The Sweetest Pea

It'd been easy enough to get Noel to drink it.

You made him his favorite English tea, bit of sugar, no cream. Poured a little something extra. Little teaspoon clinks loudly sang against the walls of his cup as he stirred it, humming at the taste when he licked his spoon. He thanked you, muttering some half-baked joke about how he kept you around for the tea, if nothing else. Twat.

"It's good, yeah?" you asked, watching his face carefully.

Noel nodded, taking a sip and tapping his finger against the rim of it. You wished he'd drink it faster.

Oh, Christ, why couldn't he fucking drink it any faster? You dug your fingers into your gender nonspecific clothes anxiously. Your heart pounded in your ears.

The stuff was fast acting, you had researched it well, he should drop dead any second now, and since the compound mimicked a heart attack, no one would know it was poison. You'd be innocent. It'd arrest his whole body and he'd fall still, his tongue lolling and his eyes blank. He took another sip of it, this time grimacing a bit.

"Tastes a bit weird, though, did ya put sommat in it?" he asked just before his head fell face-down onto the table. His spoon clattered to the hardwood floor loudly. Noel Gallagher was totally and completely dead because of you.

Exhilaration flooded your from your head to your fingertips and landed at your groin, sparking hot heat and adrenline in your veins. Noel Gallagher, dead. And no one would know it was you, would they? Just died of a heart attack, he did, could have been anything, Lord knows he did enough fucking coke to have done him in.

Christ, though, there he was, dead as a doornail, and so, so precious. Noel's eyes were still open, you had watched as his consciousness dripped into the creaky floorboards, and now he stared back at you, his complextion like a sheet of paper.

You wonder about rigor mortis. You read somewhere years ago in some bullshit sensational magazine that corpses, after a bit, can grow erections, just 'cause of something to do with, like, the way blood moves, or the stiffening of the muscles, or something. The science of it isn't really your business. You aren't worried about that.

You press your palm to Noel's forehead, pushing hard to put him him into an upright position. Wincing when he lolls halfway out of his seat and nearly falls to the floor, you grab both of his shoulders to keep him stable. Then he was upright, his head loose and hanging off his neck. Sort of like a marionette with all the strings cut, maybe. Wooden and empty.

To your delight, that magazine had been correct. His pants had a distinct growing bulge in it. You eagerly follow the shape of it your palm, stroking his length slowly and watching it swell.

That magazine also said that you can get corpses to ejaculate, given enough effort.

You undo his fly and stuff your hand down his pants. No way he'd complain to you about a dry handie, would he? You wrapped your hand around his cock, pumping it slow, watching drool slip between his mouth and onto the floor. He looked fucking stupid like this. Dead fucking stupid — well.

You give up on the handie. Got tired of it, and your arm burnt, and you weren't gonna get anything out of it, were you? Your poor cunt was wet and hungry between your legs. A heavy throbbing punched in you at the thought of what you were going to do next. His prick really was quite large.

You stand to tap your foot against his chest, and — tip —

Noel falls with the chair to the floor in a heap, his body a limp mess. One leg bent at the knee around the seat of the chair, one leg on the floor, his pants down 'round his thighs, his shirt ridden up. His head flopped with gravity, heavily leaning off to the side, his mouth open, his eyes glassy. Still flushed skin colored his cheeks and nose.

Your stomach rolls when you realize he had a tear sliding down his cheek.

You knelt to pull his kecks down and took a second to admire his erection. It's weird to see Noel be so still.

You unbutton your own trousers, kicking them off, and straddle his waist. His cock was heavy and warm against your pelvis. A curious roll of your hips against him and your clit twitched with the friction of his him so large against you.

You brought your hand to yourself, watching the way his drool had started pooling below his head, a warm little puddle of his spit formulating on the floor. Another hand went to his stomach, and you rucked his tee shirt up to his chest, admiring the shape of his belly and the dark hairs that painted his skin. You worked your clit, slow, rubbing circles against it and twitching when it hit right.

Eventually you took ahold of his prick, slicking it with your own excretions and spit, and slowly sank down onto your dead as fuck rockstar boyfriend's dead as fuck rockstar cock.

He filled you up, totally and completely. He was honestly a better lay when he couldn't fucking move. He'd always get in his head about the whole thing, all insecure and skittish but pretending like he wasn't, and it was near impossible to get him to come.

You rolled your hips, feeling him, the way his cock slid in-out of your hole. And, fuck, he was perfect, just fuckin' perfect, like this, and you licked quiet kisses into his unmoving mouth. Desperate moans huffed through bitten breaths as your pace quickened with your urgency. You wring your hands in his shoulders for stability, though he didn't offer much.

When his cock finally pulsed from his seed emptying inside of you, you found yourself wondering about needing birth control if the donor was a corpse. Your legs shake as your orgasm finally reverberates through you, squeezing the last little drops of his come from his cock.

A morning after pill and a full two weeks later, at the funeral, you met his mother for the first time.