pairing: PreFame!Noel x Fem!Reader
wc: 3.3k
summary: It's the first time in months you've had the whole house to yourselves. Noel's planning to make the most of every minute.
cw: fluff & smut, established relationship, virginity kink, corruption kink, praise kink, fingering, possessive behavior, consent is sexy
An: i feel like this is a pretty weak comeback... sorry guys š this is all i've got.
i was actually planning for this to be a lot longer, but i kind of ran out of motivation, so this is where i'm leaving it for now. maybe i'll make a part two at some point... (funny how i always say that and then never do. sorry. pathological liar.)
anywayyy, love u all š let me know what you think!!
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He can taste the salt of the popcorn you'd shared halfway through the film on your lips, which, against his, still keep that habit of hesitating before opening fully, a second too long that Noel has learned to wait out without rushing, letting you decide how much; he notices how you press first, as though kissing were still something you had to get right before you could lose yourself in it, and only after, when your tongue brushes his with that shyness you've never quite managed to shake, does something in his chest loosen, a weight he hadn't even known he was carrying. He likes the way you breathe against his mouth when the kiss drags on, uneven, like you hadn't quite worked out how much air you'd need; he likes even more knowing that clumsiness belongs only to him, that no other bloke has ever had the patience to stay there, teaching you without letting it show that's what he's doing.
Your teeth clash once, clumsy, and you laugh against his mouth, apologising without words; he lets the laugh in, lets it become part of the kiss, because out of every girl he's been with before, none of them laughed like that, with that touch of embarrassment you shouldn't even have anymore, being his girlfriend of months now, and that he, deep down, doesn't want you to ever quite lose.
His hands, which had stayed still at your waist since you'd shifted from the far end of the sofa to end up like this ācloser, more tangled togetherā start climbing slowly up your back, feeling every vertebra beneath the thin fabric of your top; he pulls you a little closer with his palm flat between your shoulder blades, and it's then that he leaves your mouth to move down to your neck, dragging his lips along your jaw first, unhurried, savouring the time he has ātonight, at leastā with your house empty and no clock telling him when he's got to leave before your parents start on about the endless list of reasons why you shouldn't be seeing a bloke like him.
When he reaches that spot right beneath your pulse, he bites down gently, barely a graze of teeth that he knows exactly, because he's spent months learning the map of your skin inch by inch; and there, mouth still pressed against you, his mind wanders without permission back to that night at the pub, the first time he saw you laugh at something he hadn't found particularly funny, the way the mate who'd introduced you had to say your name twice because Noel wasn't listening, only watching the way you pushed your hair back from your face, a gesture that even now, months later, still catches in his chest a bit when you do it without thinking.
You laugh suddenly, a short, spontaneous sound that escapes before you can stop it, and you pull your neck away a little with an instinctive shrug.
"Stop it, that tickles," you say, though it doesn't sound much like an order, more an excuse to catch your breath for a second. Noel smiles against your skin, feeling the vibration of your laugh under his lips, and for a moment he just stays there, smile still in place, savouring how easy this is with you, how little it's ever taken to make you laugh. But he doesn't stop; he brings his mouth back down to the same spot, this time with more intent, licking slowly before biting again, a little firmer than before, enjoying the way your laughter fades bit by bit, replaced by something else, something that interests him far more ā a longer sigh, less restrained, and something tightens inside Noel when he recognises it, because he's spent months keeping the exact sound you made that first night you made out in the back of your friend's car locked away in his memory, that moan that slipped out of you without meaning to against his mouth, one you seemed shocked to have even made, pulling back for half a second with your cheeks burning before he drew you in again like nothing had happened. But that night āand several afterā alone in his room, hand wrapped round his cock, he couldn't stop playing it back in his head, trying to remember the exact pitch, whether it had been lower or higher, whether he could pull it out of you again if he found the right angle. And now, mouth still at your neck, he feels it slip out again, a little longer this time, a little less embarrassed, and he has to dig his fingers into your back to keep from losing the rhythm he's got going.
He feels you press closer than you usually do, the weight of your body sinking a little further onto his, and your hands, which up until now had stayed where they always do, tangled in his hair or resting at the base of his neck, start moving on their own, sliding down his shoulders to his chest, hesitating there a second, before venturing lower still, to the hem of his shirt, without slipping underneath, without quite deciding where to go, as though touching him this way were a test you hadn't revised for.
Noel feels that hesitation under your palms and says nothing, just lets you keep searching, lets you find your own way even if it takes twice as long as it would with anyone else. But then, as quickly as you'd pressed yourself to him, you pull back: a small tug backwards, your head dipping for an instant, embarrassment creeping up your neck in a flush he senses more than sees in the dim light of the sitting room.
Noel feels every one of those hesitations against his skin, every pause before deciding how far to go, and finds the mix of wanting and not knowing how nearly unbearable, the way you want more without quite knowing how to ask for it. But then, as though you'd only just realised how far you'd let yourself go, you pull back slightly, hiding your face against his neck, embarrassed, and the cycle starts over: you press close again a few seconds later, a little more determined than before, only to pull back again almost at once.
"I'm sorry," you mumble, though neither of you could really explain what for. He only smiles, finds your chin with two fingers to tip your face back up.
"Don't be," he says, voice a touch rougher than usual, and pulls you back to him again, waiting ā because he knows it'll happen again ā for the cycle to repeat.
His lips find yours again, with that fake calm he manages better than anyone; one hand rises to your cheek, thumb tracing a small circle right where the warmth of your embarrassment still lingers, and he draws you gently back towards him, asking for nothing, letting you set the pace at which you come close again. And it works, like it always works; you feel the knot in your stomach loosen once more, your hands, shy, finding their place on his chest again, and you let yourself be carried along by the tenderness of it without suspecting what's underneath.
Because what Noel feels, holding you like this, isn't only the want to be first; it's something dirtier, twisting inside him, not entirely tenderness ā the certainty that soon, maybe tonight even, that hesitation that makes you pull your hand back when you don't know quite where to put it is going to disappear for good, and even though that's exactly what he's spent months waiting for, part of him wants to memorise this moment with the same obsession he's memorised your moan, because he knows he can make sure you never falter like this with him again, not after tonight; he's going to be the only one who's seen you hesitate this way, the only one who knows there was ever a time you didn't know what to do with your hands. And some twisted, hungry part of him is already grieving something he's about to destroy with his own hands.
The same hands he lets trail along your sides now, climbing the curve of your waist as though nothing had changed in the last ten minutes, though every touch is calculated now with a precision you can't see. He inches his fingers up, just past where they usually stop, brushing the edge of your breast over the fabric without ever quite covering it, and feels your breath catch against his mouth, your body arching slightly into the contact before you can stop it. He says nothing. He just does it again a moment later, slower this time, confirming what he'd already suspected: that you're desperate for his hand not to stop there, even if your head's still too embarrassed to ask out loud.
It's a small, deliberate torture, and it tastes better to Noel than anything else he's had all week.
You follow the pull of your bodies, and your hips move before you decide anything, a small, near-clumsy roll you're chasing without realising you're chasing it; you'd stopped kissing with any real intent a while ago, mouths just close, sharing the same uneven breath, and it's in that small space that Noel feels your breathing shift against his lips, more the promise of a kiss than a kiss itself. That, together with the friction, together with the weight of you sat like this on top of him, sends a current straight to his groin that cuts his thoughts off for a second; he digs his fingers a little deeper into you, not to stop you, but to feel it better every time you do it again.
"You alright?" he asks against your mouth, though his tone carries none of the concern the question suggests; it's more an invitation in disguise, a way of making you say out loud what your body's already confessed without your permission. You nod, not trusting your own voice yet, and he smiles faintly against your skin. "Yeah? Don't look it." His hand stays still on your hip, as though he needs to check something. "What d'you want, uh? Tell me."
It's not a question he expects you to fully answer; he knows that, and he likes it precisely for that reason. You look away for a second, embarrassment crawling back up your neck, and mumble something that doesn't quite reach words, more an embarrassed little sound that he takes as answer enough.
"I don't know if we should..." you say, almost a whisper, your head still full of the image of your parents coming home early, of what they'd say if they knew, of the whole list of reasons why this should wait for another time, another night, maybe never. Noel cups your face with one hand, gently forcing you to look at him.
"That's not what I asked you." His voice stays calm, almost patient, but there's something underneath that isn't. "Don't care what you should or shouldn't do. D'you want to?"
You go quiet for a second, can't remember ever being asked that so directly before, stripped of a whole list of pros and cons, reminders, consequences, of all the reasons you shouldn't want something.
"Yeah," you say finally, barely a breath, and the second you say it, something in Noel's chest loosens in a way that has nothing to do with relief and everything to do with victory.
"And how much d'you want it?" he asks, voice low and rough against your mouth, hands picking up where they'd left off across your body, no restraint left this time. One climbs straight to your breast, covering it whole with his palm, feeling the weight of it through the fabric; the other slides down to the waistband of your shorts, two fingers just beneath it, playing with the edge without deciding to cross it just yet, just reminding you it's there, that he wants.
"So much," you manage, the word coming out unsteady, cut off halfway when his thumb finds your nipple through the fabric and presses down slowly. You press your lips together to keep from making another sound, but it slips out anyway, small and muffled against his neck.
Noel smiles against your skin, savouring every second of your nerves as much as the words themselves.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and the praise runs through you with an intensity you weren't expecting, one that makes your thighs clench instinctively over his lap, chasing friction without quite asking for it outright yet. "Did you like that?" he murmurs against your ear, the smile audible in his voice. "You like being my good girl?"
Before you can answer, his hand slips beneath your knickers, and the direct contact cuts your reply off halfway through your throat, turning it into a gasp that escapes without permission. Noel feels the evidence under his fingers and smiles wider, the mock surprise in his voice barely hiding how pleased he is. "Fuck. Look how wet you are" He moves his fingers, savouring the way you squirm on his lap, feeling and spreading your slick all over you. "All wet, just for me?"
His kisses land against your jaw as his fingers keep moving between your legs, unhurried, savouring every reaction he pulls from you. "So pretty," he murmurs against your cheek, another kiss. His fingers find a steady rhythm, calculated to keep you right on the edge of impatience. "So good," he adds against your temple, voice low, almost a whisper meant only for you.
Your hands grip his trapezius, fingers digging slightly into the fabric of his shirt, searching for something to hold on to as the feeling becomes too much to process calmly. Noel notices, the sudden strength of your grip, and smiles against your skin as his hand pushes further inside your knickers, until the tip of his fingers brushes your entrance, feeling the wetness pooled there. Your back tenses for an instant before a finger works its way inside you, slow, giving you time to adjust; Noel feels the clench around it, the way your body reacts without a filter for the first time tonight, and something catches in his throat before he speaks again.
"Fuckin' hell, look at you," he murmurs, voice lower than usual. "You don't even know what you're doing with your hips right now." And it's true ā you've moved on your own, a small roll towards his hand that you hadn't consciously decided on, chasing something your body understands better than you do. He notices, curls his fingers slightly, and the sound that escapes you this time carries none of the restraint from before; it comes out whole, unedited, and he feels his cock throb in his jeans.
"There y'go " he starts to say, but he loses himself a moment in another sound that comes out of you, in the way your fingers dig into his shoulder again, and when he speaks again it's softer suddenly, almost tender in contrast to what comes after. "That's it, love. Let me hear you properly." A pause, his fingers moving again, slow. "Been wanting to know how you'd sound with my fingers fucking you for months."
The sound you make as he slides in a second finger carries his name, broken clean in half, none of the embarrassment from before; Noel's rhythm nearly falters at the sound of it, something so simple and so devastating that he has to remind himself to keep moving instead of losing it completely. He keeps the pace, curls his fingers right where he knows he can undo you, palm pressing against your clit with every motion, and your mouth falls open against his temple, every sigh landing straight against his skin like there's no distance left between you at all, not even air.
"D'you want it?" he asks, breathless himself now, voice scraped raw.
"Yes," you say, and this time there's no embarrassment in the word, only the urgency of your hips moving against his hand, chasing more. "I want it... please, Noel."
Your voice saying his name like that, with nothing holding it back, is what finally unravels the last of his calculated patience. He wants you to say it again, wants you to moan it, wants you to shout it, wants to drag his name out of your mouth in that exact same tone of pleasure every way he can, wants to spend his life listening to his name come out of your mouth chasing more, chasing more of him.
He feels you come as your arms lock around his neck with a strength you didn't even know you had, pulling him closer while your walls clench around his fingers and the moans cut off one after another, no longer able to form whole words. Noel holds your gaze from below, drinking in every second āthe way your brow furrows with the pleasure, the flush rising from your chest to your cheeksā and can't help but say it. "Oh, loveā¦" his voice marked with a tenderness that for a moment outweighs everything else he's feeling underneath, "so gorgeous, coming round my fingers," he murmurs, fingers not stopping, drawing the moment out as long as he can.
Eventually, your body goes still against his, breath still uneven but the movement of your hips already stopped completely; you're still trembling a little, small aftershocks fading slowly, and instead of chasing more contact, more of that hand that's just undone you completely, you cling to his neck tighter, face hidden against his shoulder. Noel understands without needing you to say anything ā he feels the shift, how the embrace stops being hunger and becomes something closer to shelter, and he, against every prediction given how he's felt all night, doesn't push.
He just withdraws his hand slowly, with the same care he used going in, and holds you with both hands now, one tangled in your hair, letting you stay there as long as you need, breathing together in the quiet of the empty sitting room.
He could push, he knows that; knows that if he wanted, tonight could end differently. But there's something in the way you're clinging to him, fragile and trusting all at once, that reminds him of the first time he ever saw you, back when you weren't his yet and he'd already noticed you anyway. He remembers how you laughed then, that exact same mix of confidence with something shyer underneath, as though you only gave yourself permission to take up so much space and no more; remembers thinking āeven before the night was over, telling you he'd like to see you again and leaving a kiss that landed just unfairly close to the corner of your mouthā that there was something in you he wanted to protect and something, at the same time, he'd like to slowly take apart with his own hands.
And he holds you a little tighter, the hand in your hair stroking slowly, almost without thinking, and presses a kiss to your temple, another to your forehead, letting the gesture say what it doesn't need to say out loud.
Because he doesn't mind waiting. He's been waiting for months, and one more night, or two, or however many it takes, isn't going to weigh on him as much as it should, not when he already knows āwith the same quiet certainty he knows any riff that's stuck in his headā that you want it too, that it's only a matter of time. And for now he has this: the weight of your body relaxing against him, your breathing slowing bit by bit against his neck, and a "please" to add to the collection of things that are going to be playing on a loop in his head over the next few nights, right alongside that first moan in the back seat.
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