☆🖇️🪩

From where he is, standing next to the sofa, Noel looks at the telephone with the answering machine still in its spot and stands there for a moment in the middle of the living room, holding the sash in his hands, with the decision still not having taken shape anywhere in particular in his mind.

He should call you. But he wouldn’t know what to say. He still doesn’t know, even after mulling over the message for a whole morning, lost somewhere between burnt toast and the shirt that refused to button up; indecision has settled into his body with the same stubbornness of a song you can't get out of your head, playing in the background whilst he does everything else, popping up precisely in the silences where there was nothing else to drown it out.

He checks the kitchen clock and works out, almost by instinct, how long Liam's probably been waiting downstairs. He knows he should already be on his way to the door, and yet he lingers for another second, and then another, the sash still between his fingers, twirling the satin as if he were spinning a coin, without ever actually tossing it. He knows, too, that standing there isn't going to solve anything,  that the decision of whether or not to ring you isn’t going to sort itself out by staring at the phone as if it's going to speak on its own, as if the right answer were going to materialise without him having to risk getting it wrong anyway. So he does the only thing he knows how to do, deep down, when something weighs too heavily and he hasn't got the will or the energy to carry it a minute longer: he shelves it. Drops the sash back onto the sofa, with no particular care, grabs his keys off the hall table with a gesture so automatic he doesn't even need to look where they are, and leaves the flat with the phone still unmarked and his head —despite everything, despite the whole effort he's just made not to think about it any more— exactly where he'd left it.

He hasn't even shut the door properly when he spots you. On the landing, right in front of your door, rummaging for your keys at the bottom of your bag, some notes sticking out of the half-open zip, and for a second, with his hand still suspended over the handle, Noel just stops dead, as if his body had decided all by itself that it wasn’t a good idea to keep moving.

It's the same spot. The exact same bit of landing where, the first time he ever saw you, you had your knees pulled up to your chest and a pair of fluffy pink slippers poking out from under your pyjamas. Neither of you has changed anything about the scene in ten months —same carpet, same yellowish light on the ceiling that's been flickering since before either of you moved in— and yet the whole place strikes Noel as completely different, like the floor under his feet had changed its very nature without anyone bothering to warn him. He gets the strange sense of watching two versions of the same scene superimposed on top of one another: the one from that night, when you were still two complete strangers with some flimsy excuse to meet, and the one right now, with everything that's happened in between hanging in the air like something neither of you knows how to put into words just as it is.

You look up at the sound of his door opening, and the gesture —that small startle, almost identical to that first night, only without the real fright behind it this time— throws the whole image back at him all at once: you asking what happened to his face, with no idea yet that you were about to become the person taking up more space in his head than anyone in any city in the world. The coincidence strikes him, for a moment, as absurd, almost obscene in how perfectly it lines up — as if the whole building had agreed to drop the two of you back at the exact same point you'd started from, only now with every word you’ve said weighing in the air between you.

Neither of you says anything. Neither of you moves. And the silence stretches on longer than a simple "hi" should take to fill, until you're the one who breaks the deadlock, stepping towards him with your hands clenched around the straps of your bag as if you needed something to hold onto.

"Hey…" You say it quietly, none of your usual confidence in it. "Can we… talk?"

Noel hesitates. And he notices, with an uncomfortable weight settling in his chest, how your expression falters slightly when he takes a second too long to answer — not because he doesn't want to, but because in that second his head fills with Liam waiting downstairs, the excuse he'll have to make up, and whether he's actually ready for this conversation with his head still in a whirl from the whole morning he's just had.

"Course." He says it at last, with a firmness that arrives a tad too late to fully erase that initial hesitation, but it gets the job done. He pushes the door he'd never fully shut back open and steps aside to let you in.

The flat greets you with the same bright morning light that's been sitting there since Noel got up, the two glasses still uncleared off the coffee table, the crooked cushion he'd straightened earlier not quite managing to sit right. And there, on the arm of the sofa, exactly where he left it, you see the pink sash. Something tightens inside you at the sight of it, as out of place in the usual order of Noel’s living room as you yourself feel at that moment; you go over and pick it up between your fingers with a sense of embarrassment you hadn't expected to hurt so much. And you're on the verge of saying something —an apology or an excuse, anything to break the silence before it gets unbearable— when he speaks first.

"I heard the message." He says it standing, still near the door, as if he doesn't dare close the gap between you until he knows what ground he's standing on. "This morning."

"Oh…" It's all you manage to say at first, the sash still tangled between your fingers, and the silence that follows lasts long enough for the question to slip out  before you can think better of it. "Why didn't you call, then?"

It doesn't come out fully like a reproach, but you can't quite make it sound like nothing either; it comes out with a slight edge you hadn't intended, last night's still-unhealed wound peeking out from under the question. Noel drags a hand down his face, and for a second it looks as though he's going to try to explain himself calmly, put the words in order before letting them out. He doesn't manage it.

"It's not—" He runs his hand over his face again, a gesture you've seen him do a thousand times when something gets stuck inside him and he can't find a way out. He stays like that, palm half covering him, as if he could hide from the conversation without moving from the spot. When he finally lowers it, his eyes are fixed on some undefined point above your shoulder, on the wall, on anything that isn't you directly. "You've got nothing to apologise for, alright? Nothing."

You stay still, letting him talk without interrupting, though every word tightens your shoulders a bit more.

"It was me who—" He cuts off again, and this time the silence lasts long enough for you to catch, in the flat below, the muffled echo of a door shutting before it's swallowed by a sigh of his own. "I'm an idiot. Been going round in circles all morning trying to work out how to talk to you without it sounding awful, and there's no way it doesn't sound awful, so just—" The words come faster, tripping over themselves, like he needs to get them out before his own body decides to bottle it halfway through. "I should've stopped you last night before any of that happened. Should've been more careful, probably, told you to stop when you were pissed instead of letting things—"

Watching him talk, and a feeling bordering on despair stirs within you — the despair of watching someone build, brick by brick, the wrong version of the story right in front of you. Because there he is, shouldering the full weight of a guilt that isn’t entirely his to bear, convinced that the problem was not having stopped you in time, with no idea at all that you'd spent months wanting exactly the opposite.

"Noel," you say it firmly, cutting him off mid-sentence, and take the steps you need to reduce the distance between you.

"—no, listen, it's not right that I, with everything that's happened, all that shite, keep letting you think it's your fault when actually—"

"No, Noel," you say it again, even closer now, close enough to smell the detergent on his clothes, and this time you bring a hand up to his jaw, guiding him with just enough gentleness to make him look at you, to stop him looking at whatever spot in the room that isn't you. His skin is warm under your fingers, a little rough with a day's stubble he hasn't shaved off yet, and you feel his breath catch the moment you touch him, the sentence he was halfway through building dying on his lips unfinished.

You look him in the eye, tired of all this back-and-forth, of going round in circles in the whole game the two of you have spent months playing, and when you finally speak, the question comes out smaller than you'd planned, almost vulnerable. "Do you like me?"

He doesn't hesitate for even half a second. "Yes."

The answer comes out so fast, with no room left for a lie in it, that for a moment you don't quite know what to do with the sudden certainty of having it. His breath mixes with yours in the tiny space left between your two faces, and you nod slowly before asking the next question. "And do you want me?"

This time the answer doesn't come as instantly. It's only a second, perhaps two, but it stretches out forever, his eyes locked on yours as if he were searching for something behind your words — fear, maybe, or shame, or both tangled together in the same impossible way you've been feeling them for months. You see his Adam’s apple move as he swallows, how the pulse beneath your hand quickens even more, and for a moment you think he’s going to pull away and say something that will shatter everything you’ve just built up over the last thirty seconds.

But instead of answering with words, he leans in and kisses you.

A first contact, brief and almost tentative, his lips brushing yours with a softness that doesn't quite match the months of tension you've both been dragging around; and for that first second, neither of you moves beyond that, like you both need a whole moment to confirm this is actually happening, that it isn't just another fantasy you've spent weeks building against that wall that isn't between you anymore. You feel his bottom lip against yours, the breath escaping through his nose, warm against your skin, and there isn't a single complete thought in your head, only the crushing, physical certainty that finally, finally, after months of measuring hugs and stealing sounds, you've got his mouth on yours and it's real.

The thought makes you grip his face more tightly, pulling him towards you, and he responds with the same urgency. His hands shed the hesitation from a second ago and find your waist with a sudden firmness, gripping you with the very intensity you’d been longing for him to show for months, and you finally let go of the pink sash that was still tangled between the fingers of your other hand, letting it drop to the floor without either of you sparing it a glance, to bring that hand to his hair instead, holding onto him with a need you no longer bother hiding.

The kiss stops being tentative almost immediately: his mouth opening against yours, his tongue finding yours, making you feel a sudden surge between your legs, so sharp that a sigh escapes you against his lips. You give it all back, no reservations left, letting the restraint drain away in an instant as you bite his lower lip, pushing yourself against him until there isn’t a single centimetre of air left between your two bodies.

You're not thinking about anything specific. You can't. There's no complete thought capable of surviving the heat of his mouth or the low moan that escapes against your lips when you tug his hair, only loose fragments that never quite form —finally, this, him— dissolving before your head can finish them, replaced immediately by the next sensation: his fingers climbing up your waist, digging in hard enough to leave marks, the heat of his whole body pressed to yours, the tension in his muscles you already recognise from last night, pressing against you.

He pushes you back without breaking the kiss, one step, another, until your back hits the edge of the kitchen island with a sharp thud neither of you bothers to register, and the impact only makes you grip him harder, the kiss growing even more desperate, all teeth and tongue and broken breath shared between the two of you, the kind of kiss that carries every calculated touch and every unconfessed fantasy from all these months.

"I've—" He manages against your mouth, between kisses, never quite finishing the sentence before going back for your lips. "I've spent months—"

"I know." You tell him against his own mouth, barely any air left, hands already sliding from his hair to his t-shirt, the same one he'd had to put on this morning after failing to do up his buttons because of you.

One of his hands slowly slips under the hem of your shirt until it finds your bare skin, pulling a shiver out of you; the other slides down your side to grip your hip and pull you against him with a force that leaves very little room for doubt about what he's feeling under his jeans. You feel, against your own stomach, the same hardness you saw last night through a half-open door, and the recognition runs up your spine like a current.

"Since the beginning." Against your neck, once he finally releases your mouth to head down there, leaving a trail of open kisses that has your head tipping back without thinking. "Since the first night. Been thinking about you ever since and I—" He bites gently at the point where your neck meets your shoulder, and you feel your whole breath shake at the gesture. "Couldn't stop. Not once. Tried, though." He cuts himself off to come back up, searching for your mouth again, as if he can't decide between talking and kissing you and needs both at once.

"Mhm" It's the only answer you manage, nodding against his mouth, chasing his lips again to shut him up before the conversation gets too serious for the moment, though some small part of you tucks every one of his words away like something fragile kept in a pocket.

He pulls back from your mouth just long enough to tug your shirt up, and you lift your arms to help, letting it end up thrown somewhere on the kitchen floor. His hands are back on your skin at once, moving upwards  this time without any detour straight to the edge of your bra.

"Noel…" You breathe his name against his lips at the direct contact, more a confirmation that it's still him than any real attempt at saying anything else.

"That" He murmurs, voice rough with pleasure, going back for your mouth again. "Want to hear more of that."

"Cocky" you manage between laughs cut off by his own kiss, pulling now at his t-shirt with clumsy, eager hands, forcing him to pull back a second so it can go over his head. The second the fabric's gone, your hands are on his chest, sliding down and over the same stomach you watched tense against the lamplight last night, feeling him tighten and shiver slightly under your palms when you drag your nails slowly along the lower edge of it.

"Fuck—" It slips out of him, barely any breath left, when you grab him by the belt and pull him towards you at the same time you push yourself against the counter. He holds your eyes for a second, something between disbelief and pure hunger, before leaning back into your mouth. "You're going to kill me."

"You've been killing me for months" You tell him, half joking, half completely serious, and the laugh that comes out of him against your mouth sticks to your skin like something you want to keep too.

His hands are already at the button of your jeans when the intercom buzzes for the first time, sharp and whiny, cutting through the moment like a bucket of cold water. Neither of you stops fully; Noel growls something unintelligible against your jaw and carries on exactly where he was, as if the sound belonged to some other reality entirely. But it goes again. And again, this time without letting go of the button, a continuous, insistent beep that can only mean one thing.

"I think you should—" You manage, between laughs cut off by his mouth still on you, trying to pull back enough for him to go and answer.

"That's just Liam." He holds you tighter against the counter, no intention whatsoever of moving an inch, and the buzzer goes again, longer this time, almost offended, as if Liam himself could transmit his own bad mood through the sound of the intercom. "He'll get bored."

You hesitate, feeling a twinge of guilt at leaving someone waiting with no explanation, but it dissolves the second Noel bites gently at your earlobe, and you decide Liam can wait as long as he likes. The intercom goes one last time, long and frustrated, before finally falling silent. Allowing you to stop thinking about anything other than Noel entirely.

The two of you leave the kitchen without ever quite letting go of each other, one interrupted kiss after another every couple of steps, stumbling slightly over your own feet in the hallway because neither of you is willing to let go of the other long enough to walk normally. Your hands remain on his chest, on his neck, chasing every bit of skin you can reach; his don't stop moving over you either, sliding down your back, up to the nape of your neck again, lingering at the waistband of your jeans, as if he can't decide where to stay. Until your back hits the frame of his bedroom door.

"Careful" He laughs low against your mouth, gripping you steadier, though the 'careful' doesn't stop him pushing you back with the same urgency as before.

"Your fault." You tell him, breathless, biting his lip as punishment, and you feel him growl low, pressing you closer in response.

He gets you out of your jeans with more impatience than technique, tugging the fabric down while you lean on his shoulder to keep your balance, doing the same with his own almost at the same time. You don't let him move away even a centimetre, wrapping your arms round his neck and pulling him down with you to drag him onto the bed until his full weight settles onto yours with a strange familiarity. Creating a clumsy tangle of legs and arms with nothing choreographed about it, closer to the frantic fumbling of two teenagers with raging hormones than anything else. You laugh against his mouth when the angle of a kiss misses and your teeth knock together for a split second; he laughs too, when you scratch him without meaning to at the feel of his fingers slipping under the band of your bra and you nudge him gently on the shoulder so he moves just far enough away for you to take it off completely.

The second you do, his mouth drops on you immediately, without any preamble, closing round one of your nipples with an eagerness that pulls a gasp out of you that's far too loud for how early it still is. You feel his tongue tracing slow circles, his hand covering your other breast at the same time, squeezing with just the right amount of firmness to make you arch against him, chasing more contact than you already have.

"Fuck…" You murmur, one hand buried in his hair holding him against your skin.

His other hand, meanwhile, doesn't stay still: travelling between your hips and your stomach, squeezing and kneading with the same practical firmness you used on him months ago, only with no daft course to justify the gesture this time. He grips your thigh with a whole hand, fingers digging into your flesh, and moves up to your arse, squeezing there too with a low growl against your chest that you feel vibrate through your skin.

"Been wanting to touch you like this for ages…" He confesses, still moving over your body, voice rough against your sternum. "Since that first bloody massage."

"Yeah…" You say between gasps, tugging his hair a little harder when his mouth closes over you again. "It showed a bit."

"Did it now?" He growls with a small smile, his hand finally leaving your arse to slide slowly forward, slipping under the elastic of your knickers.

"Mhm—" The answer comes out half-moan as you nod, eyes shut, the second his fingers find you, sliding for the first time between your folds with a deliberate slowness that makes you clench your thighs around his hand, chasing more pressure than he's giving you.

"Jesus Christ." He says it against your skin, mostly to himself, noticing how wet you are with a satisfaction you can hear even in his voice. He gathers a little wetness from your entrance with two fingers and spreads it slowly up, to your clit, starting to draw slow circles right there while his mouth closes round your nipple again, sucking with the exact same rhythm as his fingers, as if he's decided your whole body deserves the same beat.

His fingers continue in no hurry to move on, as if he wanted to commit every reaction of your body to memory before allowing himself to go any further. You notice how the pressure rises and falls in intensity almost at random —firm one second, barely a brush the next— and that contrast has you already on the verge of begging when suddenly he withdraws his hand for a moment, leaving you breathless and your whole body suspended in anticipation. But his touch returns at once, sliding down to your entrance and sliding two fingers inside you with an almost cruel slowness; you feel every centimetre of the intrusion with such clarity that you dig your nails into his free arm holding your ribs. He curves them almost immediately, searching with a precision that ought not to surprise you for the sensitive spot that makes you see flashes of light behind your closed eyelids the moment he finds it.

"Fuck— there." You manage, barely any air, your hips pushing on their own against his hand. "Right there, don't—"

"I know." He murmurs, satisfaction in every syllable, not stopping. "I know, love."

He sets a firm rhythm from there, giving you no time to adjust, making sure the palm of his hand brushes against your clit with every inward thrust, a double contact that has you shaking all over in seconds. Every time his fingers sink back in, you feel the pleasure rising a little higher, dense and hot, building somewhere below your navel, threatening to overflow.

His mouth's no longer on your chest, his focus too taken up with watching your face with an almost indecent intensity as you come undone beneath his touch. You see his own mouth fall slightly open and his own eyes darken a little more each time a new sound escapes you, as he openly savours — without a shred of shame for the first time since you’ve known each other — the fact that it is he who is doing this to you, with the physical, undeniable proof of how much it's affecting you.

"Pictured you like this so many times—" He murmurs, voice already wrecked, his chin brushing your collarbone. "Just like this, falling apart under me." He climbs up to your mouth for a slow kiss, hand never stopping. "But the real thing's way better."

The words, mixed with the steady rhythm of his fingers, finally push you over the edge; you feel the pleasure building throughout your whole body, winding faster and faster until there's no control left over the sounds coming out of you, your back arching whole off the mattress as the orgasm rolls through you top to bottom, leaving you breathless, and your nails dig into his shoulders in a desperate attempt to hold on to something.

Noel doesn't take his hand away until he sees you’ve completely calmed down, still watching you with the same fascination as before, as if he'd just witnessed the biggest event of the year in a unique and exclusive way. Then he kisses you again before the aftershocks have even completely faded from your mind, barely giving you time to catch your breath, and there's no coordination in it at all, let alone grace: it’s all tongue and spit mingling between the two of you, his mouth opening against yours with a need that trips over itself, as if getting you off with his hand had made him lose whatever bit of control he had left. It feels slower than the kisses before, oddly, an almost languid pace compared to the urgency of a moment ago, but loaded with exactly the same amount of desire, maybe more now that it has been physically realised. You give it back with the same lack of control, still trembling a bit inside, fingers buried in his hair and your heels slipping slightly on the mattress while your mouths seek each other out with no hurry to do it right, just to do it.

It's him who breaks contact, causing a soft, wet click sound that cuts through the silence of the room, accompanied by a low moan that sounds almost like defeat. He pulls back just enough to breathe against your mouth for a full second before sitting up fully onto his knees. Reaching towards the bedside table without saying a word and opening the drawer with fingers that don't quite obey him on the first try, rummaging through its contents until he finds what he’s looking for.

It takes you a moment to work out what's happening. You're still dizzy from the orgasm, from the kiss that followed it, your head still floating somewhere soft and slow with no rush at all to think clearly again; but as soon as you see the little silver square between his fingers, something in you snaps awake at once, with an immediacy that doesn't allow for discussion. You sit up too, grabbing his wrist before he can tear the wrapper open, and the gesture stops him dead, turning towards you with a silent question on his face. You stay like that a moment, both of you on your knees in the middle of the bed, so close that your knees brush against each other, his chest still rising and falling rapidly, waiting for you to say something.

"You don't need that." Your voice sounds thinner than you'd expected, your hand letting go of his wrist and heading instead to the trail of hair below his navel, stroking slowly. "I'm on the pill."

You watch him swallow, his throat working slowly, and take advantage of the silence to slip your hand into the waistband of his boxers, sliding it inside without a moment’s hesitation. The second your fingers find him, wrapping round him with a deliberate firmness, a hoarse moan slips out of him, half-caught in his throat, and his head drops back for a moment. You feel the texture of the soft, taut skin covering something hard as stone beneath, throbbing faintly against your fingers with every beat of his own pulse. He's already wet at the tip, slippery when you drag your thumb over it, and the gesture pulls another sound out of him as his hips push forward on their own,  pressing against your hand in search of more friction.

"I want to feel it, Noel…" You tell him, very close to his mouth, breathless yourself too, moving your hand slowly to feel how he reacts under your fingers. "All of it."

Your words light him up in a way you can feel physically, him twitching whole in your grip, throbbing with a sudden urgency that pulls a small, almost proud smile out of you against his mouth.

"You dirty little thing…" He says with his voice broken, and he doesn't wait any longer: he pulls his hand from yours only to get out of his boxers with two clumsy movements, before yanking your knickers down in one go without bothering to get them all the way off, leaving them tangled round your knees.

He turns you then, with his hands firm on your hips, until you're facing the headboard, making you brace your palms against the wood to keep your balance; your heart pounds with anticipation. You feel his chest press against your back, his mouth leaving a damp kiss between your shoulder blades —an almost tender gesture in the middle of so much urgency— before he settles behind you and you finally feel it, his tip sliding between your folds, searching for the right angle and gathering the moisture you've had going for a while now, to line himself up at your entrance.

He sinks into you in a single and long thrust, letting you feel every single centimetre of him filling you in a way your mind could never have quite replicated. Your two voices echo off the walls in unison, a shared sound filling the whole room, and you notice how he holds still for a second so as not to lose control all at once. It doesn't last long, though, and he starts moving almost right away, with deep, unhesitating thrusts from the very start, his hips slamming into yours at a pace that climbs in intensity almost instantly. The headboard starts knocking against the wall with every movement, a shameless rhythm that, for the first time in months, you’re creating yourself with your own body.

You feel every thrust deeper than the last, and moans and half-formed words start spilling out of your throat that you find yourself unable to hold back, mixed with his name repeated between your lips as if it were the only word left that still makes any sense. Noel showers your nape and back with open, careless kisses, following no particular pattern, driven only by the need to keep his mouth in contact with your skin whilst his hands grip your hips, pulling you back with every thrust to sink even deeper.

"Fuck—" It slips out of him against your skin. "You feel so fucking good—" He cuts himself off with a low moan, forehead dropping against your shoulder blade a moment before lifting again. "Pussy so good f’me."

You keep moving against him, chasing every thrust before it lands, and you hear him laugh low, breathless, the laugh dissolving almost at once into another moan when you clench around him.

"You keep squeezing me like that… you're going to be the end of me" He murmurs half-strangled as his fingers grip a little harder into your hip.

"N-Noel—" It's all you manage, your voice just as airy, his name coming out more like a plea than a complete word.

"Yeah, baby." He answers, though it's not entirely clear he knows what exactly you mean, only that he needs to answer something, say something while the thrusts keep going without slowing down. He slides a hand up your back to tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to turn your head towards him. "So fucking pretty like this." He manages, between one gasp and the next, his voice coming apart more with every effort. "You've got no idea."

"Please, Noel—" the pleasure and the movement cut your words off. "I need you."

He laughs against your ear, more a growl than an actual laugh, barely held back by the effort itself. "Need me?" voice rough and low, almost cruel in how good it sounds, dragging the words out like they're a struggle to form at all. "Need my cock, is that it?"

"Yes!" The sound that comes out of you is obscene, a high whine you don't even fully recognise as your own, your head dropping forward against the headboard. "God, please, I need it—"

The confession, said like that, pulls a deep moan out of him from somewhere in his chest, and you feel his movements lose a bit of their precision, growing more urgent, every push driving you against the headboard with a force you both seem to need. You feel him getting close by the way his breath catches against your nape and the barely-contained shake starting to run through his arms. You hear him start repeating your name under his breath, almost like a prayer, in a way similar to what you heard in this exact room, only hours ago, before the sun had even come up.

He wraps you up with one arm then, pulling your back against his chest until the angle of his thrusts changes, going even deeper, with both your sweat mingling where your skin touches, and his hand slowly travelling down your stomach until it finds your clit. There's none of the careful precision from before now —his fingers tremble slightly, somewhat clumsy, making up in sheer intensity what they're lacking in technique— but it's enough, more than enough, with the thrusts still filling you entirely from behind and his mouth now against your ear, murmuring things you can barely make out amidst the pleasure itself building up again at a speed that surprises even you.

"I'm gonna—" His voice carries a note you've never heard from him before, not even through the wall. "Fuck, I can't…"

"Don't hold back." You tell him, turning your head a little to find his mouth. "I want to feel it."

That finishes him off completely. You feel him come with a low, muffled moan against your skin, his hips giving you two more pushes as you feel him spill inside you, a heat that spreads and fills you. And that same sensation —him emptying himself entirely into you, along with his fingers still moving with no clear rhythm but desperate all the same— is what pushes you over the edge too. A second orgasm washes over you with the same uncontrolled force as his own, your whole body shaking against his until there's nothing left but ragged breathing, the weight of his chest collapsing slowly against your back and the sultry silence of the room closing in around the two of you.

With him still inside you, his breath slowly starts to ease against you, and when he finally withdraws, he does so with a gentleness that stands in stark contrast to the roughness of a minute ago, almost like his own body needs to somehow make up for the rush with which he’d reached this point. You let yourself fall completely forwards the moment he releases you, face down on the mattress, your arms hanging limply at your sides and the tired muscles in your legs still trembling a little, not caring in the slightest about the sticky mess between your thighs.

You feel the mattress dip when he drops down beside you, and for a while neither of you says a word, leaving only the sound of your breathing as it tries to find its normal rhythm again as some distant car passes outside and the silence, thick but comfortable, settles into the room after something like this. You feel his fingers brush against your back, gently  pushing aside a strand of hair stuck to your nape from the sweat — a small gesture so out of the ordinary it pulls a smile out of you against the pillow. And he doesn't move his hand away once your skin's clear; his fingers stay right there, barely grazing you, as if he had all the time in the world ahead of him and nothing else —nor anything better— to do.

You turn your head as you feel his breath on your neck,  just enough to be able to look at him and find his gaze already fixed on you, propped up on one elbow, with his tousled hair falling over his forehead and a faint, satisfied smile softening his whole face in a way you've rarely got to see. His eyes wander slowly over your face, in no hurry to say anything, and he lets his fingers drift down to your cheek, tracing a slow path there with his thumb.

"I really do like you." He says simply, and that same half-smile along with the absurd simplicity of it, after everything that's just happened between you, makes you laugh quietly and stifle it against the pillow.

"I like you too," you tell him, voice still light, leaning in just enough to leave a short, lazy kiss at the corner of his mouth.

He leans all the way in then, leaving you another kiss, this one slower, on your bare shoulder. Setting the haste aside, because he doesn't need it any more; he's finally got everything he wanted, right here between the sheets of his bed.

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★ 1995.

the nineties weren’t about professionalism. the main thing was blowing the fucking roof off and having a good time, that was always the case with oasis.

you and noel found out you two were too much alike by accident, one night backstage after a gig. it started as a simple conversation, until he decided to bring up a wrong decision you had made with the scheduling — something that accidentally fucked with the whole day, though no one really minded. they were all high off their tits, and besides, what is more rock and roll than missing one interview for a magazine.

you had apologized, of course, and you knew it turned out to be not that big of a deal. that’s why when the words left noel’s mouth, you only smirked, nearly mirroring the one he had on his own lips.

the corner of his lips only grew when you quipped back, mentioning how he had fucked a note in a solo, something about his vision being too blurry to properly see the pedal.

what was a conversation that shifted into teasing disguising flirting, turned out to be messy kissing, your back pressed firmly against the wall of the corridor. minutes later, you dragging him by the hand until the pair of you sneaked into a broom room, knocking over cleaning bottles as his cock slammed inside you.

the nineties weren’t about professionalism. the main thing was blowing the fucking roof off and having a good time, that’s the reason no one minded how you and noel always dissapeared for a good hour or so at the parties — coming back with disheveled hairs and swollen lips, or not coming back at all, only showing up in the van the following day with purple marks on your necks.

everyone knew you were something. something messy, too fucking high and too fucking horny.

but behind closed doors, there were things pieces of information that only belonged to you two.

you quickly learned that if going too hard in doggy, you’d have annoying cramps for another two hours or so. noel quickly learned that the easiest way to make you whimper was by giving your face soft slaps, even though he didn’t really care for them at first.

you learned that noel liked black lingerie with lace. noel knew you liked having his fingers inside your mouth.

one night, especially high, you learned something new about noel — equally as much as he learned something about himself.

your shirt was tossed somewhere on the floor of your hotel room, while his was probably in some opposite corner. your skirt was fumbled up, your knickers already drenched from his mouth kissing yours and traveling down to your cleavage inside the elevator. while his trousers were half unzipped, his cock still fully hard from your hand lazily stroking him.

you plopped down the bed with a laugh, elbows propping yourself up despite your head feeling heavier. your eyes followed noel’s figure walking closer to your suitcase, leaning down and running a hand inside his hair, shifting the short of piece of hair that fell over his eyes.

“what color is it?” he asked, eyes focused on his hand shoving folded shirts out the way.

you laughed, “oi! no need to make a fucking mess of my clothes.”

even though his face was slightly turned away from yours, you could hear a soft huff coming from him. “what color is it?” he repeated, still lightly.

you let your back fall on the bed, arms sprawling over your head as your high made the room gently spin. “it’s a little pink and white bottle.”

you could hear the sounds of his hand searching for it, too lightheaded to pay too much attention to the sound slowly stopping. “it’s proper good, i swear. the saleswoman said your cock feels all tingly with it,” you explained, referring to the weed based lubricant you had gotten back at amsterdam.

your eyes only opened again when he had been too quiet for what felt like too long. once you did, you were met with the sight of him straightened up, a shit-eating smug expression on his face and your rubber dildo inside his hand.

your cheeks warmed up, but you laughed anyway. “oh.”

he laughed, eyes crinkling softly around the corners as he walked closer. “is that why you fancy me?” he started, wiggling the rubber material closer to your face, tossing the lube on the mattress. “cause i’m bigger than this?” he added, chuckling harder once you swatted his hand away despite being too busy laughing.

his knee sunk inside the mattress right beside your hip, slowly settling on top of you, a grin on his face matching yours and the dildo still inside his grip.

“don’t be a dick, it’s for when i’m lonely,” you explained, smiling as you tipped your head back, just so your neck was more exposed, allowing him to kiss it better.

“hm… is it?” he mumbled against your skin, teasing. “reckon you’re just greedy.”

you laughed, palm pressing over his chest and easily pushing him off. he plopped down on the mattress, too high to mind you standing up and walking towards your suitcase. his eyes landed on the rubber cock in his hand again, huffing and shaking his head to himself while you grabbed something from your bag.

“it’s also… for possible new experiences,” you started, shimmying off your skirt until you were only in your black laced lingerie. he smiled at the sight, droopy, his body swaying and his eyes heavy as he propped himself in his elbows to watch you move closer.

you held something in your hand as you stood in front of the bed, something black with thick stripes and a solid base. his head tilted, “what’s that?”

“this…” you started, reaching out and taking the dildo into your hand. placing a strand of hair behind your ear to unblock your vision, your hands quickly shoved your knickers down, easily stepping into the harness and placing the rubber cock into its holder. “is for this!” you said sweetly, hands settling on your hips, swaying them softly to the sides.

his head fell back with a laugh, eyes closing. “yeah, fuck right off, you.” he said with a light scoff, tone in disbelief.

you laughed, brows raising. “what?” you teased, giving him a slow spin. “think i look quite sexy, don’t you think.”

he shook his head, a droopy smirk on his lips as he reached out, grabbing a handful of your ass. “yeah,” he replied casually, leaving a loud smack on your asscheek. “now take this rubbish off, wanna fuck ya.”

you laughed, turning until your front was facing him again. his hand now was settled on your hip, fingers softly digging in as his eyes inevitably trailed down your body, admiring how pretty your tits looked inside the lacy bra, letting his hand slide over your stomach, fingers sprawling over the soft skin.

reaching out, your hand softly settled on the side of his cheek. “oh, cmon, noelly,” you cooed, letting your thumb brush over his bottom lip, dragging it down until the rosier flesh bounced back into its place. “show me how pretty i look.”

he scoffed, pushing your hand off his face, settling his palm over your hip and softly forcing you to take a step back. “if you think i’m gonna suck a rubber cock you’re out of your fucking mind,” he said, nearly defensively, despite still smirking.

you laughed. “cmon! it’s not like you haven’t done it with real ones, either…” your tone was sweet, but quieter. despite being just the two of you, it didn’t feel appropriate to repeat a secret he had told you in bed in a normal volume. it happened with the pair of you sweaty and giggling too hard after sex, sharing confessions, yours was something you had done back in uni, while his was something from his roadie days.

he huffed, eyes closing like that would make his cheeks blush less. his hand, though, moved to his own crotch, fingers curling around the outline of his hard cock strained inside the denim, like he was only adjusting himself. “yeah, stop fuckin’ around, bird.”

you giggled, leaning down until your mouth was on his, giving him a soft kiss — smirking at yourself as he greedily tried to slip his tongue inside, swallowing down a groan once you pulled away — before kneeling on the floor, looking up at him from between his spread thighs.

“i’ll show you how easy it is, hm?” you said softly, fingers curling inside the waistband of his trousers while your mouth placed a wet kiss on his lower belly, feeling the soft happy trail tickle the tip of your nose.

raising his hips and licking his lips so a smirk wouldn’t properly grow, his cock sprang free the second you dragged the fabric down.

you never knew what was prettier.

if it was his cock, big, heavy and warm inside your palm, with a big bead of precum smeared over his rosy head. it always felt velvet soft on your lips, always tinted in such a pretty shade of pink you wish you could find a lipstick like that.

or if it was him from his angle, his chest heaving no matter how badly he wanted to play it cool, a soft patch of hair that always smelled like soap covering his pale skin. his nipples were a light shade of pink, and he always moaned a bit louder when you’d lean down to give them messy licks no matter how much he pretended to be unaffected — the memory made you slowly take his length inside your mouth, smirking at yourself.

his hand settled on the back of your head, a low and raspy moan slipping past his parted lips. your cheeks softly hollowed as your head moved down, brows softly furrowing just like his. yours from the fullness, his thick ones from the warmth of your mouth he swore he could never get tired of.

you hummed around him, slowly bobbing your head as you looked up. even though his baby blue eyes didn’t quite meet yours, you couldn’t possibly mind. not when your gaze traveled across the cute little moles scattered all over his stomach.

your palms slid over his thigh, softly caressing the muscle as you sucked him without any rush. you were always self indulgent with it, to a point where sometimes he’d quietly tell you ‘come here’ just so he could properly fuck you before he came, just to give you back the same pleasure.

with a soft pop, your mouth let go of his cock. smirking to yourself at the feeling of his fingers twitching behind your head, you slowly stood back on your feet.

“see?” you spoke softly, letting your hand caress the side of his face, tilting your head as you looked down at him.

he sighed softly, letting his eyes flutter shut for a second before looking up at you. his hand settled on your hip again, fingers softly squeezing your flesh. “stop pissin’ about, yeah?” he started, brows furrowing. “just— let’s get it on with it already.”

you breathed out a laugh, head tilting as your fingers softly played his hair. “aw… bet you’d look so pretty, though,” you praised softly. his cock twitched despite the ‘fuck off’ expression painted across his face. your thumb shifted until it slid over his bottom lip again, “won’t tell a soul. you know i won’t.”

he scoffed lightly, letting his hand slide up your waist. “fuck me, you’re actually serious, aren’t you.”

“mhm…” you smiled, caressing his cheek. “deadly.”

he shook his head once, though he was still smirking. “right, then.” he said, wrapping a hand around the rubber cock pointed straight at his face.

then, he looked up. you had to bite down a smirk as he leaned closer, though your lips were too busy opening, his mouth slowly swallowing inch by inch of the toy without even breaking the eye contact.

fuck me, for a second, you wish you actually had a real one, just from how fucking pretty he looked like this. you could tell how the corner of his lip was softly curling up, the bastard still fucking smug even with a cock inside his mouth. you couldn’t blame him, though, because the sight was so pathetically arousing it sent a sensation through your body like you could actually feel it.

he pulled away just enough to speak, his slick lips still brushing the head while his hand shyly started to stroke the dildo. “this really does it for you?” he asked quietly, half amused and half disbelieving.

you blinked, fingers softly curling around the back of his neck. “you have no fucking idea.”

he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head to himself and muttering a small christ before leaning back in. this time, as his cheeks softly hollowed, his eyes fluttered shut. his brows furrowed for a moment at the warmth of your hand gently guiding him.

he pulled away shortly after, slightly breathless, cheeks flushed and his eyes glassy. a string of spit connected his slick lips to the toy when his hand reached up, curling around the back of your head as he pulled you down for a kiss.

your hand settled on his cheek, tongue sliding over his in that messy and lazy pace, the same one whenever when the high just felt too good. his hand only left you to clumsily shove the fabric of his trousers down his legs, while yours braced yourself on the mattress as you settled over him, your knees sinking into the bed between his legs.

your hands slid over his thighs, caressing the flesh and absentmindedly spreading them. he didn’t stop you, only kissed you harder, his own hands shifting until they cupped your breasts, groping them over the fabric.

your mouth shifted until it found his neck, pampering his flushed skin with wet and messy kisses, you could feel the soft straining of his muscles once his head tipped back with a low moan. you could feel his chest arching into yours, and for a second, his thighs pressing against your sides — the classic human silent gesture that says ‘please fuck me.’

with that, you let your mouth trail lower, sliding your hair off your face as you kissed his chest, looking up just to catch his reaction as you softly sucked his nipple before continuing your path.

“f-fuck, fucking tease,” he mumbled, fingers already tightening inside your hair even as your mouth had only reached his stomach.

you smiled against his skin, making sure to lick the patch of pre cum he had leaked over his soft lower belly. then, your lips wrapped around his tip, a breathy moan immediately escaping him as your tongue pressed firmly over his underside before you slowly took him further.

you pulled your mouth off of him with a wet pop, looking up at him while your hand reached for the lube. the sound of the cap opening made his adam’s apple bob, your brows raised softly in reassurance. “can i?” you quietly asked.

he inhaled deeply, licking his lips to cut himself off, like he was embarrassed of the answer. noticing it, you leaned down to give the head of his cock a gentle, wet kiss. “i’ll stop whenever you want.” you added, gently reassuring.

he exhaled, it hitched softly. “promise?” he asked quietly.

you nodded, placing another wet kiss on his cock, feeling it softly throb underneath your lips. “promise.”

his head fell back against the pillows with a ragged breath, jaw tightening for a second as his hand abandoned your face to wrap tightly around his own length, giving it a slow stroke from base to tip. “just— fucking get on with it before i change my mind, then.” he said quietly. a small, nervous and nearly boyish smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

you immediately beamed, kneeling between his thighs and squeezing some of the cold sticky lotion on your finger. his baby blue eyes followed you, heavy-lidded and glazed with a mix of the weed and anticipation. his hands reached behind, dragging a pillow underneath his head, feeling a thick drop of his pre cum falling over his stomach.

after smearing some of the lube on your palm, you wrapped your hand around his shaft, giving him slow strokes while your other one slowly slid down.

you watched his chest heaving, how his adam’s apple bobbed as he looked down to your hand slowly disappearing between his thighs while you kept a steady pace of stroking his cock up and down.

the pad of your finger pressed over his opening, drawing slow circles over it that made a shaky exhale slip past him. you licked your lips, too aroused by the scene, before shaking your head so your hair would be properly behind your shoulders, clearing the way so a drop of your spit could fall directly over the head of his cock, your palm quickly slicking his length even more.

“good?” you asked quietly.

he moved his head in a tiny nod, almost as nervous as his tone, quiet and stammering out a “y-yeah.”

slowly, you pushed your finger in.

you kept your eyes locked on his, watching every single micro-expression — the way his mouth immediately parted, inhaling a broken air, the way his brows drew together.

"jesus— fucking christ," he choked out, voice slightly cracking. his hips jerked upward on instinct, chasing the friction, his chest heaving as his head fell back.

you smirked wider at the sound, slowly fucking his hole with your finger. "feels alright, doesn't it?" you murmured quietly.

his reply was only a shaky breath, his eyes closing his legs involuntarily spread wider for you. he felt like if he actually said it, it would make it too real, but fuck me, you could feel his cock twitching inside your hand, watching his pre cum leak more and more until a thick string of it connected his tip to his soft happy trail.

eventually, you added another. earning another shaky gasp from him.

you leaned until your chest was pressed over his, letting your hand go of his cock for a second, the angle made it a bit hard to multitask, but your fingers were still inside him. your mouth found his jaw, kissing it slowly while your kept softly filling him up.

“look so pretty like this, noel,” you praised, feeling his jaw move underneath your touch as his lips spread in another needy gasp. you smiled to yourself, shifting until your mouth was on his, curling your knuckles to hit the spot you had noticed it made his chest arch a bit more. “gonna look so fit taking a cock.” you added, barely above a whisper.

his cheeks were a violent shade of red, brows furrowed in pleasure no matter how embarrassed. “f-fuck off.” he tried, without any bite to it simply from how his body was reacting.

then, very slowly, you pushed in another one. this time, he couldn’t stifle in a needy moan, high pitched and shaky in a way it made his cheeks burn, though his back arched off the bed.

you breathed out a fond laugh as your back straightened. “you want it?” whispering, slowly withdrawing your fingers from him.

you could already tell he was already missing the fullness. from the way his breath hitched, how his eyes looked so needy, pupils blown out as he looked down. but he only nodded, like properly saying it would be over the line. “just— slow.”

your hand wrapped around him once more, sliding your thumb over his leaking slit before smearing him down. “course, baby,” you said sweetly, biting down another smirk as his head fell back against the pillow again. “gonna fuck you nice ‘n proper, yeah?”

slowing down your strokes just so you could focus, your free hand reached for the lube. properly slicking the toy before guiding until the blunt head towards his entrance, your hand began to move up and down on his cock again to make him relax.

despite slow, at the feeling of the dildo being pushed in, even if it was only a centimeter, his hands shifted until he dragged the pillow over his face. it couldn’t hide how his chest moved up and down in shaky pants, or how his cock violently throbbed against his belly once you let it go just to rub his inner thighs reassuringly.

you slowly bottomed out. so slow you could swear he’d cum with his cock untouched at any second, just from how it violently throbbed with every inch of your strap stretching him out. the second you pulled back just to move, his knuckles gripped the pillow so harshly they turned white. a strangled moan being muffled into the soft material.

you smirked, setting a slow pace and wrapping your palm around his shaft, while your free one slid up his belly, fingers softly curling around once you reached his nipple.

he shifted the pillow off his face, like he’d die if he didn’t watch the scene with his own eyes. his cheeks were nearly as red as his lips, slick with his own spit and slightly swollen from biting. his hair was messier now, almost as messy as his thick brows, some of the short hairs in different directions.

“yeah? feels good?” you said gently.

he moaned, deep from his chest. “look so—fucking good like this,” he said, with struggle, trying so hard to keep his eyes open, focused on you fucking him despite his head spinning from pleasure.

you smirked, couldn’t help it. “yeah? i look good when im fucking you, hm?” tone sweet as your wrist softly twisted, stroking from the base to his leaking tip, while your other hand rolled his pretty pink nipple between your finger. your hips remained focused, hitting the spot that made him hold his eyes from rolling back.

his head dropped back, a rough “fuck” escaping him. he nodded eagerly, hands gripping the soft pillow beside his head.

even though you couldn’t properly feel it since… well, it’s not your actual cock, you could swear you could cum at the sight alone.

even though noel couldn’t care less about going to the gym, there were still times you could catch the way the muscles of his biceps tensed underneath his skin.

right now, you could see it, as well as the patch of hair underneath his armpits and the one over his heaving chest.

all of it reminded you of the masculinity he desperately wanted to hold onto. it reminded you how much stronger he is, making you stroke his cock faster, like the memory of him proving it to you many times — holding your jaw firmly so you wouldn’t look away from his eyes as he fucked you, before manhandling you over the mattress as he pleased — sent a wave of arousal straight through your body.

and yet, here he is. the one who’s taking it for a change, and god, he looks so fucking pretty as he does so.

warm huffs escape his nose, while incoherent babbles that turned into shaky grunts slipped out from his mouth. he kept nodding needily as you quietly talked, even though sometimes you didn’t even ask him proper questions, only teasing little ‘yeah?’ that really meant ‘like this, huh?’

feeling his cheeks burn at the mental image of himself letting go like this, he dragged the pillow over his face again. you could see how hard his fingers digged inside it, and you could still hear the soft ‘ah ah ah’s’ leaving his lips as he sounds of your skin slapping his become faster.

“don’t hide, baby…” you said quietly, sweetly, knowing the praise would only make him more embarrassed and more turned on. “you’re takin’ it so well, noel… look so, so pretty.”

throwing his head back, he started babbling, eyes closing tightly until a stray tear from pleasure clinged over his lashes dampening the pillowcase in a tiny wet spot. “don’t stop— fuck, ‘m gonna— oh, fuck. please don’t stop. don’t stop, don’t stop,” he chanted needily, breathy, too lost into it to drag his voice back down into his usual lower pitch.

too lost in it to keep the pillow firmly over his flushed face, not managing to protest when you reached out to shift it out of the way.

throwing his head back, noel bit his bottom lip so harshly he could feel the faint taste of blood slowly sneaking into his mouth. they parted, his breath coming out in short and shaky bursts, helplessly moaning as his balls tightened.

your hand was slick as it slid down to his balls, his shaft pressed against his belly as you caressed it, messily touching him and immediately earning hot spurs of his cum landing on his belly, his face contorting in pleasure. his orgasm washed through him in a way he’d never felt before, and you swore he had never looked prettier. he had came so hard you could see white streaks nearly reaching his chest.

he lays there panting for another second, chest heaving like he’s just run three miles up a hill. his eyes are tightened shut, he blinks them in that dazed, cute manner as he opens them, staring up at the ceiling. his hands are still clutching the crumpled pillow by his ears, like he’s trying to anchor himself to the mattress so he doesn't float right up off the bloody bed.

“fuckin’— hell,” he wheezes out, voice entirely wrecked, raspy and thick in a way that makes your stomach flip all over again.

you pull back with a soft laugh. then, sliding the strap off your hips with a quiet rustling sound. you drop the thing onto the mattress and crawl up the bed, sliding right into his space, pressing your bare chest against his warm, slick skin.

a heavy, nearly exhausted sigh rattles out of his mouth, arms instantly coming up and wrapping right around your shoulder, dragging you down until your face is buried right against the crook of his neck.

you can’t help but laugh against his skin, pressing a kiss there before you tease. “you alright there?” you murmur against his skin.

noel huffs a breathless huff into your hair. “shut up.”

his head tips back as you quietly laugh, letting your hand caress his chest. before he can reach for a cigarette, his head props up, looking down at you. “did you cum?”

you shake your head, offering him a soft, knowing smile.

he sighs softly, nearly blissful, his hand blindly reaching out for the little pink and white bottle on the sheets, popping it open with his thumb and smearing the cool, tingling lube thick over his thick fingers. “next time,” he starts before shifting his weight, guiding his slick fingers right between your legs. “i’m gonna be the one fucking your arse.”

you let out a breathy laugh, hands tangling in his messy hair as you spread your thighs, looking down at his fingers pushing into your entrance.

“deal,” you say.