babyblue

liam’s first matcha

Liam should be served on a cone, swirled up and poured with sprinkles with the way that he’s gotten all soft and sweet as of late. Truly, he was a fucking piece of soft serve, melting under your sweet gaze and glossed lips. And sometimes, he couldn’t even muster up the energy to be embarassed about it.

He’s barely even dating you. Just casual, you would always say — which would always drive him crazy because the way his heart always leapt inside his chest at the sight of you couldn’t be classified as casual in this world or the next.

But he had just gotten you to agree to a date. And another after that, then another, and another, up until the two of you had gotten to the point of keeping up a text thread of plans and future dates that Liam’s trying hard not to sound too eager about. But fuck, you just turn him into absolute putty in your hands.

These days, Liam spends his morning walks thinking about how you were probably fast asleep in the pajamas he had once seen a glimpse of in a coveted selfie he had fought hard not to save into his phone for fear that you would somehow know and call him out on it.

He spends his lunchtime practicing new dishes that he could maybe probably absolutely make for you if he ever gets the guts to ask you to come over, Liam watches telly and wonders if you like the same programs as he does, he calls his mam and wonders if she’ll like you, he showers and wonders if you like the new soap he’s trying out. Liam’s gone absolutely fuckin’ mad.

And he can’t really go on like this. Not when he’s nearing his fifties and he’s got his new solo career waiting in the wings. That really won’t do. So he shakes his head, calls his sons, and plays the part of the responsible father for a day. Maybe having those two moody knuckleheads around his place would give him something else to think about other than what your hair would feel like between his fingers and where you said you’ll take him on your next date.

So, Liam putters around his house; he takes down all the curtains he could get his hands on, washes them himself, puts them back up, and decides that it really doesn’t match the interior. Has it always not matched the interior? That’s how he ends up taking a quick trip to the shops, hood pulled up high just so people won’t stop him for a picture and he won’t have the urge to ask them Does this shade of blue look tacky to you as well? Without the opinions of nosy passerbys and with the thought that he should have maybe held off until the kids were there with him to make themselves useful, Liam settles on three different sets of curtains, just because he can’t decide and just because he can afford it. So he jets back home, looks at his bare windows, and gets back to work.

By the time he’s done putting up all the curtains — the blue ones that look less tacky in the natural light — Liam’s deciding if he should maybe put the olive green ones instead. Which is why he decides to unscrew the curtain rods once again, back protesting so loudly that it echoes over the loudspeaker playing Neil Young.

So Liam does it again, he takes off all the living room curtains, before deciding that maybe he should keep some of them up for reference, and hanging them back up side by side, royal blue and olive green, clashing like a horrible lakeside view.

Scratch that idea, then. Maybe the thick velvet ones would work best, Liam’s body protesting as he mounts the ladder once more and slots the taupe velvet curtain next to the blue and green. Then, he steps down and decides.

He decides and decides and decides, head tilted at an angle as he surveys each one, his eyes half trained on his phone, definitely not waiting for a text from you. Maybe you would know which curtain was best. Should he text you? Should he call? Should he ask you to come over?

Before Liam could make any hasty decisions, his phone finally rings and he nearly jumps out of his skin as he scrambles to reach for it, already sliding the accept button without looking at the contact name.

Would he be a terrible father to admit that he wilted when he heard that it was just Lennon calling to tell Liam that he was on his way? Maybe.

He even goes as far as to check on your text thread as soon as Lennon hangs up, staring wistfully at the screen as if that would magically make you respond. Annoyed, Liam sets his phone down and surveys the living room once again, deciding to sweep up the floors just in time before Lennon comes.

Sweeping turns to mopping, mopping turns to wiping down tables with cloths, wiping downs tables turns to wiping down the newly exposed windows, which then turns into flopping bonelessly on the couch as soon as the front door opens and Lennon walks in, brows first as he judges the state of his father’s living room — one window crammed with three garish curtains, the rest either bare or halfheartedly donning blue curtains that Liam was starting to hate.

“Alright?” Lennon asks, cautiously approaching Liam with skeptical eyes.

Liam rolls his eyes and simply pats the space on the couch next to him. “Oh, just sit down and wait for your brother, will you?”

A snort, but the kid mercifully follows suit anyway, making himself comfortable beside Liam. “This isn’t one of your weird little things isn’t it?”

Liam wrinkles his nose in distaste and looks at his kid. “What weird little thing?” he asks. Have his kids been monitoring him like he had been monitoring them? The thought had never really crossed Liam’s mind.

His son makes a face, one that particularly reminds him of the kid’s mam back in the day when Liam was being deliberately thick — about drugs, women, or the previous night’s activities that often involved both. But this time, it’s Lennon giving him the look and Liam’s not even done anything incriminating. Yet. Maybe. He’s not really sure. All he knows is that he can’t stop thinking about you and the way you chewed your strawberry gum the last time he saw you, the way your well manicured nails looked holding a pool cue, the way that your hair looked as soft as silk.

Lennon shakes his head. “You’re being odd,” he mumbles. Liam resists the urge to shake the kid for clarification. “And you went overboard with the fuckin’ curtains, man. What are these colors?”

Liam heaves a deep sigh and almost sinks his entire body into the couch, his bones aching with the retroactive pain of running around the house like a headless chicken with a final mission of arranging curtains. Now, he surveys the room and he thinks that this is quite possibly the ugliest he’s ever seen his living room. Still, he asks Lennon, “Which one looks best?”

He snorts, laughing. “None, ‘ya old dog,” he guffaws, wrinkling his nose at the garish curtains. And quite frankly, Liam does have to agree. He’d ask himself what he was thinking, but really he knows he wasn’t thinking at all.

“D’ya wanna go to the shops with me and pick some curtains out?” he offers hopefully, another mad grasp at straws to keep you out of his head.

Lennon chuckles. “Only if Gene wants to,” he says. Which really, could mean anything based on that boy.

With a sigh, Liam says, “Now, we wait.”

“Now we wait,” says Lennon.

“You would think the kid would grow up to be more punctual,” grumbles Liam as Lennon faffs about on his phone. Kids and their phones these days, inseperable, Liam thinks.

“Relax,” Lennon placates, then, “Hey, have you heard about —“

It’s great to be with his kids again. Somewhere along Lennon putting him onto a new band and telling Liam about this new girl he’s been talking to, he starts to think less about you and more about the current. But still, you linger — in the back of his mind, not too far away that he can’t reach you, but not maddeningly at the forefront that he can’t even pick curtains correctly.

So Liam lets himself be taken away, hands flying as he tells Lennon some story about the gigantic bird that Sid had taken inside the house between his tiny mouth.

It’s not long after that that Gene finally comes through the front door, awkward teenage swagger first, gawky grin second as he greets both Liam and Lennon with the enthusiasm only a kid his age could manage. In his hands he holds his very nice and very posh overnight bag that Liam had bought a while back, and in the other he holds an iced drink that Liam annoyingly identifies immediately identifies as the drink you’ve always got in your hands. Liam smiles, standing to pat him on the back and say something snarky about watches not existing in Gene’s world.

He lets the kid snark back, lets him amble up to his brother and pretend to punch him before asking to go outside and have a fag, sparing a look to Liam and telling him to catch up. Before he could yell at them to be careful with the backdoor as he’s just fixed the hinges on it, the two disappear in a whirlwind of laughter that Liam’s happy to have in his home.

He shakes his head, grabbing his own cigarettes off the console table, and in doing so, is faced to face with Gene’s drink, already dripping condensation onto the lacquered wood. Liam grunts, lifting the plastic cup and wiping the ring of water dutifully with the hem of his shirt, and placing a coaster under it. That kid, Liam thinks, always forgettin’ the fuckin’ coaster. Time and time again.

With a quick grab, he takes the pack of cigarettes and places them in his pocket, but not before training his eye back on the drink.

What was so special about it anyway? You’ve told Liam before that you couldn’t live a day without it. And true to your word, Liam’s never seen you without it. When asked on what it tastes like, you always laugh that tinkling laugh of yours and tell Liam, a bit patronisingly if you asked him, that he shouldn’t worry about it as he wouldn’t like it anyway.

Now was his chance. The green drink sits on his center table, half full and seemingly fresh as if inviting him to finally quell his curiosity. Without a second thought, Liam grabs it and takes the straw to his lips, taking a sip as if that would bring you and him closer together. As if knowing the taste of your favorite drink would make him understand you better, would entwine your souls, or would open some kind of third eye.

Instead, he sips on the drink and spits out right back out with a violent grunt as some droplets fall onto the carpet. Disgusting, he thinks as he swipes at his mouth.

You’ve got disgusting taste, it seems. Meaning that Liam’s got a shot with you if you were willing to bet on such a fixer-upper as that vile concoction.

An acquired taste, you told him once.

Liam tries not to let his chest warm as he leaves the living room and heads out into the garden where his boys are laughing like hyenas.

liam’s first owala

It was this fucking heatwave that got you acting all fussed about Liam’s health as if he was on his deathbed instead of just sitting at a healthy and happy fifty-three.

He’s known you for six years now, been dating you for five of them, and Liam knows you inside and out. And right now, he knows that you’re just concerned for him — but that doesn’t stop him from being a bit miffed.

“It’s just a bit of sun,” he waves you off as he wipes the sweat off his face with a face cloth, his parka cooking him from the usual walk that him and Buttons have just taken. “I’m made of tougher stuff, babe. Not gonna melt or anythin’ daft.”

You pitch him with a look, the one with the clenched jaw, twitching brow, and disappointed frown that he knew too well. You’ve been going on and on and on lately — sun cream, water, UV protectant clothing. As if he was gearing up to go into the wasteland instead of his usual London neighborhood.

“Liam, this is serious,” you say pointedly as you putter about after him, Buttons trailing after both of you curiously. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that Liam had been feeding Buttons in the mornings after walks, and you had unknowingly been feeding her a second breakfast as soon as you woke up. Once the both of you realized, you had weaned her off the breakfast fit for a Queen, and she had been clingier than ever.

“Still alive, aren’t I?” he asks, walking down the hall and into the master bedroom, happy to be in an airconditioned room after walking around in the humid heat. He’d never admit this, but he had cut his walk short this morning, his lungs winded and his knees weak as he led Buttons to a shaded area to laze about until he decided on going home.

You huff and step in front of him, a hand on his parka-clad chest as you stop him from getting into the en suite bathroom for a shower. “This stupid parka, too,” you grumble distastefully at the material in your hands. Liam has to bite a fond smile at your adorable annoyance. He’s done that before, gotten so heartstruck at the way your face crumpled up in concern over him and his hip — he’d let a smile slip, to which he regretted it almost immediately as soon as you continued your rant with renewed vigor.

“Don’t like it, hm?” he teased, moving closer to you with a swaggering step as he took a risk with taking your hips in his hands.

You glare up at him, hands still on his chest. “You’re gonna die of a heat stroke,” you tell him bluntly.

He guffaws, head thrown back and everything as you give little aggrieved smacks to his torso. “I know I’m old but fuck,” he snorts. “Don’t have to be looking forward to it so much.”

Your brow furrows as you pich his arm and Liam responds by hissing. “Not funny!” you yelp. “That’s so not funny, Liam! I’m being serious here, you oaf!”

He lets his chuckles die down before assessing you, your distressed expression paired with the way you were still letting him hold you meant that you were still in a good enough mood to hear him out. So he starts, “Listen, yeah? I’m good with the walks and everything. Do I get a bit winded and hot? Yeah, of fuckin’ course. But I’m fine aren’t I?”

You frown at him. “But what if you aren’t?” you challenge. “What if you think you’re alright until the very last minute that you aren’t?”

Liam knows that worrying is part of who you are. Hell, part of your job is expecting the worst and preparing for all of ot with carefully curated spreadsheets and Plan A to Plan Z. So he knows that this is just you being you.

But he also knows that love sometimes means knowing when to back up.

So Liam backs up, with an aggrieved sigh, he says, “I’ll take a shower then we’ll talk about this, alright?” he says. Because honestly, he doesn’t want to see you worry over him a minute longer. But also, he felt quite gross in his sweaty parka and the heat that was trapped inside. And he wouldn’t admit this openly, but you may just be right with the whole heat wave thing.

And the smile you give him is worth it, like a breath of fresh air after all that frowning you’ve been directing to him. And really, Liam can’t help but tilt your chin up with two fingers for a sweet kiss to your glossy lips, tasting of the cream cheese toast you’ve undoubtedly had for breakfast and the disgusting matcha that Liam’s learned to like through shared kisses.

Three days later, your affectionately bought survival kit arrives in the mail, a baby blue Owala bottle that matches your flashy little pink one, only without the clinking charms and sparkly stickers, a new UV-ray sensitive parka that Liam spent hours being picky about, a silly hand fan that Liam knows he won’t use unless you give him a wack around the head, and a full bottle of sun cream enough to last him up to his 70th birthday.

So he takes the bottle on his walk, the annoying weight of it swinging around and making him grit his teeth at the fact that this was yet another thing he had to worry about. But really, it was all worth it when he got home to see you grinning and giddy at the sight of Liam drinking from what is essentially an adult sippy cup.

He does it again, just to see that same smile of approval, then again, and again, and again, until his water bottle’s part of his everyday routine and he’s pissing bucketloads, and the damned thing has finally earned its very first sticker.

liam & the calico critter

Much like a lot of modern things you like to yammer on about, Liam didn’t understand it.

You’ve always been one for an odd little trinket or a cute little accessory. Quite frankly, Liam knew you were close by if he could hear the telltale clack of your heels, the birds start to chirp around you, and the metallic clanging of the myriad of keychains you had on your bag or tied to the belt loops on your hip.

It was as adorable as it was confusing. What are they even for? For my joy, Liam. How much do you spend on them? I can afford it, Liam. How do you chose which ones to bring with your for the day? It speaks to me? Like, literally? No, Liam. I usually base it on what I’m wearing.

All those questions and he still couldn’t really get a grasp of it. But you got a kick out of the cute little things, so he let it slide. What’s the harm in a little knick knack or two?

But the first night that you had gotten your precious little critter was a night Liam always remembered. It had been your birthday, a night spent in a secluded part of a restaurant near your place, all your friends and a few siblings coming to join in celebration, and Liam had been the lucky bastard to sit beside you the whole night and pepper kisses to the exposed column of your neck.

He remembers this night so vividly because he had gone through various lengths to get you the dress that you had been talking about nonstop. It was an old one — from the archives of Betsey Johnson, and Liam had to fucking work to buy it. Honestly, it had been no easy feat. And he was quite sure that it would be the best gift of the night, something flashy enough for everyone to approve of his choice, but something personal enough that it was still very you.

And like he predicted, you had encircled him in a vigorous hug as soon as you opened his present, laughing into his neck as you muttered your disbelief and your adoration as you looked up at him with sparkling eyes and kissed him so hard that the crowd of your friends began to groan and wolf whistle.

But that was nothing compared to your reaction when you had opened Vera’s gift to you. She hadn’t even been one of the friends introduced to him as a childhood friend or anything like that. She was just Vera from work, but she had gotten the pleasure of the best reaction of the night from you as you unwrapped her gift and squealed so loud that Liam thought that that was the end of his hearing for good.

You had gone so far as to climb over Liam’s lap to get out of the shared booth you were in, scrambling to your feet with giddy laughter as you ran to Vera and hugged her so tight that the two of you fell onto the floor with happiness, yelling, “Oh my god I can’t believe you found one!”

“What’s so special about the little thing, anyway?” Liam asked, the both of you back at his place after the party had ran so late that the sun began to rise. Currently, your head was laying in his chest, your hair tickling his nose, and the comforter wrapped around the two of you as you lazily awaited sleep to come. Little did he know, that wouldn’t be the last of his neverending questions.

The sheets rustled as you angled your head up to meet his eyes, his chest squeezes with affection at the intimate sight. “The Calico Critter?” you ask.

He hums, arm coming to wrap around you beneath the sheets, your skin warm against his as he tries to get you as close as possible to him. “Yeah,” he says. “‘S’ a tiny thing, innit?”

You smile, a soft little thing as you shift in his arms and reach for the critter at your bedside table, contorting your body so that you don’t have to separate an inch from him. You return with a triumphant smile, facing him with the thing held preciously in your palm “Ta-da!” you say, giddy.

Liam nods and takes the thing from you, pinching it between his forefinger and thumb. God, his thumb was bigger than the little critter and it already got you smiling like this? Trying to be supportive, Liam asks, “What does it … do?”

You laugh, amused at his lack of knowledge. “It doesn’t do anything, Liam,” you tell him, in that tone that means that he’s supposed to know that, obviously. “It’s just a critter!”

“Yeah, but…” he says, trailing off as he rolls the figurine in his hands.

You sigh and take pity on him, taking back your precious critter away from him and tenderly putting it in your palms. “Calico Critters are this line of little animal figurines. They’ve got cats, dogs, mice, rabbits, even moles,” you explain before shrugging. “And they’re really cute.”

“So this one is … just cute?” he asks, head spinning in confusion. Then why react like you’ve just been gifted a fucking Porsche, then?

“This one,” you say with that same tiny smile that always has the power to drive him mad. “Is really rare. I’ve been looking all over for it. Etsy, Vinted, Depop, Reddit threads — anywhere,” you say even as Liam nods along and pretends to know those sites. He’s heard a few of them before when you’ve been scouring the internet for a nice pair of vintage heels.

He nods. “And this particular one is important because …?” he asks, squinting to look at the furry thing in your palms, dressed in a kitshcy little getup.

At that you beam, blindingly bright as you hold the thing up to your face and proclaim, “Because it’s me! See!” you exclaim.

It took him a while to see the comparison between his marvelous girlfriend and her furry little figurine, but the more it stays on the bedside table, the more that Liam comes to appreciate it.

It’s grown to be somewhat a part of your days as well. He sits it back up when it gets knocked down, you bring it with you on days that you think your outfits match, you bring it for trips to beaches and cities and mountains, he turns it away when his hands wander a bit too low below your waistline.

Liam’s gotten used to it.

What he isn’t used to is being the one to tote it around across the globe.

It was bad enough that you had dismissed his idea of going on tour with him, stating that you had work to do and client’s schedules to appease. You somehow still managed to weasel in a task for Liam to do while he was heartsick and missing you.

“Just bring her with you!” you said as Liam was packing his suitcase, your hands shoving the critter gently between a parka and a pair of jeans.

He huffs, “And what will she do?”

You rolled your eyes, “She’s a toy, Liam,” you say exasperatedly, smiling cheekily as you did so. “She’s not gonna do anything.”

He snorts, “Yeah, yeah,” he says.

“C’mon!” you say, pleading your case. “This way you’ll have a piece of me around, yeah?”

And really, he couldn’t say no to that. “Yeah, alright,” he relented before pointing sternly at you. “But she isn’t going in the suitcase,” he proclaims. “She might suffocate.”

Your laugh was well worth the odd looks he got at the airport for having the little critter peeking out of his parka’s pocket.

And if he was being honest, he found it quite fun. He would find reasons to text you, sending photos of the critter between his thumb and forefinger, looking out the airplane window, facing the Eiffel Tower, eating a nice Spanish breakfast, sunbathing on a hotel lounger. You always reacted with such enthusiasm that Liam found himself thinking of what else he and the critter could do to get your attention.

Once, he had even taken a photo of the little thing with a cigarette held up to its mouth by Liam. He had laughed up a storm at your response filled with mock disappointment and copious emojis.

He had even began placing it atop the amps at his gig for good luck, a way of having you there with him even though you were already miles away.

It had even began garnering attention, the kiddies over on Twitter asking questions about it that Liam didn’t particularly want to answer.

But he’ll be damned if he didn’t say that he felt his heart clench in his chest after a gig one night, walking from the dressing room to the van, as a young fan came up to him and offered him a tiny little critter.

“For you,” she said shyly, handing him a dog clad in baby blue. “That’s you,” she said.

liam & matching keychains

It was only a matter of time before your clinking and clanking army expanded to Liam. Especially when he knew he had a hard time saying no to you. Really, all you had to do was tilt your head and widen your eyes and he’d be sucking his teeth and saying yes with all the begrudging of a man who’s really right where he wants to be.

So when you came across a pair of sheep on a little keychain, one with a pink scarf and hat while the other one donned a blue one, Liam knew that you were immediately coming home with them. He saw it with the way you melted at the sight, with the way you kept caressing the soft cotton material, the way you checked the price tag surreptiously — and like clockwork, “I’m gonna buy it.”

And like always, he combats, “Don’t be fuckin’ daft. Just use my card.” You don’t always let him win, saying something or the other about the importance of letting you do your own thing or whatever. But this time, you smile, concede gracefully, take his credit card from his palms, and plant a glossy and fruity kiss to his stubbly cheek.

He watches you as you weave seamlessly through the shop, ending up at the counter where you tap your high-heeled foot onto the floor in subtle impatience. He watches as the cashier smiles at you and seems to compliment your choice of purchase, he watches the way you brighten and launch into a story with your hands flying wildly around you. Maybe you’re talking about the way you and Liam had gotten lost on the way to this shop. Or the way you had heard of it in the first place through that phone of yours. Either way, halfway through your spiel, you whip around to find Liam across the shop, waving at him as you no doubt introduce him to the now wide-eyed cashier who definitely knew who he was.

You leave the store two sheep keychains heavier, and Liam one autograph down. But it isn’t until the pair of you get home that Liam realizes what the other keychain is for.

“Absolutely not,” he says, trying and failing to put his foot down as you stubbornly attach the blue clad sheep to his usual satchel. “No,” he tries again, but you only smile as you fix the tiny thing where it now hangs on his zipper, before booping its nose gently.

“It’s cute!” you protest, sauntering over to him as you settle yourself beside him, your perfume addicting to his senses.

He huffs, trying to put on a tough front. “‘S’not even rock and roll,” he grumbles, shaking his head even as you openly laugh at him. “I’m not a sheep,” he protests.

You snort and pat his knee consolingly, wedging yourself so close to him that Liam could almost feel himself forgiving you already. “No you aren’t,” you say, in that tone that Liam knows is condescending and very much meant to just poke fun at him. “But isn’t it so cute! Your bag looks quite bland, doesn’t it?”

“That’s because you’re supposed to put stuff in it instead of outside of it,” he teases, shaking his head at you in mock disapproval as you roll your eyes in retaliation. “C’mon, babe. You’ve already got me toting around them critters.”

“So what’s one more?” you challenge with a raised brow, your smile so filled with love that Liam feels like a heart attack on legs. “Don’t you wanna match with me?”

He’d match outfits with you if you asked. But would he let you know that? No, not really. Some things were meant to be kept close to the chest. So he grumbles and groans and puts up a fight, trying to tell you that there were much better animals than sheep and that he’d much prefer a bear or a tiger to hang from his bag rather than a placid sheep.

You laugh and laugh and laugh at him, already smiling like you know you’ll win. Liam’s spoiled you rotten, really — handed everything you’ve ever wanted on a silver platter because he’d rather choke than see you unhappy. Just last week, he remembers following you around like a lost pup at Waterstones as you surveyed the shelves and paid for your haul with his card afterwards.

So it isn’t a surprise to him that he goes out a week later, his bag hitched cross body around his torso, and a tiny fucking sheep with a stupid blue fuckig scarf and hat on the zipper.

The sun wrote Sheep’s Electric as their headline after that, and you laughed so hard that your wine came out your nose. Liam joked about how gross you were, but he had gone and gotten you a tissue and planted a kiss to your hair anyway.

liam’s first face mask

He remembers when he was still living at home and his mam would spend the little time she had to herselves sat by the telly with whatever program was on. At the time, he didn’t understand it — why spend your day looking at other people on a screen when you can go outside and make the most of life?

But now that he’s essentially made the most out of his life, bumming around by the telly was one of his favorite pasttimes. And to make it even better, bumming about with you was his favorite thing ever.

You had introduced him to a myriad of shows. Just a few months back, you had him glued to his seat every episode of some summer show with two brothers. You had been quite enthusiastic about it, and Liam, had fallen for it as well.

Then, you got him hooked on Love Is Blind, the two of you making snide commentary under your breath and between mouthfuls of crisps as you giggle to yourselves, more entertained by each other than the telly.

Then, there was that lord and lady show you liked to watch, which he always teased you about liking by saying that you were just hooked for the softcore porn. But the joke was on him as you managed to herd him to the sofa to watch a couple episodes, and he ended up hooked right up to the last second.

So it was safe to say that you ran the remote at his place. And Liam always let you because he was quite content to sit and watch whatever you liked to sit and watch, as long as ge could curl up with you and be lazy for a day. And with adapting your taste in shows, comes adapting your tastes in snacks — those crisps with flavors like jalapeño and salted egg that make him wince but ends up eating half of anyway, the fruity little sodas you bought in bulk, the chocolates shaped like eggs that make his throat burn but can’t get enough of anyway.

Often, you’d even have to fight with Liam for the rights to your own snacks, pouting at him whenever you come home just to see your stock of foods at his place go down by a few pieces after Liam’s indulged in a few munches.

“It’s my food!” you’d protest, not entirely angry as you stand in the kitchen with your hands on your hips.

“It’s my house! I bought ‘em!” he’d retaliate, snarking his way through the argument as you inevitably rolled your pretty eyes at him, your fresh set of lashes fluttering in a way that Liam finds entirely alluring. And because of that, he reels back, “I’ll buy ‘ya some more, yeah? Hm, that okay with ‘ya, moody madam?”

You’d snort and shove at his chest weakly, the contact making him weak at the knees. “Pig,” you’d tease him, only to regret it as his hands migrate to your waist and begin tickling you so relentlessly that you begin shrieking between bouts of laughter.

After that, he adopts the way you react to your precious television shows. Now and then, a rogue slay, leaves his lips which makes you so twitchy with laughter and embarassment that Liam’s chest swells up with pride even as you whine about not ever wanting to hear that from him again.

Shockingly, he doesn’t resist much when you bring one face mask more to one of your coveted times of lazing around. More likely because you sat straddled on his lap as you placed it, cooing about how adorable he was in a way that Liam knew meant that he looked ridiculous more than endearing. But still, he placed his hand comfortably on the swell of your arse and pretended not to know that placing a face mask didn’t take as much time and kisses as you bestowed upon him.

Really, Liam’s always been curious about it — more so as you began using it more and more around him. You’d always rambled on about cooling gel and aloe vera and rejuvination that he began to wonder how it would feel on his own battered skin. You’ve always looked so relaxed when you wore it, and Liam’s been itching to ask you for one without making a fool of himself.

But he’s a lucky bloke anyway, because you offer it up to him like he hasn’t been thinking about it every time he sees you with one on. “It’s jasmine scented!” you cried with glee, wriggling on his lap as you carefully smoothed your hands on every plane of his face.

“What’s that smell like?” he asks, letting his head hit the back of the couch and his eyes droop downwards.

You hum, “Calming,” you answer.

He snorts and pinches your hip lightly. “You’ve got no clue, have ‘ya?” he laughs, opening one eye to peer at you and your steady hands with amusement.

“Shut up, Liam,” you tell him, and he obediently follows. “Jus’ relax, yeah?”

He nods, not minding the fact that you’ve been caressing his face for a few minutes now. It’s then, with your hands on him, the weight of you in his lap, the scent of what must be jasmine in his nose, and the feeling of the cooling mask on his face that he feels absolutely relaxed. He could do this more often, really.

liam’s first pimple patch

He doesn’t tell you, but you’ll know soon enough.

A few things happen that morning that has Liam all scrambled; he wakes up and you’re not there in his bed, Buttons notices your absence as well as Liam does, and he’s got a masive fucking pimple on his chin right when he’s got a big fucking interview. Fuckin’ grand.

So he takes Buttons on the usual morning walk and tries not to scratch at his itchy chin and make things worse, he comes back and makes breakfast and tries not to scratch at his itchy chin, he cleans up the house and tries not to scratch at his itchy chin, he texts you good morning and tries not to scratch at his itchy chin, and he feeds his cats and tries not to scratch at his itchy chin, but then he goes upstairs to pick an outfit and forgets all about the volcanic level pimple he’s sporting and scratches at the spot, making him cry out undignified at the pain.

Buttons’ ears perk up as she pads closer to Liam, concerned and intrigued at his pain as he hisses and tries to breathe in and out. Wasn’t he too old for fucking pimples? Didn’t these things have an age limit? Because they should.

He tries to shoot you a text, but he knows you’re busy and preparing for a meeting with a client so he refrains from distracting you witb stupid questions. Instead, he busies himself with laying out an outfit, before heading to the shower to finally get ready.

He sees it in between brushing his teeth and hopping in the shower — a little pack of yellow stars sitting by his shaving cream and razor, alongsied a pink scrunchie and that odd stone you like to rub on your face.

He’s made fun of you for it, called you his little galaxy whenever you wore them. But you always turned your nose up and told him that it was so that your pimples weren’t exposed to the world — and predictably, because it was cute.

Now, he looks at the damned thing and wonders if you were right (You always are). He ruminates on it as he spits out his toothpaste, as he scrubs himself in the shower, as he lathers shampoo in his hair, as he rinses off and hops out the shower, as he puts deodorant and dresses himself, and really, he almost lasts until the very last second.

He’s about to leave the bedroom when a clatter sounds from the bathroom, making Liam sigh and putter back in. On the ground is his fallen toiletries, making him groan as he bends to pick them up. And at the center of it all, of course, is the cluster of stars that seem to scream out to him.

It’s a sign! you would have said to him if you were there. You loved to believe in that sort of shite. So with a snort and a belief that he was doing what you would want him to do, he picks up the patch and places one stupid star on his chin, right above the pimple.

Once the interview comes out, you text him a myriad of capital letters and emojis that Liam knows convey how much you found it amusing. And really, he’s glad to be of service.

liam gallagher and the art of soft launching

The two of you had talked about it many times. The kids knew, his mam knew, your friends and family knew, and it was just a matter of time before the press found out. In fact, they were already starting to catch wind of a mystery girl, a few pictures and eyewitnesses stating that he’s been spotted out and about with a pretty young thing half his age.

For all your fuss about trends, you didn’t get along much with social media. You were a private person with a private life, and Liam would hate to be the one to take that away from you. But you had told him, time and time again that you were choosing this life, choosing him.

So the two of you talked.

“No statements,” he said firmly, the two of you laying on a sunny beach somewhere in the south of France, his hand on the warm skin kf your exposed stomach as he cuddled up to you, not minding the heat one bit. “Nothin’ formal or fancy.”

You hum. “I don’t want any interviews,” you lay down your nonnegotiable, sunglasses perched elegantly on the bridge of your nose.

He nods. “No makin’ a spectacle of it,” he says. “But I ain’t want The Sun to prod into it either and take this away from us, d’ya know what I mean?”

You nod. “I know,” you respond, letting the waves crash and fill the silence between you and the scent of sand and sun cream swirl in the air. “You could always just soft launch.”

“What?” he asked, nose wrinkled in confusion and his hand tracing idle circles on your skin. You had a habit of saying words and phrases Liam never understood, mostly young person slang and internet lingo that the kiddies on Twitter hadn’t managed to teach him yet.

You shrug, your limbs lazy and languid from the sun. “It’s like …” you say, trailing off as you try to find the right words. “Letting people know you’re in a relationship but not exactly who it’s with.”

The groove between his brows deepen. Fuck, he was old. “What?”

Pariently, you explain again. Liam thinks you’re a saint for that. “It’s like posting a picture that’s inherently romantic, y’know?” you ask, making sure he was following along as he nods for you to continue. “Maybe it’s a candlelit dinner with someone’s hand on the tablecloth, a bouquet of flowers being handed to you, a picture of a kiss mark on a cheek. You know they’re dating someone, but you don’t know who the someone is.”

“So,” he asks, feeling dumb as a rock. “It’s pictures?”

You nod and don’t even laugh as you do so. “Exactly. Always taken at an angle where you can’t really see who it is,” you say. “So everything’s private but it isn’t really a secret.”

You’re a genius. A damn star and Einstein’s second coming. He expresses his love for you through a kiss on your bare shoulder and asks “So when d’ya wanna do it ?”

You laugh this time, not sparing him anymore. “You wanna do a soft launch?” you ask woth incredulous laughter.

He shrugs. “Why not?” he asks. “Old dogs can still learn new tricks, an’ that.”

You snort and shake your head affectionately. “I don’t think that’s how the saying goes, Liam.”

“Well, that’s how I’m sayin’ it anyway,” he says.

You chuckle and reach in your tote bag for a book, already checking out of the conversation as you idly say, “Do whatever you want, Liam,” you tell him. “I’m all in, either way.”

And it’s there that his chest constricts with affection, from the pure trust that you’re giving him. He’s been in the spotlight for years, this wasn’t new to him in anyway. But yet here you are, private and quiet but still wanting to burn in the spotlight with him anyway.

He looks at you, already sucked in by your book, and bites a fond smile as he pulls up his phone, taking a picture that he’s sure has his thumb on the corner again like you always scold whenever he takes pictures of you.

The beach is bright and warm from where he sits, the view even better with you to share it with. On the ay over, you had spent the flight with your head on his shoulder, snoozing the day away with your mouth slightly open and the tiniest snores coming out from it. He wouldn’t enjoy this without you, that he knows. And the fact that he wants to stay in this moment forever is a testament to the tenderness of his heart.

What better moment to share than one filled with so much love and trust?

And also, you looked quite fit in your bikini. So, there’s that.

liam & the photobooth pictures

Later, when his phone’s been silenced and the two of you have washed the sand off your feet. You take a picture that’s just for the two of you.

In a dingy alley sits an old photobooth, and past the short curtains that block the light from the outside, peeks a pair of pink sandals hanging off the lap of a man clad in bermuda shorts.

Grumbles can be heard from the inside, as well as a few stray giggles, and a delighted squeal. When the photo’s all developed and the couple’s still sitting inside, enjoying each other’s company behind the curtain, two strips fall out the slot — a woman kissing a man’s cheek, a shot of her almost falling off his lap with laughter, a pair of giddy smiles, and a tender kiss to seal it all off.

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 @pugatr0n @xerxeneea @dancinginredshoes11 @wtsthstrymrnglry (join thru the link/ dm to be removed) 💋

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★ 1994.

you had been sitting in front of the mirror for what feels like an eternity. you know that’s normal when nerves are creeping in, but right now, after fantasizing – or dreading – this date for a whole week, it feels like something is off.

it happened at the pub, noel and liam had just finished performing when tom approached.

he was sweet. he was in the same class as one of your friends and he kept his hands where you could see them. he didn’t let liam’s loudness startle him – maybe noel’s stare a little. but oh well.

at the end of the evening, just as you were saying goodbye far too early and he had just come back from a smoke outside, he asked you out. he did it casually, mentioned a nicer pub down his street that had incredible fish and chips.

you said yes, part because you wanted to and part because you never really knew how to say no – your cheeks get warmer just at the thought of coming up with an excuse that sounds silly.

but right now, you were fidgety. your lipstick didn’t quite look right, the mascara looked clumpy and you think you might’ve overdone it with the blush. christ almighty.

and of course, noel wasn’t helping.

he stayed sat down – nearly laying – on your bed from the moment he walked inside your room, back rested on your headboard and some pillows, arm absentmindedly resting over some plushie toy he had mocked you for several times already, legs sprawled over the mattress.

he quickly realized that watching you fret over your reflection was quite amusing.

it’s a contrast no one really knew how to explain why the fuck it would work, you two. but it did.

noel had this annoying calmness over him. smugness, even – the kind that made him walk through the door of your house at the same time your mum was leaving for her night shift and not even tremble in his trainers with fear that she might realize he was off his tits.

eh. i chewed a piece of gum. put some cologne on to disguise the smell. the red eyes are just tiredness, miss. band’s beggining to take off right now, do you know what i mean? writing too many songs. oh yes, of course i can give your nephew a few guitar lessons, and don’t even fret, i wouldn’t dream of charging him.

at her playful words “take care of my girl” he gave her a charming smile alongside a polite nod that said when don’t i?

have a lovely shift!

while you were a pile of nerves, constantly. always worried of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, always overthinking and shaking like a scared little puppy just for correcting a wrong order at a new restaurant.

now wouldn’t be any different.

you were nervous for this date – terrified, really. your hands kept fumbling and knocking over little bits of makeup that clattered softly against the floor. you didn’t notice how many times you bent down to grab them, muttering “fuck sake” to yourself, cheeks already warm with frustration.

noel had to fight back a smirk every time you did, because what you hadn’t noticed either is that every time you’d bend down, the clumsy action would give noel first class seats to look at your new pair of lacy blue underwear.

yeah, yeah. he’s a prick. but you see, it seems like the weed he has smoked went straight to his cock rather than to his head. so much that, for the first time ever, he’s deeply considering actually making a move on his cute little girl mate.

you’ve done it five times by now. from the second one foward he’s been hard underneath his jeans. having to adjust himself every single time, even tilting his head to follow the way your skirt flaps up… and down.

he has noticed you’ve got a nice arse before. but christ… this is new.

he could tell you bought the pair just for tonight. he knows you won’t do anything, but still. it was there – that silent desire of finally understanding what all the fuss was about.

the thought made his cock stir inside his trousers once more. god, you’re so cute. so sweet. but at the same time, it made his jaw tighten. the thought of some boring prick getting to see that blue lace hugging that perfect ass? fucking unacceptable.

you’re not gonna do it with the lad, that’s for fucking sure. so… what kind of friend will noel be if he lets your precious money on these pretty pair of underwear go to waste? it would be a tragedy to let those knickers stay dry all night.

“what’s the lad’s name again?” he asked, tone unbothered.

you sighed shakily, shaking your head at your reflection and muttering out quietly, whispering exasperated. “doesn’t… fucking look right…” you talked about the eyeliner, completely ignoring noel’s question.

“oi. ‘m talking to ya,” noel called out. not rude, a little amused to be honest. he raised his brows and smirked faintly as you turned your head towards him, finally paying attention. “the lad’s name, love. what is it?”

you inhaled, already turning back to your reflection. “tom.”

noel scoffed. and before he could say anything, you cut in. “i know. but he’s… nice. he’s sweet, noel.” you said softly, tone dripping with sweetness despite the nerves.

he snorts at that, laying further back on the pillows with his neck slightly propped up so he could keep looking at you. he puts his arms behind his head as he winds you up. “he the king of england or summat?” he mutters. “know it’s your first date and all but, fuckin’ hell.”

you frown a little at his tone, glancing at him through the mirror. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“means you’re actin’ like it’s life or death. it’s a pint and some chips, not a bloody wedding.”

you huff softly, turning back to your reflection and immediately looking down at the table, makeup products scattered everywhere.

“it’s…” you cut yourself off with a soft sigh, putting the cap back onto your lipstick as an attempt to make this less embarrassing, “it’s not just that, noel...”

“what is it, then?” he presses in a little further, not mean. not curious, either, because he knows. of course he does. he just wants to hear you say it, he just wants you to give him his perfect cue.

you hesitate. and then, “i’ve never… never kissed anyone before.” quieter now, like you’re admitting something embarrassing.

he stays quiet for a second. like something’s just clicked into place, something he had already figured out was now being handed to him properly. his tongue presses into his cheek, tilting his head as his eyes drag over you in the mirror again.“that so, love?” he says, lowly.

you nod a little, already embarrassed, already looking down again, watching your fingers fiddle with the edge of your skirt. “yeah. it’s— i mean. it’s not a big deal.”

he doesn’t say anything else, he just keeps watching the back of your head. until your turn, eyebrows slightly scrunched together, hands on your lap picking at your rings.

“right?” you ask, quieter, needing him to confirm it, to tell you it’s not as nervewrecking as it suddenly feels.

his tongue darts out to lick his lips, a small effort to hold himself from smirking at the sight of you. your pretty face, your lips tinted with lipstick, the way you’re sitting there all unsure and soft and a little too trusting for your own good.

then he exhales lightly through his nose and tilts his head, patting the mattress – your mattress – beside him. “c’mere.”

your heart skips a beat. “what?”

“c’mere, love” he repeats, nodding once toward himself, like it’s obvious.

you hesitate, but not for long. because it’s noel, isn’t it? your noel. so you step forward, slow, until you’re standing right beside the bed, knees nearly brushing the mattress.

he reaches out, taking your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his thumb warm and grounding as it glides over your knuckles. “well… that can’t happen, can it?” he says softly, a touch of thoughtfulness.

you furrow your brows softly, looking at his face while he gently holds your hand. “what can’t?”

“you goin’ out there like that, love” he says, like it’s a fact, giving your hand a small squeeze. “never been kissed, don’t know what you’re doin’… you’ll just embarrass yourself.”

you swallowed gruffly, because he’s just putting into words what you’ve been worried all along. “i— no-“

“you will,” he cuts in, even softer this time. “gonna freeze up. overthink it. lad’ll think you don’t fancy him.”

you falter. then you sigh, slowly plopping down and sitting right on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking softly right beside him as he watches you.

his hand that’s holding yours drops until it’s resting on your lap, “s’okay. birdie…” he coos, letting go of your hand and caressing your thigh – reassuring, but he takes the opportunity to slip a finger under the hem of your skirt, like it’s accidental.

you’re so in your head you don’t even think too much about it. and it feels nice too…

“just… thought… about just— just going with it, you know?… see what happens…” you said quietly. you shifted your head so you could look at his eyes, but you didn’t quite meet his blue gaze back – too entranced by the sight of his hand sliding over your thighs, caressing it.

he gave your leg a soft squeeze, shaking his head. “nah, that’s rubbish, love…” he said lowly, still gliding his hand over your thigh, finally looking back at you like he was deeply concerned. “can’t have you goin’ out there clueless. not with a lad who doesn’t know you…” – he then did a little tsc with his tongue like he couldn’t stand at the thought – “that’s just not right. what if he tells his friends?”

your hands were shaking now, and he could tell if he pressed in a little further he could make you fucking cry. he won’t. not like this, at least. so he took your shaking hands into his, holding them gently.

“tell you what, though.” he says softly, like he’s offering you something harmless. “i’ll help you, yeah?”

you blinked at him, eyebrows furrowing softly as you watched him shift. he sat straighter up, his broad back properly resting against your headboard now, legs slightly spread in the way men’s always are.

before you could even process what he was implying, even before heat could flush up to your cheeks at the mere thought, noel’s hands slowly moved.

his grip on your hands tightens just slightly, guiding you forward until your knees pressed into the mattress and then – just as easily – he’s pulling you onto his lap, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“there we go…” he murmurs, voice low, pleased with himself in a way that makes your lower belly tighten.

your body stiffens over his lap. because you’re wearing a skirt, and you know your body, don’t you? you know that this, just this, will already get you wound up. right over his lap, with too little pieces of fabric to disguise.

“noel…” you start quietly, even try to shift away so it doesn’t get that embarrassing.

but his hands find your hips, over the fabric of your skirt. they’re big, so the smallest amount of steadiness from his palms keeps you right where you are, in the gentlest, warmest way. “shhh… hey, s’alright. just easier to snog like this, innit?” he says easily, thumbs brushing small patterns on your hips.

you swallow, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself. your heart is racing now. too fast, too loud. you nod anyway, because he’s right. he always sounds right.

he nods softly. a small smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as his hand moves to your back, rubbing it in gentle wide circles, while the other one approaches your face. “relax, yeah?” he says, brushing your hair back from your face before settling back on your thigh.

you nod again, nervously looking down at yourself straddling his lap. your skirt has ridden up a little with the movement, and his hands are resting warm against your thighs, now knuckles underneath the hem as he brushes slow, absentminded patterns that don’t feel absentminded at all.

he smirks as he follows your gaze. his hands slide a little higher, just under the hem of your skirt, fingertips grazing skin that feels too sensitive all of a sudden. “cute skirt, y’know,” he adds casually, like that’s all.

“we’ll just… practice a bit. then you’ll know what you’re doin’, yeah?” he shifts under you as he says it, casually. the movement makes you inhale shakily, anyway. your hands tighten on his shoulders without thinking.

maybe it’s the thickness of his jeans.

you don’t really know what an erection feels like. not properly, so definitely not when it’s pressed right up against you with barely anything in between. but there’s something there. something firm, warm, twitching slightly every time either of you move, and it makes you swallow harshly.

your hips shifting just slightly, involuntarily, like you’re trying to adjust, or maybe trying to understand the feeling better.

noel nearly smirks at the sight, because he knows what’s going on down there. and of course you’d react like that, wouldn’t you?

he doesn’t adress it, though. not yet.

his hands slowly slide from the front of your thighs to the side of your hips, his fingertips brushing the soft skin of the ass he’s unapologetically been staring at for the last hour or so.

he leans in, slowly.

then, he whispers, “no rush, yeah? just… follow my lead.”

his breath brushes your lips as he says it. the delicious mixture of mint gum and weed and cigarettes makes you dumbly nod, involuntarily leaning in as an attempt to meet him halfway.

the kiss starts slow.

at first, it’s a press of lips followed by a soft breath leaving your nostrils. you’re not quite sure what to do next, thankfully, noel’s hand goes to the side of your face, gently resting over your cheek and his thumb lightly pressing down on your chin so you can open your mouth for his tongue.

when it does, you can’t really stifle a tiny moan in. because his tongue feels so soft against yours, slow and perfectly warm. it only makes him hum, pleased, like he’s just proven a point. his hand slides down to the side of your neck while the other stays over the soft skin of your hip, feeling your muscles tense underneath his touch – he can even feel the way you’re throbbing right over his clothed, warm erection.

the kiss turns a little wetter, messier despite still slow. quiet little sounds – of your tongues moving, of the tiny and wet sounds of your lips smooching, of your breath catching – fill the room in between your shaky inhales.

the soft sounds could be passed as something sweet and tender if your knickers hadn’t been ruined already. it would be romantic if noel didn’t really know what he was doing to you. if it wasn’t on purpose, but all of it is. every soft squeeze he gives your thighs are filled with intention, every accidental shift of his hips is purposely to add the tiny pressure that makes you clench around nothing.

your hands don’t really know where to go at first, hovering awkwardly before finally settling on him, gripping at his shoulders, then sliding up. the soft absence of his hair slips right between your digits.

he moans at the feeling of your hands sliding over his neck, his shoulders, his jaw…

you feel it like a fucking lightning. because your body reacts to everything, to every slow drag of his tongue and every heavy breath he lets out. it doesn’t take much before your hips twitch over his lap, a small, involuntary movement that gives you away completely.

noel pulls back just enough to look at you, and his lips – smudged with your lipstick and slick with spit – are already curling up into a smirk.

“what’s wrong?” he asks, voice low, amused. he already knows the answer.

your chest moves faster than usual, your eyes search for his but nothing comes out of your stammering mouth.

his hands slide down your thighs again, slow and deliberate. he caresses the skin under your skirt like it’s nothing. “d’you wanna stop?…” he adds, softer.

but he doesn’t wait for an answer. instead, he slowly leans in until his lips are on your neck.

your breath catches instantly, your eyes flutter shut and your hands wrap around his biceps like you’re holding on for dear life. because you don’t want to stop – you just don’t know what’s happening to you. you’ve never felt this aroused before.

he continues leaving wet and slow kisses along your skin. his nose brushes under your ear and he takes in the sweet scent of the perfume you’d put on for another lad – he smirks to himself, because right now, your body keeps reacting to him.

you try to say something, but it comes out broken.

he pulls away then, looking at your glassy eyes. his hand slowly shifts to your face, brushing your hair away as he watches you, like he’s not doing all of this on purpose. “d’you wanna stop, darling?” he asks again, like he doesn’t know the answer already.

you shake your head eagerly, “n-no… no…”

he raises his brows, gentle and mocking all at once. still smirking. “no?” he asks softly, shaking his head just like you, but slower.

“no… it’s… it’s okay. don’t… don’t have to stop, noel” you try to reassure him calmly, like your head isn’t spinning.

“yeah?…” he asks sweetly, leaning in and pressing another kiss to your lips. he feels you trying to slide your tongue inside his mouth again, but he doesn’t do it back – he just smirks against your lips and carries on. “why d’you get all nervous, then?”

your mouth opens, closes again. your breath is uneven as you try to come up with something, because how do you even say it? that if you even move an inch he’ll be able to hear how wet you are?

but noel shakes his head slowly, “s’okay, love…” he murmurs, voice low as his hands slide over your ass – caressing and grabbing it softly, slowly. “can feel it, y’know.”

you swallow, eyebrows pinching together for a moment as he drags you over his crotch. he just hums in response, leaning in again and saying it against your lips: “fucking soaked through, baby. no need to lie, is there?”

you breathe out his name, needy.

he gives you a soft kiss, gentle, almost like he feels bad. “poor birdie. don’t even know what to do with it, do you?” he says quietly, fondly.

your face burns instantly, breath catching as you shake your head just a little, more instinct than anything else. far too gone to realize that you’re full on admitting it.

he just coos you in response, nodding softly, “yeah… i know, i know…”

his hands grab your ass a tad firmer, pulling you closer and making you shift on his lap. he guides you forward, making you slowly rub yourself over his hard and warm cock strained underneath his jeans. he shows you that he’s equally as turned, like it’s just part of the lesson. “feel that?” he says, quieter now, almost amused.

you let out another tiny moan, a shaky one as your head dips forward, forehead resting on the side of his neck as you nod, shyly.

he exhales softly through his nose. “see? feelin’ it too. means you’re doin’ it right, yeah?” he adds. his hands slide again, almost lazy and a tad bolder as they caress your inner thighs now. “hard as fuck. jus’ for you.”

you breathe out his name, eyebrows furrowing just from how bad you want it. his fingers come up again, brushing lightly over your jaw, turning your face just enough so he can look at you properly.

your lipstick is ruined. your lips a little swollen from kissing. your eyes are glassy in that pretty pleading way.

he shakes his head, caressing your cheek. “look at you…” he murmurs, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip, smearing it just a little more. “can’t send you out like this, can i?”

you blink at him, dazed. “y-yeah?” you whisper.

“yeah, darling. can't go out like this… date won’t be any good if you're this worked up. you'll be distracted. wouldn't be fair to the lad, yeah? need to clear your head first.”

you stammer a little, but he’s quick to cut off any logic thing you might say – he’s your friend, you’ve got a date, you’ve never done this before… anything that might keep you from crossing the line you desperately want to.

“nah, love… s’alright… just gotta help you first, don’t i? lemme make you feel good, then you go to your lad. how's that sound, hm?"

it sounds logical in the hazy fog of his scent and the ache between your legs – especially when his mouth is back at your neck again, slow and warm and distracting.

you nod dumbly, trusting his shitty excuse because you simply don't know any better, and noel always seemed to know everything.

“y-yeah…” you breathe out.

“yeah? sounds good?” he asks softly, already sliding his palm upwards your inner thigh.

you nod eagerly, eyes glassy as you watch his face and the way he’s completely mesmerized by your needy expression. he’s mirroring your action and nodding back, nearly mocking and fully smug.

his finger press down your needy clit over the drenched fabric of your knickers, your hands immediately grasp his shoulders.

his brows furrow for a moment. “fuck… look how wet you are…” he says it lowly, nearly breathing it out, like he’s impressed and feels bad at the same time.

you moan as he starts circling your clit, eyes tightening shut as he drags out the pad of his fingertips over the slick fabric.

“n-noel… i…”

“what, hm?”

“please…”

he smirks at your plea, tipping his chin and saying lowly, “this ain’t enough f’you, hm?”

you let out a shaky huff, shyly shaking your head no. noel hums in response, leaning in to give you another slow kiss. his tongue drags warm and lazy against yours, and you melt into it immediately, hips pathetically searching for more of his touch.

then, his fingers slide underneath the lace. you break the kiss with a gasp, one that immediately becomes a moan. he presses a soft peck over your lips, the corner of your mouth – the fabric clinging to his knuckles doesn’t stopping him from circling your clit with a ridiculous precision you’ve only fantasized about.

“better?” he asks quietly, lips brushing yours again like he’s being gentle.

you nod desperately, your bottom lip feels a little sore from how much you’ve been biting it. he breathes out a tiny laugh at it, shaking his head once to himself as his gaze trails down your body.

his eyes land on your thighs spread for him right over his lap. your skirt is pushed up, allowing him to watch his fingers rubbing circles around your clit, the drenched fabric pulled to the side exposing you to him.

the wet and soft sounds of his fingers working your cunt make him lick his lips, tilting his head so he can even get a better look – furrowing his thick eyebrows nearly in pleasure just at the sight.

“such a pretty cunt you’ve got here, love” he praises, and his voice makes your head spin – tipping to the side without you even meaning to, eyes closing and lips agape as you softly pant.

he hums at your needy sounds, but his eyes stay fixed where you’re soaking his fingers. “mhm… look how wet it is…” he says nearly absentmindedly as he watches it attentively, like he wants to commit the sight to memory. “so pretty… looks so sweet…” he murmurs, lower now.

his free hand moves closer, his index and middle fingers spread your lips apart, his other hand still slowly stimulating your clit in gentle and precise circles.

“no one else has ever touched you here, yeah? just me, innit?” he asks barely above a whisper.

you shake your head, fast and eager and needy. he hums in response, slowly nodding like he’s almost proud of the fact. not pulling his eyes away from your cunt even for a second.

his two fingers rubbing your clit widen the motion, slowly, until they’re teasing right over your entrance – picking up the wetness you’re letting out and feeling you clench around nothing. but he didn't go in.

he just keeps teasing your needy opening. dragging down… and taking a little longer to go back to your clit again. then, he repeats like it’s nothing, like you’re not a whimpering mess already, nearly begging.

because he wants to hear it.

“please,” you breathe it out, whispered like you’re embarrassed by it. your head involuntarily shifts closer to him, lips accidentally bumping against his jaw. “noel… please. please, noel…”

he smirks, only then looking up. “what?… d’you want me to put it in?” he asks, breath warm against your lips. slowing down even more.

your breath stutters, and you nod eagerly. your hands clutch at the sides and back of his neck, forehead nearly pressing against his. “p-please,” you beg, and it comes out small, needy. breaking around the edges. “i’ve… i’ve done it myself. it’s okay, you can—”

he smirks even wider. his lips press against yours a little firmer now, his finger pushed in just enough to tease you, then away.

“yeah?” he says roughly, still quiet. his head tilts just slightly, eyes dragging over your face and taking in how you’re trying to not break the kiss. “you have, have you?”

you nod, fast, desperate. already dragging him for another kiss, panting a little harder.

then, he moves his hand away. the stammering protests die in your throat as he speaks, before you can chase his touch again.

“show me then.”

your heart drops. heat crawls up to your face so fast you feel like it could explode your head. “w-what?”

he keeps his eyes on your face when he takes your hand – his fingers gently wrapping around your wrist before you can even think about pulling away. he looks down to watch his hand guiding yours.

“show me how you do it when you’re alone, love” he murmurs, like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.

you hesitate, eyebrows furrowing softly. he does a soft ‘tsc’ with his tongue, his thumb caressing your wrist while his other hand rests on your thigh, spreading them further on his lap. he tips his chin towards you softly, the way when he’s silently saying cmon.

“said you’ve done it before, sweetheart. let me see how you like it, hm?”

he can feel your hand shaking, he can see how you swallow roughly at his request and at how he’s not letting you back out in the gentle, softest tone.

you don’t pull away, you simply obey.

your hand trembles so violently it’s a miracle you can even find your own entrance, but the moment your own skin touches the slick, swollen folds of your cunt, a tiny sob catches in your throat.

he hums quietly as he keeps the gentle grip on your wrist, pushing your hand softly until your digit slips, so easily it feels like you’re doing it all on your own. you’re so wet it’s effortless, your hole greedily swallowing your finger as you start a slow pace.

it’s different when he’s watching – everything feels hotter, shameful and perfect all at once. and his voice, his hands, his smell… him. everything about it makes your head spin.

“that’s it…” he murmurs, almost under his breath, pleased. “good girl…”

his words makes your movements falter for half a second before picking back up again. your finger slides in and out so slowly it makes a gushy noise every time – one that’s like music to noel’s ears. you curl them softly every time you push in, but it’s not enough to reach your most sensitive spot.

his thumbs dig in softly in the flesh of your thighs every time a tiny moan slips out of you. noel’s eyes are blown wide, tracking every movement of your hand, lips parting as he watches.

he nods absentmindedly, not pulling his gaze away. he shifts one of his hand, pressing his palm over the aching bulge that’s formed inside his trousers, while his other thumb keeps brushing soft patterns on your inner thigh.

“how many, hm?” he asks quietly, voice dipping lower as his head tilts slightly, eyes dragging back up to your face. “how many fingers have you put in, hm?”

you whimper softly, clenching around your own finger and closing your eyes as you furrow your brows, shyly. “noel…”

his hand resting on your inner thigh moves until the pad of his thumb presses over your clit. you gasp at the feeling, head tipping back and the words escaping before you can even realize.

“t-fuck. one… one, noel”

“yeah, love? just like that, then, yeah?” he asks softly, still drawing slow circles on your clit as your own finger slides in and out. you nod, desperately – his other hand immediately shifting to the button of his jeans at the sight.

his thumb keeps moving as he slowly drags his own zipper down. like he’s in no rush at all.

“and what d’ya think about, hm?” he murmurs, voice low.

your breath hitches, your head shakes faintly, more instinct than anything else.

“course you do, love,” he cuts in softly before you can even try to deny it. his thumb presses just a little more firmly, enough to make another moan catch in your throat again. “everyone does…”

your head drops foward, face now buried on the side of his neck as your hips stutter. he smirks to himself, turning his head enough to whisper right in your ear.

“what d’you think about when you’re fingering your pretty cunt, hm?"

your lips part, and his name slips past them in a soft, broken moan that makes his mouth twitch. it makes him nod, smug and satisfied. like he’s praising you for giving him the correct answer.

“mhm… that’s it” he praises softly. his hand slides up the back of your neck, his fingers are firm and tender all at once as they thread into your hair, guiding your mouth back to his.

and yet again, you’re too deep in the feeling of his tongue on yours to even form a coherent thought. to even keep moving your finger inside yourself. all you notice is him shifting underneath you, his hips lifting off the mattress just so he can drag his trousers down, enough to free his leaking and hard cock.

his hand in your hair tightens just enough to pull you back, breaking the kiss before you can chase it again.

you whimper softly at the loss, mouth slightly agape, breath uneven. he gives you a soothing peck on your parted lips, then the corner of your mouth.

then, his grip shifts, guiding your chin downward so you can see his hand wrapped around his cock, stroking it slowly.

it looks intimidatingly real in the dim light – his tip is flushed and leaking, the soft hairs on his crotch make you start moving your finger inside yourself cunt again, and the way he’s touching himself right now makes you let out a shaky moan.

he’s fucking big, too. not that you have someone else’s to actually compare to, but you’re aware that that’s the “a lot” your girlfriends talk about once they’re sharing their sex experiences in between class breaks.

it makes your head spin in nerves and excitement all at once.

the soft, shaky breath you let out seems to make him stroke himself with a little more intent. he lets out a low moan at the friction just to make you loose it a bit more. his fingers tighten in your hair without even meaning to, and he doesn’t move your head even an inch, because he wants you to watch – just like he’s been doing to you for the past few minutes. your fingers curling in and out like you don’t know what to do with them anymore.

he raises his brows in mock innocence at your reaction, like he didn’t even see it coming. like he has no idea what it’s about.

fuck me, if the birds he’s slept with had that reaction and they aren’t even virgins, he can only imagine what you’re gonna be like once his cock is fucking you relentlessly.

he’s no monster – he’s a prick, sure. but he’ll start slow, right? he’ll make sure you’re soaked like this once he slides in. he’ll only pick up the pace once you beg for it, and he knows you will. he knows you’ll look so pretty doing it, too. even prettier than now, and that’s fucking hard to top. he strokes himself faster at the mere thought.

“what?… look how hard i am, love,” he says, coyly and quieter, enough to make your stomach flip. “hurts, y’know.”

and before you can think too much about it, he’s guiding your hand away from your dripping cunt. you whimper softly at the absence of stimulation, but then, he’s making you wrap your hand around his own length. "do it f’me, darlin’. help me out, will you?"

his hand is over yours, both wrapped around his cock as he strokes up and down slowly. like he’s showing you something rather than asking.

you watch it like you’re hypnotized. how pretty his slit looks with pre cum smeared all over it, how the heat and the velvet-soft skin feel good underneath your touch. you start to stroke him on your own, his hand slowly letting go of yours as you mimick the way he just taught you.

noel lets out a moan deep from the back of his throat, moving his hands until they’re grabbing your inner thighs a little firmer now at the pleasure. “there we go…” he says softly, watching your hand work him. “fuck, darling…”

you pick up your gaze until it’s on his face again, being met with the sight of his lips slightly parted, blue eyes glued to your hand stroking him up and down. you furrow your brows softly at it, swallowing down a tiny whimper as you involuntarily shift on his lap, searching for any friction you can get.

and just like he could read your mind, one of his hands leave your thigh. he brings two fingers to his own mouth, wrapping his lips around the thick digits, swirling his tongue around them enough to make them slick. then, he guides them to your neglected pretty entrance.

he pushes two fingers in without any resistance. you let out a shaky moan, head dipping forward and grip tightening around him as you try to steady yourself. you moan his name, broken and needy – not from pain, because you’re so wet right now you feel like you could take all of him without batting an eye.

he hums at that. smug and pleased, but his hips twitching upwards tell on him, that he’s fully loosing it just like you. “that’s it, love… fuck. do it f’me and i’ll do it for you, yeah?” he adds. his tone is coaxing, but the roughness in his voice makes you clench around his fingers without even meaning to.

your breath stutters, movements turning uneven for a second before trying to find some kind of rhythm again. you’re clumsy and still a little shy, but the way you’re looking at him, feels like you’re fucking begging for it.

he curls his fingers inside you, the angle is a little awkward in between limbs moving sloppily and needy – but he gets it right. it makes you moan the loudest than you have so far, eyes falling shut and eyebrows furrowing as his thumb finds your clit at the same time his thick fingers slowly fuck you.

your hand starts working him faster, needier. your free one digs into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, sliding to the back of his neck like you’re fully loosing it.

he smirks at your reaction, nodding to himself and grunting lowly every time his hips meet your hand. every time, the filthy wet sounds of his fingers fucking you get even louder.

you start babbling his name, and he taunts you with a “yeah?” that neither of you know what it’s referring to. you nod dumbly anyway, breath hitching as you try to follow his pace, try to match him, even though everything feels too much already.

your body shakes over his from pleasure and from movement of him fucking your hand. it doesn’t stop him from leaning closer, his free hand tugging the cut from your top down until your breasts are exposed to him – he closes the distance sloppily, greedy as his mouth latches onto your nipple, widely swirling his tongue around it and sucking it. your nails dig into the back of his neck, searching for something to hold onto as the feeling keeps tightening.

you choke out a moan that’s nearly a cry, head tipping back and lips parting as you pant. “fuck… n-noel… i… oh my god, noel…” you blabber, hips now grinding against his palm.

he keeps thrusting into your hand, only pulling his mouth off from your tits to moan against your mouth, tongue sloppy and uncoordinated as he swallows your moans. “gonna cum f’me?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your flushed lips.

you nod, desperately.

“c’mon then. such a tight fucking cunt, baby. want it all over my hand, yeah? cum all over my fingers, cmon.” he grunts.

with a last curl of his fingers, a last press of his thumb right over your sensitive bundle of nerves, you came undone. 

fucking hard, you did. your moans now sounding nearly pornographic as you squeeze noel’s fingers so hard he even doubts for a second that he’ll be able to play guitar for the next couple of days. 

eh, he wouldn’t really mind. 

you threw your head back, mouth falling agape and needy broken moans escaping. your breath was coming out shaky, hitching. little high pitched whimpers filling the room, mixing the wet and gushy sounds of noel’s fingers fucking your cunt relentlessly. 

he watched, chin propped up so he could look up and take every bit of your reaction. your free hand slid up the back of his neck desperately, in need to grab onto something or you’d might die from how intense it all felt. 

he smirked at the realization – nothing there anymore, is it? he buzzed it right off. 

he remembers last week, when he’d just arrived at the pub with the new haircut. your reaction was adorable, stuttering as you realized how fucking fit your mate, your best friend, looked. even while tom chatted you up, he could catch your nervous gaze snap back to him.

pfft, what a fucking joke, this tom lad. if he thought that was bad, imagine now, eh?

your nails digged in his scalp, his lips curled into a smug smirk parting enough so a low moan could escape. 

your hand went limp around him, unable to keep up. but he doesn't mind. he covers your hand with his own, his hard cock messily sliding upwards into your shaky grip as he watched your orgasm wash over. he thrusts one, two, three more times into your palm until he spills over, too.

hot spurts of his cum land right over the fabric of your cute skirt, over the soft skin of your thigh and knuckles. 

his chest heaves, forehead dropping to rest against your neck. only then his fingers finally stop. he feels you pulsing around them for a few more seconds. his free hand rests over your ass, sliding up your back as your body trembles over his.

after a few seconds of your heavy breaths being the only thing filling up the room, noel slowly withdraws his fingers out of you. the wet sound echoes in the silence, a tiny over sensitive whimper from you make him breathe out a tiny laugh despite himself.

“fuck me…” he breathes out. then, he pulls away to look down at the mess. his brows raise in amusement, his smirk grows even wider. “ruined that.”

you don’t adress it. fuck me indeed, the house could burn down now for all you care.

“noel…” you say again, softer this time. needy and shy from how much you want it. you’re still breathing hard, still shaky, still clinging to him like you don’t quite know how to ask for it.

his eyes flick back to yours, and he looks so pleased. so smug.

he only raises his brows, like he’s saying go on.

your hands slide up the back of his head, nearly apologetic for the mess you’re making. but you just shake your head as you lean closer, eyes glassy and pleading as you give him a soft kiss on the mouth.

“don’t…” your voice falters as you say it quietly against his lips. “please, noel… i don’t wanna stop…”

you feel him smiling against your mouth, his hands shifting until they’re back on your ass again. he slowly squeezes the soft flesh, barely kissing you back and breathing out into the slow glide of your tongues. “yeah?… don’t wanna stop, hm?”

you shake your head, quick and needy, your fingers still curled at the nape of his neck, keeping him close.

he hums softly, still tracing patterns on your hips and ass. he nods a little, then looks down. “i mean... that’s fucking done for, that.” he murmurs. not sounding sorry in the slightest, still smirking. “shame. y’looked dead pretty in it.“

you don’t even argue, you just lean in again, pressing another soft, desperate kiss to his mouth, like that’s your answer. like you don’t care about anything else anymore.

his hands tighten slightly on your ass at that, grounding and unapologetic all at once. “easy…” he coos, quieter now, nose brushing yours. “gotta sort that date out first, yeah?”

you whine, eyebrows furrowing and your lips nearly shifting into a needy pout. “noel…”

"gonna give it to ya, love... just be a good girl and call the poor lad, yeah?” he says, nearly buttery from how soft it is – it makes you want him to ruin you even more.

“now?…” you ask quietly, blinking up at him.

“yeah, now.” he says softly, brushing your hair out of your face. “can't have him standing there outside the pub like a fucking muppet, can we?“

you take in a shaky breath, nodding. he nods back, giving your ass tiny encouraging pats, watching you slowly shift off from his lap.

you lick your lips as you lay down on your stomach, propping yourself on your elbows so you can reach for the telephone and punch in the digits.

your heart is still hammering inside your chest when it starts ringing. you swallow gruffly, because you feel noel’s hand caressing your calf – a soft reminder that he’s very much still watching.

“hello?”

“t-tom?…”

“oh, hey. was about to leave the house, actually. you’re on your way t—“

“tom, i… i’m sorry. i think i’ve come down with something.” you said shakily, the air leaving your nostrils as you heard noel shifting behind you and the soft thud of his shirt falling on the floor.

your eyes were closed as tightly as your hand around the phone, listening to tom's unenthusiastic and nearly confused "oh." on the other line.

you couldn't see how noel was still smirking – his mouth still stained with your lipstick as he slowly settled more comfortably on the mattress, sitting on his heels right between your legs.

"well... what... are you feeling? are you alright?" tom asked.

you took in a deep breath so you could reply without your voice breaking. but just then, you felt noel's hands unhurriedly guide you until your knees were deep inside the mattress, ass arched up until you were perfectly exposed to him in a way that made your cheeks burn.

"i'm... i'm okay. i'm just... i have a really bad fever."

"right..." tom answered after a pause. "that's... well, that’s unfortunate."

"yeah." you swallowed.

behind you, the mattress dipped again. noel's hands settled on your asscheeks, lifting the fabric of your skirt until it was out of the way – he let out a low groan at the sight of the delicate fabric drenched, clinging onto your folds.

your forehead pressed deeper against the mattress as you felt him gently apply pressure over the fabric, drawing out torturous wide and slow circles over your clothed cunt, feeling your wetness cling onto the pad of his fingers. "i know, i... i'm really sorry." you added, but it came out broken.

tom didn't notice, apparently. "we can go out another night, if you want."

"yeah— that... yeah. that's alright." you managed, though your voice came out quieter than intended.

tom started talking about another place the two of you could go to, but behind you, noel leaned closer.

your whole body tensed with the sensation of his warm breath brushing such a sensitive spot, and the fever was about to become real once you felt the tip of his nose rubbing up and down your folds, hands gripping your flesh harder at your scent and his mouth watering from how wet you were.

your hand immediately flew to your mouth, covering a shaky and breathy gasp, coming out broken while tom talked about another restaurant down his street, a fancier one. you couldn't name what kind of food they served there even with a gun pressed on your temple, because the pressure of noel's nose was maddening.

and as if it couldn't get any worse, or better, his tongue slowly darted out – leaving a wet, slow and messy kiss right over your knickers. like the mess your own arousal made on the fabric wasn't enough.

a small tear formed on the corner of your eye, the hand covering your mouth shaking as you tried to keep quiet. noel hummed quietly against your clothed cunt, not even pulling his mouth away as he hooked his finger into the edge of the lace, pulling the fabric aside just enough to expose you.

you gasped softly, feeling his warm mouth pull away only an inch so his blue eyes could settle on your cunt. glistening and already puffy from his fingers, but still aching and throbbing for more.

"well... get some rest, yeah? hope you feel better." tom said on the phone.

your fuzzy brain could only think of an "okay" as a response, but noel's tongue leaning closer and slowly licking your clit cut you off immediately with another shaky gasp, making you instantly press your palm harder against your mouth.

you clenched around nothing, brows needily furrowing and back arching despite your cheeks heating up. at how dirty all this felt. at how his tongue was completely unhurried as it teased you, the intention clear: he wanted you to fall apart.

now, his lips slowly closed around your clit, softly sucking while his hands fondled your shaky thighs.

"sure you're okay?" tom asked, nearly concerned.

"yes! i... yeah. i'm sorry, tom. i'll... yeah, i'll get better. i'm so sorry." you stammered, and you could feel noel smiling against you, pulling away with a soft wet noise and guiding his fingers closer to your entrance. they didn't slide in, just applied enough pressure to spread your lips, watching how your needy hole dripped for him. just for him.

"it's alright. see you soon, then." tom said.

"o-okay... bye." you said quickly, immediately biting your bottom lip since you didn't trust yourself to keep quiet once your shaky hand placed the phone on its handle. fast, clumsy and desperate.

at the sound of the soft plastic thud indicating the call was finally over, your face buried inside the mattress. a small amount of drool smeared over the soft cotton sheets past your parted lips.

you let out a long and broken whine, muffled into the mattress as your hips helplessly twitched against his hands.

“there’s a good girl,” noel murmured, his voice dropping. he didn't give you a second to catch your breath as his two fingers, still slick with you, stretched you open with a deliberate push.

you bucked against his hand, a sharp gasp cutting through the quiet bedroom as your fingers tightly grasped the bedsheets. "noel..." you moaned his name needily.

he breathed out a small chuckle at your tone. “fucking hell, look at you,” he muttered under his breath, nearly amused.

even as he straightned his back, properly placed behind you now, his eyes never left your entrance swallowing his digits, you were so fucking wet taking him wouldn't even be that big of a problem. his thumb found your swollen clit as he thought, pressing down with a soft pressure that had your voice breaking into another needy whimper.

“so wet for me. didn't think it'd be this easy.”

“noel— please, noel,” you cried out, muffled by the soft bed. your back arched helplessly, trying to push yourself deeper onto his hand, silently begging for him to stop teasing.

he only hummed in response, a cruel and pleased sound, before his hand shifted.

his palm rubbed your back upwards before it settled on the nape of your neck, fingers tangling inside your hair. he tugged your head back until his mouth was right by your ear, gluing your back onto his chest, firm and tender all at once.

“drivin’ me fucking mad, love.” he breathed out, teeth grazing your earlobe and the delicate earring dangling, while his breath – hot and ragged – made goosebumps raise on the back of your neck.

your hand shook as it reached out for his hip, nails involuntarily digging in as you felt and heard the distinct rustle of fabric behind you from his free hand shoving his pants down to his thighs.

he placed a gentle kiss on your cheek, despite his fingers tigthening inside your hair. “just needed to stretch y'out first, don’t i?” he whispered in your ear.

whatever words were sitting on your tongue died as soon as his hand wrapped around his cock, shifting closer until his shaft was directly pressed against you, sliding and teasing up and down your soaking wet folds without actually pushing in.

the friction made your breath hitch, softly crying out. “please… fuck, please.”

he let out a low and breathy laugh, teeth grazing your cheek softly as a smirk grew on his lips. "i know. i know, darling." he cooed, nearly condescending.

he only looked down to watch his cock sliding underneath the edge of your panties, his length perfectly fitting between your glistening lips – amused at the sight, slowly pushing his hips to make his cock slide between your folds without actually pushing in.

the feeling of his sensitive head brushing the damp lace made him hiss softly, but he didn't stop. “d’you want it?” he asked quietly, nibbling your jaw.

you couldn't even form a coherent word, brain entirely fried. you just moaned loudly, nodding your head frantically despite his firm grip inside your hair.

his hand sharply met the flesh of your ass, catching you off guard and pulling out a high-pitched moan from you.

“ask nice,” he commanded, firm. but his mouth placed another sweet kiss on your cheek right after. his hand went down to where your bodies almost met, pressing his palm firmer against his cock so the friction felt meaner. "c'mon, love. can do better than that, hm?"

you nodded desperaly, the words stumbling out of your mouth. “please, noel… please fuck me.” you sobbed, a stray tear spilling.

“think it’s too big f’ya, love. don’t y’think?” he taunted, gaze dropping past the curve of your spine, watching his length dissapearing underneath the fabric, sliding between your folds and coming out glistening with your arousal.

you shook your head desperately. “can— can handle it. want it. please, please…” you choked out in a broken whimper.

another wet kiss on your cheek, another harsh squeeze on your ass. "yeah?" he teased quietly,

you whimpered in protest as he pulled his warm cock away from you. but then, his hands guided you back into all fours, slowly and firmly.

your fingers immediately grabbed the sheets in anticipation. your forehead pressed into the mattress, tears softly wetting the cotton as your back arched even more.

you couldn't see it, but a smug smirk grew on his lips at the sight, not pulling his gaze away even when his hands were busy reaching for his wallet. a soft crinkling sound of a foil wrapper tearing open made you look behind you.

his palm settled on your ass again, sliding underneath the messy hem and caressing your skin, gentler now. his free hand rolled the rubber along his shaft, head tilting. “think y’can take my cock like this, hm?” noel muttered.

you didn't really know what the reply was, not rationally, at least. but you nodded anyway, swallowing gruffly despite wanting him so bad you thought it might kill you.

then, his hands slowly hooked into the waistband of your panties. he dragged them down your shaking thighs slowly, watching a thick, glistening trail of wetness visibly connecting your swollen folds to the fabric, the elastic strained around your knees.

the cold air of your room clashed against your skin, making your head feel even fuzzier.

your head tilted to the side, cheek resting over the mattress and eyes immediately landing on some stuffed animals already scattered over the bed, breath hitching. then, you looked at him behind you, eyebrows furrowed in such a needy way it made him physically remember himself to take it slow.

he let out a low, breathy laugh at your reaction. "i know," he whispered, reaching over to grab the small plushie sitting on the corner of the bed. he turned it around with a smirk so its beaded eyes faced the wall. "there. don't need 'em watching, do we."

hovering over you, with his hand wrapped around his cock and guiding himself towards your entrance, he stared down at the view and swore to himself he’d never seen a cunt so wet before, or a bird that’s begged so pretty like you.

he guided the heavy head of his cock right to your untouched entrance, pausing for a second to look at your face before he slowly pushing in. his mouth leaned down closer to your cheek the second you gasped softly at the stretch – a low grunt escaping from his lips at your cunt fluttering around him, so fucking wet it nearly sucked him in.

but he still pushed in slowly. agonizingly slow. a needy sound caught in your throat, vision going white as your body naturally clamped down around his length.

he grunted as his hips slowly slid in.

“look at you takin’ my cock, baby,” noel choked out, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he pushed through the nearly absent resistance, filling you completely. “fuck." – he kissed your pulse point – "fucking made for it.”

he let you adjust, his hands slid up from your hips, smoothing over the arch of your spine and soothing your back, "good?" he murmured against your skin, checking in.

you couldn't even form a syllable. you just choked out a breathless whimper, nodding against the mattress as your fingers digged deeper into the sheets. you were stretched so fucking full, the smeared mascara underneath your eyes smudging the duvet.

he let out a low, rough laugh, pleased with the pathetic sound you made. "fuck," he breathed out, amused. "doesn't hurt?"

you just whimpered in response, squirming underneath his weight pressed over your back. his free hand moved closer to your face, elbow propping himself up and palm meeting your cheek in two light taps. "hey, don't go all dumb on me, c'mon."

you inhaled, coming in a hitched breath. you shook your head softly, "just... it's okay."

"sure y'alright?" he asked again. his crotch was still firmly pressed against your asscheeks, fully inside you now.

"please." you whispered, broken and needy.

he breathed out a laugh, amused. his palm craddled your face and his thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

"fucking hell, please what?" he asked quietly, leaning in and kissing your lips even though you couldn't fully kiss him back, not when you were still getting used to the fullness.

his lips bumped into his own thumb, taking in a deep breath and feeling his cock twitch at the feeling of your tongue fully loose and fully dumbed down against his. "please fuck you, that it?" he whispered against your mouth, his free hand gripping your hip harder.

you gave another needy nod, your ass arching instinctively, silently begging.

he smirked, despite feeling his cock throb inside you, equally as needy. "yeah?" noel muttered.

you whimpered, tongue brushing the pad of his finger, eyes looking up at him even glassier than before. needier. “please, fuck me…”

at your plea, he straightening his back with a rough moan, his palms properly positioned you back into all fours.

and then he pulled back. the friction of his condom-clad cock dragging against your tight walls made your vision blurry, a sharp sob tore from your chest as you felt the loss of his warmth close to you. but before you could even process the emptiness, he drove back in. slow and heavy, bottoming in again.

"god, fuck." he groaned, hips grinding heavily against your ass. his blue eyes watching the way you took him so pretty. "wish you could see it. fucking swallowing me."

the mental image made your skin burn, a hot flush spreading over your face and neck as he pulled out, slowly, only to push in again with the same depth.

"so fucking tight," he breathed out, hands grabbing your hips harder and pulling you back into him – the sounds of his hips slapping your flesh making everything feel dirtier, the wet sounds of his cock stretching you out making you whimper helplessly. "gonna milk me fucking dry before i even get a proper go, aren't ya?"

the pace was excruciatingly slow, he held onto a steady rhythm like he didn't trust himself to fully let go. the feeling had you weeping into the mattress, shaky and needy moans escaping your lips with every thrust.

you didn't know what it was like at a fast pace, all you knew is that you needed more. all you knew was that the pain already faded away.

you wanted him to do whatever he wanted, sure that it would be exactly what you needed.

“noel— please, noel, want... fuck, more.” you babbled.

he leaned down, “i know, love. i know,” he cooed. his teeth gently grazed your neck met your shoulder. the sting only added to the feeling of his hips finally picking up the pace. “look at you, taking all of it and already begging for more, christ.”

before you could ask for anything else, his hand reached out to yours, his thick fingers wrapping around your wrist and guiding it between your legs. "rub yourself f'me, sweetheart. can you do that?" he instructed gently, nibbling your earlobe and smirking against it the second you gasped at the new friction.

as his back straightened again, hands tight on your hips, your fingers just followed his lead, sloppily rubbing circles around your clit.

the action immediately made you pulse harder around him, reaching an unbearable amount of pleasure. his deep strokes were hitting you perfectly, and the friction against your swollen bundle of nerves made your entire body shiver.

you began clench around his shaft in tight, helpless pulses. your needy moans getting so loud not even the mattress could muffle them properly anymore.

behind you, noel let out a low string of curses, large hands pulling your hips back into him. his eyes were stuck on his cock dissapearing inside you, slick with your wetness every time he pulled out just to drive himself back in faster.

“fuck, that’s it,” he grunted lowly. he began to fuck you heavily and fast, watching you squirm underneath him – fingers helplessly speeding up as you felt the tightness in your belly tighten.

the loud and wet sounds of his cock splitting you open and your sweet moans made him throw his head back in pleasure.

“already fucking coming, aren’t ya?" – he picked his gaze up again, not bearing the thought of not watching you underneath him – "squeeze it tight, love. fuck, cmon. that's it.”

you screamed his name into the mattress, your whole body shaking as your orgasm crashed like a tidal wave. noel himself wasn't far behind, with one last deep thrust, hot spurts of his cum spilled inside the condom, his head tipping back with a low moan as his hips stuttered.

neither of you moved for a couple of minutes – your body collapsed softly over the bed and his followed, chest over your back, keeping you pinned and ruined beneath him. all you could do was pant and feel your limbs softly shake.

noel was the first one to snap out of the sirupy athmosphere inside your bedroom. his forehead pressed softly over your shoulderblade as he cursed softly under his breath, eyes closing tightly shut with a small hiss as he slowly pulled out, steadying the condom around him with his fingers.

your immediate instinct was to hide, legs curling up softly while he sat down on the mattress, hands busy with tying the condom.

no one really talked about this part, where you have to figure out what the hell you're supposed to say with a head still fuzzy from your first ever earth-shaterring orgasm.

luckily, his eyes landed on you.

and then, he broke into a tiny and breathy laugh, settling himself beside you, hand reaching out towards your face and pushing the messy hair out of the way. "what? cat got your tongue or summat?"

that made you relax again, eyes closing and lips softly curling up. "stop that."

he laughed quietly, letting his hand linger on the side of your neck.

"i probably look crazy now." you said quietly, referring to the mess around your eye lids.

he broke into another quiet laugh again, shaking his head. "look pretty, yeah? don't fret." reaching out, thumb brushing over your bottom lip, picking up the smudged tint of your lipstick on the pad of his finger. your eyes closed, still smiling softly despite it all.

"you okay?" he asked quietly, head finally clear enough to snap back into the gentle noel you were familiar with. you nodded in response, he hummed softly at it. pleased and tired. "was it good for you?"

your eyes opened at it, eyebrows furrowing in that suspicious way that immediately made a weary expression settle on his face. "what?" he asked quietly.

you scoffed lightly, "you just wanna hear me say it."

he laughed, finally catching on. then, he shrugged, playful now. "maybe." he said, you hummed, wore out – he noticed, another huff of a laugh immediately escaped him. "cmon, let's get you cleaned up."

christmas of 1991 is easily the worst christmas you’ve ever celebrated. a few weeks earlier, you had imagined it perfectly in your head. you’d get to come home to manchester and spend the holiday with noel and liam, and split time between baking christmas biscuits with your mum and helping peggy decorate their place.

but now, you’re sat in your bedroom, staring up at the ceiling. your room looks exactly the way you’d left it in september, albeit emptier, as you’ve barely unpacked any of your clothes that you’d toted back from london.

clack.

you know exactly what that sound is and who’s outside your window. it’s liam, standing in your garden, throwing handfuls of gravel. and if your dad wouldn’t kill you over the scratches on the glass, you would’ve ignored him completely.

instead, you make your way to the window, pushing it open. the chill rushes in, hitting your face instantly.

“what d’you want?”

a wide grin breaks across his face, “well if it ain’t the ghost of christmas fuckin’ past!”

—

the park feels a lot like a graveyard, all bare trees, not a bird in sight. you’re sat on the edge of a picnic table, your boots on the little bench, while liam paces a small circle in front of you.

he’s already halfway through a four-pack of lager, “when you comin’ round then?”

you snort, cracking open your own can, “try never.”

“mam’s doin’ the decorations tomorrow,” liam says, “she’s got a tin of biscuits the size of a fuckin’ tractor wheel and she’s been moanin’ that she’s got no one to help ‘er with the tinsel.”

“and you can’t help her because…?”

he scowls, “she says i’m too clumsy.”

—

liam had promised you that noel would be out of the house and you took his word for it. you let yourself in through the kitchen door, because why wouldn’t you?

peggy is standing at the counter, her back to you, wrestling with a massive, battered tin of biscuits.

“liam, why don’t you–”

but as she turns, she realizes you’re obviously not liam. she lights up, absolutely beaming. 

“oh, love! look at you!” peggy cries, nearly dropping the tin on the counter. she wipes her hands on her apron and rushes over, pulling you into a tight, warm hug.

then the sound of liam coming down the stairs cuts through. he patters into the kitchen, looking far too pleased with himself. he’s carrying a cardboard box that’s seen better decades, overflowing with tangled strings of lights and some questionable tinsel from the early eighties. he stops by the table, dropping the box with a heavy thud.

the three of you sit around the table, talking about everything. you talk about the library, the noisy neighbors, and the way the tube smells in the morning. you carefully avoid mentioning the nights you spent staring at the telephone or how the last few weeks are the worst you’ve ever felt.

when liam goes to dig out a stepladder for tree-decking purposes, the back gate opens. the back door swings open, bringing a gust of december air with it.

and noel just stands there.

he stares at you, and then the biscuits on the table, the tinsel laid out, the empty chair next to you.

"alright," he mutters.

“you’re home early,” peggy says, reaching for the teapot. “i thought you were in town with the lads.”

“meeting was a bust,” he finally steps inside and lets the door click shut. 

before it can get any worse, liam comes back into the kitchen, ladder in tow.

“d’we start from the top and work our way—” he stops dead, “oh, fuck.”

“you said he was in town,” you speak up, keeping your eyes fixed on liam, who is suddenly very interested in the hinges of the stepladder.

noel doesn’t look at you, already walking toward the cupboards to grab a mug.

“didn't realize i needed a permit to come into my own kitchen,” he says, his voice dripping with that defensive sarcasm you used to think was endearing, “decorating, are we? making things look all nice and pretty for the holidays?

“i was just helping your mam,” your voice comes out all quiet.

"helping," noel repeats, ”right. noble of you, innit? coming back from the big city to show us how the common folk do christmas."

—

and somehow you end up at mass on christmas eve, at liam’s request. 

“just come.”

“why the fuck would i do that?”

“because if i have to listen to father what’s-his-fuckin’-name drone on, so do you.”

and you suck it up. and you go. and you end up between liam and noel, wishing you believed in god. because if you did, then you’d think everything happens for a reason.

but there’s no reason you should be shoulder-to-shoulder with noel on christmas eve wearing some stupid dress and some stupid tights.

“peace be with you.”

“no, peace be with you,” liam can’t be serious for more than thirty seconds at a time.

and when liam releases your hand from a ridiculously tight grip, you just look at noel’s outstretched hand and shake your head.

he half-smiles, “c’mon, it’s christmas.”

and you miss peggy’s face when you give noel the laziest, most placating handshake.

—

“oh, come off it. everyone’s hungover on christmas. workin’ class tradition, that is.”

you sigh, but you don’t turn around. the pub’s going to be packed wall-to-wall and the last place you want to be is anywhere noel is.

“fuck it. fine.”

and that’s how you find yourself crammed into a corner booth at the local, the air so thick with cigarette smoke and damp winter coats it makes your eyes water. the speakers are rivaling the roar of forty blokes from the estate, and every time the pub door opens, a blast of freezing december wind cuts through the heat, smelling like wet pavement.

it’s quite sweet actually. the way everyone goes to church for christmas to appease their families, goes out in their stiff clothes, and gets absolutely off their face.

“missing london then?”

you don’t have to look over. the voice and the smell of a benson is enough.

“fuck off.”

“y’look good in a dress. just thought you should know that.”

“don’t,” you sigh, "don't do that.”

he nods slowly and leans against the bar next to you. it’s quiet because there’s absolutely nothing to say.

his jaw works silently for a moment and then, “i miss you.”

okay, maybe everything does happen for a reason.

and you let him buy you another pint.

and another pint.

and then you’re both laughing.

—

and you’re still laughing when you stumble through the front door. liam probably won’t be back for hours. peggy’s at her sister’s. or somewhere. there’s too many fucking gallaghers.

and you’re laughing while noel kisses you like nothing’s ever changed and nothing’s ever gone wrong.

getting into bed is a right mess, tights strewn over the edge of his bed, noel a steady weight above you.

“how are you still this fuckin’ cold?” he laughs against your neck.

you shudder under him, arching your back just enough to press yourself completely into his warmth, your hands slipping under his jumper to find the familiar, solid line of his ribs. his skin is burning hot.

“i dunno,” you giggle, “just fix it.”

he grins, “you want me to fix it?”

you nod, your two stupid grins matching. noel slides his warm hands under the fabric of your dress, hands on your hips.

“god, i can’t believe you never let me fuck you.”

you pin him with a look.

“i can’t believe you never let me make love to you,” he rolls his pretty blue eyes.

you let out another breathless, giddy laugh, but the sound dies in your throat as his thumbs press deep into the soft skin of your hips. that sobers you right up.

“you sure?”

you nod, the soft movement of your neck careful.

he kisses you so softly that you feel like you’re about to stop breathing, your hands tangling in the fabric of his sweater.

the feeling of him pressing himself against your center is fucking dizzying, the rough denim of his jeans pinning you underneath him. his tongue slides against yours, wet and insistent. you pull him closer, and this is exactly what you’ve always imagined with noel.

perhaps you had imagined it sober, a bit sweeter, and without the underlying tension. but there’s not time to think about any of that when his calloused fingers dip inside your knickers.

he instantly feels how slick you are, wet and hot, “fuck.”

and maybe it’s the way your head is spinning, and the fact that he smells like noel. like home. “i love you.”

he freezes and then nods, two fingers sliding inside easily, “i know. i love you too.”

you let your eyes flutter closed, letting yourself feel the pliant stretch of yourself against his fingers.

his fingers move inside you, slow and deliberate, curling in a way that makes your hips jerk. you gasp, clutching at his shoulders, and he breathes a laugh against your throat.

“that’s it,” he murmurs, his thumb circling your clit in lazy, wet circles, “c’mon.”

you’re already so close, all that missing and aching and wanting spilling over. he always was good at making you cum. 

his nose gently nudges the hollow of your throat, “c’mon.”

you can’t even answer him, the words turning into a broken, high-pitched whimper as the friction builds, sharp and white-hot. 

"yeah," he grins, cooing, "yeah, there. fuck, i know.”

the satisfaction in his voice is heavy, a low vibration against your throat that sends a whole new wave of heat straight to your cunt. your hips roll frantically into his palm, chasing that release.

and then… nothing. his fingers leave you empty with a wet pop.

“noel, what the fu—”

you open your eyes abruptly to find him settled between your thighs, looking up at you. he’s kneeling between your knees now, his hands sliding up to grip your thighs, spreading you wider.

then his mouth is on you, kissing at the soft mound of your cunt before his tongue laps at the spot his thumb has just abandoned.

a sharp, violent shiver racks your entire body, your hips coming up to meet his mouth as your hands fly straight to his hair. you try to pull him up, to make him stop because the sensation is entirely too much, but noel doesn't budge.

he keeps his heavy hands clamped around the back of your thighs, holding you wide open for him, unbothered by the way you’re writhing.

he’s relentless, his tongue sliding against you in long, wet, deliberate strokes that have your head rolling back into the pillow, your throat raw from the breathless noises you’re making.

“noel, please,” you gasp out into the dark, your back arching so high off the mattress that your knees shake.

one of his hands frees itself, coming back to your dripping entrance, the same two fingers finding their way back inside, the sound obscene.

the slick, heavy friction of his fingers moving deep inside you while his tongue sweeps over your clit completely shatters whatever control you had left. he drinks in every single sound you make, his tongue speeding up, matching the quick rhythm of his fingers. the heat is overwhelming, a pressure building so fast behind your eyes that the room starts to tilt.

he tears his tongue away from you, his fingers still pummelling your cunt with every twist of his wrist.

“let me fuck you,” his voice is husky, raw.

“noel—”

“please,” he begs, the moonlight glinting against his wet chin.

“please. i’ll never fuckin’ leave again. i need you. please.”

“is that really—” you let out a little gasp, “the best idea?”

his fingers stop moving, and he sits up, looking down at you. then he gets up off the bed, kneeling so he’s looking up at you.

“the best idea?" he repeats, his voice rough and gravelly, cutting straight through the heavy quiet of the bedroom. his chest is heaving under his jumper.

“i don’t give a toss about a good idea,” he pulls you to the edge, resting his face on your bare thigh, “just let me in. i-i’m sorry. i’m so fuckin’ sorry, you have no idea.”

your hand slides under his chin, turning his head to face you fully. his eyes are glassy, lips red and wet.

you lean down to kiss him, nodding, “okay. yeah… okay.”

he swallows hard, “did you… in london?”

“no,” your voice is impossibly gentle, “god, no.”

noel buries his face back into the soft skin of your thigh for a long, quiet second, his shoulders dropping as the agonizing tension finally melts out of him.

“thank god,” he whispers against your skin, his voice thick.

he pushes himself up, slowly getting his belt undone, gently pushing his boxers and jeans down and then off.

he climbs back onto the mattress carefully, the springs letting out only a soft groan as he shifts his weight. the winter draft brushes over the room again, but the moment he settles right back between your legs, the heat of his body drives the chill away.

“gonna be gentle,” he murmurs, his voice a whisper against your lips. he rests the hot tip of himself against you, his body shaking with the effort it takes to hold himself back. “i won’t hurt you, i swear. just tell me to stop if it’s too much, alright?”

and then, with a slow, careful tilt of his hips, he begins to push inside you.

he only gets the very tip of himself in before your muscles clench in a blind, instinctive panic. you wince, your nose wrinkling slightly.

he stops immediately, hips staying exactly where they are, “hey. hey, hey. you're okay.”

noel gently kisses the side of your face, “d’you need me to stop?”

"no," you shake your head, “just... give it a second."

he stays frozen, his brow furrowed, scanning your face like he’s trying to read a map he’s never seen before. he’s taking the “gentle” part seriously, his breathing ragged and heavy, his weight held carefully on his forearms so he doesn't crush you.

"y’sure?" he asks again, softer this time, his thumbs brushing soothingly against the curve of your hip.

"yeah," you breathe, your hands gripping his shoulders to pull him just a little bit closer. "i'm sure. i promise."

he lets out a shaky breath, clearly relieved, and presses a lingering kiss to your temple. then, he begins to move again, slow, agonizingly deliberate inches. as he slides deeper, filling you completely, the panic dissolves into a dizzying rush. he watches you, his eyes searching, waiting for any sign of discomfort, but when he sees the way your head falls back against the pillow and your hands tangle into his hair, his jaw finally unclenches.

"there," he murmurs, his voice a low, rough rasp against your skin. "you're alright."

he starts to set a rhythm, careful and steady, his movements measured as if he’s scared to break you. it’s everything you wanted, and everything you’ve missed.

"god, you’re so tight," he rasps, his voice breaking as the rhythm shifts. the careful, gentlemanly pretense is completely gone.

you’re gasping, your breath coming in jagged, desperate hitches. he’s hitting that spot, and you’re clawing at the sheets, your nails digging into his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself. the sound of him, the wet, rhythmic slapping of skin, fills the small room.

"look at me," he demands, his voice a low, gravelly growl. he pauses, just for a second, locking his gaze onto yours. he doesn't wait for an answer. he just slams back into you, deeper this time, faster, his hips grinding against yours in a way that sends a wave of heat straight through you.

you can feel your control slipping, fraying at the edges. you’re a mess of tangled limbs, sweat, and breath, his mouth on your throat, his teeth grazing your skin, his pace relentless. he’s panting now, a heavy, ragged sound, his muscles tense as he pushes himself further, clearly fighting to keep it together just as much as you are.

"that's it," he grunts, his hands clamping onto your hips to hold you down, pinning you against the bed as he buries himself inside you until you’re unraveling, your hips twitching and trying to meet him, needing the friction, needing him.

the pressure inside you peaks, a rising heat that has you whimpering his name as your vision narrows. he sees it. he feels it. the way you begin to tighten around him, the way your body begins to shudder. and he stops fighting his own restraint. he thrusts into you once, twice, three times, each one deeper, his face pressed against your shoulder as he finally lets his own control shatter.

"yeah," he pants, his voice a broken rasp against your skin, "yeah, love, just like that."

—

the aftermath is a slow, hazy descent back to earth. the room feels impossibly quiet now.

noel stays heavy against you for a long time, his face buried deep in the crook of your neck. he smells like sweat, cigarettes, and that familiar scent of the gallagher house that has haunted you for months.

when he finally pulls back, his movements are uncharacteristically tender. he gathers you up, his arms wrapping around you with a protectiveness that makes your chest ache.

there’s a brief, shared rinse in the shower down the hall, a shared towel, and several tentative little kisses.

back in noel’s room, you pull on one of his soft cotton tees, the fabric ending at the top of your thighs. 

“noel, come here,” a content smile crosses your face as you pad over to the window between beds, watching a flurry of snow blow underneath the street lights.

his arms wrap around you from behind, warm and steady, “maybe we’ll get snowed in, hm?”

“in manchester?” you turn in his arms to giggle at him.

he looks like he’s thinking, really thinking, “stranger things have happened in manchester.”

you rest your head on his shoulder, “you’re so stupid.”