Everyone was very kind; they had made you laugh many times the day they arrived at the studio. But there was something about Paul that you really liked. You weren't sure if it was his natural kindness or the subtle flirting during your encounters—whether in the hallway or the brushing of fingers when you handed him his tea—but whatever it was, you were completely fascinated.

It was late, past two in the morning. John and Ringo had already gone home. George had locked himself in Studio 3 to master some guitar tracks. And there was Paul, sitting at the piano in the main studio, shirt sleeves rolled up and his brown hair a bit messy, repeating the same chord progression over and over again.

You peek shyly through the door with a fresh cup of tea.

"I thought you could use an energy boost," you say softly, trying not to startle him.

Paul stopped, looking up with a tired but incredibly warm smile that lit up his face. His eyes locked onto yours.

"You're an angel, truly," he says, reaching out. He took the cup and took a sip. "I'm going crazy with this bridge. Come here, tell me what you think." He slid over, leaving a space on the bench and patting it, waiting for you to come closer.

You walk over and sit next to him on the piano bench. The space is tight, and your thigh presses against his. Paul plays a melancholy, beautiful melody, looking at you as he waits for your reaction.

"It's beautiful, Paul. But I think you're forcing the ending. Let it breathe," you said, shifting your gaze down to the keys, unable to look him in the eye.

He fell silent, processing your words. He set his teacup down on the piano, turning fully toward you and resting his arm on the back of the bench, closing the distance between you.

"Let it breathe, you say?" His voice drops an octave, becoming deeper and more intimate.

"Yes..." you whisper, realizing just how close you are. You can smell his cologne—a mix of expensive tobacco, sandalwood, and the light sweat of hours of hard work.

"Sometimes it's hard to breathe when I have certain things on my mind," he remarks, his eyes dipping to your lips for a split second before locking back onto yours. The musical tension in the studio instantly transforms into something purely electric.

Paul reaches out and, with a gentleness that makes you shiver, brushes a stray lock of hair from your face. His thumb traces your jawline.

"I've been wanting to do this for weeks," he confesses in a whisper.

You don't wait for him to say anything else. You lean forward and kiss him.

The kiss starts softly, a release of months of built-up tension, but quickly turns urgent. Paul lets out a low groan against your mouth and pulls you by the waist, pressing your body against his. His hands slide firmly down your back, heading to your thighs, squeezing them lightly before pulling you fully onto his lap, straddling him. His hands slip up your skirt to your rear, gripping them in a firm squeeze that makes you arch your body into his. Your hands tangle in his thick hair as he moves his kisses from your mouth to your neck, finding that sensitive spot that makes you gasp.

"Paul... someone might walk in," you manage to gasp out, even though your hands are already unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt.

"Let them watch," he growls against your skin, though with a playful smirk.

Even so, he takes you by the thighs and, with surprising strength, lifts you to sit directly on the smooth wooden surface of the grand piano. A couple of sheet music pages flutter to the floor, but neither of you cares.

Paul steps between your parted legs. His gaze is dark, filled with pure, possessive desire. He unbuttons your blouse with agile but impatient fingers, parting the fabric to admire you under the dim studio light. When his warm hands cup your breasts, you arch your back, letting out a sigh that echoes in the perfect acoustics of the room.

"You're perfect," he whispers, before lowering his head to gently lick and bite your nipples through the lace of your underwear, making you lose your train of thought.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders as you strip off his shirt completely, tracing the line of his muscles. The urgency continues to build. Paul disposes of your skirt and underwear in a couple of swift movements. When his fingers, slick and skilled, find you and slide inside, you stifle a cry against his shoulder. He moves in a slow, torturous rhythm, making you press your hips against his hand.

"Please, Paul... I need you," you beg, feeling like you're on the edge of a cliff.

He smiles, pleased by the effect he has on you. Quickly, he sheds his trousers. He positions himself between your legs, holding your hips firmly, and with a slow, deep thrust, slides inside you.

The impact makes you let out a loud moan. Paul covers your mouth with his, turning your cry into a deep, hungry kiss. He begins to move, a steady, rhythmic sway, like the beat of a perfect song. The piano creaks subtly beneath you, and the sound of your bodies meeting and your ragged breathing fills the space.

Your legs wrap around his waist to pull him closer, allowing him to go even deeper. Every thrust from Paul is precise, filling you completely, driving you to a point of no return. He throws his head back, eyes closed and jaw tight, savoring the warmth inside you.

"God, you're so tight... you're going to drive me crazy," he pants, quickening the pace.

The pleasure was overwhelming. You feel the delicious friction and the heat building in your core. Paul shifts his angle, lifting your legs a bit higher, and delivers three hard, deep thrusts, right where you need it. Your entire body tenses up and you come in a long, shuddering release, scratching his back.

Seeing and feeling your orgasm is the final trigger for him. Paul delivers a few quick, desperate thrusts, letting out a husky groan as he comes deep inside you, burying himself completely and holding you tightly against his chest.

Silence returns to the studio, broken only by the sound of your breathing trying to return to normal.

Paul rests his forehead against your shoulder, kissing your sweat-damp skin. Slowly, he pulls back, looking at you with infinite tenderness and that playful smirk that melts you. He helps you down from the piano and carefully helps you dress, buttoning your blouse with the same delicacy he uses to play his best melodies.

He gives you one last soft kiss on the lips, tasting of shared secrets.

"I think now I do... I know how to finish the song," he winks at you, sitting back down at the piano, completely inspired.

You put your clothes back on with a smile on your face, satisfied with having made a beautiful mess. You gathered the papers that had been forgotten on the floor and handed them to him, saying goodbye and asking if he needed anything else, leaving him alone so he could focus.

"Hey, I was looking for you. Just wanted to let you know I left everything tidy."

"Oh, George, hi. Have a good night."

"Good night," he said before heading out the door.

⟡ ݁₊It won't let you move. If you try to get up to go for water, he puts a soft hand on your shoulder and forces you to sit down. "Stay put. I've got it." In five minutes he has transformed the sofa into a nest of blankets, pillows and a pair of his older and softer cardigans so that they smell like him.

⟡ ݁₊He tells you the most brilliant, useless bits of nonsense just to keep your mind off the pain.

⟡ ݁₊When the pain gets ugly and makes you want to cry for anything, he doesn't get scared. He gets into bed with you and lets you hide in his chest. He strokes your hair with those long guitarist fingers, with a delicacy that makes you feel like crystal.

⟡ ݁₊If you feel "ugly " or swollen, he looks at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he has seen in the entire tour. It kisses your forehead, the tip of your nose and each of your knuckles. "You're lovely, you know? Even when you're grumpy. Especially then."

Just as you were about to crawl into bed, the telephone on the nightstand rang. The moment you answered, the background noise told you everything: distant laughter, the muffled echo of a hotel corridor, and the slam of a bedroom door.

"Tell me you’re not asleep..." Graham’s voice trailed down the line, unusually raspy. His accent was much thicker, heavier, the way it always got when he was physically exhausted. "Sorry for the hour, I know it’s bloody late. I’ve just got up to the room and... God, I just had to call you."

"Don’t worry, love. Almost. I’ve just finished sorting out some paperwork," you laughed softly, slipping under the duvet. "How was the show?"

"Paperwork? How boring..." he complained with a lazy chuckle, and you heard the heavy thud of his shoes dropping onto the hotel floor. A long, weary sigh travelled through the receiver, straight into your ear.

"The show was alright, I suppose. Loud. But I hate these hotels, honestly. The sheets smell of bleach, the mattress is like a brick, and the radiator makes this awful clicking sound every five minutes. I miss you. We’ve got to travel early tomorrow, and I can still hear the echo of Dave’s drums rattling in my head..."

Graham kept talking, rambling on about the backstage catering, a guitar string that had snapped during the third song, and how freezing the weather was in that city. He could talk for hours if you let him; he was a wonderful talker, and you genuinely loved listening to him. But you weren’t paying attention to the words anymore. It was his voice.

That low register, the sound of his breath brushing against the mouthpiece, the tiny catches in his throat from exhaustion between sentences. Hearing him speak like that—so unguarded, so vulnerable, and so damn far away—sparked a sudden heat in your stomach.

You shifted against the pillows, feeling the warmth of the blue jumper brush against your bare thighs. The loneliness of the flat suddenly felt incredibly warm.

"I miss you too," you interrupted softly, deliberately lowering your voice, letting the rustle of your duvet filter through the line. "Actually... I’m wearing your blue jumper."

An abrupt silence fell over the other end. You could picture him perfectly: shifting to the middle of the bed with his brown hair completely messy, pushing his glasses up his nose with his index finger, and biting his lower lip nervously, just like he always did.

"The... the blue one?" his voice pitched slightly higher, caught in a thread of surprise, losing half its fatigue. "It’s massive on you. Comes down to your knees."

"It’s bloody huge," you whispered. You slid a hand slowly up the inside of your thigh, enjoying the contrast of your cool fingers against your skin, which was already beginning to flush.

You heard a dry throat-clearing sound. Graham inhaled sharply, as if he’d suddenly run out of oxygen. The atmosphere shifted completely in a split second; the whiny, post-gig mood evaporated.

"Right, yeah?" he murmured. He tried to sound casual, using his usual intellectual tone, but the tremor in his voice betrayed just how fast his heart had started racing. You heard the violent creak of the hotel bed as he sat bolt upright, unable to keep still. "And... and what are you doing wearing it?"

"I was thinking about what you did the night before you left," you continued smoothly, guiding him, knowing perfectly well that his shyness needed that push, but once he was in, there was no turning back. "How you had me up against the desk in the hallway."

A low, muffled groan—a barely audible "oh, God..."—escaped Graham’s lips, followed by a nervous chuckle that melted you inside. You could practically feel his nerves vibrating through the wire; that distinct bashfulness of his that always cropped up when things got a bit too intense, but it was accompanied by a breath that was growing heavier and hotter by the second.

"Fuck me..." you heard him mutter away from the receiver, likely running a hand over his face, overwhelmed by the memory. "I thought you were going to kill me because we nearly knocked the lamp over... You were... you were so loud that night."

Graham’s tone wasn’t that of a tired man anymore. It was thick, dark.

You closed your eyes and slid your hand up to your left breast, kneading it and slowly rubbing your nipple. You slid your hand back down toward your thighs, slipping beneath the blue fabric, searching for your own warmth. The first touch made you let out a shallow sigh, a restrained gasp that travelled straight down the phone line and hit Graham's ear.

"Love?" Graham spoke through the phone. His voice was a plea—slurred, shaking, but wired with absolute urgency. "Tell me... tell me what you’re doing right now. Please. Don't go quiet on me."

That word, that "love" uttered with such desperation, his breath hitching, made you squeeze your thighs together.

A muffled whimper of his name was all you could manage in response, while on the other side of the line, the silence broke with a deep exhalation, a choked curse Graham muttered through his teeth. The sharp rasp of a zip gave way to the quick, rhythmic, desperate friction of his hand against his own skin.

"Fuck, don’t do this to me... not when I’m a bloody ocean away."

"if..." you panted, arching your back as your fingers found the exact spot. The contrast of your own ragged breathing echoing in the empty flat turned you on even more. "If you were here... I’d make you use your mouth for something other than talking."

You slipped two fingers beneath the hem of the blue jumper, finding yourself completely soaked. You let out a clean, high moan, deliberately close to the phone’s microphone, knowing exactly the effect it would have on him.

"I’d have you on your knees by the bed, Graham," you whispered dirtily, drawing out the words with a confidence that made him let out a strangled curse. "I’d make you beg me. I’d make you look up at me from below while I touch myself just like I’m doing right now... look how I have to use my own fingers because my boyfriend is too busy playing guitar in another country."

"Fuck... you’re going to kill me, you’re honestly going to kill me," Graham groaned. The sound of his movements became almost frantic, desperate.

You could picture him with his eyes squeezed shut, his head thrown back, his knuckles white from tension. "I'm... fuck, I'm so hard for you right now. You have no idea what you do to me."

Increasing the speed of your fingers, you felt the tension coil up your legs, forcing you to arch your back against the sheets. "Listen to me... I want you to imagine my hands around your neck. I want you to move for me, Graham. Faster. Do it."

"Yeah... yeah, tell me more," he begged, completely submissive to your commands, sliding his hand up and down his completely slick, flushed shaft, his voice trailing off in a deliciously filthy way. "God, your voice..."

"I want you to think about what I’m going to do to you when you get back," you continued, panting harder, losing control of your own rhythm as the climax began to close in on you. "I’m going to take your clothes off slowly, but I’m not going to let you touch me. You’re going to have to earn it. You’re going to taste every single drop of what you’re making me feel right now... Ah!... Graham..."

Your own moan cut off as a wave of intense heat crashed through your core. Your muscles clenched, squeezing the phone tightly against your ear as your body trembled beneath the blue jumper, finally surrendering to the orgasm that shook you completely.

On the other side of the line, the sound of Graham’s breathing became erratic, almost painful. Hearing you come drove him right over the edge.

"And then?" he pleaded, his voice broken, a desperate thread of a whisper that betrayed how close he was. "Please, tell me what else... don’t leave me like this..."

Still shivering, slowly catching your breath, you smiled wickedly against the pillow.

"And then... I’d give you the best blowjob of your life," you murmured, dragging out the words with agonizing slowness. "I’d make you ask for it, make you beg me not to stop, watching the goosebumps break out all over your skin... And only when you’re about to lose your mind, I’d let you fill me up. So deep you’ll forget what bloody city you’re even in. Think you could handle that, Graham? Think you could keep it together?"

A harsh, muffled, completely broken groan hit the phone receiver. The final question was the ultimate trigger; Graham couldn't answer with words, only with the primal, desperate sound of his own release.

You heard the mattress creak violently one last time, followed by a deep exhalation, a trembling gasp that seemed to scrape his throat before melting into a long, exhausted sigh. The frantic pace on the other side of the line stopped dead, leaving only the echo of his erratic, heavy, wet breathing filling the silence of his hotel room.

You lay still, your chest rising and falling, basking in the sound of his surrender while the warmth of your own climax finished settling into your body.

Several seconds passed with nothing but the sound of breath being recovered. Finally, the rustle of hotel sheets indicated that Graham was flopping back onto the bed, completely undone.

You smiled self-satisfied against the pillow, adjusting the fabric of the blue jumper, which now felt heavier and warmer against your skin.

"That quick, Coxon? I thought you boys in the band had more stamina," you teased gently, though your own tone still carried the lazy afterglow of pleasure.

You heard a faint, slightly embarrassed but deeply intimate laugh. You could easily picture him wiping his hand with a tissue from the nightstand, his cheeks flushed and his brown hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.

"Don’t push your luck," he warned, and you heard the metallic clink of his glasses as he slipped them back on—an unconscious habit of his, even when sitting alone in a dark room. "When I get back to London... you won't have enough time to regret everything you said tonight. I swear to God."

"It’s a promise, then."

"It’s a threat"

he corrected, though the sweet, smitten tone completely gave away his real feelings. There was a brief pause, and his voice dropped again, losing the post-orgasm tension to return to that vulnerable warmth from the start. "Thanks for pick up the phone... well, for playing along. I was honestly going out of my mind in this room."

"Anytime, love. Now try to get some rest. You've got a long journey tomorrow."

"Yeah... the bloody tour bus, I have to be there at seven," he sighed, and the rustle of the receiver against his pillow echoed as he rolled onto his side.

You were just about to reply when two sharp knocks rapped against Graham's door.

"Oi, open up! I'm freezing my bollocks off out here!"

"...Damon, fuck's sake!" Graham’s whisper instantly turned into a hiss of pure panic.

You heard the violent groan of the mattress as he bolted out of bed, followed by a dull thud; he’d probably tripped over his own shoes in the dark while trying to pull his trousers up in a mad rush.

"Oi, Graham! I know you're awake, I saw the bloody light under the door!" Damon's voice came through the line, muffled but clear, dragging his words in that distinct, lazy, annoying tone of his. "Alex kept the only key to my room and I'm not sleeping in the corridor. Open up."

On the other end of the phone, Graham’s breathing was pure chaos. The contrast between the heavy, filthy, incredibly intimate atmosphere they had shared a minute ago and the abrupt interruption from his frontman was almost comical.

"Just... a second!" Graham shouted toward the door, trying to make his voice sound normal, though it was still completely raspy and out of breath. He pressed the receiver to his mouth, speaking in a frantic whisper, "Love, I’ve got to go. That idiot Damon is outside and... God, I'm still half-naked."

A soft, muffled giggle escaped you against the pillow. You pulled the blue jumper tighter around yourself, thoroughly enjoying the chaos on the other side.

"Don’t open it looking like that, Coxon. He’ll figure it out instantly," you teased in a low voice, dialling up the sensuality just to torment him a bit more. "Though it would be funny for him to see how I left you..."

"You’re evil... you’re genuinely evil," Graham groaned, and you could hear the rustle of fabric as he finished dressing against the clock. Quick footsteps hurried toward the door.

"Graham, move it!" Damon complained again, giving another loose thump to the wood. "I swear I can hear someone talking in there. Have you got someone in there?"

"I’m coming!" Graham snapped back.

Graham finally swung the door open. There stood Damon with his stupid smirk, immediately peering over Graham’s shoulder. "Who're you talking to?" he asked, spotting the landline telephone sitting face up on the nightstand.

"No one," Graham blurted out, planting himself firmly in the doorframe to block his way.

"No one?" Damon let out a proper laugh, drawing out his words with that cheeky, arrogant confidence of his. He wasn’t buying it for a second. He locked his eyes onto Graham’s bright red cheeks, his messy hair, and finally, the off-the-hook phone. "Coxon, you’re red as a tomato and the phone’s off the hook."

On the other side of the line, in your quiet London flat, you heard a muffled scuffle, and suddenly, Damon’s house clear, mocking voice filled your ear.

"Aha! I knew it was you!" Damon exclaimed, letting out a triumphant laugh. "Hello!!. Sorry to break up the long-distance romance, but this idiot had me freezing outside while you had him... well, I assume quite entertained, judging by the look of pure panic on his face right now."

You clamped a hand over the sleeve of the blue jumper, letting out a loud laugh against the pillow. It was impossible not to crack up at the situation.

"Give me that back!" Graham’s desperate shout echoed in the background. You heard the sound of rustling sheets and a heavy thud; Graham had quite literally lunged at him to wrestle the phone away.

"Tell him to get off me!" Damon complained, pulling the receiver away from his mouth as he ducked his guitarist's swipes. "Listen, do me a favour and tell him to go to sleep, yeah? We’re travelling early tomorrow, and if Graham’s in a foul mood because he hasn’t slept, he’s going to take it out on me the whole bus ride."

After one last violent rustle, there was a groan from Damon followed by quick footsteps. Graham had finally regained control of the phone.

"Love? You still there?" Graham’s voice came through the receiver completely breathless, panting, carrying a wave of embarrassment so intense you could feel it from miles away. "God... I am so sorry. He’s an absolute knob."

"I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah?" Graham whispered hurriedly, his tone returning to his usual sweet, slightly flustered self. "Try to get some sleep. I love you."

"I love you too, Graham. Have fun with your guest," you teased one last time, thoroughly enjoying his misery.

"Shut up..." he managed to murmur affectionately before the line cut off with a sharp click.

✶ his is a contained intensity that explodes as soon as you close the glass door. He is the kind of man who would stare at you through the steam, with that heavy and cynical look that becomes soft just for you.

✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹

It all started when Oasis finally took off. Noel bought that London flat with the bathroom that looked like it belonged in a magazine—the one you'd both obsessed over when house-hunting. You'd just moved in, and he was absolutely spent after an eternal day in the studio. You were mid-shower when he walked in just to splash his face, but he stopped dead, mesmerised by your silhouette through the glass.

You didn't look away; you gave him a proper show until you finally locked eyes through the steam. "Oi, you pervert," you teased with a smirk. He pretended indifference at first, muttering a dry, "Yes, love?" But his gaze never left you. When you pressed your boobs against the transparent door, his jaw tightened. "Think you're dead clever, don't you?" He murmured before stepping in.

✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖

✶ It corners you against the wall, using its weight to dominate the space.

✶ While the hot water slides down his back, he leans to bite your earlobe and whispers something about how fucking good you look under that light, with a voice so full of smoke and cynicism that it makes you forget even your own name.

✶ Slow kisses that taste like water and expensive soap. He takes his time to worship your neck, leaving marks that he knows you will not be able to cover easily with clothes.

✶ Whispered orders. "Turn around," or "Stay still." with that Macunian scratchy tone of voice, in a very low voice, is much more lethal than any scream.

✶ Slow and deep thrusts.

✶ He holds you by the thighs while the water hits his shoulders, keeping you close, as if you were the only song he wants to play forever.

✶ He likes to see you all soapy and slippery

✶ He likes to use the weight of his body to crush you against the wall. You will feel his chest firm against your back and his hands going down your hips, squeezing hard, making it clear that in that space of two square metres, you are his.

✶ He will end the session by washing your hair with an almost reverent calm, enjoying the post-chaos silence.

✶He is the one who wraps you in a huge and warm towel, looking at you with silent pride while smoking a cigarette in front of the fogged mirror, seeing you through the reflection with that face of “I am the owner of the world”.

✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹

How he mention it later :

Sometimes, when they are at a boring dinner, he leans over and whispers in your ear: "I hope the water heater is on, because as soon as we get home you won't leave the bathroom for an hour."

✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪ ⊹ ✶ ˖ ࣪

۶ৎ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ۶ৎ

liam:

۶ৎWith Liam, it’s all or nothing. He’s impulsive, electric, and fucking loud. The shower isn't for washing; it’s just the place where he couldn't wait another second to have you. ۶ৎ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ۶ৎ

For Liam, the discovery was much wilder, happening during those first world tours in posh hotels where he felt like the King of the World. One night, after a soundcheck fuelled by adrenaline, he stumbles into the room smelling of cigarettes, sweat and beer, with the energy through the clouds. You were already taking a bath to go to sleep, but Liam doesn't know what "decency" is.

۶ৎ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ۶ৎ

۶ৎ He drags you underwater without caring if you still have your clothes on or if the water is burning. His hands are impatient, grabbing your hair or your waist with an urgency that makes you tremble.

۶ৎ That trademark arrogance translates into the shower as a need for you to look at him. He lifts your chin while ramming into you, eyes locked on yours, wanting to catch every single reaction.

۶ৎ He loves to see how your hands desperately search for somewhere to hold on (his hair, the taps, his shoulders). Feeling that you "need" it to not fall is its biggest drug.

۶ৎHe likes to see how your back arches under the stream of water when he bites your shoulder.

۶ৎ A lot of dirty talk with that very strong Mancunian accent. He calls you "mine" and tells you that you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

۶ৎ It's messy and physical. Choppy laughter when someone slips, kisses that bite, and that feeling that the outside world does not exist while his hands run all over you under the stream of water.

۶ৎ He loves to see you after everything happens, soaked, with makeup running (if you had) and that look of "I don't know what just happened", while he smiles at you with that smugness that he knows has left you ruined.

۶ৎ When he finishes, he stays hugging you under the water, with heavy breathing hitting your chest, refusing to let you go even though the steam has already disised.

۶ৎHe will take you out of the shower carrying you, laughing at how much they are soaking the floor, and he will probably want to stay in bed without even drying himself

۶ৎ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ۶ৎ

How he mention it later :

Liam has no shame. If they are with the lads in the pub, he will say things referring to it just to see you suffer. You hit him on the shoulder telling him that he is too drunk to shut up, but he just laughs: "Don't make that face, if it was you who almost ripped off the tap from the wall from so much squeezing...".

"William!", you will tell him trying to cover your face from shame while he takes a sip of his beer with a smile of victory.

Anyway, I ended up making a Wattpad account and started scribbling all sorts about him. I found some of those old drafts the other day and bloody hell—honestly, why didn't anyone confiscate my phone? I was doing way too much.

Point is, I was wondering if you lot want me to bring back Sexy Macca round these parts? Just a thought.

love youse all! and thank you very much for the love you have given to the account ᡴꪫ

☆ Don’t even bother buying your own pyjamas. You’re forever swiping one of his old, thin Corduroy button-downs or a battered Fred Perry polo. They’re a bit scratchy, but they smell properly of him—faint tobacco and old vinyl—and he’s right chuffed seeing them hanging off your shoulders.

☆ Graham isn't one for grand, cinematic declarations, but in the sack, he’s pure sugar. Before dousing the bedside lamp, he’d lean in for that signature nose-to-nose bump. He’s not one for performative PDA, but in the quiet of the bedroom, he’s the softest man alive. He’d mutter a muffled, sleepy "night, love" against your temple.

☆ Even when he’s knackered, his hands are never still. While you’re settling in, he’ll spend ages tracing patterns on the back of your hand or absent-mindedly playing with the hem of your shirt. It’s like he’s trying to memorise the texture of your skin, his fingers moving with that same restless, twitchy energy he has on stage, but infinitely more gentle.

☆ The human radiator. Seriously, the man is a furnace. In the dead of winter, it’s a godsend; in the summer, it’s a total nightmare. He’s got a habit of tucking his freezing feet under your calves just to hear you shriek, flashing you that cheeky, gap-toothed grin when you try to kick him off.

☆ He’s a massive nuzzler. He likes to bury his face right in the crook of your neck, his messy fringe tickling your skin. You can feel the rhythm of his breathing slowing down as he settles, his long, knobby fingers loosely interlaced with yours under the duvet.

☆ The morning after Waking up to find him already staring at you, eyes soft and sleepy behind a curtain of messy hair. No words, just him pulling you closer, his chin resting on top of your head. He’s content to stay in the "haze" of the bed for as long as possible before the rest of the world—and Damon’s frantic phone calls —inevitably catches up to him.