i went tø the wøøds...

▸ cigana - jorge ben jor

the rooftop of the hotel is warm even though the sun is already starting to set. the noise of the rio toned down by the music on the speakers – sometimes oasis, sometimes other british artists, sometimes a very curated selection of brazilian songs. the pool glows every time people in it laugh a little too hard, not even minding if they’re spilling their drinks in the water. every single type of alcohol being served just because oasis needs to be properly welcomed to brazil.

cold beers sweat in buckets of ice. caipirinhas are as authentic as they could get: cachaça being the main option, but vodka when someone pulls a face at the strong taste. limes, but also options of other tropical fruits mixed with tons of ice. strawberry, watermelon, passion fruit – and some that they’ve actually never even heard of and that are fucking delicious, like lichia and caju. coconuts handed over with straws. little plates of pão de queijo and pastéis keep circulating, disappearing almost as fast as they arrive.

you’re there because of a friend – a friend of a friend, really – dragged along with the promise of free drinks and some celebrity sightseeing. you don’t expect to stay long, thinking that this would just be a gringo trap.

acabou que a festa tá muito boa. gringo é importante, né? fazer o que.

and as you’re laughing with some of your girlfriends, you feel it.

you glance over, and he’s already looking at you. not subtle about it either. leaning over the bar like he owns the place, mindlessly nodding along to whatever that guy was talking in his ear, beer in hand.

he looks wildly out of place and completely at ease at the same time. when you look away, he doesn’t stop.

and eventually, he wanders over.

“alright?” he says, easy. polite, like he isn’t already thinking about you on his bed.

“alright” you answer, smiling before you can stop yourself.

he talks. about what he knows and has seen so far: crazy crowds, brazilian football legends, the weather and the beaches that are nothing like manchester. he’s nice, funny, and despite the strong accent, you talk back. about nothing important. about the music he’s not familiar with, about the teams he’s never heard of. you make him laugh while talking about the stereotypes that sometimes are true and sometimes aren’t at all. é 8 ou 80.

“you’ve got an accent,” he says eventually, head tilting.

you laugh. amused and, honestly, charmed. “so do you.”

he laughs, head tipping back and nodding immediately. “fair.”

nearly an hour later, you end up sitting with him at a lounge chair. he’s had a few drinks, relaxed in that loose, chatty way that makes him lean in when you talk. that makes him bold enough to rest his hand on your thigh despite feeling eyes on both of you.

he takes another sip of his beer, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he’s trying to behave and failing quietly. “so,” he says, casual. “teach me something in portuguese”

you laugh softly. “like what?”

he shrugs, smiling. “somethin’ useful.”

“oi, tudo bem?”

“meu nome é noel”

“boa noite. obrigado”

he repeats all of those slowly, accent thick, wrong in an almost endearing way. you correct him with a small laugh, not mocking, amused. he tries again, still wrong, his grin widening, embarrassed but clearly enjoying himself.

“the bad ones now, cmon. know you’ve got it in you”, he asked.

“puta merda”

“caralho”

“filho da puta”

“merda”

he repeats it, tongue clumsy around the sound. each time he gets closer, his hand drifts higher on your thigh. sometimes louder than necessary just to make you laugh, squeezing your leg just to emphasize. and you do, laughing so hard your belly hurts, grabbing his wrist as you say “shhhh!” for him to keep it down.

“too much?”, he asks. smirking and pleased with himself, playfully giving your thigh another little squeeze.

you laugh, scrunching your nose, thumb brushing his wrist and his knuckles. “just a little”

minutes later, you two end up near the edge of the rooftop, a quieter place with the excuse of grabbing a cigarette. the conversation is still very much there, just slightly different. charged. he leans against the railing, his eyes flick to your mouth every time you take a drag. he smirks every time you laugh at something he says. he drags out the accent a little more – either so you understand it a bit better or either because you lick your lips every time it comes out a bit too british.

then, “what d’you call a pretty bird in portuguese?”

you huff out a little laugh, eyebrows raising softly. “a bird?”

“yeah, love”, he nods, completely serious despite the smirk. “bird.”

you furrow your brows, lifting your hands and flapping them a little. “pássaro?”

he bursts out a soft and hearty laugh, grabbing your hands mid-gesture. “no, no- fuck, not that bird”, he shakes his head, still laughing, eyes brighte with amusement and something else. “a bird. girl. woman. y’know.”

“ah”, you say, laughing too, amused. “gata. or linda”

he repeats it quietly, testing the sound, your hands still on his. then, smug, “yeah, sounds ‘bout right.”

there’s a pause. he looks at you, smirking and tipping his chin. “how d’you ask for a kiss, then?”

you smile, stepping a little closer. “me dá um beijo”, you say softly, eyes darting down to his lips.

he begins to repeat it under his breath, immediately fucking it. he cringes, then laughs, shaking his head, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. “fuck me, that… sounds complicated”

you smile, shaking your head too. “no, cmon. you’ve got this.”

he squints, still smirking, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “won’t shoo me away if i fuck it up?”

you laugh, warm and easy, leaning in, voice softening as you shrug teasingly. “gonna kiss you anyway,” – eyes flicking to his lips – “just wanna make you work for it a little.”

he huffs a laugh, clearly gone already. “that’s cruel, that is.”

“go on”, you tease. smirking.

he licks his lips, smiling like he’s already embarrassed of it. “me… dá… um… beijo.” slow. not that bad, to be honest.

you bite your lip, fighting a smile. “almost.”

“almost?”, he groans playfully, but he’s smirking. his hand slowly dropping yours and already finding your waist. “christ.”

you shrug, hand moving to the back of his neck as you smile back at him, “good enough”, you say quietly, already leaning in and closing the distance.

▸ mania de você - rita lee

you only realized how “too much sunscreen” for a british-irish pale man is never enough hours later. no matter how much he fusses about it. now, back at the hotel room and post shower is when that is very very clear.

noel has his back propped up against the headboard, the only piece of fabric in his body being a towel around his hips and the sunburn covering his skin. his hair is still wet, and he’s still grumpy over the fact that no matter how hard he rolls his eyes, you still think the pink shade all over his face is cute.

his hands rest absentmindedly on your hips, you’re straddling him while only wearing his shirt, hair still wet from the shower and definitely not burnt like him. “brazilian goddess tanning genes”, he teased while watching you tan on your stomach seconds before leaving a sharp slap on your ass.

karma, this must be. or at least that’s what trying to convey, like having your hands rubbing lotion all over his sensitive skin is such a pain in his arse. he doesn’t move a muscle, though.

“don’t look at me like that”, he muttered, eyes stuck on your face while yours follow your hands. rubbing his shoulders, the sides of his neck, his chest – occasionally sliding underneath the silver chain that rests over the soft chest hair.

you hum, amused. “like what, hm?”

“like i’m a fuckin’ tourist who didn’t listen”, he grumbled.

you huffed out a tiny laugh, tilting your head and not letting up on your ministrations for a second. “well, you are one. that’s why you look like a tomato now”

he rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “s’not that bad.”

you smile, hands sliding down to his belly, still slick with the cream that smells like you. he doesn’t complain about that, but he won’t admit that he’s secretly enjoying that fact. “it is, amor. tá todo vermelhinho…”, you say softly, leaning in to press a quick kiss on his lips. he doesn’t even pluck them like you, but his eyes squint at the sweetness, like he’s silently saying ‘don’t make me break’

you just smile, soft and unapologetic, and keep going. your hands slow, careful. you rub the lotion into his shoulders again, thumbs pressing just enough to ease that tight line there, the one he always carries from guitars and bad posture and thinking too much.

“does that feel good?”, you ask gently, but it’s barely reassuring, because you know it does.

he huffs out a breath, nodding slowly. his hands tighten slightly on your hips.

you hum, almost smug, and lean in to kiss his lips, and this time he kisses you back – just a little, trying to not give himself away. you smile, moving your mouth and leaving a small kiss on the pink bridge of his nose.

“you’re enjoyin’ this a bit too much”, he mutters. you huff out a soft laugh, humming in agreement as your palms keep moving. slower now, almost reverent. chest. collarbone. down his side.

he watches you watch your palms over him like he’s trying not to. eyes half-lidded. pretending this is nothing, that he’s not absolutely melting at being taken care of like this.

and as your palm rubs over the small curve of his belly, right over his happy trail, his hips shift. just slightly.

you pause, because that’s when you feel it. a smile breaks on your face, “baby…” you say softly, almost fond. “you’re hard”

he exhales through his nose, caught, but not really embarrassed. “well, yeah”, like it’s obvious. “fuckin’ rubbin’ me up like that. what did y’expect?”

your smile widens slowly as you lean in, hands still warm on his skin, and kiss him properly now. unhurried. he kisses you back with a small hum that’s nearly a moan.

“yeah?” you murmur against his lips, grinding your hips over him once. “gostoso” you whisper, barely there.

his hands tighten on you, fingers digging in just enough to tell you he’s losing whatever composure he had left. “fuck sake. you’re evil”, he mutters, already leaning closer again.

“no…”, you correct softly, kissing the corner of his mouth. then, his jaw. then, his cheek. and as you grind your hips over him one more time, you kiss his neck. “i’m nice, noelly. aren’t i?”, you whisper near his ear.

he tilts his head into your mouth with a low moan, his hands now sliding over to your ass and grabbing it. because every gentle touch, every careful kiss, every quiet little i’ve got you wrapped up in the way you handle him has him unraveling faster than anything rough ever could. “fuck me”, he breathed out, fully defeated now.

you smile, pulling back and slowly peeling off the towel that’s covering him – his length slapping against his belly showing you everything he’s been trying to hide.

“só tô cuidando do meu amor, não tô?”, you said softly, wrapping your hand around his cock. he licks his lips and nods slowly in response.

you let out a small breathy laugh. “what are you nodding for, hm?”, you tease, moving your hand up and down slowly, “don’t even know what i’m saying”

he breathes out a tiny laugh, taking in a deep inhale after at the feeling. “fuck, don’t… think i need to, do i?”

you smile, smug and fond and warm all at one. shaking your head slowly as you shift off from his lap and moving until your mouth is close to where he needs you the most. his hand finds the back of your head and rest softly there, fingers moving slowly and gently against your scalp as you shake your head.

“guess not”

▸ dano sarrada - marina sena

the party has been in high spirits since the moment you got there, hard not to be excited when the caipirinhas are being made in the authentic proper way. but it’s when the dj starts playing the good stuff that the party actually starts for you.

it doesn’t take long until your hair is sticking to your neck, a permanent smirk on your face as you sway your hips rhythmically and sing along to the dirty words blasting through the speakers. your dress rides higher, clings on your skin. hair a mess. you couldn’t possibly care, not when you feel his eyes on you long before you turn.

noel’s leaning back against the wall. his grey hair messy, drink in hand, sleeves shoved up his forearms and enough buttons undone to make you flip. he’s drunk, too, but his gaze still tracks you like gravity. slow and unashamed. mouth curled into that crooked smile that means he’s gonna fucking eat you up in no time.

you catch him looking, and you smile wider. because you’re gonna let him, of course.

you walk closer, head tilting once you stand in front of him. tipping your chin up just like he is – teasing, playing this little flirting game both of you know damn well where it ends every time.

“you keep staring at me”, you tease. accent coming out thicker in that way it always gets when you’re drunk, the same way it makes him have to physically restrain himself from not taking you right there. your finger hooks into the collar of his shirt, tugging him just a bit closer. “gonna charge you for that.”

he smirks, eyes glinting with challenge while he slowly nods. “bill me, sweetheart”

you huff out a smug laugh, biting down a smile and leaning closer. “yeah? how much then?”

he smirks right back, shaking his head at your cheekiness and shamelessly dragging his hand down your lower back and squeezing a handful of your ass. “whatever you feel like. jus’ won’t stop lookin’ at ya”

you laugh, low and pleased, leaning in until your mouth brushes his ear. “keep the sweet talk and you’ll get a lot more than a dance, gallagher”, you whisper, teasingly grazing your teeth on the side of his neck – not hard, just enough to make him let out a hiss between a smirk and grab your ass ever harder.

he mutters a small “fuck me” and then his mouth finds yours, messy and heated. both of you hungry and laughing in the kiss, his hand firm on your ass bringing you closer as his mouth devours yours. right there in the middle of everyone. he doesn’t give a fuck right now.

he pulls back with a low moan, decisive, fingers tightening. “right. we’re getting the fuck outta here”

you grin, flushed, dizzy with the drinks, the music, the heat and with him. “yeah?”, you say with a laugh while he basically yanks you with his hand tight on yours. and as he walks through the crowd towards the door, he’s smiling too. because both of you know exactly how the night’s going to end.

▸ amante amado - jorge ben jor

the place is absurdly nice. noel had only heard of são paulo, curitiba and rio de janeiro, trancoso was a new one. and he was liking it, to be fair. cold drinks and his missus happy and sun kissed? that’ll do him just fine, no matter what else is going on. to top it off: world cup is happening, and as a football obsessed man, he catches himself amused by the fact that even with the fancy white linen tables, ocean breeze and the hard to pronounce foods. football is football, no matter the place.

the waiters pretend that they’re not paying attention like the rest of the clients with their eyes stuck on the giant screen. and no matter how interesting the game is, he’s far more entertained by you and your brain immediately returning to its default portuguese setting just because you’re mad.

you’re sitting down, and you have been shaking your head for at least five minutes now. drink sweating on the table, shoulders tense, surrounded by other brazilians who absolutely do not care that this is a “luxury beach resort restaurant” and keep muttering portuguese cuss words just like you.

because you lost. again.

and he’s watching all of it behind the sunglasses in that relaxed and maddeningly attractive way he has – slightly sun-kissed, the wind messing his grey hair in a way he doesn’t really care. and that doesn’t even make you look at him, kiss his neck and take in his after shave like you usually do. yeah, you’re proper pissed.

“filho da puta do caralho”, you snap quietly, shaking your head even more intensely. “nunca também essa porra”

you sip your drink through the straw like it personally betrayed you. noel huffs out a laugh at the scene, still not saying anything. you put the glass down with a soft thud, crossing your arms and huffing out a breath harshly. and then, you keep going.

“esse bosta do neymar, também. desgraça de homem”, you mutter angrily, pointing at the tv like neymar himself can hear you. you clicked your tongue in that angry brazilian way he’s always swore you did every time you were mad, and you denied every single time. “pelo amor de deus, cara”.

noel’s eyebrows lift, amused. smirking to himself despite not daring to bring anything up that would prove his point. no, no. he’d like to keep his head attached to his body, thank you very much.

“thiago. trai a mulher dele pra caralho, podia pelo menos ganhar essa copa. desgraçado. filho da puta. ruim. horrível”, you rant, gesturing wildly at the screen. you snap your head towards noel, saying it like he can fully understand what you’re saying right now, “capitão pra que? fazer a gente passar vergonha? não fode, porra”

noel finally steps in, gentle hand reaching for your arm. “love-“

“não me encosta, noel. sai”, you snap, pushing his hand away. “país amaldiçoado, meu deus”

he does not, in fact, sai (despite knowing that one!) but instead, he wraps an arm around you anyway, firm and warm, pulling you into his chest like he knows you’ll fight it for exactly two seconds before melting.

you sigh into him, forehead pressing into his shoulder, still fuming. he presses a kiss to the top of your head, voice calm in your ear, rubbing your arms. “i know, i know…” he murmurs. “england’s shite. know it all too well”

you let out a small, disbelieving laugh despite yourself, shaking your head against his chest. “shut up”

he grins, completely unbothered, thumb brushing soothing circles against your arm. “had to say it”

you sniff, still frustrated. but still clinging to him. he tilts his head, looking at you with that infuriating tenderness. “still bonita though, eh?”, he adds lightly. his two hands rubbing your arms up and down and squeezing as he teases: “muito gostosa”

you laugh, shoving his chest weakly. “dick”

he laughs, arms tightening around you. “yeah, yeah. what is it? corno?”

“no, not that one. cuzão”, you say in between laughter.

he smiles, kissing your temple. “there, that’s the one. i’m a fuckin’ cuzão”

▸ lua cheia - marina sena

the sun was low and warm, turning the sand gold and the sea a lazy, glittering blue. noel was stretched out on his lounge chair, sunglasses tipped low on his nose and a beer sweating on his hand as he watched you come out of the water.

you smiled as you saw him watch you. salty water on your hair and your skin while your bikini clinged as you walked toward him. you didn’t rush. and he clocked every second of it.

you placed your hands on the chair and leaned your down to give him a kiss on the lips, already smiling because you knew what was coming. a slow grin tugged at his mouth against your lips, pulling away only to say what he’s been holding in the moment you got up to go for a dip – his gaze unapologetically darting between your cleavage and your face.

“love when you’re close…” he said casually, shaking his head softly while his eyes shameless and hungry, his hand finding your hip and sliding over your ass and squeezing it like he’s proving a point. “but fuck me. love watchin’ you go”

you snorted softly, leaning closer again. “that so?”

his grin widened, nodding and pulling you closer until you were fully sitting down on his lap.

you leaned in again, kissing him slowly and smiling during it at the feeling of his hand shamelessly groping your ass – not as shameless as the other one, that made a bold attempt of sliding up your inner thighs, only being stopped by you clamping your legs together. your nose brushing his, teasingly sucking his bottom lip and whispering against his lips. “safado.”

he laughed under his breath, pleased with himself. “oh, i know that one.”

you raised a brow, giving him a soft peck before pulling away to look at his face. “yeah? what does it mean then?”

he dipped his head, still smiling as he nibbled the side of your neck. his fingers reached up and hooked his palm under the strap at your hip, grabbing your skin and pulling you closer in the way he always does when he’s tired of being good. “let’s go back to the hotel room, i’ll show you what it means”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ .

You’re only about three or four months into your recent move to Pittsburgh when you get sick. And you’re one of those, special, lucky people who has the immune system of an un-vaccinated Victorian orphan, so despite having several hours worth of college assignments waiting for you, you’re currently lying on your bathroom floor, face smashed against the cool tile.

It is, genuinely, the only comfortable place in your shitty apartment. (At the moment.)

You pull the thermometer out of your mouth and slowly blink at the reading:

100.2 degrees.

Like you usually are. Just barely outside the normal range. Well, normal range can eat bricks because there’s no way having a mild fever is making you feel this bad. And you’re not being dramatic. Your throat genuinely feels like it’s on fire, and every breath is laborious and agonizing. Your face and head feel like they’re about to explode, and you’re pretty sure someone or something is stabbing you over and over again in your legs and lower back (which also feel like they’re on fire.)

Time passes in a weird way on the bathroom floor. Not really slow, but the pain and discomfort of each breath keeps it from moving too quickly.

You recognize, distantly, that you’re really sick. Really sick even for you.

There usually comes a certain point in the common cold that never fails to absolutely destroy you when it faces a fork in the road: get better or get much, much worse.

It’s fairly obvious which path your immune system decided to take.

There’s a large puddle of drool wetting your cheek because swallowing hurts too bad, and it’s not like you can breathe through your nose anyway. You don’t even have the energy to be grossed out.

You never really do.

Being sick is all about distracting yourself from how much pain you’re in until the worst of it passes, but right now you’re only getting worse. You can’t keep anything down, not even water, which means you’ve just been digesting snot for the past two hours which is bound to make you throw up (again.) No matter what kind of sickness you get, you always end up throwing up.

You measure how much time has passed by how large the puddle of drool grows. When it surpasses hand-sized, you attempt to haul yourself up, maybe take some more ibuprofen (you really shouldn’t, your liver is honestly toast at this point) but upon making an effort, you find that you can’t.

It feels like executive dysfunction. You want to get up. You need to get up. You cannot get up.

You’re so tired.

Alarm bells are ringing in your head. The same alarm bells that went off the time you had walking pneumonia and genuinely came to terms with dying in your sleep. It’s a spike of panic in your chest, a small dump of adrenaline and cortisol that’s just barely enough for you to haul yourself upright.

The action takes more energy than it feels worth, and you feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

You kind of feel like you’re dying. And honestly, with how bad you feel, you wouldn’t mind going to sleep and not waking up.

And that isn’t a usual thought to have when you’re sick, not to level of sheer apathy and exhaustion you’re feeling now, so you think that maybe it’s time to go to the Emergency Room.

You come to that conclusion about the same time that your roommate, who you aren’t quite friends with, comes into the bathroom and promptly screams when she finds you lying on the floor. (You don’t remember lying back down.)

“Hey,” She says, kneeling down and shaking your shoulder, “I think you need to go to the hospital.”

—

On another day, maybe when you don’t actually feel like death warmed over, you might be thankful that there is at least someone to take you to the hospital, to grab your hospital bag (you’d had to tell her where it was when you first moved in, and being a medical student herself, had understood your need for it) and to already have the route to the ED memorized. Probably because she currently works there.

“You’ll be fine,” Victoria rambles as she pulls into the parking lot with practiced ease, “I’ve worked with the night crew before, they’re great. They’ll make you feel better.”

Unlikely, you think.

Maybe you look particularly awful, or maybe it’s not that busy in the ED, or maybe you get some sort of special treatment as the roommate of a medical student, but before you know it, you’re shivering in a triage bed, still drooling uselessly into a wad of paper towels Victoria had been kind enough to shove into your hands.

It’s weird being in a hospital that doesn’t know you.

Nurses come and go, asking questions you barely answer and poking and prodding and you think, probably, that you should communicate that while on the worse end of the spectrum, this is still fairly normal for you. Being this sick from the common cold.

You think Victoria is talking to whoever is working on you, and then you’re in a wheelchair, and then they run more tests you don’t remember and then you’re in a bed.

“Dr. Abbot is gonna come see you,” Victoria tells you, looking mildly uncomfortable in a chair to your left.

She's honestly been so nice for this whole thing. Like, way too nice, considering that you guys aren't really friends (yet?)

“You should go home,” You tell her, speech really only possible because of the Toradol they gave you a few minutes ago, “You have work in the morning.”

She purses her lips and looks like she’s going to argue, so you painfully swallow and speak again.

“Go. I’ll be fine here. You said it yourself.”

It takes a few minutes to get the words out, and you have to pause more than once, which probably isn’t very reassuring, but logic seems to win out because she makes sure that you have everything you need before heading out.

And then you’re alone.

You attempt to pass the time by sleeping, to no avail. Discomfort, ever the unwanted companion, makes itself incredibly known. The Toradol helps, but since it’s basically just ibuprofen in IV form, there’s only so much it can do.

You’re just about to slip into a doze when a knock on the door frame rouses you. As the current pulls back, you have exactly one thought:

Victoria could’ve warned me that Dr. Abbot is insanely fucking hot.

“Hello there,” The man says, grabbing some hand-sanitizer which only served to extenuate the rippling muscles and veins of his forearms and biceps, “I’m Dr. Abbot. Javadi told me you weren’t feeling so good?”

Okay, focus. He can definitely see the heart-rate spike on the monitor. He’s just another doctor. You’ve had hot doctors before.

(Not like him.)

You shrug with the non-chalance of a twenty-something year old who has designated hospital clothes.

“Been better.” Kind of.

“Well, let’s see if we can’t get you better.”

He asks the same series of questions that Javadi helped you answer before since your brain still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, but Dr. Abbot is patient and listens attentively while you stumble through answering every single one.

“Any pre-existing conditions?”

“Yes and no.”

He raises an eyebrow, finger hovering over the tablet in his other hand. “That sounds like a story.”

You wince. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”

“You’re totally fine,” He immediately soothes before you can continue, voice rich and smooth like high-quality chocolate, “You’re actually the nicest patient we’ve had so far tonight.”

“Really?”

“Yep. No screaming, no cursing, you haven’t asked a billion and one questions or needed anyone to explain every single thing we’re doing.”

He grabs one of the spinny-stools on the other side of the room and wheels it over, sitting down with his tablet in his lap.

“Now. About those pre-existing conditions?”

You slowly and painfully explain your situation— very obviously chronically ill to pretty much everyone except the doctors you need to diagnose you.

Dr. Abbot doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t defend the doctors you’ve seen, just dutifully jots down everything you tell him.

“Any history of heart issues?”

You nod. “I went to a cardiologist last year and did a few tests. Second degree AV block, um, I think Mobitz one? And mild diastolic dysfunction.”

Another eyebrow raise. “And your cardiologist didn’t decide to move forward with any sort of treatment plans?”

“Just diet and exercise. He told me to drink more water.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Your eyes widen. “Sorry?”

He sighs, looking up from his tablet. “I apologize, that was unprofessional of me. I agree that Mobitz one is normally benign, so long as you’re asymptomatic or old. But coupled with that ‘mild’ diastolic dysfunction and the fact that, from you’ve told me, you are experiencing symptoms means it’s something that should be addressed.”

Oh.

Dr. Abbot barrels on. “I’m going to give you a referral for a cardiologist I know. She’s good.”

“Thank you so much,” You croak, barely able to believe what’s happening. "I don't know how to thank you. Um. Other than saying thank you."

He gives you a tiny grin, like this interaction is some sort of secret you're sharing. Is he not aware of the effect he has on patients? On you?

"Don't worry about it, kid. Call it duty of care."

Kid.

The way he says it doesn't make it seem condescending or pitying. It's an acknowledgment.

It makes your skin feel hot.

(That might be the mild fever.)

He breezes through the rest of the preliminary examination, questions all answered and typed into his tablet, which just leaves the physical examination.

He has gloves on, stop freaking out. And there's like, no way he isn't married, and he's literally your doctor for crying out loud. Don't make this weird.

No amount of internal begging to keep your rampant issues under control actually keeps said rampant issues under control. At the very least, you hope it isn't too noticeable when you bask in the feeling of his blissfully warm (you're already running a fever, so really, it should be uncomfortable) hand as it palpates here and there. Checking for internal bleeding, probably. Or an inflamed appendix. Or something like that.

Palpating is likely one of the least sexy touches a human being can experience, and yet, presumably due to the fact that hospitals are actually nostalgic to you and palpating is an experience you go through more often than most other people, and, you know, your issues, you genuinely manage to get a little... hot under the collar.

Like, his hands are right there. Gloved, sure, and he's not actually touching your skin, just the battered band t-shirt you've been wearing since you got sick three days ago, so again, really not hot circumstances, but his deliciously freckled and really enticingly well-muscled forearms are right fucking there.

Can Toradol make you high? Are you having an allergic reaction to the fluids? Has the common cold finally decided to snatch your soul, leaving you the shuffle miserably off this mortal coil?

He glances up at the monitor.

"Bit of a heart-rate spike there."

Oh sweet mother of Christ.

Dr. Abbot gives you a little knowing smile, which does nothing but make you want to crawl in a hole and die, and finally finishes his palpating.

"So from the look of things, you really do just have the common cold--" He winces when you groan, "I know, I know. But you do have a touch of strep-throat, which I think might be contributing to your general awfulness and malaise. Your labs came back a little all over the place, so we're going to send you home with a prescription for some broad-spectrum antibiotics. Have you ever taken Azithromycin before?"

You shake your head no.

"The coarse is only for a week, and you'll take them twice a day. As for your cold symptoms, I'd have to recommend your basic over-the-counter cold medicine and lots of rest. Sound good?"

You nod. "Thank you so much."

Another heart-rate-spiking smile. "Anytime. I hope you feel better, but come back straight back here if you feel any worse, okay?"

You agree, and offer him another thanks and pretend like you're not going to be silently wondering if this is who your roommate works with every day.

—

A few days of antibiotics later, you're staring at yourself in the mirror after a late-night everything shower, and you think you might be cursed.

"Hey Victoria?" You shout through the door to where you know she's studying in the nearby living room. "What are the normal symptoms after taking Azithromycin?"

"Uh, none?"

"Thanks!"

Motherfucker. Who the fuck is even allergic to antibiotics? They're antibiotics.

You stare at the rash-slash-hives that's developed on your arms and legs (you convinced yourself it was razor burn the first two days) and wonder how life threatening it really is. Like, what could even really happen?

You skip lotion and throw on what was supposed to be a cute-pajama set, but now the striped tank-and-shorts combo serve to be functional— no fabric touching the sensitive skin where the rash covers and for ease of access, because of course you're going to run it by Victoria before you jump to any sort of conclusions about severity and allergic reactions.

Maybe this just one of those things. Like when doctors say "Just a little pinch" or "You'll feel some pressure" and then you go on to experience a level of agony previously only experienced by mafia traitors.

Like, maybe you won't even have to go to the ER. It might be a low-level twenty-four-hour-clinic type of deal.

—

So apparently between the rash, your flu-like symptoms (you thought you were just sick) and the fact that your heart rate has been all over the place since starting the antibiotics, Victoria does, in fact, insist that you go to the ER. Again.

At least this time you're lucid enough to drive yourself.

You've only just checked in, settling in the moderately-empty waiting room, cursing your existence when a familiar face walks in the front door, backpack slung over his shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand.

It's pure coincidence that you happen to be sitting in like, the only seat in his direct eye-line as he glances down and then comes to a full-body stop. You shove down the shiver that threatens to overwhelm your body as a sharp, calculating gaze scans up and down your body before coming to rest on the visible rash on your legs.

He blows out a breath.

"Oh, kid."

Dr. Abbot leaves in the waiting room with the promise to return shortly after he clocks in and does his... whatever it is doctors do upon clocking into work. Rounds? Or is that a general medicine thing?

Before he walks through the door, he points a finger at you and says:

"Stay."

Like the loyal dog you are, you comply. First of all, where would you even go, (do patients jump ship often??) and secondly, like there is any universe in which you are arguing with that man.

YOUR DOCTOR, you mentally correct. HE'S YOUR DOCTOR. THERE ARE LITERALLY LAWS IN PLACE FOR THIS KIND OF THING. HE'S ALSO PROBABLY MARRIED. GET A GRIP.

It doesn't take him long to return to you, and like, isn't that unusual? Don't nurses and whoever usually get patients instead of like, the doctor on shift?

He gets the door for you (which is hot, even though he literally has to since it's only opened via staff-issued key-card.)

You feel kind of bad for skipping the line, cause there's other people in the waiting room, and surely some of them have more pressing medical concerns than your little rash?

You paraphrase this to Dr. Abbot as he leads you down the hallway towards one of the triage rooms, but he just snorts.

"You questioning my triage and risk assessment skills?"

Horror fills every aspect of your being.

"No no no no no, no, of course not, I didn't mean—"

Then he starts laughing.

"Relax, kid," He huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyeing you from the side, "I was just poking at you. I think it's very... sweet, that you're worried about the other patients, even if it's unnecessary. I promise, if someone else had a more pressing medical concern, they would get seen first."

You deflate a little at his reassurance, though you still feel thoroughly mortified.

"Besides," He continues, pulling back a curtain and gesturing for you to take a seat in one of the large triage chairs, "You're having a fairly serious allergic reaction. I'm guessing this started after you started taking the Azithromycin?"

You nod as you situate yourself. "Yeah, sorry. Um, it started—"

He holds up a hand, and you cut yourself off.

"Respectfully," He starts, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. "What the hell are you apologizing for? And don't say being allergic to Azirthromycin."

"Um... For having to bother you again..? Right when you get on shift?"

"Kid," That shouldn't be hot, that shouldn't make your stomach flip-flop around, "Didn't I tell you to come back if you got worse?"

"Yes."

"And did you come back because you got worse?"

"...Yes?"

"Yes, you did. It was good that you came back," He says the second sentence slow and careful, like he's trying to cement it into your brain.

"It says on your intake form that you were experiencing fast and irregular heartbeats and dizziness accompanying the rash and hives, is that correct?"

"Yes. I thought I was just having a flare-up. And I kind of thought the rash and hives was just razor burn, but I don't shave my upper-arms, so."

He nods slowly. "...Right. I know that you've had a lot of unfortunate experiences with doctors and treatment in the past, but that's not going to fly with me, understand? There's a very real chance that if you'd ignored your symptoms you would've gone into anaphylactic shock. And while I trust Javadi to recognize the symptoms of a severe allergic reaction, I also know that she spends most of the day at the hospital or at lectures, meaning that if you had gone anaphylactic, there wouldn't have been anyone home to help you."

Dr. Abbot leans down when he notices you staring at your lap, sheepish, avoiding his gaze. "I don't say any of this to scare you. I just need you to understand the seriousness of your reaction."

He snatches the tablet off the cart. "You can't minimize your health issues. They're real. If you do, doctor's won't take you seriously. And you get enough of that without contributing to it or doing it yourself."

There's a few beats of silence while he types some things on the tablet and you digest his words.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

He flashes you a grin, a little sharp. "Like I said before. Duty of care."

—

Victoria is happy that you had such a nice experience at the PTMC —"I told you they were great!"— and both of you are happy that the new antibiotics are working the last dredges of your cold are fading.

Since you finally feel (relatively) well, you decide to go to the coffee shop Victoria has been trying to convince you to go to for ages. Apparently, she loves their coffee so much she gets it there on hospital days and lecture days, despite it being much closer to the hospital than it is to the university. Thankfully, the apartment you share is fairly close to the hospital (a win both for your constant medical issues and for your roommates chosen career) so the coffee shop is within walking distance. Honestly, living in the city like this, there aren't a lot of things that aren't within walking (or bus, depending on the weather) distance.

You arrive to the cafe roughly around the time it opens, desperate to get as many hours studying and playing catch up as you can. Most of your professors were understanding when you explained your frequent health problems and the fact that you had to go the ER twice in the span of a week, and gave you extensions, but there's always a few no-nonsense hard-asses who think a 6,000 word paper can easily be accomplished from a hospital waiting room or bed, even when you explain how incapacitated you were. And to top it all off, in your endless wisdom, you hadn't thought to ask Dr. Abbot for a doctor's note that you could've held over the aforementioned hard-asse's head's, since they have to comply when you have actual evidence of illness, signed by a medical doctor.

So yeah. Lots of work, very little time.

You order yourself a gigantic coffee with several extra shots of espresso, heart-problems be damned, because there's no way you're accomplishing the amount of assignments you have without drugs, and since you can't do drugs, medically inadvisable amounts of caffeine is the next best thing.

Sure, the caffeine kind of makes your chest feel like it's floating, but the study work-flow you manage to accomplish is unparalleled.

With your headphones on and your eyes glued to your laptop screen your neck might as well be made of stone. Which means you don't really notice the man who's approached the table in the corner you've tucked yourself into.

"Do I even want to know how many shots you had them put in there?"

You jump, launching yourself backwards and straightening, causing your skull to crack rather unpleasantly against the wall behind you. You hiss in pain at the same time that Dr. Abbot says "Shit."

"Sorry," He rumbles, stepping forward. "Can I see?"

He really didn't have to ask. He could've just told you that he was going to look and you wouldn't kick up a fuss. You'd like it actually, if he told you what to do. What's that line from Fleabag? “I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about." Yeah. Dr. Abbot could do all of that for you.

Still technically your doctor you depraved lunatic.

You must've nodded or made a noise of affirmation or something (or maybe he got tired of waiting for you to respond) but he steps forward and. Well. Okay. You had this idea, in your head about what him 'seeing' actually entails, and conceptually, you understood that it involves him touching you, without gloves or a sterile, anti-septic wall between the two of you, but actually feeling his large, warm hands (is he always this warm, then? You remember how warm they were at the hospital) cradling the back of your head, fingers rubbing along your scalp, checking for a bump or scratch or whatever is a completely different ballpark.

If you thought the palpation was difficult to endure, it doesn't hold a goddamn candle to him leaning over you, dressed in his own clothes that smell like him, hands bare (!!) and actually touching you, skin-to-skin. There's no rumpled band tee or blue latex gloves between you now.

"No bump," He affirms after a few (unrequited and one-sided) sexually charged moments. "Sorry about that."

"No, it's not your fault. Coffee makes me jumpy."

His eyes skate down to the large, mostly empty cup next to your laptop. "And I'm sure the quantity was helpful."

You smile, more than a little embarrassed. He's charted your medical history. He knows exactly how stupid it is for you specifically to be drinking a twenty-four ounce iced cold brew with five extra shots of espresso. Realistically, that is an unhinged and borderline masochistic coffee order for a normal person.

"Enlighten me," He starts, his head tilted to the side, eyes once again looking you up and down. But this time, his gaze isn't clinical. Maybe you're imagining it, making things up to feed your delusions and issues, but right now, it's almost like he's looking at you like he's... hungry.

"Why would little-miss-mild-diastolic-dysfunction be drinking a concentrated heart attack?"

Jesus H. Christ.

"—Little-miss—“

This is genuinely becoming a very serious problem. You might have to leave Pittsburgh forever. Forget your master's program. Maybe your professors will understand that you ended up with a giant, overwhelming, unhinged, and slightly insatiable and completely inappropriate crush on the ER doctor you are definitely going to be seeing a lot of.

That's it. You can never come back to this coffee shop. Or go to the ER again. Ever. You'll just die next time you have a health problem, thanks.

Oh, fuck. How long have you been just staring at him?

He's smiling at you, all teeth and a knowing sparkle in his eyes and you know what, you actually hate him, he's such an asshole--

"You know I'm willing to bet I'd see a spike if you were still hooked up to that heart monitor."

"Oh, fuck you," You laugh, your shoulders relaxing.

"She does bite back," He says, humor clear on his features. "Was wondering if I should start concussion protocol."

You roll your eyes. "If you must know, I have a mountain of homework to do and very little time to do all of it, so."

You gesture to your coffee cup. "Caffeine it is."

"You know, as your former doctor, I'd have to advise you against finishing that. Please tell me you at least ate something with it?"

"... I had a pack of fruit snacks from the bottom of my bag?"

Dr. Abbot sighs, looks heaven-ward and mutters "kids" under his breath and, in a mirror of the week prior in the hospital room, points one finger at you and says:

"Stay."

Again. You're not sure where you would go and you are very inclined to listen. Probably too inclined to listen. Whatever.

He returns after a few minutes with a large iced water, a ham-and-swiss croissant on a plate, and another coffee, this one hot.

Then, smooth and confident, he moves your laptop back to make room, and sets the plate and water in front of you.

"Eat that," He points to the croissant, then to the water. "And drink that. All of it."

Your eyes widen. "Dr. Abbot, you didn't have to--"

"Jack."

"What?"

"We're not in the hospital. And I'm not your doctor."

Your face feels so hot. It has to be on fire. Are you on fire?

“I really can’t—“

“You can,” He assures, self-confident and jeez-us there is no way you’re not thinking about that in bed tonight. Or like, maybe forever?

You want to fight him on this, maybe push back a little, because there’s absolutely no universe in which this means what you want it to mean, but—

There’s a certain temptation to give in. Plus, who knows what other downright sinful things he’d say if you kick up more of a fuss?

“Okay,” You acquiesce (it feels a lot more like melting, though.)

Dr. Abb— Jack doesn’t say anything as you dutifully sip the water and take a bite, he just—

Watches. It’s almost worst than anything that could come out of his mouth.

“There we go,” Okay, you take it back that is a million times worse, “You’d better finish that, you hear me?”

“I will. I promise.”

Jack hums, then pulls a pen out of the pocket of his hoodie and scribbles something on a napkin. He hands it to you, then says:

“Call me.”

And then he just. Turns around, and walks out the door, coffee in hand.

What. The. Fuck.

—

Two things occur after your interaction with Jack in the cafe. Well technically, don’t occur, since the first thing is that you don’t tell your roommate that her kind-of boss maybe possibly flirted with you a teeny bit and gave you his number?

There isn’t really a way to bring that up organically, so you just. Don’t.

The second thing is that after an embarrassing long time about what to even name him in your phone (you settle on Dr. Jack Abbot, keeping the Dr. part as if you’re going to forget) you do not, in fact, call him. Or text him.

So yeah, actually, two things do not occur. There is no occurring. There is a severe lack of occurring.

It’s not that you don’t want to text him (you really do) you’re just not sure how to go about doing so? Like, what does that first text even look like?

‘Hey, thanks for not medically gas-lighting me, wanna get coffee? Except you probably don’t want to get coffee with me, because you’ve seen first hand how neurotic coffee makes me. So, drinks?’

No. Not happening.

You mainly just try to focus on staying busy. Which is easy, because master’s programs are so incredibly good at making sure you never have a waking moment to yourself. It’s so great. (You’re dying.)

Weeks come and go in a blur of late nights, intense study sessions, and minor breakdowns over your workload that turn into major breakdowns about your life (you are now the not-so-proud owner of homemade nose piercing, courtesy of you, Victoria, and two bottles of rosé.)

Soo the nose piercing probably wasn’t the best idea, but now you’re kind of too scared to take it out and honestly it doesn’t even hurt. Victoria made sure that everything was clean and sterile, and honestly she did an amazing job with the placement, so no complaints there.

You just now have a semi-permanent reminder of why not to get drunk when you’re having a bit of a breakdown. At least you didn’t tell Victoria about Jack. You might’ve given yourself bangs.

As it stands, though, the whole “don’t get drunk when you’re having a breakdown” apparently didn’t stick, because a dark Wednesday evening has found you at a bar Victoria told you was great, nursing a a third or fourth beer you really don’t have the money to be drinking.

(It was the cheapest thing the bar sold, anyways.)

You stare at the ring of condensation on the counter in front of you, thinking about the un-texted and un-called contact that’s currently burning a hole in your pocket. For some reason, no matter how busy you get, you never really manage to forget that it’s there.

“Call me.”

God, you think to yourself, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, the memory of the low timber of his voice and how warm and nice it felt to be the center of his gaze; the center of his attention.

The memory makes your skin flush, so you throw back the rest of your beer so you can blame the heat on the alcohol.

It’s an unconvincing lie and a miserable action.

“Didn’t know you were old enough to drink.”

You really need to stop taking Victoria’s recommendations. Or maybe remember where she works.

You don’t bother turning to face him, because he sidles up next to you at the empty bar seat.

“I’m legal,” You mumble, the tiniest bit buzzed from the beer.

Glancing over turns out to be a mistake, because he’s wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up, which means that the arm he has propped on the bar is exposed in all it’s deliciously muscled and freckled glory.

And he’s looking at you. Eyes a little narrowed, tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He’s a bad idea, is what he is. Just like the sparkling stud in the side of your nose. Except that tiny piece of jewelry doesn’t look nearly as fucking good as he does.

You might be a little more than buzzed, if how much you want to kiss him is anything to go off.

“You stare more than you talk,” Jack says, curling his fist to prop his head up, absentmindedly waving the bartender over. “Always looks like there’s a lot going on in that pretty head of yours.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Cause I’m not sure you mean them.”

The silence between you too isn’t really silence. Not with the dull sounds of bar chatter and shitty bar music and Jack telling the bartender to pour him a drink.

Whiskey, neat.

Figures.

“I would’ve told you that I meant them,” He tosses back the whiskey, almost all in one go. Leaves a tiny bit at the bottom of the glass, swirls it around before continuing. “If you’d called.”

More not-quite silence.

“I wanted to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You turn your body to face him, newly mirroring his position, “…I almost did. A few times.”

“Why?”

“Why didn’t I?”

“Why did you almost call?”

You swallow, nearly choking on the sudden lump in your throat. “Um.”

Very eloquent, you are. Truly, a master of poise and class.

“Need some liquid courage, sweetheart?”

“I’ve been drinking beer all night,” You say, sheepish. Sweetheart. God. It’s like he’s trying to torture you.

Is he?

“That’s not real alcohol. Come here.”

The next chain of events are much too sexually charged to happen in a cheap bar with a man who used to be your doctor.

It happens anyway.

You don’t move closer— frozen stock-still in something like apprehension or fear. But not necessarily the unpleasant kind?

The ‘Come here’ must’ve been figurative or metaphorical or something, or maybe he knows that you’re too nervous to comply (even though something in you desperately wants to) because he moves.

Jack reaches a hand up— slow enough that you could back up or push it away if you wanted to.

You don’t. You don’t want to, anyways.

His fingers ghost up your neck before settling on the edge of your jaw, his thumb pressed firm against your chin. He tilts your head back, just a slight angle, and then—

He takes his glass, the one with that little bit of whiskey in it (oh god, did he plan this? Did he leave that whiskey in there on purpose?) and raises the glass to your lips, letting the rum rest heavy against your mouth.

“You ever had whiskey before, kid?”

You shake your head no. You probably have, at some point, but relaying that would require a certain amount of effort and speaking skills— neither of which you are in current possession of.

“It’s gonna burn a little. Swallow it quick.”

What the fuck? Is—

He—

Then he tips up the glass, and you really don’t want whiskey on your face, so you part your lips enough to let the amber liquid be poured into your mouth, and he’s right, it does burn, and it kind of tastes gross.

You screw up your face at the flavor, but do your best to swallow it quickly, feeling the burn of it lick down your throat before settling like a warm, heavy weight in your stomach.

Like that was a normal thing to do, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened, he sits back onto his stool, releasing your face and resuming his position propped up on the bar.

“So. When did you almost call me?”

You don’t drink often. It’s honestly way too expensive, you despise hangovers (you have headaches and migraines all the time, why induce one?) and you don’t much care for the taste of most alcohols.

All of that to say. You are an embarrassingly easy lightweight. A cheap drunk, if you will.

“First time was two weeks ago,” You mumble, maybe not loud enough for him to hear over the shitty bar music, “Got a tea instead of a coffee to study with. Wanted to text you a picture.”

Jack has this easy, warm, but also simultaneously shit-eating expression on his face, which you take to mean that he’s aware of your incredible intolerance for alcohol.

“And what reason did you whip up in that pretty head of yours as to why you shouldn’t?”

You shrug. “Thought you wouldn’t care. Like, maybe you just want to hookup.”

“I do not want to hookup.”

“Oh.”

He motions to the bartender, who pours him more whiskey. What is it with men and whiskey?

“And the other time?”

This one you don’t really want to tell him, but with the alcohol burning away in your stomach and Jack’s equally burning stare, you give in.

“… Wanted to call you and ask you to yell at one of my professors. Cause he’s a dick and doesn’t believe in giving extensions or allowances even if you go to the hospital.”

He snorts. “And why didn’t you?”

You let your head flop onto your arm, halfway on the bar halfway off. “Didn’t wanna bother you. Seemed stupid. Plus, I managed to catch up on all my homework.”

Jack finishes the rest of his drink, then nudges your head off the bar and back onto your arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t lay on there. It’s gross.”

You whine. Your arm isn’t as comfortable as the solid bar top.

He didn’t really respond to your explanation (at least not in any normal way) so instead you decided to amuse yourself by just staring at his face. It’s a nice face.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Did you get me drunk on purpose?”

“No.”

“Then how come I’m drunk?”

“Because you’re a lightweight and whiskey has a higher alcohol content than beer.”

“Oh. Was that flirting? With the—“

You gesture vaguely to his glass and then to your lips. He just raises an eyebrow.

“Do you really need confirmation?”

“Yes.”

His face makes a funny expression. “Yes, that was flirting. The thing at the cafe was too.”

“Oh. That’s good to know. I wasn’t sure.”

“You weren’t sure?”

“Yeah,” Your neck is starting to hurt from lying there, so you prop it up with your hand. It’s only mildly more comfortable. “People don’t flirt with me very often.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe they are and you just don’t notice?”

“I would notice.”

“Kid, you just asked me if hand-feeding you my whiskey was flirting.”

You shrug, jostling your head and nearly slipping. “I don’t come to bars like, ever. Maybe that’s normal bar etiquette.”

“If you don’t come to bars, then why are you here tonight?”

You arm is too tired to keep holding your head up and your vision feels like it’s processing at a lower frame rate, like an old video game, so you put your head back on the bar top. Jack does a funny little huffing noise, and sticks the palm of his hand under your head right before it lands on the table, so you’re lying on his hand instead of the bar.

“Your hand is warm.”

“Is it now?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know.”

His eyes catch on the piece of jewelry now adorning your nose.

“When’d you get that?”

“Last week. Got drunk with Victoria— uhm, Javadi.”

“I know what her first name is, thank you sweetheart.”

“Right. Anyways, she had some nose jewelry from her mom, and kept drinking rosé and crying about our workload, I mean, hers is like, definitely worse than mine, you know, medical student and all, but we were drunk and we thought why not? Like, she’s a doctor, she knows how to sterilize stuff and keep it clean. She chickened out and wouldn’t let me give her one. Which makes sense. Cause I didn’t give myself a nose piercing. I had her do it.”

“You been keeping it clean?"

“Mhm. Twice a day.”

“Good girl.”

Jack sighs a little, the thumb that’s pressed against your temple beginning to sweep back and forth.

“You don’t belong in a place like this, kid.”

“I don’t?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay. I think I wanna go home.”

Jack just nods, still rubbing your temple. It feels too intimate for a bar, but it feels really nice, and you don’t really want him to stop.

“Do you have a ride?”

“No. Victoria went to sleep before I left. She has an early morning. She works really hard.”

He hums. “I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to,” You mumble, “I know you’ve got the. The leg.”

Some sort of unreadable look flashes across his face, the kind of look you probably wouldn’t be able to decipher even if you were sober and fully in possession of all your faculties.

“I know I don’t have to. But I’d feel better if I saw you get home safely with my own two eyes.”

You huff. “This isn’t some sort of sex thing, right? Like, you get me drunk so you’ll have to take me home, and then you know where I live, and then you take me to my room and then I’m drunk so i’m easier to coerce—“

“Fuck, no. Has someone ever tried that with you?”

“No. I’ve heard about it, though.”

“Look at me,” He raises your head a little with his hand, eyes searching your face. “You ever feel uncomfortable or unsafe, in any way, call me. I don’t care what time it is or if you think you’re bothering me. You’re not. Okay?”

That’s probably too intense for… whatever thing you guys have going on. But you’re not really normal, and it just sounds so nice, having someone to call.

“Okay.”

Jack nods again. “Alright. Let’s get you home. Come on, up we go.”

He manages to get you too your feet after a minor amount of stumbling on your part —“Jesus, kid, you are a lightweight”— and keeps one stabilizing arm around your waist as he helps you home.

“Your arm feels nice.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t talk very much except little mutterings here and there.

“Careful— there’s a big crack there.”

“Don’t walk into that trash can.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

“Almost there.”

The walk back to your house isn’t far, like most of the places you go to since moving to Pittsburgh.

“I can get up there myself,” You say, motioning to the stairs that lie in front of you and lead up to you and Victoria’s apartment, “Thank you, though. I’ll text you in the morning. I promise.”

Jack let’s go of you and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Don’t forget to drink water before you go to bed. At least a full glass.”

You clasp your hands behind your back. “Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight, kid.”

—

Two days later finds you sitting at your tiny table, phone sitting face-up, Jack’s contact open and painfully empty.

You forgot to text him in the morning, because your hangover was fucking awful (You can’t even think about whiskey without getting nauseous again) and then you had school and… well. Now it’s been two days, and you still need to text him.

Victoria walks past you, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. She sets one down in front of you and sits down at the table.

“Still haven’t texted him?”

Apparently, Victoria had set an alarm on her phone to check if you’d made it home okay and ended up seeing you and Jack outside the apartment. She’d had the kindness to wait until the next morning before asking:

“So, you and Dr. Abbot?”

Vomiting had saved you from answering immediately, though you did end up telling everything that had happened after you finished worshiping the porcelain altar. Talking and throwing up don’t mix.

“No,” You answer her miserably. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he’s into you. Based on,” She winces, “Past evidence. I doubt a text is going to put him off. Probably?”

“I told him I’d text him yesterday morning.”

“In your defense, you spent pretty much all day yesterday dying, so. I’m sure he figured that might happen.”

You take a generous gulp of coffee. “Should I just say hi?”

“I’m really not the person you should be asking for romantic advice.”

You take her by the shoulders. “You’re all I have, Victoria.”

“Um,” She sets her mug down. “Maybe something like, hello? Say sorry for not texting?”

You hum, typing out the sentiment, then slide the phone over to her. “Does that sound awkward?”

“Again. I really do not think you want to ask me.”

You chew on your lip, drink the last of your coffee in one go, totally burn the shit out of your tongue, then send the text.

You promptly stand, your chair screeching loudly as it nearly tips over, and run over to your fridge.

“Fuck. Do we have any of that rosé left?”

“It’s seven in the morning?”

“Desperate times, Victoria.”

She leans over, glancing at your phone, then gasps. “He’s typing!”

“Already?!” You screech, running back over to the table and hunching over your phone. Sure enough, the little bubble is on your screen, little dots jumping.

“What’s he saying?”

“I don’t know! You read it!”

Victoria snatches your phone and stares at it with the same amount of focus that you’ve previously only seen when she’s an hour deep into some medical textbook.

“Oh my god.”

“What? What?!”

She shoves the phone into your face.

Don’t worry about it, kid. Thought you might be hungover. You could always make it up to me, though.

“Oh my god,” You repeat. “Is it weird that I think it’s hot when he calls me kid?”

“Like, in the grand scheme of things? No. But probably.”

You pick absentmindedly at your hangnails. “I’m gonna text him back."

You type out a quick message and hit send before you can chicken out.

How am I supposed to make it up to you?

The dots reappear for a few seconds.

Let me take you on a real date.

You slam your hands (and phone) onto the table and whip your head to Victoria.

“He wants to take me on a date!”

The apartment becomes filled with the shrill squeals and screams of hysterical joy.

“Say yes!” Victoria screams. “You have to say yes. Please. For both of our sakes.”

“Shouldn’t I play hard to get? Don’t guys like that?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t you like, already unintentionally done that? Plus, Abbot is a pretty straightforward guy.”

“You’re right.”

When are you free next?

Tomorrow. You?

I have class until 3 :/

I’ll pick you up at 5.

You squeal again, practically jumping out of your seat and running to your room, throwing yourself on your bed.

Victoria follows a few minutes after, though in a much calmer manner.

“I can’t believe this is happening. You’re going on a date with my boss—“

“Oh my god, don’t say it like that.”

“So we’re ignoring the age gap?”

“No.”

“No judgement here, I know some people think experience is quite the kink—“

“Shut up—“

She laughs, leaving your room but leaving your phone on the nightstand by your bed.

You’re actually going to do it. You’re going on a date. With Jack Abbot. He wants to go on a date with you.

You only manage to stop screaming into your pillow when the downstairs neighbors shout for you to stop.

—

5 pm the next day arrives in a whirlwind of panic, about two million outfit changes, desperate makeup application, and way too much deliberation over what panties to wear for somebody who never has sex on the first date. Or like, ever, really.

By the time Jack has arrived (bearing a bouquet of flowers. Not roses, not the cheap dyed ones, but the kind of selection that takes time to make and time to choose) you’ve worked yourself into a frenzy about possibly being both under and over-dressed at the same time.

All Jack says, however, when meet him downstairs is a sort of winded:

“You look beautiful.”

And then you’re off.

The date itself is actually relaxing and easy, like being in Jack’s presence usually is. He asks about your schoolwork and classes and actually listens when you tell him what you’re studying. He doesn’t belittle your major or make himself seem self-important, like his job and career are better than yours. He actually says that he’s impressed that you manage to balance your health and workload so well, to which you respond by pointing at your nose stud and say “Not all that well.” which makes you both laugh.

He glares at you when you even glance at the check, which kind of makes you want to punch him and kiss him senseless.

He walks you home and, when you hesitate to initiate, pushes you against your apartment door and kisses you so hard your lips are tingling when he whispers a breathless:

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

After that, Victoria bans you from speaking about anything beyond talking or hanging out that happens on your dates, because: “I still have to look him in the eye at work, and I really don’t want to hear about how good my boss’s tongue feels in your mouth.”

You can’t exactly blame her for that.

One date becomes two which becomes three, then four, and then you start staying over at his place a couple times a week because it’s way nicer than yours anyway.

One of the adjustments of your boyfriend (can you call him that? Are you guys dating? Or just going on dates?) being a doctor, and also apparently caring about you as a human being on a fundamental level, is that he actually worries about your health. Like, always.

“Put the ibuprofen bottle down, you’ve already had five today.”

“Are you tracking my medication usage?”

“Yes. Who else is going to stop you from giving yourself liver failure?”

Or:

“What’s your heart rate average been today?”

“…One-forty?”

“So do you think having an energy drink for breakfast is a good idea?”

“…”

“That’s what I thought.”

In some ways, it’s annoying. But in a lot of other, overpowering ways, it’s so… relaxing, to have someone around to think of you. You don’t really understand why or how he gets fulfillment out of helping you manage your life day-to-day, but he does, and does anything else really matter?

There are, of course, hiccups. There is the awkward moment where a two-week long flare sends you to the PTMC because you faint at school and school protocol requires they dial 911, and then even after the paramedics arrive and you explain to them that your body just hates you, your heart rate won't lower from the low 120's so then they insist they take you to the hospital, where Dr. Robby gets to meet you for the first time. And the entire day shift. It's about as awkward as it sounds.

Sometimes Jack has bad pain days too. He gets a little waspish, a little snappy, because being the man that he is (and just a man, at the end of the day) he doesn't like acknowledging that not having a leg means he has limitations. But just like he doesn't pity you or make you feel incapable when you hate your body or get sick for the thirty-millionth time, you do your best to make sure he knows that you get it, and he's still the ridiculously hot doctor you wanted to bang even with a 100.4 degree fever.

"It was actually 101.4," He likes to correct from the bathtub, steam curling around his neck and shoulders. "Your heart rate would spike every time you looked at me."

You bear through the reminders of your own awkwardness for his sake. Plus, it's hard to hate him for it, especially when he's always coming up with new and inventive ways to thank you for taking care of him (even though you insist he doesn't have to, because he's literally been taking care of you since the day you met.)

And, you know. There are worse ways to spend one's time.

Liam Gallagher kissed like he had nothing to lose. 

Your hands were in his hair, feeling the soft strands in your hands as his own wandered down each curve of your body; you felt the heat of his palms smoothing down your jaw, to your neck, finding a path down your sternum, to the dip of your waist, back up the gentle swell of your breast, and back down to the small of your back. 

Just like with everything else, Liam was a reckless kisser. You really shouldn’t have been surprised. 

His lips were locked onto yours, one hand cradling the back of your head to guide you into deepening the kiss. You melted into him willingly, opening your mouth to him and letting his tongue lick into you. You gripped desperately onto the material of his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer as heat unfurled low in your abdomen.

You were dizzy with him. He was everywhere, he was pressed against you, his hands were tracing a map on your exposed skin, and his mouth was heavy against yours. You felt completely overwhelmed by him in the best possible way.

Which meant it felt like being submerged in cold water when Liam pulled away abruptly. 

You blinked up at him, his blue eyes hazy with lust, his lips kiss bitten and swollen, his hair a mussed up mess. You felt an awful sort of pride curl up in your chest at the sight of him. You did that. 

The pride quickly turned into confusion when Liam stepped back, keeping his distance. “Maybe—“ he said roughly, his voice cracking pathetically as he spoke, uneven and out of breath. He coughed and repeated himself. “Maybe I should leave. Slow things down a bit, yeah?”

You swallowed thickly, still panting slightly as you asked, “What?” 

Liam shut his eyes as if to compose himself before speaking. “Look,” he started. You already didn’t like the sound of that. “It’s just that this is goin’ a bit fast, d’ya know what I mean?”

You huffed. You knew where this was going. “No, Liam. I don’t know what you mean,” you shot back petulantly.

Liam sighed, reaching for you blindly. You stepped back. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaxed, your lit candles reflecting in his shining blue eyes. You looked away stubbornly.

You crossed your arms defensively on your chest and shook your head. He didn’t get to do this.

Liam continued on in that tone he loved using on the cats when they refused to come inside the house. “It’s just that you’re young, yeah?” he said gently, hand still outstretched and waiting for you to take it.

You didn’t know what to make of that. “So what?” you shot back, voice sounding pathetically small in the tiled space of your kitchen.

“I’m not,” Liam said simply, shrugging as he spoke. “Young, that is.”

“So what?” you repeated, a bit cattish, in your opinion. It didn’t matter, it felt like having something ripped away from you just when you’ve gotten a taste. 

Liam bit off a frustrated groan. “Look,” he said sternly. Moving surprisingly quick to cage you into your kitchen counter. You swallowed and refused to look him in the eye, your last bit of defiance. Liam wasn’t having it, though. “Sweetheart, I said look,” he said. His words were gently but the hand he used to angle your chin to meet his eyes was not. Goosebumps erupted in your arms. 

“What?” you croaked pathetically, the grip of his palm making you squirm. 

“‘M’not sayin’ I regret this,” he began, voice gravelly as he spoke. “Or that I don’t want to keep doing … this. All I’m sayin’ ‘ere is that I want to give you a bit of time, yeah? Mull things over, actually think things through and ask yourself if doin’ this with me is summat you really want, d’ya know what I mean?”

You huff, still keeping up your tough facade even as Liam’s proximity has made your head spin. “So, what, this is supposed to be a chivalrous thing you’re doing right now?” you spit, a bit bitterly. 

Liam’s sigh turns into a fond look as he cradles your face in his warm palm. “Yeah, ‘m chivalrous, me,” he jests. You were about to retort when he spoke again, more serious but still tender underneath the surface. “Look, just humor me, alright, sweetheart? Please?”

You look him over and see the soft set of his eyes, the achingly sweet way his thumb brushes your cheekbone, the remnants of lip gloss staining his mouth. “And this isn’t because you don’t like me?” you ask, trying to sound stronger than you felt. 

Liam saw right through you and melted into you, pressing a whisper of a kiss on your temple. “I like ‘ya a lot, did ‘ya know?” he mumbles, lips so close to your skin that goosebumps erupted with each syllable. “I jus’ wanna make sure that you like me too and this isn’t some fucked up thing because of the time loop.”

“It’s not,” you insist, tugging on his wrist. 

He smiles, gentle as anything. “Just humor the old man,” he chuckles. “We can start right where we left off if you decide this is what you want. Or we could pretend that it never happened if it’s not. Ball’s in your court, either way.”

You nod, your heart panging achingly at his gesture. “Okay,” you say, a bit wobbly before recovering yourself with a quip of, “And you’re not saying all this to avoid having to talk to HR when we get back?”

Liam laughs, loud, booming, and so utterly him that you don’t even offer to walk him down to the lobby. You just wave at him from the living room as he disappears behind the door, a fond smile on his plump lips that were just on yours a few lifetimes ago. God knows you would have followed him all the way home if you had stayed by his side. 

“Meow,” Toast interrupts the solitary silence. 

You chuckle as you kneel to take him in your arms. “Good on you for hiding yourself away for a minute there, boy,” you say, giving his head a kiss. 

“Meow,” he repeats more urgently, wriggling out of your hold to walk himself to his feeder and swat at it helplessly. “Meow,” he insists. 

You sigh fondly. “Toast,” you scold gently. “You’ve already had your dinner.”

“Meow,” he says, as defiant as a cat could be. 

You roll your eyes and sit on the couch. “Would you like to cuddle with me instead? Watch Roman Holiday?” you ask, turning on your television. 

Toast walks away from you and pads to your bedroom instead. 

“Great,” you say drily. “No one wants me.”

So you settle down with a movie, you definitely don’t cry as Roman Holiday ends on the same note it always does, and you watch movie after movie after movie. But the night was long and midnight wasn’t coming any faster, time wasn’t resetting quick enough for you. 

A glance at the clock makes you groan. 9:09PM. You could tucker in for the night and let the overly familiar morning greet you instead, but you knew that sleep wouldn’t be coming to you so easily tonight. 

It’s only while scrolling through your streaming services that Groundhog Day shows itself to you. You smile unbeknownst to yourself, remembering lounging on Liam’s couch as the two of you watched it. 

“Aw, great,” you remember his grumbling as Phil finally makes his move on Rita and takes her to bed with him. “I’m not sure that’s quite ethical. Terrible for Rita’s character, this is,” he says, frowning at the television.

You chuckle. “I thought you said you’ve watched this before?”

He snorts. “Yeah, and this part is weird all the time,” he says through a mouthful of popcorn. “Bastard’s havin’ a time of it, though,” he says, referring to Phil who had his arms wound around Rita.

You had laughed then, more enthralled with his commentary than the movie. “He’s changed,” you defend the character, though you found it was mostly just to rile Liam up. It was quite a weird scenario. 

Liam shakes his head. “Nah,” he says before pointing to Rita. “She don’t know that, though. This is comin’ out of nowhere, really. Poor girl.”

You were in your car before you could even think too hard about it. And the next thing you knew, you were at Liam’s front door, pounding at the mahogany with an open palm. 

“I’m not Rita,” you blurted out as soon as Liam swung open the door, Buttons at his heels, his palm digging into his sockets as he rubbed at his eyes. “Oh, shit. Did I wake you up?” you say, all the adrenaline rushing out at the sight of a groggy Liam, clad in a hoodie and sweatpants. He looked impossibly younger like this.

“What the fuck?” he grumbled, voice low and rough with sleep.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, horrified as you realized you were once again stood on his front porch in the same silk pajama set Liam was acquainted with. “I should go —“ you began to say, but Buttons weaved out from Liam’s legs and nuzzled her nose onto your knees.

“Miss her already?” Liam mumbled to Buttons as he gently nudged her with his foot. “I guess ‘ya do take after your old man, aye?”

You shake your head. “I’m sorry for waking you. I can go —”

“Nah,” he says, ushering you in. “Get in before you freeze, yeah?”

That open invitation from him was all that you needed. You stepped into the threshold, arms crossed over your chest to ward off the sudden chill as Liam shut the door behind you. Buttons skittered away as if she could sense the bubbling tension in the foyer. 

“So,” Liam broke the silence. “What was it you were sayin’? Earlier, I mean?”

You cleared your throat. “Uhhh …” you say, all bravado gone. “That I’m not Rita?” you say, the end of your sentence tilting upwards as if asking a question. 

Liam furrowed his brows. “Fuckin’ who?”

You roll your eyes. “From Groundhog Day!”

Liam blinks at you, you could tell that he was still confused. You didn’t know if it was because of your reference or because he had just woken up. Probably both. “Okay?”

You roll your eyes and surge forward, catching the neckline of Liam’s hoodie and using it to pull his lips into yours. Liam melts without a second thought, his arms winding around your middle to haul you closer as his lips lock onto yours with dizzying intensity. “Want you,” you mumble against his lips, going in for another kiss. “I’ve always wanted you. And a stupid time loop won’t change that.”

Liam chuckles against your lips, kissing the corner of your mouth, down to your chin, and peppering light kisses all over your neck. You giggle, feeling his smile against your skin. “Y’want me, huh?” he murmurs. “Wanna show me how much?”

You pull away from him, a teasing glint in your eye. “Oh, so the chivalrous act is gone now?”

Liam scoffs. “Nah,” he says, his thumb brushing the waistline of your sleep shorts. “Still chivalrous. I ain’t denyin’ a lady what she wants.”

You laugh, pushing at his chest. “What a dork!” you cry, fully separating yourself from him before heading to the couch. When you see that Liam still hasn’t followed you to the living room, still standing still by the foyer you call out, “What? You’re not gonna join me?”

As soon as Liam’s within reach, you push him down on the couch and drop to your knees in front of him, a curse escaping his lips as your frantic hands shake with excitement where they’re pulling down his sweatpants. His cock springs up, making you drool at the sight of it so near your face. You don’t waste a second before taking him wholly in your mouth. 

“Jesus,” Liam moans as your nose reaches his thatch of pubic hair. You pay him no mind, bobbing your head up and down as his hand grips tightly onto your hair, clinging onto the roots. “Easy, babe, yeah. C’mon, ‘m’not goin’ anywhere.”

You open your jaw wider and catch his eye from where you were kneeling between his legs. God, how you longed to do this for as long as you could remember. Your thighs clench at the sight of him, mouth open in pleasure and his eyes glazed over. 

“Gaggin’ for it, huh?” Liam murmurs, hitting you low in your abdomen as the words register. You whimper, a desperate sound. Liam cups your cheek in his hand, a gesture not unlike the one he made earlier in your kitchen. “Shhh. ‘S’alright, sweetheart. I know, I know,” he coos soothingly. Your clit pulses between your legs, you find your hand migrating south, past the waistband of your shorts and into the soaked fabric of your knickers. You keen as you trace your clit with your finger, pleasure racing up your spine. 

Liam groans loudly, head thrown back at the sight of you touching yourself. “Fuck,” he draws out. “My sweetheart can’t get enough, can she?” 

My sweetheart. You could cum just from that. Instead, you moan an unintelligible response and suck him in deeper, making you gag as the tip of him reaches the back of your throat. 

“Asked you a question, babe,” Liam says, breath ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

You blink, pulling off his cock with a wet sound, a trail of spit connecting you. You sound wrecked when you answer him, “Can’t get enough, Liam. Need you, need you, need you,” you whimper, hands running across his muscular thighs, your eyes pitiful where it meets his, and your finger still tracing figure eights on your clit.

Liam smiles at you and places his large hand on the back of your head and brings you back down on his cock. “Yeah, jus’ what my baby needs, hm?” he mutters as you sink back down on him, drool dripping down your mouth and slicking his cock. 

You whimper, a high sound and quicken the pace of your fingers on you. You were burning up, heat licking up your spine and smearing you with sweat. You needed more. Without a second thought, you plunge a finger into your cunt and release Liam’s cock from your mouth on a loud moan.

“Oh god,” you whimper, the sound of your finger working into your tight core filthy in the dead of night. You lay your head on Liam’s bare thigh and plunge in another finger, “Liam.”

Liam hums, his hand steady on the back of your head as you get yourself off at his feet, a pathetic whimpering mess as you writhe on your fingers, so turned on from having Liam in your mouth. “I gotcha, babe,” he murmurs gently, cradling your skull with one hand as he idly fists himself with the other. The sight of his hand on himself makes you burn hotter, you cry out helplessly. “Are ‘ya gonna work yourself open for me?”

Tears spring to your eyes. “Yes,” you cry. “For you, all for you, Liam. Oh my god,”

He pats your head. “What a good girl ‘ya are. C’mon, cum on your fingers and show me how pretty you can be, yeah? Can ‘ya do that for me, babe?”

You nod jerkily against his thigh as you speed your fingers up, the palm of your hand rubbing at your clit. Liam brushes strands of your hair idly. “Liam,” you choke out. “I’m gonna—“

You don’t get to finish the sentence, your orgasm crashing into you wildly as you buck helplessly into your hand, choking back whimpers as you bite into Liam’s thigh. 

“Pretty,” he whispers as you come down from your high. 

You reach desperately for his hand, clinging onto him as you stand on shaky legs and plop yourself down on his lap, mouthing at his neck with urgency as you cling to him. “More,” you plead. “Please?”

Liam coos. “My baby wants more?” he asks as you nuzzle your head into his neck, sucking at the skin there even though you know it would leave no trace by morning light. 

You nod. 

“‘Ya got words for me?” Liam teases, his hand drifting up and under your camisole, his touch leaving a burning trail. 

You were too keyed up to say anything but, “Please fuck me, Liam. Want your cock inside of me, please.”

The wrecked moan Liam let out had you knowing how much that simple sentence worked. You eagerly pulled off from him, letting your hands drift to the hem of his hoodie to pull it off in one swift motion, nipping at his chest as soon as the garment hit the floor. You felt him kick off his joggers, keeping a steadying hand on your waist. 

You moved to take off your pajamas when Liam’s hand gripped your wrist. “Keep it on,” he said. 

“What?” you asked, dumbfounded by the request. 

He sighed. “Keep it on,” he echoes. “That fuckin’ silky scrap of fabric you’ve been wearin’ around has been drivin’ me mad for ages, yeah?”

You stare at him for a while before giggling. “I knew you were perving out over these pajamas!” you crowed victoriously. 

Liam rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he grumbled.

You kissed his cheek tenderly, letting your thumb trace along his lip. “‘S’okay,” you shrugged. “I like knowing I turn you on.”

“Really?” Liam says, eyebrows raised. “Wanna show me how turned on ‘ya get?”

You bite a smile as you shift in his lap, moving your shorts and knickers to the side to press your bare cunt on his cock and wasting no time in his slicking him up. “Like this,” you say, breathy as you rut against him. “Got me so wet,” you mumble.

Liam bundles you closer to him, pressing your chest to his as he groans into your ear. You reach back to take hold of him when he stops you with a hand. You tilt your head to look at him. “Go easy on me, sweetheart,” he rasps, already breathless with anticipation. “‘S’been a while since …”

You let the end of his sentence hang. “It’s been a while?” you repeat dumbly, a smug smile making its way on your face.

He rolls his eyes and gives your ass a little spank. You squeak. “Easy,” he warns. “You expect me to be whorin’ myself out like I used to? At this age? Babe, I’d bust a hip.”

You kiss his burning cheek and mumble, “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll be gentle.” Then you sink down on Liam, the stretch making you cry out and clutch at his shoulder. 

“Jesus,” he groans through gritted teeth. “So good, sweetheart.”

“Liam,” you whine, the thickness of him filling you up to the brim, his pubic hair catching on your swollen clit. “Oh, Liam,” you repeat, winding your arms around his neck as you began to ride him. 

The sound of your ass smacking into his thighs, the wet squelch of him inside you, the hand Liam had slowly moved down to rub at your clit wasn’t enough. You wanted him closer. You pressed against him desperately, latching yourself onto him as you pressed your chest to his and began to bounce on him more quickly. The kiss you two had been sharing had turned out to be less kiss and more of just sharing a breath between your panting mouths.

“Slow,” Liam reminded you through gritted teeth. Trying his best to thrust into you at his own pace. You held him down and paid him no heed. “Baby, slow down.”

You shook your head, hair a mess as you quickened your pace. The wet smacking sounds spurring you on as you clung tightly to him, every point of you connected as you rode him.

Liam tried to grip at your hip, you pushed his hand away and brought it back to where he was tracing harsh circles on your clit. “Jesus,” he whined. “Can’t keep up, sweetheart.”

You took a fistful of his hair and yanked him to you, bringing his mouth down onto yours with a loud moan. Closer, god, you just needed him closer. “Please,” you beg, not knowing what you were asking for.

“Take what you need,” he breathed raggedly, stopping his resistance and just letting you fuck him. “C’mon, make yourself come on my cock, yeah? Show me how good you are, babe.”

Tears sprung to your eyes, quickening your pace with a high pitched keening sound as you clawed at his shoulders. The feel of him inside you was so utterly addicting, the drag of his cock rendering you hypnotized. Liam pressed his lips to your temple as he held you to him. 

“Gonna make me cum,” he murmured, eyes fully glazed over. 

You clumsily cradle his head to your chest. “In me, please?” you plead, part of you conscious enough to remember that there were no real consequences in this loop. “Please, Liam. Need it so bad.”

The sound he let out was pornographic, drool slipping past his lips and onto your camisole as you kept your pace. You could tell he was close, his hips couldn’t keep still, his cock twitched where it was buried deep inside you, and Liam clutched at the fabric of your pajamas so desperately that he created a tear. “Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbled. You knew he was gone for.

He came inside of you with a drawn out groan, his hips bucking into you as hot spurts of his cum filled your cunt, dripping down his shaft and onto his balls in a sticky mess as you kept riding him through it.

“Fuck,” he cried. “Jesus fuck, ya ain’t done?” he slurred as you began to grind into him, making him hit that spot inside you that made you cross-eyed with pleasure.

You grip Liam by the strands of his hair and separate him from where he was planted on your chest to take a good look at his hazy blue eyes. He looked ruined. “Can you give me one more?” you pout down at him. 

He barely got a word out before you ground down on him again. “Baby,” he whined, burying his face between your breasts and mouthing clumsily at the silk. “Can’t take anymore, babe.”

You run a hand down his back with a light touch, the sensual grind of his cock inside you making your legs shake. You were close. “Please? For me?”

“Fuck,” he moaned loudly as you deliberately tightened around him. “Makin’ me crazy.”

You kissed his hairline and keened as you brought him to your g-spot again and again and again and again and again.

“‘M’so close, Liam,” you breathed. “Gonna cum soon. Can you cum for me again, baby?”

He shakes his head violently between your breast. “Nah, nah, nah,” he protests weakly.

Tears began to flow freely down your cheeks. You forcibly rip Liam away from your breast with a harsh tug at his hair. He moans. “Please, Liam? Need to feel you. Need to be full.”

For all his protests, he succumbs in the end. All it really took was the tight squeeze of your cunt on him as you came, keening his name into the silent night, and he was suddenly filling you back up again.

“Fuck,” he breathed, still inside you as you clung to him in the afterglow. 

You giggled, pressing giddy kisses all over his face, making him smile. 

He winds an arm around your middle as you cling tightly to him. “Thought you were gonna go easy?” he murmurs.

You nip at his collarbone. “Didn’t wanna.”

He rolls his eyes and pinches your clit harshly. You squeak as he laughs. “Fuckin’ insatiable girl.”

You kiss his cheek and lay your own on his shoulder, not minding his softening cock inside you and the slip of your combined release dripping down your thighs. “You love it.”

His silence was all the admission you needed. 

It wasn’t until five minutes before midnight when Liam spoke again. “How much is that pilates class of yours?”

You answered him groggily with the price.

He hums, sending a vibration down your body. “Monthly payment or annual?”

Eyes falling down in drowsiness, you tell him, “I pay monthly. But they have an annual plan.”

“Hm,” he says. 

“What?” you grumble.

“Nothin’. Just remindin’ myself to pay for your pilates class as soon as we get out. If this is the kind of performance your classes give me, then I better shell out, yeah?” 

September 21st, the thirtieth time

Liam had you in a nasty mating press in your own bed, making you wonder how you two have gone this long without doing this.

For the past few days in the cycle, you and Liam had done nothing but fuck. In his apartment or yours, you two always ended up in the same place by the end. With his cock buried so deep inside you that you swore you could feel him in your throat.

“Liam,” you cry at a particularly rough thrust. “Oh fuck!”

Liam burrows himself in the crook of your shoulder and smears your slick wetness all over your neck. He had refused to wipe himself down after eating you out, which meant that his face was a mess of you.

“Gross!” you had the strength to shout, brows furrowed at the wet sensation.

Liam laughs into your neck. You rip him away by the roots of his hair and glare at him. “Aw, c’mon, babe!” he says, still thrusting into you at that lethal pace of his.

You bite a moan at a particularly pleasurable thrust and continue to glare. “Wipe it off,” you demand.

He only grins at you, cheeky as the devil. 

You huff and take matters into your own hands. You use your grip on Liam’s hair to bring him closer to you, and you lick away your own slick from his face. 

Liam moans loudly, eyes rolling in the back of his head. You continue to lick him clean, tongue lolled out as you taste yourself on his salty skin. “You’re a fuckin’ wet dream,” he groans, taking a rough hold of your hips and slamming into you.

You keen. “There! There, there, there!” you plead tearfully. 

Liam grins down at you. “There?” he asks innocently, pounding at your g-spot relentlessly. 

You whine and writhe into him, sheets soaked with your wetness, nails scratching down the broad expanse of his back. “Yes, thank you, thank you, thank you!” you babble uselessly, mind wiped of anything except Liam.

“My girl,” he groans. “My baby, my sweetheart.”

You cling to him, cunt squeezing him tight as you cum with a loud cry of his name. Heat licks up your spine as your back bows and your toes curl, but the hard press of Liam still inside you was undeniable.

“One more,” he says, less a question and more of a demand.

You nod desperately and bite his shoulder. “One more,” you echo, meeting his thrusts. “Please.”

“Needy girl,” he spits, lowering his body to get a deeper angle. You cry out. “Can’t get enough of my cock. Desperate to wring me dry.”

You kiss his cheek sloppily. “Best cock I’ve ever had, baby,” you whisper in his ear.

Liam’s pace falters, his breathing grows ragged. “Fuck,” he mutters before hiking your legs further up his shoulder, fully bending you in half and pounding so hard that the sound of his balls against your ass was loud in the rainy afternoon. “Just needed a real man to fuck you, yeah? Don’t matter if he’s an old son of a bitch, as long as he can make you cum? That it?”

You tearfully babble at him, “Yes, yes. Please, daddy!”

You assumed that the sudden gush of wetness was your own, that you were dripping so much that your own slick was dripping out. But with Liam’s long drawn out moan, you realized what had just happened.

He collapses onto you with a huff, his cum dripping out of you in thick globs as you lower your legs and immediately wrap your arms around him. “Oh my god,” you breath through a laugh.

Liam pinches your thigh. “No.”

You laugh fully now. “Oh my god!” you exclaim.

“Shuddup,” he mutters into your chest. “We ain’t gonna talk about it.”

You giggle, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, daddy.”

“The fuck did I just tell you?” he grumbles petulantly. 

September 21st, the thirty-first time

Liam insisted that he take you out on an actual and proper date. I’m a gentleman, me, he said as you laughed through the kiss he gave you. But with the way the two of you had been fucking like rabbits lately, you really ought to have predicted this outcome. Especially when the wine began to flow freely. 

“Liam,” you whine sloppily, his fingers shoved into your mouth as he had you bent over the restaurant’s family bathroom’s sink. Your hands uselessly gripped the fogged up mirror in front of you, your cunt clenching down on Liam as you caught sight of his blissed out expression while he thrust into you at a pace you were sure must be hell on his hips. You help him out by meeting his thrusts, bucking into him wildly and pushing yourself on the mirror for leverage.

The smack he delivers to your arse is quick and sharp. You don’t have time to keen before Liam’s shoving his fingers further in your mouth. “Thought I told ‘ya to be quiet, babe?”

You nod eagerly, his fingers in the way of your enthusiastic motion. He chuckles and brings a hand down to rub quick circles on your clit. Drool slips past your lips and coats Liam’s fingers.

“My filthy girl,” he croons, pressing his back to yours as his pace grows uneven. “Couldn’t wait ‘til we get home to get my cock.”

You glare at him through the mirror as if to say Well, look who’s talking? He makes you gag on your fingers in retaliation. You clench down on him tightly in revenge. He moans, loud enough to send a chill of warning down your spine.

And really, all that moaning, groaning, smacking, and spanking weren’t great ideas. Especially at a restaurant that was fully occupied where anyone can hear. 

You were seconds away from your second orgasm when a sharp knock cut through the air.

“I’m gonna have to ask you to make yourselves decent and step out of the restroom,” a voice called. You turn back to shoot a panicked look to Liam. His eyes widen but his pace doesn’t slow. Instead, he quickens.

“Just a second!” Liam has the gall to call out raggedly as he fucks into you like a starved man. 

You clench down harshly on him and bite his fingers. What the fuck are you doing? you wanted to say.

Liam grinned and kissed your shoulder, paying no heed to the incessant knocking on the door. “No consequences, remember?”

It really was hard to remember when his cock was rendering you dumb and there seemed to be a cavalry outside listening in as Liam railed you six ways to Sunday. 

When the two of you finally came, Liam’s cum still dripping down your leg in an embarassing trail, your underwear in useless tattered, hair a matted mess, and a hickey blooming on Liam’s neck, you were swiftly cuffed and arrested for public indecency.

You spent the rest of that loop in a cell across from Liam’s as he tried to get the two of you out of your predicament.  

September 21st, the thirty-second time

Liam tells you of his desire to film a sex tape while he’s flipping pancakes on the stove.

You wrinkle your nose. “Liam,” you began, watching the line of his back move lithely while you sat on the kitchen stool, plate regretfully empty. “What for? You know that would disappear once tomorrow comes.”

He sighs, a sound so mournful that your lips tug up in fondness. “I know,” he grumbles. “Just — it would be nice, yeah? Havin’ a nice little home movie for lonely nights on tour. Seein’ your pretty little face would save a man.”

He sounded so pitiful then that you got up from your stool and made your way to him, winding your arms around him and placing your chin on his shoulder as he cooked. “Aw, baby,” you cooed teasingly. You could almost see the roll of Liam’s eyes. “Poor you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, sweetheart,” he groused. “Make fun of the old man.”

You slap his arm hard enough to jolt him. “You’re fifty years old. Not nearly geriatric enough to go around asking for a sex tape like it’s your dying wish.”

“Fuckin’ elder abuse,” he mumbles.

You laugh and poke at his side until he relinquishes his position on the stove. You take over for him and flip the pancakes over, stealing the spatula from Liam’s grasp. It was quiet for a few moments, Buttons’ paws clicking from somewhere in the house, the low murmur of the telly, and the sizzle of pancakes filling in the silence comfortably. “Let’s say that we get out of here, yeah?” you begin, placing the pancakes on your respective plates. Liam perks up in his seat. “First thing you gotta do is get a different phone.”

“For what?” Liam asks, buttering your pancakes for you. You place the empty pan back on the stove and sit next to Liam on the stool. 

“For the sex tape, of course.”

Liam just about drops his hold on the knife. He clears his throat, a heart-stopping grin forming on his face. “Y’gonna let me do it, after all, aye?”

You roll your eyes, trying to act like your knickers weren’t getting steadily damp by the prospect of filming a sex tape with Liam Gallagher. “Do everything you can to make sure it doesn’t leak,” you say sternly.

“Ah,” says Liam, buttering his own pancakes now. “You’re back in PR Director mode, I see.”

You smack his arm. “I’m serious, Liam. Promise me.” The last thing you needed was having Liam’s sex tape leak — especially a sex tape that featured you in it. 

Liam places a messy wet smack of a kiss on your cheek as a seal of his promise. “Promise, baby,” he says. “Not gonna regret it.”

“Buy a new phone so there’s less chance of a leak. Hide it, too,” you say.

“First thing I’ll do when we get outta here,” he grins at you. 

You take a demure bite of your pancakes, chewing it well in your mouth before speaking again. “And we’re gonna have to practice a bit. I get camera shy, you see.”

Liam gobbled his pancakes down in record time before bending you over the counter, your hands growing sticky on the tabletop from the spilled maple syrup. 

September 21st, the thirty-third time

“Nothing will be going up my arse,” you blurt out one morning in your apartment, Liam cradling you close on the couch, both of you watching a movie you thought would be fun to watch.

Liam makes a face of mild distaste before turning away from the telly and fixing his gaze on you. “What?” he asks, pure confusion coloring his tone. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

You shrug, cheeks feeling hot as you burrow yourself into his warm chest. “Just wanted to tell you I’m not into that stuff.”

“Sweetheart, we’re watching a man steal the American Declaration of Independence and you’re thinkin’ about doin’ anal?”

You snuggle deeper into him, your response muffled by his jumper’s thick material, “Shut up.”

“What a perv,” Liam scoffs jokingly.

September 21st, the thirty-fourth time

You make good use of Liam’s pool during the deceitfully sunny morning, wearing a skimpy bikini as you teasingly make Liam rub sun cream all over your back. His hands wandered as he did it, putting a bit too much focus on your arse than your actual back, before flipping you over with ease as he straddles you.

“Liam!” you scold him as he pulls your bikini top down with rough hands and begins to put sun cream all over your tits. “Jesus, this is so unnecessary,” you grumble, but the way you arched your back to meet his palms was undeniable.

“Can’t have these beauties getting a sunburn,” he shrugs, intently massaging the sunscreen into your breasts. He gives each one a delicate kiss before covering you up again with a pat as he earnestly begins to rub the sunscreen over you.

His brow is furrowed as he works, meticulous in making sure that no spot would be vulnerable to a burn. You grin stupidly and peck his mouth.

“What’s that for?” he asks as he stands back up with a groan.

You shrug. “Just like you a lot.”

Liam rolls his eyes and musses up your hair. “Weirdo,” he says through a fond smile before hauling you up from the lounge chair and patting your bum. “Now get in, little mermaid.”

It was after four whole laps that Liam finally succumbed and joined you in the pool, fully naked and fully hard.

“Perv,” you breath into his mouth as he corners you by the edge of the pool, your back to him as he pushes your bikini to the side. “Swimming turns you on?”

“Anythin’ you do turns me on,” he mumbles into your shoulder, kissing it once before lining himself up and sinking into you.

You give out twin moans at the sensation. “Fuck, you’re so hard,” you whimper, head tipping back into his shoulder as he begins his brutal pace. He kisses your temple and puts an arm out to steady the two of you by the edge of the pool while his other arm wraps itself around your throat.

You moan as he puts you in a headlock, eyes rolling to the back of your head at the sensation, your breathing growing lighter as you whine pitifully. You were a mess.

“Harder,” you beg him, fingers clawing at the bicep around your throat. “Fuck!”

Liam thrusts into you harder, hips working quicker as water sloshes all around you. With shaking hands, he pulls down your bikini top with the hand that was clutching the pool’s edge and pinches your nipples enough to make you cry out. 

You were pretty sure you were drooling. Your head was limp where Liam had you in a headlock, all that left your lips were punched out moans at every thrust, your hands were uselessly clinging onto the bicep cutting your airflow, and your eyes were rolled permanently at the back of your head. You tried to tell Liam you were close, you really did, but all that came out was a garbled “Ngh” and then you were gone.

Liam followed soon after, fucking his cum into you with harsh thrusts as you breathed heavily into his bicep.

“Knew I had this pool built for a good reason,” he crows as he lets go of his hold on you. With strong arms, he lifts you up from the pool, settling you at the edge as he sits next to you. You slump bonelessly into him as he cradles you. 

“That was good,” you say dreamily. 

Liam barks out a loud laugh. 

September 21st, the thirty-fifth time

It really was bound to happen. For all his cockiness and his posturing, Liam’s always been clear with his limitations with sex — what with his dodgy hip and the nature of his age. Sure, he wasn’t a prehistoric old man, but he wasn’t your age anymore.

You remembered when this first happened with Adam. He had been so embarassed and horrified that he took it out on you. He had left your apartment, slammed the door on the way out, and didn’t talk to you for three days.

This time with Liam, he sat with you in your tiny bed and shook his head at you as you pouted at him. “Sorry, babe,” he apologized, pecking your cheek in apology as he rubbed your hip with his thumb. “It just ain’t working.”

You had been kissing Liam for the better part of an hour, the rain pattering on your window and a Cardigans song on your record player. It was only when you had slid your hand down to palm Liam through his boxers that you realized that he hadn’t managed to get hard. 

You prepared yourself for the storm. For Liam leaving, for the rambling and the anger, for the red cheeks and the blame on you. But it never came. Liam just kissed your forehead tenderly and rolled off you in one smooth motion.

“Doesn’t always work y’know,” he said simply. Reaching for you to lay by his side. You oblige him and lay your head on his shoulder. “Told you to think wisely about this. Now you’re stuck with an outdated factory model from 1972.”

You snort and smack his bare chest. “Shut up,” you mumble, placing a delicate kiss to his chest. “It’s no big deal.”

Running his fingers through your hair Liam sighs. “Jus’ wish I met you earlier. Maybe I wouldn’t be just this old man that can’t get it up. Or whose hips ache after sex. Or can’t go for more than two rounds.”

You furrow your brow and tilt your head up to look at him. “You never told me your hips ache after sex?”

Liam shrugged. “I take meds after. ‘S’fine.”

You sit up and look down at Liam, something fierce tugging at your heart. “No, it’s definitely not fine!” you protest. “Why did you never tell me?”

It never occurred to you that Liam Gallagher might be a little self conscious about that aspect of himself. Still, he just sighed and lay you back down beside him. “It’s alright.”

You frowned and wrapped your arm around him. “Next time it happens, please just tell me. I’ll get you your meds and we can lay in bed all day. Or I could search up positions that would be better for your arthritis. God, you’re such an arse for never telling me.”

Liam chuckles. “You’ll bring me my meds like my little nursemaid?” 

You snort. “Gross. Is that a roleplay kink of yours?”

“What? Being taken care of a pretty young thing in an elderly retirement home?” he asks wryly. You laugh.

“Just tell me next time, okay?” you say quietly. “I can take care of you.” 

“Y’don’t need to.”

You shake your head stubbornly. “I want to.”

Liam kisses your hairline featherlight and full of emotion. “Sap,” he says. You don’t even smack him for his troubles. 

It isn’t until a few minutes later when Liam begins to grow restless, his body full of movement as he shifts on the bed. You pinch his shoulder when he jostles you for what is the thirtieth time in the span of ten minutes. “Liam,” you scold.

He huffs. “Bored.”

You roll your eyes. “Just sleep.”

He pays you no mind, turning slightly to rummage your bedside drawers. You raise a brow, “What are you doing, you snoop?”

He turns to face you with a triumphant grin, your favorite rabbit vibrator in hand. “Wa-hey!” he cheers. 

Your face flames as you attempt to wrestle it away from Liam’s tight grip. He doesn’t budge. “Oh my god. How’d you even know that would be there?”

Liam rolls his eyes and looks at you flatly. “A revolutionary place to stash it, really, babe,” he says wryly. You frown and kick at his shin.

“Liam,” you say, mortified. “Oh my god.”

He chuckles, rubbing at your back soothingly. “C’mon, sweetheart. No need to be embarassed.”

“Well, I am!” you cry.

Liam shakes you in his arms. “Oh stop that whinin’. I got a job to finish, yeah? Left you high and dry, silly me. I am gonna need the help of Mr. Rabbit over here.”

“Don’t call it that!” you shriek. “And how do you even know what it’s called?”

Liam turns on the vibrator and a low hum emits in the air. You shiver as Liam pulls you to lay on top of him, spreading your legs with ease as he puts the vibrator on your clit. You whine instantly, arching into him.

“God bless modern technology,” he rasps as he turns up the setting and wastes no time inserting the shaft into your leaky cunt. 

It’s safe to say that Liam Gallagher knows his way around a vibrator.

September 21st, the thirty-sixth time

Liam takes you shopping for lingerie during the rainy afternoon. In a shocking use of his fame, he has the shop closed down to just you a handful of staff members who look like they wants to be anywhere else but in the presence of Liam Gallagher’s steadily growing hard-on.

“Liam,” you hiss as you peruse the aisles, your haul bundled into his hands as he follows you around. “Could you maybe be less of a perv?”

Liam sighs. “Can’t help it, babe. You’re choosin’ the best shit. I keep imaginin’ you in them, d’ya know what I mean? Especially the pink one? Crotchless and perfect for eating y—“

“Jesus!” you shriek and slap his arm. He laughs boyishly. “Hold it together!”

He blows you a kiss and holds your growing haul tighter in his arms. “No promises.”

“The poor staff,” you sigh, shaking your head as your eye catches a lavender set that you point to Liam. “That looks nice —“

“Get it.”

You laugh. “Okay, Mr. Moneybags.”

“Any price is worth paying for you, sweetheart.”

You wrinkle your nose as you reach for the set and pile it in Liam’s arms. “Did you read that in a fortune cookie?”

“Easy on the sass, babe.”

You roll your eyes and smile sweetly and bat yiur lashes at him. “Yes, boss.”

Liam reacts quickly, eyes glossing over as his breath quickens. “Get in the car, yeah?”

It’s all the instruction you needed. You rush out of the parking lot, trying not to mind the knowing eyes of the staff as Liam hurries over to the register and you jog quickly to your car in the parking lot, settling yourself in the backseat and stripping yourself bare, the rain and empty lot providing enough coverage for you to feel safe. 

Liam arrives quickly, shopping bags in hand as he opens the back door of the car and lets the rain splatter all over the seats before sliding himself all over you.

“Fuckin’ crazy girl,” he groans as he latches his mouth onto yours.

You grin at him and kiss his cheek, hand already wandering to his belt buckle. “Happy birthday, Liam.”

September 21st, the thirty-seventh time

Liam had been scrolling idly on his phone for what seemed like an hour, and you were busy reading on your Kindle when he broke the silence.

“Why haven’t you squirted?” Liam asks suddenly, gazing up from his phone for the first time in a while.

You glare at him. He smiles sheepishly. “You think I can do it on command?” you ask testily.

He chuckles, reaching across the space between you on the couch to cradle the delicate bone of your ankle. “Was just curious, baby.”

You scoff. “Perv.” 

September 21st, the thirty-eight time

“What’s your stance on threesomes?” you ask Liam after a particularly slow and tender round of sex atop the neatly trimmed grass in his yard. 

The sun was still shining high that morning and Liam was still panting as he answered, “Depends on who it’s with.”

You pretend to think on it. “I don’t suppose you have Damon Albarn’s number on hand?”

Liam gets up and off you so quick that you were left laughing on the soft grass as he hauled his naked ass inside. 

September 21st, the thirty-ninth time

You drive yourself to Liam’s, not even pretending like you aren’t there for the shag of your life. But when Liam opens the door with a groan of “Please, lay off.” you begin to pout.

“Baby, have I not fucked you enough these past few days? Jesus, we’ve been doin’ nothing but sex lately. My cock is tired and so am I.”

You pout at him as you settle on the couch, the ache between your legs not dissipating. “Okay,” you say.

Liam sighs. “I’m just tired, okay, sweetheart.”

“Whatever.”

“Oi! Don’t grumble like that, you brat,” he says as he sinks down next to you. “All I ask is a day off, yeah? Hands off my cock and everythin’. I ain’t twenty no more.”

“‘Kay.”

“Jesus. Great.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “Let’s just watch some telly.”

You were still squirming in your seat thirty minutes into some drama programme when Liam lets out an aggrieved sigh next to you. “Fuck,” he mumbles quietly. Then louder, to you, “Scoot over.”

“What?” you asked, confused.

“You insatiable sex fiend, scoot over,” he says, manhandling you so you were laying down on the couch with your head on the armrest. “Can’t go a day without an orgasm. Spoiled ‘ya, I did.”

You laugh. “Liam, y’don’t have to.”

“Oh, I don’t have to, do I?” he drawl sarcastically as he pushes your shorts down to your ankles and bares you to him. “Nah, you’re gonna end up sighing all around the house all day if I don’t give ‘ya this.”

But for all his complaining, he still leans down to give a kiss to your clit. “Silly girl,” he mumbles before diving into your cunt, his nose pressing down on your clit as he opened his jaw wide to collect the gathering slick.

“Thank you!” you preen, bucking your hips into him.

Liam Gallagher kissed like he had nothing to lose. 

Your hands were in his hair, feeling the soft strands in your hands as his own wandered down each curve of your body; you felt the heat of his palms smoothing down your jaw, to your neck, finding a path down your sternum, to the dip of your waist, back up the gentle swell of your breast, and back down to the small of your back. 

Just like with everything else, Liam was a reckless kisser. You really shouldn’t have been surprised. 

His lips were locked onto yours, one hand cradling the back of your head to guide you into deepening the kiss. You melted into him willingly, opening your mouth to him and letting his tongue lick into you. You gripped desperately onto the material of his shirt, tugging him impossibly closer as heat unfurled low in your abdomen.

You were dizzy with him. He was everywhere, he was pressed against you, his hands were tracing a map on your exposed skin, and his mouth was heavy against yours. You felt completely overwhelmed by him in the best possible way.

Which meant it felt like being submerged in cold water when Liam pulled away abruptly. 

You blinked up at him, his blue eyes hazy with lust, his lips kiss bitten and swollen, his hair a mussed up mess. You felt an awful sort of pride curl up in your chest at the sight of him. You did that. 

The pride quickly turned into confusion when Liam stepped back, keeping his distance. “Maybe—“ he said roughly, his voice cracking pathetically as he spoke, uneven and out of breath. He coughed and repeated himself. “Maybe I should leave. Slow things down a bit, yeah?”

You swallowed thickly, still panting slightly as you asked, “What?” 

Liam shut his eyes as if to compose himself before speaking. “Look,” he started. You already didn’t like the sound of that. “It’s just that this is goin’ a bit fast, d’ya know what I mean?”

You huffed. You knew where this was going. “No, Liam. I don’t know what you mean,” you shot back petulantly.

Liam sighed, reaching for you blindly. You stepped back. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he coaxed, your lit candles reflecting in his shining blue eyes. You looked away stubbornly.

You crossed your arms defensively on your chest and shook your head. He didn’t get to do this.

Liam continued on in that tone he loved using on the cats when they refused to come inside the house. “It’s just that you’re young, yeah?” he said gently, hand still outstretched and waiting for you to take it.

You didn’t know what to make of that. “So what?” you shot back, voice sounding pathetically small in the tiled space of your kitchen.

“I’m not,” Liam said simply, shrugging as he spoke. “Young, that is.”

“So what?” you repeated, a bit cattish, in your opinion. It didn’t matter, it felt like having something ripped away from you just when you’ve gotten a taste. 

Liam bit off a frustrated groan. “Look,” he said sternly. Moving surprisingly quick to cage you into your kitchen counter. You swallowed and refused to look him in the eye, your last bit of defiance. Liam wasn’t having it, though. “Sweetheart, I said look,” he said. His words were gently but the hand he used to angle your chin to meet his eyes was not. Goosebumps erupted in your arms. 

“What?” you croaked pathetically, the grip of his palm making you squirm. 

“‘M’not sayin’ I regret this,” he began, voice gravelly as he spoke. “Or that I don’t want to keep doing … this. All I’m sayin’ ‘ere is that I want to give you a bit of time, yeah? Mull things over, actually think things through and ask yourself if doin’ this with me is summat you really want, d’ya know what I mean?”

You huff, still keeping up your tough facade even as Liam’s proximity has made your head spin. “So, what, this is supposed to be a chivalrous thing you’re doing right now?” you spit, a bit bitterly. 

Liam’s sigh turns into a fond look as he cradles your face in his warm palm. “Yeah, ‘m chivalrous, me,” he jests. You were about to retort when he spoke again, more serious but still tender underneath the surface. “Look, just humor me, alright, sweetheart? Please?”

You look him over and see the soft set of his eyes, the achingly sweet way his thumb brushes your cheekbone, the remnants of lip gloss staining his mouth. “And this isn’t because you don’t like me?” you ask, trying to sound stronger than you felt. 

Liam saw right through you and melted into you, pressing a whisper of a kiss on your temple. “I like ‘ya a lot, did ‘ya know?” he mumbles, lips so close to your skin that goosebumps erupted with each syllable. “I jus’ wanna make sure that you like me too and this isn’t some fucked up thing because of the time loop.”

“It’s not,” you insist, tugging on his wrist. 

He smiles, gentle as anything. “Just humor the old man,” he chuckles. “We can start right where we left off if you decide this is what you want. Or we could pretend that it never happened if it’s not. Ball’s in your court, either way.”

You nod, your heart panging achingly at his gesture. “Okay,” you say, a bit wobbly before recovering yourself with a quip of, “And you’re not saying all this to avoid having to talk to HR when we get back?”

Liam laughs, loud, booming, and so utterly him that you don’t even offer to walk him down to the lobby. You just wave at him from the living room as he disappears behind the door, a fond smile on his plump lips that were just on yours a few lifetimes ago. God knows you would have followed him all the way home if you had stayed by his side. 

“Meow,” Toast interrupts the solitary silence. 

You chuckle as you kneel to take him in your arms. “Good on you for hiding yourself away for a minute there, boy,” you say, giving his head a kiss. 

“Meow,” he repeats more urgently, wriggling out of your hold to walk himself to his feeder and swat at it helplessly. “Meow,” he insists. 

You sigh fondly. “Toast,” you scold gently. “You’ve already had your dinner.”

“Meow,” he says, as defiant as a cat could be. 

You roll your eyes and sit on the couch. “Would you like to cuddle with me instead? Watch Roman Holiday?” you ask, turning on your television. 

Toast walks away from you and pads to your bedroom instead. 

“Great,” you say drily. “No one wants me.”

So you settle down with a movie, you definitely don’t cry as Roman Holiday ends on the same note it always does, and you watch movie after movie after movie. But the night was long and midnight wasn’t coming any faster, time wasn’t resetting quick enough for you. 

A glance at the clock makes you groan. 9:09PM. You could tucker in for the night and let the overly familiar morning greet you instead, but you knew that sleep wouldn’t be coming to you so easily tonight. 

It’s only while scrolling through your streaming services that Groundhog Day shows itself to you. You smile unbeknownst to yourself, remembering lounging on Liam’s couch as the two of you watched it. 

“Aw, great,” you remember his grumbling as Phil finally makes his move on Rita and takes her to bed with him. “I’m not sure that’s quite ethical. Terrible for Rita’s character, this is,” he says, frowning at the television.

You chuckle. “I thought you said you’ve watched this before?”

He snorts. “Yeah, and this part is weird all the time,” he says through a mouthful of popcorn. “Bastard’s havin’ a time of it, though,” he says, referring to Phil who had his arms wound around Rita.

You had laughed then, more enthralled with his commentary than the movie. “He’s changed,” you defend the character, though you found it was mostly just to rile Liam up. It was quite a weird scenario. 

Liam shakes his head. “Nah,” he says before pointing to Rita. “She don’t know that, though. This is comin’ out of nowhere, really. Poor girl.”

You were in your car before you could even think too hard about it. And the next thing you knew, you were at Liam’s front door, pounding at the mahogany with an open palm. 

“I’m not Rita,” you blurted out as soon as Liam swung open the door, Buttons at his heels, his palm digging into his sockets as he rubbed at his eyes. “Oh, shit. Did I wake you up?” you say, all the adrenaline rushing out at the sight of a groggy Liam, clad in a hoodie and sweatpants. He looked impossibly younger like this.

“What the fuck?” he grumbled, voice low and rough with sleep.

“Sorry!” you squeaked, horrified as you realized you were once again stood on his front porch in the same silk pajama set Liam was acquainted with. “I should go —“ you began to say, but Buttons weaved out from Liam’s legs and nuzzled her nose onto your knees.

“Miss her already?” Liam mumbled to Buttons as he gently nudged her with his foot. “I guess ‘ya do take after your old man, aye?”

You shake your head. “I’m sorry for waking you. I can go —”

“Nah,” he says, ushering you in. “Get in before you freeze, yeah?”

That open invitation from him was all that you needed. You stepped into the threshold, arms crossed over your chest to ward off the sudden chill as Liam shut the door behind you. Buttons skittered away as if she could sense the bubbling tension in the foyer. 

“So,” Liam broke the silence. “What was it you were sayin’? Earlier, I mean?”

You cleared your throat. “Uhhh …” you say, all bravado gone. “That I’m not Rita?” you say, the end of your sentence tilting upwards as if asking a question. 

Liam furrowed his brows. “Fuckin’ who?”

You roll your eyes. “From Groundhog Day!”

Liam blinks at you, you could tell that he was still confused. You didn’t know if it was because of your reference or because he had just woken up. Probably both. “Okay?”

You roll your eyes and surge forward, catching the neckline of Liam’s hoodie and using it to pull his lips into yours. Liam melts without a second thought, his arms winding around your middle to haul you closer as his lips lock onto yours with dizzying intensity. “Want you,” you mumble against his lips, going in for another kiss. “I’ve always wanted you. And a stupid time loop won’t change that.”

Liam chuckles against your lips, kissing the corner of your mouth, down to your chin, and peppering light kisses all over your neck. You giggle, feeling his smile against your skin. “Y’want me, huh?” he murmurs. “Wanna show me how much?”

You pull away from him, a teasing glint in your eye. “Oh, so the chivalrous act is gone now?”

Liam scoffs. “Nah,” he says, his thumb brushing the waistline of your sleep shorts. “Still chivalrous. I ain’t denyin’ a lady what she wants.”

You laugh, pushing at his chest. “What a dork!” you cry, fully separating yourself from him before heading to the couch. When you see that Liam still hasn’t followed you to the living room, still standing still by the foyer you call out, “What? You’re not gonna join me?”

As soon as Liam’s within reach, you push him down on the couch and drop to your knees in front of him, a curse escaping his lips as your frantic hands shake with excitement where they’re pulling down his sweatpants. His cock springs up, making you drool at the sight of it so near your face. You don’t waste a second before taking him wholly in your mouth. 

“Jesus,” Liam moans as your nose reaches his thatch of pubic hair. You pay him no mind, bobbing your head up and down as his hand grips tightly onto your hair, clinging onto the roots. “Easy, babe, yeah. C’mon, ‘m’not goin’ anywhere.”

You open your jaw wider and catch his eye from where you were kneeling between his legs. God, how you longed to do this for as long as you could remember. Your thighs clench at the sight of him, mouth open in pleasure and his eyes glazed over. 

“Gaggin’ for it, huh?” Liam murmurs, hitting you low in your abdomen as the words register. You whimper, a desperate sound. Liam cups your cheek in his hand, a gesture not unlike the one he made earlier in your kitchen. “Shhh. ‘S’alright, sweetheart. I know, I know,” he coos soothingly. Your clit pulses between your legs, you find your hand migrating south, past the waistband of your shorts and into the soaked fabric of your knickers. You keen as you trace your clit with your finger, pleasure racing up your spine. 

Liam groans loudly, head thrown back at the sight of you touching yourself. “Fuck,” he draws out. “My sweetheart can’t get enough, can she?” 

My sweetheart. You could cum just from that. Instead, you moan an unintelligible response and suck him in deeper, making you gag as the tip of him reaches the back of your throat. 

“Asked you a question, babe,” Liam says, breath ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

You blink, pulling off his cock with a wet sound, a trail of spit connecting you. You sound wrecked when you answer him, “Can’t get enough, Liam. Need you, need you, need you,” you whimper, hands running across his muscular thighs, your eyes pitiful where it meets his, and your finger still tracing figure eights on your clit.

Liam smiles at you and places his large hand on the back of your head and brings you back down on his cock. “Yeah, jus’ what my baby needs, hm?” he mutters as you sink back down on him, drool dripping down your mouth and slicking his cock. 

You whimper, a high sound and quicken the pace of your fingers on you. You were burning up, heat licking up your spine and smearing you with sweat. You needed more. Without a second thought, you plunge a finger into your cunt and release Liam’s cock from your mouth on a loud moan.

“Oh god,” you whimper, the sound of your finger working into your tight core filthy in the dead of night. You lay your head on Liam’s bare thigh and plunge in another finger, “Liam.”

Liam hums, his hand steady on the back of your head as you get yourself off at his feet, a pathetic whimpering mess as you writhe on your fingers, so turned on from having Liam in your mouth. “I gotcha, babe,” he murmurs gently, cradling your skull with one hand as he idly fists himself with the other. The sight of his hand on himself makes you burn hotter, you cry out helplessly. “Are ‘ya gonna work yourself open for me?”

Tears spring to your eyes. “Yes,” you cry. “For you, all for you, Liam. Oh my god,”

He pats your head. “What a good girl ‘ya are. C’mon, cum on your fingers and show me how pretty you can be, yeah? Can ‘ya do that for me, babe?”

You nod jerkily against his thigh as you speed your fingers up, the palm of your hand rubbing at your clit. Liam brushes strands of your hair idly. “Liam,” you choke out. “I’m gonna—“

You don’t get to finish the sentence, your orgasm crashing into you wildly as you buck helplessly into your hand, choking back whimpers as you bite into Liam’s thigh. 

“Pretty,” he whispers as you come down from your high. 

You reach desperately for his hand, clinging onto him as you stand on shaky legs and plop yourself down on his lap, mouthing at his neck with urgency as you cling to him. “More,” you plead. “Please?”

Liam coos. “My baby wants more?” he asks as you nuzzle your head into his neck, sucking at the skin there even though you know it would leave no trace by morning light. 

You nod. 

“‘Ya got words for me?” Liam teases, his hand drifting up and under your camisole, his touch leaving a burning trail. 

You were too keyed up to say anything but, “Please fuck me, Liam. Want your cock inside of me, please.”

The wrecked moan Liam let out had you knowing how much that simple sentence worked. You eagerly pulled off from him, letting your hands drift to the hem of his hoodie to pull it off in one swift motion, nipping at his chest as soon as the garment hit the floor. You felt him kick off his joggers, keeping a steadying hand on your waist. 

You moved to take off your pajamas when Liam’s hand gripped your wrist. “Keep it on,” he said. 

“What?” you asked, dumbfounded by the request. 

He sighed. “Keep it on,” he echoes. “That fuckin’ silky scrap of fabric you’ve been wearin’ around has been drivin’ me mad for ages, yeah?”

You stare at him for a while before giggling. “I knew you were perving out over these pajamas!” you crowed victoriously. 

Liam rolled his eyes. “Whatever,” he grumbled.

You kissed his cheek tenderly, letting your thumb trace along his lip. “‘S’okay,” you shrugged. “I like knowing I turn you on.”

“Really?” Liam says, eyebrows raised. “Wanna show me how turned on ‘ya get?”

You bite a smile as you shift in his lap, moving your shorts and knickers to the side to press your bare cunt on his cock and wasting no time in his slicking him up. “Like this,” you say, breathy as you rut against him. “Got me so wet,” you mumble.

Liam bundles you closer to him, pressing your chest to his as he groans into your ear. You reach back to take hold of him when he stops you with a hand. You tilt your head to look at him. “Go easy on me, sweetheart,” he rasps, already breathless with anticipation. “‘S’been a while since …”

You let the end of his sentence hang. “It’s been a while?” you repeat dumbly, a smug smile making its way on your face.

He rolls his eyes and gives your ass a little spank. You squeak. “Easy,” he warns. “You expect me to be whorin’ myself out like I used to? At this age? Babe, I’d bust a hip.”

You kiss his burning cheek and mumble, “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll be gentle.” Then you sink down on Liam, the stretch making you cry out and clutch at his shoulder. 

“Jesus,” he groans through gritted teeth. “So good, sweetheart.”

“Liam,” you whine, the thickness of him filling you up to the brim, his pubic hair catching on your swollen clit. “Oh, Liam,” you repeat, winding your arms around his neck as you began to ride him. 

The sound of your ass smacking into his thighs, the wet squelch of him inside you, the hand Liam had slowly moved down to rub at your clit wasn’t enough. You wanted him closer. You pressed against him desperately, latching yourself onto him as you pressed your chest to his and began to bounce on him more quickly. The kiss you two had been sharing had turned out to be less kiss and more of just sharing a breath between your panting mouths.

“Slow,” Liam reminded you through gritted teeth. Trying his best to thrust into you at his own pace. You held him down and paid him no heed. “Baby, slow down.”

You shook your head, hair a mess as you quickened your pace. The wet smacking sounds spurring you on as you clung tightly to him, every point of you connected as you rode him.

Liam tried to grip at your hip, you pushed his hand away and brought it back to where he was tracing harsh circles on your clit. “Jesus,” he whined. “Can’t keep up, sweetheart.”

You took a fistful of his hair and yanked him to you, bringing his mouth down onto yours with a loud moan. Closer, god, you just needed him closer. “Please,” you beg, not knowing what you were asking for.

“Take what you need,” he breathed raggedly, stopping his resistance and just letting you fuck him. “C’mon, make yourself come on my cock, yeah? Show me how good you are, babe.”

Tears sprung to your eyes, quickening your pace with a high pitched keening sound as you clawed at his shoulders. The feel of him inside you was so utterly addicting, the drag of his cock rendering you hypnotized. Liam pressed his lips to your temple as he held you to him. 

“Gonna make me cum,” he murmured, eyes fully glazed over. 

You clumsily cradle his head to your chest. “In me, please?” you plead, part of you conscious enough to remember that there were no real consequences in this loop. “Please, Liam. Need it so bad.”

The sound he let out was pornographic, drool slipping past his lips and onto your camisole as you kept your pace. You could tell he was close, his hips couldn’t keep still, his cock twitched where it was buried deep inside you, and Liam clutched at the fabric of your pajamas so desperately that he created a tear. “Shit, shit, shit,” he mumbled. You knew he was gone for.

He came inside of you with a drawn out groan, his hips bucking into you as hot spurts of his cum filled your cunt, dripping down his shaft and onto his balls in a sticky mess as you kept riding him through it.

“Fuck,” he cried. “Jesus fuck, ya ain’t done?” he slurred as you began to grind into him, making him hit that spot inside you that made you cross-eyed with pleasure.

You grip Liam by the strands of his hair and separate him from where he was planted on your chest to take a good look at his hazy blue eyes. He looked ruined. “Can you give me one more?” you pout down at him. 

He barely got a word out before you ground down on him again. “Baby,” he whined, burying his face between your breasts and mouthing clumsily at the silk. “Can’t take anymore, babe.”

You run a hand down his back with a light touch, the sensual grind of his cock inside you making your legs shake. You were close. “Please? For me?”

“Fuck,” he moaned loudly as you deliberately tightened around him. “Makin’ me crazy.”

You kissed his hairline and keened as you brought him to your g-spot again and again and again and again and again.

“‘M’so close, Liam,” you breathed. “Gonna cum soon. Can you cum for me again, baby?”

He shakes his head violently between your breast. “Nah, nah, nah,” he protests weakly.

Tears began to flow freely down your cheeks. You forcibly rip Liam away from your breast with a harsh tug at his hair. He moans. “Please, Liam? Need to feel you. Need to be full.”

For all his protests, he succumbs in the end. All it really took was the tight squeeze of your cunt on him as you came, keening his name into the silent night, and he was suddenly filling you back up again.

“Fuck,” he breathed, still inside you as you clung to him in the afterglow. 

You giggled, pressing giddy kisses all over his face, making him smile. 

He winds an arm around your middle as you cling tightly to him. “Thought you were gonna go easy?” he murmurs.

You nip at his collarbone. “Didn’t wanna.”

He rolls his eyes and pinches your clit harshly. You squeak as he laughs. “Fuckin’ insatiable girl.”

You kiss his cheek and lay your own on his shoulder, not minding his softening cock inside you and the slip of your combined release dripping down your thighs. “You love it.”

His silence was all the admission you needed. 

It wasn’t until five minutes before midnight when Liam spoke again. “How much is that pilates class of yours?”

You answered him groggily with the price.

He hums, sending a vibration down your body. “Monthly payment or annual?”

Eyes falling down in drowsiness, you tell him, “I pay monthly. But they have an annual plan.”

“Hm,” he says. 

“What?” you grumble.

“Nothin’. Just remindin’ myself to pay for your pilates class as soon as we get out. If this is the kind of performance your classes give me, then I better shell out, yeah?” 

September 21st, the thirtieth time

Liam had you in a nasty mating press in your own bed, making you wonder how you two have gone this long without doing this.

For the past few days in the cycle, you and Liam had done nothing but fuck. In his apartment or yours, you two always ended up in the same place by the end. With his cock buried so deep inside you that you swore you could feel him in your throat.

“Liam,” you cry at a particularly rough thrust. “Oh fuck!”

Liam burrows himself in the crook of your shoulder and smears your slick wetness all over your neck. He had refused to wipe himself down after eating you out, which meant that his face was a mess of you.

“Gross!” you had the strength to shout, brows furrowed at the wet sensation.

Liam laughs into your neck. You rip him away by the roots of his hair and glare at him. “Aw, c’mon, babe!” he says, still thrusting into you at that lethal pace of his.

You bite a moan at a particularly pleasurable thrust and continue to glare. “Wipe it off,” you demand.

He only grins at you, cheeky as the devil. 

You huff and take matters into your own hands. You use your grip on Liam’s hair to bring him closer to you, and you lick away your own slick from his face. 

Liam moans loudly, eyes rolling in the back of his head. You continue to lick him clean, tongue lolled out as you taste yourself on his salty skin. “You’re a fuckin’ wet dream,” he groans, taking a rough hold of your hips and slamming into you.

You keen. “There! There, there, there!” you plead tearfully. 

Liam grins down at you. “There?” he asks innocently, pounding at your g-spot relentlessly. 

You whine and writhe into him, sheets soaked with your wetness, nails scratching down the broad expanse of his back. “Yes, thank you, thank you, thank you!” you babble uselessly, mind wiped of anything except Liam.

“My girl,” he groans. “My baby, my sweetheart.”

You cling to him, cunt squeezing him tight as you cum with a loud cry of his name. Heat licks up your spine as your back bows and your toes curl, but the hard press of Liam still inside you was undeniable.

“One more,” he says, less a question and more of a demand.

You nod desperately and bite his shoulder. “One more,” you echo, meeting his thrusts. “Please.”

“Needy girl,” he spits, lowering his body to get a deeper angle. You cry out. “Can’t get enough of my cock. Desperate to wring me dry.”

You kiss his cheek sloppily. “Best cock I’ve ever had, baby,” you whisper in his ear.

Liam’s pace falters, his breathing grows ragged. “Fuck,” he mutters before hiking your legs further up his shoulder, fully bending you in half and pounding so hard that the sound of his balls against your ass was loud in the rainy afternoon. “Just needed a real man to fuck you, yeah? Don’t matter if he’s an old son of a bitch, as long as he can make you cum? That it?”

You tearfully babble at him, “Yes, yes. Please, daddy!”

You assumed that the sudden gush of wetness was your own, that you were dripping so much that your own slick was dripping out. But with Liam’s long drawn out moan, you realized what had just happened.

He collapses onto you with a huff, his cum dripping out of you in thick globs as you lower your legs and immediately wrap your arms around him. “Oh my god,” you breath through a laugh.

Liam pinches your thigh. “No.”

You laugh fully now. “Oh my god!” you exclaim.

“Shuddup,” he mutters into your chest. “We ain’t gonna talk about it.”

You giggle, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, daddy.”

“The fuck did I just tell you?” he grumbles petulantly. 

September 21st, the thirty-first time

Liam insisted that he take you out on an actual and proper date. I’m a gentleman, me, he said as you laughed through the kiss he gave you. But with the way the two of you had been fucking like rabbits lately, you really ought to have predicted this outcome. Especially when the wine began to flow freely. 

“Liam,” you whine sloppily, his fingers shoved into your mouth as he had you bent over the restaurant’s family bathroom’s sink. Your hands uselessly gripped the fogged up mirror in front of you, your cunt clenching down on Liam as you caught sight of his blissed out expression while he thrust into you at a pace you were sure must be hell on his hips. You help him out by meeting his thrusts, bucking into him wildly and pushing yourself on the mirror for leverage.

The smack he delivers to your arse is quick and sharp. You don’t have time to keen before Liam’s shoving his fingers further in your mouth. “Thought I told ‘ya to be quiet, babe?”

You nod eagerly, his fingers in the way of your enthusiastic motion. He chuckles and brings a hand down to rub quick circles on your clit. Drool slips past your lips and coats Liam’s fingers.

“My filthy girl,” he croons, pressing his back to yours as his pace grows uneven. “Couldn’t wait ‘til we get home to get my cock.”

You glare at him through the mirror as if to say Well, look who’s talking? He makes you gag on your fingers in retaliation. You clench down on him tightly in revenge. He moans, loud enough to send a chill of warning down your spine.

And really, all that moaning, groaning, smacking, and spanking weren’t great ideas. Especially at a restaurant that was fully occupied where anyone can hear. 

You were seconds away from your second orgasm when a sharp knock cut through the air.

“I’m gonna have to ask you to make yourselves decent and step out of the restroom,” a voice called. You turn back to shoot a panicked look to Liam. His eyes widen but his pace doesn’t slow. Instead, he quickens.

“Just a second!” Liam has the gall to call out raggedly as he fucks into you like a starved man. 

You clench down harshly on him and bite his fingers. What the fuck are you doing? you wanted to say.

Liam grinned and kissed your shoulder, paying no heed to the incessant knocking on the door. “No consequences, remember?”

It really was hard to remember when his cock was rendering you dumb and there seemed to be a cavalry outside listening in as Liam railed you six ways to Sunday. 

When the two of you finally came, Liam’s cum still dripping down your leg in an embarassing trail, your underwear in useless tattered, hair a matted mess, and a hickey blooming on Liam’s neck, you were swiftly cuffed and arrested for public indecency.

You spent the rest of that loop in a cell across from Liam’s as he tried to get the two of you out of your predicament.  

September 21st, the thirty-second time

Liam tells you of his desire to film a sex tape while he’s flipping pancakes on the stove.

You wrinkle your nose. “Liam,” you began, watching the line of his back move lithely while you sat on the kitchen stool, plate regretfully empty. “What for? You know that would disappear once tomorrow comes.”

He sighs, a sound so mournful that your lips tug up in fondness. “I know,” he grumbles. “Just — it would be nice, yeah? Havin’ a nice little home movie for lonely nights on tour. Seein’ your pretty little face would save a man.”

He sounded so pitiful then that you got up from your stool and made your way to him, winding your arms around him and placing your chin on his shoulder as he cooked. “Aw, baby,” you cooed teasingly. You could almost see the roll of Liam’s eyes. “Poor you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up, sweetheart,” he groused. “Make fun of the old man.”

You slap his arm hard enough to jolt him. “You’re fifty years old. Not nearly geriatric enough to go around asking for a sex tape like it’s your dying wish.”

“Fuckin’ elder abuse,” he mumbles.

You laugh and poke at his side until he relinquishes his position on the stove. You take over for him and flip the pancakes over, stealing the spatula from Liam’s grasp. It was quiet for a few moments, Buttons’ paws clicking from somewhere in the house, the low murmur of the telly, and the sizzle of pancakes filling in the silence comfortably. “Let’s say that we get out of here, yeah?” you begin, placing the pancakes on your respective plates. Liam perks up in his seat. “First thing you gotta do is get a different phone.”

“For what?” Liam asks, buttering your pancakes for you. You place the empty pan back on the stove and sit next to Liam on the stool. 

“For the sex tape, of course.”

Liam just about drops his hold on the knife. He clears his throat, a heart-stopping grin forming on his face. “Y’gonna let me do it, after all, aye?”

You roll your eyes, trying to act like your knickers weren’t getting steadily damp by the prospect of filming a sex tape with Liam Gallagher. “Do everything you can to make sure it doesn’t leak,” you say sternly.

“Ah,” says Liam, buttering his own pancakes now. “You’re back in PR Director mode, I see.”

You smack his arm. “I’m serious, Liam. Promise me.” The last thing you needed was having Liam’s sex tape leak — especially a sex tape that featured you in it. 

Liam places a messy wet smack of a kiss on your cheek as a seal of his promise. “Promise, baby,” he says. “Not gonna regret it.”

“Buy a new phone so there’s less chance of a leak. Hide it, too,” you say.

“First thing I’ll do when we get outta here,” he grins at you. 

You take a demure bite of your pancakes, chewing it well in your mouth before speaking again. “And we’re gonna have to practice a bit. I get camera shy, you see.”

Liam gobbled his pancakes down in record time before bending you over the counter, your hands growing sticky on the tabletop from the spilled maple syrup. 

September 21st, the thirty-third time

“Nothing will be going up my arse,” you blurt out one morning in your apartment, Liam cradling you close on the couch, both of you watching a movie you thought would be fun to watch.

Liam makes a face of mild distaste before turning away from the telly and fixing his gaze on you. “What?” he asks, pure confusion coloring his tone. “Where the fuck did that come from?”

You shrug, cheeks feeling hot as you burrow yourself into his warm chest. “Just wanted to tell you I’m not into that stuff.”

“Sweetheart, we’re watching a man steal the American Declaration of Independence and you’re thinkin’ about doin’ anal?”

You snuggle deeper into him, your response muffled by his jumper’s thick material, “Shut up.”

“What a perv,” Liam scoffs jokingly.

September 21st, the thirty-fourth time

You make good use of Liam’s pool during the deceitfully sunny morning, wearing a skimpy bikini as you teasingly make Liam rub sun cream all over your back. His hands wandered as he did it, putting a bit too much focus on your arse than your actual back, before flipping you over with ease as he straddles you.

“Liam!” you scold him as he pulls your bikini top down with rough hands and begins to put sun cream all over your tits. “Jesus, this is so unnecessary,” you grumble, but the way you arched your back to meet his palms was undeniable.

“Can’t have these beauties getting a sunburn,” he shrugs, intently massaging the sunscreen into your breasts. He gives each one a delicate kiss before covering you up again with a pat as he earnestly begins to rub the sunscreen over you.

His brow is furrowed as he works, meticulous in making sure that no spot would be vulnerable to a burn. You grin stupidly and peck his mouth.

“What’s that for?” he asks as he stands back up with a groan.

You shrug. “Just like you a lot.”

Liam rolls his eyes and musses up your hair. “Weirdo,” he says through a fond smile before hauling you up from the lounge chair and patting your bum. “Now get in, little mermaid.”

It was after four whole laps that Liam finally succumbed and joined you in the pool, fully naked and fully hard.

“Perv,” you breath into his mouth as he corners you by the edge of the pool, your back to him as he pushes your bikini to the side. “Swimming turns you on?”

“Anythin’ you do turns me on,” he mumbles into your shoulder, kissing it once before lining himself up and sinking into you.

You give out twin moans at the sensation. “Fuck, you’re so hard,” you whimper, head tipping back into his shoulder as he begins his brutal pace. He kisses your temple and puts an arm out to steady the two of you by the edge of the pool while his other arm wraps itself around your throat.

You moan as he puts you in a headlock, eyes rolling to the back of your head at the sensation, your breathing growing lighter as you whine pitifully. You were a mess.

“Harder,” you beg him, fingers clawing at the bicep around your throat. “Fuck!”

Liam thrusts into you harder, hips working quicker as water sloshes all around you. With shaking hands, he pulls down your bikini top with the hand that was clutching the pool’s edge and pinches your nipples enough to make you cry out. 

You were pretty sure you were drooling. Your head was limp where Liam had you in a headlock, all that left your lips were punched out moans at every thrust, your hands were uselessly clinging onto the bicep cutting your airflow, and your eyes were rolled permanently at the back of your head. You tried to tell Liam you were close, you really did, but all that came out was a garbled “Ngh” and then you were gone.

Liam followed soon after, fucking his cum into you with harsh thrusts as you breathed heavily into his bicep.

“Knew I had this pool built for a good reason,” he crows as he lets go of his hold on you. With strong arms, he lifts you up from the pool, settling you at the edge as he sits next to you. You slump bonelessly into him as he cradles you. 

“That was good,” you say dreamily. 

Liam barks out a loud laugh. 

September 21st, the thirty-fifth time

It really was bound to happen. For all his cockiness and his posturing, Liam’s always been clear with his limitations with sex — what with his dodgy hip and the nature of his age. Sure, he wasn’t a prehistoric old man, but he wasn’t your age anymore.

You remembered when this first happened with Adam. He had been so embarassed and horrified that he took it out on you. He had left your apartment, slammed the door on the way out, and didn’t talk to you for three days.

This time with Liam, he sat with you in your tiny bed and shook his head at you as you pouted at him. “Sorry, babe,” he apologized, pecking your cheek in apology as he rubbed your hip with his thumb. “It just ain’t working.”

You had been kissing Liam for the better part of an hour, the rain pattering on your window and a Cardigans song on your record player. It was only when you had slid your hand down to palm Liam through his boxers that you realized that he hadn’t managed to get hard. 

You prepared yourself for the storm. For Liam leaving, for the rambling and the anger, for the red cheeks and the blame on you. But it never came. Liam just kissed your forehead tenderly and rolled off you in one smooth motion.

“Doesn’t always work y’know,” he said simply. Reaching for you to lay by his side. You oblige him and lay your head on his shoulder. “Told you to think wisely about this. Now you’re stuck with an outdated factory model from 1972.”

You snort and smack his bare chest. “Shut up,” you mumble, placing a delicate kiss to his chest. “It’s no big deal.”

Running his fingers through your hair Liam sighs. “Jus’ wish I met you earlier. Maybe I wouldn’t be just this old man that can’t get it up. Or whose hips ache after sex. Or can’t go for more than two rounds.”

You furrow your brow and tilt your head up to look at him. “You never told me your hips ache after sex?”

Liam shrugged. “I take meds after. ‘S’fine.”

You sit up and look down at Liam, something fierce tugging at your heart. “No, it’s definitely not fine!” you protest. “Why did you never tell me?”

It never occurred to you that Liam Gallagher might be a little self conscious about that aspect of himself. Still, he just sighed and lay you back down beside him. “It’s alright.”

You frowned and wrapped your arm around him. “Next time it happens, please just tell me. I’ll get you your meds and we can lay in bed all day. Or I could search up positions that would be better for your arthritis. God, you’re such an arse for never telling me.”

Liam chuckles. “You’ll bring me my meds like my little nursemaid?” 

You snort. “Gross. Is that a roleplay kink of yours?”

“What? Being taken care of a pretty young thing in an elderly retirement home?” he asks wryly. You laugh.

“Just tell me next time, okay?” you say quietly. “I can take care of you.” 

“Y’don’t need to.”

You shake your head stubbornly. “I want to.”

Liam kisses your hairline featherlight and full of emotion. “Sap,” he says. You don’t even smack him for his troubles. 

It isn’t until a few minutes later when Liam begins to grow restless, his body full of movement as he shifts on the bed. You pinch his shoulder when he jostles you for what is the thirtieth time in the span of ten minutes. “Liam,” you scold.

He huffs. “Bored.”

You roll your eyes. “Just sleep.”

He pays you no mind, turning slightly to rummage your bedside drawers. You raise a brow, “What are you doing, you snoop?”

He turns to face you with a triumphant grin, your favorite rabbit vibrator in hand. “Wa-hey!” he cheers. 

Your face flames as you attempt to wrestle it away from Liam’s tight grip. He doesn’t budge. “Oh my god. How’d you even know that would be there?”

Liam rolls his eyes and looks at you flatly. “A revolutionary place to stash it, really, babe,” he says wryly. You frown and kick at his shin.

“Liam,” you say, mortified. “Oh my god.”

He chuckles, rubbing at your back soothingly. “C’mon, sweetheart. No need to be embarassed.”

“Well, I am!” you cry.

Liam shakes you in his arms. “Oh stop that whinin’. I got a job to finish, yeah? Left you high and dry, silly me. I am gonna need the help of Mr. Rabbit over here.”

“Don’t call it that!” you shriek. “And how do you even know what it’s called?”

Liam turns on the vibrator and a low hum emits in the air. You shiver as Liam pulls you to lay on top of him, spreading your legs with ease as he puts the vibrator on your clit. You whine instantly, arching into him.

“God bless modern technology,” he rasps as he turns up the setting and wastes no time inserting the shaft into your leaky cunt. 

It’s safe to say that Liam Gallagher knows his way around a vibrator.

September 21st, the thirty-sixth time

Liam takes you shopping for lingerie during the rainy afternoon. In a shocking use of his fame, he has the shop closed down to just you a handful of staff members who look like they wants to be anywhere else but in the presence of Liam Gallagher’s steadily growing hard-on.

“Liam,” you hiss as you peruse the aisles, your haul bundled into his hands as he follows you around. “Could you maybe be less of a perv?”

Liam sighs. “Can’t help it, babe. You’re choosin’ the best shit. I keep imaginin’ you in them, d’ya know what I mean? Especially the pink one? Crotchless and perfect for eating y—“

“Jesus!” you shriek and slap his arm. He laughs boyishly. “Hold it together!”

He blows you a kiss and holds your growing haul tighter in his arms. “No promises.”

“The poor staff,” you sigh, shaking your head as your eye catches a lavender set that you point to Liam. “That looks nice —“

“Get it.”

You laugh. “Okay, Mr. Moneybags.”

“Any price is worth paying for you, sweetheart.”

You wrinkle your nose as you reach for the set and pile it in Liam’s arms. “Did you read that in a fortune cookie?”

“Easy on the sass, babe.”

You roll your eyes and smile sweetly and bat yiur lashes at him. “Yes, boss.”

Liam reacts quickly, eyes glossing over as his breath quickens. “Get in the car, yeah?”

It’s all the instruction you needed. You rush out of the parking lot, trying not to mind the knowing eyes of the staff as Liam hurries over to the register and you jog quickly to your car in the parking lot, settling yourself in the backseat and stripping yourself bare, the rain and empty lot providing enough coverage for you to feel safe. 

Liam arrives quickly, shopping bags in hand as he opens the back door of the car and lets the rain splatter all over the seats before sliding himself all over you.

“Fuckin’ crazy girl,” he groans as he latches his mouth onto yours.

You grin at him and kiss his cheek, hand already wandering to his belt buckle. “Happy birthday, Liam.”

September 21st, the thirty-seventh time

Liam had been scrolling idly on his phone for what seemed like an hour, and you were busy reading on your Kindle when he broke the silence.

“Why haven’t you squirted?” Liam asks suddenly, gazing up from his phone for the first time in a while.

You glare at him. He smiles sheepishly. “You think I can do it on command?” you ask testily.

He chuckles, reaching across the space between you on the couch to cradle the delicate bone of your ankle. “Was just curious, baby.”

You scoff. “Perv.” 

September 21st, the thirty-eight time

“What’s your stance on threesomes?” you ask Liam after a particularly slow and tender round of sex atop the neatly trimmed grass in his yard. 

The sun was still shining high that morning and Liam was still panting as he answered, “Depends on who it’s with.”

You pretend to think on it. “I don’t suppose you have Damon Albarn’s number on hand?”

Liam gets up and off you so quick that you were left laughing on the soft grass as he hauled his naked ass inside. 

September 21st, the thirty-ninth time

You drive yourself to Liam’s, not even pretending like you aren’t there for the shag of your life. But when Liam opens the door with a groan of “Please, lay off.” you begin to pout.

“Baby, have I not fucked you enough these past few days? Jesus, we’ve been doin’ nothing but sex lately. My cock is tired and so am I.”

You pout at him as you settle on the couch, the ache between your legs not dissipating. “Okay,” you say.

Liam sighs. “I’m just tired, okay, sweetheart.”

“Whatever.”

“Oi! Don’t grumble like that, you brat,” he says as he sinks down next to you. “All I ask is a day off, yeah? Hands off my cock and everythin’. I ain’t twenty no more.”

“‘Kay.”

“Jesus. Great.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “Let’s just watch some telly.”

You were still squirming in your seat thirty minutes into some drama programme when Liam lets out an aggrieved sigh next to you. “Fuck,” he mumbles quietly. Then louder, to you, “Scoot over.”

“What?” you asked, confused.

“You insatiable sex fiend, scoot over,” he says, manhandling you so you were laying down on the couch with your head on the armrest. “Can’t go a day without an orgasm. Spoiled ‘ya, I did.”

You laugh. “Liam, y’don’t have to.”

“Oh, I don’t have to, do I?” he drawl sarcastically as he pushes your shorts down to your ankles and bares you to him. “Nah, you’re gonna end up sighing all around the house all day if I don’t give ‘ya this.”

But for all his complaining, he still leans down to give a kiss to your clit. “Silly girl,” he mumbles before diving into your cunt, his nose pressing down on your clit as he opened his jaw wide to collect the gathering slick.

“Thank you!” you preen, bucking your hips into him.

“Have you seen Liam?” The words were on the tip of your tongue. You swallowed it down like gravel and smiled at a passing technician instead. What a great way to start your first day on the job — losing your client twenty minutes after meeting him.

It was clear from the way that Liam’s eyes glazed past you that he wasn’t very pleased with the situation. His manager had promptly introduced you, a coaxing smile on his face as Liam flat out refused to look you in the eye. He did manage to give you quite the firm handshake, though. Impressive, considering the cold shoulder you were receiving from him.

You knew exactly what you were walking into. Well, at least you thought you did. You were told that Liam Gallagher, big-mouthed Mancunian rockstar, had received a kidnapping threat legitimate enough to spook management. You knew that Liam had rallied against hiring a bodyguard, claiming he was no celebrity. And you certainly heard Liam’s loud declarations that he needed no babysitting. But you were here to do what you did best; the whole eagle-eyed, discreet, nimble routine wasn’t new to you. All you had to do was hang off Liam’s arm like a usual groupie, tag along to every event, and watch the target on his back closely. If only Liam would make it a bit easier for you.

It wasn’t personal, you at least knew that. If you were him, famous hardman of the nineties, you’d balk at the idea of being shielded. Alas, you weren’t here to agree with Liam, you were here to protect him. Something you were currently doing quite the terrible job at, seeing as you haven’t set your eyes on the lad in quite some time.

“Lose the lad already?” You’ve seen Noel tailing you for the last five minutes, something akin to amusement glinting in his eyes as he did. He must have thought he was sneaky. You resisted a sigh in the name of professionalism. “He’s a slippery one, I’ll tell you that.”

You turned around to greet Noel with a nod. You debated asking him where you could find Liam, but thought twice on what that would mean. That you didn’t have a handle on your job? That you were unprofessional and underqualified? That you weren’t supposed to be back on the field? It wasn’t even your fault, your time as his bodyguard had barely even started. You had just finished signing the Non-Disclosure Agreement their manager had handed to you when you looked back to see Liam was gone. Your other clients didn’t exactly take to running away without company when they had kidnappers coming after them. So this was a first. 

In the end, Noel led you straight to him. “Pro tip, yeah? He never stays in one place, no matter how much you want ‘im to. It’s just how he rolls,” he said, taking a cigarette out of his pocket before placing it upon his lips. “But he gravitates towards four things; lager, footie, women, and brawls.”

So you hightail it out of the building and head straight for the nearest pub. And wouldn’t you know it, he’s got a football game playing loudly in the telly behind him, a pint of lager in one hand, and some guys shirt gripped tightly in the other as he ranted about heading outside to put a fist in the guy’s face. Noel was dead right. The only thing missing in the equation was a woman. Which is probably where you come in. 

Light on your feet, you scampered to Liam’s side and latched on lasciviously to his arm. “Baby,” you purred up at him. God, your job had you doing the oddest things. “Baby, can we just go?” you whine, tugging at his sleeve. 

Liam jumped at the contact before blinking down at you with his confused eyes. His grip on the guy’s shirt loosened enough to fall. “Huh?” You frowned at him. The sight must have jogged his memory a bit seeing as his next words were, “Oh. ‘T’s’you.”

“It’s me!” you giggled as drunkenly as you could manage with no alcohol in your system. You were gonna kill Weston for assigning you on another undercover job when you all but begged him not to. You swallowed your pride and wound yourself around Liam’s body, head turning this way and that in what would look like a tired nuzzle but was actually a quick sweep of the entire establishment. 

Liam shook himself off you with a stubborn frown, stumbling drunkenly as he put distance between you. You resisted another sigh. “Go home without me, baby,” he said, the nickname filled with annoyance. “This gobshite over ‘ere,” he said, pointing to an older man with a reddened face. “Can’t stop talkin’ shite about Man City.”

You looked at the man. Thirty to thirty-five years old, scruff covering his chin in dark red patches, hair atop his head sparse but burning red in color, about five foot ten in height, average build, had a bum left knee and was favoring his right one, didn’t look like he carried a weapon on him. You knew you could easily take him in a fight should the need arise. 

With the way Liam was back to yelling at the man, you knew Liam was thinking the same thing. Though you doubted he’d get out of the skirmish without a scrape. Liam would probably get a broken nose with the way he was getting closer and closer to the guy’s face, all but spitting as he continued to defend the honor of his beloved team. 

And you were once again proven right. You saw the millisecond that the man curled his fist at his side, the moment he stepped backward to take a large swing, the way his lip curled in a menacing scowl. You saw it all before Liam. Which is how you ended up moving first. After all, it wouldn’t do you any good if your first day of work consisted of losing your client then finding him only to get him beat up over a footie disagreement. But you couldn’t exactly blow your cover. You couldn’t swing at the man, you couldn’t pull your gun on him, you couldn’t manhandle him into a prone position. 

So you stepped in front of Liam, all air and pretense of being his drunk girlfriend out the window as you caught the man’s fist before it hit Liam right in the jaw. “No can do, sir,” you told him, voice low as you lowered your hand to grip his fist tightly. Tight enough to make him wince, tight enough to make his eyes go wide, and in your own previous experience, tight enough to make a man disarm himself. This was your element, the grit and force of it all. You smiled at the man, taking a quick scan behind him to check if anyone was looking, to your luck, someone just scored a goal and everyone was preoccupied with their lager and the telly. “Here’s what’ll happen, yeah? You’re gonna let us walk out of this pub, no harm done. That sound alright?”

The man’s lip curled. You braced for impact. Instead, he spat, “Fuckin’ bitch.”

You let him get away with it. You’ve heard worse. He swayed as you pushed him back, his glare fierce as you stepped towards the door. But Liam had other plans. “Aye!” he barked loudly behind you. A few patrons startled and turned to look. This time, you really did sigh. “Don’t call ‘er that, yeah?”

Having had enough, you smile tightly at the still fuming man, and bodily haul Liam out the pub with a tight grip on his waist. “Don’t resist, Mr. Gallagher,” you mumbled under your breath as he squirmed. “Just doing my job.”

As soon as you were out the door, the crisp London air whipping around you once again, Liam pushed away from you and continued his stride a few paces ahead of you. You tailed him immediately. “Don’t need no babysitter!” he cried, not turning to look at you as he maneuvered his way through the crowd. 

You kept your eyes on him. You didn’t say anything, just watching him walk ahead of you, his stride angry and bursting with energy. You could already tell that he was going to be so much trouble. You cursed Weston in your mind, you were totally asking for a raise when this job was done. 

You tailed Liam as he tripped over a stray piece of trash, tailed him as he bought a sandwich from a local shop, tailed him as he stopped to pet a tiny kitten by an alley, tailed him as young fans asked him for photographs. 

Here’s what you’ve observed about Liam so far in the thirty or so minutes you’ve been following him; he walked like he owned the entire side walk, his head whipped around at any loud noise or commotion as if he were gearing up to join, his fingers tapped a beat on his thigh as he walked, he was kind and gracious to his fans who stopped him on the street, he stared at a mural of The Beatles for far lang than what you would deem normal, and the back of his head really needed to see the attention of some scissors. 

Also, he was a very oblivious man. It would have been a very easy job, kidnapping Liam Gallagher. 

“Jesus Christ!” he jumped as you sidled up next to him by a shop window he’d been gawking at. “Where’d you come from, eh?” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck and looking at you warily. 

You raised a brow. “I’ve been tailing you for the past half hour, Mr. Gallagher.”

His forehead creased in confusion. “Really?”

Not for the first time, you wondered what a kidnapper would even want with the man. “You’ve got mayonnaise on your lip, by the way.”

Liam was unfazed as he wiped the stain away with his sleeve. You winced at the action. “So this is it, huh? You really are gonna follow me wherever I go?”

You nodded, a stern jerk of your head. 

“What if I need to go to the loo?” he asked curiously. 

You answered patiently. “I wait outside.”

“How do you know I won’t try to escape from the bathroom window?” 

You frowned in bewilderment. “Mr. Gallagher, are you under the presumption that I’m your kidnapper? Because there’s no need to be doing all that.”

Liam huffed, sending his fringe flying from his eyes. “What about when I sleep? Y’gonna watch me from my bedside?”

“Management has taken to booking us a double suite.”

“Double suite?” Liam echoed, dumbfounded. “What if I bring a bird back? You gonna be our third or summat?”

You rolled your eyes and grit your teeth. “She’d have to pass a background check first —”

“Background check,” Liam scoffed. “By the time that’s done, she’ll be drier than a desert. She won’t want nowt to do with me after people go pokin’ and proddin’ at her.”

You tried to give your best sympathetic look, you really did. But it was a hard feat to manage when you didn’t give a toss. “Sorry, sir, but that’s part of protocol.”

He groaned, loud enough to catch attention. “What if I go out for a drink with the lads? Surely you won’t come with. They won’t let nowt bad happen to me.”

You shook your head. “I’m still required by contract to follow you then, sir.”

“If I jump off a cliff, will you jump off too?” he said wryly as he began to walk away. You matched his pace and walked with him. “Stupid,” he grumbled, kicking a few stray rocks as he walked.

You let him fester in his frustration for a while, hearing him grumble nonsense in that thick accent of his before saying, “I know it’s a big adjustment, having me around. Trust me, if I were given a choice, I wouldn’t be here either.”

“Well that’s fuckin’ comforting,” he scoffed, head down as he trundled through the crowd. 

“But,” you forged on. “We’ll both learn to live with this. It’s just until the storm passes.”

“Well, can it pass more quickly? Because I’m getting sick of being babysat,” he mumbled. It hadn’t even been a full day and your client was already miserable in your presence. Swell. “Swear down, I’ll beat the shit out of those kidnappers when they come for me.”

You winced. “Let’s hope you don’t come face to face with them, yeah?”

“I’ll show ‘em who’s trouble,” he continued as if you hadn’t even spoke. 

And for the next few days, he’s exactly that; trouble.

“Out of the way! Get out of the fucking way! Move, move, move!” When you took this job, you were under impression that you’d be protecting Liam from any threat that was to come. You didn’t think that you would be the one protecting the world from the threat that was Liam Gallagher. “C’mon, move!”

The crowd parted with bewildered shouts, jumping quickly backwards to avoid an untimely collision. 

Laughing maniacally on the stadium’s golf buggy, Liam was a force to be reckoned with. You had the fleeting thought that if anyone could annoy kidnappers into setting him free, it would be Liam. But you didn’t have much time to think about it since you were in active pursuit of said golf buggy. 

“Liam!” you yelled after him. You hoped to god that the sight of you, Liam’s supposed groupie, chasing him around as he sped past in a golf buggy, wasn’t a weird enough sight to raise suspicion. “You’re gonna hit people, oh my god!”

“They’re movin’ away, aren’t they?” he cried back to you, a crazy grin plastered on his face as he turned to see you chasing after him. 

“Barely!” you said, panting slightly at the impromptu workout. Who knew golf buggies had insane speed? “And eyes on the road!”

Liam’s resounding laugh was like an omen from Satan himself. You clench your jaw in irritation. Who says a groupie can’t be a good runner? 

You leg it, making light work of the short distance, and swinging yourself into the empty seat beside Liam on the golf buggy. You glare at him, jolting in your seat as Liam hits something you wish wasn’t important — like a leg or a stray dog. 

“Welcome aboard!” Liam cries jovially, still laughing like a lunatic as he speeds past the stadium gates and out into an open field. You grit your teeth and hang on to the beam above you. “Mr. Gallagher!” you yell as the wind whips around you. 

“Just Liam, yeah?” he yells back. “Supposed to be a groupie, ain’t ya? Can’t have these folks thikin’ I’m into some kinky role playin’ stuff, d’ya know what I mean?”

You find the time to roll your eyes. “Liam, you need to slow it down. I’m gonna have to ask you to slowly take your foot of the gas pedal.”

Liam snorts and speeds up instead. You curse. 

“Liam, you’re gonna hit something. Or someone. Either way, this is gonna be a disaster.”

The cursed golf buggy goes faster. Weston would be hearing from you the second you get back from this assignment. 

If Liam wouldn’t slow down, you’re gonna have to do it yourself. In a moment of agility, you swing yourself onto his lap, ignoring his shocked yelp, and turn the golf buggy around into a clear path free of vendors and awaiting fans who you supposed Liam saw at the moment as little pinballs to knock down. 

“Oi!” he yelled, wind whipping around his long hair as he wriggled beneath you. “Geroff!”

You take a page out of his book and ignore him, hooking your leg through his and forcefully taking it out of the gas pedal. Liam puts up a fight and tries to kick you, but his trainers end up scuffing along the floor of the buggy instead. Finally, the golf buggy begins to slow down. You sigh in relief and unceremoniously push Liam out, following suit as you put his hands behind his back and walk him back in the direction of the stadium. 

“Was just havin a bit of fun, officer,” Liam whined, poking fun at the way you were holding him captive like a copper. “That a crime now?”

“Can you have fun in a less destructive way?” you say through thinly veiled annoyance, tugging at his wrists as you pushed him forward. 

The grin he shot you told you everything you needed to know. 

Liam was in no mood to slow down or calm himself. And you took that for what it was, a challenge. The bastard of a boy wanted you to quit, wanted to prove to everyone that he needed no one’s protection. And he was going about it in the most obnoxious way. 

“Oh! Liam, Liam, Liam! Right there, ugh!” a blonde you patted down cried out over the rhythmic thumping of the headboard as Liam groaned loudly into the night. 

You were currently camped out in yours and Liam’s shared en suite bathroom, doing that morning’s crossword puzzle over the closed lid of the toilet. 

“You like that, huh, baby?” Liam’s ragged breath made its way to where you were crouched on the cold tile. You rolled your eyes so far in the back of your head that you could swear that you were close to seeing your own brain. “Feels good, don’t it? C’mon, say my name louder, yeah?”

You sigh in exhaustion. The woman — Brooklyn Priestly, aged twenty-two, bottle blonde and possibly a natural brunette, green eyes, slim build, born in Leeds, raised in London, a birthmark on the back of her neck, an odd shaped mole on her wrist, vetted by management as one of Liam’s usual groupies, background check reduced to just a simple verification of ID — had been doing nothing but crying Liam’s name. 

“A French 101 word, three letters” you read the crossword clue aloud, your voice tiny in the humongous bathroom. You bit the end of your pen before humming, “Oui.”

“Come on, baby. Come for me. Come on, come on, come on,” you heard Liam pant, the headboard now banging violently against the wall as the sound of wet splats you didn’t want to ponder on echoed loudly.

“Please do,” you wryly intoned, providing your own commentary on the events just a wall away from him. “End this suffering, Brooklyn, come on, girl.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” Brooklyn chanted. “Right there, please. Don’t stop, Liam. Baby, I’m close.”

“Thank fuck,” you mumbled, your joints cracking as you rearranged your sitting position, getting ready to emerge from the stuffy bathroom and into your warm bed. 

Your thoughts were shattered when five minutes later, Brooklyn asked why Liam had booked a double room. For all his shameless moaning and groaning, you could barely hear what Liam had to say. 

But you did hear the creaking springs of the bed you miserably presumed to be your own. Loud and clear. 

You sighed, cracked open the sudoku portion of the newspaper, and prayed that Liam Gallagher’s stamina would fail him this round.

It was only two days after that when you cracked and finally called Weston.

The straw that broke the camel’s back was less of a straw and more of Liam’s fist going through some bloke’s jaw. He had gone to another pub in the city, you were sitting beside him, on high alert with the amount of people surrounding you. Which meant that you caught sight of what was about to happen before it did. 

Three tables away, a table playing poker for the past two hours had finally broken the tension you’ve been sensing. A beer bottle broke, poker chips went flying, lager sprayed someone in the face, and blood was abound. 

Naturally, Liam — lager, footie, women, and brawls as his brother once said — had jumped in to join the fight. He ended up with a broken nose, two punches to the stomach, a hit to the temple, and bleeding knuckles. Because Liam gave as good as he got. It didn’t matter that he had no stake in the fight, Liam wouldn’t pass an opportunity to get in a punch or two. 

It was after the sixth punch Liam doled out that you decided that he’d had enough, pushing past the brawl, rendering a few men impotent as you kicked past them, and retrieved Liam from the heart of the fight. 

Liam didn’t have much say in the matter when all you had to do was bend down and sling him over your shoulders like a sack of potatoes. He weighed heavily as you hauled him out, kicking and screaming, but it wasn’t anything you weren’t used to. 

“Now, what the fuck was all that about?” he yelled as soon as you deposited him on the sidewalk a few blocks away from the pub. His nose was still bleeding, his walk was funny, and his knuckles were red and raw. 

“I was getting you out of there,” you responded simply.

“You carried me like I was fuckin’ produce!”

You shrugged and blinked at him. 

“I was in the middle of summat!” he cried, going red with frustration. 

“You were certainly in the middle of it, I’ll give you that,” you said under your breath. 

Liam scoffed. “Y’know, just because management put you in charge of me don’t mean that you get to control me life.”

You arched an unimpressed brow. “Your life is pub brawls?”

Liam puffed his cheeks in anger and huffed a heavy breath. “My life is whatever’s out there!” he yelled, vaguely gesturing to your surroundings. 

You remained unmoved, staring stonily at him as he bemoaned his woeful rockstar life. You sighed and spotted a nearby phone booth, eyes alighting with an idea as you grabbed Liam’s wrist and dragged him there with you. 

“Would you stop draggin’ me?” he shrieked loudly into the night. 

You paid him no mind as you kept an eye on him lest he run, and dialed a number you knew by heart. “Weston,” you said as soon as the line clicked. “I will kill you as soon as I see you, do you hear me?” you growled into the line. 

“I would class this call as a threat if I didn’t know your voice,” he drawled. 

“An undercover bodyguard for Liam Gallagher? What were you thinking?” you yelled. 

Liam, unknowing of the conversation let out an indignant hey.

“I was thinking,” Weston replied easily. “That you needed to get back out on the field after the accident. And it was either this or being sent to Vienna for that diplomat with four assasination attempts on his head.”

You went quiet at the mention of the accident, phantom pain in your chest aching fiercely in the cold of the night. Of course it went back to that. “Well,” you said through a poorly disguised cough. “I would have preferred that Viennese diplomat to being a groupie for a crazy rockstar.”

“I can hear you!” Liam protested drunkenly.

You could almost hear the arch in Weston’s brow as he replied, “Are you on this call while on duty, agent?”

You sighed, long and hard. It feels like the past few days have been filled with nothing but sighs. “Yes, sir.”

“Get back to work then. I won’t be tolerating any insubordination and complaints while you’re on the clock,” he snapped, though you knew he meant no real harm. You were about to hang up when he continuued. “And for your information, the Viennese diplomat has gotten six of our men injured in the line of fire just last week. Two of them are in critical condition. There was no way I was putting you back on there so soon after last time.”

You really did hang up after that, mood so sour that even Liam made sure to stay quiet on the way back to the hotel.

The next days are filled with Liam’s usual flavor of chaos. Women going in and out of your hotel room (“Liam, could you please refrain from fucking girls on my bed?”), petty fights with Noel (“Liam, you just kicked his guitar into two halves. I would wager that Noel’d be rightfully pissed.”), and general tomfoolery (“Liam, saying Look! Over there! and pointing to a general direction before running away is not gonna work on a trained bodyguard, you know that, right?”)

And everything escalates when the main event comes up. The long awaited Maine Road gig.

During your briefiing, you’ve been told that the Maine Road gig would possibly be the point of kidnapping. It was an event big enough to get lost in, to hide in, and to make the perfect crime happen. 

Your nerves weren’t on edge, you were right where you were used to being; on the edge of danger. So you woke up that morning, serene as ever to see Liam drooling pathetically on his pillow as he slept shirtless and on his stomach on his own bed. You snorted at the sight. Hard to believe that this was the same lad that sold out two shows at his home stadium. 

“Oi,” you pushed his shoulder as soon as you were done with your morning routine. You had stretched and done your physical therapy exercises, showered and got dressed for the day, put on your make up, strapped your gun and your swiss army knife on you, all in the peaceful hour of the morning with Liam’s soft snores piercing the air. “Get up, Liam. Rehearsal’s at eleven.”

Liam grumbled and turned his cheek to face away from you. You chuckled and poked at his bare arm again. 

“The breakfast buffet ends in an hour,” you singsonged, taunting him. In the past few days, you’ve become well acquainted with Liam’s voracious appetite. He ate like a teenage boy going through puberty, it was both endearing and horrifying. “There was nothing Liam loved more in the morning than a breakfast buffet. If you were to talk to Noel again, you would say that Liam gravitated towards five things, actually. Lager, footie, women, brawls, and breakfast buffets.

You were proven right when Liam shot like a bolt off the bed and got dressed in five minutes flat. You watched in amusement as Liam stormed out of your shared bathroom and called to you in a rush, “C’mon, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go. They’d be out of bacon butties by this time. God, could ‘ya have woken me up at a later hour? Let’s go!” he said, ushering you like an overactive puppy out the door, into the elevator, and down to the food hall with a lax grip on your wrist. 

You didn’t even realize he was holding it until he let go.

Breakfast is a quiet affair, only because Liam’s mouth was so full he couldn’t let out anything but the occasional groan of appreciation at his meal. Rehearsal, on the other hand, was all mouth and noise. 

You were the only one in the vicinity not lugging amps, tuning guitars, cursing profusely, or displaying any musical talent. Some of the crew — who you thought definitely had better things to do than gossip — had whispered amongst themselves at your privilege. A groupie turned girlfriend? They asked themselves. Nah, no way Gallagher’s gone that soft. Saw him just last week with his tongue down some redhead’s throat, someone said. Well, it could be one of those open relationships rockstars like havin’. Y’know how they are, another one said. 

You scoffed, crossing one leg over another and letting your miniskirt ride up and up and up your legs as you took out a well-deserved cigarette. Let people think what they want about you, the groupie, the girlfriend, the girl who-should-be-helping-with-the-amps. You were undercover, and the best thing about that is that you get to fully disappear into the role. So you put on your tightest and shortest skirt, the prettiest boots, and a low cut top that made eyes bulge out. You could have a bit of fun.

So you sit there for all of ninety minutes and let the music wash over you. Because in that moment, you weren’t just the tragic little bodyguard with a shameful kill count and a scar in the shape of a bullet. You were someone else, who wasn’t broken.

Too soon, the last note rings out in the electric afternoon and you stand up from one of the large cases you’ve been sitting on, head straight for Liam, and latch yourself onto him like a leech. “Nice rehearsal,” you mumble to him in the guise of a loving embrace. “No threats detected, everything’s all clear. Can’t say the same for tonight, though. Would have to check with stadium securirty later.”

Liam snorted and slung an arm over you, shaking you lightly. “Relax, babe,” he said slyly. “Don’t worry too much, yeah?”

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s my entire job, Liam.”

Liam only grins and steers you backstage. “It wouldn’t kill you to have a bit of fun, d’ya know what I mean?”

“Yeah, but it could kill you,” you said drily. “I don’t think you’re grasping the gravity of the situation, Liam.”

Liam laughs, loud and unbothered, like the world owes him something. “Kidnappers are after me and want a few million quid in exchange for me life. That’s just rock’n’roll.”

You scoff at him, hiding a grin of amusement as he leads you by an arm around your shoulder out of the stadium. Before getting into the unmarked black car assigned to take you back to the hotel, you spot a few girls giving you nasty glares. You shut the door on the sight and turn to Liam with the question, “So, do the other groupies hate me or something?”

Liam turned to you with a boyish grin before waggling his thick eyebrows. “Yeah, they’ve been sayin’ how I’ve found myself a new favorite an’that.”

You snorted. “Sorry for causing you trouble in paradise,” you said sarcastically.

“Don’t be!” exclaimed Liam, still wearing his stupid grin. “They’re madder than ever for me because of this. Think that if they do a better job, they’d get the same treatment as you.”

You wrinkled your nose in distaste and pushed away from him. “Gross, Liam!”

He laughed louder. “Me groupies are unionizing,” he mused. “Long live the revolution!”

You elbow him so hard that he pipes down for the rest of the ride. Still mumbling to himself, but you didn’t mind the mindless white noise. The rest of the afternoon passes by in a blur. It was oddly peaceful, you would say. The hours leading up to the awaited afternoon was filled with something akin to a static buzz, a hum under your skin. It was electrifying and magnetic. You knew with the way that Liam’s eyes shone that this meant a lot to the boys. Maine Road, they would muse to themselves, a boyish joy between all of them.

And while the afternoon was the closest thing to peace that you’ve gotten in your entire time looking after Liam, the evening was pure chaos. And Liam was at the helm of it.

You’ve never seen Liam like this before. Sure, he was cocky and confident a lot of the time, but onstage in his hometown, Liam was unstoppable. All swagger, all mouth, all pure confidence as he strolled out, separate from the band, with a cigarette in his mouth as the stadium goes wild. 

The roar of it all is enough to put you on high alert for the rest of the gig. And if you focused hard enough, it all suddenly became more than being saddled on an easy job with a rockstar. You were back where you were meant to be. 

You keep a close eye on Liam, the wildfire that he is. And a close eye on the crowd. You coordinate with security, you ID some folks hanging around the stage, you check all points of entry and exit to make sure they aren’t blocked, you go out into the immediate access parking lot to inspect the nearby cars and ask after a few loitering drivers. 

40,00 fans came to see Oasis. 40,00 people were potential threats. And another 40,000 would be coming tomorrow night for another round. Your head spun with the numbers, with the amount of people. 

From the stage, you could hear Liam say, “This one’s for them so called kidnappers who wanna take me away in a van for about three weeks and hold me at ransom,” he drawls casually. You groan. “You’re takin’ your time, brothers,” he continues. You grit your teeth in annoyance. Taunting the kidnappers, great.

It slowly became a busy night from there, transforming from groupie to bodyguard. You spoke quickly with Liam’s management, did a brief report, and went back to your post right in the wings where you could see Liam all up in the microphone. 

It had become such a busy night that when Liam finally stepped offstage, sweaty, hair shaggier than usual, the flannel he was wearing when he came out now tied in a sweaty knot on his waist, you didn’t know what else to answer to his question of so, how was the gig? other than “I only saw bits and pieces.”

“Bits and pieces?” Liam exclaimed, scandalized as an assistant handed him a towel to wipe himself off. 

You bit the inside of your cheek and beckoned him out of the backstage area. “C’mon,” you said. “Follow me.”

“Why didn’t you watch?” Liam all but whined as he followed after you, ignoring calls of his name as he went past the hall and out into the private parking space … which as you opened the door to, didn’t look so private anymore. 

“Shit,” you curse at the sight of a few thousand fands camped in the space between your vehicle. “Fuck!” you shout as soon as they catch sight of Liam and the camera flashes and the screaming begins. You lace your fingers with Liam’s, he jolts at the contact. You glare at him immediately as he struggles to pull away. “Liam, you need to stick by me,” you chastise.

He huffs and tries valiantly to separate his hand from yours. “‘M’not a celebrity that needs coddlin’!”

He squirms in your hold. “Liam,” you say warningly. “Here’s what’s gonna happen, I’m gonna call in venue security, we are gonna form a barricade around you —”

He scoffs at the idea. “A fuckin’ barricade. This is ridiculous.”

“Liam—”

Then he pulls you into the crush of the crowd. The surge is immediate. 

Here’s the part where things get embarrassing to admit. Your lungs couldn’t get much air, your palm grows clammy in Liam’s, your eyes go fuzzy for a few seconds, and your heart begins to beat wildly in your chest. 

For all your training and experience, there were some things that would still get you. You hated that Weston was right, you hated that a simple crowd crush over Liam Gallagher had you panicking, hated how the feeling of so many people around you reminded you of that one assignment Weston gave you back in early May. The assignment that came close to being your final one.

You’ve never been afraid of crowds. Never really been afraid of anything. That’s the entire reason you became a bodyguard. Which makes the stuttering of your breath all the more humiliating. 

So this is why Weston’s been coddling you, you thought absently, reaching to squeeze tighter onto Liam’s palm but feeling nothing but air. Your lungs lost all air. “Liam?” you cried uselessly against a crowd that was calling the same thing. “Goddamnit!”

Great, you were a useless bodyguard who panics at the slightest inconvenience, loses her client who has a kidnapping threat on his head, and nearly loses her head trying to find him. Suddenly, you weren’t so surprised that this was your first job back on the force. 

You spin on your heel, eyes wide as you try to spot Liam’s shaggy cut over several heads. You push aggressively past people who are trying to get to Liam, you follow the odd shape of the crowds as they cave in towards one thing. You lock your eyes on your target and wade your way through the crowd. 

“Liam,” you snap at him as soon as you see him, laughing with a few other lads as they snapped pictures. “Time to go,” you say.

Liam was about to say something teasing, probably Come on, have a bit of fun! when he caught sight of the sheen in your eyes. He knew not to fight you then and left his adoring crowd right behind you. 

You breathed a sigh of relief as the car door shut and you sped quickly away. 

“Y’alright?” Liam said carefully as soon as the stadium was out of sight. 

“I’m fine,” you bite, teeth bared.

“Well, I think we should call someone,” he continued, looking at you warily. “You’ve been bouncing your leg nonstop, your breathin’s all funny, and you keep blinking. Either you took some coke on the job — naughty. Or summat’s wrong.”

You whirled on him. “Why would I take coke on the job?”

Liam shrugged. “Then summat’s just wrong then,” he said easily. “I think we should call your boyfriend.”

Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head. “Who?” you asked incredulously.

“The guy you called at the payphone the other day? Weston or summat?”

You shook your head. “Liam,” you said, as patient as you could manage. “Weston is a forty-two year old gay man currently in the most loving relationship I’ve ever seen. He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my boss.”

“Oh,” Liam said, a bit stupidly if anyone asked you.

“And why would we even call him?” you snap again. “I’m not in the mood to be told I told you so. So just leave it.”

“Just figured you’d want to talk to someone. You don’t look too well, is all. I’m just concerned.”

You grit your teeth. “Well, keep your concern.”

Liam returned your energy. “Well, sorry if I’m not used to you freaking out. I’ve never seen you like this, yeah? Aren’t bodyguards supposed to be calm? How am I supposed to be babysat when —”

The line grows taut, you snap. “You wanna know something, Liam?” you cut him off. Liam looks stunned for a moment before rearranging his features. “You’re not the only one being babysat here, alright. Weston put me on this job, this stupid fucking job, because it was the easiest one. No political conflicts, no assassinations, no witness protection. Just me and a rockstar that won’t shut the fuck up. And let me tell you another thing,” you let out a wet laugh, you felt delirious. “Weston was right to put me here. Because standing there in the crowd, a hundred bodies crashing into me, I –” you cut yourself off this time, the end of your sentence hanging as you bit your lip. 

Impossibly gentle, Liam’s voice coaxed, “You what?”

You sighed and finally looked Liam in the eye. “Last year,” you began. “I was assigned on witness protection. That’s the kind of job I was used to doing. High profile, high risk jobs. I was damn good at it too” you paused, collecting yourself, the acrid smell of smoke suddenly in your lungs. You exhaled. “Didn’t go so well for the witness. Or the five other people I was with. Just … came in one day and left no survivors.”

Liam blinked in confusion. “But …” he trailed off.

“What about me?” you laughed wryly, not a trace of humor in your tone. “Bullet between my ribs, another one in my thigh. I flatlined in the hospital. By some miracle, I was brought back.”

“Huh,” said Liam, the first time he’d been stunned to silence. 

You smiled weakly. “I don’t need your pity,” you told him. “Weston gives me enough of that. And fuck knows he was right to do it.”

“Well, you gotta restart somewhere, yeah?” said Liam kindly, his eyes a pool of trust. “Think of it as a probation period, babysitting some mouthy rock and roll star. You’d be done with this job, then be off to another, then another, then another, then before you know it, you’re back right where you left off.”

You hummed. 

“Dying must be hard,” he mused. 

You laughed, a full bodied, belly aching laugh. “It is,” you nod, wiping tears of mirth away from your face. “So don’t go making my second life any harder, yeah?”

Liam gives you a boyish salute.

Your relationship takes a turn after that. You would no longer classify Liam as the worst job you’ve ever worked on, counting the job where you got shot and died. If you were to describe your days with Liam, it would have been civil. Liam’s purposeful reckless actions slow to just his usual brand of reckless idiocy, which gets more amusing the less that he puts himself and others in danger. 

Another recent development in your working relationship;

“It’s not that I hate Noel or whatever. Because I don’t. I might say I do but that’s just normal brother stuff, yeah? He messes with my shit, I mess with his, we dole out a few punches, say we hate each other, then we’d be back to normal in two hours,” Liam rambled through his toothbrush as he spoke to you through the mirror where you stood patiently behind him in your pajamas. “So, yeah, I may say I hate him but I’ll always love the guy. Don’t mean that I gotta bend to every little thing he says though, d’ya know what I mean? So if he says that I gotta — I gotta lower the attitude and just stick to singin’ the tunes, then he’s out of his mind. I’m what makes Oasis rock’n’roll! Without me, he’d just be some square with a guitar.”

You sighed, you’d been there when Noel and Liam traded jabs over at a late afternoon rehearsal. You’d been there as Noel and Liam scrapped on the dirty stadium floor, you’d been there to haul Liam out the stadium and into the hotel, and you had heard Liam’s long and winding rant about his brother.

In the three hours since those events had passed, Liam still wasn’t over it, about to go to bed with his mind still overactive. 

Ever since you and Liam had reached a civil agreement, he’s been like this. You spent virtually every minute of everyday attached to his hip. And who better to siphon all his thoughts and ideas to than the person that is legally obligated not to leave his side even with how much you get annoyed? 

“Maybe you should just sleep this whole thing off, Liam,” you said, hopefully suggesting a well deserved break. God forbid Liam gets the spectacular idea to run to the nearest pub and drag you there with him. With the way Liam was looking at you like you were mad, you figured you were beginning to bore him. So you sigh again, a heavy and burdened sound, and haul Liam out the bathroom as soon as he spat out his toothpaste, pushed him down onto his bed, and laid down on your own as you wrapped the covers around yourself. 

“What —”

“Y’know, I have a brother of my own,” you began. From the corner of your eye, you could see Liam perk up at the new information. 

“Yeah?” he asked. “Older or younger?”

You thought of your brother, Daniel, the dimple on his cheek and his irritating proclivity to get on your nerves. “Younger,” you said. 

Liam groaned and flopped down further on his bed. “Well, that means you’re siding with Noel on this one, then. On account of being older and all that tackle,” he grumbled petulantly.

You rolled your eyes fondly. “There is no side to take, nitwit,” you said, amused. “If havin’ a brother’s taught me anythin’, it’s that disagreement is the foundation of your entire relationship.”

Liam hummed. 

“It doesn’t matter who’s right or who’s wrong. Neither of you would be coming out on top because neither of you particularly want to hear what the other is saying. So you hit him where it hurts, then actually hit him where it hurts, then hope you won that round.”

Liam shifted in his bed, restless motion rustling the sheets, and turned to face you, chin in his palm. “You used to be in a band with your brother or what?”

You rolled your eyes. “Thank god I wasn’t,” you said. “Would’ve used all my training on him and strangled him.”

Liam chuckled. “I knew I was having a perfectly normal reaction.”

You snorted. “Liam, nothing about spitting at your brother’s feet and calling him a cash cow cunt is normal,” you said. “But then again, nothing about having a brother is.”

“Tell me about it,” Liam mused. “D’ya know when we were little, Noel used to —”

You sighed. You guess this is better than being dragged to the pub. 

You wake up the next morning to Liam’s shy smile as he leads you down to the food hall. As soon as he’s sat, he begins to ramble again. 

“So, this brother of yours,” he begins to say, mouth full of beans. You shoot him a disgusted look and he sheepishly chews and swallows. “Would you say that he’s always somehow right?”

“Liam,” you say warningly.

“Jus’ sayin’! Us youngests have to stick together, d’ya know what I mean? For all we know, everyone banded together against us to convince us we were wrong all along.”

“Just eat your breakfast, Liam,” you snap.

He huffs childishly and kicks his legs out. “Fine,” he says. 

 It takes Liam all of five spoonfuls full of food before he’s talking again. 

“Meat pie is the best,” he muses. “D’ya know, one time I tried to cook my own meat pie, just for myself, and ended up smoking out my entire house? The fire brigade came and everythin’. No harm, though, they got themselves a few autographs and went on their way.”

You shook your head, a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Cooking not one of your special talents?”

He laughed, shoveling in more food into his mouth. “Nah, I’m not a cooker. More of an eater, me. I love eatin’”

You feel your cheeks heat with the unintentional innuendo and have to end the conversation shortly after that. 

Liam restarts the conversation as soon as you’re out of the food hall. He’s like your personal pest, rambling and ranting about everything and nothing at all. He’s talking to you about his mam, about The Beatles, about Noel, about John Lennon, about some model he used to date, about some singer he used to date, about some actress he used to date, about his childhood in Manchester. Everything. 

Liam had rambled to you so much that you willingly suggested going to the pub just so Liam could ramble to someone else. So you don your best groupie get up, wind yourself around Liam’s arm, and walk down to the nearest pub.

Liam’s on his best behavior. Well, as best as his drunk and coked up arse could be. This is how you end up going to the pub, unknowing of your fate; being sat in a barstool with a clear eye on Liam as he flirts endlessly with some girl he met twenty seconds after stepping into the pub. Samantha, you heard her name was. Liam didn’t give you the chance to take a look at the girl’s ID as he immediately swept her away to a secluded corner booth where they were doing god knows what with their hands under the table.

You shuddered and took a sip of your juice. The cons of the job? No liquor was allowed. And boy, the things you would do to get your hands on some gin and juice.

The girl laughed at whatever joke Liam threw at her and you rolled your eyes as the sound reached you. The night ahead of you was long, and it was even longer so the more that Liam’s hand crept up and up and up this girl’s thigh, his pinky dangerously close to the hem of the girl’s tiny skirt, his hand dwarfing her thigh. You frowned in disgust as the girl draped her legs over Liam’s and settled there. The night stretched onto infinity when she fully sat on his lap and Liam began to talk to her by way of whispering in her ear. The night felt like it would never end when Liam finally stalked your way, eyes burning bright and blue, the girl’s hand in his as he asked the unspoken question. Can I?

Then, not unspoken anymore, he mouthed to her place, not ours!

You frowned as if you had swallowed an entire pint of sour lemon juice. You were his bodyguard, not his mother. You weren’t his keeper, you were his guard dog. Your frowned soured as Liam deployed the puppy eyes on you, you scoffed and made no move to tail him out the pub. Please? He mouthed, curling both arms around the girl now as she burrowed her head in his chest. Your own chest burnt with the tang of something unfamiliar. 

This wasn’t the first time that Liam would be spending the night with whichever girl he fancied. But for some reason, a pit in your stomach opened into a chasm.

Which begs the question, should you let Liam go home with this woman? For one, it’s your job to keep an eye on him at all times. But the insistent feeling of annoyance prickling along the length of your spine won’t let you go. You don’t want to see the two of them stand here with their hands all over each other, you don’t want to see Liam walk away a few paces from you as he whispers sweet nothings in this girl’s ear, you don’t want to stand outside like a pathetic guard dog as she screams Liam’s name into the night. Looking at Liam’s eyes boring into yours, you knew you had the power to just say Well, no, you can’t go with her and it would be well withing your rights as his bodyguard if you just told him she was a threat to his safety. 

You looked at the girl, raven locks tumbling down in waves past her shoulders, eyes glazed with liquor and lust, lip gloss smudged, cheeks ruddy with a pink tint. She looked like no threat, she was just a girl about to go home with her favorite rockstar. 

The conflict must have been apparent in your eyes. It only took one more look at Liam before he shook his head slightly, removed his hand from the small of the girl’s back and regretfully told her that he couldn’t go home with her. Easy as that, the tightness in your chest eased as the girl slinked away with a pout. 

“I’ll have the bartender ring her up a cab and then we can go, yeah?” said Liam, steadying you as he smiled, before stepping away to speak to the bartender on duty. You did what you did best and watched his back. He must have known the bartender, he laughed easily with him, traded a few jabs, asked after the man’s wife, before calling in a final favor. And you bit your smile as Liam returned to you waggling his eyebrows as he ushered you out with his arm customarily finding home across your shoulders. 

“Send girls home often?” you quipped, referencing the ease in which he spoke to the bartender about ringing up a cab.

Liam snorted. “Nothin’s new to me in this life, babe,” he drawled. You rolled your eyes at his cockiness. “I’m at that pub more often than not. Bill’s a trustworthy guy, I made sure of that. Rang up a cab right in front of me. Sofia’d be back home in a minute.”

“Her name was Samantha,” you said drily. “Not Sofia, you dick.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Not goin’ home with her anyway.”

“Disgusting pig,” you said, tone lacking in heat. Liam seemed to notice and didn’t do anything to tamp down his stupid smile. 

“So,” Liam drawls, his stride matching yours as he drew you in closer to his orbit. “Why the long face, huh?”

You try to shift away from him but he only pulls you in closer. “Liam,” you begin to protest, face on fire.

“Nah, nah, nah,” he says teasingly, pulling you in even closer. “None of that, yeah? You’re not gonna get away from this one.”

“You do know I’m trained in combat and carrying a weapon on me, right?”

Liam’s grin widened. “We both know you are. You’re just right where you wanna be, ‘s’why you’re not fightin’. You would have swept my legs from under me, kicked me in the ribs, and put your gun to my temple by now. Why haven’t you done it, huh?”

Why haven’t you?

Was it because the feeling of Liam’s arm wound around you felt comforting? Was it because you had the insane urge to overpower the strawberry scented perfume Samantha was wearing that rubbed off on Liam’s clothes? Was it because Liam, for all his annoying quirks, had made you feel more like yourself than you’ve felt these past few months after the accident?

You squirm. “Because I have to keep an eye on you,” you say gruffly, your nose up in the air. “Better to keep you safe this way.”

“Right,” Liam drawls. “That’s totally it.”

You push back at him, sending him stumbling back a few paces. Yet he holds on tight to you and brings you along with him. 

“Ah, there she is! The spitfire!”

You roll your eyes, letting a smile tug up at the corners of your lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

He bumps shoulders with you and walks on ahead. “I’m charming, me.”

You continue, “A big-headed pig who flirts with anything with a pulse, who won’t shut up even when I shut the hotel room lights off, who gets into pub brawls just for the sake of it, who fights with his brother the same way I fight with mine,” you ramble, seeing Liam’s smile grow more and more with each word. “You’re weird, and eclectic, and have an alarming obsession with John Lennon. You smoke a lot and you drink even more. Your hair is a shaggy mess that I’ve been wanting to cut since the day I met you, your clothes are frustratingly stylish, and you have the voice of the generation.”

Liam waggles his eyebrows. “Anythin’ more?”

You glare at him, no heat in it. “You’re stupid, and you’re ridiculous, and you’re just the right brand of crazy that puts me on my toes. You’re smarter than you think you are and you don’t think people notice.”

Liam hums, though you can see the pink tinge coating his ears. “You forgot dashingly good lookin’”

“Hm,” you pretend to consider. As if he doesn’t know. 

“Oi!” Liam says, appalled as he looks at you smiling up at him in his arms. “Y’don’t think I’m good lookin’, aye?”

“Well,” you say teasingly, drawing out the word. 

“Ridiculous,” he scoffs. “But that’s alright. Y’can be good lookin’ enough for the both of us.”

You blink, feeling a stupid smile creep onto your face. “Careful there, Gallagher. It’s startin’ to sound like you’ve got a little crush.”

He shrugs easily. “Oh, I do,” he says.

Your heart beats into overdrive, you worried that your old scar would burst at any moment with the rate it was going. “Oh,” you say weakly.

“Oh,” he mimicked, still smiling. “That all ‘ya got to say?”

“Forgive me for being stunned,” you said wryly. 

Liam smiles at you, the stupid, disarming smile. “You’re forgiven.”

You groan. “Ugh. You’re so annoying!”

He shakes you in his arms and holds you tightly against him. Like he doesn’t want to let go. That tells you everything you need to know. “I know,” he admits. “Y’still like me, though.”

Your heart nearly stops again. 

Did you like him? For all his idiotic ramblings and his ridiculous posturing, Liam Gallagher became a fixed aspect in your life. Like your heart finally restarted after months of just beating to keep you alive. It was your first taste of adventure, of thrill, of true freedom. 

“Yeah,” you say, taking a page out of his book and shrugging as if the admission didn’t make you want to run away. “I do.”

His smile goes softer around the edges, less of a cocky man and more of a boy holding something precious in his arms. He hides his smile with a kiss on your temple, a soft whisper of a thing that you wouldn’t have believed happen had it not been for the blush on Liam’s cheeks. “Know you do,” he said. “Turns out I don’t mind the babysittin’ as much when it’s you that’s doing it.”

You snort and tug at his shirt as you wind your arm around his waist. “Not a babysitter. Didn’t go through all that training to be called a babysitter.”

Liam chuckles. “Yes, ma’am,” he says. You roll your eyes at the ridiculousness. “So am I better than the Viennese cunt or what?”

You didn’t exactly dream of being a sales associate. You dreamt of runways and models and accolades in magazines, sure. But you always thought you’d be at the forefront of it —- the mastermind, the muse, and the artist. 

You didn’t spend your childhood with your chin in your palms, thinking about one day slipping on a customer service smile to people as you sold them bags and shoes and luxury wares that cost more than your own salary could afford. And you most certainly didn’t spend your entire life waiting for the moment when Noel Gallagher walked into the store with his bushy eyebrows drawn together, his eyes covered with thick sunglasses, and his swaggering walk that spelled nothing but trouble. 

But you’ve dealt with trouble before, you knew just what smile to paste on in the face of it. So you straightened your back, clasped your hands in front of you, and did your best to look Noel in the eye through his lenses, and welcomed him in. 

Two days ago, the two of you had spoken on the phone. It was prompt and gruff, just like how you expected him to be. You spent the entire call sorting details, asking questions, and getting one word answers that definitely weren’t of the calibre of the music scene’s best new writer. But it was no matter, you’ve dealt with clients like Noel before, and you’ll do it again and again and again. God help you. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gallagher,” you greeted, the same cadence as every other time you welcomed a customer. Everything was merely routine to you now. “We spoke on the phone the other day? It’s nice to finally meet you. Please, follow me. We took the liberty of booking a private room for you to take a look at our carefully curated selection.”

“Great,” he said, simple as anything as he tailed after you through the front room where Melissa waggled her brows and fanned her face teasingly at you as she caught sight of Noel, through the rows and rows of archival bags displayed carefully on the wall mounted shelves, and into the secluded area where you often met with your clients. 

You busied yourself with prattling around the room as you spoke to him, watching with your peripheral vision as he sat down on the plush velvet chair and helped himself to the tea cakes and champagne laid out for him. “If I remember correctly,” you began. And you were sure you remembered correctly, you weren’t one to forget things very easily. “You’re searching for a bag to give for a friend’s birthday?”

Not just any friend — it was for a multi-hypenate megastar whose hit songs you knew from your cab rides to and from work, whose movies you see through posters plastered on billboards, whose modeling career you’ve followed through magazine covers. 

Noel, not caring to cover his mouth as he spoke through a vanilla tea cake, snorted. “Not exactly a friend, yeah?”

You blinked. “Right,” you said slowly. Whatever that meant, it was none of your business anyway. But it seemed like the food and champagne put Noel in a generous mood, because he tacked on;

“Wanna get her a nice bag, see, impress her on her birthday so she’d notice me.” He shrugged, unbothered, the leather of his jacket crinkling at the movement. “Also as a thank you for the invite. A great party’s a great party, like.”

You raised an imperceptible brow before remembering where you were and who you were with, and smoothing your expression back to its pleasant default. Noel Gallagher was new to the scene, shooting like a rocket in the night into the bizarre world of fame. Everyone’s heard his songs, a lot of people know his name through scandalous headlines, and a small crowd follows him like ducklings down the road. Though it was still clear that he was still a fish fresh out of water rather than a swan elegantly holding court in a lake.

You nodded cordially. Bringing his attention to the bags you’ve laid out in front of him with a light flourish and a practiced smile. “Well, I do hope that we find the perfect bag for the occasion,” you said. “I’ve taken out a few pieces from our latest collection, but we can also use this session as a base for curating the perfect pick. If there are any preferences that you have —”

Noel cut you off with a shake of his head. “None of these bags suit ‘er,” he said bluntly before taking a nonchalant sip of his champagne. 

You caught the twitch of your eye before it could announce your irritation. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” you said. “Is there any particular reason? You know, this newest collection is based on —”

He cut you off again. It was fine, you were used to it. “It’s all too dark, innit?” he said with a furrowed brow as he drew closer to the bags lined up in front of him. 

“I see,” you said. “I’ll take note of that preference. In the future, would you like more of a selection of lighter colors? Pastels? Or bright colors? Jewel tones, perhaps?”

Noel shrugged. “Any,” he said, unhelpfully. “And dark colors could suit too. Just depends on how it looks, yeah?” he tacked on, even more unhelpfully. 

So he wanted pastels, bright colors, dark colors, and jewel tones. “Right,” you said slowly. “Mr. Gallagher, is there anything that you particularly want in the bag you’re searching for? We mailed you a catalogue yesterday that could help you in your decision. It’s mostly comprised of the vintage pieces from the late seventies as well as the collections from the last five years. A few of my own clients have been partial to the 1987 Summer Collection.”

Noel shrugged again before falling back on the plush loveseat. “The pieces there were good.”

It was like pulling teeth. You felt like part of the inquisition. “Mhm,” you hummed, hedging and trying not to slip off your mask of practiced patience. “Any particular pieces you liked?”

“I liked a few,” he said, sitting back and spreading his legs wide. “The one with the gold clasp at the front was nice.”

You blinked. More than half of the pieces in the catalogue had a gold clasp. “I see.” Yeah, you were seeing red. You decided to take a different course of action. “Mr. Gallagher, —”

Noel tutted. “It’s Noel. None of this mister crap, aye? Makes me feel fuckin’ ancient.”

You smiled a thin smile. “Noel,” you began. “How would you describe Ms. Hammond?” you asked. Sure, you knew her from her sparkly talk show appearances and her alluring voice over the radio, but you didn’t know her like Noel knew her, you supposed. 

All your hopes of having a productive session were dashed when Noel blurted out, with the air of a man who cannot be bothered, “She’s proper fit, yeah?”

You screamed into your pillow when you got home. A long, gut wrenching, vocal cord ruining, horror movie worthy scream that had your neighbor knocking at your door with concern. “It’s nothing, Lois!” you cried to her over the door. “Bad client, is all!”

And boy, was Noel the worst client. 

You weren’t a stranger to celebrities, you had a few clients who had their time in the spotlight. You’ve dealt with rude people, you’ve dealt with entitled people, you’ve dealt with shy people, you’ve dealt with the sweetest souls, you’ve dealt with every kind of person under the sun. But you found that what you hated most was a picky person who didn’t know what he was picking from. 

Everything you showed Noel that afternoon, whether it be the product itself or a photo from a catalogue was met with emotions ranging from disinterest to full disdain. You’ve never had a client so flippant about what he wanted yet so decisive with what he didn’t want. 

Because that was what Noel was like. He didn’t know what he wanted, all he knew was what he didn’t like. Which made your job at narrowing down his options all the more harder. Color? Anything would do if it was pretty enough. Size? Anything but a clutch. Material? Just not croc skin. Maybe leather would do. Depends on how it looks, though. It drove you up the wall. You shook hands with him at the end of the session, being careful as not to grip his hand too tight and break his precious rockstar hand. 

“It was a pleasure workin’ with ya, miss,” he had the gall to say, crooked grin and all. As if he was satisfied with the directionless turn that the afternoon had taken.

Virtually, you didn’t know where to start with what Noel had given you. So you went home, screamed your frustrations, took a cold shower to cool off, and marched back out your flat and into the corner store to buy a stack of magazines. 

You spent the rest of your night in your flat, Mariah Carey blasting through your speakers, the TV casting a technicolor glow on your living room as it hummed on a low volume, a glass of wine sitting on your coffee table, your curlers sitting prettily in your hair, and parsing through a dozen or so magazines featuring Britain’s Darling herself. 

She was fit, you agreed with Noel on that. But she was also whip smart, witty in a way that people didn’t expect. She spoke concisely in her interviews, had a cheeky anecdote in her backpocket, and had a smile that graced the cover of any magazine worth buying.

Notepad at your side and a catalogue in the other, you began to take notes, simple little bullet points to guide you in your search for the perfect bag. Because if Noel was going to be of no use to you, you had to get creative. 

She liked lavender, had even explicitly cited it as her favorite color in one interview. She frequented silver jewelry, which makes Noel’s desire for bags with the gold clasps inconsiderate. She loved mixing and matching patterns, often florals and abstract shapes. She was vegan, which meant that specific materials were off the market. And she was a busy woman who liked to be prepared for whatever, which meant a bigger sized bag was in order. Her favorite film was Singin’ In the Rain, her favorite band was The Who, she used to be an ice skater as a kid, she got her first acting gig at seven years old for an American commercial. Anything there was to know about her, you knew. Hell, you could even start your own fan club with the amount of trivia you’ve gathered in one night.

Which had to be more than Noel knew himself. Because as you called him up the next morning, giddy with hope — hope that you’d close a deal and land a hefty commission, hope that you’d finally satisfy Noel’s impossibly high standards and never have to see his smug face ever again, both options sounded good to you — he only answered your excited rant on your progress by saying;

“Sound,” he said, voice staticky through the phone. “Listen, I got a wicked hangover. Call me when ya got the bags ready, yeah? See you then.” Then he unceremoniously hung up. Asshole. 

So you get ready for work, plugged your headphones into your discman, and strutted down the streets of London in a mood you can only classify as mild annoyance. You greet your coworkers as you get in, careful not to let anything slip with a client so well known, then slip into the back to prepare for a meeting with a client much more easier to deal with than Noel Gallagher. 

You closed a deal, sold her a bag from the 1991 Fall/Winter Collection as well as a rare find from the 1969 Runway Archives that had you digging around for all of three months, and discreetly ate some of the tea cakes your client had left behind. You deserved it, after all. 

It was there in that plush loveseat that you sat and took a minute to breathe. All of five minutes to yourself before dusting crumbs off yourself and heading back out into the front of the shop to try and score another commission with passing customers. 

That’s how the next few days pass you by, only dotted with phone calls to other branches and flagstone stores across Britain to find pieces you were sure would close down a deal with Noel. You called Barry from the store on the other side of London, who then redirected you to Yana from Birmingham, who connected you to Diane who miraculously had one of the pieces you were searching for. Then you called in a favor from Frederick who retired three years ago, who then called Carlos, who then connected you all the way to France where your search became fruitful. You emailed the general mailing address of the shop in Sheffield where you hit a dead end, then you emailed the general mailing address of the shop in Liverpool where you didn’t find much luck, then you sat and stared at the screen for an hour before switching gears and calling a friend from Leeds to check nearby stores for a specific bag. 

It wasn’t until after a week of contacting people and being redirected every which way that you’d finally got everything you needed, finally calling Noel in a cheery mood to schedule a session. 

Your head was so in the clouds that you didn’t even catch the slight frown Noel was wearing as he caught sight of your picks. “Ta-da!” you said jovially as he stood closer to your selection. “I’ve got five bags here, Noel. As I’ve mentioned over the phone, I did a bit of research and based my curation on her tastes. You were right with not picking the darker tones from my initial selection,” you said, reluctantly throwing him a bone. You would do anything for that commission, you had your eyes set on a summer fashion course you saw on a magazine ad. “She prefers lighter colors, lavender most of all. So here I have a lavender faux leather moyen modèle shoulder bag with our signature poignet from 1978 with our embossed original logo. It’s lined with a silk interior with a floral pattern. It features silver hardware as well as our label in silver rather than the usual gold.”

Noel nodded. “Dunno what any of that means. But ‘s’pretty.”

You felt the beginnings of a smile. That was as close as Noel would get to a compliment. So you continued on, describing each bag in detail, letting your cloth gloves slide through each nook and cranny of the product to show Noel the sturdiness and the detail. 

Noel let you prattle on until the very end where he said, “They’re very nice bags,” he began. “Jus’ don’t think they’re the right match, d’ya know what I mean?”

You didn’t know what he meant. You did every bit of research, matched every detail to the facts that you scoured in magazines you bought with your own hard earned money, called every single person in your address book to cash in a favor, just to get this reception?

“I’m sorry,” you said, shaking your head as if trying to clear your head. “I’m not quite sure I understand.”

Noel’s brows drew together. “I just don’t think they’re quite … perfect. It’s missing something.”

You inhaled sharply, trying to smile as best as you could. “It would help if you knew what was missing. I could take that into consideration with my next curation?” The thought of even curating another selection for Noel’s perusal made you sick. 

Noel shook his head. “It’s missing something,” he said, ever as unhelpful as a dried lake in a desert. “Dunno quite what but I just get the feelin’ that it’s not right. I need summat that would impress her, wow her. And these bags ‘ya got are all nice but they’re quite ordinary.”

“Ordinary,” you echoed dumbly. You had a vintage piece that took you four days to get and Noel Gallagher had the gall to stand there and call it ordinary? 

Noel nodded, oblivious to your turmoil. “It’s like I could easily see it on her, wearin’ it to the supermarket.”

You could cry with frustration. “Isn’t that the entire point?”

“Nah, nah,” he argued. You didn’t know if he was generally just a prick or if he was unaware that he was even being one. “I wanna give her a bag that makes everyone’s eyes go big and wide when they see it. Like they can’t even look straight at it, like lookin’ at the sun.”

“Like lookin’ at the sun,” you repeated numbly.

Noel smiled. “Exactly!”

“Okay,” you said, voice higher than usual. “That’s all noted, Mr. Gallagher.”

“Noel,” he corrected easily, like you two were old friends. As if you weren’t considering strangling him with the bandouliere of the nearest bag. He shook your hand with a smile, you didn’t even have the strength to grip it. “I’ll see ya again for the next session? Keep in mind, her birthday’s in a couple weeks, yeah? Gotta be ready by then.”

“If you have any other specific suggestions for the bag, Noel. Please let me know!” you said through gritted teeth as he exited the room.

And just like that, he was gone. Leaving you with five handbags that you spent the better part of your week getting. 

You felt delirious. You stood there, unseeing for about five minutes before curling your lip in a rage and violently snatching away the puff pastries on display before shoveling them aggressively in your mouth. “Fucking prick!” you said, mouth still full as you pat yourself down to retrieve a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Walking in quick strides to the nearest coworker to signal your impromptu smoke break, you let your heels clack loudly on the tile as you exited through the back door and flicked open your lighter. 

“Stupid fuckin’ rockstar,” you grunted. You flicked your lighter, the flame didn’t catch. “Thinks he fuckin’ knows everything. Walks around as if he expects me to understand him.” Flick, flick, flick. “Slaved over those bags, I did. Then he just comes and undoes all that hard work. Motherfucking cunt. I should kick his fuckin’ balls.” Flick, flick. 

“Anywhere but there, please,” drawled a familiar voice from behind you. “Got big plans for ‘em, see.”

You jolted, your lighter falling to the asphalt as you cursed through your cigarette. “Jesus,” you muttered before feeling the heat creep up your neck. Has he been standing there all this time? How much of that did he hear?

Something in your eyes must have betrayed you since Noel chuckled and lit your cigarette, still perched on your lips, with the burning tip of his own. You mumbled a shy thanks as you inhaled. He picked your lighter back up from its position by your feet and tucked it into the waistband of your slacks, carefully as if he didn’t mind that you called him a motherfucking cunt just five seconds ago. “Heard all of it,” he admitted, taking a drag from his cigarette, smoke curling between the two of you in the alley. “You got quite a mouth on ‘ye.” He chuckled, leaning back against the brick wall you were stiffly resting against. 

You were horrified, your mouth felt like cotton. “Mr. Gallagher, I —”

He put a hand to cut you off. “Noel,” he reminded sternly. “How many times do I gotta remind ‘ya? ‘S’just Noel, yeah?”

You swallowed thickly. “Noel,” you began. “I really do want to apologize for my inappropriate behavior.”

“Nah,” said Noel, waving you off. You blinked in shock. “If you call that inappropriate, I would hate to hear what you have to say about Oasis in the studio, then.”

You stood there, heart in your heels, the only comfort you had was the cigarette burning in your hands. “Uh,” you said, unsure of what to say next. “I would fully understand if you were to request a different sales associate to find you what you need.”

It would be a relief for you, really. Maybe Isabelle would make a better match for him, she was tough as nails with the patient of a saint, and an amusing crush on Noel’s younger brother. You could easily refer her to Noel and pass on the torch with a sigh of relief. You’d no longer be a walking advert for stress, Noel would get his beloved bag, and the brand wouldn’t lose a high profile client such as Noel Gallagher. You were ready to propose this idea to Noel, already feeling the high of your impending freedom when he shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he did so. 

“Nah,” he said again. Would it kill him to show a bit more emotion other boredom and distaste? Hell, you’d take him yelling at you at the back alley of your workplace over his shrugs and vague answers. “No harm done.”

You raised a questioning brow. “No harm done?” you asked incredulously. “Noel, I just cussed you out.”

“Not to my face,” he argued. “It’d be a different story then.”

You looked at him challengingly. “Oh yeah? So if I call you a cocksucking son of a bitch with a god complex the size of London you’d still have me on the job?”

Finally, a sprig of emotion shone through Noel’s face as his eyes glittered with amusement and the corners of his lips tilted up around his cigarette. “Nothin’ wrong with cocksuckin’, aye? Unless you’re one of ‘em bigots?” he jested. 

You rolled your eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“And I really am a son of a bitch. Not me mam, of course; she’s an angel. But me da … real fuckin’ piece of work, I tell ‘ya.”

You huffed. “I can’t believe you’re letting me do this to you.”

“Do what?” he said, grinning fully now. In this light, you could see why so many women fell at his feet. Especially when he grinned like that, as if he was untouchable. “A little cursin’ never hurt no one, like.”

“But —”

“D’ya want the commission or not?” he asked bluntly, stubbing out the end of his cigarette on the brick wall. 

You nodded. Of fucking course you did. “Yeah,” you said simply. 

He shrugged then. “Then I’m keeping you on.” He began to walk off, leaving you in the alley as he strode back into the city with his chin up and his sunglasses back on. Untouchable.

“Do ‘ya mind making my job a little easier for me next time? Do a bit of research, maybe?” you called out to him as he was about to round the corner. 

Without turning around, he put his hand high up in the air and waved. “Might just, darlin’! ‘M’a busy man, though!”

You grit your teeth. “Of course,” you grumbled before stubbing out your own cigarette and heading back inside. You had work to do. 

Things change after that. You wish that you could say that it changed for the better, when really it all took a turn for the worse. 

Noel’s schedule had become busier, his rehearsals running from morning to late in the evening, his press run having him jump from city to city, and the new album demanding his presence in the studio. Which all meant that you had to adjust to his schedule. Of course. The customer is always right, and all that bullshit. 

So you haul your ass from the store to Noel’s gaudy house in Central London, where he’s puttering about the house as he collects his stuff to get ready for whatever he’s got on for the day. 

“Busy man, remember?” he says through a mouthful of cereal as he rushes past you to get to the living room and pocket his keys. “I’ve only got fifteen minutes to spare before I’m catastrophically late, darlin’. Make it quick, yeah?”

You bite your tongue and glare, opening up the catalogue (deciding that pictures were the best route in this stage of brainstorming rather than the actual thing) and showing it to him. You shoved the zine into his hands, uncaring at how he fumbled for it with furrowed brows. You didn’t explain the details, didn’t explain why you chose the bags, didn’t explain anything as you watched him take in your selection in silence. It was your version of a protest.

It was after a few minutes when Noel rebutted with a protest of his own, shaking his head as he handed back the zine to you with a small frown. “Sorry,” he said. “Still nothing.”

You sighed, heavy and beleaguered. “Again?” you asked, letting the tiredness creep into your voice, customer service be damned. “Noel, I’ve done three curations for you. Surely by now you’ve got an idea of what you want? Can’t you just … point to whatever in the catalogue strikes your fancy and I’ll try to find something that fits the description. Because this is driving me insane.”

Noel nodded, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Yeah, uh,” he mumbled lowly, taking back the catalogue from you before clumsily pointing to a baby blue velvet hobo bag with brown fringe detailing. “That one’s cool.”

You hummed. “That’s a great choice.”

“Finally said something right, me,” Noel mumbled to himself. You bit your smile, you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

“See,” you said, closing the catalogue and gathering your things. “Was that so hard?” You bumped shoulders with him as you exited the kitchen and made your way past the living room and into the foyer where you slipped your heels back on. “What about the bag did you like? So I could make a more accurate curation.”

“Everythin’ bout it is nice,” he said, tying his trainers. 

You glared coldly at him. “Noel,” you scolded. 

He sighed as if the weight of the world rested upon his shoulders. “Everythin’ ‘bout it is nice! Whaddya want me to say?”

“Then why don’t you give that one to her?” you argued.

He wrinkled his nose. “Still not good enough.”

You groaned loudly. “And why not? Would it kill you to elaborate? Communicate? God, your ex-girlfriends must have made themselves crazy trying to talk to you. It’s like getting through to a brick wall,” you ranted, waving your hands about. 

Noel sighed and stood up to his full height, trainers tied and ready to go. “I liked the vibe of it,” he shrugged. “Sue me for not knowin’ much about this fashion shite.”

Your eye twitched violently. “Noel,” you said slowly, dangerously. “Please, for the love of god, or The Beatles, or your fuckin’ Les Paul, try a bit harder.”

Noel blew out a breath, hard enough to ruffle his dark hair. “I dunno how to describeit , alright?” he yelled frustratedly. “I like the vibe!” he repeated. 

“That makes no sense! Aren’t you supposed to be this generation’s greatest writer?” you yelled back. “What do you like? The color? The shape? The brown fringe?” 

Noel groaned, a sound that felt like it was being dragged out of him. “I’ve got no time for this. I’m gonna be late, me.” And with that, he unceremoniously pushed his front door open and the flash of cameras blinded you all the way down his front path where Noel guided you with a steady hand on your back. “Leave ‘er alone, yeah? She’s got nothin’ to do with ‘ya shites. Just business, this is,” he leered at the reporters who got a bit too close for comfort. 

You grumbled against him, “I can take care of myself.”

He shrugged, that annoying gesture again. “Least I could do after rilin’ you up, d’ya know what I mean?”

You rolled your eyes. “Sweet talk won’t get you anywhere, Noel. Use your words for describing hand bags next time.” You said before splitting off from him, veering left back to the store, whereas he veered right back to wherever fame was taking him today. 

You don’t quite retreat into your routine after that. Sure, you meet your other clients, you entertain walk-ins at the store, you curate selections for Noel. Everything is as it was. But Noel’s schedule is as hectic as it’s ever been, and the party’s not gonna wait for him. Which means that trips to his house were common, but trips to the studio were as well. 

The first time you’ve stopped by in their too-polished-for-Oasis studio, Liam was the first to spot you with a boyish cheer of “Wa-hey!” as he slung his arm around you. 

You balk, still wrapped in his lanky limb. “Excuse me,” you say, as politely as you can given how baffled you were at his warm reception. “Do I …” Do I know you? you were about to ask. But hell, everyone knew Liam Gallagher. You guessed that the right expression would be, “Do you know me?”

Liam, eyes glazed and definitely on a number of things shrugged, a motion that reminded you so much of his brother. 

“Don’t mind ‘im,” Noel spoke with a scowl at his brother. “He’s goin’ stir crazy in this studio. Anyone new that walks in is like a Christmas present to him.”

You chuckled then smiled up at Liam. “Nice to meet you, Liam,” you said. “But I’m here on business for your brother.”

He sighed deeply before releasing you. “No fun,” he says. “Noel can have guests but I can’t. Ridiculous.”

“It’s for business!” Noel shot as you sat next to him on the leather couch. 

“What business?” Liam rebutted childishly. “The business of sticking your tongues down each other’s throats?”

“Woah, woah, woah!” you protested, loudly and with burning cheeks. “I’m his sales associate!” you rushed to clear up. 

Liam scoffed. “Makin’ up terms now. Playin’ in me face.”

Noel rolled his eyes, a faint trace of pink on the tips of his ears, and threw a wadded up piece of paper in Liam’s sulky face. “She’s helpin’ me get a present for that actress, yeah? For her party?”

Liam perked up then, like a puppy who’s heard his favorite words. “Oh yeah,” he drawled. “I haven’t got ‘er anythin’ yet.”

Noel gave you a sideways look, “Well, you can’t have my sales associate because there’s no way we’re given’ her the same thing.”

You frowned. “Way to cut off my commission.”

With a raised brow, Noel replied, “Y’wanna put another Gallagher on your clientele?” he asked rhetorically. There was no way you could handle the both of them and you knew that. “Besides, the point in getting her a gift is to stand out.”

Pulling out your curated catalogue, you sighed. “I got that part,” you said wryly before starting a whole new pointless session with Noel where he pointed to a sleek green messenger bag with a matching make up pouch and told you to find something “like that, but more … fun.” Whatever that meant.

So you resume the search, so much so that you were convinced that you’ve memorized the brand’s entire back catalogue with how much you’ve searched it. Alas, you stay following Noel’s slippery lead. 

“It’s a 1990 limited edition Spring Collection in collaboration with Mary Macy. It has a blue and white porcelain kind of look to it —”

“Hm,” Noel says, a simple syllable, not even a word, but you pause. The sound of screaming fans and screeching guitars filling the empty space between you two. You were explicitly told that you would only get ten minutes with Noel. Ten minutes backstage at Oasis’ concert. The show started at eight, it was currently 7:55. You were more than pressed for time. 

“What?” you asked testily, eyes already narrowed into slits. You knew you had no time for arguments, yet, “What is it this time?”

He looks at you incredulously. “I didn’t say nothin’!”

You glare at him. “That hm said a thousand words, Noel.”

“It just looks a bit like my grandma’s fine china, is all!”

You could have bitten his head off, instead, you settled for a small shove to his shoulders. He jumped back in surprise and rubbed at the spot you hit. “That’s the point! It’s supposed to look vintage. It’s chic!”

“It makes me think of purse candies and display cases you’d get whipped for touching. Nah, I ain’t rockin’ with that,” he said. 

You groaned. “Fine!”

“Noel, two minutes to stage!” a roadie yelled, you sighed, Noel sighed, the wind sighed.

“See you next time?” Noel asked meekly, slinging his guitar over his shoulder. 

You gave him a look that could have withered flowers.

The thing about Noel Gallagher is that he’s a particular man. Another thing about Noel Gallagher is that he’s very busy. And another other thing about Noel Gallagher is that he did not know anything about fashion. Nil. Absolutely clueless. In any other context, it would have been endearing, but it’s five days until the most awaited party of the year and Noel still hasn’t been able to decide. 

Which is why you were walking down the street, heels clacking rhythmically in the pavement, three cups of coffee balanced on a tray, and a mobile phone stuck between your shoulder and your ear. “See, I saw Kate yesterday on a billboard —”

“Kate?” you interrupted, dodging a businessman who glared at you as you wobbled dangerously close to him. 

“Moss,” he explained. 

“Right.” Of course. “What about this ad?”

“She was wearing a cream sort of cotton dress with lace on it?”

You didn’t know what that was supposed to mean. “Noel,” you began. “I’m sorry, but what are you getting at? Did you call me to tell me that your friend looked lovely in that ad? Because she does. But I’m busy and I’m on my way to work and if that’s all you had to say, then maybe it could have waited a bit?”

“No, no, no,” he protested quickly. “I’m tryna say that if that dress that she’s wearing was a bag, then I’d quite like to give that as a present.”

You looked to the heavens above and prayed. For mercy or for lightning to strike you down, whichever was best, really. “Noel,” you said slowly, as if speaking to a toddler who had just learned how to open his fist. “I’m going to need you to hang up.”

“But–”

“No!” you snapped loudly enough to shock a poor little sausage dog walking down the street. You grimaced an apology to the owner. “You are not making sense, Noel,” you hissed. “I know you’re trying and I appreciate that but saying I wish the cotton Versace number Kate Moss is wearing on that giant billboard was a bag isn’t gonna help.”

“Well, you said —” Noel grumbled.

“Oh my fucking god, Noel. I wish a truck would fucking run me over because then I wouldn’t have to listen to you be so indecisive! Do you know that you’re just describing the common tote bag? Huh? D’ya know that?”

“Well, how am I supposed to know?” Noel fired back hotly. “Maybe instead of complaining all the time, you should learn to be more patient!”

You gasped, stopping in your tracks, and then … “Oh, fuck you!” Then, you hung up and went back to work. The coffee was still hot when you got to the shop. 

Really, that wasn’t the last of Noel’s bizarre phone calls to you. 

“Apparently, she’s vegan?” Noel opened the conversation once with that stellar line, your cordless home phone on speaker as you painted your toe nails and watched an old tape you had of The Sound of Music. Maria was just about to enter the Von Trapp household when Noel interrupted, rude.

You closed your eyes and counted to three before responding as patiently as you could, “Noel, it’s past office hours.”

“Is it?” he asked, genuinely confused. 

“It’s eleven at night, Noel,” you said through gritted teeth, fanning your toe nails before moving to the other foot. “I’m trying to have some girl time over here?”

“What? No date?” he asked cheekily. 

“What do you want?” you replied testily. 

“Just to say that she’s vegan. Found out a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well I found out weeks ago when you first came to me. She talks about being vegan a lot, y’know?”

“Does she?”

You shook your head in disappointment. “For a man who claims to like her so much, you do know nothing about her, huh?”

“Didn’t say I liked her,” he mumbled through the line. If you listened past the banter od the Von Trapp children on your screen, you could hear the rustle of his jacket as he settled in. 

“Right,” you said, unconvinced. “So, why are you running me into the ground trying to find the perfect designer bag to give to her?”

Noel mumbled something unintelligible. Probably some cursing, probably a denial.

You continued, half your attention on Noel’s breathing and half of it on your toenails. “Besides, Liam told me that it’s a gifts optional party. Y’don’t need to be doing all this.”

“D’ya not want your commission or what?” Noel shot.

“Don’t be cheeky,” you warned. “And if you called just to tell me not to use any animal skin, you’re way late for that. I’ve been doing that since the second time I met with you.”

“Aren’t you the best?”

You grinned, sharp and toothy. “Deserving of a break, yeah? So pick up your end of the deal before I blow a gasket. Deal with your emotional constipation on another night and with someone other than your sales associate. Night, Noel.”

Your deadline grows tighter after that. The anticipated weekend is looming in front of you and you’re still running around like a headless chicken trying to find the perfect bag. And as usual, Noel still isn’t of any help. 

In fact, he amps the unhelpfulness up. Whether it’s on purpose or not, you just don’t know. So you come in swinging. “Noel Gallagher!” you enter the pub boldly, face gnarled in fury and hands on your hips as you stand in front of his booth with a righteous anger reserved only for mothers, angels, and lonely girlfriends. You were neither. But you were his sales associate, which had to count for something, right? “This is the address that you sent me?” you screeched. 

He looked up at you with hazy lager-filled amusement from where he sat smushed between Bonehead and Guigsy. “Hey!” he said, as jovially as you’ve ever seen him. “Ya made it.”

You stared him down stonily. “We’re supposed to have a meeting. For the bags?”

Noel tsked. “Lighten up! It’ll be fun! Come hang out with the lads!”

“I’m on the clock Noel,” you said through bared teeth. “And we’ve got a deadline.”

“Pish posh,” he spat. “Fuck the deadline.”

“Cheers to that!” Liam cheered from somewhere in the pub. You couldn’t be bothered to find him just to stare him down. 

So instead, you direct it to his brother. “Noel,” you said, dangerously low. “If you don’t get your smarmy arse up from that nasty vinyl pub booth right this second, I swear I will shove that glass of lager down your throat until you shit it out your bum.”

Noel nodded. “Right then,” he said, faintly pale. “Excuse me, fellas. I have some business to attend to,” he said, addressing the table who were looking at the two of you in amusement. Trying so hard to act dignified, as if he wasn’t swaying where he stood. You resisted a scoff, his mates didn’t give him the same grace.

You were glaring all the way out the pub and you could have sworn that you heard a chorus of whipping sounds as you swung the doors open, just as Liam hollered with a booming laugh, “And she’s not even ‘ya missus!”

The cab ride back to the store was silent, punctuated by speed bumps and a radio hit you couldn’t be be bothered to listen to as you sped across London. The first words were spoken by Noel, only after you crossed the threshold of the private room of the store and his arse was comfortably on the seat. 

“D’ya have to do that in front of me mates?” he groused. You arched a brow, he settled down and sank further into the plush seat he’s been very well acquainted with in the past few weeks. 

Silently, you dug out your latest curation, a larger collection of selections this time seeing as you were hoping that it’d be the last time you’d do a session for this occasion. Noel caught the catalogue in one hand, deftly opening it and staring in silence. 

It wasn’t until a few minutes later that Noel drunkenly spoke, “If the first one was faux leather and had the color of the seventh bag, with that charm thingy hanging off the eleventh selection.”

You blinked. “Come again?”

Noel looked at you like you were the one that’s been causing all the hold up the entire time. “If the first one was faux leather and had the color of the seventh bag, with that charm thingy hanging off the eleventh selection,” he repeated slowly, speech slurred. 

You gave an incredulous laugh. “Oh my god,” you breathed.

“What?” Noel asked, already setting aside the catalogue to spread his legs wide and sink into the loveseat. “Don’t tell me I did summat wrong again.”

“No,” you said, still grinning madly. “You’ve just about done the first right thing! Who knew you had to be drunk as all hell to make a decision!”

If Noel’s eyes were open, he would have rolled them. “So you know which bag it is? The one I’m describing?”

“Do I!” you said excitedly. Finally, the end was near. “We don’t have a stock of it in this store but they have it in Liverpool. I could get it shipped out as early as tomorrow afternoon. I just need to get a catalogue to show you.”

Noel shook his head. “No need for that. If you say it’s exactly the one I’m describing then I trust ‘ya,” he said, so casually as if he didn’t just pay you the biggest compliment. “Y’could just mail it directly to me address. I could pay for the bag right now if you know the price. That way you could get your commission earlier as well.”

You stood in shock. “Huh,” you said. 

“What now?” Noel groaned, as if in pain.

“Why do you always assume I’m angry with you?” you protested. “I was about to say thank you!”

“Oh,” Noel breathed. “You’re welcome,” he said before rummaging in his pants pocket for his wallet and tossing it to you with one hand. “Charge it on my Amex?”

You snorted, carrying his wallet with you. “The trust you have in me is mad.”

Before you left, you could see Noel reclining in the loveseat, calling out to you, “It’s less trust and more of a need to make the room stop spinning. It’s doin’ me head in, really.”

And you thought that that glimpse of Noel, drunk on lager and sleeping his drunkenness of in a luxury brand’s loveseat while you faffed about in his wallet and with his credit card, would be the last bit of him you’ll get. It would have been a fitting ending too.

But the phone rang just the day before the party, Noel’s voice lilting in your cordless phone’s speaker as you made yourself dinner in your flat. 

“How should I give it to her, d’ya think?”

You’ve sighed so many times since you met this man that you were sure that you were cutting off your own air supply at this point. “Noel,” you said. A warning, a plea, a scolding. 

“I know, I know,” he said before pivoting, “Got the bag, by the way, if it isn’t obvious. It’s a stunner. Knew you’d do right by me.”

You rolled your eyes, mixing your pasta sauce. “Flattery will not compensate for the hell you put me through with finding that.”

“If I remember correctly, you got a hefty commission for this.”

“Still not enough,” you mumbled. “Not when I was essentially searching for a needle in the haystack. And now you’re calling me for love advice —”

“Not love!”

“Lust advice?” you mused, the wrinkled your nose. “Now you’re calling me for advice. I’m not even getting paid for this anymore, Noel! Don’t you have friends to ask about this?” you put some seasoning in the sauce before exclaiming, “What about Kate?”

“Kate?” asked Noel. 

“Moss,” you emphasised. “Why not ask her for advice?”

Noel’s tinny voice echoed through the speakers as he protested, “‘M’not asking for advice. Just askin’ how people usually gift luxury bags.”

“Noel,” you said. In exhaustion, in disbelief, in exasperation. 

“Stop sayin’ me name like that!” he yelled. “It’s just one question!”

You grit your teeth and turned your stove off. “Give it to her personally. Don’t do any fuckin’ handoffs or anything because anyone could pass off that gift as theirs. Give it to her straight up and say this is from me or something to that effect. I dunno, you’re the writer, figure something out.”

“Got it,” he said. 

“Then you greet her a happy birthday, make some jokes, make a toast over some champagne, and voila! You’ve wooed your dream woman.”

“She’s not my dream woman,” Noel protested. 

You shrugged, straining your pasta over the sink. “Either way, she’ll love that bag.”

“We did a great job pickin’ it, aye?” Noel ribbed. 

You sighed and unceremoniously ended the call. 

After that, the phone doesn’t ring again. And headlines start to grace the tabloids of the birthday bash everyone’s been waiting for. You don’t wait to spot Noel in any of them.

But quite peculiarly, you do end up with a bouquet of roses addressed to you in the store. And you get home to a voicemail in your answering machine.

Noel’s gruff voice came in at the tone. 

“Hey,” he said, voice rough with what you presumed was alcohol. It was quiet from where he was calling, the telltale sound of cars driving giving away the fact that he was probably by a phone booth. “Party was a bust,” he groused. 

You rolled your eyes and chuckled despite yourself.

“Bunch of boring bellends with sticks up their arses,” he mused. A thud came from his recording. Probably his head hitting the wall if you knew anything about him. “Laura liked the bag, though. Which is nice.”

You scoffed. The bag was more than just nice. 

“Snogged her for a minute after she blew the candles,” he said. You could already picture the smarmy grin he’d be wearing as he said it and wrinkled your nose in distaste. 

“Gross,” you said aloud to no one in particular. 

“Don’t think I’d be doin’ it again, though. I guess I’m just callin’ you to tell you that everythin’ went well,” he said, words slurring, his accent making everything sound thicker. Like wading through molasses. “But I do wish you were here. You’d have a lot to say about Liam jumping into the pool and soaking the cake. Hope you don’t mind me callin’. I know you’d probably say my name in that weird tired way of yours, but I like hearin’ your voice. You boss me around like mad, but it feels nice. You’re nice.”

You didn’t let your heart skip a beat. Couldn’t. Instead, you just let the voicemail end. 

Oh, Noel. 

A rockstar had no place in your life other than a client. He was supposed to ask you for a bag, for shoes, for a perfume, and you were supposed to search until you got it for him. He wasn’t supposed to call after stupid parties, slurring his words an telling you how nice you were. No, he was supposed to send an impersonal car, from the desk of Noel Gallagher, with a thank you note written by his secretary, then only see him again when he wanted something else. He wasn’t supposed to send roses to your workplace, he wasn’t supposed to ask you for love advice.

And he definitely wasn’t supposed to be standing outside the store right before closing time, three days after he made that voicemail, with a bouquet in hand and the stupidest wave ever. 

“Better get your man,” one of your coworkers giggled. You reddened and swung the door open to meet him. 

God, his smile was so stupid. Was that why he didn’t smile as much? Because if he did, you’d be a puddle on the floor all the time. 

“Noel,” you hissed. “What the fuck are you doin’ here?”

“Told ‘ya a few days ago the party was dead borin’.”

You crossed your hands on your chest. “Oh, so is that my fault?” you rebutted.

“Calm down, woman,” chuckled Noel. Before handing you the lovely bouquet. “Here, these are for you, by the way.”

“Noel,” you said. “What?”

He shrugged, his cheeks the color of pale strawberies as he rubbed the back of his neck. “For you. I was tryin’ to say I’m here to pick you up. Y’know spend some time with someone I like and someone who tolerates me,” he teased.

You scoffed to hide your flustered state. “Oh yeah?”

He grinned even wider. Stupid bastard. “Remember how I said those tossers were borin’? Yeah, none of ‘em could hold a candle to you, really. You keep me on my toes.”

You soften, just a smidge, enough to let a soft smile grace your face, enough to tease him until you see the red tips of his ears. “You like me,” you singonged, bumping shoulders with him.

And there it was, the red ears. You were even graced with the rare sight of his blushing cheeks. “Shuddup.”

You snorted, holding the flowers close to your chest, the scent of it overwhelming you. “Aw,” you cooed, pinching his cheeks. He swatted you away. You were undeterred, “Look at you! Not letting your emotional constipation get the best of you! What a brave boy!”

Noel glared at you, but the sparkle in his eyes and the wry twist of his mouth told a different story. It always did. “Whatever,” he mumbled. “Just get yourself outside. The car’s waitin’ for us.”

You scrunched your face in confusion. “The car?” you asked as he led you out the store, past the whispers and the winks and the peripheral vision of your coworkers. 

“The car,” he confirmed. “I’m takin’ you out for dinner. I suppose your day hadn’t been easy, workin’ hard an’ all.”

You bit down a grin. “Yeah?”

Then he shrugged, refusing to look at you even as his hand settled on the warm small of your back. “Not a big deal,” he grumbled.

“Right, right, right,” you said through a giddy laugh.

“It’s just dinner. It’s the least I could do for givin’ ‘ya hell, d’ya know what I mean?”

You gave him a fond look, a look he had to turn away from as the force of it hit him. “I know what you mean,” you said before turning your attitude back into the familiar mock annoyance. “And don’t think this means that I like you more than I should. You’re still annoying.”

“Good. Just how I like ‘ya” he said, just as a black car, sleek and expensive, rolled up in front of you. “And then after, we’ll go shopping for a bag of yer own, yeah? Can’t have you rocking up in tattered leather when an actress across town’s got a vintage piece.”

In 1992, her band was already making its name in the alt-rock scene: Opening for Nirvana and releasing a debut album that critics acclaimed as the next big wave in American Rock. Meanwhile, in Manchester, a little band named Oasis was just finding its footing – performing in pubs and traveling Britain in a van filled with dreams and many, many illicit drugs.

By 1993, she was traveling internationally alongside her band as the openers for The Smashing Pumpkins. While Oasis had just been signed by World Creation Records.

1994 was when their paths first crossed. In an interview where earlier-days Liam and Noel Gallagher gave their lovely opinions on the singer and her band. And of course, our frontwoman wouldn’t have it. Little did she know that she was talking about her future husband and the bushy eyebrows that he’d later on pass to their children!

In 1995, they were captured on camera together for the first time ever: The infamous MTV short rivals segment at the NME’s after-party. Bickering, of course. She was trying to escape to the bathroom and he was hanging off her. They teased each other and even forgot the cameras were rolling, later walking off grinning in opposite directions. At the time, everyone called it a feud. Watching it now, it looks like the earliest proof that it was simply bound to happen!

And during that year, it looked like the universe was working hard for those two rock legends set their differences aside and embrace the chemistry they’ve had all along! She attended Burt Bacharach’s Royal Albert Hall concert in London and watched Noel’s redemption of This Guy’s In Love With You. Talk about foreshadowing!

Later that year, both artists were on the Glastonbury 1995 lineup, performing within hours of each other on one of the festival’s most legendary weekends.

But, not everything was conspiring towards a truce. Not even Gallagher himself, who mocked her onstage during the Mercury Awards:

“Funny thing, talent actually lasts. Unlike beauty and all that talentless image crap they’re selling these days” – a jab that aged like spoiled milk!

Despite the public insult – or perhaps because of it – something shifted. And in 1996, the fans began noticing coincidences.

Small things at first: The two attending a festival neither were performing.

Then, a paparazzi snap of her strolling down Noel’s quiet London street. Looks like someone doesn’t need to stay in hotels when she goes to London anymore… Or was Noel Gallagher starting a hotel business in… His house?

There were the airport photos: Both of them at Heathrow… Same time… Perhaps same flight, too?

The most memorable one was in ‘96 Brit’s Awards. Where in a quick press conference amidst the after party, a reporter courageously asked if a very visible mark on his neck was a hickey. However… Noel was newly single, his split from Meg Mathews already known to every single fan in britain. He simply laughed and dodged the question:

“That’s what you’re asking about? Thought you wanted me slagging off Blur again”

An innocent and quick joke to maintain his privacy that today is acknowledged as a part of the lovebirds’ history. Since now, we can definitely guess who was responsible for that tiny souvenir!

And then, the moment that confirmed everyone’s suspicions: A week before Oasis’ legendary Knebworth ’96 shows, the first picture of the lovebirds was taken!

From then on, there was no point in hiding it anymore. So useless that, during the second night at Knebworth, right before playing Don’t Look Back in Anger, he dedicated the song to her. Simple, yet effective. And so unremarkably Noel Gallagher:

“This one’s for Y/N” – who watched the two days of Oasis making history from the side-stage alongside friend and Liam Gallagher’s partner at the time, Patsy Kensit.

They became officially public in that same year, finally being able to be affectionate even with cameras on them – constantly trying to capture fragments of the coolest couple of the moment. It was the year they stopped sneaking around and started to arrive together: Red carpets, premieres and award shows. Noel’s fingers would always intertwined with hers as they walked through flashing lights. And inside the venues, his hands would settle on her lower back, while hers rested at the back of his neck. Always on each other! Drinks in hand, shared cigarettes and whispering in each others ears – and never pulling away before stealing a quick peck on the cheek or the lips!

Completely natural and effortless. And it was evident in the way they spoke of each other. Everytime Noel was asked who he was with, he’d reply simply:

“My girlfriend. She’s with me. Or I’m with her. Depends who you ask”

But behind the scenes, the relationship had already bloomed way before – as she confirmed years later that they started going out after a get together in Paul and Linda Mccartney’s home in December ’95.

“Oh, they were going out in secrecy for months! I only found out because one time I showed up to her house unannounced and Noel answered the door. It was hilarious” – Jack, as the bassist reminisced the ‘96 years.

From 1997 on, their relationship grew into one of rock’s most watched and oddly beloved romances.

Fans and tabloids starved for glimpses of their life together, but the couple maintained a private relationship – making everyone truly swoon everytime they’d mention each other, or when a song would be released that just screamed I’m in love!

Noel’s take was Don’t Go Away, a track that stood apart from Be Here Now’s bravado with its vulnerability. And he always made sure to sing the original lyrics in his acoustic performances:

And I wanna be there when you’re coming down / And I wanna be there when you hit the ground / So don’t go away, say what you say / Say that you’ll stay forever and a day.

In 1998, we saw her perspective with The Only Exception. A song that’s tender, slow and almost startling in its honesty. A tune that contrasted sharply with the band’s usual sound – and yet, went on to become one of their most iconic tracks and one of the most beautiful love songs ever written:

And up until now, I had sworn to myself / That I'm content with loneliness / Because none of it was ever worth the risk / Well, you are the only exception

That year, she traveled with him for select dates of the Be Here Now tour. Not every gig, but she was spotted side-stage at every chance she had. And during a radio interview mid-tour, when Noel was asked what were his plans once the whirlwind of stadiums and flights finally slowed down, he replied naturally. Like there was no other possible answer:

“Dunno. Go home. See my girlfriend. Probably sit around, travel with her, write a bit. That’ll do me… Just rest I suppose, which is doing f*ck all with the person you like the most, innit?“

In 1999, Noel bought a house in Primrose Hill, and everyone knew exactly who he would share the key with. Later that year, she told a radio interviewer about the time she caught him singing one of her songs in the kitchen:

“And when I asked him, he said: ‘It’s catchy’. Right! Oh, he loves me... Yeah, I love him too. Whatever”

Although the couple hadn’t gotten officially engaged, their dynamic was domestic as it could be. And when Noel heard about her retort, he replied with a stupidly-fond grin on his face:

“She wants to expose it? Alright then, she’s brought a kitten home, right? Name’s Mr. Mustard. And she uses this absolutely ridiculous baby voice with him. You wouldn’t believe it. Proper soft. Don’t let the guitars fool you, at home the rocker is wrapped around the cat’s little paw”

And of course our frontwoman fired back. Just like old times, and yet, completely different now:

“Oh, he’s such a liar! I caught him doing the exact same thing. Same voice. I’ve never seen him go redder than when he realized I was standing there listening. Should’ve taped it and sent it to The Sun, bastard. And he says the cat’s mine, right? But the month I had to go back to New York, he insisted the cat stayed with him. Wouldn’t hear otherwise”

And between all fond teasing, Noel publicly reversed all his earlier digs at her music:

“C’mon, that was years ago. Listen, I was trying to get her attention, right? Blokes were sucking up to her all the time, she wouldn’t have looked at me if I did. I’m a f*cking genius.”

In 2001, the couple split. None of them spoke on the matter or the reasoning behind the breakup, but the impact was evident on their crafts. Noel’s specially: The album Heathen Chemistry presented the song Stop Crying Your Heart Out that showed how breakup took a tool on Gallagher, and the song She Is Love which was almost discarded from the album, since it felt “too personal” for him – said sources.

During the following years, fans and “shippers” thought that it was really over for the couple when the two of them seemed to move on. The american frontwoman started dating The Strokes’ drummer Fabrizio Moretti in 2002, and not long after, Noel started dating scottish PR manager Sara Macdonald in early 2003.

But even then, the past had a way of bleeding through the cracks. The singer, despite her efforts to keep things composed onstage, couldn’t help becoming emotional when she performed The Only Exception at 2003’s Glastonbury. Where the weight of the song became too much, making her voice falter midway through. And her bassist, best friend, and trusted second voice, Jack, instinctively stepped in and carried the lyrics alongside a crowd that knew every word by heart.

In early 2004, her team confirmed that she and the drummer were no longer together. And a loud ding! rang in Gallagher’s ears – who broke things off with his then girlfriend not long after the news broke, to which Sara described as “with no valid excuse”.

And during a radio show when asked about his songwriting process, mentioned a previous relationship that inspired many songs that he wrote.

“All I do is sit with a guitar and wait and hope for something to happen. That's what I do. Course there are phases in your life that you feel more inspired… Compelled to write songs.”

“I mean, I dated this chick once, right? And she was proper cool, man. F*cking funny chick. Gorgeous, I’d just f*cking stare at her and she’d laugh instead of getting weirded out. And everytime she did, I just… Stuff would start to pop in me head that made me think… Well, f*cking hell! I’m a romantic, me”

“I’ve said it sometimes to take a piss but reality is, I’m not f*cking God, you know. I’m just great at being me and doing what I do, and that's it. Sometimes I’m shit at, you know... Love, and all that bollocks. But, I guess it happens when I have a paper and pen in my hand, doesn’t it? And thank f*ck of that, cause then I’d be single and broke, and that’d just be f*cking tragic”

After that, the fans went wild! Hoping that the american singer Didn’t Look Back In Anger so they’d come around again just like they did in the 90’s – hoping that it was only a matter of time until the news would break once again.

And in that same year, it happened: The singer was photographed with ex-mother-in-law Peggy Gallagher, both laughing while shopping in London. A clear confirmation that the lovebirds found their way back to each other once again.

From then on, the rest is history… Close friends said it felt less like a couple reuniting and more like water finding its way around stones.

In 2005 she was already wearing a stunning engagement ring and walking down the aisle in a remarkably intimate ceremony with a small bump! Which Noel joked about later, with an undeniable glint on his eyes when asked about her and fatherhood:

“We took it very seriously on making up for lost time. And not so seriously on contraception”

One of the most remarkable moments was in 2008, when amidst all chaos and fighting within the band, Liam Gallagher spoke kindly of her when asked about being an uncle for the second time – after the singer was captured with another baby bump as she strolled down the streets of London:

“She’s brilliant, man. Always has been. Proper funny, proper sharp. Nicole loves her and we all get along very well, even though I was a wanker back then”

In 2009, Noel’s life took a shift. And she was beside him the whole time. With baby Donovan barely a year old, the news broke that Oasis had split. The world reacted instantly. Headlines exploded, fans mourned, and inevitably, questions turned towards everyone involved.

Reporters tried get something out of her, and she never budged. Her only answer, every time, was a calm and firm: “It’s not my place to say”

Noel, years later, would speak more openly about that year:

“It was rough. I couldn't go back to England because the press had descended on my house and my missus was there with my kids. So we had to kind of spirit her out in the middle of the night and they came to join me in France somewhere. And then when we eventually got back to England, of course all f*cking hell broke loose. But she was there all along, you know. Just loyal. Supportive. People think she’s all fire, and she can be. But no one sees how steady she is”

And Gallagher admitted that she helped him carry on with his solo career:

“People thought I had f*ck all after I left the band, but I had her and the kids. And that was f*cking enough for me, I could go on happily without Oasis because I had them, so the night where everything went down, I sat in the car and I thought: ‘What the f*ck am I doing? I don’t need this, I’m f*cking done’.

“But it wasn’t the big heartbreak of my life. It wasn’t, not even close. Don’t get me wrong, it was f*cking messy. But I’d already been through worse. When me and her split back in the day? That was brutal. Didn’t know what to do with myself then. That was the real losing the ground under your feet. So when I left the band, I thought ‘I’ll be alright’. I survived being without my missus for 3 years, everything else felt survivable. But of course, after being in a band for 18 years, naturally I found myself in a state of ‘Okay. What now?’ when the smoke cleared.”

“And of course, she knocked me into my senses and was f*cking fuming every time I was even slightly doubtful about it. ‘What do you mean? What are you saying?! You’re Noel Gallagher! You’re the best songwriter in the world, the sexiest man alive and the best sex I’ve ever had!’. That last part is obviously I simply adding to what she said, but it’s nonetheless true.”

“And, now I’m serious, she even said the High Flying Birds name was the best thing she ever f*cking heard! Even though now, I see it sounds a bit cheesy, doesn’t it? [laughs] She likes to flatter me, that one”

In a recent radio chat, she proved that support Noel always talked about. While discussing music and the 90’s, she was asked the question everyone dances around: Do you think Oasis will ever come back? And, unlike when the band had just split, this time she was more open about it:

“People ask me that like I’ve got a secret magic ball where I can see what the future holds for them. Or a red button hidden in a drawer somewhere that I could just press it and suddenly the they will reunite. But the truth is: I don’t know. I really don’t. Of course I have opinions that I’ve shared with my husband and well… Won’t say here, obviously, because that’s a family matter.”

“But I think the important thing is that their music will never fade away. Their impact and the people who love it will never go anywhere either, and that’s really cool. And, I say this as a musician myself, that’s what it’s all about at the end of the day.”

“What I can say is: Noel’s very happy with his High Flying Birds, and he’s f*cking killing it. And that’s what matters the most to me. But if it does happen one day, I’ll be just as shocked and happy as everyone else.“

By 2011, with the release of the first Noel Gallagher’s High Flying Birds album, he revealed that when he first played If I Had a Gun… for her a few years prior at home, she “cried like a baby”, which he recalled with fondness, pride and amusement.

And the devotion was mutual. When it came time to support her, Noel showed up without question – attending Wembley’s two sold out nights for her bands reunion in 2017. Not even looking like the same man that once dismissed her music. And he isn’t anymore, clearly! And he even admitted that – like his wife that one time – he “proper cried” watching her.

“I was absolutely gone. Had a lump in my throat the size of Manchester. The kids were looking at me like I’d gone mental.‘Why’s dad crying at a rock gig?’. Had to pull myself together quick before they started taking the piss. But what can I say? That’s their mum up there. My girl. Course I cried”

Today, the couple are parents to three children – Anais (2005), Donovan (2008) and Sonny (2012). Proving effortlessly that parenting can be rock and roll.

During an episode of his mate Matt Morgan’s podcast, Noel retorted cheekily when he was teased about having an “army of kids”:

“If you knew what it’s like with my missus, you’d be f*cking surprised we stopped at three”

And he went on!

“They’re going to her mum’s this weekend, might even get on with making the fourth, eh?”

Now in 2022, the couple’s 90s whirlwind flame is still on, but their lives have settled into something steadier. Noel and his High Flying Birds teasing the Council Skies album for the next year. Meanwhile, our eternal frontwoman expanded her horizons after her band’s legacy was comfortably cemented into rock history, shifting into a more grounded artistic life: Producing, writing, and even collaborating with Noel’s career once in a while.

On the upcoming album, Gallagher even admitted that she’s going to receive some royalties – the hilarious reasoning behind it being “the most rock ’n’ roll thing in the world: a cold”.

“I couldn’t get through a riff without having to stop. Couldn’t go five seconds without blowing my nose. So she just took the guitar off me, sat down, and went, ‘Right, move’. Next thing I know, half the takes don’t even need re-recording”

“Most of them were meant to be guides, really. But then I listened back and thought ‘Nah. Leave it’. Not everyone can say they’ve got a fit and talented wife carrying the record when they’re too busy blowing their nose. I’ve done alright here, married a rock star.”

“And look, letting someone else play my Gibson? Real love, that is.”

Noel went on, joking about their current life:

“Upstairs, you’ve got me writing some cosmical ballad. Downstairs, she’s producing a track that’ll melt your face off. And in the middle of the staircase, three kids arguing about who stole whose headphones.”

Later on, she shared what their lockdown during the Covid-19 pandemic was like – as cheeky as her husband:

“The children were going through the moody-teenager phase. Wanted nothing to do with us. Doors closed, headphones on, pretending we didn’t exist… Our cleaning lady said she’d never seen Noel that chipper. Wonder why…”

Noel kept the same tone in another interview where he was asked about what their relationship was like after 26 years together:

“Easy, innit? I fancy her. I’m mad about that woman. And people think you calm down when you get older. Absolute bollocks for us, cause we’re exactly the same. Better, actually… Just my back that’s slightly worst, but we make it work”

Their story fits as in not only romance, but part of music history. Two loudmouthed guitarist-vocalist-songwriters that once hated each other’s guts somehow collided and found their way back like it was inevitable. Their love was unshakable throughout all odds, like Gallagher himself summed up perfectly:

“We’ve lived a whole life together. And somehow we’re still having fun. It’s ridiculous, really. She still manages to surprise me. Still makes me laugh. Still inspires me. Still tells me when I’m being a wanker. And I f*cking adore her, I love the life we have, I love our children. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ .

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ .

★ june, 1996.

you wake up and he’s not there.

but you smell coffee coming from the kitchen, and you can hear guitar strings being absentmindedly tugged in the living room. sometimes the same ones over and over, like he finally found a combination he actually liked.

you stretch, wincing a little at the soreness between your thighs. your fingers grabbing the hem of his shirt twisted around your waist and smiling into the pillow – like you can still feel his hands everywhere, or still hear him whispering your name in your ear.

after a minute or so, you slide out of bed, tugging his shirt fully on as you pad down the hall with nothing else underneath. and then, you see him on the couch – hunched slightly over his guitar, hair a mess, only in his underwear and eyes puffy from sleeping. he looks so soft, unguarded, peaceful.

he looks so yours, too.

but you think that’s a stretch. you always do.

maybe not so much when he lifts his head and looks at you: his shirt hanging loose on your body, hair ruffled from sleep just like his, bare legs padding toward him. and his whole face just… softens. melts.

“morning”, he says softly as he puts the guitar aside, watching you sit down beside him and immediately placing his hand on your thigh, head leaning in and burying his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in. you let out a soft huff through your nose, ridiculously fond, and your hands go to his hair and play with the dark brown locks.

you lean in to kiss the top of his head as you stroke the hair on the nape of his neck, “morning”. and he lets out a soft little exhale, so genuine it nearly breaks you.

you shift to face him, and his hands instantly settle on your hips, pulling you into his lap, because he always does.

you laugh fondly and let him, because you always do – settling there like it’s natural. you hands find the sides of his cheeks and his rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking lazily. “look like you’re in a good mood”, you murmur.

“you’re here” he mutters. “course i am”.

you laugh softly, shaking your head as you lean in to kiss him. warm, slow and both still half-asleep. he kisses you back with that same softness, exhaling against your mouth. your fingers slide into his hair again, and he tilts his head into your touch as the kiss deepens – but still lazy and slow. relaxed, messy in the sweetest way.

“come here” he mumbles against your lips, voice thick, hands sliding under your shirt and caressing your ass, gripping just a little to pull you closer.

you laugh, eyebrows raising as you rub your nose on his cheek “i am here”, before you kiss him again. softer this time, although your hips shift – as an instinct, still in a sleepy state of mind. he lets out a soft moan against your lips, his hands sliding up and rubbing your lower back and the curve of your ass. you break into a small smile at the sound, kissing the corner of his mouth, whispering against his lips, “you’re so easy in the mornings…”

“not easy… m’tired” he mutters, palms sliding over your back under your – his – shirt, feeling your soft skin. “and you’re warm”

“yeah?” you tease quietly. “that’s all it is?”

he lets out a soft huff through his nose, lips curving up just slightly, and he whispers: “well…” – he leaves a slow lingering peck on your lips – “you smell really good, too…”

you laugh, thumb caressing his cheek and lips kissing him back, just because you can’t stand how cute he is, while his hands slide up and down your waist. “hmmm…”, you hum quietly, while your hips move once more, slow like the last time. but now, you can feel the warmth coming from his clothed erection that’s just under your bare cunt, a damp sticky stain forming over the fabric too – that you’re not sure if it’s coming from you or him.

he shakes his head slowly, nose bumping against yours on purpose since he doesn’t pull away. he lets out a small noise when your smile widens – half a whine and half a tired laugh – before he whispers: “you’re mean”. you pull away just a little so you can look at him, eyes crinkling as you do. your hips roll again just to pull that same reaction out of him: a low moan, eyebrows furrowing, eyes glinting and pleading as he looks back at you. “please, love…”

you can’t resist, peeling the shirt off slowly, watching his eyes drink you in. like he hadn’t already done that already many times last night, or this whole year so far. neediness and hunger all together. his hands hover at your waist, like he’s scared to touch until you tell him. but you guide his hands to your breasts, squeezing softly before he does it all by himself, slowly. “you want it?”

his eyes flutter shut. his grip tightening on your tits. “yeah” he breathes out, eyes darting between you and his hands squeezing the soft flesh. “fuck, yeah…”

“yeah?…”

“fuck… love… c’mon” he whispers, already a mess. and god, he doesn’t even realise how pretty he is like this: voice cracking, pupils dilated and soft, hands twitching on your chest. all heat and devotion.

so, you lift your hips slowly, whispering against his forehead and leaving a lingering kiss there: “go on…”. you shift your head so you can look into his eyes again, the ones that are already on you. like he wouldn’t dare to take them off, only when they flutter and his hands slowly and clumsily pull the waistband of his underwear down – his length slapping against his belly when he finally frees himself.

his eyebrows furrow for a moment when your hand holds his cock as you line it with your entrance, and his hands immediately finding your hips as you lower yourself. slow, warm – two people who already know the shape of each other, who’ve done this enough now to be familiar, but still are overwhelmed by it.

you move over him slowly – slow enough to make him groan, slow enough that he squeezes his eyes shut like he can’t handle it, his head falling back on the couch and his neck even more exposed to you. your hands find the side of his face again, not stopping rolling your hips in lazy, deliberate motions that get soft moans from both of you. “look at me…”, you whisper. and he opens his eyes with struggle, but he feels like it would actually kill him to not look at you right now. painfully beautiful on top of him. and you asked… so he complies. and then, he hears the two little words that make him twitch inside you. “good boy…”

his breath catches in his throat, fingers digging into your sides, sliding over to your ass. not filthy – not necessarily, just gone. just feeling you. admiring, touching like he can’t believe you’re real. not even guiding, or pushing. just holding on, helpless.

“y-yeah…”, he breathes out, nodding slowly. and then, he whispers: “your good… boy…”

you kiss him softly. muttering against his lips with your tone quiet, whispering almost. all while you’re moving over him, arms wrapping around his neck and your hand still against his face. caressing his skin, cradling him. “mhm… feel so good, noel… always… feel so good, baby…”

he moans as your fingers move, sliding into his messy hair, grabbing them gently, before he leans further down. lips finally finding your chest. you moan, your head tipping back as his mouth wraps around your nipple, kissing and sucking, tongue slow and messy, desperate in the softest way. his hands slide up your back to hold you closer, moaning into your skin as you start to ride him with a little more intent.

“fuck…” you breathe out, thumb stroking his cheek as you moan softly.

he pulls back just barely, lips pink and wet, eyes glassy and soft like he’s trying not to fall apart. you brush your thumb over his lower lip as you roll your hips, your clit bumping against his lower belly when you move up and down on him. he moans, eyebrows twitching and furrowing softly “wanna…” he whispers, voice breaking again, eyes glassy. “wanna be good for you…”, wrapping his arm around your bare waist and pulls you even closer, his other hand sliding up your chest and grabbing it. nose rubbing against the valley of your breasts and moaning against your skin.

you whisper, “you’re so good…”, and your hands find his face, making him face you. and you brush your lips against his, riding him slowly and moaning in his mouth just like he is. “so good… love the way you feel, noel…”

he moans, mouth chasing yours. “g-gonna…”

“yeah?…”

“p-please… y-yes…”

“cum inside me… fill me up, yeah?…”. and that makes him come undone. eyes tightening shut and needy moans leaving his mouth, his hips jerking up helplessly and lazily as he fills you up. his head drops foward softly, moaning against your skin, grateful as he completely lets go. and you hold him through it. palms sliding over the side of his neck, his shoulder, his chest…

and you don’t move even when his breathing finally slows down. still straddling him on the couch – both of you warm and loose-limbed, flushed and breaths blending into soft little tired laughs. you lift your hands to his face, cupping his cheeks, thumbs sweeping over the stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave. he leans into your touch immediately – actually melting – eyes half-closed, a low pleased sound slipping out of him before he can stop it.

“you okay?” – you ask quietly, and he nods. his chest going up and down, slow and heavy. and tight in a way it’s never been before.

“gonna have me purrin’ like a fucking cat if you keep that up” he mutters, voice rough and quiet from everything you two just did.

you laugh softly – “always liked cats…” – leaning down to press slow kisses across his cheeks, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the bump of his nose.

he laughs softly at your words, letting out a small huff and smiling tiredly. tipping his head up and chasing each one, soft little hums escaping him every time your lips kiss his face. “you’re unbelievably sweet when you’re tired, yknow”

you let out a little laugh, leaning in closer and whispering as you rub your nose against his: “mmm, don’t tell anyone. i’m supposed to be a bitch”

he laughs quietly, hands sliding up your back as he pulls you closer, staring at you for a second with his eyes soft in a way he doesn’t like anyone to see, but he doesn’t mind right now. “you’re not…”. you make a sleepy little sound at that before he kisses you again. slow, still dazed. “you’re pretty great, actually…”

you smile, tilting your head and looking at him while your hands trail down to his shoulders, his chest… he breaks into a small and tired smile, eyes fluttering at the feeling of your palms caressing him. he says quietly: “made you coffee”

you let out a tiny huff, hands sliding from his chest to his arms as you lean closer, giving him a small kiss on the lips: “you didn’t have to, baby”

“nah. know you like it”, he said quietly, kissing you back.

you smiled, lips lingering on his just a bit more because he was being annoyingly sweet. “i like the tea you make me, too”

he hummed softly, nose sliding towards your cheek and rubbing the skin slowly, like he was snuggling up to you while his hands caressing your lower back. “wanted you to have options”

you smiled, pulling away so you could watch your hands move towards his torso again. your fingers brushed the curve of his belly, taking in the way the small moles looked so cute in his pale skin, caressing it like you were trying to memorize it. and he huffs a little tired laugh, watching you watch him. “careful. my official beer belly, that”

you smile lazily, then you look up at him – taking in his features and not standing the way his little smile is as fond as yours. god, we’re pathetic. you shrug, voice quiet: “i like it…”

he leans his lips closer to your neck – kissing it lazily, slow and tender. then lower. lips lingering on your collarbones before they trail down to your chest. you let out a shaky exhale and smile, fingers slipping into his hair, holding his head between your hands and stopping him before you can actually melt at his kisses. and he lets you, lifting his head again. not minding being interrupted from kissing you if it meant he could just… look at you. look at your face that had the same fond expression he held as you looked back at him.

your thumbs stroke over his cheekbones, then up to the thick dark brows you’ve once teased him about. “they’re bushy” – you whisper, tracing them gently – “but they’re really pretty, you know”

and he says it before he even realises it’s leaving his mouth, just slipping out:

“i love you”

you blink. eyebrows raising slightly like you can’t help it, voice barely coming out:

“what?”

and then,

“what… the fuck”

your heads snap towards the door. because in the middle of this daze of sleepy touches and soft kisses, you didn’t hear it open. and noel didn’t hear the keys jiggling in the key lock.

and you didn’t hear footsteps. and noel didn’t even know that fucking liam had the fucking key to his front door.

and when your brains finally catch up: your breath leaves you in a single horrified noise – just a broken, mortified gasp – and noel is lunging sideways, grabbing for anything that can cover you right now. hand snatching the nearest blanket and yanking it so hard some cushions came with it. his hands pull the blanket around your shoulders sloppily enough to cover you, barely. you’re lucky your flight or fight allows you to do it properly, hands still shaking as you cover your chest and your legs over noel.

you curl into him and bury your face that’s burning against his neck. his arm coming around your back, shielding you and only then looking at his brother.

then, he snaps: “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN MY HOUSE?!”

“fucking hell i thought you two hated each other!”

“LIAM. WHAT ARE YOU-“

“jesus fucking christ, mate. when did this happen?”

“LIAM!”

“i have the key, man”, liam says raising his hand with the keys. casual and amused at the same time.

noel’s eyes widen like they’re about to pop off of his head. utterly and completely baffled at liam’s calm tone and the fucking phrase as if it explains things. and he actually stutters as he begins to shout: “AND WHY THE FUCK DO YOU HAVE THE KEY TO MY HOUSE”

liam shrugs, “dunno”

you groan into noel’s neck. this is a nightmare. and he’s still inside you. and noel, stunned like he has never been before and as red as a tomato with his arm still tight around you, screams again: “GET OUT!”

liam starts backing toward the door, shaking his head and muttering to himself, “when did this fucking happen… fucking hell, man”, and as he opens the door he leaves one last message. because he might not be actually little anymore, but he’ll always be noel’s annoying younger brother.

“nice tits, by the way”

“LIAM!”, noel shouts.

and the door closes behind a grinning liam with a small thud.

everything is quiet for a few seconds after it, just the sound of both of you breathing, still tangled together and minds going miles per hour trying to understand how much of it all liam actually saw.

noel exhales a shaky breath and you cover your face immediately, hands flying up to your cheeks because they’re burning, your whole body turning rigid with embarrassment.

and you’re the first one to break the silence:

“oh… my god”, you whisper into your palms.

noel lifts his head just enough to look at you, and he starts laughing. soft at first. then a little louder – eyes closing and then against your cheek, muffling it in your skin because he knows he shouldn’t find this funny. at all.

you shake him by the arms weakly, still smiling despite everything: “don’t laugh!”

but he can’t help it, he mumbles, breath warm against your skin: “i’m sorry, it’s just…”

you groan softly, shaking your head as his hands rub your back reassuringly. “i can never look at him again”

“and he’ll never let it go, i’m telling ya”, he says, letting out another helpless chuckle.

noel pulls away and smirks down you, shyly. “but hey” he says, his hand going up to your face just to brush your hair out of the way, “cat’s out of the bag now, huh?”. with his cheeks flushed, voice low and wrecked and fond in a way it makes your heart flutter – because he’s embarrassed too, but in this crooked, almost boyish endearing way that makes you laugh too.

and it’s quiet, the kind you try but can’t contain. breathy, disbelieving and nervous. and noel just watches you with that same soft, stunned look – his throat bobbing at the realization of what he said seconds before.

“cat’s out of the bag, yeah…” you repeat, whispering.

he smiles and nods, voice softer now. “properly launched into the fuckin’ stratosphere, actually. with the big mouth that one has”. you hide your face on the side of his neck with a groan again, and he huffs a shaky laugh, his hand finding the back of your head and caressing your hair. “but… that’s fine… right?”, he murmurs, almost hesitant, almost nervous.

and your heart feels so full it’s almost painful – pulling away to look at him as you nod, smiling. “yeah. it is”

“yeah?”, he asks, barely above a whisper.

and you whisper a quiet “mhm” as you caress his face before the cat’s really, definitely out of the bag:

“because i love you, too”

he freezes, just for a second before he breaks into a fond smile, eyes crinkling around the corners and flicking down to your lips, then back up, like he’s double-checking reality.

for half a second, you think he’s going to say yeah?

that cautious little habit, almost a reflex. that little questioning he always does when he doesn’t trust good things.

but instead, he huffs out a quiet, breathless laugh. almost embarrassed. almost shy.

“bushy eyebrows and everythin’?”

and it’s so him it almost hurts.

you smile – so hard your jaw aches – while one hand of yours rests gently on his chest, feeling his heart beating under your palm.

“mhm. love them to bits, noel gallagher” you murmur, teasing fondly.

his grin breaks fully at your words – pleased and boyish in a way he pretends he grew out of years ago. but his cheeks are still pink. and his eyes are so bright, like he’s trying very hard not to look too happy and failing miserably.

he lets out a soft huff, shaking his head. “you’re unbelievable, you are”, he says it with a smile. his hand comes up to your cheek again, thumb brushing your skin like he’s checking you’re still real.

“hm” he murmurs, nodding to himself. “guess i love your annoyin’ face as well.”

you exhale a little and genuine laugh, eyebrows raising. “guess?”

“yeah” he says, softer now. quieter. still smiling. his thumb keeps moving, gentle, absentminded.

your smile widens, the inside of your nose burning in that little annoying way it always does when you’re about to cry. happy tears, this time. “course you do. you’re, like…obsessed with me”, you tease.

he snorts, nose bumping into yours on purpose. normally, he’d tease your accent, the americanness of it all. but not right now – not when he’s so, stupidly, pathetically yours. “mhm. you and that pretty mouthy little mouth”

“you love it”, you say quietly.

he doesn’t even hesitate. “yeah. i do.”

there’s something almost shy about the way he says it. like admitting it out loud is still new territory, even now. his hands slide up your back, caressing and making your arms tighten around his neck from how painfully sweet this all is.

you bite down a little laugh, caressing his hair. “we’re gross”

“disgusting, yeah” he agrees fondly, pressing a kiss into your lips. then another. slower. lingering. you break into a small laugh, he does too. “s’pose you’ll have to keep me, then”

you huff out a small fond laugh, nodding softly. you slowly bring your palm towards his cheek and rest it there, caressing it softly. and you smile, tilting your head and looking at him with that undeniable glint you’ve had all along.

“yeah. i will”, you say softly.

he looks so yours.

and this time, you don’t talk yourself out of it.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ .

★ march, 1996.

when the invitation to the Q awards arrived for your band, you had to put on a proper-casual show to convince them to come.

“what, cmon! this invitation is for us, guys. good press, drinks, remember? gonna be fun, stop moping about it”

it took you a little persuading. hearing jack tease you about noel gallagher, the band obviously going along with it without him even having to mention the glasto kiss only he knew about – you brushing off with a laugh and roll of your eyes. throwing on the best poker face you could, because with the band’s latest schedule, it had become very difficult to actually make time to pay your secret… lover? fling? noel. your secret noel. a visit. so you had to really sell it, a little teasing wouldn’t hurt if it meant you succeeded in convincing your bandmates.

your drummer even chimed in, her eyebrows wiggling and a cheeky grin plastered all over her lips. “yeah, bet 100 dollars they’re either gonna fuck or end up in jail for bodily harm”

you cut her off with a laugh that’s a little too sarcastic. “ha. not even if you paid me a million bucks, dickhead.”

they all crack up. jack threw you a look – half knowing, half teasing – and you feel your stomach twist, because what’s really happening is so much bigger than just the glasto kiss he he knows about.

ah, he will find out when the timing is right. people might soon, too. but not today, not yet.

── .✦

your eyes still feel fuzzy from the cameras flashing even after you make your way inside the venue. and the ceremony is already buzzing – waiters serving champagne like water, celebrities scattered everywhere inside the hazy clouds of cigarette smoke.

and then, you see him. alongside some of his bandmates, a cigarette between his fingers and jacket half slung open, holding a glass that’s already his third and by now watered down. heads turn towards the gallaghers every time they move, who simply nod some of them in acknowledgment, occasionally patting some important producer guy on the shoulder and casually asking ‘alright?’.

a few steps and his eyes meet yours. glinting like they always do when you arrive in london. in a way that if someone stopped and stared at you two for one minute – they’d certainly notice how you both are pretending to not notice each other, and just go: oohhhh!

there’s no time to sneak off yet, you just got here for fuck sake. so you do what you’ve perfected over the last few months: you look away first, like he’s just another face in the room. like you don’t know that later tonight you’ll have his hands all over you.

and he lets you, not letting the small and almost shy smirk that grows on your lips pass by unnoticed, not pulling his gaze off of you every time you move either.

it’s a slow dance of glances after that – sometimes across the room, sometimes over the shoulders of other people you’re talking to. but always careful, charged, yours. mostly because you two know that you’ll eat each other faces off if you stand too close after being away for only a couple of weeks. god, we really are pathetic.

later, when the room has loosened into louder laughter and too many empty glasses over the guests table, your eyes find him once more.

and they are still looking at you, but this time, noel isn’t standing next to liam like he normally is. as a matter of fact, his brother is nowhere to be seen. and fucking noel is fucking talking to a fucking blonde bimbo you’ve never seen before.

is she an actress? singer? journalist? some polished industry rat who materialized out of thin air with a smile that just screams i wanna fuck a rockstar? fuck knows. and fuck cares. all you see is her hand resting on his arm, fingers curling like she belongs there.

you watch the scene unfold like it doesn’t bother you at all, like your eyes are just drifting from jack who is talking in your ear just because you’ve had too much to drink – which you haven’t, because you still need to go on stage. your chin rests on the palm of your head, elbow propped on the table, nodding slowly to everything your bassist says. watching how he doesn’t move away. watching him in a way you wished it actually burned him from the intensity.

well. he is single. technically. isn’t he? it’s not like… you know. you two are dating, dating. but… you know. and people don’t know about your… well, whatever you two have going on. i mean, we- well. have something? going on? yeah, you do. i mean, we do, right? right.

but who fucking cares? fucking sue me. fuck it! i don’t need a reason to be jealous.

“you’ve been there, right?”

jack’s voice snap you out of it, a soft ‘hm?’ coming out of you that’s understood by him as an innocent distraction, not bitter and stupidly jealous busy staring at my secret… noel. whatever the fuck he is.

“brazil, you were there for new years”

“oh, yeah. i have. it’s gorgeous”, you lie. blatantly. but you’re good at it, so…

“i’m excited to go, george said it’s really great in the summer”

your eyebrows raise softly, your lips curling up in a genuine and warm smile as your hand reaches out to jack’s arm. “ohh, it’s gonna be so great! you’re gonna have such a good time there”, you say excitedly, fingers squeezing jack’s arm softly.

he smiles, already telling you something else when you feel it. that shift in the air – a possessive and magnetic, weirdly exciting, energy coming from that same corner you were staring at seconds ago.

you don’t even have to look to know, but you do anyway. noel’s gaze on you, dangerously deliberate. not casual or polite. the kind of stare that makes you want to flick his arm since it definitely doesn’t belong in a room full of cameras.

and you can’t help but raise your eyebrows at him across the room, slow and deliberate. then turn back to jack, leaning in just a bit closer as he keeps talking.

it’s petty. you know it is. but he started it, didn’t he?

“by the way, where’s drummer girl?”, jack asks. blissfully unaware and genuinely curious to where the fuck your dear bandmate has vanished off to. you simply shrug, pretending like you’re 100% into the conversation and not bubbling up with mixed feelings of jealousy, hunger and anticipation after this little exchange.

a stagehand tapping your shoulder bursts this bubble you’re far too caught up in. “excuse me, miss. you’re up in 10”

you nod once, muttering a small “yeah, thanks” while standing up and making your way backstage. once you’re there, a small cheeky smile grows on your face at the outfit you had agreed on wearing for the sake of doing the girl band justice. so, when you step on the stage, you don’t come back out in the black dress you’d arrived in.

instead, the lights catch the red, white and blue of a union jack skirt – glittery and with sequins, properly spice girl coded, matched with a top that was really flattering. too flattering, if you asked a certain someone in the audience.

there’s a ripple through the room when you walk out, a small laugh coming out of you once you hear a few whistles coming from some friends and far too drunk men – morphing into a small smirk once you finally spot his table. it’s small, but you can see him shaking his head like he can’t decide if he wants to kill you or kiss the living daylights of you.

you take the mic with a grin. “okay, before anyone says anything. yes, i’m american. but tonight i’m borrowing your flag. because if anyone deserves this kind of homage, it’s these girls”

soft laughter spreads through the room. and after a few tender words, you introduce the spice girls on stage. the applause swells – and through it all, noel doesn’t clap right away. he just watches you, eyes dark with annoyance, amusement and hunger all at once. chewing a piece of gum in a way you can just tell you got him. you so got him. that’s why you walk off the stage with a cheeky grin on your lips, while feeling eyes tracking every sway of the ridiculously tiny and arousing skirt.

── .✦

when you step down, the noise rises again – already back in your dress and people coming up and chatting almost distracting your head from the moment only you two secretly shared, despite being in front of the whole venue.

and it doesn’t take that long before your paths properly cross for the first time tonight. you’re leaning on the bar, smoking a cigarette and nursing an almost forgotten drink – not even having two minutes of peace before he stands beside you. ordering a drink from himself and mirroring you as he rests his arms on the table.

standing beside you without a word. close enough that you feel the heat of him without anyone noticing, despite them certainly paying attention.

so, you keep your eyes forward, taking a sip of your drink. after swallowing, you murmur, quiet and flat, “what.”

the smoke curls lazily between you two, his fingers drumming once against the edge of the bar before he stills them, leaning in closer to your ear and keeping his eyes ahead. his voice low in a way it makes you want to rip his clothes off right there.

“you’re fucking unbelievable, you know.”

but, you don’t turn either. you just lift your eyebrows slowly, almost amused. “funny” – you murmur, taking a drag of your cigarette, let it linger like you’re unbothered – “was thinking the same”

he shakes his head slowly and discreetly, almost to himself as he whispers in your ear again – accent dragging out in the way you know he’s doing on purpose, simply because he knows the effect it has on you. “actin’ like a fucking brat, you are”

you don’t answer, just keeping your eyes off of him. like he isn’t standing right there. like your pulse isn’t doing that stupid thing it always does when he talks like that. you exhale carefully, slowly.

noel watches the smoke curl. licking his lips, then he leans in again, closer this time – still public, still proper. infuriating. sexy fucking bastard.

“don’t care about you in that flag” he murmurs, voice quiet, deliberate. “i’m irish, remember”

he states like he has the upper hand.

but he never does. he might do with everyone else, but not with you, no. you know it and he does too. so, your lips twitch before you can stop them. you tilt your head just slightly – enough to look at him. still proper. innocently, almost.

“bet you won’t care about my union jack lingerie then”, you whisper.

he stiffens, barely. just for a second.

then he lets out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose, shaking his head faintly. “you’re taking the piss”

you don’t answer. you just blink slowly and take another drag of your cigarette, deliberate and almost teasing. another sharp, heated, annoyed huff leaves his nose at your lack of response.

because that only ever means one thing.

the bartender places his drink in front of him. but his head is somewhere else completely.

“yeah” he mutters, already done pretending. “we’re going back to the hotel now”

your brows furrow softly in mock innocence, tone light and quiet. “what? thought you were enjoying the attention that blonde bimbo was giving you”

he doesn’t adress your little remark, not really. just shakes his head once, a short scoff leaving his lips. “yeah”, he breathes out. sarcastic, annoyed, aroused, fucking insane the way he always is when it comes to you. “driver will take you. fucking dickhead”

and then, he’s gone. leaving you at the bar with your cigarette burning low and the knowledge that this night is nowhere near over.

── .✦

you’re still annoyed as you walk down the hallway. about the blonde, about his arrogance, about the way you just know you’re going to give in the second his mouth is on yours. the carpet muffling the click of your heels as you practically march toward his suite.

once you get to his door, you don't even get to knock twice. the door swings open with your hand mid air, and there he is. jacket long forgotten, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down, his hair a mess and pupils blown wide from the coke he’s definitely going to offer you once you two fuck it out – truly looking like a man who’s been pacing the room for the last twenty minutes.

”took your fucking time” he grumbles, pulling you inside by the waist.

”had to finish my drink, didn't i? you were so busy rushing off, flirting” you snap, kicking the door shut with the heel of your shoe.

”thats what it is, huh? jealous?” he mutters, a smug smirk on his face as he presses himself closer, chin tipped up and eyes scanning your face with that territorial glint that makes you pathetically clench around nothing. completely convinced he’s fucking got you. “think you’re the only one that gets to do it? hm? parading around in that fuckin’ skirt, looking like a fucking spice girl? letting jack whisper in your ear. playing sweet american girl, innit?”

”oh, fuck off, noel” you shove at his chest, your voice sharp. “you’re the one that’s jealous”

”yeah. so?” he scoffs, his hand pulling you impossibly closer, hungry, missing you far more than he’ll admit with words, at least right now. “been wanting to rip that dress off you since you walked in”

and before you can reply, his mouth is on yours – a hungry, angry collision that tastes like champagne, cigarettes and the hotel’s mini-fridge lager all together. desperate, longing. just like you, your hands finding his hair and grabbing it hard, pulling him closer as you kiss him back. fucking finally.

you pull away with a broken moan, lips already swollen and red, looking at him with desire written all over it. “piss off” you breathe, but your hands are already moving to your dress.

you fumble with the fabric for a bit, chest heaving and a moan slipping out when his mouth finds your neck – kissing the skin eagerly, making you loose track of what you were trying to do. his fingers slide up the back of your neck, your head tipping back on your own as his hands grab your hair. tender and hungry at the same time. you let out a muttered and breathy curse, your feet moving forward and shifting both of you until the back of his knees hit the matress. you finish the job, your palm against his chest pushing him back on the bed.

he stumbles slightly – already drunk on you and whatever they were serving back at the venue – falling onto the mattress and propping himself up on his palms, watching you with a smug smirk on his face, despite his breathing seems ragged.

but you don’t mention it, not when yours is too.

”gonna slap me again, then?” he asks, his voice dripping with challenge, the smirk permanent on his mouth.

you reach for the zipper of your dress, undoing it as you shake your head, sliding it down until the fabric pools at your ankles, leaving you in nothing but the star of the night – red, white, and blue sequins and delicate lace, mimicking the iconic flag he allegedly didn’t care about.

but the ragged breath that leaves his mouth says otherwise. his eyebrows furrowing for a brief moment and a low moan coming out of his mouth just at the sight of you.

you tilt your head, licking your licks in attempt to fight a little smirk. “ask nicely and i might”, you say sweetly, taunting. stepping in between his legs that are spread on the edge of the bed. watching noel go absolutely feral – letting out a sound that’s half-growl, half-shudder. blue eyes traveling over the union jack lace like he’s trying to memorize the way the light hits every sequin. and he’s on you in a second, hands grabbing you needily and pulling you into his lap, his mouth finding yours and swallowing down the small gasp you let out, as he mutters something nearly incomprehensible about how “fucking mad” you drive him.

your hands find his hair once again, not minding the mess – getting drunk on it as a matter of fact. sharing a sloppy and needy kiss, grinding on his clothed erection, moaning inside his mouth while your hands slide down to the buttons of his shirt. another needy moan escapes from your lips as his hands grab your ass and pull you closer, your head tipping back as his mouth attacks your neck once again.

you manage to breathe out, still taunting, your hands eagerly pulling his shirt off. “thought… you didn’t care about it, hm?”. all your cockiness being stripped away by him manhandling you, shifting your body until your back is flat on the matress. his hands immediately finding your legs and grabbing them harshly as he pants – spreading you until your thighs are almost pressed on the bed and his head is between them.

he spits out: “shut the fuck up”, as his two fingers hook on the small and drenched patch of fabric right above your core, pulling them to the side and cutting of whatever little taunt you were going to throw back as his mouth wraps around your folds. getting a loud and shaky gasp out of you as he moves his tongue like he’s been starving all night.

you throw your head back, mouth agape and choking out a needy moan at the eagerness of his tongue sliding up and down your cunt – his nose even bumping against your clit when your hips twitch up, his fingers digging in your skin in attempt to keep you still. he mutters out a curse against your wetness and pulls his hand away just to undo his trousers, pushing them off eagerly.

your hand finds his messy hair at the same time his find his own leaking length, wrapping around it and squeezing just to give himself a small relief – his attempt truly going to shit when his wet tongue presses flatly against your clit, sliding side to side sloppily before wrapping his lips and sucking the sensitive bundle of nerves. you let out a high pitched needy moan, his name coming out of your mouth in the prettiest way, and he can’t help it but give his cock steady and slow strokes, moaning at the sensation of his pre cum making a small mess over the sheets already.

you moan out his name, breathy and needy, nails digging into the back of his neck while your head props up to look at him. your eyebrows furrow at the sight, mouth falling agape and choking out a moan. you fist his hair softly, only that breaking the daze that he’s in, eyes fluttering open – droopy and already glassy when he meets your gaze.

and he understands. obviously. pulling off reluctantly from between your legs, chin and lips glistening. his hands frantic as he fully frees himself of his half-undone pants, thrown over the floor in a matter of seconds.

he settles between your legs, the front of his thighs pushing your legs and making them settle around his hips as you both pant. your hands move between his hair, his neck and his face – all what you’ve been missing of him slipping out in this eager gesture. his fingers unlike yours, are much more focused, busy with pulling your drenched and fumbled knickers to the side while lining himself up with your pulsing entrance and pushing in.

he grunts out a low “fuck” at your tightness and starts moving right away. his hips pounding into you making you throw your head back, your moans mixing with the wet sounds of his cock slamming into your cunt in a frantic yet delicious pace – the jealousy fueling every thrust, his hands shakily reach for your neck and wrapping around it, the coldness of his ring against your pulse point making your eyes flutter shut. every time his cock bullies that spot inside you, a moan comes out in a choked out and absolutely gone manner – hoarse, needy and shaky. your hands fumbling and pulling his hair.

your head is thrown back, eyes tightly shut and nails digging in his neck. his eyes are droopy, glassy with desire, but not pulling away from your reaction for even a second. his mouth is agape, breathy and low moans coming out of him and eyebrows furrowing with every stroke he gives you. he shakes his head once at the sight, almost to himself. you miss the way he watches you like he’s hypnotized, head tilting down so he can see the way your tits covered by the bra fabric bounces softly every time he moves. the way there’s a thin layer of sweat over his and your torso, the way the small patch of well groomed hair over his crotch is now glistening with your slickness.

however, you don’t miss the way he slows down – your eyebrows furrowing before your eyes even open, moans coming out needier and whinier at the change of pace. your eyes dart open with struggle once he fully stalls his movements, still hovering over you, his mouth still agape and his breathing raggedly evening out. you shake your head confused as he just stays there, buried inside you, unmoving.

“n-no...”, you whimper, arching your back, your fingers curling around the back of his neck. breathing and slurring out: “don't stop noel, why’d you stop?”, your fingers sliding down and digging into his shoulders, begging for the friction to return.

he lets out a long, shaky exhale, his expression shifting into something so fond it makes your chest ache. he shakes his head slowly while his hand finds the side of your cheek.

your eyebrows furrow softly at the sudden change, and you ask quietly, almost shyly given the intensity he’s looking at you. “what?…”

“just… fucking missed you, you know”, he whispers, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip, shaking his head. his accent thick and heavy with the truth he’s finally letting out.

you let out a quiet, disbelieving and timid laugh, shaking your head against the pillow while closing your eyes again. “noel...”

”no, really did” he insists, his gaze searching yours, honest. his hand now brushing out the messy hair strands on your face.

”it’s been like... what, three weeks?” you tease, tone quiet, although your heart is doing cartwheels.

”mhm… i know”, he whispers, leaning in and kissing your lips softly. too tender for your own good.

”didn’t look like it when you were talking to that girl”, you whisper against his lips, the last flicker of your jealousy that’s very much still there slipping out. and you're shy about it, embarrassed by how much it mattered.

noel lets out a short, airy laugh, looking down at you – messy, breathless, your lips swollen and glistening with his own spit. fucking gorgeous. “look at you right now” he says, his voice dropping, almost reverent. “think i want a random fucking girl when i've got this?”

your breath catches in your throat as he begins to move again, different this time. slow, deep, steady. agonizingly intimate, making it not so easy anymore to disguise what’s buried deep inside your chest when he’s fucking you like this. he leans down, his palm against the side of your cheek, his eyes fixated on yours, taking in the way they’re glassy with desire, the way your brows furrow softly and your breath hitches when he pushes out, then in. devastatingly slow – devastatingly perfect, all this.

”fittest girl in the room” he whispers, his mouth falling agape in pleasure, mirroring you when you moan at his deep thrust. “that’s it, love” he breathes out, hot against your skin. “just for me. fucking gorgeous, you are”, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, keeping them locked around his waist.

he props himself up on one of his elbows, the other hand caressing your face again. his thumbs trails closer to your bottom lip, pressing down softly. and you part them, tongue slowly darting out before your lips close around his digit, a small tear from pleasure or maybe from the intensity of it all gathering in the corner of your eye, because he isn't the arrogant rockstar right now, the prick he can be. he’s just noel, your noel. the same he always is when you two are alone. the same noel he has been all along, just now there’s no point in denying anymore – not when he’s looking at you like you’re the fucking sun and the moon.

and it’s fucking scary, so you deflect. naturally. unwrapping your lips from his thumb and muttering against it, so quietly he almost misses it. voice trembling and lips wet, “what’s with the pace, hm?” you tease, or at least try to. whimpering and stuttering with every deep thrust, despite your best efforts to look unaffected. you reach up, tracing his cheekbone with a shaky finger, trying to regain some of that pettiness from the venue, forcing a small and weak smile. “trying not to cum too fast?”

noel huffs a short laugh, eyes glinting. he doesn't speed up, if anything, he pushes deeper, staying there for a beat just to feel you pulse around him. his pupils are blown wide, fixed on yours, stripping away every bit of yourself you’re trying to hide. “nah,” he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that makes your toes curl. he strokes out, then back in, slow and deliberate, almost torturous. licking his lips and raising his brows softly when you can’t stifle a moan in, your mouth falling agape, your bottom lip bumping into his thumb that’s now resting on your chin – still glistening with your spit. and he smirks, his tone quiet, taunting and adoring all at once: “not worried about that. cause you’re gonna let me do it again... and again... aren’t you, love?”

your breath hitches as he leans down to trail kisses along your jawline, his hands sliding down to catch yours, interlacing your fingers and pinning them against the matress. he’s being so gentle it’s almost overwhelming, a stark contrast to the petty digs you were trading only an hour ago. in between a moan, you can’t help it, whispering “fuck, y-yeah…”

“yeah?” he whispers in your ear, his hands squeezing yours. “gonna let me stay… fucking deep inside this pretty cunt all night? ‘til you can't remember your own name? jack's, hm?”

you can only nod, your breath coming out hitched, heavy. your fingers intertwining even tighter with his in an attempt to keep him this close, while his name keeps rolling off your tongue like it’s the only thing you know.

and the moment he lifts his head back up, his eyes meeting yours, all the teasing is gone. all hiding behind the pettiness is out the window. the walls you try to build are fucking shattered. can’t be up, not like this. not when he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. and everything is replaced by a raw, heavy desperation – completely needy for the weight of him, for the way he’s filling every void you felt over the last weeks without him.

“yes… noel… please”, you whisper. moaning as a plea.

”there she is”, he coos, his movements slow and agonizingly deliberate. “there’s my girl. mine tonight, yeah? tell me."

“y-yours, baby… noel, fuck… d-don’t stop…”, you whimper, and the moments his hands let go of yours, your fingers find the back of his neck, squeezing softly and pulling him impossibly closer. your legs tightening around his hips – like him pulling away another inch is just too far – making him speed his thrusts up just slightly.

he drives into you again, and again. and again. his eyes never leaving yours. watching every time you gasp his name and answering with a low moan. “didn't you miss me?… hm?”

you nod eagerly, eyes droopy and glassy as the tension finally snaps. noel swallows your moans with a kiss, holding you close, his heart hammering against his chest in the exact same frantic rhythm as yours.

he hums, a low, vibration of a sound that you feel deep in your marrow, his hips never faltering from that steady rhythm, the sounds of his skin slapping against yours getting louder, so are your moans and his. “missed me how much, darling? say it proper”

”so much, fuck…”, you moan, your back arching off the mattress as he hits that specific spot again. your hands grabbing his shoulders, nails sliding on his back. “missed you, noel…”

“yeah?”, he asks quietly, almost taunting. definitely satisfied. “say it again”. his hands move to the front of the union jack lace, not even bothering to undo the clasp, simply hooking his palm under the wire, shoving it up and out of the way. your breasts spill out, heavy and aching, nipples already hard from arousal. he lets out a jagged moan, his hands immediately coming up to weigh them, squeezing firmly. his hips speeding up.

“noel… f-fuck. m-missed you, baby, please…”

he leans down with a moan, taking one of your nipples into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the bud while his cock slides in and out your wet entrance. your nails leaving red traces on his pale skin as you moan his name, clenching around him. your fingers find his hair, grabbing and pulling him back into a messy, needy kiss.

”missed this”, he moans against your lips, completely lost in you. “missed you driving me fucking mental”, the phrase is cut short by his tongue sliding against yours hungrily. you choke out a moan when his thumb presses down on your sensitive clit over the fabric, messily rubbing it – enough to bring you close to the edge. “missed you. missed the way you look at me. missed how you feel like this”. you're trembling, too many words stuck in your throat thankfully drowned out by your needy moans. leaving you bare, too sensitive.

“g-gonna c-cum. fuck, gonna cum, noel…”, you breathe out.

“yeah, go on”, he moans against your lips, his thumb rubbing circles into the sensitive bundle of nerves even as he continues to hammer into you. “cum for me, love. let me feel it, yeah?”

the world narrows down to the feeling of his cock inside you and his finger rubbing your slick clit. the wet sound of his skin on yours and his moans tipping you over – pulling a loud and broken moan from you, clamping around his length as your orgasm washes over you. and he follows right after, a low, deep moan out of him muffled as he buries his face on the side of your neck as he gives a few more sloppy thrusts before his body tenses while a string of low, incoherent curses fall from his lips. and he stays there, buried deep inside you as he empties himself, broken moans escaping from his lips as his hips twitch just like his cock inside you. his torso stays heavy over you, his chest rising and falling from his panting, his forehead resting against the side of your face as your ragged breaths fill the room.

after a while, his chest slowly begins to sync with yours. and he still doesn’t pull away, neither do you. your hands slide between the back of his neck and his shoulder blades to keep him close. he barely shifts his weight onto his elbow to keep from crushing you, though he doesn’t pull out just yet.

he nudges his nose against yours. his eyes fluttering open, still slightly unfocused and filled with that same softness. he reaches up, his thumb idly tracing the line of your swollen lower lip.

you look up at him, your heart still thudding from the reality of how much you just let show starts to settle in. the shyness creeps back, making you want to hide your face in the crook of his neck. instead, you let out a soft, huffed breath, eyes fluttering shut and your bottom lip bumping into his finger as you mutter: “you’re a fucking dick, by the way”

noel lets out a low laugh, not offended – if anything, he looks smug, a lazy and spent grin curving the corners of his lips. “oh, i know”, he murmurs, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. “but why? hm? what’ve i done now?”

you roll your eyes, though there’s no bite in it. your fingers mindlessly playing with the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “fucking a confession out of me” you whisper, cheeks heating up. “waiting until i’m like… this to make me say it”

he laughs again, properly this time, sliding his palm across your forehead to push the messy strands out of the way. “worked, didn’t it?”, he says softly, a boyish satisfied and fond grin on his lips. you let out a breathy laugh despite the sudden shyness – quite alarming, to be honest. because you know what it means.

he shifts slightly, a slow movement that makes you wrap your thighs a little tighter around his waist. and he catches it with a flicker of pride in his eyes. he leans in closer, his lips brushing yours as he whispers, “just wanted you to put your money where your mouth is, love.“

you bite down a grin from forming, shaking your head at him. failing to contain it when you see him already smiling, his brows raising like he’s just proved his point. “i was actually very busy being annoyed at you”, you whisper. defeated.

“mhm. course you were”, he hums, his hand sliding down from your face to rest over your chest, feeling the way your heart is still racing. he stays quiet for a moment, just breathing you in.

you let out a small laugh at the gentleness. “don’t get smug, alright?”

he lets out a breathy laugh at the retort, nodding his head softly. “won’t”, and for the first time, he actually means it.

you let out a tiny huff of a laughter, your lips curled into a small shy smile slowly morphing back to normal as you look at him. you inhale deeply, reaching up a hand to slide it down his cheek – and he just watches you, leaning into the touch and not missing the way you look at him while you do it.

“i missed you”, you confess in a whisper.

and his eyes glint the exact moment you say it, a small smile forming on his lips. “i know”, he says quietly. not smug, just honest. he leans down slowly, kissing you in a way that’s painfully sweet. “missed you too”

── .✦

the room is quiet now. the union jack lingerie somewhere thrown over the floor, noel propped up against the headboard, completely bare and barely covered by the sheets, just like you. his hair a complete mess, while your head rests over his chest, his fingers absentmindedly caressing your scalp. legs intertwined and relaxed under the covers.

you hold a crinkly silver packet of peanuts scavenged from the minibar – the most pathetic post-sex banquet in london, but you two were too lazy to even pick up the phone and order some proper room service. doesn’t even matter though, feels like a five-star meal.

you dig out a peanut, tossing it into your mouth before holding one up to his lips. noel leans forward, taking it from your fingers his hand mindlessly playing with a lock of your hair.

”alright, i've got one” – he murmurs while chewing, voice still raspy and spent – “would you rather... have dinner with freddie mercury or hendrix?”

you don't even hesitate. “oh, mercury. easy.”

noel pulls back slightly, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow. “really?”

“i mean, hendrix is a god, obviously”, you say, feeding him another peanut. “but freddie?”, you shake your head, a small puff coming out of your lips as you eat another small handful of peanuts. “i adore the man”

“yeah?”, he asks quietly. and you can hear the smile on his voice.

you nod. "mhm, dressed up as him for halloween once. the 'i want to break free' video. whole thing"

noel laughs – real, surprised, fond. his brows raising mid-chew, looking at you with amusement. “fuck off” he says, tone genuine, “mustache and everything?”

”mhm” you hum proudly, nodding and grinning up at him.

noel shakes his head, his eyes bright with amusement and that lingering, the fondness you’re already used to behind closed doors. “yeah? did y'grow it out or summat?”

“ha ha”, you deadpan, poking him softly in the ribs.

he let out a breathy genuine laugh, shaking his head and rubbing his fingertips on your scalp while leaning in to leave a kiss on your hair. “i’d pay good fuckin’ money to see that”, he mutters, his hand sliding down to the side of your neck until it rests on your shoulder. “fuckin’ unbelievable, you are. never dated a girl that wants to be freddie mercury”

you let out a soft huff of a laughter. “ohhhh… dating, are we?”, you tease softly, looking up at him through your lashes.

he huffs out a laugh, too. shaking his head softly at your cheeky tone. “yeah, yeah. don’t be a cunt”, but he says it gently, and his hand slides down your neck in a way that feels familiar and careful, not careless at all. only pulling away reluctantly to reach to the floor where his pants are. you prop your head up from his chest, allowing him to move and watching him grunt and mutter a small “fuck” as he fumbles with the tight pocket.

a few seconds of struggling after, he leans back on the bed with the small package in his hand and a triumphant grin on his face. you shift, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him, eyebrows raising softly and a fond smile growing on your face followed by a small laugh after.

he settles back on the pillow, nudging his head and muttering a small “come on” while he opens the small baggie, his lips curled up softly. you let out a soft huff of a laugh, leaning closer and looking at him put a small amount of powder on the back of his hand.

his eyes meet yours again, a small huff coming out of him, smiling softly. he settles the baggie on the mattress and slide his hand on the side of your head, gathering your hair in a loose ponytail to get it out of the way and whispering gently: “cmon”, he nudges his head again, lips curving in that lazy, crooked way you know far too well.

you lean in with an almost shy smile, nose sniffing the small line he formed on the back of his hand. there’s a softness in his eyes as he watched you – still playful, still cocky, but quieter. private. like the rest of the world could burn down outside the hotel windows and he’d still be right here, exactly like this.

he watches you for a second longer than necessary, that’s why when you lift your head your eyes meet his.

you don’t move away. and you just look back at him. really look. and it makes something in your chest feel too full.

his brows lift softly in that familiar teasing manner. “what?”, he murmurs – using the same tone you’d used on him a few minutes ago, voice low and amused.

you smile before you even mean to. small. soft. almost shy. and you shake your head slowly, tone quiet: “you don’t have to worry about jack”. not defensive, just honest.

his mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to smile too much.“yeah?”, he murmurs, “cause y’seemed pretty fuckin’ cozy with him today”

you let out a quiet laugh, nodding softly and saying in almost a whisper. “trust me, alright?”, you reach your hand out, pinching his nose and laughing at the way his eyes crinkle as he closes them. “don’t get your panties in a twist”

he lets out a quiet huff of a laugh, eyes opening and drifting over your face in that slow, familiar way – like he’s memorising you again, just in case. “right”, he says, nodding softly, “alright, then”. you can hear the teasing in it, but there’s relief under it too. something gentler.

you shift a little closer, his hand lifting toward your mouth without thinking. and you press your lips to his knuckles in a soft gesture. he smiles softly, palm sliding towards your cheek and giving it two affectionate little slaps. “sweetest little mind-fuck, y’are”

“shut up”, you muttered, though the smirk on your face gives you away.

he leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your lips – his lips softly curled up just like yours. “ah, just missed your annoying face, didn't i?”

”annoying face who’s feeding you the hotel mini bar peanuts. post coital. very romantic, no?”, you corrected between kisses, between a little breathy laugh that’s escaping your lips.

and he huffed out a laugh, too. shaking his head and brows raising like he’s dead serious. “yeah and fucking expensive, those. lucky i’m a millionaire”

you let out a breathy and fond laugh. rolling your eyes and pulling his hand up to bite gently at his knuckles. “soooo humble too, aren’t you?”.

he laughs, hand teasingly finding your cheek and pulling you into another tender kiss. “yeah yeah, y’love it when i’m like this”, he says quietly in between pecks.

you simply hum in response, kissing him back and smiling. but the way he pulls you in again – not rushed, just close – tells you that he knows the answer either of you are willing to admit out loud just yet.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ .