lainey

the small photoshoot ended after you had only snapped five pictures, mostly because liam stopped posing the same way he always did. with the age difference, he never really understood what with the younger folks taking a billion shots of the same thing.

he didn’t understand it with his kids, and he surely didn’t understand it with you. but he didn’t mind, ever since the day you had made him the responsible for capturing your cute outfit matching with the sunset in the coast of italy. “it’s so i can have options, baby.” you had explained sweetly. he huffed behind the camera, but tapped his finger on the small circle, anyway.

you plopped down beside him. the hem of your cute, perhaps too short for his liking, white dress rode up your thighs as you showed him the screen of his phone. his hand absentmindedly rested on your thigh, looking attentively at the pictures.

but from his peripheral vision, he could see you were looking at his face instead. so, he picked up his gaze, his expression shifting into that smug, nearly amused one that always drove you up the wall. mostly because he saved it for the moments where you showed him that the little bottle of viagra in his bedside drawer was necessary no matter how much he wanted to deny his age. it’s better to accept it than leave his pretty girl hanging after just one, sweaty round, he thought.

“what?” he asked quietly.

you smiled as you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his lips. “you look so good…” you whispered.

his pink lips, softer now because you insisted he applied cacao butter whenever london got too cold, shifted from a little kissy pout to a little smirk. “yeah?” he replied just as quietly.

“mhm…” you hummed sweetly, shifting until you were straddling his thigh.

his laugh was quiet, raspy. though his palm settled on your asscheeks, the hem brushing the back of his hand. “what’re you doing, hm?”

you whined softly, leaning until your mouth pampered his neck with soft kisses, shifting your hips forward and back slowly. “need you.”

he huffed, brows raising. “yeah?” he teased, gripping your flesh a bit harder as a secret encouragement. it wasn’t the first time — no matter how much he adores quickies, nearly as much as the fact you just can’t help yourself when it comes to him, the physiological response of his cock was a bit slower at this age.

sometimes it was his fingers doing the work when his cock was still catching up to his arousal. sometimes his tongue. right now, it seemed the lucky one would be his thigh.

“mhm…” this time, it slipped out of your lips in a moan, wrapping your arms around his neck and sniffing the scent of his cologne as you deliberately grinded your clothed cunt over his thigh.

his hands rubbed up your back, the thick fingers applying the pressure that made you clench around nothing. he leaned in, nibbling your earlobe on purpose — smirking to himself as he felt the gold clinking softly between his teeth, the same jewelry he spend hours choosing, it’s the least he could do for his sweet girl.

“such a naughty girl.” he whispered.

you gasped softly at how the words sounded in his voice, you could never get used to it. nodding in a tiny motion, feeling your cheeks flush.

“yeah? gonna make a mess all over this fancy suit? hm?” he leaned back until his body rested softly over the cushion, pulling you with him until your chest was half pressed over his. the angle made the friction feel even better, making you force yourself to muffle a moan on his soft cheek, lips parting and a shaky breath dampening his skin as you smelled his aftershave.

“better be quick, hm?” he said gently, unlike his hand greedily giving your ass a firm squeeze.

then, he took your left hand into his, bringing your knuckles close to his mouth and placing a tender kiss on the rock on your finger.

“The teddy bears are scared.” Yawning as he speaks, Liam stretches his free arm up and rests it lazily behind his head. The video’s been playing on loop for probably about ten minutes now, all forty-five seconds of it in all its low-quality glory with the indistinguishable body of a middle-aged man trailing kisses up a woman’s spine as he takes her from behind; the line of teddies you’d collected over the years sitting at the foot of the bed as if they were judging him for what he’d been doing to their owner, perhaps mistaking your moans of pleasure as whimpers of pain. 

“Liam, it’s not funny.” With the way you’re scolding him, he suddenly feels remarkably guilty about how turned on he’s getting. Despite the footage being grainy as ever, and awkwardly clipped by whatever sick person had got their hands on it, he can still make out all the telltale signs it’s you, even with your hair covering your face from where you're all squished up against the pillow; how your pelvis twitches when he manages to hit the top of your cervix with a particularly hard thrust, and that your hand reaching out to grab his forearm is a silent plea for a kiss, which is why he seemingly plants one randomly to the back of your head, with the shitty mic picking up the sound of his lips puckering together. 

“I’ve not traumatised them, they’ve seen worse.” Liam remarks, moving his hand to toy with the waistband of his boxers. He’s up to the part of the clip where he leans down to whisper something in your ear as his hips slam into yours, and he wishes he could remember what he said, because it makes another whine escape from the back of your throat; trying to wrack his brain, he wonders if it’d been something about giving you babies, since despite your protests about such thing in normal circumstances, it still manages to make you ridiculously wet whenever he mentions it during sex. 

“I’m not talking about the teddies, I’m talking about the video.” It’s as though he can hear the cogs turning in your head, forming all your anxious thoughts, and though he can’t help but joke in his own quintessential way, he still wants to squeeze you into a hug so tight that you complain about not being able to breathe. If he knew this would happen, and that your voice would go all wobbly and heart-breakingly uneasy like this, he would’ve put a stop to it right as it happened; closed your laptop from where it’d been propped up recording the whole thing, and left the use of the photo booth app to take selfies together in bed with all the stupid filters on.

“Nah. I know, sweetheart. I'm just being a dickhead, m’sorry.” Hardened by years of being prime tabloid fodder, this was like water off a duck's back, and he doesn’t mean to upset you with his indifference. In times like these, he detests the idea of touring and the thousands of miles it constantly puts between you both; if you were here, he’d be able to pull you into his side so you could rest your head against his chest, where he’d be able to read you the email from his publicist aloud, assuring you that she’d used the exact words ‘not much to worry about’ as he smoothed out your messy hair and pressed kisses to your forehead. 

Scrolling down towards the comments, Liam’s met with a lone mention of his name and the remark that it ‘kinda’ sounds like him coming from someone who’s got his face set as their profile picture; it’s funny, he thinks, how a measly comment like that could be flagged up and then mentioned in an email before he’d even had the chance to brush his teeth or pull back the heavy hotel curtains to reveal the morning skyline. Truthfully, it makes him quite thankful that they didn’t have this sort of technology when he was in his twenties, since he’s sure his phone would overheat with the amount of notifications he’d get about his questionable antics and public outbursts. 

Along with that, there are the usual comments expected under a dirty Twitter account, even though the post itself only has a few hundred likes and maybe ten retweets at best: ones thirsting over the sound of your moans and the curve of your spine as you rut back into him, making Liam’s stomach do that funny lurch of jealousy, however irrational it might be. There’s more about wanting an older man too, how they’d seen ‘what god has done for others’ and were hoping for it themselves in that sort of internet speak he’d gotten used to seeing in his replies, and had learnt to respond to accordingly.

“Is it really bad?” Though he’d assured you multiple times now that a faceless sex tape would be the least of people’s worries compared to the other things hackers had leaked about celebrities in the past forty-eight hours, you still needed that extra layer of reassurance; especially since this had been the most private relationship Liam had ever been in, with you barely even showing your face except for a few lone paparazzi shots that his fans lovingly reposted every week or so. It feels like his heart is about to break in two imagining you all curled up under your duvet with worry etched all over your face, and all he wants to do is cuddle up to you, or maybe tickle your sides in an attempt to see you laugh. 

Studying the rest of the video’s replies and filtering through the plethora of bots, he notices there’s one mistaking his Mancunian accent for a ‘sexy’ cockney one, and another from a girl claiming she needs to charge her ‘rose toy’ to properly watch this, which is a phrase Liam is seeing rather frequently nowadays, though he still has no idea what it means. There’s a comment with almost twenty likes sitting there at the top, exclaiming that the way he ‘talks her through it’ makes them ‘sick with jealousy’ with a variation of crying emojis at the end of the sentence. 

For a moment, Liam pauses to hear what they’re referring to, though all he can make out is the sound of his own incoherent mumbling, clearly stunned speechless at the feeling of your walls squeezing around him, caressing that vein that bulges on the underside of his cock, and making his eyes roll into the back of his head and his mouth fall agape in pleasure. Through the love-drunk babbling, the only sentence he can properly make out is ‘y’cunt’s so pretty’ as he watches the low-resolution version of himself adjust the position so he can watch himself bottom out of you; if your laptop wasn’t so old, he’s sure the mic would’ve picked up the obscene squelching noises that had made the tops of your ears turn bright red with embarrassment.

“No, it’s a good video.” He can’t help but blurt out, even though he knows that’s not what you meant. His hand is all the way down the front of his boxers now, trying to trace over himself in the exact way you would if you were here, all sleepy at his side in your cotton pyjamas and smelling of peach soap; all gentle movements, maddeningly slow in that way which always makes him feel like he’s teetering on the edge of insanity, before squeezing at him or stroking him in just the right way to turn the borderline pain into pure bliss.

“Liam, stop. It's making me nervous” It’s a horrible mixture of emotions: the kind of horniness that makes both the head of his cock and his temples throb, blended with the horrible gnawing feeling of worry at how apprehensive you sound, is enough to make any person’s head spin, never mind a man in his fifties, who’s exhausted from a world tour with his limbs aching after having just woken up. The video automatically starts replaying on the screen, and the sight of your headboard and your mismatched, colourful bedsheets beneath where both of your bodies are pressed together is enough to make him feel painfully homesick.

“I wouldn't joke if I thought there was anything to worry about.” Judging by the date and time, it was posted just shy of twenty-four hours ago now, and though a few people had clearly taken some interest in the unknown couple, the rest of the internet had more pressing matters on their hands with the amount of photos and texts leaked from some of the biggest pop stars in the world, and a messily edited clip of an unidentifiable older man shagging his younger girlfriend is easily the least of people’s troubles. “It’s okay. I promise, yeah?” 

“Okay, yeah.” Finally, your voice sounds less wobbly, and Liam can finally swallow down the lump of worry that’s been sitting uncomfortably in the middle of his throat from almost the exact moment this call had started. Gazing out the window, fingers wrapped lazily around himself as he still throbs against the palm of his hand, he wonders how on earth he’ll be able muster up the courage to get up for the day, instead of sitting in this exact position talking to you about complete and utter nonsense until the sun goes down, and all the little building lights switch on like the fairy lights you’ve draped over your vanity table at home. 

“No one’s got a clue. It’s fuckin’ three pixels anyway.” If anything, this had spurred him on to perhaps buy you a new laptop, since if this was the shitty camera quality you were working with, he couldn’t imagine how slow it’d be typing out an essay or downloading a bunch of files; he’ll add it on to the list in his notes app of all the other things he wants to buy you, that he always has to save for your birthday or Christmas because otherwise you’ll refuse it, proclaiming he’s being too extravagant and that you didn’t need anything but him. “At least I’ve got a copy of it now.”