pairing: 96!Noel x Fem!Reader
wc: 6.4k
summary: After months on tour, all he wants is to come home and have you close again — to worship you, to please you, to lose himself in you in every possible way...
cw: fluff + smut, p in v, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected sex, breeding kink, dirty talk, praise kink, light dom/sub
An: YES, i like my men madly in love, yearning and submissive, can you blame me? also, this is obviously inspired by ‘Heaven Can Wait’ (damn, what a great song... someone get Michael Jackson out of my head pls)
let me know if you liked it!!
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He didn't even realise he was doing it until the words were already out of his mouth.
They were asking about the songwriting process for the new record —when he knew a song was finished, whether there was some specific moment when things just clicked— and he was answering with the usual weariness, that tone of having explained the same thing for years without expecting anyone to fully get it. But somehow, his mind always ended up drifting to you.
"Suppose it's when it stops doing my head in to listen to it," he said. "When I can put it on and not be sat there thinking about what I'd change, y'know? Though she reckons that never actually happens, says I'm always thinking about what I'd change..."
The interviewer looked up from his notes.
"My missus," he said, like it was obvious, like the question was the strange part of the conversation.
A question about the album cover and somehow he ended up talking about the way you listened to music, eyes closed and your neck tilted slightly, like the sound had weight inside your head. A question about Manchester and he mentioned, in passing, that you made dreadful tea, but that he'd got used to it. Things like that. Small things which meant nothing on their own but together formed a portrait he'd hung up somewhere in his head, one he kept refining every passing day, admiring every new brushstroke you added to it.
It happened in the more casual interviews too, two blokes with microphones in a small room that smelled of old furniture, Noel more relaxed than usual, legs stretched out, a glass of water he hadn't touched. You felt like the most natural answer in the world.
But what unsettled him most wasn't saying it. It was that when they asked more —and they always asked more, because journalists, vultures starved for a bit of someone else's intimacy, have a radar for when someone's actually willing to talk— he'd find he had things to say. Loads, actually. That you were the most attentive person he'd ever met, without that attentiveness ever feeling like a performance. That you had a way of walking into a room he noticed from the other side of it. That you argued so well it sometimes made him a bit sad when your arguments came to an end, and he felt the need to wind you up a bit more, purely out of a desire to keep listening to you defend your point with such conviction — not to mention how fit you looked when you got worked up over some daft thing he'd blurt out without thinking.
"You've mentioned your partner a couple of times in recent interviews," the journalist said, settling into his seat, hoping to hit a nerve. "Would you say she helps with the inspiration when you're writing?"
Course you did, it was hard not to when you were in his head at nearly every hour of the day. He had so much to say about you that the list was, if he actually thought about it, fairly long and fairly ridiculous. And none of it sat particularly well with the image he'd spent decades building of himself, but there was also the fact that he'd been asked, and Noel Gallagher wasn't the sort to leave a question hanging because he was afraid of looking soft.
"Well she's dead clever, y'know" he said, finally. "More than she lets on, and she lets on plenty already. But she's got this way of looking at things that I find... " he searched for the word, "—unsettling. In a good way, d'you know what I mean? Like I never know exactly what she's gonna say, but when she says it... it always makes more sense than whatever I was thinking."
The journalist was grinning openly now.
"That's a lot from someone who normally describes his songs in three words."
"Yeah well, she's changed the way I listen to music," Noel said without thinking, and the second it was out he knew it was too much, exactly the kind of thing he shouldn't have said out loud, let alone with a recorder running.
He went quiet for a second.
"Don't quote that," he added.
Of course the journalist quoted it. Straight to the headline.
That night, Noel read the article with the hotel phone off the hook and face-down on his chest, wearing an expression that wasn't quite embarrassment but came close. Then he closed the magazine. Then he opened it again. Then he rang you.
"Have you seen the article?" he asked the second he heard you pick up, cutting off the warm hello you were about to give him.
"Yes..." you said, and there was a smile in your voice, the one you got when you'd caught him out in some daft moment and decided not to say anything yet, saving it to see what he'd do with it.
And your voice came through warm —even through all those kilometers of distance and the cheap plastic of the hotel phone— in a way he recognised without needing to see your face. The same way he recognised the sound you made trying not to laugh when he said something he hadn't meant to be funny.
And hung up. But it took him three seconds of staring at the damp stains on the ceiling before he rang back.
"It was a compliment, in case that wasn't clear."
On the other end of the line, this time you let yourself laugh.
The last show of the tour had something different about it from the moment he walked out on stage. It wasn't the crowd, which was good but not the best he'd had. It wasn't the setlist, which they'd been playing for nearly two months. It was that you were there.
He'd known before he even walked out —he'd seen you from the wings, your back to him, talking to someone from the crew and gesturing dramatically— but he hadn't had the chance to come over. And when the lights blinded him and the noise of the crowd rose until it became something physical, the first thing he did was look for you.
Not in any obvious way; he didn't do anything obviously when it came to looking for someone. But between songs, while he adjusted the guitar strap or spoke into the mic making the crowd scream, his eyes would sweep across the VIP section with the calculated indifference of someone pretending to stare into space. Until he found you. And then he'd look away.
You'd been gone for weeks. Work, distance, all that real and reasonable stuff he understood perfectly and that had still managed to be a sustained irritation for the better part of a month regardless. He'd spoken to you every night from different hotels, phone propped against the pillow, and even so there was something the phone never sorted out, something no phone ever does, and that he had right in front of him now and still couldn't do anything about because he had forty more minutes of playing left.
Which was, he thought as he struck the first chords of the next song, a fairly cruel way to organise things.
What he hadn't expected was seeing you like that. He'd assumed, without really thinking about it, that by now you'd know the shows back to front. That you'd watch with the same familiarity that comes from no longer being surprised, the polite enjoyment most people brought to gigs, that says I'm having a nice time and could prove it if asked.
But you were singing, dancing even, he could see you mouthing every single lyric word for word. And when he made the mistake of looking at you right as your eyes were closed and your neck was tilted slightly, he paid for it by losing the thread of what he was playing for about two bars.
He'd been playing these songs for decades. He'd written them, recorded them, played them in stadiums and in grotty little venues and on telly under awful lighting. He knew them so well that sometimes he played them without thinking, hands working on their own while his head was somewhere else entirely. And yet there you were, you who'd listened to them with him at home, who knew exactly how they'd been recorded and which take had made the cut and why the lyric in that one verse had changed three times, there you were getting emotional like it was the first time you'd ever heard it.
There was something almost indecent about how much he liked watching it.
He caught you looking right as the next song started, that beat of silence before the guitar came in. Your eyes met and he didn't look away in time — or didn't want to. You smiled, brought two fingers to your lips and blew him a kiss with such complete ease, so unbothered about whether anyone saw, that for a second he didn't know what to do with his hands, so he turned back to the mic without saying anything. But the set of his jaw gave away the effort it took not to smile.
Three full songs spent unable to stop thinking about how badly he wanted that bloody gig to be over, fully aware that if he looked up too much you'd distract him all over again, and not caring one bit at this point.
Because seeing you jump about like that — with your hair flying, a smile you weren't holding back even if you'd wanted to and your breasts bouncing slightly with every jump under your t-shirt, the way they were— made Noel have to lower the guitar a few centimeters. He was human, after all, with everything that implied.
The guitar, he thought, a very useful instrument.
He came off stage with the noise still in his body, that vibration that always took a while to fade and made the first few minutes backstage feel a bit like moving through a dream. Backstage was the usual chaos: techs coiling cables, someone from the crew muttering something in his ear he didn't register, a towel appearing in his hand without him asking for it.
You pushed through all of it with purpose, and before he could say a word you were already on him, arms round his neck, making him take half a step back to absorb the impact before he closed his own arms round your waist.
"God," he mumbled into your hair, and it wasn't a comment meant for anyone in particular, just the sound he made processing that he could finally do this.
You were already talking, pressing quick kisses along his jaw, his cheek, the side of his forehead, no order to it, with the energy of the concert still coursing through you, which he could sense in the way you moved. You laughed a bit as you did so, a small laugh that came from nothing more than being happy to see him.
He smelled of sweat, hot clothes and the metallic residue of the equipment. Not exactly the most glamorous reunion in the world but he couldn't care less, because you didn't seem to be thinking about that either. You pressed closer, like you wanted to make sure he was real, and Noel let his arms close round you tighter, feeling the heat of your body through the fabric and the way you fit against him with a familiarity that didn't need relearning.
"You're soaked," you said against his cheek, no complaint in it at all.
"Hello to you too, love" he laughed.
You pulled back just enough to look at his face, and he let you, which wasn't something he did with many people. His cheeks were still flushed from the show, his hair a bit wrecked, and there was an expression you knew well, one that meant he was properly glad, not just doing the presentable version of it. You reached up and brushed back the strands stuck to his forehead, taking your time despite all the chaos still moving round you.
"You were amazing tonight."
"I know," he said, which was the automatic answer, the one he always gave.
But then he added, lower:
"Did you have a good time?"
You smiled, and the ridiculous warmth in his chest made him realise just how much he'd missed your smile.
"So good," you said. "Honestly. I've been dying to see you up there for weeks."
"I've been dying to see you in general," he said, with the same dryness he said almost everything, but you already knew how to read him and didn't need the wrapping.
You pressed a bit closer, and it was worse, because when he felt the soft, warm weight of your chest —the very same that had caused him trouble just a moment earlier on stage— pressing into his, combined with the leftover heat of the stage, the weeks stacked up behind it, and your mouth that close, his hands, which had been perfectly still on your waist, apparently decided on their own to slide down, past the small of your back without any particular hurry and with an intention that wasn't announcing itself, until his palms found the curve of your arse and stayed there, firm, like that had always been where they belonged.
"I missed you," you said quietly, mouth close to his jaw.
"Me too." A pause. "Loads."
For Noel that was a full speech, you knew it.
The heat between you was considerable — he was still radiating the effort of the show, shirt damp, skin warm, and you soaked it up without complaint, pressed to his chest with your arms crossed behind his neck.
"Depends how many people I have to greet before I can do a runner without causing a diplomatic incident."
Your lips were very close to his and neither of you did anything about it, you just looked at each other in that small bit of space, people passing all round you without paying any attention, and Noel noticed his own pulse hadn't decided to come down yet even though he'd been off stage for several minutes already.
Behind you, someone from the crew tripped over a cable on the floor. Neither of you looked.
His eyes dropped to your mouth, and he tilted his head an inch, going for you. You let him get close enough to almost brush your lips, the heat of his mouth a breath from closing the distance, before turning your head just enough that his lips landed at the corner of yours instead of where they'd been aiming. You felt his jaw tense.
"Seriously..." he said, voice very low.
You smiled against his cheek.
"You'd best go greet that lot quickly," you whispered without moving an inch.
He didn't wait to hear the front door click shut before he was on your mouth, not giving you a second's chance to pull away this time. Both hands framing your face, his body pressing you gently inward without bothering to look where he was stepping, his mouth on yours with the same determination he'd walked out on stage with hours earlier.
When he pulled back he barely did, just enough to breathe. You kicked your shoes off without moving far from him, and he watched you do it with that attention that sometimes felt almost uncomfortable for how direct it was, with no attempt at all to hide it.
"You should have a shower," you said.
"You've been on tour for weeks, Noel."
"Mmm," he agreed, pulling you closer against him.
"Aren't you tired?" You laughed at how little he cared about what you were saying.
He looked at you a moment, finding the question mildly ridiculous, his thumbs still tracing the line of your jaw.
"Got more important things to be doing right now than sleeping," he said, with his usual dryness, but he took your hand as he said it and went straight back to your mouth before you could answer.
You let yourself be pulled further into the flat, lips never leaving his, stumbling slightly on the rug with him catching you before it mattered. There was something almost ridiculous about how clumsy it all was and how little either of you cared. Noel kissed you with concentration, the way he did almost everything, no distractions, and after weeks of phone calls, real contact had a different weight, a texture no signal could ever reproduce.
The hallway was short but you made it long, stopping twice for no practical reason except that he wasn't done with your mouth and you weren't done asking him not to be. At one point he pushed you gently against the wall and stayed there a moment, the weight of him against you, forehead resting on yours, breathing.
"I missed this," he said quietly, almost to himself.
It wasn't poetry. But it came from him, and that made it something else.
He took your hand and carried on toward the bedroom, and this time he didn't stop. He kicked the door shut without looking and turned you to face him, hands on your waist, going for your mouth again before the gap had time to settle. He kissed you differently than in the hallway — more deliberate, like he wasn't in a rush anymore because he knew you weren't going anywhere.
Then he pulled back. Just enough to drop his eyes to your neck, your cleavage, with his direct and slightly stifling attention, depending on when you were asked.
"You don't know how fit you looked from up there," he said, fingers already on the first button of your top.
"Yeah?" you said, and there was something in you that knew exactly what he meant and wanted to hear it anyway.
"Yeah." Another button. "Jumping about like that."
He glanced up at you for a second, the ghost of a smirk forming, and you understood the reference without needing him to spell it out.
"Didn't say anything bad," he said, expression unchanged, going back to what was in his hands.
When he finished with the buttons he slid the fabric off your shoulders and followed it with his mouth — a kiss on the curve of your shoulder, another on your collarbone, another lower still, each one delivered with a concentration that made it land heavier than it should. You felt his hands moving over your back as he did it, cataloguing every inch he could reach.
"Keep going," you said quietly.
He lifted his head. Looked at you from down there with an expression that mixed amusement with something a fair bit darker.
"You like listening to me?"
"Always," you said, and it was true.
He went back to your skin, to the curve where your neck became your shoulder, and spoke with his mouth right there, against you, so you'd feel it as much as hear it.
"You've been in my head for weeks," he said. "Every night in a different hotel thinking about when I'd get to have you like this again."
A pause. His hands on your back, still for a moment.
"And now I've got you," he added, lower, "and I don't know where to start."
What was left of your clothes came off without urgency, him pausing over every new stretch of skin like he had the rest of the night and every intention of using it. His lips on the curve of your stomach. Hands moving over your hips with an attention that wasn't decorative.
He laid you down gently and pulled you to the edge of the bed by the thighs, then knelt on the floor between your legs like it was the most natural place in the world for him to be, and maybe it was.
You propped yourself up on your elbows to look at him. His eyes were on yours, with an expression you couldn't quite describe, except that it made it hard to hold his gaze.
"Nothing, just admiring you," he said, eyes dropping slowly, taking you in like he meant to make full use of every second of the night. And when his hands began to play with the hem of your underwear, he did it without looking away. "You're gorgeous," he said quietly, barely realising he'd said it out loud.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another higher up, mouth open and hot against your skin. His breath alone was enough to tense your whole body.
He looked up with an expression of complete innocence that didn't fool you for a second.
"Taking my time," he said. "Been weeks since I've had a taste."
He carried on where he was, slow kisses tracing a path he knew exactly where it led but had no intention of reaching just yet. When his mouth finally found the wet fabric of your knickers, the sound that escaped —low, almost involuntary, like relief— was yours as much as his.
You let your head fall back, and he dragged his tongue slowly, bottom to top, soaking the fabric further with his own spit, with a sharp focus that gave every movement weight. You felt one of his hands slide from your thigh up to your hip to hold you still when you tried to move against him.
"Stay still," he said, mouth still on you, and you felt the words vibrate as much as you heard them.
"Then do something about it," you answered, your voice less steady than you meant it.
He did. You felt his fingers hook into the sides of your knickers before tugging them out of the way. And then his mouth on you, direct, no fabric left between you, making your hands drop instinctively into his hair.
"God," he murmured against you, and the vibration alone made you close your eyes. "I fuckin' love the way you taste."
His mouth moved on you in a way that didn't compare to anything, slow where you didn't expect it and direct exactly where you needed it most, the combination meaning you couldn't predict a thing, could only lie there and take it. His tongue finding the exact spot with an efficiency that suggested he knew it well and knew precisely what to do with that knowledge.
"Noel," you moaned, his name carrying a different weight in your mouth.
"You sound so good," he said, mouth still against you, the words coming out muffled and hot. "Want to hear more of it."
You didn't have to try. The sounds came on their own, small at first and then less restrained, and every time you made noise he answered with more pressure, more attention, taking instructions from your own moans.
Then his hand moved to your entrance, slick already with a mix of yout own fluids and his spit, and he eased two fingers in slowly, never taking his eyes off you, making you lose the thread of whatever you'd been about to say.
"You're absolutely gorgeous," he said, lifting his head to watch you properly, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that exact spot over and over that proved he knew you better than anyone ever had. "Always, but like this especially."
"Baby..." you whimpered as your walls clenched round his fingers, incapable of forming a coherent thought.
"C'mon, let me hear you... let the neighbours know how much you missed me." His voice felt slightly far away in your head. "Say my name."
It didn't feel like an order with his cheek resting against your thigh while his fingers fucked you, the room filling with the filthy sound of you — it felt like a request. He was begging to hear you, to hear everything your mouth had to say about how he was making you feel, even if it was nothing but incoherent sounds and the breath being knocked out of you.
You didn't even know what you were asking for. But he could feel how close you were by the way you clamped down round his fingers, your stomach tightening, so he ducked his head back between your legs, this time with your thighs trying to close around him as your orgasm drew near.
He picked up the pace slightly, fingers going deeper, mouth firmer, and you held onto him as everything else disappeared for a few complete and perfect seconds, until the sounds you were making lost their shape and your back arched on its own while he held you with his free hand so you couldn't get away, keeping you right there against his mouth all the way through, until your legs were shaking and his tongue started to make you ache against your overstimulated arousal.
When he lifted his head, his lips and chin were shining and he wore an expression that wasn't trying to hide a thing.
"Good," he said quietly like he was pleased with something he'd accomplished entirely on his own.
You laughed, still breathless, "Come here."
He got up off the floor with less grace than usual, knees a bit stiff and not caring at all, and threw himself at you with the same intent to devour you he'd had all night. His mouth found yours before he'd even finished lying down beside you, open and crashing into your lips, and you could taste yourself mixed between your tongues — messy, warm, and completely without shame, the kind of kiss that only exists once there's nothing left to hide.
His hips found yours on their own, no conscious decision involved, and you felt against your hip what had clearly been there since well before the night got to this point — the hard, hot press of his erection rubbing against you with an urgency he didn't bother hiding.
He rocked against you once, twice, chasing some relief with a barely-contained desperation that struck you as both endearing and deeply, deeply satisfying.
"God," he groaned against your mouth, teeth grazing your bottom lip. "I need..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
You looked at him — shirt still on, crumpled, buttons undone, an expression mixing want with the relief of finally being here, with you. You thought about everything he'd just done, the weeks of touring on top of it, the way his chin was still shining from you.
He obeyed without a word of protest, which told you plenty on its own.
You knelt beside him and pulled his boxers down slowly, and he lifted his hips to help without being asked. When the fabric was gone and his erection was free —stiff with the rigidity of someone who'd been waiting far too long— you found yourself staring a moment, because it was hard not to, the tip flushed pink and wet with precum leaking with an honesty that made your mouth water completely against your will. It was a bit ridiculous how much you fancied it, but there it was — hard and desperate and entirely yours tonight.
There was a certain tenderness in seeing him like that — so dishevelled, so helpless. You bent your head down.
"Wait," he said, voice rough.
You looked up. His hand caught your jaw before you got where you were going, holding you with gentle but firm pressure.
"Not gonna last if you do that now," he said, with a sincerity completely free of embarrassment. "And I want to feel you. Need to feel you."
You looked at him a moment. His rawness, no wrapping on it at all, felt almost more intimate than anything he'd said all night.
"Please," he added, lower, and the word in that voice carried a weight you couldn't ignore.
You turned your head and kissed the palm of the hand still holding your jaw. Then you moved back up slowly, letting your mouth find his on the way, and he took the kiss with his hands on your waist, pulling you up with an urgency he was trying and failing to hide. You climbed over him at your own pace, taking the time he didn't have, and felt him hold his breath as you settled above him, the heat of you brushing the tip of him without taking anything further yet.
"Fuck," he muttered, head dropping back against the pillow, amking you laughed against his neck
You took hold of him to guide him, and he held his breath the exact moment the tip found your entrance and you sank down slowly, feeling every inch of it — the pressure working its way in, filling you in a way that made the weeks apart land all at once, all that absence concentrated into this one moment. You heard him groan as he dug his fingers into your skin.
Once he was fully inside you, you both went still for a moment — him with his eyes shut, you watching his face, memorising the look on it. Then you started moving, taking your time, and he let you, jaw tight, hands staying still on your hips, following the rhythm without setting it, though his breathing changed straight away, going shorter and more focused.
"Fuck," he said, voice wrecked. "Missed you so much."
He brought his hands up to your waist, just feeling you move beneath his palms.
He looked at you, his eyes were dark, his expression hiding nothing, completely open in a way that didn't exist anywhere outside this room.
"Think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen right now," he said, with a gentleness that made it land truer, not less. "Mean it."
"I know," you said, smiling against his mouth.
You were laughing a bit, but so was he, and that was part of it — that you could be like this and laugh at the same time and neither thing took anything away from the other.
His hands moved up over your stomach, palms flat, all the way up until they found your tits and took them in his hands, the weight of them fitting perfectly and squeezed slowly.
"You're perfect," he said, eyes on his own hands. "All of you."
He dragged his thumbs over your nipples, once, twice, with a calculated pressure that made you change your pace without meaning to, and he noticed and did it again.
"That's it, baby," he said. "Just like that."
He exhaled slowly. His hands dropped back to your hips, squeezing the soft give of your thighs, and he looked at you in a way that took a moment to turn into words.
"What were you thinking about?" you asked, bringing your mouth close to his ear. "At night. In all those hotels."
It took him a second to answer.
"Yeah I know that." A pause, the rhythm holding steady. "What were you doing."
You felt him tense beneath you.
"Don't be cruel," he murmured.
"Tell me..." You dragged a trail of wet kisses along his jaw and cheek.
He closed his eyes a moment. When he opened them he was looking at you with a surrender that made it hard to keep your own pace.
"Touched myself," he said quietly. "Thinking about having you like this."
You sped up, and his jaw tightened.
"With your pretty cunt taking my cock so well."
His hands on your hips helped you keep the pace, following you, and the room filled with the sound of the two of you, the mattress, his breathing getting less and less controlled. You leant forward, hands flat on his chest, and his came up to your waist, holding you there.
"Fuck," was all you managed.
The rhythm kept building gradually, almost like neither of you decided it — his body answering yours, his hips meeting you halfway with every drop. You felt the brush of his pubic hair against your clit with every movement, a friction building on itself, making it harder by the second to keep hold of any thought at all.
"I love you," you said, without thinking.
"Love you too, baby," he said, immediately, no hesitation, and the fact that it came out that fast, no dressing it up, no wrapping, was exactly why you believed it.
His hands found your hips again, gripping firmer now. The angle shifted and you moaned, and he answered by holding that angle with a focus that proved he'd clocked exactly what had caused that sound.
"There," he said, voice very low. "Like that."
The pace was considerable now, the sounds mixing through the room — your breathing, the creak of the bed, the wet friction of your bodies. His fingers dug into the sides of your hips hard enough to probably leave marks neither of you cared about.
"Is this what you wanted?" you asked, voice breaking. "To stuff me full?"
His hips lifted to meet you harder.
"Yes," he said. "Fuck, yeah. Kept thinking I could fill you up completely and it still wouldn't be enough, that I'd want to give you more, leave you—" He cut himself off.
"Noel." you moaned into his ear.
"Want to give you everything." His hands on your hips, pulling you down with every thrust. "Want to fuckin' knock you up right now, d'you hear me?"
You knew it wasn't possible, that the pill was doing its job quietly and efficiently, but he'd said it like the most honest thought he had in that moment. And the idea alone of him thinking it —of wanting it with that much intensity, saying it with no shame at all— made everything burn twice as hot.
"Kept thinking about how you're mine."
"I'm yours," you said, because it was true and because you knew exactly what it did to him to hear it.
The rhythm turned frantic. Words broke apart, stopped being sentences and became loose sounds, names said just to say them, yeses answering no question in particular. His breathing was heavy and yours barely existed at all, both your chests moving fast, skin slick where it met skin.
"So mine. So beautiful," he said, somewhere between one thrust and the next, voice wrecked. "Fuck, you're beautiful."
The drag of his pelvis against your clit with every drop was constant now, insistent, building into something you couldn't keep ignoring.
"Noel," you said, and this time it was a warning.
You leant down and kissed him, and he caught your face in his hands, holding you there, and you stayed like that while everything else pulled tight and concentrated until there was no rhythm left, just presence, the two of you, no space between.
And then it all gathered into one point and broke loose. He felt you come, clenching round him, moaning into his mouth, and he held you through all of it, hands steady on you, following right after with his face buried in your neck and your name repeating in his mouth quietly, like it was the only thing left.
Then there was silence, just the two of you catching your breath, the room slowly expanding back around you.
His breathing was settling, his chest rising and falling under your cheek. You didn't move, because you had no reason to, and the heat of his body was exactly what you needed after weeks of sleeping alone. You could hear his heart, still racing, slowing down bit by bit, and there was something so comforting about that… about knowing someone’s rhythm well enough to notice when it returns to normal.
His hair was stuck to his forehead again, same as backstage, and it made you smile for no particular reason.
You got up without saying anything then, frowning slightly at the feel of everything slipping down your thighs.
"Where're you off to," he said, not moving his arm.
The sound of your footsteps faded and he heard the bathroom tap go on, the water running, then off again. When you came back you had a damp towel and a glass of water.
He drank, and watched you over the rim of the glass with the look of someone weighing up whether it's worth the argument and deciding it isn't.
You lay back down beside him and he opened his arm so you'd fit underneath, a gesture so automatic he probably hadn't thought about it at all. He pulled the duvet over you with the hand he had free, clumsy but deliberate, then went still, staring up at the ceiling.
And you stayed like that a while, not talking. His hand moving up and down your back, slow, completely unconscious, the kind of motion that doesn't get decided, just happens.
He turned his head a bit to look at you.
"Welcome home," you whispered with a smile.
His hand paused a moment on your back, then carried on slower. His fingers found your hair and stayed there, doing nothing in particular.
You didn't take long to fall asleep. He felt it in how your breathing grew heavier, how the weight of your head against his chest shifted slightly, and he stayed still so as not to wake you, eyes on the ceiling, hand still in you.
He thought, without meaning to, about the article. About the journalist who'd looked up from his notes when he'd mentioned you like it was the most obvious thing in the world. About every time he'd worked you into answers where you actually had no business being, not realising until it was already too late.
And he looked at your profile in the dark. The curve of your shoulder, your hair spread over his chest, the way you breathed with a calm so total it made his own breathing slow down without meaning to.
How could I not?, he thought.
How could he not be this far gone over you. How could he not bring you up in every interview, slip you into every answer, every headline, like having you in his head was just the natural state of things and anything else would've been the anomaly?
He didn't say it out loud. No need to. No one was listening.
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