Greetings

His first bottle, he drank down in a respectable amount of time. Poured right down his throat with the sweat gathering on its body, condensing in his palms as he shoved it aside and flicked his eyes across the room. Boredly looking for something, anything, to perhaps entertain him, or lead to entertaining him. And when he came to the thought that he was in a dingy old pub in the back of the streets—a good alleyway or two too far for a cute bird to notice and enter, he considered there to be none.

He ordered a second bottle as a consequence of that. Figured life was too cruel for his boredom and didn't want to reward him with anything as a result of such. Or that maybe, just maybe, his mistakes blurred in the lines of what was truly wrong and what he’d next commit had he been lucky, and with more thought—of punishments and cruelty and what he outright didn't deserve (to his reasoning)—he didn't realise he’d finished the second bottle; looked down confusedly in the rim as though there’d magically be more liquid if he forced it to be. Disappointed there was none, he ordered a third.

Slowly, this time. Just a buzz, blurring the edges of his mind, his goal for ‘til he forgot that’s what he came for. And settling in his seat, he allowed himself to slouch, with a grunt and a sigh as he turned his head over his shoulder. With his eyes, he scanned the area again, hoping even just mildly that he’d have more luck than he or his circumstances gave him credit. But what an unlucky fucking bastard, I am, he thought, when he saw nothing worth turning his head for. 

Then in the corner of his eyes, he caught a girl that looked too familiar. A blast from the fucking past, is what he’d call it. From when he was in secondary school and his biggest problems were his da and his mam and his stupid cunt of a brother and you were his greatest relief. He checked his watch to see if it was still ticking; perhaps he misjudged life a bit too much. 

He downed a third drink before he could gather the courage to even think of going there, however. Of going up to you and disturbing the happy little bubble you seemed to be so caught up in. Smiling, laughing—too much for what he considered of himself a rather miserable  comparison. Besides, he figured it’d have been too long for you to remember him, anyway. With what— of how many years it had been? 15? 20? He couldn't bother himself with counting. 

Just let the weight of his decision become as clear to him as the sound of gold scraping against wood when he let himself nervously drag his palm against the counter. Heavy on his finger, as he’d spent a grand amount of money on it, but still worth essentially nothing in the moment. So he ignored it, instead opting for another drink. No use going with an empty stomach. 

And maybe that weight wasn't as significant as it presented itself to be. Either that or the fourth drink convinced him well—stupidly well—enough to slip his ring off and shove it haphazardly down the pocket of his fifth pair of black jeans, making sure it was stuck before he considered any other move. 

The fourth only had him halfway before he thought fuck all to himself and decided to shove two fingers up in front of consequences’ face. Standing up, still holding his beer as he gathered all the courage he had in one, messy heap in his free hand. Ignoring the mark on his ring finger and hoping you’d ignore it too. Waiting for the person opposite you—a guy around your age; his age; brown hair; casual clothing; nothing too significant for him to take much note of—before he walked towards, spending around a few seconds too long standing around looking like a right idiot.

“Hey,” he cleared his throat. Double guessing now if it really was you. Prepared to flee if it weren't. Marking out in his mind the embarrassment of everything that’d follow if that were the case. An apology, then he’d slip his ring back on, then he’d go back to being miserable in the corner.

“Noel?” It caught him by surprise, and with a smile and a breath of relief, he said your name in response. Carefully, as if he was trying to remember it, knowing very well he never forgot. 

“Been a while.” A shrug of his shoulders, squeezing into the seat in front of you. Hands clasped against the other as he set his beer down to the side. 

“I know,” you said, smiling, leaning forwards with your elbow on the table and your head in your palm, and he didn't know if it was the alcohol or the nostalgia or the heady mix of both, but either of the three seemed well meaning enough to explain why your action made him feel like he was back in Burmage. Back before he even met Clint or Johnny fucking Marr. And he didn't know if it was a good feeling or a bad one, and he’d much rather not want to. Too afraid it’d ruin the mood he so expensively (as the economy’s in a rather shitty endeavour these days) built. 

“How’ve you been?” A bit safe, perhaps a bit too safe for his liking. But he preferred it over potentially fucking everything up. He waited too long for this. 

“... Decent.” A pause, licking your lips. Awkward, even with all the years behind. “You?” 

“Decent as well.” Laughing, shaking his head. 

“What’re you doing here?” you asked, taking a sip of your own drink. Eyeing him down too much through it, or at least he felt like you were. He shifted in his seat, suddenly conscious.

“Huh?” 

“You, dingy old pub. Well— not too surprised, considering you're… well, you.” A chuckle from him to lighten up the mood. “But yeah, what led you here?” 

“Dunno.” He smacked his lips, lamenting on the why. He knew the exact reason, knew it better enough that he didn't even bother ordering a pint for it. He just didn't know if that information would get in the way later. So he did what he did second-best, lie. “Just felt like it.” 

“Yeah?” Tilting your head, not quite believing him. He covered it up with a laugh, “... Yeah.” 

Then, changing the topic, “Who's he?” Nodding in the direction of the bathroom. Same guy from earlier walking out, catching the two of you then moving to another direction when you shook your head and mouthed something he didn’t see. The man didn’t look particularly pleased with you for that, but he obliged, anyway. Probably not a boyfriend then. But that didn’t lure away the prospect of you actually having one either. 

“... Friend of mine.” He was suspicious. Then, realising he had no right to be, he just nodded.

“Really?” 

“Yeah, really.” Swallowing, looking up at him. Tilting your head, you pointed, “Bit old now, no?” Your finger directed straight at his grey hair. Scoffing, he swatted your hand away. “Oi” 

“What?” Playful, with a smile plastered on your face again. He decided best to play along.

“You’ve got some greys too. Over here, like—” He lifted his hand to point as well, waving through the front of your hair at its peak. 

“You’ve got ‘em all over!” you defended, and he shook his head struggling to find a response. “Yeah, well—” Nothing came out. “Fuckin’ hell…” 

“So,” He looked up, attention diverted back to you, as you always did to him. “You come over here for any reason other than missing me?”

Swallowing, he shook his head. “No, no reason.”

“Other than that, I guess."

He didn't know how it each led to the next. Like a domino effect he couldn’t any longer pinpoint the start of. Just like any other experience with you. Grey hairs or not. Where he could never tell who started it, him or you, yet the other always seemed to play into it, anyway. No matter the feelings that followed during or after. 

It came to him in blurry pieces as he sat in the back of a cab—which he duly noted needed a fucking NDA, at the rate the two of you were going—adjacent to the blurry pieces of film that’d get overexposed during the dozens of photoshoots he did back in his day. The ones he sometimes got to keep and he for some reason did, despite throwing it away the next time he cleared out his house when he noticed too much clutter. 

Out of the dirty studio seats from the nasty old pub. Then off to the pavement while you reminisced on your youth, which, he blamed on the alcohol, led to him abruptly kissing you and you pushing him off. Briefly dousing him in a sudden wave of regret and a surge of apologies before you pulled him back in for seconds. Which, well, he just accepted. Gladly, too

And when you caught a cab, he drunkenly flailed to the side of the seat, barely thinking, before he kissed you again and you pushed him off—not now!—like the fucking tease you were. Only for your hands to find him where he was most sensitive over his jeans a minute later, under the guise of pulling his hand away and shoving it to his lap, only to press it down harshly on the softness of his cock in hopes of getting it harder. 

And when it did, albeit slower than before, he just held his breath as he tried his best to keep still, paranoically flitting his eyes to the taxi driver and back. To you; looking at the window and then back to him with a carried confidence he’s unsure he’ll ever have. That for all his photographed arrogance, he wouldn't ever be able to supply the same enthusiasm of your voice; akin to your hands, your palm, your— fuck, he can't think anymore—when replying to the cab driver, who he wanted nothing more than to bash the head of into the fucking steering wheel did he have even the basics or the capability to in his current situation. 

To his hands, settled on his knees and moving in three of the same locations in certain, unmeasured intervals. Dependent on when the pleasure’d strike and when it’d sink back down, to when his brain would send in a sudden surge of dopamine into his system and you’d pull away and leave it in there. Lost in his bloodstream and knowing not where to go. Rushing to his dick ‘cause that's where the blood was already concentrated in, anyway. 

To his knees; on either side of him around his lower back; to his thigh; on yours when he was brave enough—when he thought he deserved it and when he thought you thought he did. And he thought it pathetic of himself, really, to ask for permission without even hearing an answer, and his heart rushed to be twice the speed it already was whenever you wouldn't allow him. When you’d pull away and for the proceeding seconds, he’d have to look at you like he was more annoyed than turned on, and he’d have to gauge your reaction to see if you felt any similarly. 

And he thought he’d caught mercy when you got lost in conversation with the cab driver. Where he’d make out words and phrases such as good and just South of here while he tried his best to keep his eyes open and both occupied and unoccupied to his surroundings. Painfully aware of the flush of his cheeks and the sweat building near his brows. When you’d be too distracted with someone else that your hand seemingly worked on autopilot, as though it were re-memorising his shape through his jeans. Grinding down harshly, adjusting the angle, just so that— 

He groaned. The friction building harshly around the sweet spot right around his tip. Slick on the inside and staining the front of his jeans with pre-cum. He couldn't help but close his eyes, and tilting his head forwards and downwards, he breathed harshly through his nose, eyes shut tight as he tried to memorise where the feeling was most prominent. 

Tried to translate feelings into words and possibly muscle memory for the next time he was alone. To focus on that spot that brought him an absurd amount of pleasure in such a sharp way that he didn't care anymore if it lasted for only two seconds before it settled into a sharp numbness. Of the joy of the first time fading away with the second, third, and fourth strokes. 

And when you moved away he thought he ought to complain. Almost did, even, as he raised his head to meet your teasing eyes with his frustrated ones, when you found it again. He grunted, hiding a whine lodged in his throat. “Can't you just?—” 

“Just what? We're almost there, can't you wait?” Like you were talking about something else entirely. And he bit the insides of his cheeks, weighing in his head the options of complaining and losing the sensation he was so easily getting addicted to, against bearing it and possibly having to deal with the awkward feeling of stained jeans and cold fronts. 

“You always did this,” he mumbled, and he adjusted himself in his seat, your hand moving back to the base and squeezing. He let out a shaky breath. 

“You never complained,” you shot back. “Even when we were younger.” 

Touché, he thought, because it was true that he never really did. Always in the back of the car or someplace too risky, and for too many times that he’d consider it to be the reason for a few of his most prominent shames. And thinking of it, harder than he ought to, he swore the feeling never really changed either. 

That still, even through the greyed strands of hair and the wrinkles beginning to form, the movements and sensations reminded him too much of the mid-late 80s. Making him feel like he was, yet again, a teenager with you in the most inconvenient places.

Too much, too concentrated, focusing on that sweet spot he swore never existed until you found it again—remembering the first time you did at some party when you were younger, in the closet during a game of seven minutes in heaven, where he stained his fronts just seconds after you did (though, he defended he’d been close for a while, to clear up your jeering)—and he swore, really did this time, he would've cummed again did you not reach your house. And he could've sworn, yes, again, that you would've let him, did your hand not have to move to get the bill from your pockets. 

He whined when the two of you crawled out of the cab, a sound he would've never let out in front of anyone who never heard it before, at least not on purpose. 

“I fucking hate you,” he bit out, following you to the front of your door, watching as you fumbled with the keys. Too long, he thought. Intentional, because how long does it take someone to get the right key on a keychain with five of ‘em, anyway?

“No you don't,” you shot back, smiling at him, and he just looked away, frustrated. Angling himself so that he was facing the door and that the strain in his jeans would be harder to spot by anybody drunk enough to walk past the streets in front of your house. Gruffly muttering a complaint through his mouth, too horny to let his thoughts run straight and his mouth run any slower. 

“But I bet you don't like being bossed around anymore. Do you, chief?” A response to his supposed insolence, hoping it’d scratch him just the wrong way. 

He ignored you, but his dick twitched anyway, the name sending something up his spine he’s too proud to admit. So he stood there in silence, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looked at you, saw you looking back at him, down to where his legs moved, then up to where he twitched against his better judgement. He knew you had something to say. Surprise came, however, when you didn't.

Settling inside the house was cautious for no apparent reason. Now, all of a sudden, with stakes as high as the beginning of his decisions. With his conscience coming into fruition when he realised the ring was still in his pocket, and nervously, he patted the area over his jeans, as if to determine it was still there and it wasn't—by whatever shitty reason—gone. 

Still, he felt no relief come after. Not when he confirmed its presence, hidden deep in his right pocket, lodged against the fabric which was too tight for its own good. As he was worried now if you felt it through all your rubbing over his jeans. Worried that you’d look at him differently—not that his dishonesty was a new thing, no—and treat him as such. 

But as if reminding him that he still had five beers’ worth of alcohol fresh in his blood stream, he pushed those thoughts away, settling on your figure as you took off your coat; your heels; your stockings, a sight great for distraction—and settled on the living room couch. White leather, too clean for what Noel could remember of your tastes. 

He looked at the staircase just further down the hall towards the right, wondered briefly if you were going to move upwards a bit later, to your bedroom which was probably also someone else’s if he thought about it hard enough, but upon catching the crook of your neck and the twist of your head directed straight at him, he sat down right next to you instead, the leather feeling too foreign and the squeakiness sounding too loud. Reminders that he was in your home and not his, nor was he in your home back in Burmage.

And with that knowledge, of knowing it's another person’s home and it was filled with unfamiliarity, he looked around: to the photos on your shelves as if searching for a man to be with you, in hopes that each of your own dishonesty would cancel each other out, simply to appease his guilt of cheating on his wife and fill him with the regret of what he’d been regretting since 1993. He didn't know which would be better. 

Silently, he felt your palm on his cheek, making him face you, as if you sensed his distraction. He leaned into it, allowing you to cradle his face. “Been a while,” he muttered, locking eyes with you. Washing away any worrying thoughts prior. 

Nodding, you pressed a kiss on his forehead, as if having sensed it.  “I know.” A kiss on his cheek, then on his nose. He let you. “Do you?” 

Shrugging. He shook his head immediately after. “No, I don't think I do.” Eyes flitted downwards, then back up when he felt your other hand on his cheek. Now cupping his face with both palms. “Do you still remember?” 

“Remember what?” he asked, confused. Backing away just slightly, only to lean back in at the slightest feeling of almost losing your touch.

You clarified, “How to do this.” 

He let out a scoff, offended, almost. “Of course I do.” His brain replayed most of the experiences it could, like a quick defense mechanism easily triggered by his pride—more fragile than he’d admit to any woman. 

Backstage, in a car, in his dingy apartment, during his relationship with his ex-wife, in his relationship with his soon-to-be ex-wife, in his house he gave a tacky name to—Supernova Heights. All of them, as if to say, “Yes, I do know how to put it in, thank you very much.”

“No, with me.” 

That made him go blank. He remembered—of course he did, could never forget it. The first time, the last time, and all the times in between. Even then, however, he felt like he didn't remember enough. That he forgot—shame on him!—what to do and what felt right, what not to do and what felt wrong. 

So, quietly, “Well… then no. No, not really.” He paused, going a bit shy. “I know, of course. But with you… bit different, innit?” 

“It's always different when it's us, Noel.” 

Gently, he felt you kiss him. Triggering everything he’d been grasping for like a loaded gun, showing him—in sudden spurts and shots and flits and blazes—of what he lost years before. Of the taste and sensation of your tongue swirling against his, which he thought he’d never taste again lest it be through imagination. Through his languidly opened mouth, opened with little to no energy. Hazy and drunken, the bitterness of alcohol kept him awake just that bit slighter. 

Pulling away to breathe, he leaned back. And taking the opportunity, you pushed him against the back of the sofa, with your legs on either side of his own and your hands still cradling his face, and watched. Droopy eyes and opened mouth, saliva slicking the edges of his lips and the pressure of the kisses burning them a hint redder. 

He looked away, conscious. “Don't start,” he warned, but he tilted his head backwards, anyway, giving you permission to mark his neck. Too far gone to care about hickeys and markings and what people would say when they saw it. What his wife would say if she saw it. It never really was hers to begin with, he thought. Never really was anyone else’s after yours. 

He closed his eyes, focusing then on the sensation of your lips on his neck, his forearms shaking just slightly under his own weight. He adjusted them, sinking him lower against the couch to balance himself better, and he sighed. Wetness and warmth opened near his Adam's apple, he swallowed, “You know it's not there.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Or did you forget?” he asked, taking the rare chance to tease you in return, even if he knew he’d be regretting it. 

And it didn't last long, as he closed his eyes again, as quickly as he had them opened, when you licked the spot closer to his jaw. Sweet and tingly in the way he never understood why a spot on the neck would be. Hitching his breath and twisting his hips to the side, parting his mouth just slightly when the friction of his jeans caught on his erection. 

And he moved his eyes down as a result of that, seeing how closely it was placed below the spot of yours he craved for most, and with that knowledge he groaned, thrusting his hips upwards in search of it, breathing when he found it.

“Not yet,” you said, making him huff out a response. Moving so your heat would press down just below where he wanted it to. Your hands finding his belt. 

“Why?” he complained, adjusting so he moved just slightly upwards on the couch. His hips thrusting upwards again, as if it’d hit your wrist or forearm hovering it. A bit pathetic, he thought.

“Just felt like it.” 

“What?” 

“‘sides—” Tugging on his belt, unbuckling it and pushing your hand inside his trousers. Below his boxers and gripping his cock, experimental, almost, with the way you held it. Thumb briefly sliding on its underside, making him swallow. “Wanna make this last.” 

He furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, only to loosen them when his face adjusted to his mouth, held open in a moan when he felt the warmth of your palm tightening around his dick. Looking down in curiosity, he swallowed, his arousal building at the sight of his now opened jeans and your hand stuffed inside. Like a stupid fantasy forgotten years ago and buried out of a stack of VHS tapes from the early 90s. His nerve-endings setting light after being neglected for so long—around four minutes, maybe. 

His mouth went slack, more with the extra pressure you put in your grip, holding him at the base, unmoving. “Sh-shit…” 

Still, he felt too constricted. The tightness of everything still there with his dick still stuck in his boxers and with his jeans still pushed up to his hips, falling down just slightly with the slight motion of your wrist— “Fuckin’ hell, love…” —and his own motions. That despite tightness being a typically pleasant thing, it inconvenienced him in the current. With the lack of space burning into frustration alongside the lackluster movements he got from you, forcing him to thrust upwards for more. 

And soon the motions fell into rhythm, where he’d thrust upwards and relax back down while your hand moved in the opposite direction. A small form of mercy from you, to actually move. Tightening around the base and loosening at the tip just to make him feel like it was lacking something, and loosening your grip overall to make him try and account for it in friction. 

He had half a mind to really think about it. Too focused on the sight and the sensations, head shamelessly tilting upwards as he tried to catch a better sight of your cleavage, only to shamelessly tilt back downwards to try and comprehend everything good.  

“Is it the same?” 

“S-sorry?” His rhythm faltered, only to pick back up again. Desperately fucking your hand as his only form of relief, his tip hitting the fabric of his boxers and staining it, adding an extra, somewhat uncomfortable, stimulation of wetness and damp. He moaned. 

“The last time. Is it?”

“Yes, yeah… Fuck, don't think it really changed… did it?” Struggling to get his words out, brain too muddled up and hazy, unable to determine whether the heat in his body’s because of everything that’s happening within it or because the two of you just forgot to turn on the air-conditioning. Rushing too quickly into what he hoped would last longer.  

Up and down, as simple as that. From his base, touching his pubic hair, to his tip, which leaked steadily against his boxers. A discomfort he wished to get out of the way soon. 

“Ngh... pull it down,” he requested, looking up at you with what he hoped would entice pity. Or perhaps just reluctant agreement. Either way would work. And either way, he thought it probably would've, anyway. With the look in your eyes equally as dark as his own, burning with desire. 

Wordlessly, you obliged, hooking your fingers into the waistbands of his jeans and boxers and pulling them down to his ankles in one, swift motion. With the relief, he sighed, the surprisingly cool air hitting his dick in such a way he swore it almost did something. And he hoped the sight pleased you more than it did him, too familiar with it to cause anything, and seeing the way you looked at it, he guessed it probably did. 

Hard and straining and with a respectable girth, with a vein more prominent than the others around the underside. Your hand pulled back the foreskin around the head, revealing the pretty pink of his tip and he moaned. He watched it, slick with pre-cum and shining as he saw you gather it in your palm and slide it down, lubing him up and making him slicker, easier to glide on. The wetness made him feel uncomfortable just mildly in his bladder, a sensation he knew to ignore.  

“It's not enough,” he demanded. Staring right into your eyes as he watched himself, almost in awe, get his pleasure dispensed all at your hand. His undoing, maybe, was more frightening to end than to begin. That despite the immense pleasure—the tonnes of dopamine his brain kept releasing, echoing through his temples and blurring the edges around his eyes, confusing the haziness of alcohol and raising everything ten, twenty-fold, rushing straight to his dick as everything else did in this moment—he was scared of it ending. 

Of it all unravelling into the beauty he knew of an orgasm, and of everything that came afterwards. That with each of your strokes, he wanted to feel more, to be inside you, to get the full experience before his credit would run due and he’d get splashed with the water of the price he had to pay, that it was all temporary and it’d be gone soon— 

You let go. He whined. You really had to stop doing that to him. “C’mon, love… Give it here now,” he coaxed, as if he had more than a finger on the reins. Lifting his upper body off the couch, he reached out to your shirt, on the bottom where he lifted it tentatively, nervous despite it all. Wondering if he had to do his part for you to fully do yours. With his eyes landing on the small patch of skin that flickered when he raised it, only to disappear when he lifted it down, afraid he didn't have enough permission yet to do so. 

“Go on. It's okay,” you nodded, hiding the eagerness in your tone, and he nodded as well. Lifted your shirt up and over your head and laughed slightly at the rather tattered bra you had on. “Didn't… didn't expect anything from this night. Not at our age, especially,” you laughed, and he shook his head. 

“Could tell you didn't.” Hand unclasping the bra from the back, a swift motion, practised. “I didn't either.” He planted a kiss on the skin right above it, gentler than he expected even from himself, through his hunger and what he wanted, as he slid the straps off your shoulders and let it fall recklessly on the floor. 

“Don't mind it, though,” he mumbled, both hands fondling your breasts, thumbs brushing against the nipples around the same time. “You would've been pretty no matter what.” The praise fell, at least he hoped it fell, on the good side you had. Making you turn your head away just slightly, now your turn to be flustered, as he continued to caress your nipples. 

“What?” He chuckled, tongue swirling around one nipple while his fingers played with the other. Squeezing, pinching, at the same time he was sucking and licking. Ruminating—or is that a word too strong?—on the taste and sensation on his tongue. “Now you're the one who's all shy.”

“It's usually you.”

“Yeah, well, only you know that.” Letting go with a pop, hands going down to your waist, squeezing the softness gathered around the edges; admiring the love handles that formed as age came and your thoughts diverted from the inevitable, teenage dilemma of being ‘skinny’ enough. “I don't know if there's something about you only I know too.”

“Or if that's all gone now.” 

“I— Just get on with it.” 

“... Right, yeah.” Cursing himself for the Freudian slip. More when he couldn't figure out if it was Freudian or not. But he decided not to let that occupy his thoughts too much. That if he were to receive any clarity, he’d at least receive it after everything was over. So in order not to ruin anything—from the rhythm the two of you’ve built and the emotions he had been ruminating (still wondering if that was a word too strong) on from the start—he moved his way downwards. 

Kissing his way through your navel and to where your stomach retracted at the promise of being kissed. Proud of himself for that, he proceeded to pull your skirt over and lick his lips—oddly dry now—at the sight of your knickers. With a wet patch on where you wanted him most despite it not being your best pair. Mismatched with your equally mediocre bra. To him and his drunken state, however, it didn't matter. None of it did. 

You moved off of him with a signal of his touch. Now it was your turn, with your back against the sofa, and when he pulled it off he was in awe, as he always was when he saw something like that. Testing with his fingers, he gathered up your slick, running it through your hole only to spread it on your clit, watching you intently for a reaction. Measuring every hitch of your breath, every scattered form of breathing, any almost-sound and every sound he could entice. When after you grew reckless then, and only then, did he push a finger inside, awing at the ease of pressure. 

His dick twitched at the sensation, tight around his finger and wetting it so that he knew it’d prune once he took it out. Looking into your eyes for more permission, he pushed another inside. This time, it was met with a gasp. Much to his delight, as he curled his fingers upwards experimentally, looking for the spot he struggled to find all those years ago. 

After a few awkward tries, he found it. Sensing it was that from the tightened sensation around his fingers and the moan you let out. “There?” he asked, only for clarification. With a nod, you replied, “Yeah. Yeah, there—” a moan when he did it again. And again. Until it was but heavy breathing from the repeated actions and a grunt of dissatisfaction when it wasn't enough. 

Catching onto this, he moved his fingers, outwards and in this time, as he moved his thumb to rub your clit in synch. Going downwards when he pushed out and going upwards when he pushed back in. Observing your face and your reactions and trying his best to memorise your moans because he knew he’ll probably never hear them again. 

And in the silence filled up with slick sounds and nasty, pornographic noises, one of satisfaction interrupted when you came. A mewl and he held you through it, continuing to press on the spongy sensation on your insides as his dick leaked against the leather of the couch. And when it was over you breathed, him pulling his fingers out, and he watched, as he licked them clean and waited for you to be ready again. To give him what he wanted most and leave him with what he hated. 

“Alright?” he asked finally, when he couldn't bear it any longer. Beginning to hurt slightly from pressure from having been erect for too long. Noticing this, you nodded, still slightly out of it. 

“Yeah, that was…”

“Good?” he suggested expectantly. 

You nodded. “Yeah, it was good. You were good.” 

He chuckled. It was his turn to blush, yet it was well hidden by all the red that was already there. He pulled away, on his knees now, he noticed, while he still ached down where he needed your attention most. To relieve some of it, he held his cock down at the base, squeezing. He sighed. 

“Can I…?” He didn't finish the question. Found no need too. Not to mention the embarrassment of it. Wordlessly, you nodded. 

“Yeah. Of course.” And you kissed him again, forcing him to relinquish the scarce amount of control he got when it was his turn to offer. 

He felt you everywhere then. Your hand on his wrist, pulling it away from his dick and replacing it with yours. Pushing him until he lay flat on his back, your other hand on his chest. One stroke, two strokes, and he was groaning into your mouth. Then replaced with a warmth that enveloped him wholly, unlike any other. Perfect, is what he’d describe it as, squeezing him in all the right places, incredibly wet from everything he’d done to you prior. 

“Fuck…” he moaned, hands getting confused, not knowing where to go again, like in the cab ride earlier. 

“‘s tight,” he said, unable to say anything else. And when you sunk down fully, he relished in the sight of you bottoming him out, with nothing separating the two of you, of him sliding out of you and then back in when you dropped up and back down. 

He moaned again, finding no reason to hold himself back, and with the stuffiness of the room, he was relieved when you unbuttoned all that was left of his shirt. And he leaned back so his head was flat on the cushions, with his eyes closed and his arm going up to cover his view of everything above—of the harsh streaks the light gave and of everything else that’d make it too much. 

Massaging him in all the right places, in spots he knew no hand or tongue or anything that wasn't yours could ever touch. And briefly, his mind flickered back to his wife, and he almost felt guilt-ridden all over again; but at the sight of you bouncing on his lap, with your tits following in your motions, all those thoughts of his dissipated, to be replaced by the wanting and receiving from you, of you; and soon his hips began to follow yours, thrusting upwards and meeting you in the middle, groaning whenever you changed the angle and you moaned a bit too loudly for his own good, and moaning himself when you clenched around him as a result of the fullness you felt yourself. 

So he found no surprise when no more words were uttered and there was no dialogue present any longer. Instead replaced by the squelching sounds of sex and the pornographic moans coming from the both of you. Of any intimacy—if he could even call it that—from before fading away, replaced with the lust that urged everything in the first place. 

When he was close, he didn't say anything either. Just thrusted harder upwards as he tried his best to keep his eyes open, expression hazy and lost and borderline delirious, reaching the peak of almost and wishing it’d never end. 

And in hopes he wouldn't go first, that he’d feel you in the best way you could offer him, his hand reached to go around your waist, and he rubbed your clit in just the right manner it had you moaning outright, saying his name like you were trying to remember it; and when you uttered the words he so longed to hear— “I’m close, Noel— So close—!” he lost it entirely. 

That when you let go he stilled, groaning loudly into your neck before he lost control of his hips and frantically thrust upwards. Spilling in you everything he had to pour, and sighing in relief as he fell back when he had none left to give. 

The aftermath was about half as well as he expected it to be. With him pulling his trousers back up and buckling his belt, while you smoked a cigarette out your front window and he decided to join, with his shirt still open as he couldn't bother to button it back up again. 

“Alright?” he asked, wordlessly holding his hand out to ask for your cigarette. 

You gave it to him, in spite of your reluctance, “It's always alright.” 

Silence. He let his eyes wander past the thresholds of your front yard. “What now?” Staring blankly ahead, unsure what to do or where to go. Lamenting on the possibilities of catching a cab this late—deep in a neighbourhood where they technically weren't even allowed to enter. And maybe he could've just used that new app, Uber or something, but he didn't think he even brought his phone with him. Like the old geezer he was reminded he was. 

“What do you want?” You looked at him and some smoke got caught in his face. He shrugged, coughed just mildly. 

“Dunno. What did I want?” he joked, his voice going an octave higher. Tilting his head, smiling at you. 

“I don't know,” you smiled back at him. “And did you just cough ‘cause of some smoke?”

“Yeah, well, we don't stay young forever, do we?” he quickly defended, immaturely blowing some smoke in your face. To his bemusement, you didn't cough. Having strategically turned your head before it could reach your nostrils. 

“Thought you wrote a song about that.”

Nostalgically, “Hm… in our flat then, yeah.” 

He looked away. Subsequently the same time you looked back at him. And he didn't know if you kept looking at him or if you turned your head to look out the window again. He’d rather not think about anything as trivial as that.

Swallowing, he looked into the distance again, at least beating you to it if you didn't already. He took a drag. “Can I stay the night?” A bit awkward. Knowing he might be overstepping a line that’s been getting stepped over since it was drawn. But it was too late. He was too drunk. Thankfully, you agreed. Even if not fully. “Yeah, sure. Just don't sleep in.”

“Right. Yeah, sure.” He nodded. And for what he hoped to be the last time he’ll ever, he reached into his pocket again, ensuring if the ring was still there. To his dismay, it was.