in his arms, press your hands to his chest and notice his rushed pulse. "Seven years of bad luck, yeah?"

He exhales a laugh—low, relieved—then kisses you hard, tasting of smoke and relief. "Worth every bloody year."

The laughter fades into another deep kiss. He scoops you up again—careful this time, stepping over the shards—and carries you the rest of the way to the bedroom. Lays you down on cool sheets. Slides back inside you slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving yours. The pace is different now—deeper, more measured, building until you're both coming hard: you clenching around him with a broken moan, him spilling inside you while groaning your name like it's the only word left.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

The days that followed were a haze of skin and music and rain.

Mornings began with coffee in bed, then my head between your thighs while sunlight slanted through half-closed curtains.

Afternoons drifted into joints and whatever record I pulled next—French yé-yé, slow-burning soul, that psychedelic baroque swirl of Scott Walker and Gainsbourg I'd been obsessed with all spring. We fucked against the kitchen counter while the kettle boiled, slow and laughing.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

One night you stood at the tall window, his chest to your back, his cock sliding into you from behind while the city lights blurred through the rain; his fingers worked your clit in time with his thrusts until you shattered against the cool glass.

You barely left the flat. A half-hearted attempt on the third day ended when the drizzle turned to proper rain and you looked at each other on the doorstep and laughed. "London can wait," you said. He kissed you right there in the doorway, hands sliding under your jumper, and you both knew it was never really about the city.

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

I had never been this quietly undone by anyone. Every touch felt like coming home and falling apart at the same time. I watched you move through my flat—naked, unselfconscious, that small, intimidating confidence in every line of your body—and felt the sick, empty feeling of the last three months dissolve. You were here. You were real. And for once I didn't need to write a single word about it; I only needed to keep having you.

On the last morning you packed slowly while I made tea. When you finally stood at the door, suitcase at your feet, I pulled you close one more time. The kiss was slow, deep, full of everything we hadn't said out loud. Your deep brown eyes met mine, steady and unafraid.

"I'll be back," you whispered against my mouth.

I nodded, throat tight. "Don't be a stranger, yeah? This place goes to the dogs without you in it."

Outside, the rain had stopped. London waited, indifferent as ever, but we weren't looking at it anymore. What we'd carved out in those stolen days—skin on skin, breath on breath, the quiet madness of two people who finally stopped pretending—was already etched somewhere deeper than any song I'd ever write. And if it faded, at least we'd know it had been real.

[angleafterangel]

˖ ݁.✧ meet me ˖⋆。⟡‧˚ masterlist ˚‧。⊹ ²ⁿᵈ blog ⋆꙳.⟡

(≈ 2.4k words. Glamorous, sensual smut. One-night stand / Strangers-to-lovers. Rockstar fantasy)

Arabella (2013)

Alex found himself in the sultry haze of a Los Angeles house party when he first encountered Arabella.

His quiff slicked back with that signature pomade shine, clad in a slim black leather jacket that hugged his lean frame, nursed a whisky in one hand as the crowd started to thin out. It was early for a bash like this to wind down, but word was it'd been going non-stop for two or three days. He'd only bothered to drop by that afternoon—and thanks heavens for that.

With fewer bodies crowding the space, he could finally take her in properly, calmly, as she leaned against the wide terrace railing. It wasn't the first time she'd caught his notice—hell, she'd pinged his radar before—but today, she was impossible to miss. 

And it wasn't just him hooked; the room knew it too. 

A few hours earlier, she'd owned the makeshift dance floor, not showboating for eyes yet pulling every last one anyway. Some looks were hungry, almost feral; others sharp with judgment or jealousy; a few simply glazed over, mesmerised by her radiant magnetism, that luminous figure slicing through the dim, pulsing lights like a shooting star.

She was built like a dream: hourglass curves chiselled to divine perfection, skin a silken canvas of sun-kissed gold, flesh firm and young, begging for the brush of fingertips. Slender fingers sometimes combed through her big, loose '70s blonde waves, and those wide blue eyes, brimming with expression, could hold a gaze a second too long—long enough to make a man wonder what she'd seen in him.

But what really hooked Alex, what coaxed a sly grin to his face, was how flawlessly she wore something so audaciously ridiculous: interstellar gator-skin boots, paired with nothing but a skin-tight silver swimsuit that turned his mind straight to Barbarella. The fabric clung like liquid mercury, catching every bit of light with each undulation or breath, outlining every curve and muscle as she moved. In his head, Alex had already nicknamed her Barbarella—for now.

Now she stood alone, drawing on a cigarette. Alex decided to chance it, pulse ticking a little faster—he'd watched countless others try and fail that afternoon.

"Can I have one of those?" he asked, propping himself against the railing beside her.

Wordlessly, she extended the pack. American Spirit. Of course, he mused inwardly, a spark of amusement flickering.

"Some party, huh?"

Barbarella turned to him, her azure eyes piercing his very core, now it was she who wore an amused expression. "Disappointing. You didn't strike me as the awkward small-talk type."

But as they talked, Alex proved he wasn't. 

"Arabella," she offered at last. Alex had crossed paths with countless women, but none wore a name quite like that. He repeated it once, softer, then gave his own.

"I know who you are," she replied, and there was something in her tone that suggested she knew more than just headlines.

The conversation deepened, in an authentic way that unsettled him more than he expected—she just might've tapped into his mind and soul, effortless as that. And though neither carried a hidden agenda, Alex couldn't help his gaze drifting to her plump, tender lips every time she took a pull from that Mexican Coke. Bloody hell, how he wished he could take the bottle's place, to be the one pressing againt those lips.

Thus, he asked her back to his place. And she agreed.

He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself laughing as they headed out, seeing her throw on a light cheetah-print coat—the proverbial cherry on top this eccentric sundae. How did she manage it? The strangest combinations, yet she made it look impossibly elegant, tinted with that faint cosmic sheen.

Alex pulled the Cadillac CTS up outside his Hollywood Hills home. Once the door clicked shut behind them, sealing out the world, he closed the distance and kissed her—unhurried but certain. She smiled against him, and the fusion—the sweet cola and earthy organic tobacco—unravelled something in his chest while tightening everything lower, his black jeans suddenly too confining.

Still, they headed to the living room. He offered a drink; she declined, so he poured himself a solitary whisky and sank onto the sofa. 

Arabella explored the space with bold curiosity, no leave sought, and Alex was entranced: this beautiful creature, still in that glowing, form-clinging swimsuit and those boots, navigating his room like a celestial explorer.

She gravitated to the turntable, scanned his records with a discerning eye, and picked one. Alex's brows arched in surprise as he clocked it—Dutronc. Had to be coincidence, surely; perhaps the young Arabella aimed to impress, putting on a bit of a show. Some might think it odd that he knew the artist; she was younger, after all, she'd probably have just grabbed anything.

But he watched every careful move: the gentle wipe of the vinyl, the way she set it spinning. (In his mind, he pictured her like a helter-skelter he'd ride over and over, spinning endlessly like that disc itself, and he almost laughed at the whimsy.)

With assured finesse, she lowered the needle to the fifth track. The music filled the room and she began to sing along, dancing through his lounge. Glancing at him now and then, and he couldn't help but smile. Arabella danced tirelessly, at one point kicking the gator-skin boots into a corner, then taking a few more fluid steps, before closing the gap between them. Alex shifted in his seat, nerves flickering beneath the surface, though he masked it with studied nonchalance.

Arabella swayed her hips, as natural as the sunset behind her, filtering through the wide windows—the very reason he'd bought this place, those glorious views. But this time, he couldn't look away from this otherworldly woman. He forgot the sky entirely, and when he finally noticed the warm light framing her body, he chose to ignore it completely.

Arabella straddled him, one leg on either side, as natural as breathing. Alex felt her settle against his growing hardness with deliberate care, still singing softly, fingers drifting to the buttons of his shirt. Without meeting his gaze, she began unbuttoning it slowly. Once open, she lifted her eyes to his and leaned in to kiss him.

Her long, natural red nails scratched gently down his sinewy arms and forearms, eliciting hushed sighs from his parted lips, each trail sending little shocks through his body.

He broke away just long enough to set his glass aside—both hands free now. His index fingers hooked the thin straps of her swimsuit and, with slow, measured patience, he drew them down her shoulders, watching her face as much as her body.

The fabric resisted slightly, Alex followed every inch as it peeled away from her flawless breasts, exposing what he already knew would enthral him. His palms replaced the silver, cupping their weight, thumbs brushing over hardening peaks as their kisses intensified, yet still unhurried. Time stretched infinite before them, and though raw want was front and center, deep down Alex already craved repeating this symphony a thousand times.

Now the swimsuit bunched at her pronounced hips, and Alex grew insatiable—hands, eyes, mouth devouring her form. The needle had long since hit the run-out groove, pops and scratches filling the silence, but neither paid attention. Instead, in a smooth move, Alex eased her down onto the sofa and settled above her. He kissed a slow path down her body, tasting a whole starfield on her skin—salty-sweet, addictive, like bursts of light.

Her fingers ran over his muscled back, the other tangling in his waxed hair—meant for his quiff, but now thoroughly messed up under her grip.

When he reached her navel—the limit the swimsuit still allowed—he hooked his fingers at her hips, pressed gently, and began to slide the silver fabric lower, revealing her completely.

Without delay, he kissed her bare skin, sampling her hips, the velvety insides of her thighs, each touch a tease until he reached her intimate core. There, he took his time— lips brushing her folds lightly at first, tongue flicking out to trace her slit, tasting her wetness that was already gathering. He parted her with gentle fingers, exposing her clit, and circled it slowly with his tongue, building pressure as Arabella arched subtly beneath him on the leather cushions, her breaths quickening into soft, breathy moans that spurred him on.

Alex persisted eternally, orchestrating her pleasure as masterfully as he wielded his guitar—strokes varying in pressure and rhythm, fingers joining to probe and curl within her slick heat—feeling her tense and quiver, her thighs trembling around his head. 

He kept at it, relentless but tender, until she arched high, her body shaking in a long, sweet orgasm, waves pulsing around his fingers, her cries filling the room like music. His own cock strained hard in his jeans, aching for release, but he revelled in her undoing.

As Arabella caught her breath, Alex held out a hand, pulling her up. Their lips met in a sensual tangle, her essence lingering on his tongue for her to taste, while her hands worked his belt and jeans open without breaking the lip-lock. He helped shedding them off with his shoes, standing bare except for his boxers, his need evident.

Mirroring his earlier act, Arabella slipped her fingers into his waistband at the hips and tugged down slowly, freeing his thick length right in front of her swollen lips—both of them burning to go further.

She enveloped him without hesitation, her mouth a lush haven, tongue swirling with precision that propelled Alex toward cosmic oblivion, as if rocketing through space. She sucked lightly, then deeper, her hand wrapping the base to stroke what she couldn't fit, bobbing with a steady rhythm that drew a low groan from him. 

She hollowed her cheeks for more suction, eyes flicking up to meet his now and then. Alex's fingers threaded into her hair, not pushing, just feeling the motion, the heat building fast as she worked him—tongue pressing the underside, lips sliding tight. He was on the brink, stars behind his eyes, until he had to pull her back gently, breathing heavy, not ready to finish yet.

She rose, and between fervent kisses, he murmured the suggestion of going to his bedroom.

Swiftly, Arabella repositioned the needle and turned off the player, while Alex grabbed a last sip of whisky.

As she neared, poised to follow, Alex lifted her up; she wrapped her legs around him. He was struck by how light she felt, how their bodies fit perfect, her heat pressing against him teasingly.

At the edge of his vast bed, he set her down soft, breaking the kiss to trail kisses along her neck, nipping at the pulse point as he guided himself to her entrance with one hand. Pushing in, they locked eyes, mutual sighs escaping—her brows furrowing in pleasure, feeling so stretched and full, his cock hitting every sensitive spot inside, lifting her adrift among galaxies. 

He started slow, pulling almost out then sliding back deep, savoring the tight heat gripping him. Each thrust built, like asteroids on collision course, threatening to erupt in a cataclysmic shift. Her moans syncing with his grunts, hands clutching his back. He angled to hit that spot, grinding at the end of each push, feeling her get wetter, tighter. She wrapped her legs higher, pulling him closer, nails dragging down his skin as the pace picked up—steady, deep, drawing it out.

Alex wasn't rushing the end, loving the feel of her. When he sensed her climbing again, he tempered to a languid cadence—deliberate, teasing thrusts that made her whimper, her body arching for more. It worked; she dug her nails into his neck as her second climax hit hard, spasms rippling along his length, breaths fracturing. He endure, jaw clenched, as she bit down softly at his neck-shoulder join, a sharp pleasure-pain that nearly undid him.

They flipped; Arabella had him lean against the headboard. Catching her breath, she went down on him again, this time with gentler reverence—lips and tongue exploring along his length, tracing veins, taking him deep, her pace a teasing torment that rebuilt his urgency without tipping it.

The angle let him reach around; he extended a hand and his fingers found her slick, still-sensitive entrance, slipping in easy, curling to rub that inner spot, after three mere motions—she decide it was sinsufficient, craving his fullness again.

She climbed on, hands on his shoulders, his roaming her hips and breasts, pinching nipples lightly. Arabella set a rhythm of maddening precision—grinding with an hypnotic sway, circling her hips to feel him everywhere inside, then rising and dropping with building speed, their moans mixing unforgivingly in the room. They kissed messy, the cola aftertaste on her lips pushing him closer, but he held back.

With a quick lift, he flipped them without pulling out, resuming dominance. She hooked lithe legs over his shoulders, allowing wide access he claimed with resolute hip drives, each one bottoming out, her broken cries telling him she was enjoying this new position. He varied—short, fast pumps then long, slow ones—feeling her clench, the heat building unbearable. Her sounds unravelled him; the chamber blazed with passion and like a supernova igniting, everything exploded hot and bright as he came hard near her neck, spasms pumping deep inside, groaning his ecstasy.

When the waves faded, his weight settled on her careful, mindful not to overwhelm her. Arabella held him close, fingers tracing soothing patterns along his back. Then he felt her chest hitch with soft laughs under him.

He pushed up on forearms, questioning with a hazy smile, lids heavy with bliss. "That was amazing," she breathed. Alex hummed agreement, dropping back down gentle, kissing her neck.

By then, the firmament had deepened to indigo, stars twinkling as if solely for their witness.

Resting proved fleeting; soon a kiss dragged on, and Arabella's teeth grazed his lower lip with playful insistence, sparking the need to immerse in her once more. 

He rolled them slow, entering her from the side this time, bodies pressed close. He thrust lazy but deep, one hand between them to circle her clit, drawing out gasps as she pushed back into him. They built gradual—Alex nipping on her earlobe, hands exploring sweat-slick skin—until she came quiet and shuddering, pulling him over the edge too, spilling inside with muffled groans against her platinum hair. 

Their bond transcended the earthly, neither ignoring it. Alex's hand traced her side, fingers pressing as if coaxing a melody from piano keys. Arabella smiled in the moon glow—maybe he was replaying a song in his mind. Or writing one anew.

[angleafterangel]

your writing is sooo good 💓

No idea who you are, but consider yourself kissed

[angleafterangel]

˖ ݁.✧ meet me ˖⋆。⟡‧˚ masterlist ˚‧。⊹ ²ⁿᵈ blog ⋆꙳.⟡

(≈ 5k words. Angst / Breakup. Does not contain smut. Emotional heartbreak. Established relationship)

Do Me a Favour (2005)

The day had already tilted off its axis before it had properly started, that flat, unrelenting January grey that seeps into every corner and leaves the world feeling strangely misaligned. Early 2005, the air raw with the persistent sting of winter, and Arabella had scarcely slept on the train north from King's Cross—hours spent staring at her pale reflection in the night-black window, silently rehearsing sentences that dissolved the moment she reached for them.

When she stepped onto the platform at Sheffield Midland, the cold struck her like a sudden immersion, but it was nothing against the hard knot lodged low in her chest. Alex was waiting, propped against the barriers with his hands buried in his coat pockets, hair dishevelled as though he had dragged his fingers through it repeatedly on the drive over. He caught sight of her, summoned a smile that never fully formed, and crossed the distance between them.

The smile began instinctively, then wavered midway. She felt the strain in it—the effort required to hold it in place. She offered something back, thin and weary, and walked towards him as if her legs belonged to someone else entirely.

"You alright, love?" he asked, drawing back just far enough to study her face. The shadows beneath her eyes betrayed her—deep, livid, as though she had been carrying the weight of sleepless nights across her skin.

"Aye," she answered, too swiftly, coaxing a frail smile. "Just knackered. Haven't slept proper in weeks."

He remained silent, refrained from pressing, but held his gaze a fraction longer. He kissed her then—gentle, cautious, as if a firmer touch might fracture the brittle space between them. Her lips were chilled against his, barely yielding, and the lack of response twisted something sharp inside him.

"Fancy summat t'eat?" he suggested, retreating to familiar ground, his hand still resting lightly at her elbow as though the contact might steady them both.

"Nah," she said, shaking her head. "Let's just... go somewhere nice, yeah, Al?"

The words sounded ordinary enough, yet they carried a weight that made his guts lurch. He nodded all the same, guided her out towards the car park without further comment. The city murmured around them—buses exhaling as they pulled away, metal shutters rattling downwards on shopfronts—but the sounds arrived muffled, as if filtered through thick glass. He attempted a weak joke about the weather remaining as grim as ever, but it withered in the cold without resonance.

She produced a faint exhale that might have passed for amusement, yet her hands remained tucked deep inside her sleeves, fingers concealed as though she dared not let them tremble in the open.

Inside the car, the confines felt constricted, the silence no longer the companionable sort they had once known but something denser, almost corporeal, wedged uncomfortably between the seats. Alex started the engine; the heater unwillingly wheezed into life, and he drove more slowly than usual—one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on her thigh, not clutching, merely present. A mute tether against the gathering storm.

She gazed out of the passenger window, jaw rigid, observing the familiar streets glide past without truly registering them: the weathered terraces with paint flaking in the damp, corner shops still draped in faded Christmas lights, the thin, acrid trace of coal smoke drifting from chimneys in the older rows that had yet to surrender to central heating.

The distance between them was no longer measured merely in miles from London; it had infiltrated the scant inches separating their bodies, rendering each breath a quiet reminder of how far apart they had drifted.

He glanced at her once or twice, but she did not turn, and he did not speak. Bolehills drew him instinctively, the road climbing without conscious decision—their vantage point, surveying the city as though it remained something they could still encompass.

He eased into the familiar lay-by, switched off the engine, and the abrupt hush struck like a physical blow. Below them, Sheffield lay spread in its muted winter palette—rooftops subdued beneath the low ceiling of cloud, the Don threading sluggish and metallic through the valley floor. To the west, the view opened towards the Rivelin and Loxley valleys, the moors rolling away into the Peaks, bare branches etched sharp against the haze.

This hill had always been theirs: languid evenings at seventeen with cheap lager and roll-ups, colder nights cocooned in shared coats, debating escape or endurance or anything that still felt within reach. Now it appeared diminished. Contained. As though it could be folded away and forgotten.

The engine ticked as it cooled. Neither made a move to leave the car. The windows began to mist faintly at the margins from the warmth of their breathing.

Arabella inhaled a breath that sounded ragged, as if the air carried grit. Her hands remained knotted in her lap, knuckles blanched. Alex observed her from the periphery of his vision, waiting, a cold dread settling in his stomach like undigested metal. He shifted in his seat, the prolonged quiet needling him.

"D'you remember," he began slowly, probing, "that time up 'ere when tha made me stand stock still for five minutes wi' that camera, an' I proper lost me temper?"

Arabella offered no reply. Her stare remained fixed on the windscreen.

"You kept sayin' 'don't think about it', remember?" he continued, voice softening, edging towards fondness. "An' I were goin' on about how you can't not think about it when someone's aimin' a lens straight at your face."

He allowed himself a small huff of recollection. "So I said—dead cocksure, mind—that tha should just take the shot blind. No fussin' wi' composition, no clever angles. Just... snap." He risked a sidelong glance. "That picture turned out proper rubbish," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "All skewed. City lights streaked like someone'd smeared 'em wi' a wet thumb."

Still nothing.

"But I liked it," he added, quieter. "Told ya' it were the only one where I didn't look like I were strainin' t'be summat I weren't. You said that were exactly the point."

He turned towards her then, anticipating a nudge, a flicker of shared memory, the ghost of a smile. And froze.

Arabella had drawn inward, shoulders hunched protectively. One hand pressed to her mouth, knuckles bearing the pressure as though physically restraining what threatened to spill. Her eyes glistened, lashes darkened with moisture.

"Bells..." Alex exhaled, her name scarcely audible.

She shook her head, breath stuttering as she fought to regulate it.

"I've—" she began, voice fracturing immediately. She swallowed. "I don't know how t'say this without it comin' out all twisted."

His chest constricted.

"I've been churnin' it over in me head for weeks," she whispered, eyes falling to her lap. "Proper weeks. Every way I frame it sounds awful."

Alex leaned nearer, hand suspended midway, uncertain whether contact would anchor or unravel her further.

"What tha on about?" he asked, gentle. "Is it... uni? London? The job? Has summat gone wrong?"

She emitted a fractured sound that aspired to laughter but achieved only sorrow. "There's no soft way round it," she said. "I just... I can't do this anymore."

"What exactly d'you mean?" he asked, measured.

Arabella kept her face averted towards the windscreen, as though meeting his eyes might solidify everything too swiftly. The city lights below shimmered faintly at the periphery of her vision, the subdued glow of Sheffield spread out like a chart she no longer knew how to interpret.

"I can't keep going on like this," she said at last. "I'm grinding mesen down to nowt."

Alex shifted closer, narrowing the scant gap between seats. His hand settled on her shoulder, warm and instinctive, thumb tracing a slow, absent arc across the wool of her coat as though the small motion might moor her.

"Like what?" he asked softly. "You've just been shattered, haven't ya? London'll do that t'anyone."

She shook her head, a flicker of frustration tightening her features. "It's not just shattered. I don't feel like mesen. Haven't for a good while." She paused, grasping for words that slipped away. "It's as if I'm always on the verge of balance, but never quite there."

Alex listened, nodding slowly, though puzzlement shadowed his eyes. His hand slid to the centre of her back, a quiet, protective pressure he could not suppress.

"Everyone feels wobbly now and then," he offered, cautious. "Doesn't mean summat's broken."

"I know," she replied, sharper than she intended. "I'm not sayin' I'm special. It's just—" She faltered, breath snagging. "I barely recognise mesen these days. And I can't tell how much is London, how much is uni, and how much is..."

Her voice thinned, fragile as the frost forming on the glass.

"When I'm with you," she continued, "it lifts. Honest. I can breathe again. Like I slip back into my own skin."

His hold tightened a fraction, fleeting relief easing the tension in his face. "That's good, then," he murmured. "That means—"

"But when you leave," she interrupted, finally turning to him, tears clinging stubborn to her lashes, "when I'm back on that train and you're not there, it all collapses harder than before. Like I've been borrowing the feelin' just to scrape through, an' then there's nowt left."

Alex went very still. The brief warmth ebbed away, replaced by a colder, denser weight.

"I miss you an' all," he said after a pause, striving to keep his voice level. "All t'time."

She gave a small, helpless shake of her head. "It's not just missing you."

"It's not just missing you," she repeated, softer, as though the admission itself drained her.

Alex studied her, brow creased, waiting.

"I can't settle to owt," she went on, words gathering reluctant momentum now the barrier had cracked. "I'll sit with a book or notes in front of me an' none of it sinks in. I read the same words over and over and it's still nonsense."

She laughed faintly, a hollow sound.

"Half the time I can't face food. I'll make summat, manage a couple of bites, an' that's it. Some days I forget altogether." She hesitated, almost ashamed. "Sleep's gone all to cock an' all. Some nights I'm staring at the ceiling till dawn. Others I can't drag mesen out of bed. Alarms, messages... nowt gets through."

Alex's hand moved from her back to her arm, thumb pressing gently, worry he could no longer mask surfacing in his expression.

"An' I'm hardly seeing anyone," she added, voice splintering. "I barely catch up with my friends anymore. I keep putting 'em off, inventin' excuses, sayin' I'm buried when I'm not. I just haven't the strength for it."

She fell silent, breath catching. The car filled with the muted sound of her crying—quiet, restrained, tears tracing down without spectacle.

Neither spoke for a long stretch.

They both gazed through the windscreen at the city below, lights flickering on one by one in the encroaching dusk, as if ordinary life were resuming without consulting them.

Alex swallowed hard. He stared ahead, jaw tense, mind scrambling.

"Christ," he muttered beneath his breath.

He turned back to her then, urgency creeping into his voice. "Bell... if it's that bad—" He hesitated, then said it anyway, the notion crystallising as he spoke. "I could come down proper. Move to London. Take whatever work I can find. Help you with uni, sort meals, keep things steady. We'd make it bearable. You wouldn't have to carry it alone."

For a moment she only looked at him. Then her face folded. The contained tears gave way to something rawer; her breath fractured as she raised a hand to cover her mouth, shaking her head repeatedly.

"No—" she managed, voice thick with distress. "Alex, no. That's not—"

He leaned closer, earnest, almost pleading. "I mean it. I don't care what it takes. If that's what's needed—"

She drew her arm away, turning fully towards him now, tears falling unchecked.

"Alex," she said, trembling but resolute, "I don't think you're graspin' what I'm tryin' to tell you."

That halted him. He stopped mid-breath, confusion resurfacing. "What d'you mean?" he asked, very quietly.

She dragged in a ragged breath, steadying herself. Her hands twisted together in her lap, knuckles blanched.

"I don't know how t'stay in this wi' you," she said, voice scarcely holding. "I don't know how t'keep hold of summat that's supposed to feel right when it's slowly hollowin' me out."

Alex stared at her, the words sinking in slowly, each one heavier than the last.

"So... what are you sayin'?" he asked, voice carefully level. "Because it sounds like—" He stopped himself short. "No," he said quickly, shaking his head as if he could shake the thought loose. "Hang on. That's not it." He exhaled sharply, almost a laugh, but there was no humour in it. His gaze dropped to her hands, still twisted rigid in her lap, nails digging pale crescents into her palms. "Bells, come on," he murmured, softer, laced with a quiet urgency that tasted like desperation at the back of his throat. "It doesn't have to jump straight there. We don't have to go runnin' to... that."

Arabella drew in a shaky breath, wiping at her cheeks with the heel of her hand as though embarrassed by the evidence. The faint condensation on the window blurred the city lights into smears of amber and sodium yellow, turning Sheffield below into something liquid and unreachable. When she spoke again, her voice was steadier—not because the feeling had eased, but because she was forcing clarity through the wreckage.

"It's not that I don't want you," she said. "And it's not that I don't love you. I do. I really do, Al."

Alex flinched, a subtle contraction of his shoulders, as though the words had brushed a raw place. The wool scratched faintly against his neck, a minor irritation amid the growing constriction in his chest.

"That hasn't changed," she pressed on quickly, afraid he would interrupt. "That's what makes it worse."

She looked down at her hands again, fingers interlacing with a twist that pulled the skin taut. The faint tremor there travelled up her arms, a vibration she could feel in her teeth.

"The distance just... thins everythin' out," she said. "Every goodbye lands heavier than the one before. And I'm already not standin' steady on me own." Alex swallowed, silent. "An' now you've got all this starting  for you," she added, her voice catching on the words before she reined it back. "The band. Gigs stackin' up. People noticin'. Things finally movin'." She gave a small, helpless shrug. "I don't want to be the thing that drags you back," she said. "I don't want you stallin' out or twistin' yourself round just because I'm... foundering."

Her voice wavered, but she pushed through. "Sometimes it feels like I'm holdin' you in place without meanin' to. Like I'm loadin' you up when you should be light on your feet. An' I hate it. I hate feelin' like summat you have to work around, a snag in your path."

Alex's laugh broke free then—short, jagged, slicing through the car like a snapped string. "Honestly," he said, voice rough at the edges, "I'd almost rather you hated me."

Her words brought back everything he had suppressed: the visits to London where he tried to fix things, the flashbacks to his own previous doubts, when the thought of a first EP began to take shape and he thought that perhaps fame would come, but without her, what was the point?

"At least that'd make a scrap of sense," he continued, quieter but no less taut, words grinding out. "At least then I'd know where I bloody stood. This—" He shook his head, a sharp jerk, frustration boiling under his skin like overheated oil. "This is doin' me head in."

The admission landed harder than intended, raw as an exposed nerve. He turned away the instant it escaped, jaw locking so tight a muscle flickered there, his stare fixed on the indistinct smear of city through the windshield. The dashboard lights cast a pallid green glow across his knuckles, highlighting the tension coiled in his hands clinging to the wheel.

He dragged a hand through his hair, restless.

"Don't sit there tellin' me you love me while you're layin' all this out," he added, swinging back to face her, eyes overbright, strained to breaking. "That's cruel, Bella. I don't know how I'm supposed to take that."

Silence pooled thickly then, broken only by the irregular patter of distant traffic far below, rising like a murmur from the valley. He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled, but the words kept surging, spilling over before he could dam them.

"Do me a favour an' don't dress this up like you're doin' it for me own sake," he said, voice climbing a notch before fracturing. "Like it's some noble bloody sacrifice. An' don't pin it on the band. I couldn't give a toss about any of that right this second."

He paused, then corrected himself, quieter but fierce. "Course it matters. I'm graftin' hard for it. But don't act like I'm choosin' that over you. Or like you're sparin' me by walkin' away." Another laugh clawed out, brief and barren. "Christ. I'm not some tragic sod you've got to cut loose for me own good."

She recoiled as if slapped, a sharp intake that pulled fresh tears free, carving hot paths down her chilled cheeks. He registered it instantly—the way her shoulders drew in—and regret flooded him, sour and immediate, but the truth hung there now, jagged and unyielding between them, the air turning leaden with its weight.

Silence swelled again. The cold insinuated itself properly through the doors and floorpan, a stealthy chill that raised faint gooseflesh beneath their layers.

"You don't wanna do this," he stated finally. Flat. No question in it.

"I don't know what else t'do."

He fell mute, shoulders rigid as boards, breaths coming uneven—anger not solely at her, but at the vast, indifferent helplessness of it all, the way it rendered him powerless in the one place he thought he held ground.

Arabella looked at him as though seeing him through warped glass. Not angry at first—just stunned, wind knocked out of her by the force of it. Before he could backtrack, before he could scrape together some softer version, she reached for the door handle and pushed it open.

The cold rushed in properly this time, raw and unforgiving, carrying the earthy smell of damp moorland drifting down from the Peaks. It whipped across her face, stinging the wet tracks on her cheeks, but she barely felt it. She was out of the car in one abrupt movement, boots crunching on the loose gravel of the lay-by.

"Bell—" Alex started, panic slicing through the fog in his chest. "Bella, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

She shut the door before the sentence finished. Not slammed. Just closed. Firm. Final.

For a heartbeat he sat frozen, convinced she was about to walk off down the hill and disappear into the night, and that he would simply sit there and let it happen. But she stayed beside the car, arms wrapped tight around her ribs, shoulders heaving now that no one was watching.

Her breath hitched. The wind tugged at loose strands of her hair, whipping them across her face, and she didn't bother pushing them back. The sobs broke free then—quiet at first, then louder, rawer, the kind that scraped the throat and left it burning.

Alex sagged back against his seat, dragging a hand hard across his face.

"Fuck," he whispered.

He stared straight ahead, jaw locked, chest constricted. He had pushed too far. He knew it. He had said the worst thing in the worst way because he could not bear to beg. His hands gripped the steering wheel until the knuckles blanched. His breathing came shallow, not quite reaching his lungs. He blinked hard, once, then again.

Outside, Arabella had folded forward slightly. The sobs shook her whole frame now, no longer muffled, carried away on the wind that swept over the hill and down towards the city lights flickering far below. Alex closed his eyes for a second. He pictured just sitting there. Giving her space. Letting himself fall apart in private where she wouldn't have to see it. But the thought of her out there alone, crying into the dark after what he'd just thrown at her, was unbearable.

He opened the door. The cold hit him full force as he stepped out, sharp enough to steal the breath for a moment. He did not call her name. Did not try to explain. He simply walked round the bonnet, the car headlights blinding his peripheral vision momentarily, and wrapped his arms around her.

Arabella startled—a sharp, involuntary gasp—then crumpled back into him, fists bunching the front of his coat like it was the only thing stopping her from folding to the ground. The weeps came fully now, loud and messy, no holding back. Her whole body shook with them, face buried against his chest, breath hot and wet through the fabric.

Alex held her tight, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading gently into her hair, the other locked firm across her back. He pressed his face into the top of her head, eyes squeezed shut, the faint scent of her vanilla shampoo, mixing with the cold night air

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words muffled against her, useless and necessary at once. "I'm so sorry, Bells."

His own breath hitched, chest tightening painfully. Throat burned. A couple of tears slipped free despite everything, hot against the chill, vanishing into her hair as he held on harder.

"We could try summat else," he said, voice low and scraped raw, almost lost in the wind. "Shift things round. Make it work somehow."

She didn't answer straight away. Just clung tighter, sniffling easing gradually into shaky breaths. "Stop tryin' to fix it," she said finally, buried against his coat. Not angry. Just bone-tired. Done.

And that quiet, absolute weariness hit him harder than any shout could have. The knowledge that she'd been carrying this alone for weeks—months maybe—turning it over in the dark until it had worn her smooth.

Alex loosened his hold and stepped back first, slow, careful, as though sudden movement might cause further harm. He leaned a shoulder against the cold metal of the car and stood there a moment, staring at Arabella. The wind caught her hair again, whipping it across her face; he brushed it away with cold fingers. Her cheeks were blotched red, eyes swollen, nose running. She looked about sixteen, and it gutted him.

That were it, then.

The realisation arrived without drama. It simply settled—heavy, irrevocable. No more clever words. No plans. No way to patch this with a joke or a kiss or a promise. Just the ache behind his ribs and the knowledge that loving her more fiercely, if that were even possible, would not hold this together.

Arabella stayed a couple of steps off, arms wrapped round herself again. Her face felt raw, skin tight from cold and crying. The taste of salt and snot coated the back of her throat. She hated herself for it—hated standing here on this hill pulling the heart out of both of them just so she could keep breathing.

Part of her wished—sharp and vicious—that they'd never started. That none of it had happened. Because then she wouldn't be here, doing this.

If they hadn't been this, she wouldn't have to be doing this.

Alex rubbed the heel of his hand across his mouth, lips pressed into a fine line, eyes dry now but red-rimmed. Crying felt pointless all of a sudden. He straightened slightly, forcing steadiness into his voice. "Come on," he said quietly. "I'll take you home."

Arabella shook her head almost immediately, the motion small but definite. "It's alright. I'll ring my mam. She'll come get me." Something flared in his chest—panic, or stupid pride—but it guttered quickly.

"No," he said, gentler. "I'll take you. It's fine." She looked at him a second, then nodded once. Too fragile to argue. Too empty to care how she got from here to there. They climbed back in without another word. The doors shut with two soft thuds, sealing the cold out and the silence back in.

The drive back down the hill towards High Green passed in a slow, grinding blur. The heater hummed uselessly, pushing out lukewarm air that did nothing against the cold that had settled deep in their bones. Streetlights streaked past in dull orange smears, the roads near-empty this time of night, just the occasional taxi or late-shift van hissing through puddles left from earlier rain. Neither of them turned the radio on. The only sounds were the engine's low thrum, the faint click of the indicator when Alex signalled out of habit, and the occasional catch of breath that neither acknowledged.

Arabella sat with her head tipped lightly against the passenger window, the glass cool and slick with condensation where her breath fogged it. She watched the familiar streets slide by without really seeing them—the same terraces she'd grown up between, the same chippy with its flickering sign, the same bus shelter daubed with fresh graffiti. Everything looked smaller somehow, flattened, as though the city had shrunk while she'd been away in London.

Alex drove with both hands tight on the wheel, shoulders stiff, eyes fixed straight ahead. His jaw hadn't unclenched since the hill. Every so often he swallowed hard, like there was something lodged in his throat he couldn't shift.

When he pulled up outside her house, the engine kept running a beat too long. The street was quiet, curtains drawn in most windows, just the barely-there glow of a telly flickering behind nets next door. He killed the ignition, and the sudden silence rushed in heavy, pressing against the windows.

She didn't move straight away.

Neither did he.

The dashboard clock ticked over. 23:47. The heater fan wound down with a dying wheeze. Arabella's seatbelt clicked as she finally reached for it, the sound sharp in the hush. She paused with her hand on the door handle, staring at it like she didn't quite recognise it.

Alex forced a small, awkward smile—the kind you give when you're trying to make something awful feel normal for five more seconds. Something to say it's alright, you're not a monster, this doesn't have to end uglier than it already is.

She didn't smile back.

Her face was set, eyes puffy, all red, her lips swollen from crying. She looked already somewhere else—already inside the house, already bracing for the moment the door shut behind her.

Arabella opened the door. Cold air flooded in again, sharp with the smell of wet tarmac and distant coal fires. She paused just long enough to mutter, "Ta," without looking at him, then stepped out and closed the door quietly behind her.

Alex nodded to the empty passenger seat, though she didn't see it.

Alex swallowed again. His hand lifted half an inch towards the window button, a stupid impulse flaring—say something daft, anything. Let her know her shoe were untie. Pretend for one more breath that this was just another night dropping her off.

He let it drop back into his lap.

Don't drag it out, you prick.

She stood on the pavement for half a second, arms wrapped round herself, then turned and walked up the short path. Her steps were quick, deliberate, like if she slowed she might not make it to the door. The porch light flicked on automatically as she reached it—harsh yellow bulb. She fumbled keys for a moment then disappeared inside.

The door shut. The light stayed on a few seconds longer, then clicked off.

Alex sat there a bit longer, hands still on the wheel, staring at the empty space where she'd been. The engine ticked as it cooled.

Once he felt ready, he drove off slowly, the car rolling down the street like it didn't want to leave either, indicating, even though there was no one to see. At the end of the road he turned left, headlights sweeping across sleeping houses, and only then did the blur hit, the streetlights smearing into soft halos.

"Shite," he muttered, voice cracking on the word.

He blinked hard, once, twice. Tears came hot and sudden, pooling fast until the road ahead warped. He pulled over sharpish onto the kerb opposite the street, tyres crunching on grit, engine still running.

He leaned forward, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, one arm over the wheel to hold himself down. The first sob tore out before he could stop it—harsh, ugly, humiliating. His shoulders shook as he folded in on himself, the sound swallowed by the small space of the car. He bit down on his lips, trying to keep it quiet, to hold onto whatever composure he'd managed to fake all evening.

It didn't work. He cried properly then—messy, breathless, the kind that left his chest aching and his head spinning. All the things he'd kept locked down finally clawed their way out now that there was no one left to see him fall apart.

"Fuck," he gasped between sobs, over and over, like saying it might explain something. Like it might make it stop hurting.

After a while—minutes, maybe more—the storm eased. Breathing evened out, shaky but slower. He wiped his face rough with his sleeve, sniffed hard, stared blankly through the windscreen until the street came back into focus. The dashboard clock read 00:02.

He straightened, rubbed his eyes again, and pulled back onto the road. Home was waiting somewhere, though the word felt hollow now. He drove on slow, windows fogged, the city quiet around him.

Back at her place, the front door clicked shut like a full stop. The secret door swung behind Arabella, leaving on the other side the world that had been hers for two years, as if it were a place she'd only wandered through for a while but couldn't stay in.

[lovealexanderdavidturner]

[angleafterangel]

Okay, daddy