marzia

“No, I still think you’re cuter.” Stubborn in the same way he is, you’re unwavering with your stance. He still remembers how you’d sat in his mother’s front room on Christmas Day, still adorning the paper crown you’d worn at dinner, with a photo album open in your lap and your bottom lip jutted all the way upon seeing him as a toddler waddling around in his winter coat, as though the notion of him once being so little and so cold was enough to make you burst into fits of tears. 

“You're biased, is what you are.” Noel watches you pour two sugars into your own mug and holds back his usual comment about how all your teeth are going to fall out one day. Instead, he nibbles on the inside of his cheek and smiles down at his feet, grinning at the contrast of his Adidas trainers next to your worn pink slippers, looking like your very own version of yin and yang, and laughs to himself. 

ii.

“I feel like we need a licence for it.” Flicking your indicators on to turn left, you lean forward slightly, as though being closer to the windscreen might help you see through the masses of rain hitting the glass. It was the middle of spring, and although the man doing the weather report earlier that morning had insisted on clear skies, you’d both been met with nothing but a big grey cloud and a row of paps with umbrellas as you rushed from the front door to unlock his car. 

“For turning?” Suddenly appalled, Noel moves from where he’d been wiping the condensation off the passenger window with the sleeve of his jacket, erasing all the little doodles he’d done to see you smile. He knows you can be an anxious driver, especially behind the wheel of the expensive cars he’d bought with his residual cheques, though this new notion seems incredibly far-fetched, even for someone who still avoids roundabouts years after passing their driving test.  

“No, for having a baby.” Ever since you’d come off your birth control pills and decided not to renew your prescription, fragments of this same conversation had begun to seep into the domestic routines of your shared life; just yesterday, while brushing your teeth, you’d explained to him how odd it was, finally not caring about getting pregnant, when you and your friends had spent most of your adult lives trying to aviod it like the plague, and treating pending pregnancy tests like the female version of russian roulette. “It feels wrong that anyone can just try for one.”

“If Liam’s done it, then any prick can have a go.” While Noel had welcomed being an uncle with open arms, hearing his brother talk about changing nappies and clearing up baby sick never failed to make him laugh; if anyone stood as a pillar of reassurance that you’ll never feel quite mature enough to have kids, it was Liam, who took more interest in his son’s baby toys than anything else during his wife’s pregnancy, despite insisting otherwise. “You’ll be perfect.”

iii.

“That nice?” Lips pressed against the side of your neck, Noel shamelessly darts his tongue out to taste your sweat; under the glow of his bedside lamp, with a gleaming sheen of it over your skin, you look like a cinematic wet dream, straight out of a sex scene in a romantic film he vaguely remembers seeing and hasn’t recalled until now. His breath stutters in his throat, caught there like he’s been stabbed in the chest, as his fingers slip between your thighs. “You’re so wet, Jesus.”

“Can’t help it.” For a moment, with your voice all needy, he sees a glimpse of the girl whose hands shook when you both slept together for the first time; back when he used to have to kiss your knuckles, and mumble jokes into your hair to calm you down. It was so uncharacteristic of you to sound like that now, though maybe part of you has reverted back to that mindset with the new weight of what you were doing, that this was something with a tangible purpose, an end goal.

“No, it’s good.” He reassures gently, trying to remember how to form a proper thought as his mouth falls agape at the sight of his fingertips going all shiny with your slick, and the little whiny moan you do at the loss of contact. Sometimes, he wishes he had a better memory so he could play that sound on loop, along with the visual of you fluttering your eyelashes shut and squeezing at his forearm as he presses his fingers in, sinking down to the first knuckle with the kind of practised ease that comes with years of love. “Fucking squeezing around nothing.” 

“Noel.” You breathe out, for no particular reason, in the same way he sometimes does with your name, just to feel the warm familiarity of the word on your tongue. It was remarkable the way you could turn something as simple as his name into something that sounded like tender poetry, especially after the years he’d spent rejecting it and dismissing it as nothing but a cruel joke that he was named after Christmas when he was born almost six months after the fact in late May. 

“Not gonna waste it. Gonna fill you up, swear.” Though it was early days and he had next to no knowledge of how this whole ‘trying for a baby’ thing worked, he could still grasp the common-sense aspect of it all and knew he would have to go against years of habit and try not to pull out at the last minute. Later, he’d perhaps read up on it, realise he probably has to time things better with your cycle, or try that old wives' tale of holding your legs up for ten minutes afterwards. Though this would be good enough for now, more than good enough actually. “I promise.” 

iv.

“Don’t. You might be pregnant.” Exhaling a plume of smoke from between his lips, Noel refuses your hand that’s reaching out for a drag of his cigarette. It was perhaps too optimistic a concern, though not a completely deluded one, since your pursuit of trying to have kids had expanded into having unprotected sex on most surfaces in the house, and tracking your period on the calendar in the kitchen with a pack of glittery gel pens you’d found in the junk drawer.

“God, you’ve gone and jinxed it now.” Chewing on the last of your cereal, you huff, letting your spoon clatter dramatically against the bowl. Upon opening the curtains and seeing a blue sky, you’d both insisted on eating your breakfast outside, completely undeterred by the wet garden furniture and the damp grass if it meant sitting in the sun and pretending like you were in the countryside, rather than a little patch of green behind a house in London. “Touch wood.”

“I’m not touching wood, it’s fine.” Only superstitious when he truly felt like it, Noel shakes his head and taps some cigarette ash onto his empty plate. Unlike you, he was a firm believer that words could never hinder biology or fate, and that talking about it all he liked would probably do nothing but bore you senseless; two days ago, he’d expressed premature worry about how he was going to teach his kid to swim when he couldn’t do it himself, and you’d had to reassure him that he didn’t even have one yet. 

“You have to.” Though your eyebrows are furrowed in the middle with concern, all Noel can think about is how cute you look in your pyjamas with his hoodie on to keep you warm from the mid-morning cold; for something to do with your fingers, you’d tied the strings up into a neat bow, and all he could do was joke about how much it made you look like a cartoon character, as he laughed through bites of his jam-covered toast. "Go on."

“Fine. Touch wood.” Giving in, Noel presses his palm against the top of the table, saying the words aloud like they might add an extra layer of good luck to soothe your worry. Truthfully, he knew it’d only be a matter of time before he did what you wanted, since denying you anything for too long felt like it would cause him physical pain; he’d once tried to explain to his brother how leaving you to go on tour sometimes felt like having a heart attack, though he’d only been met with a puzzled expression.

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▸ te para tres - soda stereo

the house is finally quiet now.

there are balloons half deflated in one of the living room’s corner and glittery pink frosting smeared across the dining table.

sophia’s third birthday had been loud in that particular way only toddlers can manage, with shrieking laughter because of sugar highs.

now, there are too many presents piled in the bed of the guest bedroom. the guests always go full out, just because they can afford it and can’t pass on the opportunity of seeing a three year old spitting image of you screeching with joy at the sight of boxes covered by pink wrapping paper.

liam brought his boys along just to add to the chaos, when in reality he was the one that coordinated the mess. everyone knew was a rockstar, but the “fun uncle” side of his wasn’t known to everyone. it was also secretly your favorite.

bonehead wasn’t any different, since he actually was sophia’s uncle, he walked inside the house with arms piled with gifts and sunglasses on his face.

everyone had given you a tight hug when they arrived, not really addressing the elephant in the room because it didn’t feel appropriate and you did seem okay.

only one person noticed you weren’t, though.

he had arrived hand in hand with anais, who was nearly dragging him across the entryway, too excited to see her best friend. when he walked in the door, you could tell he noticed it immediately: the tightness in your smile, the way your shoulders seemed tense even while laughing at sophia’s excited shrieks.

he didn’t say anything then, of course. he just stepped in, handed the gifts to anais so she could give them to sophia minutes before they had face paint all over their chubby cheeks.

you carried on the same way you had prepared yourself to do in that afternoon. you hugged him back, you gave him a smile that you cursed yourself for being too tight.

now, it’s night. the number on the clock indicates that kids that ran around all afternoon are passed out by now. two of them sleeping soundly in the bedroom upstairs.

noel had carried them up one by one. sophia first, limp with sleep against his shoulder. then anais, who anais stubbornly trailed beside him with her hand in his until she gave in too – you laughed a little at the scene, mainly because he joked about her being stubborn just like you, even if not actually related.

now, sophia is asleep in a nest of fluffy pillows and plushy toys with anais is beside her. the tiny blonde had insisted on staying and sleeping beside her like she belonged there – because she did.

“fucking inseparable, those two.” noel’s words to himself as he closed the door with a soft click.

he came back down the stairs slower this time.

because he should go. he knows he should.

he’s done more than enough – turned up with too many presents, stayed longer than any other guest, maybe even longer than necessary.

now, he has a perfect excuse not to, his baby girl is asleep in your daughter’s room. and yes, he could slip out, give you a polite goodbye hug and say he’ll get her in the morning.

that would be smarter, safer.

but there’s a nagging feeling inside his chest at the knowledge you’re not okay, and with that, he doesn’t really care about smart or safe right now.

so, he finds you in the kitchen. your back is facing him and he can hear the tap running. you’re scrubbing a plate that doesn’t really need scrubbing anymore.

he watches you for a moment. his jaw feels tighter, because it’s been years of this.

years of standing too close, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and saying the right one too late. he wonders if this is going to be one of those, he doesn’t want to make it worse – not right now, when you look like you can’t really afford worse.

he cleared his throat, walking towards the sink and resting his hip on the counter. “both dead to the world,” he says quietly. you huffed out a little breath accompanied by a weak smile, then nodded. he looked at your expression, then at your hands under the running water. “you don’t have to do that now.”

you nodded, eyes still on your hands under the water. “i know.”

“leave it for tomorrow.” he said quietly, already reaching out for your wrist, softly wrapping his fingers around it.

“i don’t want to look at it tomorrow, noel.” you snapped, barely above a breath. your voice was shaky.

he exhales at it, his hand now reaching your arm and gently resting over your bicep, in a way that makes you take in a stuttering breath. the kind that happens when you’re about to break.

“hey…” he says gently, beggining to slowly turn you by the shoulders, his eyes searching for your face.

you looked down, avoiding his gaze, but your lips were already quivering. you shook your head as an attempt to convince yourself that you’re fine.

“i’m fine.” you whisper, which is ridiculous. because your tone is shaky, your eyes are glassy and you’re clearly not fine.

he just pulls you into him. it’s instinctive and familiar, his arms wrap around you and his hands find the back of your neck and your spine. you can’t help but crumble right then, folding into his chest like you’ve done a few times before.

only this time, there’s no chaos, there's no noise to drown it out. this time, you allow yourself to not be strong. just for once.

“she’s three and i couldn’t even—” your voice breaks, muffled against his chest. “i couldn’t even… fucking keep her family together.”

he squeezes you tighter at that, you can feel him shaking his head at your words. you cry properly then. face pressed against his shirt and hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt without even meaning to.

you pull away with a shaky inhale, your own hand going up to dry a tear rolling down your cheek. you look up at him only to meet his gaze already on you, his eyebrows are furrowed.

“i wanted—” you begin, hiccuping softly and closing your eyes as you feel noel’s hand stopping yours and drying your tears himself. “i wanted her to have… you know. i really did.” you add shakily.

he nods, slow and reassuring. “yeah, i know. i know, love” he says softly, his tone as gentle as his hands rubbing your forearms down to your shoulders. then, his palms slide up, softly moving your hair softly behind your shoulders.

your eyes close again, shaking your head as you bury your face on his chest again. “she’s tiny… she won’t— she can’t…”

you shake your head against his chest before you can even try to explain it. your hands shake as your arms wrap around his waist, while his feel firm and warm and comforting as he pulls you closer again.

it’s hard because it’s so clear for you.

losing colin didn’t settle grief inside you the way it does once real love fizzles out.

it didn’t hurt the way it once had with noel. not in the way it still did, because he’s still the one you need comforting you even after years of unspoken tension and too many things unsaid.

what hurts the most right now is sophia being too little to understand why her parents don’t live together anymore. which is why you’re trying so hard to make sure she never feels caught in the middle of adult mistakes.

because colin should've been the safe choice. the choice you agreed on making every time he took the first steps.

when he asked you to marry him, when he asked you to stop taking your birth control. even at the very beggining, where you'd come back inside shivering, already prepared to tell him a polite goodbye and thanks for the nice chat before noel came in and shattered something that made you feel normal for five minutes. colin immediately stopped the conversation he was having at the sight of you soaking wet, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder and guiding you home after you only answered a weak "okay" when he asked.

the years developed in that same way. settling for something that made you feel safe, but not something that makes your heart beat faster. you always convinced yourself that it doesn't matter, that this kind of love happens to girls that are lucky enough to live inside the princess stories you tell your baby girl before bed.

you told yourself that safe is good. that you don't need to be with someone you love so much it feels like you could die from the intensity, i mean, look where that took you.

funnily or tragic enough, it took you the same place "safe" did. worried sick about your daughter and crying in your kitchen, inside the arms of the person you've been denying yourself to love ever since you knew what love meant.

noel placed a kiss on the top of your head as his hands find your hair, fingers slipping in and massaging your scalp softly as he mutters: “it’s not your fault.”

your body shakes as you cry, forming wet patches on the fabric over his chest while your hands shake as they fist the back of his shirt. his hands are warm on your back, massaging slowly, the kind of gentle pressure that’s meant to steady you.

he buries his nose on the side of your head as he says quietly, “she’s lucky to have you. she won’t remember the messy parts. just how brilliant her mum is.”

you inhale shakily, nodding and pulling back slightly just to clean your tears again. he pulls back too, just enough to brush your forehead with his.

you can feel the warmth radiating from him – and can’t help but lean into his touch once his hands slide from your cheeks down to your shoulders, gently squeezing as if he could take all the hurt away.

“it’s alright, yeah?” – his lips press to the top of your head again, slow and deliberate, then he pulls back just to finish – “don’t have to be strong all the time, y’know.” he murmurs, voice low and careful. his eyes still on your face.

you nod. feeling the knot inside your chest loosen just slightly for the first time in hours, maybe years, as you breathe in his scent, familiar and grounding. your eyes flutter open once you feel his hands move from your shoulders to cradle your neck, thumbs stroking the curve of your jaw softly, as if memorizing that line of your face.

▸ call it fate, call it karma - the strokes

you lick your lips as you look up at him through glassy eyes, “please don’t go.” you say softly, barely audible, heart pounding painfully.

he shakes his head, his hands now cupping your cheeks gently. “won’t. not goin’ anywhere unless you want me to.”

your eyes meet his, dark and messy and filled with something you’ve been trying to hide for years. “please… please, don’t—” you whisper, breath hitching and voice still weak.

he nods, brushing his thumbs over your cheekbones in slow, soothing motions. “i’m not… i’m not going anywhere, yeah?” he breathes out, softer this time, a little shaky from the proximity.

you swallow, feeling your gaze drift down to his lips. you’re not just asking him to stay anymore.

his eyes follow yours, deepening with something raw.

“please, noel…” you whisper again, eyebrows furrowing softly as a plea, nose instinctively tipping up until it brushes his.

fuck.

he kisses you before his brain even catches up.

his lips capture yours with a tenderness that shocks both of you at first. his hands shake as they hold your face. his mouth on yours is hesitant, testing, but then, you let out a soft sound against his lips, eyebrows furrowing softly as your lips part for him as an invitation.

and, as if he’s been holding back for decades, the kiss deepens. it becomes urgent and warm, still slow. he breathes out into it, your brows furrow more at the feeling of his tongue sliding against yours. everything he couldn’t say or do for years spills out right now.

your fingers clutch fabric as you kiss him. his hands slide to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

and as the kiss deepens even more, he breaks it when your hands press against his chest, pushing him back just enough to look at him properly.

disbelief all over your face. fear flashes across his.

he steps back a fraction, already shaking his head. “sorry. i’m— i shouldn’t have, i just—”

you cut him off by grabbing his shirt and pulling him back in, your other hand immediately slide over the back of his head as you kiss him. he lets out a broken moan inside your mouth, like something inside him finally snapped. his hands find your hips, pulling you closer again.

your tongues are messy against the other, tiny sounds escaping from the back of your throats. your hands are shaky and desperate, grabbing him like you're holding onto a dream you might wake from at any moment.

you both pull back to breathe, panting against each other’s lips and foreheads still touching. he muttered out a small “fuck,” immediately giving your lips lingering pecks because he can’t stand the distance even for a second.

“where was this… six years ago?” he whisper against your lips, already breathless.

“wasn’t… allowed to.” you reply equally as breathlessly. his hands tighten on your waist, a low moan escaping his lips.

▸ since i've been loving you - led zeppelin

and then, he’s already kissing you again. and this time there’s no hesitation, there’s no shock that this is really happening. now it’s just hunger and a desperation that’s been sitting under your skins for decades.

his hands move with the certainty now, lifting you up onto the counter in one smooth motion. you gasp softly as he steps between your knees, your legs spreading instinctively. he kisses you like he’s been starving – messy, desperate and sloppy in a way it makes you arch your body towards him.

his mouth is hot and insistent, his teeth grazes your lower lip before he pulls it gently between them just to slide his tongue inside your mouth again, swallowing every moan you cannot hold in. hands grabbing your hips harder every time you shakily buck them closer into him.

his hands find your thighs, sliding up, his palms are warm underneath the hem of your dress. his hands wrap around the soft skin harder than he’d like. he needs it to anchor himself.

you don’t mind either, in fact, you wish he’d slide them even further up just to see the mess he’s causing between your legs. because you’re as desperate, the skin under your eyes finally feels dry despite your breathing being even more jagged than before, despite your lips being slick with your spits.

your hands are already fumbling with his shirt, pushing the hem up and impatiently running your hands over his stomach.

“fuck,” he murmurs against your mouth, moaning softly when your fingers slip beneath the fabric and drag over the front of his stomach as well as his waist.

you don’t tease him about it. you can’t. not when you moan just as pathetically against his mouth the second you feel the soft amount of skin gathering right above the waistband of his trousers. a little bit of dad weight happens to everyone, right? rockstar or not. and it’s driving you up the wall. so much that when you finally get the shirt halfway up, you’re already chasing his mouth when he breaks the kiss, just to pull the fabric over his head.

you don’t waste a second once it’s off, already pulling him closer, your nails dig softly into his scalp, since the slightly longer locks aren’t there anymore to tug.

he pulls back anyway, holding your face in his hands and stopping you from kissing him again. his hands are firm on your cheeks, leaving you helpless, restraining you just for a second. you keep watching him, panting, looking at him with a glassy eyed and borderline pathetically needy gaze.

his is breath just as uneven as yours. and god, there’s nothing in this world he wants more than to kiss you again.

but he slips back into his good senses just for a second, before he takes you right there in that fucking kitchen.

“we don’t have to,” he says again, panting. his voice is raspy and weaker now, dripping with need. his hands are still on your face, squeezing it softly like he can’t help it. fuck, makes you need him even more. “you’re upset. you’re—”

you cut him off by dragging his mouth back down to yours with a moan. “i want to,” you breathe out, shaky, half a moan and half a plea. “please, noel. need it.”

he kisses you back, eyebrows furrowing for a second before his expression flickers into something boyish, soft and smug all at once. you feel him smirking against your lips, crooked and disbelieving.

“yeah?” he asks, voice lower now, almost shy beneath the arousal. you huff out a shaky moan, burying your face in the crook of his neck, hiding because of the intensity of it is almost embarrassing.

he laughs under his breath, hands sliding higher under your dress, fingertips brushing over bare skin. “were cryin’ two minutes ago, love.” he murmurs, lips pampering slow and wet kissed along your jaw until it reaches your ear. “now you’re draggin’ my shirt off. sayin’ you need it.” he whispers.

you moan quietly, grabbing the back of his neck to keep him there, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him closer, desperate for friction. he nibbles on your earlobe as he whispers: “what do you need?”

you moan, grabbing him tighter and squeezing your eyes shut, head tipping back. “you.” you choke out.

he moans lowly at your plea, but doesn’t let you off that easy. his fingers slide further up your inner thigh until they’re pressed against your throbbing heat covered by the already drenched fabric. his mouth finds yours hungrily again, deeper this time. he only pulls back just enough to rasp against your lips. “say it again.”

“need you, noel. please…” you repeat, more desperate now. panting against his mouth and immediately swallowing a groan he lets out. he kisses you harder, hips pressing into you instinctively. you feel it, the years of restraint unraveling in the way he touches you now.

his mouth leaves yours, trailing down your throat. then, he kisses lower – his fingers shake as he reaches the neckline of your dress, fumbling down with the fabric until it exposes your breasts to him. he immediately leans down and takes one of your hardened nipples into his mouth, his other arm wrapping behind your torso and pulling your chest impossibly closer to his. he glances up at you while his tongue swirls around your sensitive skin, making you throw your head back with a soft moan.

your nails slide down his, softly scratching as you moan his name. before he can even give the other one the same attention, he straightens up and kisses you again.

his hands move, sliding under your dress completely now, pushing it higher over your hips while his mouth keeps finding yours between breaths.

his palms find your thighs once the fabric is barely out of the way, rough and warm and impatient, until his fingers hook into the sides of your knickers.

“is sophia a light sleeper?” he murmurs against your neck, lips attacking the soft skin.

you’re already breathing harder, shaking your head eagerly. “no” you breathe out. he exhales something that sounds like relief mixed with a groan that’s cut short as he kisses you again, deeper.

he tugs your knickers down. too quickly, too eager to bother being careful.

there’s a soft sound of fabric ripping.

you just kiss him harder, while he tosses them on the floor without a care in the world. neither of you even paying mind to the damaged fabric that tore under the force of his hand.

noel lets out a breathless, half-groaned “fuckin’ hell,” against your mouth, sounding more turned on than apologetic.

you couldn’t care less, not when his hands are already back on your thighs, spreading them apart like he physically cannot waste another second.

“and anais?” you murmur against his lips. flushed and dizzy with the sight of him eagerly dropping to his knees between your legs.

“thank fuck no,” he mutters, almost smirking before he wraps his arms around your thighs and tugs you closer to the cold edge of the counter. he kisses your inner thigh greedily, making your back arch at the feeling of his stubble grazing the sensitive skin.

his thumbs graze the soft skin of your inner thighs, spreading you wider, his eyes immediately setting over your glistening cunt and not bearing keeping the distance for another second. like the sight of you finally bare is enough to knock the breath out of him.

“fuck…” he mutters under his breath, hands gripping your thighs tighter. then he dives into you immediately, hungry and desperate, like he’s spent years imagining this exact moment and now that he has it, he doesn’t know how to go slow anymore.

the first touch of his tongue is an eager and damp stroke that makes your toes curl. you let out a jagged breath, your fingers tightening on the top of his head more out of instinct, an attempt to anchor yourself as you stutter his name out in a quiet moan.

at your reaction, he sinks into you properly. his mouth is hot and hungry, his tongue swirls widely over your clit with a pressure that makes your head spin. all while his hands roam your inner thighs, rubbing and grabbing them unapologetically, spreading you further apart so he can eat you out the way he’s been secretly wishing for years.

you arch your back against the cabinet, head tipping to the side and eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of his tongue worshipping you. you bite down a moan at the wet sound of his mouth eagerly kissing your folds, you open your eyes with struggle because just the thought of not watching the sight physically hurts.

he notices everything. the way your hips twitch toward him. the way your breath keeps catching. the way your fingers search for his hair every time he presses his tongue just right.

and he loves every bit of it. loves hearing you fall apart for him, finally. your hands trail down to the sides of his face, moving to his hair, back of his neck… he looks up at you at the touch.

his lashes are damp when he glances up at you, his mouth glistening. the sight of his eyes red from tiredness and glassy from arousal, his nose softly bumping into your mound and your clit, the way his thick brows are slightly furrowed like he’s getting off from your taste alone.

that alone could tip you over. his other hand shifts anyway, sliding closer to your entrance. he pushes one finger inside, then a second, stretching you slowly as his tongue continues its relentless work.

you moan his name at the stretch, it dies on the tip of your tongue at the realization you need to keep it down. the deep stretch of his fingers curling inside you at a perfect pace making you need to hold onto something, curling around the edge of the counter until your knuckles are white.

“fuck, noel—”

he moans against your cunt at hearing his name like that.

his eyes flutter shut at your taste, at the realization that you were sobbing a minute ago and you’re now arching your back for him. your hips buck off the counter as you try to get closer to him, his fingers work you with a little more intent at it, while his other hand gives your thigh a needy and firm squeeze before he shifts your leg until it’s draped over his shoulder.

the kitchen is silent except for the wet sounds of his mouth and the hitching of your breath – you break it with a plea deep from your chest. “noel… fuck,” you whimper, your head hitting the cabinet behind you. “please… fuck, p-noel, please.”

he doesn't stop. he pushes his fingers deeper, finding the spot that makes your voice break into a high-pitched moan, shaky and completely disarmed. he’s never seen you like this before, so unguarded. fully letting go. he muffles the sound of his own moans by pressing his face tongue against you, drinking in every drop of your arousal, shifting his hand until his palm presses against his strained bulge for a brief relief.

you don’t tell him you’re cumming because you’re right there before you can even notice – but just as the intense wave hits, he looks up, his chin wet, his eyes blown wide and complete devoted. he watches you shatter like he’s been feeling it coming for the last seconds, like the way your cunt rhythmically pulsing around his fingers was an indicator of that beautiful surrender.

and he keeps eating you through it. his fingers slowing down and keeping a steady pace that make your legs shake over his shoulders, gasping.

your back arches and your hand tugs him back up in a desperate attempt for more. you need more. you need him.

you always have, but now it’s finally real, and you don’t want to waste another second of it. no more distance.

▸ i (fuck) mountains - pink mountaintops

noel doesn't waste time, either. he pants as he closes the distance once more in a rough kiss, his fingers fumbling with his belt, the metallic click echoing in the quiet kitchen. the sound of his fingers dragging his zipper down mixes with the sounds of your tongues greedily sliding against one another.

the sounds of fabric shifting as he tugs his trousers down make you break it with a moan, panting as you look down – watching the way your legs part even more for him, like its muscle memory. the way it’s mean to be, all this time.

you both moan once he frees himself. you at the sight you’ve been fantasizing for longer than you’d like to admit, and noel at the relief of freeing his heavy, aching length. he’s pulsing, his tip is slick with pre cum.

he wraps his hand around his throbbing cock, head snapping back up so he can look at your face the second he pushes in.

he doesn’t tease. he doesn’t press the head of his cock against your entrance then pulls back. he doesn’t drag his leaking tip between your folds over and over until you’re practically sucking him in, until you're whimpering and reaching.

he can’t, not right now. but god, how he promises he’ll fuck you just like that once you have all the time in the world, once in for all.

because right now, your knickers are a forgotten scrap of lace on the floor. your dress is bunched up around your waist and his trousers aren’t even tug down all the way.

right now, he’s never needed something so badly.

and from the way you moan when he sinks into you – head falling back against the cabinet and chest arching closer to him, nails digging in the back of his neck – it seems you cannot wait another second, either.

already at the first thrust, you let out a sharp, high-pitched cry. and immediately, his hand is there. his palm pressing firmly over your mouth to stifle the sound.

he’s quick to muffle your moan because he can’t stand the thought of having to stop right now. he immediately sets a pace with steady thrusts that make you moan even louder. a friction so perfect it makes your eyes roll back in pleasure before falling tightly shut.

and at the two first thrusts he feels like he already can’t handle it – his head falls forward until his forehead is pressed on the side of your neck.

”know it feels good, love, but you've gotta keep it down, yeah?” he murmurs into your ear, his tone shaky. his eyebrows are pinched together and his eyes are glassy – fixed on your expression – in a look that’s half agony and half ecstasy.

you nod, hand eagerly reaching for his wrist and wrapping around it like a lapse of responsibility that silently says “don’t you dare fucking move your hand away.”

he starts to move then, properly. and it’s not a gentle rhythm, it’s as desperate and raw as you. his skin is hot against yours, the sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your entrance are wet and as loud as your muffled moans.

his mouth is warm against your cheek, pressing his palm even firmer against your mouth like it will keep his last thread from snapping. “knew you’d feel like this. knew you’d fucking feel like this.” he blabbers, voice hushed and already breaking. “shit, love”

you nod frantically against his palm, eyes filling up and arms wrapping around his neck, legs tight around his hips like you can’t stand the distance.

he lets out a broken breath at the action, his pace picking up. he’s relentless, his hips snapping forward, driving himself into you with a desperation you’re matching.

he finally moves his hand from your mouth, and he doesn't give you a chance to even breathe, he’s already kissing you hungrily. his tongue searches yours and swallows every sound you’re fighting to not make.

he pulls back just an inch to breathe, his face with a sheer layer of sweat, looking at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever seen clearly. “look so fucking pretty like this. feel so… fuckin' good. shit,” he grunts, his hands sliding under your thighs to pull you even closer to the edge of the counter, widening you for him as he thrusts in you with no mercy, no restraint anymore. “dreamt about this. been dreamin’ of this f’too fucking long.”

the honesty in his voice is what breaks you. you wrap your legs around his waist even tighter, pulling him in deeper, wanting to feel every inch. he’s shaking now, his movements becoming frantic, his breath hitching as he feels you starting to pulse around him.

“noel,” you moan into his mouth, your nails bruising his shoulders.

the silence of the kitchen is filled by the wet sounds of him bottoming out inside you, your broken quiet moans are only interrupted by the sounds of your mouths kissing. noel breaks the kiss with a curse, pulling away to look down at his cock fucking you relentlessly, watching how his skin is now slick with you.

“i’m so fucking close,” he grits out. his grip on your thighs is bruising, desperate, his hips snapping forward with a sloppiness that says he’s right on the edge of breaking.

and you’re so fucking gone. your head tips back against the cabinets, your body keeps pulsing around him in a way that’s making his eyes roll back. you drag him into another messy kiss.

“cum inside,” you slurred into the kiss, the words slipping out needy and breathless. he immediately moans at it, kissing you harder so you could swallow the low sound with your mouth.

at your request, he looked like he might actually finish right then and there. his fingers digging into your thighs so hard you’ll have marks tomorrow. “fuck,” he gasps, letting out a broken breath, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear it.

because he wanted to hold on a little more. he tries, god, he does. his jaw goes slack, eyebrows scrunching and his hand going to your jaw and pulling you into another messy kiss that makes you moan. he swallows it as he huffs out broken little exhales against your skin like he’s trying to steady himself. his hips stutter, rhythm faltering for a second as he fights it – because he wants to stretch this moment out a little longer after waiting years for it.

you whimper, eyebrows furrowing and your hands grabbing him as you kiss him back, mumbling against his mouth as your tongues bump into each other. “please. please, noel… fuck, please.” you plea softly, completely needy.

he moans, a deep one from the back of his throat – he even grabs your face a little harder than he’d like. can’t help it. he nods dumbly, shakes his head at the same time. “gonna give it to you. fucking everything,” he rasped, his voice cracking on the word. “give you everything.”

your hands are still in his short hair, nails digging in his scalp, keeping him close, your forehead pressed to his as you breathe him in, dizzy and overwhelmed. “fuck.” he moans again, and it’s more desperate now. his voice cracking and his eyes squeezing shut, lashes already damp and feeling himself tense where he’s buried inside you.

his head drops to your shoulder with a broken groan. his hips giving you two more deep strokes before warm spurs of his cum spill inside your walls that clench around him as he lets himself fall apart, fingers digging into your thighs and your jaw.

he stays buried inside you, breathing hard against your neck while lips remain brushing your pulse point in absent little touches, like he can’t stop kissing you now that he’s started. his chest rises intensely just like yours, every breath is uneven and shaky.

you pull him for a kiss without thinking – letting out a warm exhale as your tongue slides against his. it’s messy at first, a little breathless, still a little desperate. both of you still trembling from it.

he kisses you back just as needily, his hands going up and threading into your hair at the same time your arms wrap around his neck. you want him even closer, even though he’s still throbbing inside you and kissing you like he’ll never let it go. you wish you could swallow him whole right now.

fucking finally, you both think.

you two only break it to breathe, and then he exhales – long and shaky. and even then, your mouths stay close, noses brushing, foreheads pressed together while you share the same air.

“fuck…” he murmurs, voice rough, almost disbelieving, like he can’t quite process what just happened. your hands slide from his the nape of his neck to his shoulders, licking your lips as you breathe him in.

neither of you move right away.

your foreheads stay touching and it’s quiet again, but not like before. not like all those years.

he lifts his gaze slowly, eyes searching your face like he’s checking this is real, only to find you already looking at him the same way. a little stunned, completely soft and fucked. in a good way.

▸ luna - the smashing pumpkins

then, at the exact same moment, you both let out the same breathy little laugh. like you’ve just thought about the same thing.

your eyes close and your forehead drops to the crook of his neck, your hands remaining on his arms. while his come up without thinking, brushing your hair back and letting his thumb graze your cheek once it’s back there.

“y’alright?” he asks quietly, his voice gentler now. and he’s smiling so hard you can feel it against your cheek.

you let out a breath that turns out to be a laugh, warm and a little shaky. “what do you think?”

he lets out a breath of a quiet laugh at your words, still a little dazed, trying to catch up with everything that just happened. your forehead stays tucked against his neck, your fingers absentmindedly tracing along his neck. his hands keep sliding over your lower back, like he just needs to keep touching you.

“i can’t believe we just did that, noel.” you murmur, voice soft and almost disbelieving.

he huffs out a quiet laugh against your hair, warm and fond. “yeah,” he says, dragging his hand slowly up your back, then your arms. “took us long enough.”

you pull back just enough to look at him properly again, noses brushing once more. there’s something almost shy in your expression now, which is rare. he knows it, he’s known for all these years.

you shake your head with a small laugh, eyes already watery. he laughs too. his lips swollen from kissing you. he looks wrecked, and somehow still unbearably handsome.

you laugh harder at the overwhelming feeling, placing your hands over your eyes like you genuinely cannot believe this is happening.

his hand goes up to your wrist, his thumb brushing it softly while he lowers your hand down, slowly. his thumb shifts until it’s placed under your eye, even though there’s no tears there anymore. his hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing back and forth slowly. “you’re trouble, y’know that?” he murmurs, already smirking.

you huff out a quiet laugh. “i’m trouble?” you mutter against his lips, raising your brows.

“yeah,” he breathes against your mouth, kissing it once and only stopping to smirk. “dirty as well.”

you break into a tiny smile, breathing out a laugh. “stop...”

“cum inside, hm?” he adds, his voice lowering and his tone teasing.

you scoff lightly, but you’re still smiling, despite your cheeks heating up. “don’t be a dick.”

he breathed out a laugh, placing a hand on your cheek and pulling you in so he could kiss your lips, curled up just like his. “didn’t hear you complainin’,” he murmurs against your lips, still grinning.

your hands slide over his shoulders as he slips his tongue inside your mouth again. you moan softly into the kiss, and somehow, you manage to break it just before it can deepen again. you laugh at the thought, because there’s the flicker of awareness as you feel him twitch inside you again reminds you that we’re still very much in the kitchen.

he kisses your lips a couple more times as you say it, humming softly. you break it with a another quiet laugh, almost shy. “noel…” you say softly, resting your palms on his chest and gently tapping it twice like you’re telling him to behave.

he pulls away with a small smile, his eyes roaming all over your expression. he becomes aware of how he’s still inside you, because his eyes flutter shut briefly and he lets out a tiny, tortured groan beneath his breath.

your cheeks heat immediately, your jaw already hurting from smiling. “right,” you mumble.

his mouth twitches. “right.”

“we’re still in the kitchen.”

“tell me about it.” he teases, leaning in to kiss you again. soft little pecks now, the ones that make you laugh helplessly into it while he smiles.

“what… now?” you ask softly.

he places a last kiss on the corner of your mouth, then pulls away just enough to look at you. his expression shifting into something so soft it makes your heart skip a beat.

you fight back a small smile at the sight of him watching you. you narrow your eyes at him, like your cheeks aren't burning up.

"what."

you say quietly and playfully – there's a fond edge to it, though.

▸ 18 - one direction

he hesitates for half a second, there’s a small moment of silence as he thinks about it. his hand finds your cheek and rests there gently as noel cuts the quietness with a soft exhale, shaking his head, like he can't believe he's about to say something he's been holding onto for years.

“meant it, y’know.”

your brows furrow slightly. “what?”

"before..." he says, eyes not leaving yours. "givin' you everything."

you let out an exhale you didn’t even know you were holding.

he shakes his head a bit, like he needs to say it right, breaking into a boyish grin, nearly in disbelief. “not just… not just that.” he gestures down, between you, almost awkward for a second.

you laugh quietly at it, closing your eyes and dropping your forehead to his chest. he laughs too, hands going to the back of your head and fingers softly threading into your hair.

you pick your head up so you can look at him again, tilting it softly, “yeah?”

he exhales, nodding. “yeah…” he says, quieter now. more certain.

you lick your lips at his tone, taking in a shaky and deep breath, already overwhelmed with everything.

“and… know you’re upset. know it’s… y’know. a lot. and recent, and all that. all of it.” he adds. he shakes his head to himself once, the words leaving him in a breath, “but— fuck me, can’t fuck it up anymore. don’t— wanna pretend you’re not it f’me anymore. already lost too much time.”

you swallow, blinking like you can’t quite believe his words.

“know it’s messy. know the timing’s probably fucked.” a small, nervous, a shaky humourless laugh leaves him before he carries on, stammering. “and, just— like i said, s’okay if you don’t wanna do it now, if— if you wanna sort it out fir-“

you cut him off as your fingers curl lightly at the back of his neck and you pull him in for another kiss.

this time, it’s slower. it’s not desperate anymore. it’s soft, the way you’re both exhaling into the kiss, grabbing each other while your tongues touch, how you’re feeling each others lips like neither of you can’t really believe it yet – like neither of you can’t help but melt into it.

when you pulled away, the look on your face told on you.

because you didn't look scary. or bossy. or sharp. you didn’t look like you needed to avoid it anymore. your eyes searched for his with a glint that wasn't quite the same as before, while heat crawled up your neck without asking for permission just like that one time.

he had never seen you like that. never seen you so visibly overwhelmed. and this time, he knew that it wouldn’t be a rare sight, not anymore.

because you looked as stupidly in love as him.

you were met with the sight of his hair shorter than before, the light beard that scratched your skin in the gentlest way. how when his eyes glinted, he still carried the edge you’ve once fallen in love with and never really stopped.

he was older now.

he had faint lines around his eyes that told on how much he’s smiled through the past few years, that same big smile he’s had all along, the one that makes his eyes smaller and his whole face light up.

he had small crinkles between his brows that showed how much effort he’s put in the band, or the press, or anais, or other stuff wouldn’t that aren’t really worth mentioning right now.

this time, you were older, too.

you even had some gray hairs already, the ones that you insisted on covering up with dye and absolutely pretend they weren’t there. this time, you had a baby girl that was soundly sleeping next to noel’s.

and yet, noel was still the boy who won you over with a gesture of kindness over crooked pavement tiles on your old street, all those years ago.

noel was still the boy who sat awake inside a blanket fort because he thought nobody noticed he was sad.

noel was still the boy that had kissed you for the first time in the kitchen of your childhood home.

noel was still the one you wanted, even after all this time. he was still the person you loved most in the world.

because some things don’t change, do they?

“i love you.” you said, quiet and certain.

he blinked at your admission.

then breathed out a tiny laugh, smiling and sliding his hand down to your arm and squeezing it once gently, raising his brows softly – more out of habit than anything.

“yeah?”

you laughed too, nodding. “yeah.”

his lips twitched in the corners, pressing them together like he’s trying not to grin too hard. he nods softly as his hands slide down the sides of your neck, then over your shoulders until they’re all the way down your arms. almost embarrassed by how affected he is.

“first time we shag and you’re already confessin’ your love to me?” he teased.

you burst into another laugh, shoving at his face weakly. “prick.”

he laughs, taking your hand into his and kissing your wrists. “i mean… we barely know each other, birdie.” he teases.

you roll your eyes, groaning softly as an attempt to fight back a pathetic smile growing on your lips. noel keeps grinning as he kisses your knuckles. then your wrist again.

“love you too,” he says quietly.

you narrow your eyes, fighting back a smile. “do you now?”

he breaks into a breathy laugh, nodding and shifting closer until his forehead is touching yours. “so fucking much.”

“yeah?” you breathe.

“yeah.” he answers immediately.

you let out a small breathy laugh at it, ridiculously fond.

“always have.” he adds.

your fingers slide up to his face as you hum softly, brushing lightly along his jaw. “took you long enough,” you murmur.

he huffs a quiet laugh, leaning into your touch without thinking. “you weren’t exactly easy either.”

you break into a breathy laugh, “hey!”

he goes on anyway, already smiling. “nightmare, actually.”

you press your hand over his mouth, shutting him up and both of you laughing. he pushes it away, holding it even as he manages to get it off from his mouth. your head settles back against his shoulder, still laughing, his arm tightening slightly around you.

in the bedroom upstairs, your daughters sleep, unaware of anything except the safety of being loved. unaware of the fact that, just now, everything has changed. because for the first time in years, it feels like everything’s finally settled into place.

a beat.

you break into a breathy laugh at the realization. “we should…” you start, glancing around the kitchen.

“oh, shit. right.”

he pulls out slowly at the same time his hands grab your waist to help you down. your legs still shake a little bit, immediately pressing them together as you feel the mess he’s left inside you leak out. gravity.

you let out a small laugh under your breath, a bit breathless still. “jesus…”

“yeah,” he mutters, tucking himself back into his underwear and not even bothering to do his zipper, still a little dazed himself. “kitchen’s not exactly— ideal, is it.”

you laugh at it, and then his eyes flick down to the floor.

“y’alright?” he asks absentmindedly.

you nod, sliding your hands over your messy hair. “yeah… just a bit— y’know.” you say softly, looking at what he’s bending down to pick up other than his crumbled shirt.

your knickers. he holds them between his fingers, turning them like he’s inspecting them for no real reason at all. one side is completely torn where he’d dragged them down in too much of a hurry.

you laugh, breathless and warm and impossible to keep it quiet. “oi.”

he inspects the damage with seriousness, but his lips are curled into a smirk as he turns the ruined fabric between his fingers. “in my defense. you were distractin’ me.” he says, trying to not laugh himself.

you laugh even harder, reaching out. “noel.”

he glances up, completely unfazed, smirking now. “what?” raising his arm to escape from your hand trying to fetch the fabric back.

“those are mine.” you say, smiling so hard your jaw hurts.

he finally gives in and laughs too – that big, warm laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes his whole face light up.

god. you love him.

“not anymore,” he shakes his head, holding you back with one hand as the other absentmindedly slips the fabric into his pocket like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you let out a disbelieving laugh. “dick.”

he laughs, placing his hands on your waist and softly turning your back to him. then, wrapping his arms around your waist as he walks – inevitably making you walk towards the stairs, too. “i’ll buy you another pair.” he says quietly, simply, smiling and placing a kiss on your cheek.

you snort, hands finding his forearms and caressing it softly as you climb the steps. “yeah, yeah. i’m gonna let you be funny and keep ‘em for a bit,” you tease quietly, barely above a whisper.

he huffs out a breathy laugh, softly squeezing your tits. “you’re cute for thinking that’s what’s gonna happen.”

you snort, unconvinced. ridiculously fond.

“already ripped ‘em apart, might as well keep it now, eh?” he teases, pulling you even closer once you reach the top of the stairs, your back pressed firmly against his chest.

“fucking perv.” you laugh.

you can hear the smirk he has on as he breathes out a huff of a laugh, amused and fond. he leans in, clumsily walking into you so he can kiss your neck from behind, smiling against it as he notices how you’re trying not to laugh too loud because you haven’t reached the bedroom yet.

“mhm. your perv.” he corrects, kissing your cheek.

you laugh, walking now in a slight rush because his cum is smearing all over your inner thighs. he huffs out an amused breath at it, not breaking stride.

“seriously. buy you how many y’want” he says playfully, still walking and still keeping you glued to him. his mouth presses a soft kiss to the side of your neck, it feels new. it feels right. “then… we could… dunno. take the girls out.” he starts, voice quieter now in that way when he’s trying not to make a big deal out of something that clearly is.

you hum lazily, pleased, leaning back into him. “mhm…”

“proper day out. park or somethin’.”

“they’d like that.” you say quietly, smiling.

“mhm… then… we could go out ourselves.”

that makes you glance back at him properly. you notice how his expression’s almost shy despite everything.

you can’t help but huff out a breath, smiling and raising your brows as you slowly untangle yourself from his arms, pushing the door of your bedroom open.

▸ girl - the internet

“yeah?”

he shrugs one shoulder, suddenly looking oddly boyish for someone with his zip still undone, his shirt crumpled in his fist and your ruined knickers shoved into his pocket.

“yeah.”

you hum as you step backwards into the room, watching him follow instantly. “that’s all you wanna do? take me out?” you tease softly, smirking, pushing the door shut behind him.

you’re still smiling when he steps into your space again, smirking and shaking his head in disbelief while his hands automatically find your waist. his eyes roam over your face for a second before dipping lower, catching on the marks already blooming along your neck and chest.

“no…” he replies softly, almost absentmindedly, impressed with himself. leaning in and kissing right over them, without giving a fuck if it’ll make them worse.

you bite down a smile, eyes fluttering shut. “noel…” you breathe out, hands wrapping around his bíceps and squeezing softly at the feeling of his mouth on your neck.

his mouth curls into a smile against your skin when your fingers tighten softly around his arms. “what?” he whispers in your ear, smug. then one of his hands slides down from your waist until the hem of your dress, sliding his hand up your inner tigh.

his fingers brush the slickness and warmth of his cum still slowly dripping down your skin.

his breath catches instantly. so does yours.

then he moans quietly against your neck before his lips find yours once more. you laugh breathlessly into the kiss at his reaction, but it dies halfway when his fingers move up your cunt, dragging through the mess again, slow and nearly in disbelief. more hypnotized than anything else.

“noel…” you moan his name into his mouth, hands pulling him impossibly closer by the side of his neck.

“sorry,” he says immediately, except he very obviously isn’t sorry at all. he pushes two fingers inside your dripping entrance, pulling a gasp out of you. “just— fuck.” he adds anyway.

you can feel him getting hard against you again already. ridiculously easy and somehow the hottest thing you’ve ever felt in your life.

“drive me fucking mad, you,” he murmurs against your lips, already kissing you again before clumsily walking you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the mattress.

you barely have time to breathe before he’s easing you down onto the bed, following immediately after like he physically can’t bear the distance anymore. the mattress dips beneath his weight while he kisses you, his hands roaming everywhere.

your waist, pulling you flush against him. your thighs, grabbing and spreading them so he can settle better between them, like he’s earned the right. your tits, fondling them underneath the cut of your dress and rolling your nipples between his fingers just because it makes you arch your chest closer to him.

it’s embarrassing how quickly both of you are needy again.

you both could easily blame it on the fact that neither have been touched properly in far too long. years of being with someone else that ended up shitty divorces, with empty beds and fake smiles along the way.

but it’s no use denying it, not anymore. because now, he’s kissing you like he’s starving, and you’re already clinging into him desperately, aching for more.

his hands properly shove your dress up now, both panting as the kiss is broken just to get fully rid of this stubborn piece of fabric on the way.

“fuckin’ hell,” he whispers, as his eyes trail down to your body, fully dazed even when his hand is busy throwing your dress to a random corner of the room.

his palms return to your body immediately, greedily groping you without even asking for permission while his hips press into yours at the sight of you bare underneath him, searching for some relieve on his already again strained bulge. “look at you.” he rasps, swallowing a rough groan as he watches your face twist in pleasure, your hips bucking upwards to meet the friction, neither caring about the slickness between your legs leaving a small mess on the crotch of his jeans.

you moan his name, quietly, and the sound catches in your throat with a small gasp as his hand settles on your soaked core again. your head tips back as he draws teasing circles on your throbbing clit, he licks his hips at the sight, already shifting into his knees so he can get rid of his pants – properly now.

“fuck,” he whispers, almost to himself, awed by you. “could stay here forever.”

you’re about to answer, or beg. god, who knows. but when you prop your head back up, your eyes flick toward the bedroom door.

“door.”

he leans in, kissing your jaw distractedly – or maybe already too pussy drunk to realize you’re actually saying something important – and his fingers still working you slowly, the wet sounds of it mixing with the noises his warm mouth makes every time it places a wet kiss on your skin. “what?”

“lock it.” you say breathlessly.

he freezes for a second, then his head whips towards the door.

he sighs.

“fuck’s sake,” he says dramatically, pushing himself up off the bed.

you immediately bite down a laugh at the sight of him, zip still open and a very obvious tent straining against his boxers while he eagerly stomps toward the door.

“don’t laugh,” he says grumpily, despite smirking. he locks the door with a sharp click before turning back toward you. “your fault.” he says, gesturing to his crotch and already kneeling on the mattress, towering over you and cutting your grin off with a kiss.

“look at us,” he says quietly, his words brushing your lips before his head dips to the side, his mouth on your jaw again. “middle of the night. sneakin’ around your own house.”

you grin, licking your lips and tipping your head to the side to give him more access. “like teenagers.” you whisper.

“worse,” he whispers, smirking, his hands already pushing his trousers down while he doesn’t stop pampering your neck with kisses, trailing down until he’s licking and kissing your tits.

you moan again, quieter this time because the girls are asleep just down the hall, and it makes his smirk even wider. his cock springs free at the same time his hand finds your cunt again. he moans at the slickness between your legs, unmistakably his. you feel his breath hitch against your mouth as he stretches you again with two thick fingers.

“fuck,” he murmurs, his voice wrecked all over again. “fuck me...”

your cheeks heat despite yourself, instinctively trying to close your legs, but he just kisses you harder for it. his fingers curl inside you as he softly says, “don’t…”

you choke out a quiet moan, smiling a little as an attempt to hide your flushed cheeks. “don’t… what?”

“get shy on me now.” his nose brushes yours. “not after lettin’ me ruin your knickers downstairs.”

you moan, hiding your face against his neck. “god… you’re cocky now.”

“yeah? am i?” he whispers, teasing and fucking you with his fingers with a little more intent. still slow, still making you feel all of it, still relishing on the fact that his cum makes it ridiculously easy just like fucking lube. “just wanna see all of you.”

you shake your head weakly, already overwhelmed again. “noel…” you choke out his name in a needy moan, chest arching off the bed.

“what, want more?” he asks softly, knowing exactly what the answer is.

you nod immediately. “please… please.”

he grins against your skin at how fast you answer, kissing the corner of your mouth before dragging his fingers slower just to make you whine.

“yeah?” he whispers. “want it again, huh?”

your eyes squeeze shut at the teasing in his voice. “please. noel, please,” you whisper again, sounding close to tears from the intensity of it. “need you.”

“christ. listen to you.” he breathes out with a shaky little laugh. watching how your thighs twitch around his hand while he keeps touching you like he has all the time in the world.

he pulls away just enough to roll you gently over onto your stomach. the movement is careful despite his own desperation underneath it.

his hands slide over your hips, his fingers spreading over your waist and lower back, smoothing over your skin almost reverently while he settles immediately behind you.

“there you are,” he murmurs quietly. then his hand presses lightly over your lower back before sliding over your asscheeks, encouraging. “arch f’me, sweetheart.”

you do instantly. the groan he lets out at the sight is nearly embarrassing in how affected it sounds.

“spread those legs f’me. there, fuck, there…”

his hands grip your ass harder while he shifts behind you, staring for a second too long at the sight of his hand grabbing his cock and guiding it between your legs, exhaling roughly at the feeling his leaking head sliding up and down your folds before pushing back into you slowly, both of you gasping at the feeling.

“like this?” he whispers shakily, already leaning down until his mouth is on your ear. “yeah?”

you nod desperately into the pillow and he lets out a rough breath before starting to move, slow deep thrusts that make your whole body melt.

“you’re so fucking fit, fuck…” he says quietly, almost to himself, hand grabbing your hip harsher than he intended as he slowly fucks you. his chest presses against your back for a second while he kisses along your neck, unable to stop now. “prettiest— fucking thing.” he murmurs against your skin as he pulls his hips away just to push back in.

you let out a broken little whimper at the tone of his voice and he immediately kisses you again to swallow the sound before it gets too loud.

“shh,” he murmurs against your mouth, lazily smiling. “girls are right down the hall, remember?”

your lips fall agape, tongue bumping into his as your ass involuntary arches even more, needy and broken huffs leaving your nose as your face twists in pleasure – fighting hard to swallow your moans.

“that’s it,” he whispers against your mouth, voice rough. “good girl.”

your breath catches at the praise and he immediately notices, thrusting into you a little deeper. god, he really is cocky now. can you blame him, though? “yeah? like hearin’ that?” he murmurs.

you nod helplessly and he kisses you again before another sound can slip out too loud.

“once we don’t have t’keep quiet,” he whispers against your lips, rough enough to make you shiver, “gonna make you—“ he cuts himself off with a low moan, kissing you eagerly to muffle it, barely pulling away to finish, “fucking… scream for me.”

your breath catches sharply and he moans instantly against your skin. “yeah? bet you’d be loud as fuck if we were alone.”

his mouth drags along your jaw slowly while his hips keep rolling into yours steady and deep, nearly sloppy now from the dizzying arousal. “been dreamin’ about this mouth for years.”

another thrust.

“wanting… you like this. for years, y’know that?”

another, one with a slightly different angle that makes you immediately whimper his name.

“cunt takin’ me so pretty. yeah? knew it fucking would.” he praises quietly. his hand tightens at your waist hard enough to make you gasp quietly into the pillow, hips snapping into yours with a roughness that wasn’t there before. possessive, like now that he finally has you, he can’t stop proving it to himself or to you.

“fuck,” he whispers, nearly dazed as he looks down, his crotch slamming into your ass and making your skin move with every thrust, how his cock is glistening with your arousal and his own cum now. he can’t help but fuck you with a little more intent, a little faster at the sight, praying to god the soft skin slapping sounds aren’t that loud. “look at this.”

you whimper softly at the tone alone and he immediately leans down, dragging his mouth along your neck, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses that only make you clench harder around him.

“all mine now, yeah?” he murmurs against your skin.

you moan his name, breathy, nodding like you’ve never meant something so much like now. you gasp as his hand slides to your front, his palm squished between the mattress and your stomach until it wanders down, rubbing your clit in messy circles while he kisses your jaw.

“mine,” he says again quietly. “all this fuckin’ time.”

your cunt tightens around him instantly and he moans lowly at the feeling, burying his face on the side of your neck as his cock keeps sliding in and out of you – a thin layer of sweat glistening your torsos now.

“wanted you… so bad. so bad, noel” you mumble in between tiny moans.

“yeah?” he whispers.

you nod immediately, almost frantic about it now that there’s finally no point hiding anything, not when he keeps fucking into you slow and deep like he never wants to stop.

“should’ve been me,” he mutters, voice rough and honest in a way that nearly hurts. “all this time. should’ve been me.”

you moan his name, tipping your head foward until your mouth is pressed on the pillow, nodding desperately and not minding a small amount of drool staining the soft pillowcase. you’re gone in a way you have never been, and so is he.

“just— fuck. love you.” he cuts you off, kissing the side of your neck and pounding impossibly deeper into you. “should’ve been me takin’ care of you.”

another thrust.

“fuck, should’ve been me makin’ you feel like this.”

another.

“fuckin’ years we wasted. should’ve had you like this years ago. done this years ago.”

your eyes rolled back into your skull, closing them so hard the muscles of your forehead ached. you felt completely overwhelmed with the pleasure, a tear rolling down your cheek before you could process it.

“look at me,” he whispers, hand curling gently around your jaw until your eyes glassy eyes meet his. “yeah. that’s my girl. good fucking girl. fucking made for me.”

his mouth stays parted with uneven breaths escaping. cheeks flushed, eyes dark and glassy every time they flick over your face like he still can’t quite believe he’s here – in your bed, having you like this after all those years pretending he didn’t want to.

and now he’s finally buried inside you, again, hearing your soft little whimpers every time his cock presses that deep spot inside you. his eyes shut hard for a second every single time, like he can’t handle it.

tears blur your vision. because it’s all too much, you’re so drunk in him you can’t even hold it in anymore.

“yours,” you whisper brokenly into the pillow, barely able to breathe through it. “yours, yours, yours—”

a broken sound leaves him as his fingers pick up the pace on your clit again, as sloppy as his cock fucking you relentlessly now, and somehow even more perfect.

“fuck, say it again.”

“i love you,” you cry softly, voice shaking. “oh my god, noel— i’m gonna cum—”

his hips snap harder into yours immediately at that, his rhythm faltering, becoming messy and desperate. “yeah? yeah, cum for me, love. c’mon.” he babbles, every word coming out broken and muffled by his mouth desperately kissing yours.

your body shakes underneath him as you keep repeating “yes, yes, yes” like it’s the only word you know anymore.

“i love you… fuck! fuck, noel… love…” you choke out, tears streaming freely as the feeling in your lower stomach tightens, your cunt clamping down his cock rhythmically as your body starts to feel warmer.

“i love you,” he says again and again like he can’t stop. kissing your shoulder. your cheek. the tears at the corner of your eyes. “love you so fuckin’ much.”

his nose knocks against yours clumsily when he kisses you, even while he keeps thrusting into you harder now, unable to stop himself.

his expression alone nearly pushes you over the edge. all devotion and lust. “fuckin’ beautiful. look at you.” he whispers, genuinely overwhelmed by everything.

your hands clutch helplessly at his arms as your orgasm hits you. “noel—” you whimper, louder than you probably should.

“i know, darlin’, i know.” he kisses you hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs, fucking you through it and making you see stars. “take care of you. spend the rest of my life makin’ up for it. keep y’full of me every fuckin’ night if you let me.”

the tenderness of it underneath the filth completely destroys you. your mouth falls open in a silent cry as your orgasm keeps washing through you hard enough to make your whole body tense underneath him. he moans at the feeling of you clenching around him, his hands gripping harshly at the same time they cradle you like something delicate.

“fuck… keep squeezin’ me like that— gonna— ah, make me fucking cum.” he babbles, his forehead dropping against yours while his rhythm finally starts losing control completely. “love you. love you. fuckin’ love you.”

he keeps kissing you through it, unable to stop, every breath of his coming out shaky and warm against your mouth.

you whimper another “please” against his lips and it breaks him.

his body goes tense over yours as he buries his face against your neck with a rough groan, hips stuttering hard while releases white streaks of his cum deep inside you, overflowing to the brim and holding you close through it. the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you louder now, making a mess neither of you mind.

for a few seconds neither of you can do anything except pant, hard. your chests heave as you remain tangled together in warm, messy and sweat soaked sheets, sharing the same oxygen as your hands tremble.

your eyes remain closed, tears clinging to your eyelashes and a small exhale escaping you as his fingers stroke weakly through your messy hair.

there’s a moment of silence, only heavy breaths filling the quiet room.

noel breaks in the gentlest way.

“christ,” he laughs softly, quietly and breathless.

you laugh too immediately, still half crying from it all. you swallow, licking your lips and managing to rasp it out. “what?” you mumble, already sleepy.

he shakes his head, tilting it just enough to look at you properly again. he watches you with that helpless smile, the fond kind that always reminds you of the younger version of him. his hand slides across your face, pushing your hair out of the way.

his hand slides down to the side of your face, his palm resting softly over your cheek while this thumb catches a tear rolling down. “you’re crying…” he whispers.

something in him aches at the sight of you laid underneath him like this – bare, flushed, watery eyes and your lips swollen after being kissed raw by him. you look his.

you breathe out a shaky laugh, closing your eyes. “happy tears, don’t worry.” you mumble sleepily, voice rough from trying to keep quiet for too long.

he lets out the tiniest breath of a laugh through his nose, thumb brushing carefully beneath your eye. “c’mere,” he whispers, even though there’s nowhere closer for you to go.

still, you melt into him anyway.

he slowly pulls out of you, your legs intertwining like you’ve done this a million times already, like it’s as natural as breathing.

he kisses your cheek, slower this time, and there’s just warmth now. lingering affection and little breathy smiles every time your noses bump together. the tiredness settling in softly after something so intense.

his body relaxes properly beside yours. “y’alright?” he asks softly after a moment, still brushing your hair back behind your ear over and over like he can’t stop touching you.

you nod against the pillow, eyes barely open now. “more than alright.”

he studies your face quietly, like he’s taking in this version of you to memory too. all soft and sleepy and loved.

“look dead pretty after cumming, yknow.” he murmurs absentmindedly.

you immediately let out a sleepy laugh, shifting closer to his warmth and hiding your face on his neck. “shut up.” you say quietly, smiling as you inhale him.

“s’true.”

you huff out a tiny breath, smiling even with your eyes closed. his eyes close at it, too, while his arm wraps around your torso to keep you glued to him.

“sort out the mess tomorrow?” you mumble quietly.

he breathes out a laugh, nodding and drawing soft patterns over your shoulder blades.

“yeah. whatever you want, love.”

▸ like real people do - hozier

the morning arrives the same way they always do. the sun slips through the curtains that aren't thick enough, the ones you insisted on buying anyway, just because the color went perfectly with the walls. the mail man chats with lucy just across the street, she laughs loudly like she always does whenever he mentions his own grandchildren. some cars pass by, the bells from the door of the bakery down the street still ring strangely loud whenever someone walks in. the house is still quiet, mostly because the loudest one hasn't woken up yet.

it's a morning like every other one.

but as you open your eyes, for the first time, you're met with the sight of him.

him like this, at least.

your vision is still a little blurry around the edges from sleep, but you don't miss the details that matter. his chest is bare, the bottom haf of his torso is covered by your sheets. his hair would most likely look like a mess if it wasn't buzzed off. the beard makes him look gruffer, manlier, but the way his lips are sleepily curled up makes him look softer. the same way they looked like when he was younger.

his eyes are a bit puffy from sleep, and they're very much looking at you. staring, more like.

you huff out an amused breath of a laugh, closing your eyes and not holding in a small, sleepy smile.

"creep."

he breathes out, eyebrows raising softly and still smiling. "what?"

"how long have you been awake for?" you mumble lazily, quietly.

"dunno." he replies simply.

a beat.

"10 minutes, i think." he adds.

you hum softly, amused. "have you been staring at me the whole time, then?" you ask still with your eyes closed.

he huffs, amused too.

and only after a few seconds, he answers.

"yeah."

you laugh at it, then. still quiet, still sleepy and still dazed from last night.

you scooch closer. his arms wrap around you lazily at the same time your face presses against the side of his neck. you place a soft kiss there that makes him embrace you tighter, and you can't help but smile at it. you sniff him, too. and you can feel his chest shaking as he quietly laughs, completely fond and amused.

you hum softly. "you smell really nice..." you say quietly muffled against his skin.

he lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, hugging you tighter. “do i?”

“mhm.”

he hums in response, kissing the top of your head.

you stay tangled with him, warm and sleepy and smiling against his skin in a way that would make you roll your eyes at yourself if you hadn't waited for this pretty much your whole life. it's even better because, now, you know he has too.

his fingers drift upwards until they're running through your hair. your hand lazily slides up his chest.

your head tilts up at the same time his shifts to the side, your eyes meeting again. and you both smile at it. pathetically soft. you huff a small laugh at the angle, guiding your finger and teasingly sliding them over his double chin. his smile gets even mushier at it, and his eyes glint once your palm settles on the side of his cheek.

his hand slips to the back of your neck as he leans down slowly, kissing you soft at first. sleepy. lingering.

you melt into it instantly. your palms rub against his chest as the kiss deepens little by little, lazy tongues sliding against one another and sharing the same warm breaths. it's the kind of quiet affection that should feel dangerous for a morning after.

but it doesn't. of course it doesn't, all of it just feels stupidly natural and stupidly right.

his hand slides under your thigh absentmindedly, pulling you closer until you’re practically half on top of him – the rest of the straddling comes from you, slowly throwing your leg to the other side of his hip and suddenly remembering that you two are very much still naked.

sort out the mess tomorrow, right? feels very convenient, now.

his hand slides down your back until they're resting over your ass, while yours travel down his belly until your palm wraps around his cock that's already stiff and needy underneath you.

you hum against his lips, the corner of your mouth softly curling upwards at the reaction. he moans into it, then immediately smiles after, at the same time as you. like he's just realized what he just did.

▸ and i love her - the beatles

then, three little knocks from very small fists come through the door.

the mess tomorrow becomes the mess right now. and the bareness of your bodies suddenly turns into something very inconvenient.

"mummy?"

you both pull away quickly, brains short circuiting at the same time as you're reminded you're not horny teenagers.

"shit."

"fuck— sake."

you both mutter in hushed tones as you scamper for your clothes, some over the mattress, others on the floor. your hands fumble in your own hair to make it behave, noel's brows furrow as he tries to find where the fuck is his shirt.

you both break into breathy laughs when anais says your name right after a cheeky "auntie!" in a sing-a-song tone. even more when sophia breaks into a fit of giggles immediately, anais does too.

“just a second!” you call out, voice still a little rough with sleep and laughter while trying to drag your dress over your head the right way around.

“mummyy!” sophia giggles again from behind the door, little fists knocking once more. “why’s the door locked?”

noel snorts under his breath while pulling his shirt over his head.

you finally make it to the door, fingers brushing quickly through your hair before unlocking it. “heyy!” you say warmly the second you open it.

both girls immediately barrel into you. sophia wraps herself around your left leg while anais attaches herself into your right one, both talking at once in sleepy little voices. you don't understand a word from it, obviously. but you laugh anyway, crotching down to hug them equally as tight, "alright, alright! take it you two slept well, huh?".

then, when sophia is already talking about a dream she had, anais spots movement behind you. her eyes widen dramatically. “DADDY!”

she immediately sprints past you and launches herself onto the bed, noel barely having enough time to open his arms before she crashes into him with a squeal. “oof— jesus christ,” he groans at the unexpected force, laughing as he pulls her into his chest while she wraps herself around his neck. “nearly broke me ribs there,” he mutters, kissing the side of her head anyway.

sophia stays glued to your side for another moment before leaning upward toward your ear conspiratorially.

“mummy, what’s uncle noelly doing here?” she whispers loudly, in that funny way toddlers always do.

you bite down hard on your smile.

behind her, noel hears it and immediately hides his grin, looking at the two of you still standing by the door even though his arms are trying to contain a very blonde and energetic toddler of his own, tossing and turning on the mattress.

“dunno,” you whisper back, just as serious. “think he was just scared to sleep without his teddy, baby."

sophia tilts her head softly. “were you having a sleepover?” she asks innocently as she swings her body side to side, because toddlers can't ever be still, can they? fucking hell, sometimes they ask proper hard questions, as well.

you and noel glance at each other.

“well–” noel starts.

“who wants waffles, huh?!” you interrupt cheerfully.

both girls yell out overly excited "me!" at the same time. anais nearly trips over her own feets as she sprints off from the bed, already taking your hand into hers and tugging it towards the kitchen as she skips down the hall excitedly.

noel watches it with a fond expression on his face as he gets up from the bed, raising his brows in that "let's go, then" way at sophia that remained stood on the doorway. strangely still in the same place despite having a huge smile on her face as well.

her little hand slips into his.

“uncle noelly,” she speaks up as she pads down the hallway without leaving him much option but to follow.

he looks down, softening on instinct. “hm?”

“i have a teddy, too.”

his mouth twitches instantly. “do ya, now?”

she nods as they walk together. "mhm. i really like him. and i can’t sleep without him either. he’s got a little jumper an’ everythin’. mummy fixed his eye when it fell off.”

“did she?”

“mhm. mummy fixes eeeverything.” she says happily, swinging their joined hands slightly as they walk.

he huffs out a small fond laugh. finally, his chest feels full as he walks downstairs with her, the sounds of your and anais' laughs in the kitchen getting closer. suddenly, tomorrow’s mess – the explanations and the awkward conversations and the fact that eventually everybody would know that you two finally got your shit together – didn’t feel so messy anymore.

“alright, what’s his name, then?” noel asks softly.

she keeps yapping, and the morning keeps developing around the four of you. just like mornings always do. but still, you and noel ocasionally steal glances that - this time - mean more than anything else.

yeah, definetly not messy anymore.

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1996

You meet Carmen on an overcast morning at some model agency casting in 1988. That’s how it all starts, with both of you having nothing to your name but cheap headshots, tight clothes, and stars in your eyes. The hallway they put all the girls in smelled of cigarette smoke, mothballs, and disinfectant, with the cloying perfume of what seemed to be over fifty girls desperate to get their big break. 

“D’ya have a fag?” you asked her then, totally unaware of where it could all lead years down the line. You don’t even know if you would go back and stop it all from happening. All you knew was that that’s where it all began, with two young girls smoking a cigarette out of a sketchy warehouse casting, dreaming of bigger things. 

“Good luck in there,” she tells you as soon as you stub your cigarette out with your heel, crunching it down on the gravel. Back then, you weren’t so sure about her sincerity. It was commonplace for models to have petty catfights and jealous fits during castings. Nowadays, you still aren’t sure if that glint in her eye was kindness or hunger. Still, you smiled and told her you didn’t need luck. 

You see her again at another casting, weeks later. Then another one, then another, then another, and another. Each time with a laugh and a shared cigarette as every girl around you wrinkled their nose and clomped away from the smell and the obnoxious sound of your laughs mixing together. Because even then, the two of you had been mean, doling out insults like they cost nothing to your souls. I thought the casting was for a size two, not for maternity clothes. How hard is it to match your foundation to your skin tone? Oh, her blush is making her look like she’s about to fit herself into a tiny car with a bunch of other clowns. 

Carmen was mean, everyone knew it, and you knew it. But what did it matter to you when you were just as wretched?

By your luck, the two of you get hired at the same time. You at some small start-up agency with only five other girls, her at a sketchy lingerie-only deal. You work your way up from there, no-name brands who can’t afford higher-rate models, adverts for shoes and watches that don’t even show your face, billboards with questionable taglines that you always felt embarrassed by. And still, you and Carmen stick together like glue; phone calls, brunches, and the benders the two of you would go on that would leave both of you with pounding headaches. 

Carmen had been dating a dealer back then, one of the good ones that could score premium class anything as long as you had the money to pay for it. You couldn’t even remember the bloke’s name; Baker, or something stupid like that. All that you knew was that whenever you were with Carmen, ditzy and dumb off liquour, you were always guaranteed to score a good few grams of coke. 

And fuck, were they good. So good that it sends your head spinning and your smile stretching widely over your face, the club lights blinding and the music blaring so loudly that you could feel the bass of it at your feet. It was a buzz like no other, snorting those lines in the bathroom with Carmen, getting so high off her boyfriend’s supply that you don’t even notice your faces moving closer together until your mouths are melding under the harsh bathroom lights and she’s pushing you into the bathroom stalls with her lips latched to your neck. 

And really, what’s a few kisses between friends? With sloppy mouths, mussed up hair, and smudged lipstick, the two of you laugh and laugh and laugh and surrender to the feeling of it, there in a nameless bar bathroom. 

It continues on like that for what seems like ages — two friends climbing up the ranks of the modelling world, living the glamorous life under the party lights, killing boredom by snogging in dodgy alleyways, the back of cabs, and pub bathrooms. 

“Kisses don’t count,” Carmen mumbles against you lips one time, pressed up against the rough brick wall of whatever party the two of you had managed to weasel your way into that night. You hum and press your lips to her neck, suckling at the skin to hear her squeal and try to push you away. “‘S’not cheating if it’s with ‘yer best mate,” she reasons. 

You laugh, caging her in with both hands on her hips and her hands on your arse. “And I’m sure he won’t mind sharing you with another bird,” you say, nipping teasingly at her bottom lip as she gives your arse a rough squeeze. “He seems like the type of fella to enjoy that kind of thing.”

Carmen rolls her eyes, pupils dilated from the coke she had snorted off the tops of your tits just a few minutes ago, the crowd roaring in amusement at the sight. “Just shut up and kiss me.” And you do. 

The two of you fall into that rhythm for what seems like ages. Lazy snogs and wandering hands could only go so far before a line gets crossed. And it happens on the night that you get the call from Victoria’s Secret, being dubbed as one of their official models alongside Carmen. 

Obviously, it called for a celebration; one with too many drinks, too many models, too much coke, too loud music, and adrenaline buzzing in your veins. One shot turns into two, then two into three, three into four, then you’re going to the bathroom for a line, then two, then three, then suddenly you’re off your box and Carmen’s pushing you into a mildewed storage closet with a whine and her fingers already at the seam of your knickers. 

It was frantic and frenzied, with just a dim lightbulb leading the way. But still, the memory of it was seared in your veins. The way that she had ripped off her own knickers in her haste, the way she had got down on her knees and suckled tentatively at your clit before diving fully in, the way that her keens seemed to echo so loudly within the small space as your fingers worked her open, the orgasm that washed through you at the feeling of her freshly manicured fingers working at your clit with precision. 

Neither of you even notice how far you’ve crossed the line, laughing as you pick up stray pieces of clothes, kissing each other’s glossy mouths shut, and walking out the storage closet just to run straight out of the party and take a cab back to Carmen’s flat. 

The line becomes less of a warning and more of a suggestion after that. Neither of you speak about it, but you’re over at her place more often than not, Friday nights were reserved for dinners at your favorite Chinese take-out spot, you went into Victoria’s Secret fittings together and left the same way, the lingerie that the brand would have you take home always ended up on the floor after an impromptu ‘practice’ session, and Baker or whatever the fuck her boyfriend’s name was faded into the background until there was no one left but you. 

“He was just starting to annoy me,” Carmen sniffed one night, her feet on your lap as you watched some silly soap opera on the telly. “And the coke isn’t even that good anymore.”

You hum and let her lie. You let her prance around parties like she doesn’t beg to eat out your cunt, you let her hang off the arm of nameless men, you forgive her when she goes to fuck a man in the bed that the two of you sleep in, you tell her that it’s alright. After all, it’s what you do too. You lie, and you sneak, and you jump through hoops only to end back up in bed with Carmen’s wet cunt calling back to you every time. 

But somewhere along the line, the lies start to get heavier. She starts rolling her eyes whenever you bring up Friday dinners, she stops looking for you in rooms she knows you’d be in, you start leaving with other people and spending the night with them instead, you drink too much and start to say shit about Carmen — the pudge of her stomach, the way the lingerie she modeled made her hips look monstrously wide, the way that her tits weren’t even real and were just silicone things she had gotten a few years back when the two of you were just starting out.

And Carmen isn’t one for backing down, choosing to fire back with nastier insults through whispers in the hallways and suggestions made in that snarky way of hers. 

It all comes to a head when you get named the muse for the newest Victoria’s Secret collection, becoming the envy of every woman in your circle as they congratulated you with their sharp teeth and insincere eyes. 

It isn’t a coincidence that Carmen starts getting less projects after your rise to fame. It isn’t a coincidence that rumours of you and her begin swirling around. It isn’t a coincidence that girls begin to complain about having you in the dressing room, in case you perved out on them. It isn’t a coincidence that Carmen insists she was just drunk and stupid when it happened and that you were the one chasing her all the while. And it isn’t a coincidence that the whispers go high up enough for you to get a notice of termination. 

Everything after that is a blur. One well documented by the press, but a blur nonetheless. You remember taking a few pills, snorting a few lines, drinking more than you should on the night of what was supposed to be the highlight of your career. You had been asked not to come, not to make a scene, to stay quiet. But that was never your forte. 

It happened quick; finding the brand director and her husband and getting in their faces, spitting at their feet. Getting up on the runway, still not stumbling after all those substances, walking the catwalk as you shed your own clothes and showed people how it was really done. Finding Carmen amidst the sea of models and jetting straight to her, pulling her hair by the ends and dragging her down to the floor just to humiliate her in front of an audience of hundreds. 

And if you end up leaving the party with a police escort and the brand director’s husband’s number in your pocket, then it was all understandable.

Years after that meeting, you stare at Carmen now, at her pathetic scowl and the cigarette she idly smokes as she listens to a conversation you know she’s not making any effort to listen to. 

It’s been months of the constant media circus of you and Noel splashed on the front pages, people debating the morality of your affair, boycotting his music, calling you a nasty slag for going after your best mate’s fella. You snort, remembering all the headlines, even going as far as to mail your favorites to Noel who sent them straight back, the papers wrapped in his trash. 

Noel isn’t at this party. Shamefully, you feel a tug of disappointment.

He wasn’t one for parties these days, keeping a low profile as he works on the new Oasis album, staying away from the eyes of the press after the stunt that you and him just pulled. 

It was boring, not having Noel around. No heads to fuck with, no one to get on your level and spit at your feet, no one to fuck you good and rough in a way that only he ever did. You shake your head, ridding yourself of the thought of him before catching Carmen’s eye across the crowded room. 

You laugh as her frown grows deeper at the sight of you, then you wave calmly, as if you hadn’t just blown up her life a mere few months ago. Her face morphs into one of pure anger, whole body animated as she stands up from her place between two nondescript men and marches straight to you. 

You recognize a camera flash as she heads straight for you, and you smile, satisfied at the thought of seeing tomorrow’s papers. Maybe you could send another headline to Noel, it might fuck with him seeing his ex-girlfriend with you. 

“Can you stop?” Carmen hisses as soon as she stands next to you, mouth pressed into a grim line as her eyes burn through you. “Haven’t you fucking done enough?”

You hum, considering it for a moment before responding. “Still bored, though,” you drawl. 

She laughs incredulously, the sound piercing through the heavy bassline of the club’s music. “You’re always bored, aren’t you?” she sneers. “So bored that you’d stoop low enough as you did.”

You roll your eyes and get in her space, making her jump back. “And how about how low you stooped, hm?” you challenge. “We gonna talk about that?”

Carmen scoffs. “So, this is revenge?” she asks, voice heavy with contempt. “Is that it? You’re mad that I told a bunch of people that you fucked me and you just couldn’t handle the consequences?”

“Couldn’t handle the consequences?” you echo with disbelief. “Do you hear yourself? You got me fucking fired from my job. You got me blacklisted out of the modelling industry!” you shriek. 

She shrugs, like it meant nothing. “You always knew what you were getting into,” she tells you, eyes heavy and set on yours as she remains steely with her resolve. 

The thing is, you did. You really did know what kind of person she was, what kind of person you are. It was always going to end with an explosion big enough that neither of you could come back from. Still, you remain stoic as you face her head on and say, “Well, the next time that I see our good friend Noel, I’ll tell him hi for you, yeah?”

Carmen sucks in her teeth like she’s bitten into something sour. “You can have that halfwit,” she spits. “Enjoy my seconds, you fucking copycat.”

You shake your head and smile, as graciously as you could with annoyance still buzzing in your veins, then, you lean over and plant a peck on her cheek, one so close to her mouth that your gloss leaves a mark that overlaps her own. 

You leave before she could say anything else, still burning with fury as the cameras take a quick snap. When the paper arrives at your door in the morning, you grin widely and immediately mail it out to Noel before heading out to the studio. 

In the midst of all the chaos, you and Noel had to work out a somewhat custody agreement with Liam in the studio. Oasis needed Liam at the studio on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays while you got him on Tuesdays and Thursdays until he finished all his sessions for the tracks he was in. 

That its, that would be the case if only Noel would stop hogging his brother and halting your recording process. Months have gone by and Liam hasn’t set a single Adidas clad foot in your studio, Noel and his management sending you their apologies as Liam is currently occupied with matters related to the band. 

Walking in this morning, still no sign of Liam Gallagher, you knew what you had to do, stomping to the nearest phone and dialing a number you know that Noel would answer to. You let it ring, tapping your foot impatiently against the linoleum, your coat still on as you scowled at the receiver. Then, the line clicks and a chirpy voice greets you, “Good Morning, Creation Records speaking. May I ask to whom this call is —”

You huff, having heard enough, arms crossed in front of your chest as you spit, “Get me Noel Gallagher now,” you demand, not an inch of a plead in your voice.

The poor girl on the other end begins to stutter, “I’m sorry. I don’t —”

You cut her off with a roll of your eyes and bored click of your tingue. “No, I’m sorry,” you say, voice dripping with annoyance. “Did I fucking stutter when I spoke? Get me Noel Gallagher on this fucking phone right now or I swear I will come over there and cause a scandal.”

The girl holds her own for one moment, two, three, before finally relenting, “Hold on,” she says shakily before the irritating sound of the hold music invades your ears and you lean against the wall of the studio’s halls, watching people pass and give you questioning looks as they go. You don’t mind any of it, though. Not as long as they’re looking.

Then, the line clicks once more and you straighten up without meaning to, Noel’s drawling and smug voice crooning in your ear, “Hi, honey. How are you?” he teases. And by fuck, you could almost see the smile he’s sporting with the way he spoke, the tilt of his lips as he leans into the telephone. 

But you’re not falling for it. “Cut the bullshit, Noel,” you spit. “Where’s Liam?”

“Here,” he says, in that way that sends your nerves into an aggravated flurry, annoyance burning through you as he took his time answering.

“Noel,” you bite.

He laughs, “What? I thought you liked playing games,” he tells you, still horsing around. “Just givin’ you what you wanted, yeah?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays are mine,” you remind him. The two of you had even sent in representatives to talk about it, not willing to be in the same room together after the last time.

Noel hums, a buzzing sound that irritates you further. “Yeah, but he’s our singer.”

“It shouldn’t take three fucking months to finish vocals for a feature on two tracks,” you sneer, getting on the receiving end of more than a few funny looks as people passed you. “You’re delaying my album and we both know it. What?” you taunt, “Scared I’ll overtake you on the charts?”

The sound he makes his half laugh and half gasp, “Overtake us on the charts?” he echoes through a chuckle. “‘Yer funny, you. Y’know what? Go do your silly fuckin’ album before opening ‘yer fat fuckin’ mouth ‘bout my band,” he bites at you.

“That’s what I intend to do,” you say, resolutely. “Just get Liam here in the next hour before I come over there and make a mess.”

“Not gonna say please? You’re good at sayin’ please,” he says, testing both his luck and your patience.

“Oh, go suck my dick, Noel,” you scowl.

He laughs, the aggravatingly smug sound echoing in your ears as he bids you goodbye. “Bye, doll,” he drawls easily. “Liam’s on his way.”

You snort, already ready to be done with this stupid call, “Fina-fucking-lly,” you say before hanging up and marching right back to the studio, ignoring everyone’s funny looks and placing yourself in the audio booth, eager to prove Noel Gallagher wrong.

The next hour passes by like that — with you in the studio, banging out a few vocal tracks as everyone else worked around you like bees making honey. By the time Liam arrives, his signature swagger intact, you’re midway through berating a poor sound engineer who looks like he’s found god after you ditch the argument in favor of greeting Liam with a friendly kiss on the cheek instead.

“Hi, Liam,” you coo as he kisses your cheek back, “How’re you? How’s Pats?” you ask. 

He nods in that jaunty way of his, “She’s good, yeah. She’s grand, both her and James are havin’ a good time and all’at.”

You smile, “That’s lovely to hear,” you say, your smile turning vicious as you turn the point of conversation and begin to ask, “And how’s Lis—”

He shakes his head vigorously and draws the line in the sand as he firmly tells you, “We’re not doin’ that.”

You laugh easily, diffusing any tension, “Alright, Casanova,” you say patting his shoulder before your attention snags on the studio door and the man entering it, acting like the room owes him something just by being there. Noel. “Now, what the fuck are you doing in my studio?” you explode, all attention on him now as Liam scampers away to do fuck knows what with fuck knows who. 

Noel shrugs, not an ounce of care in his body, “Lending you my singer,” he replies steadily. 

You scowl at him, “He’s a grown fucking man.”

Noel snorts and points to Liam who had gotten himself tangled in microphone wires, cursing under his breath as he tries to hop himself out of the situation. “Barely,” says Noel. 

“Noel,” you say, steely. 

He only smiles, the self-satisfied fuck. “What? Not happy to see me?” he jeers, crowding you as everyone in the studio watches. 

You lean in closer, testing the waters as you speak into the shell of his ear, “Get the fuck out,” you say, as sweetly as you could before shoving at his chest. 

He jolts back before recovering, “Aw, don’t be like that,” he says. “You and me, we’ve been though a lot, haven’t we?” He titls his head at you and doesn’t let his smile falter one inch. 

You laugh, uncaring of the fact that everyone had gone silent, watching you and Noel like bombs ready to detonate. “Flirty little fuck, aren’t you? Had a taste of it and now you’re just gaggin’ for it?” you sneer. 

Noel shakes his head. “You’re about to crash and burn,” he tells you, so sure of himself that it makes you laugh. “I want a front row seat.”

You shake your head then point at the leather couch, unoccupied save for two sound techs doing anything but making eye contact with you, “Then sit,” you demand from him, like an owner would to their dog. Then you let yourself smile, the familiar sharklike one that stretches over your face and makes Noel shiver. “And watch how it’s done.”

The next few hours are spent in a state of productivity that you knew you wouldn’t have achieved had Noel not challenged you in front of your own team. Liam records some of his vocal tracks, then you burst into the audio booth and don’t come out until it’s time for Liam to record his own vocals again. That cycle continues, on and on and on, the sound engineer cycling coffee cups on his desk as Noel watches it all with arms crossed and his signature scowl on his face. 

You smile to yourself, observing him as he observes you, taunting him as you sing, swaying your hips as you bent down to check out whatever the sound engineer was showing you, standing a bit too close to Liam in between breaks and in the audio booth. And by the time the afternoon shifts into the later hours, the amount of people in the room dwindling and dwindling until everyone’s left, and all that remains is you and Noel. 

That’s when you say it, the words at the edge of your tongue for the entire afternoon since he showed up, sulking and scowling on your couch, not saying a word to anyone. “You fucking fancy me, don’t you?”

His thick brows furrow and his face twists as he spits, “What?” he chokes. “No?”

You laugh standing in the corner opposite from where he’s sitting, his legs splayed open lik the king of the fucking world. You tilt your head and survey him calmly, “One shag and you’re already mooning after me, Gallagher?”

He laughs, that deep chuckle of his that you know is just him putting on a confident act. The rockstar that he was. “You wish,” he snorts. “I was just watching after Liam.”

You smile, like you’re in on a joke that he hasn’t yet heard. “Hm,” you hum, condescending. “And the man you’ve been watching out for just walked out the door five minutes ago. Yet you’re still here,” you point out, gesturing at the door that Liam already walked out of quite some time ago, shooting an odd look at Noel as he went. 

Noel shrugs defensively. “Your music’s shite,” he tells you simply. 

You scoff and put your arms across your chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he doubles down. “In Your Eyes is a hit, yeah. But this album, man …” he says, whistling lowly as if he can’t even form the words to explain how shite he finds your album. 

You sneer, moving in closer to him. “Fucking wanker,” you spit, “You’re sitting here because you want to act all big and tough and tell me how much more you know about music than me. That it?” you ask, getting closer to him just so he could feel the words land in his chest. “Just because Carmen’s not around to hear you whinging, doesn’t mean that I’m up for it,” you say, making him flinch just the smallest amount at the mention of Carmen. 

Still, he doesn’t let up, standing his ground as he looks up from you from the couch. “Let me produce,” he demands, chin tilted up like he knows you’ll relent. 

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, Noel,” you say through gritted teeth. 

Noel shakes his head, ‘I’m not letting Liam put himself in an album that sounds like a second rate Madonna copy, d’ya hear?”

You laugh incredulously. “Stop using Liam as an excuse, Noel. By god, he’s a grown man who can make his own decisions,” you say, irritated. 

“And he’s also my frontman,” says Noel stonily, all business now as you move in closer to him. “And my frontman shouldn’t go around associating himself with this kind of shite. It’d be one thing if it didn’t trace back to the band, but it does.”

You consider it for a second too long, and Noel notices, his eyes glinting as he recognizes the impending victory. “Go on, then. Tell me to my face, what’s so shit about my album?” you ask.

Noel raises a brow before relenting, giving you what he’s been dying to say since he stepped inside the studio. “Your voice is drowned out by the production and the amount of reverb they’ve been layering onto your voice, everything is set in a key that you can’t reach so you should maybe lower them by a semitone, and your drummer’s to busy staring at your tits to play on the beat,” he lists, brow still arched as if to say there’s more where that came from.

Instead of the simmering irritation in your gut, you only smile and ask, “Jealous?”

He snorts, ‘As if.”

You really shouldn’t say yes. This was supposed to be your victory, your name on people’s lips, your career that takes off. But Noel’s stare is unwavering as he watches you decide, already acting like the cat that got the cream. You think about it then, that you’d rather die than let your album be some forgettable piece of shit. And really, Noel was the one offering. So you hold out your hand, and Noel shakes it without second thought, the deal sealed between the two of you. “Work your magic then,” you demand of him. 

He does, getting up from the couch for the first time since he walked in, groaning as he stretched his back, only to sit back down by the controls and jerk his head at you, “Get in the booth,” he says without preamble. 

You snort, “Bossy,”

“Now,” he insists roughly, eyes not leaving yours as he waits for you to move. 

You roll your eyes and move at a glacial pace, complaining all the way, “Jesus Christ, this is my album, y’know?”

Noel’s quick to reply, “And I’m your producer.”

“Yeah, you seem to get off on that fact,” you say drily, getting nearer and nearer to the audio booth, watching as Noel frowns at your slow strut, before wrenching the door open and placing yourself back in front of the microphone, headphones back on as you ask, “All good?”

He wastes no time, speaking into his own microphone as his voice blares over the speaker, “Recording vocals for the track Crush,” he declares, before saying to you, “Semitone down, remember?”

Then, the track plays in your headphones, your head bobbing along as you keep to the beat and sing, “It’s just a little crush, not like I faint every time we touch,” you croon. “It’s just some little fling, not like everything I do depends on you.”

You’re midway through the second verse when Noel shakes his head, aggravated as he speaks into the microphone, “No. Again,” he demands. “Too high, take it down a notch or you’re gonna start sounding like Kermit the fuckin’ Frog, alright?” 

You sneer and flip him the bird, “Bite me.”

He pays you no mind, already speaking again into the microphone, “Take two for vocals on Crush,” he says, before mumbling to himself, “Stupid name.”

You roll your eyes and sing, enunciating the lyrics with more bite as Noel observes you from the other side of the glass, his eyes roving down your form as you continue to sway, only for him to lazily reach his hand out and speak into the microphone again just as you’re about to enter the chorus. 

“No. Stop switching up the words. Lyrics aren’t optional,” he berates. “Again.”

You grit your teeth and glare, letting the track play all over again as Noel cues it up, the words pouring out of you as you sing. 

Then, that stupid fucking microphone crackle. “Again. You’re singing too far away from the mic.”

You take your headphones off and throw them to the ground, jeering at him as you deman, “Then you fucking do it, then.”

He huffs, just as irritated as you are as he stalks into the audio booth, wrenching the door open and slamming it closed as he nears you and the microphone, picking up the headphones and gripping them in his hands as he sneers, ‘How fucking hard is it to sing in tune? You’re a singer, ain’t you? Christ.” He shoves the headphones at you, jaw going tight as you refuse to move a muscle. Instead, he does it for you, arranging the headphones so you’re wearing it, and shoving at the back of your head so that your lips nearly touched the microphone, his hand gripping at your neck warmly as he tells you, “Now do it.”

You arch a brow and look to the control booth warily. “Now?”

“I’m recordin’,” he explains simply. And who were you to argue?

You sing, voice a bit strangled as Noel continues to grip the back of your neck, jerking you everytime you stray too far from the microphone and tugging at the strands of your hair everytime your voice goes higher than his instructed tone. 

You last until the first chorus before you’re throwing the headphones back down and spinning around to face him, hands reaching for his face before you could even think. 

It’s frenzied and heavy from the start, his mouth hot and slick against yours as he presses you against the mic stand, a few wayward pieces of equipment falling as he crowds against you, his hands roaming down to give your arse a rough squeeze, your own hands flying up to give his hair a sharp tug, earning a moan from him. 

“Knew you fuckin’ fancied me,” you whisper teasingly against his lips, biting at his bottom lip as he rolls his eyes.

“You wish, cheeky bitch,” he hisses before silencing you with a kiss, moving you backwards until your back hits the padded wall, your breath leaving you at the impact as Noel continues to let his tongue roam around the cavern of your mouth, angling your head just the way he likes it. 

You fight back, shedding his coat with eager hands, letting your mouth wander down to his neck to mark him up in a way that you knew the paparazzi would inevitably catch. You gasp as his hands make their way up your skirt, flirting with the hem of your knickers before deftly pulling them down with one hand, the lacy scraps falling down and pooling at your ankles. “So sure I’d put out?” you tease.

He grunts, pressing into you so that you could feel the weight of his growing erection against your slick cunt. “I’m kind enough to give it to’ ya,” he says, so self assured that you have no choice but to reach down and squeeze the bulge in his jeans just to see him falter and his mouth open in a helpless moan. 

You laugh, licking your lips. “Missed me, didn’t you?” you ask, head tilted innocently as you begin to fondle him over his jeans, his glare waning the more you feel him up, letting your tongue dance against whatever skin it could reach. 

“Still recordin’” he reminds you as soon as you drop to your knees, your eyes wide and trained on him as you begin to tug at his belt, pulling both his jeans and his underwear down in a quick motion.

You hum and kiss his angry red tip, tasting the pre-cum already leaking from the head as you whisper, “That’s the point,” you tell him. “Gonna make a hit, Noel-y,” you say, sultry and sweet before finally taking him in your mouth, suckling at the head as he throws his head back and groans, his large hands coming down to tug at your hair like his own personal marionette, already bucking his hips into your face to fuck your mouth, your gags spilling out of you along with the drool already slicking his cock. 

“Should have brought my camera,” he pants as you look up at him, mouth so full that you can’t help the gagging sounds that escape you. “Show everyone how much of a slag you are.”

You roll your eyes and bite down, just hard enough to make him yelp pathetically and attempt to scramble away from your mouth. You hold in a laugh and instead take him deeper, nose buried in his thatch of pubic hair as he stretches his neck in pleasure, already lost in the sensation as your hands reach down to cup at his balls, already slicked up with your drool. 

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he whispers, entranced by the sight of you on your knees, bobbing your head so enthusiastically that he thinks this might just be the best head he’s ever had. You pop of him, the sound so lewd that it echoes against the walls, only to lean down further and kiss his balls with the same amount of attention you’ve been giving his cock. 

“Your cock tastes weird,” you tell him through soft whispers of kisses. “Fix that.”

He snorts as best he can with the amount of pleasure coursing through his body. “For next time?”

You laugh in his face and leave his cock aching for your touch, his hands automatically grasping at your waist to push you against the padded walls, an involuntary moan leaving your lips as your bare cunt comes into contact with his dick. You smile, satisfied with yourself as you reach down and tug at him, slow and sure as his breath shudders and his head falls to your shoulder. “Hm,” you hum, kissing his hairline. “Gonna fuck me now?” you say, not leaving him with any more time to answer as you line him up with your entrance and sink down on him with a desperate moan. 

You’ve been thinking about shagging Noel Gallagher for three months. It was pathetic, the way that he’s got you reaching for your vibrator every time you see him on the telly. But you couldn’t help it, the memory of Noel inside you searing your body and making you ache for his touch, for the way he feels inside you, for the way he’d fuck you until you saw spots of white in your vision. 

And now, you’ve got it. 

Noel wastes no time in thrusting up into you, punching all the breath out of you as he reaches down to wrap your legs around his waist, grinding his cock into your g-spot and leaving you breathless at every thrust. You moan into his mouth, eyes furrowed as you focus on the intense feeling at the pit of your stomach, at the slick sounds of him thrusting inside you, at the guttural groan that leaves him everytime he slams home. 

“Perfect cunt,” he mumbles against your lips, the two of you sharing a single breath as he you meet his frenzied thrusts, your hands coming to his shoulders to score their desperate marks, the pleasure so overwhelming that your toes curl within your heels and a whimper escapes you. “No one can fuck you like I do, yeah?” he mumbles. 

You grit your teeth. “You wish,” you say, shaky and uneven as he continues to thrust inside of you, his pubic bone grinding against your clit so perfectly that your head lolls back. 

He laughs, coming to grasp at your neck, leaving just the right amount of pressure to make your cunt clamp down on him and your clit throb. “Oh yeah?” he says. “D’ya hear the way your cunt’s talkin’ to me, doll?” he asks, angling your head down by the grip he has on your neck, forcing you to focus on the slick sound of the two of you. “But it’s no matter. We can listen back to the track.”

You moan, your lips reaching for the thumb at the edge of your jaw to suckle at it, his eyes burning against yours at the action, your breasts bouncing against your top as you met each thrust with your own. “Almost there,” you pant, mouth full and voice rough from the grip he has on your throat. “Noel, goddamnit, fuck,” you whine, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you finally succumb to your orgasm, cunt pulsing as you came, rendering Noel helpless to his own orgasm as he he grunts animalistically into your ear, biting at the shell of it as he fills you with warmth, his cum dripping down even as he’s still seated deep inside you. 

You pant, swallowing roughly as you look to the ceiling, avoiding the way that he was still sat inside you, still holding you like you were his, still shoving his cum deep in you like he couldn’t help it. Then, you reach up and run your hands through his hair. He stiffens at the contact, before melting right into it, the two of you a sweaty pile pressed against the studio wall.

And if the next day, three sound techs fill in resignation forms without the courage of looking either you or Noel in the eye, you know exactly what they’ve stumbled upon. Still, you let them talk, delighted to see the story in the next week’s tabloids.

You don’t need to send the headline to Noel that day. Instead, he sends it to you. 

1997

Amber York. That’s the name of the girl he’s got his arm around. An actress with big doe eyes and a bell-like laugh, a perfect little angel that everyone loves to coo about. It’s quite serious and intense, she says to the press for an interview of whatever stupid fucking movie she’s starring in this time. He’s a gentleman, my Noel. He isn’t what the papers print him out to be. 

You almost laughed at that. Because Noel Gallagher is every bit of a rockstar as people expect him to be — the arrogance, the unbothered air, the sex, the drugs, the women he pretends not to have around him backstage. 

And well, most of all, because Noel has always been a filthy fucking liar. Some dumb bird wasn’t going to change him or whatever she thinks she’s done. He’s always going to be searching for the next thrill, he’ll always crave the buzz of a line, he’ll always be thinking about you and all the ways you had him in the studio. You know this because you made sure of it. 

You made sure of it as you wrapped everything up in a neat little bow, your album fully ready and everything set for release. You planned the dress you would wear to the celebration you had up your sleeve, you made sure not to wear any knickers underneath your dress, the two of you had plied yourselves full of food, champagne, and enough drugs to keep the entire party entertained before slipping away into the night and fucking him so good that you knew that he won’t ever forget. 

Because after that, you went your separate ways. Irresistible got announced later that year, and you and Noel had cut ties, neither hide nor hair of him visible to you as you went about your promotion cycle, admitting that yes, both Gallagher brothers were a big help to your record, knowing that somewhere out there, Noel was already fucking some other random bitch. 

It was no matter to you, you had found your own string of lovers to entertain you in the nights that you weren’t busy with being either a singer or a host. You had Carlos who had a cock so big that you could feel it in your throat, you had Amara who whispered filth in your ear as her fingers worked you open, you had Tanya who had a penchant for bending you over various pieces of furniture, and you had Lance who did anything and everything you said. 

But they all fade into background noise whenever Noel was in the picture. Like tonight.

You had won four Brit Awards tonight, four fucking awards all in one night — Best Pop Act, Song of the Year for In Your Eyes, Best Pop Album for Irresistible, and Breakthrough Artist of the Year. You had held the award firmly in your hand each time you were called, smile unbreakable as you preened at the camera and looked out to the audience that you knew doubted you every step of the way but still listened to your voice in the speakers whenever it came on in the club.

And of course, your eyes found him easily. Who wouldn’t with those bushy fucking brows, the rowdy table with drinks flowing freely, and the woman perched on his lap like his very own trophy? It was easy for you to spot him, really. And it was even easier for you to lift your award up in his direction, mouth moving before your head could catch up. “And special thanks to Irresistible’s producer, Noel Gallagher. Everyone give him a hand!” you cue, smiling gracefully as everyone follows your instructions and gives out a round of appluase, Noel only nodding once, eyes not betraying any emotion as his arms cradle his girl. You hum and continue, “Really, I wouldn’t know what I would do without Noel on this album. He really gave me a lot of special attention,” you say teasingly, letting the crowd roar with laughter and hoot at the innuendo, remembering the headlines from a year ago. 

From your vantage point on the stage, you could see Noel shift, his jaw clenching as holds on even more tightly to his girl. You grin, eyes alight with mirth at his obvious discomfort, letting the hollering guide you as you near the microphone again.

“And even though you made my life so hard,” you preen, “We ended up making something so beautiful. Like our little baby!” you cheer joyfully, pointing at him with the tip of your trophy, the crowd roars once more, amused. “So here’s to Irresistible! Mine and Noel’s lovechild! Cheers, everyone!”

Laughter guides you down from the stage, your dress swishing behind you as you strut, waving at people like the Queen of England herself, heels making muted sounds on the carpet as you make your way back to your table, buzzing off the high of victory and the feeling of having Noel’s scowl directed back at you. 

The night flows as smoothly as the drinks do, you make your rounds and catch up with both friends and foes — though the latter was much more common to you. You dance when the music starts, you snort lines with anyone who asked you to, and you end up going to whichever afterparty sounded the rowdiest. 

And of course, Noel was there too, like a magnet for trouble and all thing rock and roll. You smile to yourself as you spot him, already anticipating whatever move he’d make.

But Amber sticks by him like a magnet, as if she knows what kind of man she snagged, as if she knows that you’re lurking somewhere in the shadows, ready to make the latest headline with your favorite little toy. Her manicured nails are firm on his bicep, and he stays with her like the good and obedient pup he never was. You snort to yourself, downing a glass of champagne at the thought — Noel Gallagher could never be a tamed man. And you were about to test that theory tonight. 

By the time that you saunter out for a cheeky cigarette, your head is already spinning and the earth feels like just a wisp beneath your palms. Victory flows through your bloodstream along with whatever else substances you’ve been handed all night, everyone wanting to congratulate you on your victorious ascent into the music industry even though you know for a fact they all call you a frigid cokehead behind your back. But who cares when you get a few free lines out of it?

To your luck, Noel is already out in the alley, no girlfriend in sight and his cigarette lit up against the dark background of the night. You smile, already chuffed as you approach him on steady feet, your stilettos announcing your entrance and turning his head your way. “Noel-y,” you croon, drawling as you near him, his own eyes rolling as you approach him to leave a friendly kiss on his cheek. “Congrats on the victory, darling.”

He snorts and takes a puff of his cigarette. “Not here for the awards,” he tells you simply. “Just here for the party.”

You shrug and lean next to him, pulling out a cigarette. “Well, you’ve got both,” you say, putting the fah to your mouth and turning to him. “Light it?” you prompt, eyes wide and as innocent as they can be as he chuckles sarcastically, moving to take out a lighter from his jeans pocket. You stop the motion with fast hands, holding onto his wrist before he could reach the lighter. And instead, you surge forward, indicating for him to light the cigarette with his own. 

He curls his lip but obliges you anyway, crowding against your space as he waits for the end of your cigarette to catch, his breathing so close that you could feel it on your face. You shudder as he moves away as soon as the cigarette is lit, both of you leaning against the rough brick wall and taking a deep drag. 

Neither of you say anything, just letting the space between you speak and letting the smoke reach the sky as the night moves forward and the party rages on inside. And then, Noel makes a move you didn’t expect — he puts out his cigarette against the bricks, throws it to the ground, and puts his hands in his pockets and walks away from you, leaving you with just four words before he disappears back inside. “Amber’s waitin’ for me.”

As soon as the door slams shut, you’re left alone, laughing in pure disbelief. Amber’s waiting for him? You snort. Since when did he care about the women in his life? Since when has he been Mister Monogamy? Since when has he ever turned down a good shag?

You stew, inhaling the rest of your cigarette with contempt before storming back inside, blinded with annoyance as you ignore everyone calling out to you and zip straight to the bar, taking two bottles of vodka with you before leaving on a cab that you demand go faster than it should have. 

Who the fuck does he think he is? You grit your teeth and slam the cab door shut as soon as it parks outside your home. Steaming up the stairs of your townhouse and opening the front door with as much finesse as an angry drunk woman would have, you hear a few things clatter to the floor with the force of your ire. 

You huff, taking off your coat and shedding it by the floor, kicking your heels as you wander around the house, setting your awards on the sofa, and jetting up to your room to let out a frustrated groan. Fuck, you knew you shouldn’t count on Noel for anything. Not even for a good victory shag. 

You shed your clothes in a rage, your glamorous dress falling down on the floor, leaving you in just your knickers as you grit your teeth and place yourself on the bed, so irritated that you crack open the bottle of vodka and take a swig with your eyes screwed shut. “Ugly fucking twat,” you growl out. “Thinks he’s god or something,” you say, taking another swig directly from the bottle before your eyes land on the phone right next to you, sitting innocently as an idea stews in your head. 

Noel’s number wasn’t meant to be used for any other purpose than for the making of the album. That much had been made clear. Still, his scrawled out digits were sitting primly in your phone book, like a bomb waiting to be detonated. 

And tonight, it would explode. 

You dial his number with shaky fingers, rage and liquor making every sensation in your body heighten, the burn of desire and anger coursing through you as the phone line rings and rings and rings, then, it clicks, Noel Gallagher and Amber York’s residence, please leave a message. You smile, satisfied. The pair of them were probably still at the party, unaware to the plan brewing in your head as you opt to leave a message, your receiver already waiting to record as your fingers fly up to your mouth, your lips already suckling them in to wet them just as the recording starts. 

Showtime.

“It’s me,” you whisper down the phone, hoping that it catches the way your breath hitches as your finger play with the waistband of your lacy knickers, a pornographic gasp leaving you as you trace your already soaking entrance, needy and desperate. “Congrats on the win,” you say, inhaling sharply as your fingers, slick with saliva and your wetness circle your clit teaisngly, leaving no room for wondering what you were doing on the phone.

You hoped that when they came home to this message, they’d hate your guts. You hoped that they’d remember it forever. You hope that the sound of your moans were forever stamped in their minds, never to be replaced by anything else. 

You shut your eyes and keen as your hand begins to move faster against your clit, the circles growing tighter as your legs try to shut involuntarily at the sensation. “Mhm,” you moan, drool collecting in your mouth. “I’m so fucking wet,” you hum against the phone before grinning, a nasty idea in your head as you take the phone out of its position between your ear and shoulder, and move it down to your cunt, just in time for two of your fingers to stretch you out and for the lewd squelch to be caught by the receiver. “Hear that?” you moan, jaw opened wide as you hit the spot inside of you that makes your hips buck and your legs shake. “All for you,” you say, moving the phone even closer so it could pick up every sound that your cunt makes, each wet sound your own little act of revenge. 

You move the phone so close to your pussy that you begin grinding your clit against the handset, getting the plastic soaked as your hips continue to buck, seeking the pleasurable sensation as your orgasm crests inside you. You moan loadly, keening as your head falls back against your headboard, the slick sounds so loud that you had no doubt that the phone was picking it up. 

“Think you could just fucking forget me?” you spit, intentionally rubbing the handset against your clit, your fingers working you open tirelessly as you moan helplessly, stars in your eyes. “Think you can find some goody two shoes bitch to fuck you like I could?” you punch out, punctuating the sentence with a choked out moan fit for a pornstar, your slick dripping out of you and soaking the bedsheets beneath you as you continue to writhe helplessly. “Hear that?” you ask again, making your cunt squelch against your fingers as you moan. “Could have been yours tonight,” you pant, bucking against the handset so wildly that the bed began to shake underneath you and the springs began to creak in time with your thrusts. 

“Fuck you,” you spit, eyes screwed shut and legs trying to close on the handset, your orgasm washing through you so violently that nothing but ragged pants escape your mouth, your toes curling and your mouth opening without a sound. “Let’s see if you could ignore me now,” you whimper, still stuttering as your cunt clenches down on your fingers, wishing that they were Noel’s instead. 

He doesn’t break up with that librarian of a girlfriend he has. But you wake up the next day to Noel banging on your door and falling into bed with you. Just like you wanted — a dog answering to his master’s beckon. 

1998

By the time that 1998 rolls around, you and Noel have come up with somewhat of an understanding. No matter who you were with, who he was with, where you two were — sex was always an option. Amber’s out of the picture, but another dumb whore takes her place. You didn’t bother learning her name this time around.

It was unspoken, only agreed upon by the way that neither of you managed to go a week before finding yourselves with his cock inside of you and your fingers in his mouth. In his hotel room, in your townhouse, in someone else’s bathroom, in Liam’s coat closet, in the studio while Oasis was out on a lunch break, in a pub alley when both of you were too sloshed to walk back to his place.

Just sex. Because for all intents and purposes, Noel Gallagher was still a cunt, a man that you loved to toy with in the papers, the food you played with before eating, the bitch who slagged you off everytime you did something worth a damn. 

So the fact that the American leg for your tour of your second album, Graceless Minds coincides with the American leg for Be Here Now was just a mere coincidence, something neither of you planned on happening. Because the two of you didn’t talk about business. How could you when everything that came out of your mouth were insults or pleas for him to come so deep inside you that you feel it for the next week?

You don’t plan for it to happen, but it happens anyway. First, you run into him in New York, with Liam insisting that you come and watch their gig, with you obliging him even as Noel scowled and told you how he wouldn’t want anything less that to have you there. 

“Really?” you crooned to him backstage that night, your hand working on his cock so fast that you knew you’d feel it in your wrist later that night. But it was worth it to see the way that Noel suppressed a moan against the impromptu gag of your knickers in his mouth, his muffled groans like music in your ears as the opener for their gig closed out their set. “You’re telling me that you don’t want me here? Hm? Don’t want me jerking your cock off backstage when you’re supposed to be on stage in …” you trail off looking at the clock and smiling as you saw the time, “In two minutes?”

He moans helplessly, hips bucking against your hand as he tries to reach for you and speed the process up. You slap his hand away, tutting as he spits out his gag to say, “Just do what you do best and make me cum,” he growls out, voice breathier than it should be. 

You lick your lips and twist your wrist as your hand glides upwards, making him go dumb as his head falls backwards. “Mouthy fuck,” you tell him. “‘S’that how you talk to me? Hm?” you challenge him, eyes sparkling as he continues to leak so profusely that he soaks your hand in precum. 

He frowns at you, “I could find any other fucking slag to do this for me,” he threatens. “You’re not as special as you think you are.”

One eye on the clock and the other on the way his dick twitched in your hands, you laughed and let him go, causing him to whimper involuntarily. “Oh, yeah?” you challenge backing away from him as his brows knit at the interrupted pleasure. “Well, you’re onstage in a minute and I doubt you could find any other bird that would wanna touch you now,” you say, grabbing your stuff and heading for the door. “So, tick tock, Noel,” you say, licking your wet palm and waving goodbye at him. “I’ll see ‘ya out there, rockstar.”

When the band walks out and Noel trails behind them, his guitar slung on his hips and hiding his obvious hard-on you laugh and leave the venue. If he didn’t want you there, then you wouldn’t be there. Serves him right. 

The next time that you see him is in Fairfax, the two of you unintentionally booking the same hotel, much to your ire. 

Clad in a volominous fur coat and sunglesses big enough to cover half your face, you groan as you spot him and his band in the lobby, checking in to the floor below you. “Well, well, well,” you drawl as they all turn around to see you, their faces betraying the fact that they sense trouble as you walk towards them. “Look who it is,” you say, unimpressed.

Noel’s the first to speak, already matching your attitude as his face betrays no emotion. “Didn’t know that the hotel came with free hookers,” he remarks dryly. 

You hum and draw closer, invading his space just to pat his cheek patronisingly. “You’re funny,” you coo, pinching his cheek as he slaps your hand away, making Liam laugh jauntily behind him. “Acting like you won’t come crawling to my room later tonight.”

He snorts, “Already begging for some cock,” he tuts. “Shameless fuckin’ slut.”

You laugh in his face and reach behind him for the key that the receptionist was handing you, telling her casually, “Duplicate this key and give it to ‘im, yeah?” you say, gesturing to Noel who was scowling fiercely. “He needs one, see.” And before he could answer, you saunter off, letting your hips sway as you make your way to the elevator and wave at him just before the doors close and you ascend up into your floor. 

He finds you in your hotel room at an unreasonable hour, both of your gigs done and dusted and the night being home to just a few crickets peppering the otherwise silent air. 

You grin as the door opens, sitting up in bed as Noel makes his way in, stumbling lightly in a way that betrayed his drunkenness. “Missed me?” you ask, setting your magazine aside and tilting your head at him appraisingly. “Glad I gave you a spare key?”

“Shuddup,” he grumbled, making his way to the bed and, flopping in top of you gracelessly. You hum and immediately thread your hands through his hair, scratching at the roots and making him groan in pleasure. 

You hum, the sound reverberating in your chest and making him burrow deep into the valley of your breasts, already mouthing at your clothed nipples as you carress his head. “How was the gig?” you ask lightly, voice almost a whisper as he soaks the fabric of your thin pajama top.

“Better than yours, for fuckin’ sure,” he tells you smugly, face tilting up so you could see his crooked grin, one that you only see whenever he’s had something to drink. 

You laugh, and push him away from you, with him landing on the spot beside you and grinning as he put his hands behind his head, just as you straddle his hips. “‘S’that so?” you tease, running your hands down his chest and fiddling with his belt buckle. 

He hums, watching your hands work at the metal and disposing of his belt. “Ain’t even a question, doll,” he drawls, confident and easy. 

You chuckle, placing a hand on his cheek, so gentle that it was almost like it wasn’t there at all. “Feeling lucky tonight?” you ask, the question whispered against his lips, nipping against his skin so softly. 

He cracks a smile, hands still behind his head and making no move to even touch you. “As ever,” he confirms. 

You shake your head and shift, smiling gently as you say, “Oh, Noel.”

By the time that your hands find the headboard and your weeping hole is placed on his face, sitting on him as you smother all the air out of his lungs, he’s not as cocky as he was going in, his hands gripping at your hips to help you ride the crooked ridge of his nose, his jaw hinged open to collect all the gathering slick at your hole, his tongue flicking against your clit as he slurps you up and leaves you a panting mess, only held up by his steady hands on your body and the white-knuckled grip on the headboard. 

Las Vegas is last in your itinerary, and it wasn’t a surprise anymore to find Oasis was there at the same time as you. And why not surrender to it? It was the last night of your tour, the last night of theirs, and you were in the city of sin, a perfect place to reign over as you and the band hit every possible place you could after your gig. 

Liam, of course, predictably drags you to a strip club, one with burlesque dancers, and tight garters, women with feathers in their hair and jewels covering their nipples. The lad hollered at every woman that came close, even at every woman that stayed far away. Basically, Liam hollered at every pair of tits that he sees, even a few firm arses that he whistles at. 

Meanwhile, you sat by Liam and stoked the flames, drinking whenever he did, sneaking to the bathroom to do lines with him, pointing out curves and tits and perfect little cunts that were bared to your eyes. You yell along with him as women take items of clothing one by one, the two of you fight to insert dollar bills in a woman’s thong, and the two of you end up buzzing as the rest of the band beg to hit the strip. 

So you do. Bonehead drags all of you to some smoky casino, all of you betting insane amounts of money, just to laugh it off when you lose and rave about it when you won. You find joy in the Blackjack tables, so mesmerized by the shuffle of cards that you don’t notice how much you’ve lost until Noel’s dragging you out with a hand on your waist. 

You smoke as you walk to the next haunt, some themed wild-western bar that serves cocktails that could sedate an elephant. It’s there that Guigsy meets up with some sketchy dealer he’s been talking to for a while, and it’s there that all of you snort the best line of cocaine that all of you have ever done. You dance on a couple tables, drink more than you should, and make out with a man triple your age just because Liam and Bonehead dared you to do it. 

Meanwhile, Noel looks on, the jolliest drunk of them all as he snaps a picture with the cheap tourist-y disposable camera that he stole off some souvenir shop, knowing full well that he’d be the one to send the pictures to The Sun as soon as he sobers up. He laughs when you pull away from the old man, laughs as you and Liam do an inebriated rendition of Wonderwall on karaoke, and laughs when you sit on Bonehead’s lap, drained of all energy. 

Everything’s a blur after that. You snort a few more lines with Liam, you sneak a puff of Guigsy’s weed, you drink another gigantic cocktail whose portion size only exists in America, then you hit the strip once more. 

Somewhere down the line, you lose Liam to a busty blonde and a shapely brunette who’ve been making eyes at him, the three of them disappearing to do god knows what in god knows where. Then, two bars later, Guigs calls it a night after Bonehead throws up on his new pair of boots, the two of them stumbling off back to the hotel. It leaves you, Noel, and poor Whitey who gives up on the bar crawl another two bars in after you start sitting on Noel’s lap and start grinding on his growing erection a little less subtly than you intended. 

Which leaves two. 

The night turns into one big neon haze, every single substance mixing in your body like a cocktail for trouble as you and Noel lean against each other as the night grows louder and rowdier the later that the hour gets. You can’t read the signs as you pass them, every face begins to morph into one, and your laughter grows higher and higher each time Noel’s stubble tickles your jaw.

It’s him that suggests it first, spitting it out with slurred words as his eyes alight at a familiar establishment, the two of you just wandering aimlessly through the strip at that point “We should fuckin’ …” he says, trailing off and his eyes blinking profusely, the pupil so dilated that you laugh giddily and lean against him. “We should get married, yeah?”

You laugh even harder, bending at the stomach as you cling to him like magnets, the two of you looking like a pair of lunatics as you laugh freely in the middle of the sidewalk, your hands around his waist and his own around your shoulders. “Lunatic!” you accuse him, still laughing uncontrollably. “We can’t get married, I don’t love you!”

He shakes his head, smiling, “Nah, nah, nah, babe,” he mumbles, stumbliver the words as he peers at you blearily. “But the sex is good, ain’t it?”

And how could you argue with that? The sex was mindblowing.

The two of you end up getting married at the Little Vegas Chapel after a brief detour to the shops. You buy a nice white slip dress and a veil, Noel buys a suit jacket and a clip-on tie printed with a heinous floral pattern, the two of you buy wedding rings —- yours a cheap silver one with a Betty Boop shaped diamond, and his a chunky silver Playboy ring that’s the only one in the shop that could fit his thick fingers. 

Then, giddily, with the two of you in your wedding attire, you speed to the nearest payphone, calling up Liam’s room only for the man to answer, clearly in the throes of passion, “Busy,” he spits out, two girlish giggles punctuating his statement. “Call later,” he says perfunctorily before hanging up. That sends you and Noel into another fit of laughter, the sound lost in the haze of the chaotic strip as you try to find people off the road that would act as your witness now that Noel’s brother had RSVP’d no to the wedding of the decade. 

And at 4:27AM, you and Noel Thomas David Gallagher are pronounced man and wife, the paperwork signed, sealed, and delivered as Elvis Presley sings his catalogue of songs to the two of you, sending his best regards as you and your husband race out the chapel and make a break for the hotel, eager to start your drunken honeymoon as soon as possible. 

You don’t so much as stumble over your heels, the perks of being a model, as you and Noel run towards the blaring lights of your hotel room, taking quick stops at every seedy alley to snog the faces off each other, giggling hazily as you called one another husband and wife. 

By the time that the two of you reach the hotel, the sun’s beginning to rise in the horizon, and Noel is insisting that he carry you over the threshold of the hotel, paying no mind to your laughing protests as he ducks down and catches you with one hand behind your knees and the other looped around your waist, your own arms circling his shoulders as you laugh and laugh and laugh, people congratulating the pair of you as Noel continous to stumble over his feet. 

“I’m a fuckin’ size two!” you screech in his ear as he pants, nodding at the hotel lobby receptionist. “Why are you panting?” you demand. 

He huffs as he punches the elevator buttons. “You forgot the fact that your ego’s the size of the UK,” he says drily, but softens the blow with a kiss to your decolletage. You snort and stretch out in his arms, cheering as the elevator finally opens and Noel steps in, settling you down beside him. 

Then, like he can’t wait a single moment more, he moves forward, traps you against the elevator wall, and surges in for a kiss, his hands already wandering as his lips move sloppily against yours, the two of you moaning so loudly that you knew you’d somewhat be ashamed of it in the morning. 

But for now, you let Noel’s rough hands tug your dress up and move your knickers to the side, the calloused pads of his fingers feeling like heaven against your clit as he works you in fast tight circles. You open your eyes and train your gaze on the moving numbers atop the elevator. 

“Worried someone would see you like this?” murmurs Noel, circling your wet hole and slicking his fingers up teasingly before taking his hand off you and offering up his hand to you, the request clear as you open your mouth and suck him in, the taste of yourself making your eyes roll to the back of your head as he places his thigh between your legs, letting you hump it like a bitch in heat. “Don’t worry, doll,” he coos at you as you screw your eyes shut, his hands tugging the hem of your dress down to expose your tits to his hungry mouth. “The penthouse is a long way up. Just gotta pray no one’s gonna get in, yeah?”

You nod, panting against his mouth. “No one’s gotta know,” you say, chasing his lips eagerly as his bites your nipple lightly, making you cry out and writhe against him, moving your hands down to fiddle with his buckle, pulling his zipper down and getting his cock out with practiced eased, offering your hand out to him, saying, “Spit,” you tell him, to which your husband obliges, a glob of spit falling in your hand as you move it back down and use it to slick his cock up.

Everything pauses as the elevator dings, opening its doors as you and Noel look at the opening like a deer in headlights. You wait a beat, then two, and breathe a sigh of relief as no one waits on the other side. Noel moves quick, shutting the door and latching himself back to you. “That was close,” he mumbles, hissing as you tighten your grip on his cock.

You hum. “You liked it,” you observe slyly, noting the way his dick hardened even more in your hand the moment that the elevator door opened. 

He rolls his eyes, “Just shut the fuck up and get on,” he shoots.

You kiss the corner of his mouth delicately before guiding him to your entrance, the two of you giving twin moans that echo in the chamber of the rising elevator, the numbers ticking up steadily as you begin to slider yourself up and down on his dick, his hands guiding the motions as you buck into each other like animals in the wild. You keen, a wrecked sound as he shoves into you so hard that your head hits the metal wall of the elevator, your cunt clamping down on him and slicking him up.

He smiles at the sight of you, dumb with pleasure and head tilted back, bearing the marks he had left on your neck in the numerous times he had nipped at it on the way back. Your breasts bounce in a hypnotizing way, captivating Noel’s gaze as he pinches a nipple and grins even wider at the way you moan for him. “My pretty wife,” he coos, working faster against you as you near your floor.

You grit your teeth, the smacking sound of your arse against his thighs so deafening, the smell of sex and sweat so prominent that you could get high off it. “My stupid fucking husband,” you whine, clutching at him desperately, your nails scoring down his back as he presses against you, wanting nothing more than to meld into you at that very moment, to have you so close to him that you become one.

He slaps your thigh and you keen in response, the sting so pleasurable that it brings a thin sheen of tears in your eyes. “Who the fuck you callin’ stupid?” he slurs dumbly, hiding his face in the crook of your neck as he pants like a dog into your ear.

You tug at the roots of his hair harshly and his, “You,” you manage to groan out just before reaching your orgasm, hips wildly moving against his and your legs shaking uncontrollably as your body convulses against his. 

He follows soon after, spilling into you with a loud groan, his cum dripping down your legs as he fucks it into you dutifully. It’s then that the elevator doors ding open, while the two of you are panting against each other, half naked and glowing with your orgasms, faces red and flushed with pleasure.

“Erm,” Bonehead says from the other side of the door, in his pajamas and clearly still drunk. “Hello?” he asks, so disoriented that you and Noel can’t help but laugh, uncaring of the state you’re in.

You hold up your ring finger, still hooked around Noel’s shoulders and give Bonehead a winning smile, “We got married!” you cheer.

The man only nods blearily and begins to walk off. “That’s a funny joke, guys,” he says, voice garbled as he leaves you and Noel to ringing peals of laughter, the very picture of drunken marital bliss and Las Vegas indulgence.

The night is spent in pretty much the same state, writhing on top of the sheets of Noel’s penthouse suite, moaning so loud that you two were quite sure that there was a noise complaint incoming, and kissing each other lazily as the sun came up. 

“Jus’ put it in,” you whisper lazily as your eyes begin to shut, exhausted and sleepy as the wild night you had begins to catch up. You tug at Noel’s arm, wrapped around you from behind. “C’mon, Noel,” you urge, face planted on the pillow, exhausted and voice garbled. “Don’t be a pussy.”

He grunts as the head of his cock meets your ruined cunt, running it through the folds that were slick with both his and your cum. “Y’wan’ it?” he mumbles, kissing your nakes shoulder. 

You huff and push back against him, your sore cunt taking him in easily as the two of you sigh in relief, the slide so slick that you have to swallow down the surge of pleasure as your eyes flutter closed. “Wanna sleep with it in,” you tell him, whispering now as you begin to drift off, Noel surrounding you in every way possible as you pulse around him, too drunk to care about infections or anything practical. All that mattered was this. 

Hum hums, pushing you closer to him as he fits his head in the crook of your shoulder and tells you, “G’night.”

You hum, the weight of him inside you addicting, “Night-night, Noel.”

It isn’t a shock that you wake up to an absolute fucking mess on your sheets, making you feel an uncharacteristic surge of embarrassment for whatever scene the housekeeper is about to stumble on. But you and Noel pile a tip large enough to make them turn another cheek, and leave the hotel room, bow-legged and giddy. 

The band, predictably, reacts to the news with wolf-whistles as you and Noel stumble into the brunch buffet marked up like envelopes about to be sent through the post. And while you and Noel grab a bite to eat, you hear it. Liam bets a thousand pounds that you and Noel would divorce after a year, Bonehead bets a thousand pounds that it’ll be after two years, Guigsy optimistically bets that you and Noel would stay together, and Whitey bets that you would call it quits after six months. 

And as soon as you and Noel get back to London, you instantly know that Whitey would end up wining that bet.

The press hound you from the minute you step out of the plane, they hound you as you and Noel stare at each other, confused outside his home after you tell him that there’s no way in fuck that you’re living in Supernova fucking Heights, they hound you as you leave Noel outside his home and head towards your own. They hound and hound and hound, and sniff the two of you out like police dogs sniffing for drugs. 

And so the first month of your marriage is spent in separate houses, visiting each other whenever the other felt like shagging, watching some mindless telly, or snorting a line with someone they found entertaining. 

The second month is spent finally purchasing a house — a mansion, really, that’s big enough to fit you, Noel, and the two gigantic egos that have to live in the house with you. You pack boxes and boxes of your stuff, he packs boxes and boxes of his, then you unpack it in your large home and fuck in the foyer in celebration. But neither of you sell your previous homes, Supernova Heights still belongs to Noel and your Highgate townhouse is still under your name. A great way to start a marriage between two known cheaters, the London Telegraph once wrote about the situation, to which you responded by going on your show and ripping the writer of that article to shreds, even though you knew he was right. 

The third month is when things seem like they’re going good. Oasis takes a bit of a break, Noel starts talking about going off cocaine for good, and your days are spent languidly laying out in your sofa and laughing over things that you weren’t sure were actually funny to anyone but the two of you. You catch popcorn in your mouth on movie nights, he helps you pick outfits for big events, you console him after a Manchester City loss, and you experiment with cooking dinner that always ends up getting burnt because neither of you could keep your hands off each other. 

In the fourth month, you receive a bouquet of flowers from none other than Carmen Beavouis congratulating you and Noel on your nuptials. Neither of you respond. 

On the fifth month, Noel starts getting twitchy — the result of going off coke and cheating on his wife. You weren’t dumb. In fact, you’ve said the same lies yourself once upon a time. You recognize the marks on his neck that you knew you didn’t leave, you spot lipstick stains in a shade you would rather die than wear, you smell tacky perfume and even tackier hairspray on him as he comes home — if he even comes home. Because most of these days, Noel says he’s over at Liam’s to help with what the kid’s been going through. Like it was Noel’s fault that Liam had gone off and decided to get his mistress pregnant while still married to Patsy. 

Still, it’s Liam that spills the beans. Unintentionally though, poor lad. 

“He’s got a trip to New York this weekend,” Liam slurs, just as you planned. You had specifically called him that night for this very purpose; to wring the truth out of him with lager and coke. “Says its for the new album and all that shite,” he says hiccupping as he grips on tightly to his glass. “But he booked tickets for two. Him and that Vera girl he’s been shagging.”

You hum and raise a brow. “Vera?” you prompt.

Then, Liam’s eyes widen as he begins to slap his mouth, “No,” he whines pitifully. “No. ‘Ye aren’t supposed to know,” he says before putting his index finger to your mouth. “Shhhh!”

And that confirms your suspicions. You let him have his fun on that trip, even going so far as to leave him his privacy by not calling, not asking, not nagging him while he’s gone. Then, when he comes home, rejuvenated and refreshed after his business meeting, you tell him;

“I’ve got a special episode of Sex, Scandals, and Secrets in the countryside,” you tell him as he’s unpacking his suitcase. 

He hums. “Really?” he asks, focused on unpacking as you sit on the bed and watch him. “Anythin’ interestin’ there?”

You shrug and stretched yourself out, “Yeah, we’re hitting a few countryside studios that were home to the best albums of all time. It’s a whole thing,” you say. “Shooting starts on Wednesday, it’ll take up a whole week,” you say, setting up the bait. 

He doesn’t even blink. “Gonna miss you,” he says automatically. 

You stand and pat his shoulder, moving to leave, ready to take the plan in action, “I’m sure you will, baby.”

You count down the days until you have to ‘leave’, excitedly looking at the calendar as you anticipate the next few days, calling up your lawyers as you ask for papers and necessary documents, and heading to the studio to cause a ruckus in your talk show. 

Marriage has made you boring. Marriage to Noel has especially made you uninteresting. It’s like the finish line had been reached the moment that you said I Do, like anything crazy was never going to happen again, as if you’ve reached all the limits of what you can do. So maybe him cheating on you was something more of a blessing, you think this as you pack up your suitcase and leave him with an enthusiastic kiss, excitement buzzing through your veins as you wait and wait and wait. 

You stay at Liam and Patsy’s for a day, both of them owing you their silence as you make up some fake story about how heartbroken you were over Noel’s affair and whatnot. Liam, for his sake, doesn’t say a word to his brother under your threat that you’d tell his wife about his newborn baby to the woman he swore he’d never see again. 

Then, well rested and anticipatory, you hail a cab and jet back to yours and Noel’s home, feeling joy when what greets you as you silently open the front door are moans. 

“Oh, Noel! Noel, Noel, Noel!” the pitchy voice cries as the headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall that you and Noel painted yourselves, eager to be the picturesque husband and wife, not knowing that this is the life that’s for you. “Fuck, baby, your cock is so big!” she whines loudly, making you snort as you begin your ascent up the stairs. Is that why Noel found someone else? Because you rarely complimented him on his size?

You near the master bedroom, the sound of their affair growing louder and louder the more that you pad towards them. “Yeah, baby?” you hear Noel’s familiar drawl. “C’mon, show me how much you want it, yeah?”

“‘S so good, Noel,” she cries out, sounding pornographic as the bedsprings creak. 

You roll your eyes and wrench the door open without preamble, making the couple shriek at the intrusion, rushing to cover up as you hiss, “Oh, calm the fuck down, bitch,” you sneer at her. “He’s not that fuckin’ good.”

They scramble even more, with her trying to get off her shameful position on her hands and knees in the bed you picked out yourself and Noel behind her with his cock still fucking into the dumb slag. It’s not fear that you see in his eyes, or shame, or an apology. You know it for what it is because it’s the same fire burning through you right now. You know the glint in your husband’s eyes were excitement the thrill of the game between you and him not being over, even when you sport rings on your fingers and have houses with both your names on the deed. He sees the challenge in your own eyes and rises up to it defiantly. You smile, long and slow as he drawls, “Sorry you had to see this, doll,” he says. “But I thought you were going away for a week.”

You roll your eyes and sit on the edge of the bed, right by his mistress’ head. “Do you take me for a fucking idiot, Noel?”

“I – I’m so sorry, I —” says the girl, stuttering with wide eyes as she pleads with you. 

You screw your face up in displeasure. “What?” you ask her, mimicking her nervous stutter as you get up in her face. “You wanted my husband’s cock so bad, didn’t you?Oh, Noel! It’s so big! It’s spearing me open!” you taunt, copying the way she was moaning. 

“I’m really —”

You shake your head, eyes tearing away from the girl to land on Noel who was looking at you with a raised brow and clear eyes, a question in it; So, what now?

And the answer is; “Keep fucking her,” you tell him, pointing at the woman bent over in your shared bed. “Go on then, show me what you had to go looking for outside our marriage, Noel.”

He does exactly what you say, your ever dutiful husband and pulls Vera back into his thrusts, the girl confused as little huffs of pleasure escape her mouth at every violent thrust of Noel’s cock insider her. You smile down at her and pet her soft hair gently, cooing, “Aww,” you say, surveying her tearful eyes and her drooling mouth. Noel always did like a crybaby. “Shh, darling. It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

“What?” she stutters out, eyes rolling at the back of her head as Noel continues on behind her, nearly pushing her up the bed with the force of his thrusts. “Wh-what is this?” she asks before moaning long and loud as Noel reaches down to circle her clit, her back bowing and her arms losing all strength as she falls face down into the mattress. 

You stroke her back, like a stray cat. “Didn’t know Noel was into redheads,” you tell her softly, hands coming back up to reach for her hair. “But don’t worry, hon. This is a game, alright?”

“Can you shut ‘yer trap?” Noel grits out, panting as he glares at you. 

You glare back, “Just do your damn fuckin’ job, Noel,” you shoot back, bending down to soothe Vera with whispered assurances as she goes back to moaning loudly for your husband. Pornographically loud, in the way that makes you screw your face in disgust at Noel as if to ask Really? This is what you’re into?

He shrugs and nearly bends Vera in half with the force of his thrusts, the girl reaching her orgasm as Noel begins to lose his pace, bucking fast and wild before spilling into the condom that he thankfully remembered to wear. That’s when you tug at the strands of Vera’s hair, pulling her up with the force of it as she whimpers, face a blotchy mess as you hiss, “Now, get out of my fucking bed if you aren’t gonna be any more useful than a sex doll.”

As soon as she scampers off the bed like a fawn learning how to walk, you train your eyes on Noel and arch a brow, “Well, isn’t this awkward?” you drawl lazily.

He sighs, getting rid of the condom and throwing it in the nearest bin, slumping back against the bed as he meets your eyes. “Sorry,” he tells you, so simply that you laugh out loud, the sound grating and amused as you reach forward and tut at him, already reaching for his flaccid dick, making him wince and whine. 

You tilt your head and widen your eyes. “Oh?” you ask. “You wanted to be a slag, didn’t you?” you ask him, pumping his cock up, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut in overstimulation, his head slick with the remnants of his cum. “That’s what you wanted, right? So let me give it to you?” you challenge him, hand moving faster on his cock, making schlick sounds that made your clit pulse in need as he gripped onto your wrist just to have something to hold on to. 

You kept going as he came a second time, not even fully hard as he did so. You kept going as he grumbled and groaned about it being too much for him to handle, tears in his blue eyes. And you kept going as you finally got him hard enough to ride, making him leave a sticky mess between your thighs as you pat his tearstained cheek and bestow him with the sweetest kiss. 

“Don’t ever fucking do that again,” you whisper to him, and he nods. But you both know how much of a lie it was.

So you go on, living life as the picturesque husband and wife as you attend each event, hanging on to each other like everyone in the world can’t spot how much of a sham it is. You let the weeks pass by, noticing every time Noel would come home late, every receipt for jewelry that you wouldn’t be caught dead in, every phone call to a mysterious person that he won’t tell you much about. Then, he books another flight to America.

You knew the signs, you saw it for what it was, and you knew what you had to do. And on July of 1998, you make a splash that was sure not to be forgotten by anyone, especially Noel Gallagher. 

You invite his mother over for a special edition episode of Sex, Scandal, and Secrets, talking about how it was like raising two rockstars like Noel and Liam. Childhood anecdotes come about, laughter ensues as she tells you about how much of a little loner Noel was growing up, you talk about how it was like growing up with your own neurotic mother and how nice it is to have someone like Peggy around in your life now that you and Noel were together. 

Then you tell her, everyone in the audience, and the millions of people watching at home that you can’t wait until she meets the baby you’re carrying in your womb right now. And predictably, the media circus explodes — articles, news segments, magazine covers, speculation upon speculation at each talk show. 

And most predictably, Noel cuts his trip short and jets back home frantically, searching for you at home, wide-eyed and in shock. Pleading about how he’ll shape up, how he’ll be a great father, how he supports your decision to keep the baby you flaunted in live television. He begs, he pleads, he gets on his knees. By god, the stony man even begins to cry. 

Only to find divorce papers in the console behind him, your signature already in ink, just waiting for his just beside it. 

And oh, you aren’t pregnant either. 

Checkmate.

Paradise lost? Gallagher and missus split after brief five month marriage

July 19th, 1998

Written by Juliana Bell

Who hasn’t seen this coming? Our favorite scandal couple have just reportedly filed for divorce after only five months of marriage. Which, if you ask anyone on the streets of Britain, is five months longer than they thought the pair would last. 

The two met in early 1996 after the ex-model and then talk-show star made quite the stir after inciting rumors of Carmen Beauvois’ pregnancy to Liam Gallagher. Beauvois had been involved with Noel Gallagher for around three years at the time of the incident, and it is rumored that her and our model have been locked in an intense rivalry since the beginning of their modelling days at Victoria’s Secret, up until Little Miss Mouthy finds herself blacklisted from the industry, hence her pivot to hosting. 

Gallagher has since gone on the record to extensively detail his hatred for the model, calling her a slag with not much to her name other than a great pair of tits. Whew, what a great foundation for a marriage!

1996 sees the pair’s feud, fueled by their common connection to Beavouis, through a series of talk show guestings, A-List parties, and contractual agreements such as Noel taking the time to buy shares for Starstruck Productions, known as Sex, Scandals, and Secrets’ production home — only for him to stand in as producer for the host’s show, limiting her capabilities under the guise of a new contract. Subsequently, she retaliates by signing under Creation Records that same year, even going as far as to get Liam Gallagher on two of her records on her debut album, Irresistible.

And though 1996 is filled with their shared hatred and vitriol, it also comes to a head at the afterparty for the screening of Graceless Souls, to which both Gallagher and her attend with their then partners Beavouis and Manchester City’s Marcus Hernandez, only to ditch them in the bathroom line to have a quick chat in the bathroom.

What precedes is an event that had everyone’s mouths moving in shock — with the pair hooking up in the venue’s bathroom as the press and their significant other’s stood helplessly. And as soon as the two of them walked out, looking like they had just come out of the WWE ring, our lovely host takes the opportunity to plug the release of her debut single In Your Eyes to the awaiting cameras of the press. 

Since then, the two have been locked in an unspoken on-and-off relationship. Liam Gallagher, Noel’s brother and bandmate states, “Dunno what the fuck they’ve got goin’ on. Don’t even wanna ask some days. It’s best we leave those two alone to whatever fucked up foreplay the got goin’ on, yeah?”

And in news that shocked the nation, the two wed in a Las Vegas ceremony during Oasis’ Be Here Now Tour, in a sweet Valentine’s Day commemoration. Neither Noel’s brother or our host’s model friends made an appearance, instead, they had a scantily clad stripper and local sixty-two year old gambling man as their witnesses. 

Now, five months later, we find ourselves with the news of the pair’s split. It’s such a shame to see such an entertaining couple go. We wish both parties our best wishes during this time. Neither camp issued a further statement, though Gallagher has been spotted with his arms around a mysterious beach blonde in Ibiza and our host has been cozying up with Producer Warner Gerry as of late. It’s seems like the pair have already moved on, leaving us to scramble after them. What an adventure it has been!

1999

1999 is the year that Noel Gallagher goes steady with Meg Matthews, it’s the year you break up with Warner and meet Billy Frederick, it’s the year that the storm calms down and everyone finally thinks that you and Noel had had enough of each other. The divorce is done and dusted, the trial lasting as short as your marriage did. But little did everyone know, everything was far from over.

2000

Wedding bells toll for you once more, the life of being a wife calling to you as Billy gets on one knee and proclaims just how much he wants to marry you. And of course, you oblige. 

Your first wedding didn’t involve as much planning as this one. In fact, it didn’t involve any planning at all, just a shit ton of drugs and drinks and a wedding chapel in Vegas that was open twenty-four hours. But this time, you make a grand old time of everything; flowers, dresses, table runners, the venue, the centerpieces, the color of the carpet, every last fucking detail down to the bridesmaids and the color of their manicure. Everything was planned out to a tee, ready to be the wedding of the new millennium. 

And just because you’re still that same thrill seeker you’ve always been, you mail out two invites that make you laugh as you mail them out. One for Carmen as your Maid of Honor, and the other for Noel without an option for a plus one for his new wife, Meg. 

Both parties accept, much to your delight. So, you count down the days, preparing every little detail, even going so far as to invite Carmen to your wedding dress fitting just to ply her so full of the complementary champagne and watch her cry and lament her single life. You snicker to yourself as she weeps, happy to have the upper hand as you sit beside her and coo about how she might catch herself someone nice if she just lost weight. 

That earned you a slap. But still, at least it was far from a boring life. 

By the time your wedding had rolled around, you felt an odd sort of peace building up in you. A feeling that prevailed all throughout getting glammed up, putting on your stellar dress that you got custom made, and while walking down the aisle to your moviestar husband and his moviestar good looks and his moviestar money. 

You said your vows with a kind of tenderness that didn’t exist in your drugged up first wedding, and you finally got to wear a ring with a real diamond that wasn’t shaped like a cartoon character. You were the picturesque bride, a doll in all white as everyone fawns over you, congratulating you with kisses to your cheeks and hugs that you knew were insincere. 

Carmen plays her role, standing beside you like your second in command, and you take advantage of that fact — sending her out on useless errands that end up taking hours, distracting her from flirting with a few guests that she fancied, and making her take pictures even though there was a fully qualified professional photographer doing that same job. 

You shake your head, disappointed. She had really let herself go, not even putting up a fight with you when she could easily douse you in wine or push your head into the cake. 

Beside you, a voice speaks up, eyes on Carmen as she fret about the venue in the heinous flour sack of a dress you picked out for her. “Jesus, she’s just takin’ it, ain’t she?” Noel says, the first words he’s ever said to you since your divorce got finalized. 

You smile and turn to him, mouth drying up at his shaggy hair that framed his face perfectly, swallowing your champagne as your wedding ring glinted heavily in the light. “She’s mellowed out,” you muse. “Which is a shame.”

He shakes his head. “She used to be a spitfire,” he laments.

You hum, “And now she’s doing everything I say like a little bitch,” you bemoan. “I really thought she’d cause a scene.”

Noel arches a brow, his suit looking devastatingly good on him as you sip on your champagne once more, your clit throbbing just by looking at him. “That why you invited her?” he asks.

You snort. “Obviously,” you say without preamble. “That’s why I invited you, too.”

He hums and laughs under his breath, flashing his own wedding ring at you, “Chill out, yeah?” he says to you, amused. “Taken man over here,” he says.

You roll your eyes, smiling with amusement, “Like that’s ever fucking stopped you,” you tease.

He shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “It’s different this time, yeah? She’s pregnant,” he tells you, then after a brief pause, he tacks on, “Like, actually properly pregnant. None of that crazy shit you fuckin’ pulled with your show.”

You laugh, the sound catching the attention of everyone near you as they arch their brows at the odd sight of you and Noel together. You smile at them, gracious in a way that comes with practice as they turn back around, at ease after your reassuring smile. 

Noel arches a brow at the display, “So, you mellowed out, too?”

“As if,” you laugh. “Y’think I’d invite you if I mellowed out?”

He shrugs. “Could be a peace treaty.”

You lower your gaze as you speak the next words, drawling them out like honey, “Noel,” you coo. “There could never be peace between us,” you say.

He shakes his head, then changes the subject, eyes trailing down your dress, clad in the skintight wedding dress that you adored. “Why didn’t I get some of that, eh?”

You huff, “We got married while high off coke and weed and what I’m pretty sure was crystal fuckin’ meth,” you say dryly. “Not to mention the fact that we were drunk off our arses.”

“Still wanted me, though,” he hums.

You hum back, “And you can still have this if you want,” you tell him, dangerously towing the line as his eyes widen and his face morphs into shock, then into one of familiar amusement, as if he already saw this coming from miles away. As if this was the entire reason he even came to your stupid fucking wedding in the first place.

It isn’t a shock to either of you when you end up dragging him to a secluded alcove in the venue, one that you saw months ago while scouting for a venue, one that you marked as somewhere you can have him without anyone interrupting.

And that’s exactly what you do. His mouth is a familiar weight against yours, like a vice you can’t quit. He moves his lips with so much surety, like he isn’t afraid of anyone catching the two of you like this, as if this was always how it was meant to be, as if he had a right to have you like this — in your wedding gown and with a ring on your finger. 

“Noel,” you groan, arching your back as he reaches down to shift your gown up, up, and up, until his fingers find what he’s looking for, a dirty grin taking over his face as he comes into contact with your lacy garter, immediately falling down to his knees, his blue eyes locked into your as he takes the lace into his teeth, kissing the skin of your inner thigh, and slides it down your leg. “Noel, Billy’s gonna have to go looking for that in the reception,” you protest but make no move to stop him as he stands back up and silences you with a firm kiss. You grip onto his shaggy hair and moan into his mouth as he presses into you, caging you in between the wall and his body. 

“Jus’ tell ‘im I had first dibs,” he says, mumbling against your lips and smudging your lipgloss everywhere as he opens your mouth and plunges his tongue inside, savoring the taste of you. “He’d understand.”

No, Billy wouldn’t understand. But you let Noel tuck away the lace garter in his trouser pocket and let him kiss you breathless. You let him pull the hem of your gown up and you let him unbuckle his trousers. 

And by the time he’s pushing into you, you’re more or less a mess. He’s taken down the pins in your hair, he’s smattered his saliva all over your skin, he’s smeared your lipstick all over your chin, he’s scratched your face with his stubble, and he’s bitten your lip more than he should have. 

But Noel’s like a man possessed, pushing into you with a groan of longing, his eyes screwing shut as he presses his forehead against yours and thrusts into you so slowly that you feel every single ridge and vein of him inside of you. 

“Been thinkin’ about you,” he admits, moving so torturously slow as you let your head loll back dumbly in pleasure. 

“Mhm?” you prompt, whining. “Missed me?”

He nods against your skin. “Can’t fuckin’ cum without thinkin’ of you.”

You laugh even though it’s much of the same for you, the only thing that can bring you over the brink being the thought of Noel. “Yeah?” you taunt. “That’s fuckin’ pathetic.”

He shakes his head and snaps into you with so much force that your tits bounce, making Noel groan as he gropes at the globes of your breasts, mesmerized by them as he continuous his torturous pace, making you feel every goddamn inch as you pant and whine like a bitch in heat. 

“Knew you’d let me do this,” he groans as if in pain, beginning to speed up his thrusts. “Knew it from the moment you sent that invite.”

You take the shell of his ear into your mouth and lick at it, making him buck helplessly into you, “I’ve been so bored,” you lament, keening as he hits the spot inside of you, making your toes curl in your wedding shoes.

“I know,” he coos at you, pecking your lips sweetly. “I know, babe. I know.”

You keen and cling onto him, not letting go as you let him rail into you, ruining you even further like you knew you’d always do. “But we can’t keep doin’ this, yeah?” he whispers, even as his cock slams into you filthily. “‘S’wrong.”

You nod, “‘S’wrong,” you echo, beginning to meet every single one of his thrusts, cunt squelching obscenely as you panted without a care in the world. “Shit,” you breathe out, brows furrowed. 

“That’s it,” he coaxes. “You get it, hm? ‘M’about to be a daddy,” he tells you softly, kissing any part of your face he could. “Can’t go around fuckin’ dumb birds like you.”

You bite at his shoulder in retaliation for his comment, making him laugh. “That’s what gets you g-goin’ nowadays, hm?” you ask, going a bit cross eyed as he starts circling your clit with a calloused finger. “Bein’ called daddy?”

He laughs lightly and pinches your clit harshly, making you keen and cry at the same time, legs trying to slam shut. “I already fuckin’ told you what gets me going,” he tells you.

You squeeze your cunt around him purposefully just to hear him moan pathetically. Then, you take his left hand in yours, both of your rings aligning as you surge forward and kiss him, messy and hard as he nips at you, hands roving to your hips to turn you around, tracing a pathy up your arms to place them on the balustrade, before returning them to your hips to fuck into your with no limits. 

You bend over for him, moaning like a whore as he presses down on your clit and thrusts relentlessly against your g-spot, making you cum with a white hot sensation that sends your body shaking against his, supporting you as he bends down with his chest to your back and his hands on your tits as he keeps going, kissing your bare shoulder as he whispers words that you can’t catch in your post-orgasmic state. And when he finally cums, he holds you with so much force that you think he might just squeeze the life out of you, his cum filling you up as you vaguely think about what lie to tell your new husband. 

By the time you turn around and get cleaned up, Noel’s already back to how he was before.

“Call me when you get that divorce,” he tells you, buttoning up his trousers. 

You hum and fluff your hair back up to its normal state. “Let me know when you get yours,” you shoot back, giving his cheek one last kiss before sauntering out, ready to be the picture perfect wife. 

Well, one who just shagged her ex-husband in a hidden alcove of her reception, that is. But who cares? You sit by your husband in front of everyone, you kiss him when the champagne flutes chime in a chorus, you dance in that practiced routine you’ve been fretting about for days.

And though Noel leaves the reception early, claiming that he needs to get home to his pregnant wife, it’s hard to miss the gift he leaves you. One that was definitely not on the registry as it sits out in the courtyard of your reception venue, a large bow tacked to the hood and a number plate that spells out your initials. 

A fully restored vintage Rolls Royce sits there waiting for you, your name on the ownership papers, the tag on the ribbon spelling out something that makes you laugh out loud. 

Here’s something fun to ride

xx Noel

A star is born: Noel Gallagher and Meg Matthews welcome baby girl Anais

January 27, 2000

Written by Diane Dickinson

It seems like it’s time to put the cigarettes and alcohol down and start putting those nappies and milk bottles up. Party girl and columnist Meg Matthews gives birth to a glowing baby girl with rocker husband Noel Gallagher of Oasis today, marking the beginning of a new chapter for the happy couple.

The new parents met in 1998 after Gallagher’s divorce from his then-wife. They spent some time getting to know each other under the Ibizan sun, soaking up the rays and letting go of their pasts. They officially stepped out as a couple at the 1998 Brit Awards, making a splash with their covert displays of affection and their intimate whispers to each other over the smattering of conversation.

Noel’s brother, Liam has welcomed two of his own children in the past three years, his hands even more full now with a baby niece to take care of. “I’m on my way to the hospital now, yeah,” says Liam as our reporters requested a statement off him as he leaves his Camden home with his signature swagger. “But ‘r’kid says that she doesn’t have our eyebrows. Thank fuck for that.”

We here at the London Journal congratulate Gallagher and Matthews for the new addition to their family. 

2001

You wanted to give Noel’s hairdresser the sloppiest fuck they’d ever had in their life. 

Noel looked unfairly good with that new haircut of his, rendering you soaking wet whenever any of his new stuff hit MTV and left you so desperate that you’d end up shagging your clueless fucking husband instead. The same husband who was wondering why you were insisting on him having his hair cut in a particular way, the same husband that doesn’t understand how that haircut has led him to having the best sex of his life, the same husband that thinks that he’s got the picture perfect wife. 

It’s been ages since you and Noel had last fucked. In fact, the last time had been at your wedding, only thirty minutes after you’ve said I do to Billy, and you were already off and busy getting fucked by your ex-husband. 

But it was no matter. It wasn’t a big deal. You had many other things to worry about, like your show, and your new album, and a new tour, and rehearsals, and every single thing aside from how good Noel looks with that fucking haircut. 

He hasn’t divorced Meg. In fact, Noel becomes the husband of the year alongside being father of the year. He’s splashed all over the papers, the new family man of Britain, as you snort to yourself and try not to think about how he said he’d find you after his divorce. 

So you don’t divorce your husband, either. Not even when he’s been boring you to tears and you’ve been shagging his co-star behind his back. 

So even though you were busy with the up and up of your career, you’ve grown terribly bored once again. So bored that you even bring out your vibrator for a fun little romp, pathetically waiting for the interview you’d had an eye on since it had been announced. And as soon as Noel is shown on screen, you turn the dial up on your vibrator and let the image of him take you away.

It’s annoying, the way that he’s got you like this. Does he ever see you modelling for those new lingerie brands and gave himself a tug? Does he ever think of you when he’s deep inside his wife and pretend that it’s you? Does he ever wish that he could call and just drop by your house for a shag just like old times?

You bite a groan and throw the vibrator away frustratedly, staring at contempt at Noel and his stupidly good looking face. You’ve had fucking enough of whatever bullshit level you were in this game. So with a bitten off growl, you rise from the couch and go back up to your room to rummage for something to change the tides once more.

Wonderballs: Oasis’ Noel Gallagher’s sextape with ex-model leaked!

April 05, 2001

Written by Philippe Jay

It seems like this dynamic duo still hasn’t had enough of their time in the spotlight. You may remember them as a pair of hellraisers back in the 1996 entertainment scene. There seemed to be no day in that period of history where the two haven’t managed to weasel their way in to a headline or two, and most of the time — they did it together. 

Known for their public feud over Gallagher’s then girlfriend Carmen Beauvois, the two made quite the stir as they constantly tried to ruin each others’ careers — Noel in music and our lovely ex-model with her hit show Sex, Scandals, and Secrets. But that same year, the two create the headline of the century as they hook up in a public bathroom, both of their partners stood behind the door just waiting for them to emerge. 

The pair wed in 1998 at a drunken Las Vegas wedding to which none of their friends or family attended. They subsequently file for divorce just five months later with both of them admitting to infidelity during the court proceedings. It’s only then that Gallagher meets his now wife, Meg Matthews and our loudmouthed host cuddles up to producer Warner Gerry, who she eventually broke up with after three months. She is now married to actor Billy Frederick, star of the critically acclaimed Pillowhead franchise. 

But it seems that history has a way of coming back as today, the pair’s intimate videos have been leaked to the press and have been made accessible to people all over Britain. Now, we at the London Herald aren’t one for vulgar details, and we urge everyone to respect Gallagher and our host’s privacy.

We asked for a statement from Noel’s brother, Liam, only for the man to shove at one of our reporters and say, “Why the fuck are people always askin’ me questions about those two?” he cries frustratedly before walking off. 

We wish the pair all the best in these trying times. And if anything, this serves as a reminder for everyone to stay safe with any naughty videos they’ve got with them. 

2002

What happens when you put a bunch of rowdy musicians in one yacht? Furthermore, what happens when two divorcees find themselves in the same party on the same night? Well, give them enough drinks and …

“I, Noel Thomas David Gallagher, take you to be my lawfully wedded wife,” he says, hands holding onto yours as everyone in the yacht cheers, your minister the captain of the ship, smiling as he looks on at you and Noel. “I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

And as everyone hollers their commentary, drunk off the overflowing liquor that the party yacht had been serving all night, the captain pronounces, “I pronounce you, husband and wife,” he says, the words bringing you a sense of deja vu as you waggle your brows at Noel who does the same. “You may now kiss the bride!”

Truthfully, you weren’t as drunk as you had been on your first wedding. And looking at Noel, you knew that he wasn’t either. But what else would possess the two of you to get hitched in the middle of the ocean in front of the industry’s current greats after not seeing each other for more than a year?

“I, Marcus Hernandez, take you, Carmen Beavouis to be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

That’s what. Because apparently, there wasn’t a better time than then and there to get married — not when Carmen has researched the fact that captains can officiate weddings, not when her and Marcus have been hiding their love and can’t help it anymore, not when the two of them proclaim than they’d die if they don’t get married right that second. 

And for the first time in a year, you and Noel lock eyes and share twin looks of disgust at the proclamations. A clear provocation from Carmen, who had gone and gotten her attitude back and was now back on track to ruining your life. 

Well, good on her. But she’s been out of the game for a while and is clearly a bit rusty if she thinks that you won’t stoop down to her level. 

Noel agrees to your proposal without fanfare, nodding like you had just asked him to go out for a ice cream rather than get married to each other again. And when pressed about it, he merely shrugs, “We’ve done it before,” he says. “We can do it again.”

So the two of you do it again, outshining the bride and groom as you proclaim that both you and Noel would throw yourselves overboard if the captain refuses to marry you right that second. Which leaves you here, married once again, sporting ugly rings again, and seasick on a yacht as Noel holds your hair for you while you throw up into the water. 

“Is it that awful bein’ married to me?” he asks jokingly as you gag. And when you glare at him he laughs. “Oh, come on. You weren’t like this the first time around!”

Your second marriage to Noel is less turbulent. Though Liam still believes that you and Noel could still implode at any moment (and if you’re being honest, so do you), things settle in a way they haven’t before. 

Noel agrees to live in your old Highgate townhouse, the two of you buy a chateau in France, then a villa in Spain, playing monopoly with your shared money and jetting to your properties whenever you needed a vacation and a classy fuck. 

Noel’s daughter is a peach, coming over at yours for the weekend and playing Barbies and princesses with you and her dad until she passes out in her cute pink comforter. 

It’s all deceptively domestic, the way you build routines around one another, the way your lives meld into one, the way that Noel becomes the one you wake up to and the one you come home to. 

And when the boredom creeps back up, Noel fixes it by making sure that you stay; he brings home Butter, a tiny Maine Coon that looks up at you with docile eyes that somehow tear up whenever you tell her no and cries whenever you so much as leave the couch for a glass of water. She purrs when you so much as look at her and butts up against you wherever you go. She trails after you with her tiny paws and she flicks you with her tail whenever she pleased.

“It’s like you’re baby trapping me,” you lament to him one night as you brush your teeth right next to him, Butter sitting pretty between the two of you. “How can I fuckin’ leave her?”

He grins at you, foamy toothpaste in his mouth. “That’s the fuckin’ point,” he says. “She loves me, she loves you, and she’d fuckin’ throw a fit if you ever leave.”

You glare at him. “Is this your way of letting me know you don’t want me to leave.”

He spits the toothpaste out on the sink. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

By the time that Noel leaves for America once more, Butter has reluctantly been added to the family. Which means that on the night that you get that fateful call from an American hospital, the one asking if you were Noel Gallagher’s wife and if you could come quick because he’d been in an accident, you had nowhere to leave the stupid cat. So you pack your bags in the middle of the night, you knock on every door in the street to ask for a pet carrier, and you jet to the airport and demand a ticket for you and your cat in first class. 

The headline makes Noel laugh when he sees it, laying in the hospital bed and looking worse for wear as you scold him. “Not fucking funny, Noel,” you say, glaring at him as he gazed up at you with amusement in his eyes. “You could have died.”

He arches a brow. “Mad that you couldn’t get to do it yourself?”

You huff. “And you’d leave me all alone with the cat, too,” you say. “He’s your fucking cat!”

2003

Oasis hits a plateau just as you rush up the ladder. Doors to the fashion industry once more as you finally close out a final episode with Sex, Scandals, and Secrets and start a new show under Britain’s Next Top Model. 

You start getting invites to walk runways, you release another album that goes to the top of the charts, and Butter is still Butter who likes to seat herself between you and Noel on the couch. 2003 is good, the headlines are filled with your name, but with less scandal this time around. 

2004

Noel meets Sara MacDonald in a hazy Ibiza night club and proclaims that he loves her enough to leave you. So you let him. Why would you keep around a man who didn’t want to stay? So you file for divorce once more and go through the entire cycle all over again. Besides, you had been getting bored again as of late, the itch in the back of your skull telling you that you’ve been too domestic with Noel as of late. Him and his daughter and that stupid cat. 

The same cat that can’t go two days without looking for you. Which is how Noel ends up outside your doorstep, frowning as he carries a bushy looking Butter who looked like a jolly little fuck. “You took your time answering,” he greets dryly as you swing the door open. 

You hum and pay him no mind, immediately reaching for Butter whose tail was swinging like a pendulum as you scratched at her chin. “Hello, fatty,” you coo, more fond than you’d ever admit. Then, because you knew it’d annoy Noel further, you called out behind you, “Liam! Noel and Butter are here!”

So, you shacked up with Liam after the divorce. Sue you if you were a bit bitter of Noel ending things over some chick he met in a nightclub. And Liam knew what he was getting into, a divorcee himself, he just wanted something fun and light with someone he didn’t have to work to woo. That’s where you come in, with a proposal that he couldn’t pass up; buying a house in Camden together, splitting utilities and being housemates, and shagging whenever either of you got the particular itch for it. And if Liam ever needed help with Molly or Lennon, he’d come to you. 

So it wasn’t anything serious, both of you knew that it was just for convenience and appearances. But if the pair of you stirred trouble by pretending it was more than it was in front of Noel …

Well, Noel wasn’t too happy about that. But Butter’s mood had swayed him to visit at least once a week, making sure that he always saw you and Liam in the house you bought and shared. 

Liam clomps his way out of the kitchen and greets his brother with a nod, grabbing Butter off his arms and plonking her in your awaiting arms instead. “See you at the studio?” Liam asks perfunctorily. 

Noel nods, not betraying a single emotion. “I’ll pick up Butter tomorrow.”

Liam salutes. “Aye, aye!” 

Noel rolls his eyes. 

You smile and kiss Butter’s fur, driving the knife further as you wave her little paw and say, “Now, say goodbye to daddy!”

Liam shuts the door in Noel’s face before he could even reply.

2005

You find out through Liam that Noel and Sara break up that Fall. He saunters through the front door of your shared home, plonks himself down on the couch and begins his tale. Noel had grown tired, she had stolen his passport and gone berzerk, Noel had even sought refuge at Gem’s house for a short while. You listen to him with rapt attention, eyes furrowed as you follow along before asking the important question;

“Now what the fuck’s that gotta do with me?” you ask, to which Liam only shrugs and turns the telly on to some mindless thing that the two of you loved gorging on. 

So what if Noel and Sara had broken up. Serves him fucking right, if anyone asks you.

You and Noel see each other every week, now. And he had made no mention of this development in his relationship. Just last week, the two of you had brought both Butter and Anais to the park, and you pretended not to preen as the paparazzi caught photos of you. 

It wasn’t the frist time that happened either. The month before, you and Noel were spotted taking Butter to a dog-friendly ice cream parlor that you wanted to try. The week before that, you and Noel brought Butter to the beach. The week before that, you and Noel brought Butter to a playdate with one of your modelling friends. It wasn’t uncommon for you and Noel to spend time together, Butter or Anais acting as a buffer between the two of you. And it wasn’t uncommon either for you to get so worked up from hanging out with him so casually that you end up tumbling into Liam’s bed right after. 

The game’s over, you think to yourself. He had chosen Sara over you, and what you and Liam had was neither stable nor boring — it was a landing strip for wherever else you wanted to go. So you let the news of their break up slide past you instead of letting it fester. You continue as a judge on Britain’s Next Top Model, you walk the runway once more for Vivienne Westwood, and you sign a deal to make a record for a charity album. 

And as it turns out, Noel signs that same deal. And Liam, the cheeky fucker made no mention of it to you. 

“Oh,” says Noel as he walks in to see you on the studio couch. “You,” he says.

“Me,” you answer dryly. 

Noel coughs. “Didn’t know that you were on this album.”

You shrug, not looking him in the eye. “Didn’t know I had to tell you every fucking thing.”

He jolts back before rearranging his features, shifting as he says, “Well, this is a nice start,” he tacks on making you roll your eyes, to which he snaps, “Oh, don’t fuckin’ do that.”

You roll your eyes again just to spite him. “Do what?” you challenge. 

He grits his teeth. “Act like I’m the one that went and fucked your brother then went and bought a fucking house with ‘im!”

You laugh in disbelief and push at his chest. “You’re the one that wanted a divorce so you could go and chase after that angel that appeared out of the smoke of a nightclub,” you say mimicking his words from an interview you had watched and pretended not to be hurt by. 

He frowns. “But you said that that marriage wasn’t even fuckin’ real! Jus’ something to piss Carmen off!” he yells, the emptiness of the studio echoing his words back to him and piercing you right in the heart. 

“I lied!” you explode. “I fuckin’ lied, Noel. And if you haven’t noticed after two marriages, then I hope you’re noticing now that I tend to fuckin’ do that a lot.”

His nostrils flare as his blue eyes search yours in confusion. “Then stop fuckin’ lyin’ and just say what you mean for once in your goddamn fuckin’ life!”

You grit your teeth, your head pounding and blood roaring in your veins as you speak with vitriol and longing coating your words. “I’m tired of this fucking game,” you push out. “I’m exhausted and I’m frustrated, and I can’t keep doing this anymore.”

He huffs. “You’re the one that started it.”

You blink at him before bearing your teeth in annoyance. “Ten fucking years ago, Noel!” you yell, so loud that the glass of the console table rattles. “It was ten years ago in my stupid talk show that doesn’t even exist anymore. But then you go and continue it and chase after Sara. So I go and give you the divorce you so clearly wanted, and you get mad when I run to Liam for some comfort.”

“Some comfort,” he scoffs. “You mean a shag.”

You let your features twist with displeasure, “Yes, Noel,” you growl out. “A shag. I shag your brother because I get so fucking lonely with this game we invented. There’s no one out there that could match me the way that you do. Not even Liam. But he’s as close as I can get to you, so what does it matter if I shag him?”

“It matters ‘cause he’s my brother!” protests Noel. “He’s my brother and your my missus —”

“Ex-missus!” you correct him, annoyed. “You signed those divorce papers willingly, Noel!”

“Yeah, and I’m fuckin’ regrettin’ it!” he finally says. “I regret ever goin’ after Sara, I regret asking for that divorce, I regret saying that that second marriage wasn’t ever real because it was. It was the only time I felt normal and the only time I’ve let my guard down like that. You — you fuckin’ keep me on my toes, and you drive me mad, and I think I’d actually die if you stop fuckin’ paying attention to me,” he huffs out, eyes desperate and wide as he tells this to you, the first time you’ve ever heard Noel speak about his feelings, and most probably the last time as well. “And I want you to stop doin’ whatever it is you’re doin’ with Liam and pay attention to me instead,” he huffs. 

And before you could answer, the door swings open and the crew along with the band walks in, intruding on a moment they didn’t even know was happening as they greet you and Noel with easy smiles and delightful chirps. 

Noel’s shoulders deflate and that’s when you make the decision. You lean over, just so that your mouth was near his ear to whisper, “Nice speech, Casanova,” you snort. “Wanna talk more about it over dinner tonight? That old Chinese place we used to go to the first time around? You can have Liam catsit Butter, he hasn’t much going on, anyway.”

For the first time, you see the twitch of hope blooming in Noel’s smile as he agrees. 

It’s a date.

2006

Third time’s the charm? Oasis star Noel Gallagher and ex-wife of two marriages tie the knot … again

December 08, 2006

Written by Yancy Salvador

It is often said that third time’s the charm, but could this be applied to Noel Gallagher and our dear model? 

The pair have had a turbulent history, dating back a decade as 1996 sees the era of vitriol and harsh headlines between the two of them. From the very beginning, the two of them start off on the wrong foot — with both of them being locked into relationships as they hook up in the bathroom stalls at an afterparty for a film viewing. 

But that didn’t seem to stop them. That was only just the beginning of their decade long on-and-off relationship, with the two getting married in February of 1998 before divorcing in July of the same year. 

Their patterns seem to catch up to them as they begin another tumultuous affair, with Noel married to now ex-wife Meg Matthews and our host married to actor Billy Frederick. 

Ten years later, the pair still haven’t calmed down, instead choosing to test their luck and get married at an uncharacteristically quiet civil registry ceremony with only their parents in attendance. 

Gallagher is a father to Anais Gallagher, whose mother is Meg Matthews. He is a dedicated co-parent and a stellar father, according to sources close to him. Meanwhile, our host does not have any children from her previous relationships, only having Butter, her Maine Coon with whom she shares with Gallagher. 

When asked for a statement, brother Liam says, “Ah, didn’t they divorce already?” he asks confusedly to one of our reporters. When informed of the news of the recent marriage, he only shrugs, “Well, congrats to those crazy cats. Maybe they could finally invite me to the next wedding. F***ers.”

But if the bump she was sporting this morning at a Givenchy showcase was anything to go by, we’d say that another hellraiser is on the way. We at the Telegraph congratulate the couple on their third nuptials, continuing their tradition of keeping us on our toes. 

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It’s an anti-climactic ending — the way you wrap up Liam’s article. It ends in the middle of the week, two days before your final deadline, with a period punctuating the end of the sentence and the lingering warmth of the printer sticking to the pages. It sits with a grand total of three thousand words, cut down to meet the layout department’s demands from you and built up to satisfy Ms. Price’s need for visualization and details. 

You don’t hem and haw when you stack up the printed version on Ms. Price’s desk. You do however, hem and haw when you leave your resignation letter. You’re staring down at Ms. Price’s ridiculous lace table cover when you hand it over, a single page document that feels so monumental even with the sparse words written on the page. How were you to put all your complicated feelings for the Bugle Magazine in a singular piece of paper? How were you going to describe how you loved and loathed the place in equal measure? That saying goodbye felt like closing a door you know you’ll never walk through again. 

“So, this is it?” says Ms. Price, even as you refuse to look at her, fiddling with the hem of your top as the tips of your boots wore down a hole in her Persian carpet — maybe then, you’d leave a lasting mark in a place you begrudgingly called home for so long.

You inhale deeply and nod once, a precise motion that takes a lot of courage. “Yes, Ms. Price.”

The cuckoo clock by the corner of the office ticks in that eerie beat it always does, the hands of the clock turning second by second. “I always wondered whether or not you’ll gather up the guts to do it,” Ms. Price finally says as you look up and offer a soft laugh. 

“I’ve always wondered the same thing,” you tell her. It’s been years of complaining, of writing articles you hate, of staying in the hopes that you’ll finally get what you want. You stand at gigs and industry parties and wonder if this will be your life forever; interviewing drunk and high celebrities, asking daft questions about who’s fucking who, starting a rivalry between two people that don’t even know each other. You’ve always stayed just for the convenience, just because what you truly wanted was only a few floors up. But maybe it was time to move away before you get to move upwards. 

Ms. Price eyes the resignation letter with a shake of her head, her lips downturned in bittersweet sadness. “It seems like today’s the day,” she muses. “Are you sure about this? I’m sure I’ll spend the rest of my life kicking myself if I let you go from here,” she tells you as you laugh again. 

You nod, “Yes, I’m sure.”

She smiles, satisfied, but decides to tease you anyway, “I’ve got a nice article about Kylie Minogue that I would have loved for you to write,” she says, dangling a carrot in front of you. One you knew you didn’t have the appetite for. “You could stick around for that,” she offers cheekily. 

“I’m good,” you say through a chuckle, chest feeling lighter as Ms. Price eased the mood. 

She smiles, “Right. You’re off to write about famines, and wars, and economic crashes, and political assassinations,” she lists, each topic grander than the next as her hands fly about the air as if concocting headlines right out of thin air. 

But you take the time to say “It doesn’t mean that I don’t value my time here, Ms. Price.” What you’ve been doing, writing about music and celebrities and the life behind the spotlight as admirable. It wasn’t something to look down on or belittle. It was a little patch of sunlight in a world where everything seems bleak. It was something to occupy yourself with so much passion and love. “This place gave me more than I thought it would,” you tell her. And it did; it gave you Ms. Price, and Hannah, and the opportunity to write your heart out. And even for just a brief period of time, it gave you Liam. Ms. Price blinks with an unnamed emotion swimming in her eyes and you see it as your cue to quip, “And it gave me free tickets to great gigs.”

It works, she laughs in amusement, head tilted back and chair tilting down dangerously with her. She’s still chuckling when she continues, “But it’s still not the place for you,” she says, not a question this time because she knows how much you want what you want. 

You hum. “No, not really.”

She sighs, a light and airy sound that you’ll miss for a good long while. “Well, you’re always welcome to come back, darling,” she tells you, rising from her chair with grace and ease to reach out a hand. You take it without ceremony and preamble, shaking it twice before finally letting go. And with a spark in her eyes, she continues, “But I have the feeling that when I see you again, it’ll be on the London Daily Bugle’s floor.”

You smile widely, hoping with all of your heart that it would be true. “Thanks, Ms. Price,” you tell her. 

She sits back down, pretending to shuffle through a mountain of papers. ‘No problem,” she tells you earnestly before looking at you sternly, back to being your boss, “But I do hope you know that I still can’t technically let you go, right? Not until this article’s published?” When you nod and tell her you’ve got HR working on your resignation as you speak, she smiles and shakes her head fondly. “Should have known you’ve thought of everything, smart girl.” 

You linger uselessly inside her office, taking one last look at all the kooky furniture that lines every surface, committing it all to memory. Ms. Price lets you, watching you intently even though she pretends not to. 

It’s a good long while befre she speaks again, asking, “What’s next for you?”

You chuckle, shrugging. “Might crash and burn, might write about petty thievery and local mugging,” you tell her. After all, you didn’t know what would be greeting you out in the big wide world ahead. “Who knows?”

“Who knows,” she echoes. “You might catch that spider you’ve got your eye on,” she says, sending a shiver up your spine as you finally turn and say your final goodbye, walking down the corridor and back to your cubicle, the once bare walls now covered in sticky notes filled with Spiderman’s cases, doodles of his mask, details from your interview with him. You chuckle to yourself, leaving your cubicle be, just for a while, as you finally sling your bag over your shoulder and leave the office.

The sun isn’t smiling down on you as you step out into the London street. But if you squint close enough, you can see a few rays looking out for you as you walk.

***

It’s been twenty-one days since Liam last saw you, out in that club alley with his body pressed against yours and his lips ghosting your neck. 

But it’s not like he’s counting. 

To add to that, it’s been twenty-three days since he last donned the spidersuit and did more than look at it solemnly through the gaps of his closet door. 

But again, it really isn’t like Liam’s counting, or anything daft like that. He wasn’t a sentimental little fucker or nothing. No, he was just thinking — long and hard about what the fuck he was doing with his life. The band’s been stellar, gigs and recordings all around, birds following them down the street and screaming their names, Noel’s lyrics with Liam’s voice, Bonehead’s laughter as he slings an arm around Liam at the pub. Everything’s just as Liam’s ever pictured it. The biggest band in the world, he thinks.

But really, Liam can fool himself all he wants. His Spideysense, as you called it twenty-one days ago (Again, Liam’s not really counting), still lingers, alerting him on every possible danger in the vicinity, the adrenaline pumping in his veins as he whips his head around and tries to catch sight of the crime. Most days, Liam runs before he could even find out what’s happening. But on the rare occasion, he goes on to call the cops, useless fucks they were. 

It was a new system, but a system that worked. Because Liam could now enjoy a raucous night out, he could sleep in his bed settled between Patsy’s legs, he could get to the studio relatively on time, he could finally fucking sleep in places that weren’t above billboards or on top of tall buildings. He feels somewhat like a normal person, as much as he could with his freakish reflexes, his ability to spurt webs out of his wrists, and the way he could scale up walls and clim up skyscrapers. If one could set aside such characteristics, Liam was a normal man, really. 

The kind of normal where he could disentangle himself from Patsy’s embrace in bed, pad himself to the kitchen for a quick breakfast, turn on the radio to pretend to listen to the news when in reality he was just staring at his walls, and go and collect his mail from reception in his striped pajamas and Beatles tee. He could pretend to be normal as he rides the elevator back up to his flat, perusing letter after letter after letter after package after package after —-

Something shiny and smooth catches against his palms, making his brows furrow thickly as the elevator jolts upward. His face is the first thing that greets him, a picture taken weeks ago at the Bugle Magazine’s studio as he pretended not to look for you at the office. You had been out then, interviewing some other bloke Liam pretended he wasn’t jealous of. 

Liam audibly scoffs at the sight, his face wide eyed and innocent as the letters below read A DAY IN THE LIFE OF LIAM GALLAGHER: WHAT DOES BRITPOP’S BEST DO WHEN HE ISN’T IN TROUBLE? Your name glares at him from below, your byline taunting him as he thinks about the last time he saw you, about how he should have kissed you, about how he should have told you to stay and never leave. 

But it was too late now. It’s been twenty-one days and even though Liam is definitely not counting, he thinks it’s a bit daft to reach out when he already chose to let you slip away through his fingers. 

He doesn’t read the article, only flips through the rag mildly as he pretends not to care about reading what you think of him. But he’s got a bird in his bed and he’s turning a new leaf; no more spiders, no more nosy reporters, and no more lavender detergent. 

The bell dings as the elevator doors open, and Liam steps out with renewed confidence, magazine still in hand. It’s only when he gets through the door of his flat that a note slips out, your messy handwriting scrawled over the paper as it writes;

Liam, 

Your secret’s safe with me. Keep the webs swinging and the city safe. 

xx Nosy

He blinks down at it, tracing the letters reverently with his thumb as he sighs. He thinks he could live with seeing you across industry parties and random gigs — he might even pop up beside you for a cheeky chat now and then. But then again, what good would that do? He isn’t that man anymore. 

So Liam trashes the magazine and hides your note away in his kitchen cupboards. Then, he pads back to the bedroom and winds and arm back around Patsy’s sleeping form, already regretting trying to be normal. 

Next time, he won’t even touch his mail. 

He burrows his head against the crook of Patsy’s neck and falls straight back to sleep, just like any normal bloke would. 

***

This is the seventh rejection you’ve been handed in five days. Your portfolio was tucked under your arm alongside your resume and a recommendation letter from Ms. Price, and your smile was beginning to wane with each passing no that you were met with. 

“Sorry, the London Telegraph isn’t accepting applicants as of this time.”

“The Camden Times appreciates your time and effort, but I’m afraid that we’re going to have to reject your application, ma’am.”

“News Alert London would happily accept your resume, but our hiring season isn’t until next February. Would that wait be alright for you.”

You groaned loudly, pushing the glass doors of yet another building outward as your heels clacked loudly on the pavement and your irritation bubbled to the surface. Everything felt so useless, the interviews, the resumes, building rapport with receptionists all across the city. You were sinking underneath the weight of your own ego, wondering if it would be too late to jump back into the Bugle Magazine and pretend like your resignation never even happened. 

A man bumped into you in the street, and it didn’t even matter that he shouted out a kind apology as he passed. You’ve had enough, stopping your heavy stride to just stare at the ocean of people passing you by as you breathe in and out at a pace that you would deem concerning if you were anybody but yourself. Because right now, your reaction seemed quite appropriate for the situation. 

You tilted your head up to the sky, resumes and portfolio falling down to the ground like leaves in autumn as you yell, from deep down in your gut, “Fuck!”

People clear away from you like birds scattering from commotion after that. But one woman offers you a sympathetic smile and a piece of tissue for the tears you didn’t even know you were crying. You thank her as much as you could before walking forward, in a direction you weren’t familiar with, teeth grit in determination. 

You’d be damned before you give up on your dream when you’ve already made it this far. You swallow the tough pill, you walk on the wire, and you dare to fall. 

***

It’s been twenty-eight days since Liam last saw you and he still isn’t counting. Nope. Not really. He’s been busy, with the new album fully mixed and tour dates being arranged with dates and schedules and venues being thrown at his head like darts waiting to stick their landing. 

He sings his heart out on stage, flirts with the groupies even though Patsy glares at him everytime he does, he shakes his tambourine high in the air, he bobs his head to the loud pounding of guitars. He’s a proper fucking rock and roll star, signing autographs and invading the radio. 

So no, Liam hasn’t thought about you since that fateful night at the alley. He hasn’t thought to call, he hasn’t stopped himself from swinging by your window, and he certainly didn’t get drunk off his arse when he found out that you were no longer working at the Bugle Magazine. 

He felt pride, of course. Pride that you had the courage to leave and seek out the one thing that you were sure that made you happy. He understands that — in fact, that’s what Liam thinks he’s doing right now, in the middle of the street with a raucous crowd surrounding him with their flashing cameras and pens ready to sign shirts and posters and vinyls and tits. 

Then, a hand clamps down on his shoulder, and he’s quick to remove it, Liam’s grip strong and firm as he pushes the alien feeling of hands on him down. He hears an apology and he just presses his lips and nods in the general direction of the hand. 

He was a normal lad, really. Normal save for … that. He thankfully doesn’t have time to ruminate on it when a mother invade his path, her hand clenched tightly onto her daughter’s tiny fists in a protective manner. And when Liam looks down to see the tiny girl, he sees a familiar face. And judging by the shock in her eyes, she does too. 

“Hello,” the mum greets, smiling widely as she clutches her camera in one hand. “I’m a huge fan of Oasis, so’s my daughter,” she says kindly. “Would it be too much to ask for a photo?”

Of course it isn’t. It’s never too much, not when this is all it’s about; the fans, the people, the young kids looking up to him with stars in their eyes. 

Liam crouches down, eye to eye with the familiar littel girl he saved in a phone booth once upon a time. “Hi, little missy,” he says, smiling at her as a tentaive grin stretches along her face, her cheeks puffing out adorably. “What’s your name?” he asks, just for the camera. Because Liam remembers her. He remembers everyone he’s ever saved. 

“Rose,” she says carefully, just like that same night a few months ago. 

“Right, Hello, Rose,” he greets, jutting his hand out for an exaggerated handshake that the girl laughed at. “Hey, they’re like ‘yer cheeks! Rosy and sweet, yeah?” he said kindly as she giggled even more, posing for the camera as her mum prompted a smile. 

Liam doesn’t even blink when the flash goes off, his smile unwavering as he holds his pose. Then suddenly, tiny little arms wrap around him, making him blink back in shock as he carefully pats the girl’s shoulder. 

Her mum is quick to react, embarrassed even though she shouldn’t be. Liam tells her so but she still shakes her head. “Oh, we’re terribly sorry, Mr. Gallagher,” she says even as Liam laughs and tells her that all is well. She smiles gently at her daughter and coaxes her out of the crowd. “Rose, c’mon.”

Still crouching down, Liam smiles at Rose as she unlatches herself from him and smiles a gummy smile. “Thank you, Mister Spiderman,” she whispers, a secret that she’s keeping with so much childlike wonder that Liam pats her head. 

“No problem, Rosy Red,” he says. Then before she leaves, he tells her. “You’re a brave girl, you are.” And Liam hopes that that would stick with her, even as Spiderman eventually fades into background noise. 

The crowd eventually thins out as Liam runs out of things to sign and people to take pictures with, his security detail sending him on the way once every fan was catered to and all the nosy paps were told to fuck off. 

The walk back to his flat is grey and gloomy, and Liam has to ignore his Spideysense at least three times down his walk, having to stop and breathe everytime it happens just to convince himself he was doing the right thing. The weight sits heavy in his body the whole walk home, making him feel like he’s being dragged down with lead. 

He throws his parka on the sofa, scatters his shoes out by the foyer, and beelines straight for his bedroom, the space still irritatingly sparse as the day he moved in — the overwhelming urge to keep it clean and tidy like a web gnawing at him until he was left with a bare room. 

Liam doesn’t even know that he’s reaching for the handles of his closet door until he’s just about ripped it open and peered inside to see the suit hanging in all its glory. Liam told himself that he was keeping it just because his mam worked hard on it; the wonky stitching and the etched beetle at the front making his heart pang in regret at the fact that he’s been too busy playing rockstar that he’s forgotten some things in his life. 

See, Liam lied to you all those days ago when he told you about his first act as a superhero. He told you that it was over in Burnage, a house robbery that he stopped just in time. And while he did do that eventually, the first time that Liam’s Spideysenses came in handy for things that weren’t football was when his mam nearly fell down her wonky fucking stepladder as she reached for an old tea of tin that she’s been telling Liam to get rid of for ages back then. 

It was horrifying, the way that sparks flew up his neck and a gasp was ripped out his throat. He was right upstairs, unaware that his mam was even cleaning the cupboards when it happened. He didn’t even know how he knew for certain, but he was petrified — his mam was in trouble and he had to save her. 

He had never moved as quick as he had then, shooting a web out to swing out of his room and down the stairs in seconds flat, getting to the kitchen just in time to catch his mam in his arms. 

Neither of them had spoke about it much beyond a thank you and a no problem and an I told you to clean out that cupboard, Liam. But the relief was palpable, even now. 

So, Liam is understandably guilty when he walks to the living room and settles himself on the sofa, dialing his mam’s number with so much guilt and a slight fear that he never really got rid off when it comes to being told off by his mam. 

Even superheroes and rockstars got a clip ‘round the ear, you see.

“Hey, mam,” he greets, voice teetering on the edges of jovial and careful, already anticipating his mam’s response with a wince. 

And he might just have a sense for his mam’s ire because he sighs even before she berates him, “Oh, don’t hey mam me!” she says, voice crackling through the phone. 

“Mam,” he says, not knowing where to even start. The beginning would be good, really, but it’s not like Liam’s got the energy for that. How can he even begin to describe you? He can’t bear to tell his mam about some reporter girl that found out his secret when Liam knows that you’re more than just that to him. So he zips his lips and lets his mam speak. 

And boy, does she speak, “You haven’t called in five days.”

Liam sighs, fiddling with the cuff of his jumper as he mumbles, “I’m alright, me,” he tries to reassure valiantly and to no avail.

“Had me worried sick, Liam!” she cries, and Liam winces again at how much he had been putting his mam through all these years. “There was no news about you or Spiderman on the papers and I was goin’ quite mad figurin’ out what happened!” she hisses, and Liam could already picture the concerned frown that she always wore when Liam did something particularly daft. 

“I’m sure Noel soothed ‘yer worries. I saw him just yesterday,” he tries to reason. 

“Yes, well, he doesn’t know everythin’ now, does he? Unless you finally —” she begins and Liam shakes his head even though he knows she can’t see her. 

“Still haven’t, mam,” he tells her much to her disappointment. 

“Liam,” she berates, voice dripping with so much conflicting emotions that Liam’s chest constricts painfully. 

“Sorry,” he grumbles, feeling like a moody teenager all over again. 

Her sigh is burdened when she speaks again, careful as she treads over the same topic that the two of them have discussed many times before. “You’ve been working yourself like a dog, Liam. Why won’t you let people help you carry that?” she asks. 

Liam swallows roughly, chewing at the inside of his mouth before saying with a childish shrug, “Noel thinks I’m just irresponsible.”

“Then why not prove that you’re not?” she asks, only for silence to meet her as Liam lets out a heavy breath, one that makes her coo through the phone lines, “Oh, my poor boy”

Fuck, Noel always gave Liam so much shit for being a mammy’s boy, but Liam couldn’t care in that moment. He wished to be in his childhood bedroom with his mam downstairs watching the telly. He wished to be the same boy with plans to go to the pub later in the evening. He wished that he could just sit on the couch and let his mam sew up his spidersuit for the millionth time. “You won’t be keen to have me livin’ back there, y’think?” he asks, tone light even as his eyes drooped sadly. 

He expects the answer, really. And he wouldn’t have had it either way. “No,” she tells him firmly. And he knows it’s because this is what’s best for the. But it still makes him frown. “But ‘yer welcome here anytime, Liam,” she says. 

He swallows again, nodding against the phone as he listens to the way his mam breathes in and out, like he’s just right beside her with a needle and a thread. Then, he doesn’t know what possesses him. “I met a girl,” he blurts out so suddenly that even he’s left shocked. 

“Ah, I saw on the telly. Patsy, her name was?” his mam says kindly and Liam’s breath stutters as he realizes that you had been the one he was thinking of. Not his girlfriend, not the one splashed on the headlines. You. “Pretty girl, Liam. Very nice. I’d like to meet her sometime if you gather the courage to bring her here,” his mam continues as if Liam wasn’t going through a crisis in his head. 

“Yeah, Patsy,” he croaks, the memory of your hips against his palms still making his heart beat loudly. “She’s great.”

He isn’t thinking about your laugh and the drunken way you cling to him. He isn’t thinking about the disastrous questions you ask and the way everything just tumbles out of your mouth easily. He isn’t thinking about you and the note burning a hole in his kitchen cupboard. He isn’t thinking, really. 

His mam hums, a soothing sound that make his eyes fall shut in comfort. “Liam’s alright, I see,” she begins. “But how’s Spiderman?” she asks and Liam sighs, already dreading his next words. 

“Hung up the suit,” he says casually, like ripping off a bandage.

His mam matches that casual ease even though Liam detecte the hint of disappointment and irritation in her tone. “Have you now?”

He keeps his answers simple. “Yeah.”

“Hm,” she says, the syllable punctuating a million different things that she might be thinking right now. And suddenly Liam feels like a schoolboy caught with grass stains all over his uniform all over again.

“What?” he whines childishly. 

His mam resists him easily enough with a not-so-reassuring, “Nothing, darling.”

He whines again, slumping against the sofa. “Mam.”

“Nothing, Liam,” she repeats more firmly. “I’m sure you’ll figure all this out on your own.”

Liam pouts. “Maybe,” hr grumbles petulantly. “But I think it’s time I just become … the rockstar, y’know?” he convinces her, lightening his tone. 

“Being a hero takes work, does it?” she says sympathetically, and Liam feels like her tone is akin to a warm hug. 

He sighs. “Yeah, haven’t gotten a good night’s sleep since … dunno when.” He shrugs. 

“Nothing is easy, Liam,” she lilts soothingly. “You were doin’ the right thing there,” she reassures him. 

“I was. But being in a band is all I ever wanted, mam,” he reasons out, trying to make her see that he was focusing on other things now. Not on heroes and powers and responsibilities that make his head spin. 

He doesn’t know what to make of her tone when she says, “I see.”

He swallows, hesitating before biting the bullet to ask, “Are you disappointed?” he whispers through the phone. 

She doesn’t answer right away, making Liam’s throat go dry before she finally speaks again. “Y’know, Liam. When you first told me about this whole … spider business, I was heartbroken. My little lad burdened with something he can’t change. And you were such a sad kid because of it. You used to cry and cry and cry, clutching at your poor neck like you could get rid of it,” she says. And Liam reddens at the memory, of miserable little teenage Liam feeling like a freak of nature whenever his senses went haywire and he had no idea what to do. “But then you saved the Matthews’ over at the other street, caught the thieves and saved them from a misfortune that everyone knows they won’t recover from. I stopped looking at it like a burden then, Liam. It’s a blessing.”

He sighs, already anticipating the sermon. He’s never been much of a religious lad, no matter how much his mam had tried to get him and his brother to church like proper lads. But he still recognized what his mam was about to say even though he hadn’t set foot near a church in ages. “Mam,” he warns uselessly. 

“It’s a blessing, Liam. You are the blessing,” she says, believing the words so much that Liam almost falls for it. “You get to help people in need, you get to stop anything bad from happening. And that’s wonderful!” she exclaims.

Still he shakes his head and grumbles, “I’m not Jesus, mammy.”

He’s lucky he’s miles away because he knew he would have gotten his head knocked. “Enough with the cheek, William,” she berates. 

“Yes, mammy,” he says, quick to play the dutiful son. 

She chuckles lightly before continuing softly. “You have a great power, Liam. And I know you know how much of a great responsibility it is, to have all of that in the palm of your hands,” she says. “So I’m just telling you to remember why you’re doing what you do.”

Liam nods. It’s something that’s left to his hands now, a decision he’ll have to make and battle with for the rest of his life. He shudders to think of how much pressure that would put on him. He makes a mental note to get pissed at a bar later tonight. “I will,” he tells his mam. 

Liam could hear her smile when she tells him, “Good lad,” she says. “Now, hang up the phone. I’m heading over to Betty’s gaff to play some bridge.”

He can’t resist the cheek as he quips boyishly, “You hang up.”

And he laughs when his mam warns lowly, “William.” He hangs up soon enough, still shaking his head with his cheeks hurting with mirth. He sighs, slumping against the cushions and placing the phone back on the table, letting the silence of his flat wash over him. 

It was ridiculous, how empty it was, the walls bare, boxes still unopened, the plant that Noel had given him at the start of his stay starting to wither. He clicks his tongue, he couldn’t even take care of that. 

Not wanting to think about disappointing his mam, or telling Noel about being Spiderman, or looking Patsy in the eyes when all he could think about was you, you, you, Liam gets up with a groan, dusting off his jeans and heading straight for the unpacked boxes, the best distraction he could ask for that wasn’t in the form of coke or lager. 

He starts with the nearest box, the largest one by far, labelled STUFF in his messy scrawl. Without preamble, he rips the taped opening and dives into something that he should have done ages ago. 

In the first hour, Liam discovers a few posters that he had rolled up and saved; The Beatles, The Stone Roses, a terrifying number of close up shots of John Lennon’s face. He takes all of them up, lays them flat on the ground with whatever he could find and distracts himself by going out to buy frames, only to get back home with his hands filled with large ornate frames and realize that he had bought the completely wrong size. With a groan and some coke to keep him going, Liam treks back out again, flips off some paps, and buys the correct size and manages to hang up five posters in his foyer after a bit of a tussle with the hammer and some nails. 

The second hour comes and Liam’s still stuck on the first box, he snorts another line and finds a few shoes that need sorting, and laces that need washing. So he takes each and every trainer out the box, shocked to find that he has an insane amount of shoes for a lad that only had one pair of feet. Fuck, one would think that Liam’s an actual spider with the amount that he has. He spends the better part of that hour with his arse planted on his living room rug, his back to his couch, the telly playing some dramatic soap opera, and his hands working through the laces of his trainers. Then, he piles them all up and puts them in the laundry, only to realize that this would mean that he won’t have anything else to wear other than his sandals, but that makes him feel a bit like Jesus come back to life, so Liam gathers all the laces back up again and plods down his apartment building and crosses the road to his local laundromat and acts a fool when he tells the lady behind the counter that yes, this is all that I want washed today. What a fucking headline that would make. 

Liam spends the third hour telling himself that he’d just be taking a quick kip on the floor before getting right back to unpacking, only to wake up three hours later with a stupid crick in his neck and an embarrassing pool of drool on the floor. 

By the time that Liam’s stomach starts growling, he’s already halfway through sorting his closet, ignoring the red and blue suit glaring at him. He staunchly ignores it, instead sorting his parkas, anoraks, t-shirts, and jumpers by color, then by how much he uses them, then by brand, until he loses all patience and just throws them all together willy nilly. 

So he hasn’t thrown out the suit. Sue him. His mam had put in her back to making the thing for him, and he’d be damned if he just threw the thing out just because he’d had enough of that life. Maybe he’d go back home and leave the thing in the attic, maybe he’d prank Noel by leaving it in his house, maybe he’d let it collect dust in his closet until he can barely even remember what being a superhero feels like. 

With a sigh, Liam rubs at his head in frustration, kicks out against the pile of jeans and shorts by his side, and slams the closet door shut, the sound loud against the silent flat. 

Fuck he needs another line. And maybe a lager.

So he sets out without looking back, swiping a coat off his coatrack and leaving his flat altogether, head swirling even more from his futile attempt at a distraction. Great. 

***

You were out of a job and going out of your mind, steadily regretting the hastiness of your decisions as you sat on your couch, all the lights down so that you could afford this month’s electricity bill, but having the telly on full blast as you slumped with a bowl of popcorn in the darkness. 

This was a new low, even for you. You were lucky enough to get on the Bugle Magazine straight out of graduation, a job that you were sure was just a temporary one that would help you pay the bills. Then one month turned into two, two into three, three into four, and … here you were — finally gaining the courage to resign only to find out that you’ve really got nowhere else to go. 

You’ve considered asking for your job back from Ms. Price, had even stared at the Bugle’s building for a solid twenty minutes before shaking yourself out of your stupor and realizing how embarrassing that would be. Exiting with a flourish and certainty only to come back with your tail tucked between your legs. 

And like the world wants to rub your face in it, Supersonic begins to play on your telly, Liam’s face filling your screen as your heart squeezes painfully. With a decisive click of the remote, the screen shuts off and leaves you in the pitch black state of your living room. You set aside your popcorn with a clank against the table, and sigh, heading for your bedroom blindly and bumping into a million corners on the way. 

What a fucking life. Like everything else, you hoped to god that this was some temporary thing. 

***

Noel Gallagher was drunk. There was nothing truly groundbreaking about that, he was drunk most hours of most days, really. It was just something that he did to let off steam — especially when Liam was acting out once again. 

Noel had called it a day off, but in reality, he had just had enough of Liam’s constant sulking, of the explanations that never made sense, and of the pain that throbbed between Noel’s brows whenever the clock started to tick and Liam still wasn’t where he was supposed to be. 

So really, Noel deserves this drink. He deserves it so much that he’s had more lagers than he could count and he began to sway in his seat he was sure wasn’t supposed to swivel and turn, still he laughed, jovial as someone across the bar made a joke dumb enough to make Noel forget his annoyance. 

So the bar embraces Noel, the cacophony of the place just as intoxicating as the drugs and drink in his system, and when someone causes a ruckus, Noel just melts into it with a smile instead of his usual scowl. He should be drunk more often, then maybe he could deal with Liam at the studio properly rather than having a go at him for every little thing. 

He drinks, more than he should and more than advisable. He makes his round through the bar, he plays the guitar with fumbly hands when someone hands a shitty nylon string make his way, he flirts with a girl that looks vaguely like his girlfriend, and he realizes that said girl already has a fella of her own the hard way when he gets cornered at the alley, cigarette still in his hand and three men glaring down at him. 

Noel knows he’s fucked. Everytime he blinks, the men double and in his vision and he sways on his feet, fists barely even curling into themselves as one of them makes a spiel about messing with his girl or some bullshit. 

Then of course, Noel makes it worse by telling the man that his girl was gagging for him, absolutely crazy for Noel and the way that he leaned into her space, giggling as he suggested that they take a quick detour towards the toilets. 

That’s when it all breaks out and Noel prays to a god that he doesn’t believe in for this to be quick, painless, and out of the morning papers. But for the record, he does put up a decent enough fight, shoving at the first man to charge at him, swinging his fist wildly towards the vague direction of the other man’s face, then everything gets blurry and Noel thinks he’s about to puke. 

In the back of his mind, he has the wherewithal to somehow blame Liam for the situation he’s in, what with his logic and twisted way of thinking about it. After all, Noel wouldn’t be here in this pub if he didn’t need to let go of the stress that’s been plaguing him since the band blew up. So Noel screws his eyes shut as a fist goes flying towards his direction, and he very much wishes that his mam had had given him a baby sister instead. Maybe she would have been less trouble than his brother. 

When Noel opens his eyes, a few seconds later and still no pain blooming in his face, he thinks he’s just about lost his mind. Standing behind Noel’s attackers is a man wearing a plaid shirt and ridiculous sunnies, both arms stretched out with actual fucking webs coming out of his wrists. 

If Noel wasn’t about to puke a few seconds ago, then he certainly was now. 

The man moves in a blurry haze, pulling back two men with a synchronized pull of his webs, the two of them flying backwards into the pavement as the plaid-clad man surges forward and swings a fist towards the girl’s boyfriend, the sound of it cracking against the alley with a sickening sound that makes Noel’s guts come up to his throat and spill out into the pavement. 

The fight keeps going in Noel’s periphery as he spews whatever was in his stomach out on the ground. The plaid clad man kicks out at one attacker while delivering a headbutt to the attacker behind him. Noel winces and heaves again, not paying mind to the odd sight of the plaid clad man swinging himself up just to land heavily on one of the men, delivering another violent blow before finally knocking him out cold. 

By the time the fight is done and dusted, Noel’s stomach has already emptied itself in a disgusting pile, and the plaid clad man clamps a hand on Noel’s shoulder in a comforting gesture.

Noel wrinkles his nose, vision swimming as his eyes cross embarrassingly and he sways on his feet, still he has the brainpower to remember all the odd headlines that he’s seen as of late. Of a spider human in Manchester, then in London. “Oh, fuck,” Noel says through a breath, trying valiantly to open his eyes to make a decent conversation. “‘Yer actually fuckin’ real,” he says with a laugh of disbelief. Has he gone nuts? Has the coke he snorted been laced with something else? Either way, Noel was stood here in an alley with a pile of his puke next to him and three men laying unconscious around him — the least he could do was thank the lad. 

The lad pauses before chirping, “Yep,” he says simply. Noel laughs again, harder this time and reaches out to pinch at the man’s arm, twisting the skin in the same way he’d do to Liam whenever the kid would be too loud. Spiderman squeaks, jumping back as he exclaims, “Ow! Why’d you do that?” he whines. 

Noel shrugs lazily, vision already going black at the edges. “Had to make sure, yeah?” he says before mumbling with a shake of his head, “This is crazy.”

Spiderman shrugs back at him. “Write a song about it,” he shoots. 

Noel perks up, “Hah! Even the Friendly Neighborhood fuckin’ Spiderman knows me!” he exclaims loudly, a smile stretching over his face. “Mam’s gonna freak! She fuckin’ loves you, mate,” he tells the lad easily, patting his shoulder twice. 

He blinks again, stunned. “She does?”

Noel hums, remembering all the times that his mam would collect the papers talking about Spiderman, cooing to Noel about what a hero the boy was. “Yeah, talks my ear off on the phone talking about the lad. I think she finds it interestin’, the superhero stuff. Has all your newspaper headlines at home, as well,” he says before perking up, blinking dangerously as he slurs, “Hey, d’ya mind signing an autograph?”\

The man frowns, “Yes, I mind.”

“I’ll give you one in return!,” Noel bargains jovially. 

“And what will I do with that, you twat?” the supposed friendly neighborhood Spiderman replies back. “Wipe it on my arse?”

Noel snorts. “I thought you was supposed to be friendly?:

“Should have had them beat you up,” the spider mumbles, just enough for Noel to hear.

Noel shakes his head, and that makes the whole earth spin even more. He stumbles for a second, holding onto the alley wall for support/ Christ, you’d make a great villain,” he mumbles, deciding to turn around and leave the alley just as his vision begins to fail on him, the night already seeming like a hazy fever dream than anything. “Right fuckin’ wanker,” Noel scoffs under his breath, already walking out. 

Then, the man speaks up again just as Noel’s about to turn the corner and hail a cab, making Noel’s brows furrow for a reason that he can’t comprehend. “Hey, Noel! Keep ‘yer fuckin’ head on, r’kid!”

Noel snorts and doesn’t turn back. What a weird fucking here. “Whatever. Thanks for the assist,” he yells back. 

Then, the spider calls again, even more cheeky than before. “See ‘ya in the morning!”

Noel frowns but still doesn’t turn back. “The fuck are you talkin’ about?” 

“Tell Bonehead hello for me?”

Just then, Noel finally rounds the corner and spits out, loud enough for the entire block to hear, “Spiderfreak!”

***

Wasn’t Noel supposed to be the responsible one between the two of them? But here Liam was, standing in an alleyway with a pile of Noel’s disgusting puke in the corner and three men bloody and beaten at his feet. 

All Liam wanted was some dinner, some drinks, and a line of coke. Maybe five lines, if Liam was being entirely honest. But instead, what he got was his pisspot of a brother drunk in an alleyway and about to be beaten to a pulp as he stood on shaky drunk legs. 

And what was Liam supposed to do? Let his brother get beat up? Liam was a cunt, but not that much of a cunt, mind. 

So he surges forward and shoots out two webs before he can think better of it and what it could do for his identity, the action immediate and gratifying as the men fly back and hit the ground hard enough that the wind gets knocked out of them. 

The blood sang in Liam’s veins as he weaved himself into the fight, his feet light, his wrists quick, and his fists landing hard. If Liam had been wearing his suit, maybe the impact of all the punches he was doling out would be muted. Maybe his knuckles wouldn’t be split and bleeding after the third punch, and maybe the blood wouldn’t be dripping down in alarming rivulets onto the pavement. 

As Noel throws up like a sad wet cat in the corner, Liam keeps moving, the buzz of adrenaline acting like his own kind of high as he blurs into the violence of it all. He doesn’t even feel the pain when knuckles crack against his jaw and make his teeth clack and taste of blood, doesn’t feel the sharp sting of a pocket knife slicing against his midriff, doesn’t feel the throb of his ankle as one of the men tries to grab at him as he swings up and away. 

Liam doesn’t feel much of anything except the total rightness of it all. 

So when the men all fall down into heaps and Noel finally straightens up and faces Liam, the first thing that he feels is the pit in his stomach as his own brother doesn’t even recognize him. 

Maybe it’s the sunnies, maybe it’s the pulled up hoodie, maybe it’s the fact that Liam’s face is cast in shadows, maybe it’s the fact that Noel’s very much had a lot to drink. Still, it stings more than the injuries on his body as Liam blinks at Noel as he begins to ramble on and on and on. 

Still, Liam can’t resist fucking with him, smile curling mischeviously as Noel walks out of the alley with stumbled steps and a hazy mind. And Liam will see in the morning if any of this would be of any entertainment to him, and maybe then he’d consider finally fessing up to Noel. Maybe. 

It isn’t until Noel’s cab speeds off and Liam’s left with three incriminatingly injured people at his feet that he decides to leave. It’s only then that the weight of his injuries finally hit him, and it’s only then that he realizes that he doesn’t know where else to go. The hospital was an automatic no — they’d start asking questions, then he’d have to answer, and eventually, his answers would make its way into the press and into the papers. No, hospitals weren’t an option. 

He could just go back to his haunted and silent flat and treat his own injuries there, hissing in pain as he scrubs at the growing cuts in his body. 

Or maybe, Liam thinks, looking up at the familiar skyline in a familiar neighborhood, it was time to pay you a visit. Just a quick hello and then he’d leave forever, keeping you as part of the weird dream that the past few years had been. Maybe if he gets to say goodbye to you, he’d finally put this hero business to rest. So Liam sets out, limping on his poor ankle before realizing that he could very well just zip himself up and swing through the streets. 

***

The knock on your window rattles you awake, your heart beating against your ribcage as the foreign sound alerts you to possible danger. You clutch at your blankets, not daring to peek out and see what situation you’ve found yourself in when all you wanted was to go the fuck to sleep. 

The knock sounds again, three short and impatient raps that make your breath stutter as you decide on what to do next. In a bout of bravery, you decide to peek one eye open only to be horrified at the sight of blood smearing against the glass of your window as an injured hand continues to rap against the surface. You gulp, shutting your eyes closed again as you try to calm your breathing, slowly turning yourself to grip at the nearest object you could use to defend yourself. 

You do quick mental calculation; your lamp would take too long to disentangle and unplug, the framed picture of you and your friends would be worthless in a fight, the tray of trinkets and jewelry were absolutely not going to help you, and there was no way you were going to take your vibrator out of its drawer to use it as a weapon. So that left you with your bright red alarm clock. 

Inhaling sharply, you decide to move quick, rising from the bed and grabbing your alarm clock at the same time that the knocking grows louder. You grit your teeth and let the adrenaline consume you as you swing the window open and start clobbering at the intruder only to be met with a sticky sensation at your hand, sticking the clock to your hand with webbing. 

You blink your eyes open only to meet Liam’s smug and bloodied face smirking back at you as he hangs against the perch of the window above your flat and swings like a pendulum as he greets you casually, “Hey,” he says, waving pathetically.

You squint, trying to shake the alarm clock off your hand to no avail. “Liam?” you ask incredulously. “What, it’s … it’s two in the morning. What the fuck are you doing?” you say, your voice raspy with sleep, bending your hand to peer at the alarm clock and the displayed time.

He shrugs, still swinging slightly as the wind whistles through the night. “Needed to see you.”

You shake your head, about to scold him for giving you a heart attack when you catch sight of the torn shirt with blood marring the cotton. “Shit, you’re hurt,” you exclaim, rushing closer to the window to open it all the way and ushering Liam in with your only useful hand. 

He looks down at the wound like it’s his first time seeing it, “Ah. I am,” he observes to your ire. 

“Liam,” you scold him disapprovingly, taking stock of all the different injuries, your heart sinking at each one. 

He shakes his head, hair whipping in the wind. “Nah, nah, nah,” he protests as your frown keeps growing. “I’m good,” he lies, his lip splitting even more with each word he says. 

You grunt, having had enough of his antics as you reach one hand out and grab him bodily by the collar, the force of it so surprising that Liam has no other choice but to plant his feet on your windowsill and jump in with all the grace of a cat. He dusts himself off with a wince, forgetting his split knuckles and slashed ribs. You sigh before saying, “So, why are you here?”

He hums, cracking his neck and toeing his shoes off politely, setting them aside by your bed. “Saved someone today,” he tells you. “As Spiderman,” he tacks on. As if it wasn’t important, as if the city wasn’t looking for him at every turn. 

You gasp, watching his every move as he flits restlessly around your bedroom, his eyes on the posters and pictures displayed all around. “No way,” you say in disbelief. 

He shrugs, still not making a big deal of it, still not looking at you as he tracks blood all over your floor. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Noel,” he tells you. 

You blink, shocked. “Really?” Sure, it had been some time since you had last seen Liam, but you remember him telling you that he had no plans of telling Noel about his secret any time soon. For his brother to be in the loop might finally change some things. “So he knows now?” you ask, not being able to help your nosy nature.

Liam seems to find your questions amusing as he puts his arms behind his back in his signature stance and turns to grin at you. “Sort of,” he says, blood trailing down his chin as he tries to be charming. At your stony expression, he rolls his eyes and explains, “Haven’t told ‘im yet. He was drunk off his fuckin’ mind when I found him tonight so I don’t think he knows. I did decide to fuck with him a bit, though. Plant some clues in that thick head of his.”

You snort, observing him with your arms crossed on your chest. “That’s actually so fucking stupid, Liam,” you tell him honestly. “Why don’t you just give it to him straight?”

He shrugs. “It’ll work out somehow. I know ‘im,” he says, not bothering to elaborate as you heave another heavy sigh. “What about you, Nosy. Saw what you sent in the mail earlier. Congrats.”

Your brow furrows at his lack of comment. Congrats? You pour your entire heart out into that article and that’s all he had to say? Jesus fuck. Still you paste on a flat smile. “Thanks. How’d you like it?” you ask, testing the waters. 

He shrugs uneasily, avoiding your gaze. “It was stellar.”

You raise a brow, catching on to the fact that he hadn’t even read what you wrote. “That’s all?”

He raises an eyebrow back as he shoots, “Are you fishin’ for compliments now?”

You huff, hand beginning to tinker with the still stuck clock. “What are you doing here, Liam,” you say, trying to catch his blue eyes. “Really,” you urge him to tell the truth. 

He shrugs and lies again. “I was nearby.”

You hum, unimpressed and hold your hand out so that he could take off the webbing. He takes it dutifully in his warm palms and begins dismantling each fine web. “Hm,” you say coldly. 

His lip quirks out a small amount, eyes fixed on your hand and the task in front of him as he adds, “And I’m injured, me.”

You snort, shaking your head at the ragged sight of him. “Yeah.”

He hums again, the buzz of the night getting in between the two of you as his voice lowers to a whisper. “Gravely fuckin’ injured,” he adds, hands skimming against the racing beat of your pulse before flitting quickly away to finally free your hand. You sigh and take your hand back from his, as if burnt. “Could have died and gone to heaven,” he jokes, rubbing a sheepish hand against the back of his neck. 

You laugh lightly. “Heaven?” you ask cheekily. 

“And I knew you’d have missed me,” he says with a small and teasing smile. “So I came here.”

You hum again, not even noticing how close the two of you were standing now. “And not to Patsy’s?”

He nods, eyes gone serious as he confirms, “No, not to Patsy’s.”

You face him head on, only a hair away from him now. “Why?”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink as he answers. “She’s busy,” he says, you nod. Then your heart gets caught in your throat as he adds. “And she don’t know me like you do.”

You don’t let him knock you off your feet, though, standing your ground as you ask him, “You mean she doesn’t know,” you correct. 

Liam stands his ground too, not looking away as he tells you, “She doesn’t know.”

Electricity hums between the two of you, the wind whipping outside as Liam stares at you in that way that you’ve been trying to forget since the alley — the unwavering attention, the warmth of his proximity, the scent of that goddamned lavender detergent filling your nose and making your senses so attuned to him.

You sway closer without even realizing, nearly chest to chest with him as you look up to face him, gulping a rough swallow as he leans in closer, the nearness of him making you so dizzy that you have to take a step back and cough awkwardly as he blinks at you in confusion. “We gotta …” you start, voice annoyingly raspy and disused before coughing and restarting your sentence. “We gotta get you patched up,” you say quickly before leaving him in the dust without even waiting for his answer, trailing to your bathroom and breathing a heavy breath once you’ve put some distance between the two of you. 

You flick the lights on, already rummaging through your medicine cabinet with shaky hands as you hear Liam slowly plod his way to you, his eyes trying to track every single thing that he sets his eyes on, as if that would help him better understand you. You busy yourself with setting the antiseptic on the counter, filling the tub up with water, grabbing a bar of soap, and reaching for some bandages that you hoped would suffice for him. 

“Cute place,” Liam says as he enters the bathroom, his presence filling up the tiny space immediately. You hum, the noise of the tap running diffusing the tension as he sits on the closed toilet lid and looks up at you like you have your heart in his hands. “So what’s the verdict, doc? ‘M, I gonna live for a few more days?” he teases. 

You roll your eyes, finally facing him to stand in between his spread legs, taking his face in your hands as he gazes up at you with sparkling blue eyes. “I think you’re gonna live forever,” you quip, halting his next joke as you reach up and slowly begin cleaning his wound with some water and soap, his wincing making you grip onto his chin tighter. “Hold still.”

“Bossy,” he says, but melts into your touch anyway, his eyes falling shut as you begin to work your way through the catalogue of cuts on his face, the silence only interrupted by his shuddered breath at every touch of antiseptic against his open wounds. “Hurts,” he pouts at you jokingly as you finish up with the last of the cuts. 

You roll your eyes and press against one of them just to see him wince. “Behave,” you scold, surveying your work before nodding to yourself, satisfied. You step back, Liam leaning forward as if trying to chase your touch, and cluck your tongue. “Right, then. Get in the bath. We gotta take care of that big wound by your ribs.”

He has the nerve to waggle his brows, just like you knew he would. “I knew you wanted to see me naked,” he says before standing up with a wince, keeping pressure off his ankle as he begins stripping, unbalanced as he jumps on one foot. 

You sigh, taking pity on him as you stop his hands from going further. “Do you need my help?” you ask. 

“With undressing?” he says.

You frown. “No need to be a perv about it,” you huff. 

Liam’s smile grows and you have half a mind to tell him to stop it before he splits his lip open again. “How flattering,” he preens before sitting back down on the toilet seat and looking up at you expectantly. “Well,” he baits you. “Get on with it, then.”

You frown at him. “Arse,” you hiss at him as he laughs, the sound of his joy and mirth getting cut off as your cold hands reach for the hem of his shirt and pull the fabric up carefully, trying to avoid hitting his face. You ignore the blush creeping up your neck as you gulp, bending on your knees in front of Liam to unbuckle his belt, the clinking sound of it so incriminating that you couldn’t even bear to look him in the eye. And with Liam’s stuttered silence, you knew that he had nothing else to say. 

Trying to stay staunchly professional, you rid him of his belt, hands working deftly as you begin to unbutton his jeans, then dragging the zipper down to expose the plain white of his kecks, your own body betraying you as you begin to gulp roughly, trying not to skim against anything incriminating as you instruct him to wiggle his hips a bit to get his jeans off.

You gulp as soon as the fabric hits the floor, pooling down by his ankles as you stand up from the floor so quickly that you almost give yourself whiplash. Liam’s eyes follow you, bewildered and confused at your reaction. “I’m gonna go,” you mumble, not daring to look him in the eye as you point in the general direction of the kitchen. “Gonna get ice. And — and, um, you can get in the tub, yeah? Elevate your ankle and uh — yeah.”

You don’t even wait for his reply, wrenching the door open as you haul yourself out the bathroom before Liam could even blink. Then, embarrassingly, you bump loudly against a hall table and stifle a curse under your breath as you pass.

Stupid, you think, as you arrive in your kitchen, rummaging through the freezer and letting out a wince of embarrassment as you did so. He has a girlfriend, you remind yourself. A model, actress, singer, stunner. And here you were, cheeks flaming at the fact that you had to patch him up while he was injured. Jesus, you needed to get a grip. 

So you breathe in, the cold ice in your hand grounding you as you put it in a washcloth and padded your way back into the bathroom, intending on being calm and poised and totally not flustered by Liam Gallagher. 

Only to open the door and find him sunk in the tub, foot elevated just like you asked, and completely naked. Your blush returns with a fierceness as you grip the ice even tighter in your palm. And worst of all, Liam notices the way your body tenses, if his grin was anything to go by. 

“Not a fucking word,” you warn him as you get closer, sitting by the edge of the tub, turning your back to him to focus on his ankle and not on … whatever else. 

Liam’s laugh is soft. “Wasn’t even gonna say nothin’” he lies, his smile so prominent that you don’t even need to turn to see it, the force of it so blinding that it was seared in your memory. You shiver and place the ice on his ankle gently, giving you something to distract you from his bareness. 

Neither of you breaks the silence, with your back staunchly turned away from him, and his attention focused on washing himself, the sound of water splashing was the only thing anchoring you from reality. Outside, you could hear a stray cab horn roaring for its life only to leave you in silence as it passes. 

“Thanks, by the way,” says Liam after what seems like hours of stillness, the drowsiness beginning to hit you as the hour gets later and the clock keeps ticking. “For all this,” he tacks on. 

You laugh under your breath, shaking your head as you survey his foot, deeming it alright after the ice and elevation. “Didn’t have a choice, did I?” you joke cheekily, only to shriek lightly when water splashes against your back in retaliation. Too late, you turn back to glare at Liam only to catch a glimpse of — well. 

He laughs, loud and unabashed as he throws his head back. “Oh come on,” he says through chuckles as you turn your head back away from him, cheeks hot. “Didn’t peg you as such a prude,” he teases, water sloshing as he repositions himself in the tub.

You refuse to look at him, back stiffened as you reply, “I’m not a prude.” Liam’s chuckle echoes against the bathroom tile as the water sloshes even more and you fight the urge to turn and face him. Then, his hand reaches out and tugs at the fabric of your shirt, a desperate bid to get you to look at him, one that you ignore with all your might before he loses all patience and hauls you in the tub with him, noisy and chaotic as you try to avoid hitting his injuries while also trying to get back at him with the fierceness of your glare. “Liam!” you scold as you try to twist your way out of the tub, ending up between his knees, back still to him as you sit there soaking wet in your pajamas.

“Oops,” he says, sounding so completely unapologetic that you can’t resist turning back to hit him in the chest. And that’s exactly what he’s been waiting for. He takes your wrists in his hand just as you deliver the blow, bringing you in closer to him as he pulls you up to be level to his face. “Hey, there. Missed you.” 

You glare at him. “Now I’m wet,” you bemoan, trying your best to wriggle out of his grip to no avail. 

He smiles, a boyish thing as he wiggles his brows. “Already?”

You huff then, breath fanning against his face as he looks at you with so much fondness that you feel your heart ache in your ribs. His eyes are intent on yours as they search for something you couldn’t name, breath stuttering as he moves in closer, and closer, and closer, until there was no more room to deny what’s been in front of you this whole time. “You have a girlfriend,” you whisper, just as he’s a hairsbreadth away from your lips.

His eyes flutter closed as he sighs, still not moving away. “I have a girlfriend,” he repeats, almost as if hypnotized by your proximity. 

You sigh and shake your head, but the way you make no move to back away was telling as you speak in hushed tones, “This is wrong, Liam.”

He shudders, shifting in the tub as he pleads, “Just for tonight,” he asks. And when he opens his eyes to peer blearily up at you, that’s what does you in. You surge forward, closing the tiny gap between the two of you to press your lips against his. 

His groan is immediate, a loud sound that echoes in the silence as he melts into it, his hands letting go of your wrists to make their way down to your middle, hauling you closer to his chest without separating from you. 

Electricity raises down your spine at every swipe of his tongue against the seam of his lips, shuddering as he tilts his head to kiss you deeper, as if he wants nothing more than to fuse the two of you together with just the power of his lips and tongue. You whimper, slithering closer to him as you desperately match his eagerness, wanting nothing more than to be close to him, in this tiny bubble you’ve created for yourselves.

Because you knew that in the morning, things would have to go back to normal. Him back to Patsy, and you back to whatever life awaits you in journalism. Neither of you can go back to this moment, in this tub, with his hands roaming around your body like he’s trying to map you out through touch, with your lips sloppily opening up against his, with the softness of his hair against your fingers. It was only for tonight, just a blip in the system, something you can never go back to.

But right now, you let him nip at your bottom lip, ignoring the taste of iron and blood as his cut lip begins to throb in pain. You manage a moan as his lips move against yours, so endearingly eager that you forget to watch your limbs as you unintentionally elbow him in the ribs, making him hiss in pain against your warm mouth. 

“Fuck,” he winces, head thrown back in pain, his mouth swollen and his hair tangled — a picture of him you knew you’d never forget. “Knew you was out to get me, Nosy.”

You shake your head and soothe his pain with a featherlight kiss to his cheek, leaving a wet trail against his smooth skin as you pepper his face with gentle kisses. “Sorry,” you mumble sweetly, kissing him relentlessly, the softness of it all making him shiver against you as he looks up at you with blown out pupils. 

One decisive move from him has you repositioned in his lap, far from hurting him again with stray knees and elbows, water sloshing all around you as you straddle him. You smile at him, bending down to be chest to chest with him, your pajama top against the nakedness of his skin as you angle your head up in a plea for kiss. 

He claims your mouth immediately, the weight of the kiss heavier as his mouth moves hotly against yours, as if he’s just realizing how much time he’s got left before he has to go back to his life, to his girl. You squeeze your eyes shut and push down the sick feeling in your stomach, the guilt that you knew would eat you up as you match his pace, recklessly trying to find a rhythm that would make you both forget the world outside your flat. His hands find your clothed hips under the water, his palms large and warm as they guide you to his cock, the weight of it bumping against your clit and making you gasp.

You cling onto Liam desperately, both hands coming to embrace him by the neck, your chest to his, your mouth opening up for him, and your hips grinding against his steadily growing erection, separating from his mouth to pant and stick yourself even tighter against him, like you could fuse your bodies together and just be rid of everything else. 

“C’mon,” he coaxes you as your clit catches against his cockhead, making you throw your head back with a silent moan, mouth opened as ragged breaths escaped you. “Feels good, yeah?” he stutters out, leaning to lay his head against your collarbone as your pace increased, the water sloshing out the tub in your intensity, your thighs burning as you whimpered at the sensation, band growing tighter with every pass of his cock against your clit.

You let out an embarrassingly loud moan as his dick passes against your hole, hiding yourself in his shoulder as you plead, “Liam,” you say, so soft that you weren’t sure that his name even left your lips. Your hips worked relentlessly, pleasure growing and growing and growing as you bucked against him, uncaring of the mess you were making with the water flowing out of the tub with your movements, your body pressed against Liam’s and your cheek to his as you moan in his ear. “Liam, please?”

He coos, hands moving down to help guide your movements, your pace growing erratic as your orgasm finally hits you and you cry out his name against his neck, embracing him tightly as your eyes squeezed shut, hips still working as your orgasm was punched out of you, the feeling so hypnotizing that you had to bite down against Liam’s shoulder to ground yourself. “‘S’good,” you hear him tell you through the ringing of your ears, his hands leaving wet trail as they carve a path up your spine. “‘Yer good, baby. Hm? ‘S’all good, pretty.”

You whimper and slump against his chest. “Can’t believe we did that,” you mumble blearily as you feel the rumble of Liam’s laugh shake you. 

He kisses your temple swiftly and tenderly, an action that makes you bite your lip to stifle your smile as he does it once more, then again, then again, each time louder and sloppier than the last to the point that you have to push him away with fierce giggles and a peck to his mouth.

Smiling, he grips your waist tightly before standing up on shaky legs, hauling you with him as you wrap your legs around him, water going everywhere at the movement. “Liam!” you scold him as he begins to get out of the tub, legs shaky from the swollen ankle and the pleasure of you in his arms. “Your ankle!”

He snorts and pads back to your bedroom, trailing water everywhere. “If this isn’t what having super powers is for, the I dunno what is,” he mumbles as he quickens his pace, opening your bedroom door to bodily haul you into the sheets, mattress getting soaked at the contact as you squeal in shock against the pillows. 

“For saving the world!” you cry out just in time before Liam settles himself over you and silences you with a heavy kiss, smiling against your own joyous mouth as he nips at your lip teasingly. You bring him closer to you, hands threading in his hair and ankles wrapping around his torso as he presses you against the mattress with the force of his kisses.

“Pish posh,” he mumbles against your lips, making you roll your eyes as he dives back in, hands wet as they settle on your waist and on your breast, fingers working deftly with your nipple through the thin wet fabric of your top.

You sigh languidly, stretching out and pouting against Liam’s lips. “Take my shirt off,” you command him softly, to which he response with enthusiasm and shaky hands, nearly ripping your pajama top off you in his haste, your tits revealed to him as he sighs and buries his mouth in the valley of your breasts, nipping at the skin and leaving what you were sure to be a few marks.

His lips make a sloppy trail down your stomach, where Liam nips and sucks at the skin, downwards to your navel where he leaves closed mouthed kisses, and even lower to your mound where he mouths desperately at the clothed surface. “Can I?” he mumbles between kisses, looking up at you from between your legs in a way that makes your clit throb desperately. You’re nodding out a yes so quickly that Liam smiles in satisfaction, pulling down your sleep shorts and slipping your knickers to the side before he dive in with a bold lick up your slit, the warmth of his tongue making you squirm, before he kisses your clit teasingly. “Here?” he asks cheekily, eyes on yours as he pecks at the sensitive bud again, featherlight and not enough. 

You frown and reach down to tug at his hair, mashing his face against your cunt as he laughs and finally relents, reaching up to hold on to your wrists before settling them on the bed and webbing them to the mattress, far from reaching him as he shakes his head against your cunt and lets your wetness trickle down his chin as you moan loudly at his vigor. 

“Shit!” you cry out, hands squirming in his webbed confines as you try to buck away from Liam and his enthusiastic mouth, the sound of him eating you out so sloppy and wet that you blush fiercely, stifling moans and turning into breathless sighs as he pushes into you, taking your knees in his hands and pushing them towards your chest, opening yourself up to him and his relentless ministrations as he begins to suckle on your clit, making your hips buck wildly. “Liam, oh my god,” you breathe, trying to break free and clutch on to something, anything.

Liam pays no mind to your plea and only doubles down, jaw opening wide as his tongue darts down to collect the trailing wetness from your hole, moaning pathetically at your taste and the way that you drip down his chin like honey, he kisses your inner thigh once, sweet and tender, before diving back in with ferocity, shaking his head as he tries to get in deeper. “So sweet,” he mumbles between breaths, spitting against your cunt nastily before latching himself back to your cunt, the impending feeling of your orgasm so overwhelming that your body rebels against itself and tries to push him away.

“Too much!” you tell him, fists curling helplessly as your body tries to decide if it wants to get closer to his mouth or further, your panting breaths so ragged that every breath turns into a groan, your tits heaving and hypnotizing Liam as he looks up at you from his place between your legs. 

And that’s what does you in, the softness of his blue eyes, the feeling of his mouth latched to your clit, the way that his fingers began to prod and circle against your weeping hole. All of that combined makes your back arch and your mouth open into a high pitched moan, legs shaking in Liam’s grip as your orgasm rips through your body in syrupy warmth. 

Liam massages your thighs, running his big hands against the skin as you come down from your high, his lips still slick with the sheen of you, making you shiver at the sight as he finally rips the webs off you and settles himself back on top of you, making you cling to him with panting breath and stars in your eyes. “Jesus,” you mumble, kissing his shoulder. 

He puffs his chest up and pecks your lips sweetly. “Pretty damn good, huh?” he tells you with a waggle of his brows. 

You laugh, throwing your head back against the pillows in amusement, shoving gently at his chest to help him lay down before settling over him and mimicking the path he took from your clavicle to your navel on his own body, feeling his shift and settle as you lower yourself down, down, down, until your mouth was at level with his cock and there was nothing left to do but leave a cheeky kiss to the tip and suckling on the head, making him groan out and push his head against the pillows. 

His breath stutters as you spit on his dick, lolling your mouth open to take him down deeper, letting him hit the back of your throat as you gag noisily, in turn making him moan whorishly, gripping at your hair to anchor yourself as he mumbles a bunch of nonsense, so perfect, so pretty, my girl, my baby, so good, so good, so fuckin’ good, babe.

You moan enthusiastically, bobbing your head as the slick sounds of your mouth on him fill the room, your mouth working relentlessly as his chest heaved with pleasure and his brows knit and eyes closed shut at the feeling of it all. You skimmed your hands on his thighs, the warm weigh grounding as he shudders, his whole body shaking as you pop off him and climb back up, tracing the same path of kisses up his body and landing back on his lips, straddling him as you invitingly wiggle your hips.

“Talented mouth, nosy,” he pants raggedly, making you laugh bashfully against him. 

“Shuddup,” you mumble, embarrassed as his hands land back on your hips and guide you down onto his cock, making the both of you moan in tandem, sharing a breath as you gasped into each others mouths, the stretch of him inside of you so pleasurably blinding that it makes your nails bite into his shoulder with each inch you take inside of you. 

The two of you try to savor the feeling, moaning languidly as you seat yourself fully on him and swallow him whole, both of your gazes turned towards the way he fit so snugly inside of you and how perfectly you took him. You start slow, with your hips gyrating against him in waves, panting into his open mouth and trading smiles like kisses as you lazily nipped against all the skin you can reach.

And then he hits the spot deep inside you that makes you see stars, and the pace changes immediately, growing erratic as you begin to bounce on him, laying on his chest as you let your hips do the work, his own hands guiding your movements as he suckles on your neck. “Perfect girl,” he mumbles against your hairline, planting a kiss as you squeeze your eyes shut and work harder towards your orgasm, winding your arms around him in a tender embrace.

You’re so wet that you could feel your slick dripping down onto his balls, moaning against his neck as drool slips past your lips with the way he keeps hitting your g-spot over and over. You clutch at him desperately, wishing that this wasn’t the last time, nails scoring down his bicep as pleasure overtakes you and the melancholy of the moment invades the space.

Liam kisses your cheek, planting his feet down on the bed and thrusting upwards in a way that makes you cry out so loudly that you fear that your neighbors would call the cops on you. You bite against Liam’s shoulder, marking him up as he keeps punching moan after moan out of you, your clit rubbing against his pubic hair.

Then, when the orgasm approaches, Liam says it. “Gonna miss you, nosy,” he tells you, panting like a dog. “Gonna miss you so fuckin’ much.”

You swallow roughly against the tide of emotions in your chest, choosing instead to silence him with a kiss so bruising that you reopen the cut on his lip, letting his blood flow into your mouth as you grip him tightly, orgasm cresting within you as his pace grows erratic. “Miss you,” you mumble, garbled as the white hot pleasure courses through you. “So much.”

“‘M’sorry,” he mumbles out. “So sorry, nosy,” he says, punching out the last few thrusts as you cum, toes curling and cunt clamping down on him, bringing him with you as he spurts inside of you with a long drawn out groan.

The bedroom grows silent after that, nothing but the silence of your ragged breath and the pounding of your hearts telling you just how much you made a mistake. 

Which leaves you here. No job, nearly broke, and having just slept with someone else’s boyfriend. 

What a disaster.

lainey’s delivery service: @strwbryluver @gxnyadavid @bigbluedoeyes @highflyingcami @invinsabel @bunnyhopella @anjalfc @akasheselectric @simoneeyy @ngmyfav @ghostinyourhome @alicehighflyingbirds @veruschkaaaa @shesselectricc @youretheoutcast @connieloveslove @meggyboots @noelgallagherswifee @sonnyangel11 @babywewereborn @glaeiv @dirtyshirtgirll @charmlessgrrl @thegiriinthedirtyshirt @dilfliamgallagherishisbestera @oasisswag @d8isyann @letgotstyles @halftheworldawayy @celestialgallaghers @oliverwoodsravenclw @oliviastring (join thru the link/ dm to be removed) 💋

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▸ bags - clairo

the years slip away easily, don’t they?

noel always joked how the years often blurred in his head from the road and the drugs.

there were things he remembered all too well, though.

he remembered the vans first.

the mornings that sometimes would be too cold and sometimes would be far too warm for someone that’s carrying heavy gear, while the inspirals were laughing and cracking jokes he only half-listened to somewhere further back backstage.

the fringe would always fall over his eyes. he wondered what you’d say if you saw it. probably take the piss, tell him he looked like a knob. he’d grin to himself at the thought.

those were the easy parts. the harder ones came later, they always did when he was alone. when the gigs were over and the noise faded away and all left to do was think.

he’d always find a payphone, anyway. dig for coins and dial your number like muscle memory.

sometimes you’d pick up straight away. sometimes you wouldn’t – right, he’d think. time zones.

“hello?”

your voice always sounded smaller through the line. younger.

“alright?” he’d always say, trying to sound like he wasn’t waiting for it.

you’d huff. “where are you now?”

“some shite hotel. you?”

“home. trying to do homework but bonehead’s blasting music again.”

he’d picture you then. legs tucked under you, pen in hand, scowl on your face as you told bonehead to fuck off. sometimes the line would crackle. sometimes you’d talk for ages. sometimes not at all, just breathing, comfortable in the silence.

he kept the letters too. even the ones with messy handwriting, with ink smudged where you pressed in too hard. some had stupid little drawings in the corners, one of them was a terrible sketch of him with a speech bubble that said “i sound like a twat.”

he carried it in his wallet until he lost it somewhere in argentina. he spent the next week sulking – according to clint, that took the piss out of his expression without even knowing the reason behind it.

he remembers one phone call with liam, too. he hadn’t even mean to talk to him – his head was too full, simply asking mam would’ve been enough.

liam grabbed the phone anyway. and it ended up surprisingly being alright catching up with his brother, finding out he was in a band and all.

until liam opened his loud, stupid, big mouth. because when didn’t he?

“she’s grown up, y’know. popped her cherry and all that.” liam said, like it was gossip, like it was nothing. “little miss moody. took her long enough, can you fuckin’ believe it?”

noel’s brows furrowed for a moment. “fuck off,” he said shortly, drier than he’d like.

liam just laughed. “i know. saw the bloke giving her the eyes at the pub last week. figured it out, me. she nearly slapped me when i said it.”

“right,” noel said.

and liam kept talking, moving on already, laughing about something else – but noel barely heard it. his grip tightened around the receiver. because what the fuck’s the problem? he thought to himself. why does he feel a pit in his stomach? unlike his brother, who is clearly carrying on with the conversation with an indifference that’s doing his head in? why can’t he just keep talking just like our liam is doing?

don’t be fucking daft, noel.

he cut liam off anyway. “i’ll ring you later, yeah?”

he hung up before liam could answer. and then sat there over a big black gear box for a couple of minutes, reaching for a cigarette even though he had just finished one.

the lads clocked it immediately. “what’s up with you?” one of them asked with a laugh.

“fuck off,” noel muttered, lighting the cigarette a bit too aggressively.

“girl, is it?” another one chimed in. “got that look.”

noel scoffed, exhaling smoke through his nose. “don’t be stupid.”

don’t. be. stupid.

he remembers coming back to manchester. how it didn’t change much. same streets and same grey skies. the first thing he did was check out what the big fuss was over liam’s band. and when he walked into that rehearsal room his younger brother had been yapping about for months, something about it felt different. like something had shifted while he’d been gone.

liam was still the same, loud as ever. bonehead was tuning his guitar and talking about something not important. tony tapping out something useless. guigsy was half-asleep.

and then, there was you.

properly now. not only listening to your voice on the other line. not only seeing your face in a picture of you and claire, or one that liam would send where you’d be squished between him and bonehead at the pub down the street.

he saw you before you saw him.

but once you did, you froze in the doorway, like you’d walked into the wrong room. he laughed quietly in that little amused manner, and kept watching you anyway. the way you blinked like you didn’t trust your own eyes.

he’d thought about this. loads, actually. what he’d say. what you’d say. how it’d go.

ended up with a small casual “alright?” like always.

you just stared at him like he was a ghost. and then moved straight across the room, arms around him before he could see it coming – unusual, but he welcomed it gladly. it knocked the air out of him a bit, the force of it.

he laughed, surprised, but his arms came up quick, holding you just as tight. because fuck, he’d missed you.

he didn’t say it. didn’t know how. just held on a second longer than he should’ve.

he remembers that creation party, as well.

the night he met meg. because that’s memorable, of course it is. even with the mess inside his head for all these years, christ, you don’t marry someone you don’t at least like, do you?

he tells himself that sometimes – has been for years, actually.

but still, what he remembers more clearly, more annoyingly and more persistently, is you.

you were slightly off to the side, talking to some producer and not seeming fazed at all. it’s funny how much you didn’t seem to belong in rooms like this, but you did it just as easily as breathing. he felt like that too, sometimes.

he watched you longer than he should’ve. at the time, he blamed it on whatever was floating around in his blood, that his eyes drifting and landing on you didn’t mean anything.

never did, so why now? at least that’s what he’s been telling himself since he can remember.

you laughed at something the company lad had said, rolling your eyes and nodding along like the joke had just landed the exact way he’d intended to. it wasn’t flirting, it clearly wasn’t.

something in his chest pulled tight anyway. not from jealousy, but definitely in a way he didn’t like. a way didn’t understand, not fully. he never did when it came to you.

there’s always been something there, he’s not daft – the realization always popped in his head insistently before he brushed it off in the exact following second. because of a part of him. a small, stubborn, prideful part that keeps talking him out of it. telling him it’s just familiarity. it’s just history. that you’ve always been there and now you’ve changed. that he’s changed, too.

that maybe it was never like that in the first place and he’s just making it something it isn’t.

he kept watching, though. how you moved through the room, people stopping and talking to you, how you’d handle it with that same cool distance every time.

how you’d just… look so pretty, just standing there. or how sometimes you’d meet his gaze across the room and give him a small smile or a raise of your eyebrows. and how his heart would always pathetically skip a beat. every damn time.

because there’s always that other small part of him, as well. the one that’s always waiting for the right time. he thought about going over. a few times, actually. pushed off the wall once, even took half a step.

but he stopped himself, because what would he even say? christ. he doesn’t even know it himself.

meg saying something snaps him out of it. she’s been around the same group for a couple of minutes now. now, she laughed and touched his arm – and it takes him two seconds to lean into it.

it’s easier to.

still a shame he never got it right, though.

▸ back to the old house - the smiths

“what’s the story morning glory” came and went in that foggy blur.

he remembers the pool, though.

how he didn’t sleep that night. he tried for hours until he just stopped trying. he just lied there staring at the ceiling, replaying it all with unwanted and excruciating detail. that’s the closest it’s ever been to anything else. the closest you’ve ever been. that’s the most he’s ever said, too. and look where it got him. pathetic, he thought.

your voice echoed in his head. how it sounded softer than it’s always been. the way you said his name. the way you looked at him, how you looked like you had let your guard down, just for that moment.

the way you turned your face away anyway.

he remembers the “good night, noel.” and nearly laughs under his breath even though it’s not really funny, how fucking big of an idiot he is. it’s in disbelief, it’s clipped and it’s bitter.

he gets up at some point, lights a cigarette with a window cracked open, letting in the night air that doesn’t help at all. and he tells himself it’s fine. that he’s fine, just because he has to be.

he remembers new york, he wished to fucking god he didn’t, though. because he feels like from that night on everything’s been fucked.

he fucking hated how weird it’s gotten.

he hated that it followed him everywhere, even when it shouldn’t. how something is always crawling under his skin whenever he laid down with meg – or with every other woman even though he shouldn’t.

he hated how he didn’t apologize, how he didn’t have the balls to.

he hated how right you were about him being a coward, and how fucking tragically comical it was that noel was the one paying for his own mistakes.

he hated how colin stuck around.

he hated that you were sharper now – all clipped sentences and that look you gave people when they were wasting your time – and yet, when you’d laugh, it would hit him all over again.

because that’s when he’d realize you were the same.

same girl that used to roll your eyes every time he’d tease about selling songs all those years ago. same girl that never laughed at him for it.

same girl that looked at him with pride now that he’d actually made it and the same one that would never make a big deal out of it, because that’s just the most you thing you could possibly do.

the same girl he’d loved all along, and now, a girl that’s got someone. a boyfriend, fiancé, husband. what fucking ever. the titles did blend in his head – just because the nagging feeling in his chest stayed the same no matter what it was, didn’t it?

god, he really did hate how colin stuck around.

he huffed to the band that you were too quick with it when you got married. he hated how liam just looked at him sideways and how bonehead didn’t say anything at all. he hated how they actually liked colin – like noel’s the unreasonable one for despising the bloke.

the bloke that’s nothing but good to you.

he hated how bonehead laughed with him when they were both drunk. he hated how you watched it with a quiet pride like you were so happy that they’re getting along. because why wouldn’t you be happy about it?

he hated that when you got pregnant, he couldn’t even feel genuine joy.

he remembers it too clearly. you standing there, glowing and round with one hand resting absentmindedly over your stomach while liam grinned like an idiot, already reaching out.

“c’mon city!” liam laughed, pressing his hand over the bump before you swatted him away with a laugh. while noel just stood there, with his hands shoved into his pockets or busy with a guitar like he didn’t know what to do with them.

he hated how easy it was for liam. how natural it was for him, while the sweetest thing noel managed to say was “you don’t have to keep workin’, y’know. money ain’t the problem. you can take a rest and then come back. i’ll cover it.” one day backstage at a random tv show.

he hated how it came clipped. flat. he hated the way you just nodded, completely unaware to the fact that he wanted to say so much more, and how he simply didn’t. couldn’t. too late now, isn’t it?

▸ futile devices - sufjan stevens

he remembers the day anais was born. he’d spent months thinking about it – he thought there would be tons of screaming and nurses incessantly screaming “push, push!”

thankfully, it wasn’t really the case. it was all nearly a spiritual experience, and it was funny how meg didn’t even look like she had just delivered a baby. it was funny how noel was the one shaking when all he did was stand there and watch it all unfold with his eyes widened and a layer of sweat over his forehead.

when he picked her up, though, he cried like a fucking idiot. how could he not?

she was breathtaking. tiny and nearly as pink as the small blanket around her, and she changed something in him immediately as soon as he held her in his arms.

the routine in their house changed in a way he wasn’t really bothered by. the nanny helped, of course she did. noel had no clue what to do – he learned little by little over the weeks from watching and even getting hands on in the rare moments he wasn’t mortified about hurting that tiny thing without even meaning to.

sophia was born a month after. bonehead called and asked him if he was coming to the hospital for a visit, and he understood completely when noel said he couldn’t.

noel only called a month later.

in his defense, he’d been putting it off, because calling someone with a newborn didn’t really seem like a very good idea, did it?

he did send flowers the day you gave birth, though. big and stupidly expensive. the kind that made nurses comment on how pretty they were when they walked past. it had no note, just your name on the card. he figured you’d know.

▸ landslide - fleetwood mac

still, the call took him a month.

it was late when he finally did it. the house was quiet, anais and meg already asleep upstairs.

he stared at the phone for a bit before dialing and he almost hung up halfway through. you picked up before he could.

“hello?” you said quietly, almost hushed.

you sounded soft, tired, but still undeniably you.

he swallowed. “hey.”

there was a small pause, you recognizing his voice. then a quiet huff, amused and familiar all at once. “hi noel,” you said softly and then teased, “took you long enough…”

he let out a breathy laugh through his nose. “figured you had your hands full.”

“i do,” you said, and he could hear the smile in it. “she’s asleep now…”

he nodded to himself, smiling even though you couldn’t see it. “yeah. same here.”

a beat.

“how is she?” you asked.

that did something to him. small, but it did. he licked his lips and exhaled softly, resting his head on the back of the couch. “she’s good. loud. very loud.”

you laughed quietly on the other line. “yeah?”

“yeah. she’s fucking brilliant. looks like meg, thank fuck.”

you breathed out another little laugh, fingertips softly tracing through sophia’s little hairs as she slept soundly next to you.

“she looks like me, sophia. colin says she has his eyes, i don’t have the heart to tell him he’s absolutely wrong.” you said softly. on the other line, noel smiles weakly. “she’s quiet… only cries when she really means it, you know?” you add.

he breathed out a tiny laugh, “yeah?”

“mhm. always hungry too. killing my fucking nipples, actually.”

he chuckled at it, properly now. “sounds about right. meg’s been the same.” he murmured, a small smile tugging at his mouth as he stared up at the ceiling.

a pause settled, gentle.

“and how is she?” you asked after a moment, voice still soft, still quiet.

he blinked slightly at that, “she’s… good. knackered. but good.”

“yeah,” you breathed it out with a tiny laugh, understanding. “figured.”

he shifted on the couch, dragging a hand over his face before asking, almost like he had to push it out. “how’s colin?”

“he’s good. in la shooting.”

he nodded to himself, “right.” then, noel added, softer. “what about you? you okay?”

you hummed softly at his question, “yeah…” you said after a second. “yeah. i’m okay.”

you sounded like you meant it. tired, but happy.

he smiled to himself at it, small and private. something like longing in between.

there was a faint shift, the sound of you moving. maybe settling more comfortably on the pillow, maybe adjusting the blanket around her. in a way that made the line go quieter, more intimate. like the rest of the world had just turned off.

“y’alright on your own?” he asked, voice a bit lower now. careful, like he didn’t want it to sound like something else.

you breathed out a little laugh. tired and fond. “when aren’t i?”

he huffed quietly at that, a small shake of his head even though you couldn’t see it. stubborn little thing, some things never change.

another pause settled between you. he could hear sophia shift faintly on your end – a tiny baby noise, the adorable kind. your voice dropped even softer straight after, instinctive. “shh, it’s alright…” you murmured.

his chest tightened at that. something about hearing you like that – gentle and automatic – did his head in a bit.

“she alright?” he asked quietly.

“yeah,” you whispered. “just moved.”

you let out a small breath, and he could almost picture your hand smoothing over her head, the way he’d seen meg do with anais.

another beat.

he shifted again, fingers tapping lightly against his knee before he spoke, a bit more hesitant this time.

“think they’re gonna be friends?” he asked, it came out softer than he meant it to.

you smiled, he could hear it. “anais and sophia?”

“yeah…”

you let out a quiet hum, like you were already picturing it. another breathy and fond tiny laugh, “yeah... yeah, i think so.”

god, he missed you.

he kept staring at the ceiling, hearing your breathing on the other line.

“gonna be the mam that makes them pirate forts, hm?” he said after a moment, his voice softer. he was making an effort to keep it steady.

you laughed, low and tired. it pulled something warm out of him, always did. “obviously.”

noel smiled to himself.

▸ not a lot, just forever - adrianne lenker

some seconds of silence passed again.

on your end, sophia let out a tiny sound again. you murmured something gentle, so tiny he could even hear your mouth softly moving.

he closed his eyes, just listening to it. maybe building up the courage to hang up, or maybe taking this small moment to imagine you on the other line. his heart ached either way.

you spoke softly, gently cutting into the quiet.

“noel?”

he took in a deep breath.

“hm?”

a few seconds of silence settled in, he could hear your breathing.

he couldn’t see your face looking at sophia, how your brows were softly furrowed in that small hesitant way, while your hand kept softly soothing her.

“what?…” he asked again, quieter now.

you exhaled softly.

“we’re… alright. aren’t we?” you said, so quiet he almost thought he imagined it.

he closed his eyes, his hand tightening around the phone, while his free one went to his chest. his palm rubbed slow and wide circles right over his heart, like the action would soothe the ache as he began thinking about everything.

“yeah…” he answered, just as soft, just as weak. “course we are.”

he shifted slightly on the couch, his palm rubbing his own chest slower now, just because the feeling wouldn’t get better.

there were so many things he wanted to say.

i miss you.

i hope you’re okay.

still didn’t know how.

“you… get some sleep, yeah?” he said instead, quietly.

you sighed softly, nodding to yourself. “you too.” you said just as quietly, another second of silence settling in afterwards.

you huffed softly to yourself before you spoke, like you were almost embarrassed by it. like you thought it would sound childish, daft.

“don’t be a stranger, noelly.” you said quietly, softly.

his eyes closed tighter at it, immediately. like hearing you say it felt like a punch right in his gut. the muscles in his forehead softly crinkling as his brows furrowed, he presses his lips tightly together because they started to tremble. his breath caught in a way he hoped you wouldn’t notice, at the same time the insides of his nose started to softly burn, in that annoying way he hates.

because noel hates crying, he hates even more how badly he wants to now.

noel hates how badly he misses you. and he hates how, now, it doesn’t feel like he’s allowed to say it anymore.

he hates that even with everything seeming perfect in his life, he still doesn’t feel complete. not when there’s still that persistent ache in his chest, because he knew exactly where it had all gone wrong.

he hates that he knows exactly what’s missing. who’s missing.

noel hates how much he still loves you. how he’s loved you since forever – even when you two were too tiny to even know what love is – and still, he doesn’t know how to say it.

his fingers curled against his chest, like he could hold his own heart in his hands.

he clears his throat, realizing he should answer to what you just said.

“yeah, won’t…” he said weakly.

you licked your lips, “okay…”

i miss you.

i miss us.

none of those came out.

“good night, noel.” you said softly.

he exhaled slowly. “night, love.” he said, hoping you didn’t catch the sad edge his tone held or how his voice trembled.

the line clicked off anyway, and the quiet came back all at once. because the things that sat permanently in his chest still didn’t come out.

i miss you.

i love you, and i think i always will.

── .✦

▸ about you - the 1975

the silence was the same now, even three years later. noel was sat down in the same living room, only this time, no one was upstairs anymore.

it’s almost funny how much he remembers. he swears his memory would’ve been fucked by now. because as he remains sat down on his couch with a beer in hand, he even forgets why he went all the way down memory lane in the first place.

he shakes his head with a small sigh, taking another sip of the beer and looking down at the invitation once more – the one that sits on top of the world’s most organized messy mail pile right over the coffee table. some newspapers, some other invitations he couldn’t really be arsed, some magazines and even some documents that are far too important to be sitting there.

this tiny piece of paper feels more important than anything else, though. it has a pink lace and it’s adorable in a way it makes him laugh to himself, because of course you would – for her.

Noel and Anais Gallagher, you’re invited to celebrate Sophia’s 3rd birthday!

February 22nd, 2PM.

Bywater Street, 505.

Please RSVP.

he watched it for another second before placing it down alongside the other pieces of paper. he made a mental note to confirm first thing tomorrow morning before getting distracted by the other few prints underneath.

the newspapers he hadn’t thrown away just because.

NOEL & MEG – WHERE DID IT ALL GO WRONG? NME. September 6th, 2001.

Oasis songwriter Noel Gallagher has split with wife Meg Mathews as baby daughter Anais approaches three years of age.

A spokesperson for Oasis confirmed the split this morning, saying: “They have simply drifted apart over the last year or so. Their relationship started when Oasis were still in their infancy, and the couple have been together through the whole meteoric rise of the band, and the turbulent years that followed, always under the constant glare of the media. Many things have changed in that time, including themselves it seems. For the time being they have amicably decided to separate.”

Noel is thought to be planning to stay at the couple’s home in Buckinghamshire, which has a recording studio, while Meg will stay at their London flat.

The songwriter had met at a party from the former Oasis label Creation where Meg had been working and instantly fell in love. However, at the time, Noel said that they had “met through drugs” and worried that they may fall out of love once they both stopped taking them.

Noel famously stopped taking drugs during the recording of the band’s last album ‘Standing On The Shoulder Of Giants’ – cocaine paranoia was the inspiration behind one of the most acclaimed tracks ‘Gas Panic’.

The announcement that Noel and Meg are heading for divorce will come as a surprise to many celebrity watchers, as the couple’s marriage seemed one of the most solid in UK showbusiness.

The pair even sold their famous Belsize Park mansion Supernova Heights last year and moved to the country to spend more time together and escape the hectic London social scene. And after Noel finished traveling with Oasis in their latest tour, the pair spent weeks together relaxing at their luxury Ibizan villa. However, the last pictures of the couple sunning themselves on the villa’s terrace showed Noel looking uncharacteristically miserable. And now… we may imagine why.

JONES AND WIFE SEPARATE AMID RUMORS The Independent. January 7th, 2002.

Actor Colin Jones and British Oasis manager wife have confirmed their separation, bringing an end to their low profile marriage.

In a brief joint statement released yesterday, representatives said the couple has decided to “part amicably” a couple of months ago, the divorce now being fully resolved in court.

The announcement follows months of speculation in both British and American tabloids suggesting Jones had grown close to a co-star during the filming of his latest project. Sources on set described the pair as “inseparable,” though the official representatives for Jones have thoroughly denied any infidelity allegations. Close friends of the American actor said he is “devastated” by the breakdown of the marriage.

Those familiar with the British divorcée say she most certainly will continue working, maintaining her professional commitments within the orbit of Oasis and declining to address rumours publicly. “She won’t perform heartbreak for headlines.”

The couple married in a small London registry office ceremony in 1998, attended only by close family. At the time, friends described the relationship as steady and grounded, a contrast to the surrounding noise of their jobs. Now, the pair affirms to remain focused on co-parenting their nearly three year old daughter, Sophia. No further details were provided.

and in the same quiet, even though everything else has changed, the same things remained sat in his chest, how they always did whenever he thought of you.

i still miss you.

i still love you, and i always will.

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