#liampayneblurb

Liam's kind of like, he's a private kind of person. Though his love for you is obvious cause' his hands are always occupying the spaces of yours in public and whenever someone mentions your name during a conversation, no matter what angle, his dark chocolate eyes are the centre of a smitten expression finished with the accompaniment of a smile on his lips which is so bashful. But it's when you's are at behind closed that Liam's body gravitates to yours like a magnet. Cause' your hunger stricken stomach is the reason why you're pacing around the kitchen and gathering whatever ingredients can be stacked between yesterday's bread. But Liam's physically distracting because he slightly beats you in height, just enough that his heavy arms are disabling to your movements as he armors over your shoulders. And you can't not let the timid smile sneak over your lips. ("You know, you make it really difficult to make a sandwich." "You make it difficult to leave you. Ever. Even if it's for five minutes to make a sandwich.") And then there's the hugs where Liam's trying to reassure you. Like pacing around his bedroom, your steps are unfamiliar in a pair of heels you haven't acquainted the soles of your feet with. But you have a job interview that also sees your nerve-riddled stature donned in a sleep blazer. And Liam can only watch you almost work yourself into a panic attack before he sits his stature on the foot end of the bed. And his elbows are hooked around your waist as his chest press into your stomach, the only tranquility you can sense in the entire situation is his warm pupils looking up to you. ("Babe. Breathe." "You're squishing, I can't." "You can. Like you can get this job." "I can." "Say it again." "I sound like Barack Obama or something." "Yes (y/n). We can!") But the best hugs are after one of his concerts. Cause' his cologne isn't as strong as it initially was. It's kind of been tainted by the beads of sweat that vaguely appear over his skin but it makes the warm scent he always leaves on the case of your pillows. And nine times out of ten, you're standing with your back turned, unexpecting before his fingers prod just under your rib cage to make you almost jump from the ground itself. That slight jump gives Liam the chance to spin you around, before his lips are pressed against yours. Not in a kiss but not just hovering. He just has this infectious smirk cause' you're actually here and he can feel your features instead of looking at them through the virtuality of a facetime call. And honestly exhilarated Liam is the best type of hug-giver. ("You liked?" "I loved." "Loved?" "Loved it." "I love you here." "I love me here too.")

Liam's always been the epitome of lovesick and kind of almost in awe of you, even if you refuse to see it to the degree that it extends sometimes. Like when your nerves were too unsettling and you were pacing footsteps at your flat with your best friend on the foot of your bed, her polarisingly messy hair and pajamas a complete contrast to the dress hanging on your body and the lipstick mattifying your trembling lips. ("This is too much for a second date, yeah? He'll hate it." "Are you kidding?" "I just." "When he dropped you off last night, I've never seen a set of puppy eyes like it. He looked liked a bloody smitten puppy before he even got a chance to kiss you." "Well, he might of." "You didn't tell me!") And so the first 'I love you' isn't enough. And you can tell his thinking more because it comes when you's are in the midst of a midnight dash to Tesco's for those jelly pots in the passionfruit flavor Liam's as close as his body allows, his hands peeking from the baggy print sweater keeping him warm in the chilled section. You've just let what Liam regards to be the most endearing shiver of excitement justle your body at the feet, running a tremble through your spine that Liam's palm can feel as it is rested on the crook of your back. And the statement isn't as easily finished as he thought it might be because the warmth travels in his words as his head kind of slightly shakes with his inability to accept just how much he could say. ("I just. My god I love you." "I love you too." "I love you isn't enough, I just. I just love you more than I thought.") It's really that Liam can't grasp himself how much he is infatuated with these fixtures of yours. Like when he is scurrying around the clustered flooring of his bedroom in search for the left shoe of his favorite Nike's, he has a need to listen to the tune you're humming just audibly louder than the water dispersing from the shower head you stand under. Because' it's the same tune he noticed you singing during the three minute commercial break between Gilmore Girls re-runs airing on television. Sitting up with your hand's stretched far above your head, letting the slightly off tune notes exert warily harder with your overdramatic breath exhaling. And god knows how much he scrambles to find the words until his in the studio and rustic drum starts pattering the beat of a tune that sounds so similar. And maybe you'll be on different time zones, only to be awoken at half three in the morning with the sound of a overworked voice boasting on the other end. ("I'm going to write you a song." "Li, what?" "I'm going to write you a song. And it might not make the album cut because kkof label image and all of that. But I will burn it on a cd and label it with a permanent marker if I have to, but I wan't to write you a song half as special as you." "Are you drunk?" "No. I just love you." "I love you too. I might even love you more in the actual morning.")

Truthfully, you’re entire camera roll is filled with pictures with and of Liam. There’s those photos of the first time he let you drive his car, his over-reacting frame occupying the passenger seat and with your phone in his palm. And he knows that your password is your birthday backwards so his first agenda after cracking the code is to add his right thumb fingerprint into the security settings and second, to work the front camera. And the self facing pictures are from a lower angle as the phone sits on his lap, at the same time you manage to shift gears not as smoothly intended as you thought. (“Oh my goodness. I’m going to need to take out insurance.” “Don’t be so dramatic.”) And then there’s the photos you’re compelled to take. Walking from the bathroom with your hair still dripping cool droplets of water down the width of your shoulders, you instantly reach for the phone once seeing his face planted against the lounge chair with eyes struggling to remain open and his hips barely holding onto the white towel knotted around his frame. So, it’s typical that one late night you both stumble into his apartment after sipping on a budget wine with his sister and her partner playing monopoly, that you are swiping through the photos that center around the coffee table everyone was gathered around. And you have always had this tendency to never lock your phone after toying through the features and Liam’s sister was compelled to capture the moment so she slyly grabs the electronic device in her palm. Because what was Red Wine acted like an acceleration for Liam’s childish nature and a trigger for your shrill fits of giggles that resulted in Liam holding the silver plated Monopoly Hat figure on his head and you having to cover your mouth to prevent spitting out the glass full of liquid. (“I look like a young Tom Hanks. Am I right?”) And Liam’s sister has the candid shot that reflecting on, you can’t help but coo over. (“Li, we’re pretty cute.” “I told you we photograph well. And I do look like Tom Hanks.” “Please, give that a break.” “I bet your Instagram following would think otherwise.”) So with a alcohol induced decision, the thumb has clicked posted the attachment with the caption ‘Who would have thought I would fall for Tom Hanks?’ before your mind is distracted by Liam’s hold. Until the next morning, when Liam’s stubble is slightly scratchy against your bare shoulder and his leg is twisted around yours like a pliant piece of string. (“Should I have posted that Li?” “I think the real question is should I have had the playing piece on my head?” “I mean it Li.” “Honestly?” “Mmm.” “I’m glad. At least it’s a photo where we both look fit.”)

Liam's so immensely protective. And it's cause' you’re certain his heart is made from liquid gold that you can almost feel. Particularly when you're in times of doubt and you have started picking at the cuticles of your already damaged nails only for Liam to encase your stature from behind, his arms draped across your shoulders like a duvet and his breath is as warm as his words. ("Don't worry babe. It'll work out.") But this time you can't even bare to tell him that your knees feel like a setting pot of jelly cause' he almost looks anxious too, if your eyes behind the still damp mascara coating your eyelashes is seeing things right. Cause' his deep hazel eyes aren't as attentive as they are usually, his head slightly ducked as his fingers pick absently at nothing in particular on his lips. And the last time Liam was like this, it was twenty minutes before you had to board the flight to your hometown. And normally Liam resembles a six year old kid, using his phone to calculate the day's till he sees you again. ("22 days babe.") And then squinting his eyes at the keypad, pressing an array of division symbols before a flush of pure pride beams a broad smile across his eyes. ("Thirty one thousand, six hundred and eighty something minutes. Approximately." "Oh, approximately.") But that day's demeanor was uncanningly the same as you are witnessing today. (But you managed to tease his bottom lip with a kiss to unveil the reason. "I just don't know when I'm going to see you again. Like, we normally have a set date babe. But there's none.") And Liam's sat in a sofa that's oddly the very nearly the same shade of blue material that’s tied around the collar. And being careful not to flash the thin nude lace covering the necessities between your hips, your heels are kicked from your feet onto the floor underneath you, your legs polarizing the meaning of elegant as they cross over each other. ("Li?") And his arm will instinctively rest against the surface of your thigh, his words finding release that with a higher tone like it's a question. ("They can say really awful things to you to try and get a good picture. You don't deserve that." "I promise, I'll call quits if it's too much." "You swear, if you feel the slightest bit uncomfortable?" "I'll pinky swear it to make it official.")  And so be it that you let him talk strict orders with his bodyguard, hearing your name nestle into concentration. And that he finds it necessary that the publicist knows he won't do any interviews with your arm laced in his.And then it comes that his eyes are illuminated by the flutter of lens and you've never heard so many different pronunciations of your name, as Liam's hand is so terribly cupped around your hip, his lips falling next to your cheek continuously uttering a whisper that shows that his favorite smile of yours. How it obviously radiates from the butterflies taking flight in your stomach. ("I forgot to tell you, you're the most beautiful girl on this red carpet." "Have you even seen that blonde girl from Gone Girl?" "I can't take me eyes off of you love.")

You had managed so far to avoid what you have made into confrontation. You'd managed so so well. Cause' when it came to that family trip you had been invited on, Liam's hands weren't able to throw the hand cupped full of pure salty water at you though his devilish smirk felt full need too. ("No Li don’t you dare. I'm still on antibiotics for that ear infection.") Only for him to use every muscle of his lower body to propel towards you and engulf you in a fighting hug that transferred every droplet of cold water onto your body, instigating a chilled squeal. ("Liam!" "I can still wet the rest of your body. Not just the ears." "You're freezing though!" "Well warm me up babe.") And coincidentally you had irresponsibility but now so conveniently left the remnants of makeup on from the night out before when it was barely a reasonable mid morning hour on a Sunday and Liam's eager hands move from ringing your doorbell to snagging you around the waist band of your themed boy cut undies. ("Elmo, huh?" "I'm a kid at heart." 'Have you got a matching bra too?" "No, I thought you'd be more impressed with the Batman bra I brought." "You know how to make a man's Sunday morning.") And its been so so so long, but here you are at his place, and you've already scrubbed at the patches of raised bumps on your face in a shower that Liam had originally persisted he accompany you in. ("I mean, I could just hop in there too and show you exactly how the taps work?" "I'm a big girl." "Well tell me if you need a hand or two.") Leaving the water running in the basin, his clear mirror doesn't have the same blurring affect of the concealer you had previously worn. So as you turn off basin taps, there's a trickle of water that finishes leaking from the stainless steel tap that so strongly resembles the ripple effect of the butterflies of in your stomach. And you rationalise it for a further three or four minutes before your footsteps are fast before your entire body collapses into the bed, instinctively ducking your head down as Liam's stature slightly bounces from your impact. ("Okay Li." "Yeah?") And like the nerves are liquidfying your insides, your words  speaking anxious rubbish and spilling from your lips so easily, still persistant on avoiding his gaze. ("I'm just going to say that the guy in China sued his wife after seeing her without makeup for the first time and if you want to, I'm not worth a lot of money-") And Liam snags a kiss on your nose because your head is still ducked down too far for him to read, his scruff more noticeable than his lips. ("Babe. I'll drive you home if you want to put on some makeup, yeah? Whatever makes you happy and confident and all those things, but I honestly care more about what movie you're going to pick on Netflix." "Really?" "Yeah. Now is it Return to Sender or Just Before I Go?") Maybe as you are taking the indecisive time to flick between each options trailer on youtube he slips a cliché, "Though, you are beautiful, for the record." And just when the opening credits have finished flashing before the screen you'll hear his distinct voice. ("Besides, you have to put up with the mole on my neck." "It's cute though." "I spose I'm not too hard on the eye." "Yeah, I guess.")  

Liam loves it but he never verbalizes it, cause’ you have this tendency to shy away from a compliment. Like when he instigated a water fight during the midst of summer and just before his attempt to turn the bucket of water upside down that only one of his arms easily held above your height, his other hand was firm around your waist and his mouth so close to the tip of your nose that it almost made you go cross eyed taking in the way his mouth formed each words. (“You have the most adorable smirk when you concentrate on something.”) And with the bucket of water still held in anticipation above your head, he watched your cheeks transition into the most crimson colour and you completely lose that smile full of bashfulness. (“Stop it.” “It’s true.” “No your lying.” “I can’t lie about you being adorable.” “Shush would you. It isn’t true.”) And he isn’t sure whether it’s insecurity or something, but he doesn’t mention it because he just observes. Observes how when you are stacked on each other on the lounge like a bundle of lego’s and you’re facial expressions are knitted with concentration as you explain the dilemma of the day. And Liam truthfully only hears a minority of your story cause’ he watches your eyes follow your own two hands as they play with Liam’s. How the proportion of his palm fits nearly 10 of your fingers and how you unintentionally squeeze his knuckles whenever you mention your boss’ personal assistant. And Liam loves it cause’ when his nervous, your hands are comparable to a stress ball. Like when he’s having to front onto a stadium of seventy odd thousand and there is a jittering adrenalin that radiates from the depth of his stomach towards the tips of his fingers. But his hands easily encase both of yours and his padding the fingertips in time to the melody of Olivia that hums in the back of his lips. But what he really loves, is how just one palm can literally singlehandedly fit across the crook of your waist. So when you are docile and re-entering your slumber state at two in the morning when your light ears prick at the sound of thunder, just his palm can coax you closer to him with a little “Come ‘ere”  under fortress of blankets that isn’t just the same warmth as you. 

Considering it’s the middle of winter, the shiver that collectively grabs each nerve shriveling up Liam’s bare back is so out of character. Because he is accustomed to the weight of your body flailing across his like a sheet of tin attracted to a magnet. And with the fringe of his hair being slightly longer than the rest, it will be tousled from the electricity it held to the pillow case and scooping down towards his eyes which are squinting as they follow the harsh radiation from the hallway light. And though the film of sleep blurs across his pupils, he sees your body, knees dangling across the length of the lounge and the puzzling lines working to arch his eyebrows is enough to retrieve an answer from yourself without him having to ask. (“I can’t sleep. My brain won’t shut off.”) And it’s only as he sit’s, his cotton boxer shorts firmly pressed against the carpet of the floor and his back pressed against the rounded edge of the dark lounge, do you hear the crack of his vocal cords warming up. (“I kind of hope your brain doesn’t shut off. I’d have to pay to make you into a robot to keep you alive or something of the sort.”) And though you use your strength to attempt to send Liam back in the bedroom, it’s incomparable to the degree of his stuborness. (“Li, you’ve got work in the morning and I-” “No.”“Yes, go back to bed.” “No.” “You can’t just keep replying with n-” “No.”) And in the course of the staggering morning time the hues of brown colours that compose the individuality of his eyes become more noticeable as his eyelids beat the fatigue drooping them. Though it could be due to the latest Avengers movie playing on his recently untried blu-ray player, that he brags did come of good use though you had consistently reminded him of utorrent. (“See, we are using the Blu-ray babe.” “Only to help to get me to sleep.” “Avenger’s will keep you awake, more likely than not.” “Never has before.”) And it’s when Liam’s come back from the kitchen, the ceramic mug filled with warm milk basking in his hands, does he notice you. Your head tilted back against the lounge arm rest, your mouth slightly agape and the softest breaths only the stillness of 4.13am could accentuate. (“That would be right.”)

(I don’t even know what this is, aaah, sorry for the crappy improv writing.)