oiie gente! gostaria de me apresentar por aqui! meu nome é cami, tenho 22 anos e tô obcecada pelo cast de sociedade da neve. tenho um soft spot pelo kuku e pipe (🥺 im just a girl) mas estou disposta a escrever sobre enzo, matias, pardella, rafa federman e fernando contigiani. não escrevo sobre os prefeitos da fubangolândia: juani e lain.
pedidos de blurbs/headcanons no momento estão fechados. mas eu adoro interagir com vocês, então fiquem à vontade para mandar asks de coisinhas aleatórias 🤭
"delulus coletivos 👯♀️" são reblogs em alguns canetadas anônimas que eu mandei em asks de escritoras que eu adoro aqui no tumblr
cw: boyfriend!noel; softdom!noel; oral sex m. receiving; sex tape; mention of cocaine and champagne; praise kink; dirty talk; face slapping; hair pulling; slight breeding kink.
wn: [shaking and crying as i see pictures of 96-99 meg] she’s getting that d everyday she’s getting that d everyday. (just realized this is a bit similar to this by @2manyeggs so credits to her 🩷)
be here now had just came out, and to celebrate, you and noel decided to go on a little getaway to marbella, spain. where the plan was quite simple: get drunk when the sun was still out, go shopping, and fuck until you’re both completely limp on the bed. the perfect little holiday for the two of you.
you two decided on having a private lunch on the hotel terrace today, just one or two waiters alongside the chef back in the kitchen. and obviously, just that wouldn’t have made you two keep your hands to yourselves, or miss out on a bit of fun. taking small bites of the food here and there as you talked, laughed and drank champagne, a small baggie of coke in noel’s pocket that the two of you would do off of the back of his hand discreetly, not really minding if anyone saw. you didn’t mind snogging and kissing down his neck there either, feeling even more needy for him as the substances hit you. palming him over his shorts while his hand was under your dress, pulling your panties to the side and lazily rubbing circles on your wet core, smiling against your mouth as he did, looking to the side just to check if the small crew were still avoiding looking at the two of you.
noel knew that you wouldn’t have minded sucking him off right there in the open, under the table. but there was one thing in the bedroom that the two of you craved for.
the thing is: you and noel had a dirty little secret, something for just the two of you. something that, if it leaked, would probably be a world wide scandal, sell out for millions.
you two used to joke about the possible headlines: “talk about morning glory! noel gallagher and girlfriend sex tape leaked!”.
but, god. either of you could get enough.
he was laid down on his back, head propped up on the pillow as he looked down at you. shorts already undone and pulled down, shirt unbuttoned, cock hard and leaking precum, being stroked slowly by your hand.
his hand trembled slightly as he pointed the camera in your direction, his free one caressing your hair as you kissed his belly, taking in the faint scent of soap still lingering on his happy trail and soft skin, smiling against it while kissing it further down. messily, teasingly slow, looking at the lenses. you couldn’t see, but you could hear the smirk in his face as he pet your hair and said, “go on, then. show what you’re having for dessert, eh?”
you smiled, licking his tip broadly as you looked at the camera, holding his cock by the base, clenching around nothing as you heard him let out a smug low laugh, fingers still threading through your hair gently, “fuckin’ tease. putting on a show for the camera, aren’t you, love?”
you smile, nodding as you take him into your mouth, sucking the tip and letting the saliva run down freely, using it to stroke his length, pupils blown from the coke you two did just now as you looked into the lens. his hand going to your face and getting some hair strands out of the way, caressing your skin as he did so, the touch gentle in contrast of what was happening. he says in a cocky and satisfied tone, hand now on the side of your cheek, pulling your head closer, making you take him just a little further: “havin’ lunch and this one couldn’t even wait for dessert… just needed to suck me off, didn’t you, love? dragging me back to the room, just so i could fuck this pretty mouth”.
you hummed around his dick in agreement, light headed, lips curling up as you sucked him, eyes fluttering shut as you moan around his cock. his lips parting just slightly and the smirk still not budging off of his lips, thumb rubbing against your lower lip and chin, getting his finger wet as you don’t pull your mouth off of him. he lets out a small hiss and his hand goes to the back of your head again, guiding you up and down on him, slowly. “fuck… look at you. look how wet you’re getting it”
he smirked, hand fisting your hair softly and letting out a smug laugh as you take his length even more into your mouth. “love having my cock in your mouth, don’t you? drooling all over it. taking it so well, darling. dirty fucking girl. all mine”
he laughs lowly at the sound of you choking softly on his cock “jesus…” , he turns the camera so it’s facing him now. the hand still on your head guiding it up and down, just out of sight, only his face captured by the lenses, blue eyes almost imperceptible from how big his pupils are, a relaxed smug smirk on his face and eyebrows raised as he talks, teasingly.
“if this fuckin’ leaks and anyone’s watching this, don’t think i’m a cunt, yeah?”, then he shifts the camera back at your direction while he goes on, pulling your head off by your hair “she fuckin’ likes it like this” making you let go of his cock, still with a naughty smile on your face, eyes glassy as you opened them to look between him and the camera again, your lips still touching his tip, kissing it while you don’t stop stroking his cock. his hand that was on your hair goes to your cheek, giving it three small slaps, smirking as he does so, “go on, love. say it. tell the camera how much you like it”
“love it… love when you make me choke on it, baby”, you say between wet kisses on his tip.
“yeah…” he smiles satisfied and leaves another slap on your face, holding your cheeks and squeezing them, your tongue sloppy against his tip now, the smile growing wider on your face as he says: “like it rough, don’t you?”
you nod, spitting on his cock and licking his length as you mutter ‘love it. love when you give it to me like this, noel…’, wrapping your mouth around him again, feeling your cheek grow warmer as his hand left your face to fists your hair again, biting down a smirk as he pushed your head down. “naughty fucking girl, look at you. look so good like this, love. fucking unreal”
he moans, hips bucking into your mouth as he guides your head on his cock. “my perfect slut, just for me. all mine. jesus christ, look at you, huh? needy thing… cock’s yours darling, all fucking yours. have at it, fucking take it”
he moans and feels his cock twitch as your nose touches the base of his crotch, smiling weakly as he hears the sounds you make, already too far gone, gritting out between his teeth:
“y-yeah… fucking… choke on it. show me how much y’want it, huh? show me how much you love this cock, baby. that’s it, just like that…”. he moans out, smirking as he feels you moaning around his dick, knowing you love this just as much as he does.
hand tight on your hair, fisting it in a ponytail, making your head bob down on his length. the camera captures all of it, him knowing that the footage will be useful on the nights he’s away on tour. he smirked at the sweet sounds you’re making and the wet sounds of his cock fucking your mouth. his hand holds your hair harder and holds your head in place as he thrusts up your mouth, moaning as he hears you choke on it.
“can’t even fucking believe it. see? this is my missus. my fucking girl… sucking my cock. all fucking mine, look at that mouth. fuuuuck… yeah. that’s it”. he goes back to moving your head up and down on his shaft, yanking your hair and pulling your head up, smirking as he sees the look on your face, the sight that always drove him crazy: eyes glassy, lips swollen and wet, hair messy between his fingers.
“bet you’re fucking soaked. aren’t you? yeah…” he moves your head softly side to side, making you rub your lips against his tip, getting them even wetter, as well as the corners of your mouth. his cock throbbed at the sight of him making you look even messier, almost not believing you’re his. “always get that cunt wet when i use you like this, don’t you, love? when i talk to you like this, huh?”, he asks, and you nod in confirmation, tongue swirled around him as you moaned. he smiles lazily, guiding your head down again.
“gonna have to pound you real nice after this, huh? have you all spread out on this bed. fuck you deep, jus’ the the way you like it”. his cock twitches inside your mouth just at the thought that you get off on being good for him like this, even more so when he thinks how this is just the beginning of your afternoon, making him thrust up into your mouth – a low moan coming out as he does – and starting to move your head a little faster, meeting your face with his hips, giving shallow thrusts and moaning as he feels his tip bumping against the back of your throat.
“get that… tight… needy fucking cunt what it deserves, eh? make you cum all over my cock. ‘till you’re squirming on it… fucking cryin’. yeah, want it, don’t you?”, he slurs out, dragging it out as much as he can, the words mixed with shaky breaths and moans, his fingers twitching as he holds your hair, moving your head up and down at his growing pace.
he feels like his hand would go completely limp if it wasn’t for the camera, the tape most certainly shaky at this point. “might even put a baby inside you today. cum deep inside. fuck it back into you. over and over again. hm?”
you close your eyes at his words, clenching around nothing as you feel the taste of his precum leaking inside your mouth, the way he’s gripping your hair making your even wetter. he lets out a shaky breath, biting back a smirk as he makes you take his cock deep in your mouth, closer.
“all mine. this gorgeous girl right here… fuckin’ swallowing me whole… about to make me cum on her mouth. looking like a fucking pornstar… sucking my cock. just for me. yeah, ‘s my fucking girl.”
with a moan, he pulls your head back, and you know it all too well: immediately opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out as he orders “open”, your hand not letting up: stroking him a little faster as your tongue rubs against the head of his cock. wet and soft against it, swirling around as you stroke him, smirking as you hear him says breathily and through gritted teeth: “gonna cum all over that pretty mouth, babe… make… god. a fuckin’ mess all over your tongue. ah... fuuuuck…”
you flinch softly as you feel his hot load on your tongue, smirking as you keep stroking him through his orgasm, using his cum to get his tip even wetter, aware that even though he’s sensitive, it makes his eyes roll back. his moans sound needy, hoarse, spent. hand still grabbing your hair and guiding your head just a little lower as he empties himself inside your mouth, hips twitching as he thrusts up into your mouth, not even all the way in. sloppy, slow. you hand stops stroking him slowly as you pull away, cleaning him off and moaning around him. you open your mouth as you feel his thumb press down your chin, knowing that he wants to see the mess he made all over your tongue. you hear a shaky moan leaving his lips, the camera gets closer to your face, blocking your view of him, but you still can hear the way he’s smiling weakly. you let him capture the outcome, white hot streaks all over your tongue.
“perfect… look at that…” he says, head light and voice weak from his orgasm and the substances in his organism, fingers going inside your mouth and sliding over your tongue, spreading the mess he made over it and smiling as you wrap your lips against them, sucking them as you swallow it all. his hand goes down to your jaw, not minding the way it’s getting your skin wet and dirty, pulling you closer and making you lay on top of him, faces close and going in for a kiss as he says, fond: “my girl”
you smile as you kiss him, sliding your tongue inside slowly and grinding your hips against his belly as you feel him moaning inside your mouth, feeling his own taste on your tongue. your chest now pressed against his, the cold golden chain tingling your warm skin, he turns his face towards the camera and that’s when you notice it’s on the two of you now as you share a kiss, biting down a smile as you look at him, nose rubbing against his cheek. you let out a soft chuckle as you feel his hand travel down your back, grabbbing your ass as he says, with a cheeky smirk on his face:
gente… quando eu disse hiperfoco final boss…… galera puta merda galera… puta merda véi simplesmente nunca estive tão down bad por uma celebridade antes…. precisando tocar a grama e sentir o cheiro da natureza em níveis que nunca precisei antes ….. noel gallagher vc tem sorte que você tem idade pra ser meu pai e eu não estava nascida nos anos 90 just KNOW eu teria ASFOLADO seu 🔇 com a minha 😮🔇 … im so serious rn…….
pairing: pre-fame!noel gallagher x childhood best friend!reader
genre: smut!!, friends to lovers, service!top noel
word count: 9472
warnings: vomiting (brief— not from sex but from being drunk LOL), alcohol use (both parties !), unprotected sex, fingering, just lotsa softness, minors dniii
summary: you’ve known noel gallagher nearly your whole life, and the two of you had always been close — too close, maybe. but it was easier to laugh it off than say the truth aloud. until one house party, all sweat and music and dizzy touches, tips everything sideways.
a/n: yearning. thinking of @noelsbambii.
he used to crash on your floor when you were kids.
not every night. not always planned.
just when things got bad at home. or when he couldn’t sleep. or when he said “liam’s snorin’ again, can’t fuckin’ take it.”
you’d toss him an old blanket. he’d grumble about how itchy it was.
then he’d stay up talking — about music, about paul weller, about nothin’ at all — until you fell asleep first.
sometimes he’d bring crisps. sometimes he’d bring new bruises.
he never talked about those.
you never made him sleep on the floor again after the first winter he got sick
──────── .✦➤
the strings buzzed under his fingers, something not quite tuned, not quite right.
he muttered a curse under his breath, turned a peg, tried again.
you were curled on the couch, feet bare, one leg slung over the armrest and a chipped mug balanced on your stomach. the telly was on low — some rerun you’d both seen a dozen times — but neither of you were watching it. the flat was dim, just the warm spill of the corner lamp and the faint glow from the screen. his guitar filled the space like it always did — soft and scratchy and full of half-formed things, the kind of sound that settled in your chest before your ears even caught it.
he played the same little run of chords again. then again. then sighed.
“that one again?” you teased, not looking up.
“shut it,” he muttered, but there was a smile pulling at the edge of his mouth. “it’s different.”
“it’s the same three chords from last week.”
he glanced over at you then — head tilted, fringe a mess, eyes still soft from laughing earlier when you’d nearly spilled your tea and blamed him for breathing too loud.
“maybe you’re the one that’s not changed.”
“maybe i’m perfect.”
“you’re bloody arrogant, is what you are.”
you grinned over your mug, letting the silence stretch a beat before teasing again, “you’re just pissed i’ve got a better ear than you.”
he snorted. “you wouldn’t know a good chord if it bit you.”
“please. i’ve been listening to your shite since we were twelve. if anyone’s qualified…”
“and yet, here you are. still torturing yourself.”
“’cause i’m loyal.”
“’cause you’re a glutton for punishment.”
you rolled your eyes and slouched deeper into the cushions. “tell me again how this one’s definitely gonna get you signed.”
“fuck off,” he said, laughing now. “i didn’t say that.”
“you did. two weeks ago. right after we finished that chinese and you were buzzing off your tits on flat coke.”
“i said it had potential.”
“you said, and i quote—‘this’ll be the one that makes people feel things, just you wait.’”
he groaned, leaned back dramatically, guitar still in his lap. “you’re insufferable.”
“you love it.”
he didn’t say anything, just nudged your foot with his knee.
you kicked back, gentle. he nudged again.
second nature. like it’d always been that way.
his fingers found the strings again, slower this time. you watched them move — calloused and precise, worn in from every backroom gig and bedroom demo that hadn’t gone anywhere yet. he always looked like this when he played: focused, a bit cross, like the song owed him something and he was gonna drag it out note by note if it killed him.
“that one sounds prettier,” you said, quieter now. “it’s got something.”
“yeah?” he looked up again, properly this time.
you nodded. “sad, but not in a shit way.”
he hummed like he agreed but wouldn’t say it out loud, fingers slowing again as he found the rhythm. then he shifted his grip and played it once more, this time just for you.
you let your eyes close for a second, letting the sound fill the spaces between your ribs. everything felt still in that moment — warm, easy, yours.
and that’s when the phone rang.
the old house one — loud and tinny in the corner by the kitchen, the kind of sound that cut straight through the warmth of the room like it didn’t belong.
noel sighed, already frowning.
“fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, setting the guitar down against the settee with a soft thunk.
he pushed himself up, muttering something under his breath about “never any peace,” and padded over in socked feet, picking up the receiver like it had personally offended him.
“what?” he said, flat, unimpressed — the way he always answered, like the very act of picking up was an inconvenience.
you didn’t hear the reply exactly, but you knew the voice. even muffled through the line, liam came through loud and messy — fast-talking and already halfway gone, by the sound of it.
“fuck’s sake, liam,” noel groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “you’re where?”
pause. a scoff.
“i’m not walkin’ across town just to stand in someone’s kitchen drinkin’ warm lager.”
another pause.
“i’m not,” he repeated, but with less bite.
you tilted your head on the couch, listening now — more to noel than to the conversation.
the way he stood, free hand on his hip. the way he always argued like he wasn’t going to cave, even though he always did.
“she’s not goin’ either,” he added suddenly, and you caught the glance he threw over his shoulder — a quick flick of his eyes like he was checking if you were paying attention.
which you were.
you raised a brow. smiled a little behind your mug.
“party?”
he turned fully now, phone still to his ear.
your expression was open, soft, amused — like you knew exactly what you were doing.
“liam says you’ve got to come,” he said, mouth twitching like it was physically painful to admit. “called you the life of the party. said you’re his ticket in.”
you snorted. “that’s rich.”
“i told him to piss off.”
“and yet you’re still on the line.”
he sighed again, dramatically, but the corner of his mouth lifted.
“i don’t even like parties.”
“you don’t like fun,” you corrected. “completely different.”
he was quiet for a second, just looking at you.
like he was weighing something. or maybe not weighing anything at all.
then, still holding your gaze:
“…go on, then.”
──────── .✦➤
you didn’t leave right away.
noel made a show of dragging his feet — muttering about not wanting to “freeze his bollocks off just to stand in someone’s shed with a bunch of knobheads”—but still grabbed his coat from the hook by the door.
you teased him the whole time, slipping on your boots, pretending to be shocked he owned anything resembling social stamina.
he told you to shut up, handed you your scarf without looking, and asked if you had your keys in the same breath.
the walk was short. the cold bit at your nose.
you passed a chippy that was still open, two lads shouting at each other outside it over who owed who a fiver. the streetlights painted everything yellow.
──────── .✦➤
the house was already too loud by the time you got there — bass heavy through the walls, someone singing along off-key from the back garden, warm air fogged with beer and smoke the second the door opened.
liam was the first thing you saw. or rather, his grin — wild and crooked, already a bit pissed, hair sticking up in every direction. he threw his arms around you with the kind of force that suggested he'd been waiting.
“you fuckin’ made it,” he crowed, clapping noel on the back and dragging you into a hug that smelled like cheap lager and menthols. “told everyone you’d flake.”
“nearly did,” noel muttered, shaking his head. “she made me.”
you just smiled and stepped further inside, brushing your fingers against noel’s wrist like a check-in. like you were making sure he hadn’t vanished in the crowd already. he didn’t pull away.
the place was full — bodies lining the hallway, perched on the stairs, someone already passed out across a beanbag in the living room. lights dim, one of them flickering overhead like a headache in the making.
you weaved your way toward the kitchen, noel right behind you — close enough that you could feel the heat off him.
every time someone got too close, you felt the brush of his hand at your back.
a low mutter by your ear: “left.”
a palm to your hip: “watch it.”
a scowl when someone bumped your shoulder too hard: “oi, mind her dress, yeah?”
the drinks table — if you could call it that — was chaos. bottles everywhere, mystery mixers in mismatched cups, someone’s half-eaten chips planted between two crates of red stripe.
“what’s your poison, then?” noel asked, leaning in so his voice cut through the music.
you picked something half-decent and shrugged.
“whatever gets me to tolerate your sparkling personality.”
he raised a brow. “dangerous game, that.”
you clinked your cup to his bottle. “to your social life.”
he rolled his eyes but drank anyway.
the two of you hovered there for a while, half-in and half-out of conversation with whoever drifted by. you weren’t ready to melt into the crowd just yet — neither was he. you could feel it in the way he lingered at your side, never quite facing the room, just watching it in pieces.
you nudged him once, quiet.
“you alright?”
he glanced at you. his face softened, just a little.
“’course.”
and he was. mostly.
but the music was loud and the floor was sticky and you were wearing that stupid smile you always did when you caught him looking.
and he hated parties.
and he was here, for you.
──────── .✦➤
you weren’t sure when it happened exactly, but your face was warm now. flushed from the heat or the second drink — or maybe just from the way noel kept brushing your arm when he leaned in to say something, breath hot against your cheek.
you’d moved to the living room couch for a bit, half-sunk into the cushions, knees touching. his thigh pressed against yours, solid and familiar, and neither of you moved to shift. the conversation with a couple of liam’s mates was vague — something about the best setlists of all time, someone swearing by a recent blur show, noel immediately arguing — but you weren’t really following.
you were watching the way his hand moved when he talked.
you were trying not to smile every time he muttered something just for you.
you were starting to feel it — that soft ache in your cheeks from laughing too much, that tingle behind your teeth that said you needed water but wanted more gin instead.
noel leaned close again, his knee knocking against yours. “this is shite,” he muttered, nodding toward the joint getting passed across the circle. “bet it’s half parsley.”
“liam’s supplier again?” you asked, your words a bit slurred at the edges.
“guaranteed.”
you reached for it anyway. took a drag. winced.
“yeah. parsley.”
he huffed out a laugh — a loose, warm sound — and you grinned at him, wide and unguarded, your eyes crinkling. his gaze stuck on your face a beat too long. his mouth quirked up like you’d just told the best joke in the room.
someone across the way offered you a drink in a glittery plastic cup. you took it, sipped it, gagged.
noel took it from your hand without asking, fingers brushing yours. “fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, voice rougher now, more languid. he passed it off to someone else with a lazy flick of his wrist. “don’t give her poison, she’s fragile.”
you bumped your shoulder into his. “am not.”
“are too,” he mumbled, smile a little lopsided. his head tipped back against the couch, neck flushed, bottle dangling loose in his hand.
you didn’t argue. just let your head fall gently against his for a second, long enough to feel the heat of his skin, the slow rise and fall of his breath. he didn’t move. didn’t even seem to breathe.
then you pulled away and stood.
“i’m dancing,” you said. “you coming?”
he blinked up at you, one brow raised, lips parted. “i don’t dance.”
you gave him a look.
“you don’t admit you dance.”
he huffed, tipping his bottle toward you in a lazy half-toast. “go on, then. i’ll watch you make a twat of yourself.”
“as always.”
you stepped off into the swirl of the crowd, drink still in hand, hips already starting to sway. you didn’t look back.
you didn’t have to.
you could feel his eyes on you. the weight of them. slow. sticky. sweet.
──────── .✦➤
you weren’t sure how long you’d been out there — music loud in your chest, sweat at the back of your neck, the air thick with beer and bodies. you’d danced through three songs, maybe four. your thighs ached and your drink was gone and someone had nearly spilled gin on your shoes, but you didn’t care.
you were drunk. properly now.
all warm under your skin, thoughts swimming slow. your limbs moved like they belonged to the music — looser, easier, like every beat smoothed something sharp inside you.
but you were tired of dancing alone.
your smile was starting to fade — not gone, not quite, just faltering at the edges — as you turned in a slow little circle and realised he wasn’t where you left him. noel.
not in the doorway anymore.
not leaning cool and smug like he didn’t care but still watching every move.
you huffed softly, a pout blooming on your lips, and slipped through the crowd.
the room tilted sideways once — just a little — and you giggled to yourself as your hand found the wall for balance.
you finally spotted him in the kitchen.
stood by the fridge, mid-conversation, brow furrowed like he was trying to explain something to two lads who clearly weren’t getting it. he had his sleeves pushed up and his shirt half-unbuttoned, bottle set aside behind him, lips pink from drink and flushed all down his neck.
he looked unfair.
and he wasn’t even looking at you.
you crossed the floor like it was your god-given right — barefoot, a bit wobbly, but all glossy-eyed determination. you curled your fingers into the front of his shirt and tipped your head up, cheek brushing his chest.
“noeeeel,” you half-sang, half-whined, your voice all syrupy and slurred. “come daance with me, pleaaase…”
he glanced down — startled first, then fond, then trying very hard to cover it.
“jesus. you alright?”
“m’fine,” you mumbled, nose wrinkling, “jus’— no one’s fun out there, it’s boring without you…”
he tried not to smile. really did. jaw clenched, lips twitching, doing his best to keep his face neutral.
“you’ve been out there for ages. thought you were havin’ the time of your life.”
“was,” you said with a dramatic sigh, both hands now fisted in his shirt like you were anchoring yourself. “but ‘m tired. and everyone’s sweaty. and that one bloke spilled beer on my leg and said i looked like avril lavigne.”
he blinked. “is that… bad?”
“he meant it bad,” you grumbled. “you’re not listenin’.”
he raised both brows, clearly fighting a laugh now. “i am. you just sound like you’ve had five drinks and half a spliff.”
you jutted your bottom lip out, tipping into him even further. “don’t be mean. come d-dance with me, please? i’ve been so good…”
his throat bobbed.
one of the lads beside him tried to cut in with a joke, but noel didn’t look away. didn’t even flinch.
“fuck’s sake,” he muttered after a beat, already letting you tug him toward the door. “you’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”
you only smiled, hazy and triumphant.
“yeah,” you whispered, wrapping both hands round his fingers. “but you like it.”
and of course he followed.
he always did.
──────── .✦➤
and you danced.
not like you had earlier — not light and loose.
this was closer. slower. heavy with the weight of knowing each other too well.
your arms slung over his shoulders.
his palms found your waist like they’d been there before. like they’d never left. his thumbs brushed bare skin when your top shifted, and he didn’t apologize.
your bodies swayed in time — not to the beat, but to something older. something quieter.
you weren’t talking. weren’t laughing. just moving, your breath mingling with his in the space between.
he was close enough now that you could smell him. sweat, and lager, and the soft familiar warmth of his soap. you could see the way his lashes clung together, damp from heat. you could feel the rise of his chest when he laughed — low, right by your ear — and it made your stomach twist.
your mouth brushed his cheek once. not quite a kiss.
he didn’t flinch. didn’t say a word.
and then his forehead touched yours.
just lightly.
but it lingered.
you could’ve sworn he said your name.
quiet. like a thought.
like something he hadn’t meant to say out loud.
──────── .✦➤
the room was spinning.
not fast, not scary — just enough to make the lights blur and the floor feel like it might tip sideways if you didn’t keep moving. the music had gone fuzzy round the edges, more of a hum than a beat. you could feel the bass in your chest still, but everything else had started to slip — soft, slow, unfocused.
the sweat on the back of your neck was cooling now, making your skin prickle. you shivered once and tried to hide it.
you were still pressed up against him. arms slung lazy round his neck, cheek half-resting on his shoulder. his coat collar scratched your jaw. his hand was firm on your waist, steady. he could feel it — the way your weight leaned heavier now, like gravity was cheating. the way your breath hitched, shallow. your fingers clenched once in the fabric of his jumper, just to keep hold.
“alright?” he asked, voice rough with drink.
you nodded — too quick. too much.
“m’fine,” you said, but it was slurred. the words sloshed together in your mouth like they didn’t belong to you anymore.
he pulled back enough to see your face, his hand rising automatically to brush your hair out of your eyes. you blinked up at him, lashes clumped from sweat, lipstick smudged, pupils blown wide. pretty, still — but not all the way there.
“think i need to sit,” you mumbled. “jus’—bit dizzy.”
“liam’s off his tits and flirtin’ with someone’s cousin in the bath,” he said dryly, steering you toward the hall. “he won’t notice if the roof caves in.”
you didn’t argue after that. didn’t say anything at all.
you just let him guide you — careful hands and quiet curses, one arm around your shoulders, one at your waist. he found your coat near the stairs, tugged it from the hook and helped you into it without a word. it caught at your wrist and you laughed — a little high, a little watery — and he mumbled something like “careful, idiot,” but he was smiling too.
he slung his own jacket over your shoulders after, even though you already had yours. zipped it halfway, like he didn’t trust you not to forget how. your hands were cold when he grabbed them, so he just kept holding on.
someone shouted his name from the kitchen. someone else tried to press a drink into your hand.
you didn’t really hear them. not properly.
your head was too loud. too soft. too slow.
you were already looking at the door.
──────── .✦➤
by the time you hit the pavement, the air outside was freezing. sharp against your cheeks, numbing your fingers through your sleeves. the cold bit at your legs where your tights had started to run and snag, where your skirt had ridden up a little from dancing. you barely noticed.
noel’s arm was already around your waist, steady and solid, like he’d seen it coming before you had — the way your steps faltered, how your balance tipped too far left. you didn’t fall, not really. just leaned heavier into him, breath catching on a laugh.
“fuckin’ hell,” you mumbled. “s’cold.”
“it’s manchester,” he said, like that explained everything.
you giggled, head tipped toward his shoulder, nose brushing the collar of his coat.
“y’really warm.”
“you’re really drunk.”
“so’re you.”
“maybe,” he allowed, tugging you a little closer. his stride adjusted to match yours, slow and careful, guiding you down the quiet street with that same casual touch he always had — like you were something soft he knew how to carry. “but i’m not the one who nearly kissed the kitchen wall tryin’ to find the loo.”
“shut up,” you groaned, laughing into his scarf. “it was dark.”
“you apologised to it.”
“i was being polite.”
he huffed a breath through his nose — not quite a laugh, but close. and he didn’t say anything after that. just kept walking with you, step for step, your shoes clicking unevenly against the pavement.
everything felt quieter out here. distant. like the party was something that had happened to different people, in another life. all that heat and noise and crowding now muffled behind closed doors, windows glowing soft yellow like tired eyes.
you reached his street slower than usual. kept stopping to fix your coat or laugh about nothing, to point at dogs in windows or whisper gossip you’d already told him twice. he never rushed you. just nodded, smirked, kept you close.
at one point you tried to light a cigarette with shaking hands and dropped it straight into a puddle.
“fuck’s sake,” you muttered, peering down like you’d just lost a friend.
he handed you his without blinking.
you smiled around the filter, exhaled. “you love me.”
he snorted. “you wish.”
but his hand didn’t leave your waist.
and when you finally reached his door, his keys were a mess in his hands — too many on the ring, not enough coordination. you leaned against him while he sorted through them, arms looped around his middle, swaying just a little.
“y’really warm,” you mumbled again.
“and you,” he muttered, jabbing the key at the lock, “are about to—”
he missed. cursed under his breath. tried again.
you giggled against his back, still clinging to him like a scarf he couldn’t shrug off.
“you’re drunk too,” you sing-songed.
“‘m not,” he grumbled, missing the lock again. “just—door’s shite. i’m fine.”
“uh huh.”
“fuckin’—there it is.”
he got it open on the third try, muttering triumphantly under his breath.
──────── .✦➤
you barely made it through the front door before the nausea hit — a low, sudden lurch that clawed up from your stomach, the kind that doesn’t wait.
“shit—” you mumbled, hand scrabbling clumsy at the wall as you kicked off your shoes. “i’m gonna be—”
noel didn’t hesitate.
he was already there, already steady, steering you down the hall with a hand firm and warm at your back. no fumbling, no flinching. just quiet instinct — like he’d done this before.
not like he was annoyed.
not like it was gross.
just… there. solid. sure. yours.
the light in the bathroom was too bright. the tiles too cold. your knees hit the floor and your hair fell in your face, breath catching high in your chest.
then his fingers were there — gentle and certain — pulling your hair back, holding it in a loose fist like he couldn’t stand to let you manage it on your own.
“it’s alright, love,” he murmured, voice thick with drink but still calm. “just breathe. i’ve got you.”
you didn’t answer. couldn’t.
just coughed. trembled. tried to swallow it back and failed.
he dropped down beside you without a second thought, knees on the hard tile, the damp hem of his jeans soaking through. one hand still held your hair, the other rubbing slow, steady circles into your back — the kind that said he wasn’t going anywhere.
you weren’t crying. not really.
but your breath caught like maybe you could’ve.
“knew i shouldn’t’ve let liam talk us into that fuckin’ party,” he muttered, not unkind, mostly to himself. “he’s a menace. you’re too soft for that shite.”
you let out a laugh — weak and watery and barely there, but still a laugh.
“don’t laugh,” he said, but there was a smile in his voice now. “you’re not allowed to laugh when you’ve just vommed all over my toilet.”
“‘s not your toilet,” you mumbled, eyes still shut, cheek pressed to your arm. “it’s the landlord’s.”
he huffed. a soft breath through his nose. then leaned just a little closer.
his shoulder bumped yours, familiar and warm. his fingers brushed your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with surprising care — like you might spook if he moved too fast.
“you alright now?”
you nodded, barely.
he helped you up, slow and patient, arms winding around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world. like you’d done this a hundred times. like you’d always belonged right there.
you slumped into him without thinking. he held you tighter.
“c’mon,” he said, voice lower now. gentler. “let’s get you sorted.”
──────── .✦➤
he gave you one of his t-shirts — old, soft, oversized, the cotton worn thin from too many washes. he turned away while you changed, gaze fixed on the wall like he hadn’t already seen you in worse states a dozen times before.
you were quiet as he moved around the flat, still a little unsteady himself. he came back with a cold towel, pressed it gentle to the side of your neck, then set a glass of water in your hands — careful, though his fingers shook faintly from drink.
you were both still a little drunk. the room tilted if you moved too quick, edges fuzzy, air thick with the smell of stale lager and his soap.
but the silence wasn’t awkward. it never had been.
“you didn’t have to,” you mumbled, curled into the couch, knees tucked under you, both hands wrapped tight around the mug of water like it was the only thing tethering you.
he sprawled beside you, head tipped back against the cushions, one arm thrown lazily over the backrest. “i always do.”
you turned your head. looked at him properly.
his cheeks were still flushed, hair sticking every which way from where he’d shoved his hoodie on too fast. the sleeves hung long over his knuckles, making him look younger, softer, undone.
and his eyes — they were on you like they always were. steady. unreadable. softer than he’d ever let anyone else see.
──────── .✦➤
the flat was quieter now. the street outside had gone still — no more passing cars, no more shouting kids, no more laughter bleeding through the ceiling. just the low hum of the telly, volume barely audible, and the occasional creak of old pipes behind the walls.
you were both sunk into the couch, legs tangled somewhere in the middle, sharing the same blanket. at some point he’d made toast — burnt it a little — and you’d eaten it anyway, the two of you giggling like school kids at the smell. later, he’d handed you his tea with a muttered, “not enough sugar, but it’ll do,” and you’d sipped it like it was a peace offering.
now he was sprawled beside you, head tipped lazily your way. eyes half-lidded. thumb brushing absently over the seam of the blanket, like he didn’t even know he was doing it.
“feelin’ better?” he asked, voice softer than before. not slurred anymore. just tired. just gentle.
“yeah,” you whispered. “thanks to you.”
he shrugged like it was nothing. but he didn’t look away.
his arm was thrown along the back of the couch — not quite around you, but close. close enough that you could feel the heat of him. close enough that you could smell the familiar mix of his deodorant and whatever washing powder his mum still bought in bulk.
you leaned your head back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“do you ever think,” you said slowly, not looking at him, “that we’re too close?”
he didn’t answer right away. you felt him shift — just barely — like he’d sat up a little straighter.
“too close for what?”
you shrugged. “dunno. people always say stuff, yeah?”
he huffed, sharp and soft all at once. “people are full of shit.”
that made you smile.
but still — you could feel the ache building. not the dizzy, drunk kind anymore. something steadier. older. the kind that had always been there, humming quietly in the background.
you turned toward him, knee bumping his, your hand brushing his under the blanket.
“i don’t think we are,” you said, voice so small you weren’t sure it carried.
he looked at you then — properly. his eyes darker in the low light. softer, too. his hand lifted, hesitated for a beat, then brushed a piece of hair behind your ear. his fingers lingered against your jaw. you didn’t stop him. you didn’t want to.
“me neither,” he murmured.
and when he leaned in — slow, unsure, breath catching just before he reached you — it didn’t feel like a surprise. it felt like something you’d both been waiting for quietly. something that had always been coming, even if neither of you had ever said it aloud.
his lips were warm. chapped. hesitant.
yours parted for him without thinking.
the kiss was soft. tentative.
then deeper. hungrier. like a dam cracking, everything behind it rushing forward all at once. he cupped your face like he was scared you’d vanish. like he wasn’t sure this was real.
your fingers curled into his top, dragging him closer.
no words now. just breath.
just the quiet thud of your hearts trying to catch up.
──────── .✦➤
his thumb brushed your cheek, slow and careful, like he was still making sure you were really there.
he kissed you again — softer this time, mouth barely pressing to yours, more breath than contact. then he pulled back.
not far. just enough to see you.
his forehead rested against yours, eyes closing for a second. you felt the tremble in his exhale, warm against your lips.
“are you sure?” he whispered, voice hoarse with it — the want, the fear, all tangled together.
you nodded before you could even think.
“yeah,” you breathed. “are you?”
his mouth quirked — not quite a smile, just the ghost of one. tired, warm, a little stunned.
“been sure since i was sixteen.”
you let out a quiet laugh, broken at the edges, and pulled him back to you.
his hands were everywhere now — still gentle, still him, but needier. thumbs tracing the curve of your jaw, fingers skimming down your neck, slipping under the hem of his own shirt that clung loose to your skin.
he kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for years.
and you kissed him like he was home..
──────── .✦➤
his hands slid under the fabric slow, like he didn’t want to startle you. he’d seen you in oversized tees a thousand times, even ones of his. but this was different. this one meant something.
he peeled it up, inch by inch, fingers catching over your ribs, your sides, until you raised your arms for him and let it fall away. his top came off a second later, clumsily tugged over his head, curls sticking up, his skin flushed from the couch and the heat of you beneath him.
he paused after, chest bare, breathing like he’d just run for something — or maybe from something. you stared at him. took him in. the slope of his collarbones, the faint scars on his knuckles, the way his mouth looked when he didn’t have anything clever to say.
“c’mere,” you murmured, voice rough.
he didn’t need telling twice.
his mouth was on yours again, deeper now — not urgent, but sure. like he knew he’d never get this right again if he rushed. his tongue brushed yours, a little clumsy from nerves and drink, but perfect anyway.
your hands found the button of his jeans, fingers fumbling. he helped, impatient now, breath stuttering as you tugged them low. you were down to just skin between you — no presence, no buffer. nothing to hide behind. just him, half-hard already, cock pressed warm and heavy against your stomach as he kissed you through it.
his hands cupped your thighs, thumbs digging into soft skin, guiding you back into the cushions until he was kneeling between your legs. he looked down at you like he was seeing you for the first time — or maybe like he’d finally let himself admit it.
“been wantin’ you like this too long,” he said, low. then, with a little huff of a laugh, “specially when you were all clingy tonight. hangin’ off me. thought i was gonna lose it.”
you flushed, lip caught between your teeth, and he grinned — that lazy, crooked grin he only ever wore when he had the upper hand. hungry. smug. fond.
“look at you,” he murmured, ducking his head, voice thick with it now. “all shy now, after hangin’ off me all night. you were killin’ me, y’know that?”
he mouthed at your chest, kisses slow and open-mouthed — licking lazy at your breast, then sucking just enough to make your back twitch off the cushions.
“knew it,” he breathed against your skin. “knew you’d sound like that. all soft for me.”
you whimpered — hips shifting, thighs squeezing — and he slid a hand down, slow as ever, fingers dipping between your underwear like he had all the time in the world.
and then he just… stopped. stilled. blinked like he hadn’t expected what he found.
“jesus christ,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “you’re soaked.”
his thumb brushed your clit once — featherlight — just to watch your lashes flutter.
“all this for me, yeah?” he murmured, dipping to kiss just under your jaw. “that why you were so clingy? needed me to touch you like this?”
you tried to nod, but his thumb circled again — slow, steady, maddening — and your answer came out as a breathy little whine.
“poor thing,” he said, soft now, mock-pity curling round the edges. “bet you’ve been aching all night. all that dancin’, all that grindin’… should’ve pulled you into the loo and had you like this hours ago.”
you whimpered, hand fisting in the couch cushions.
“shh, ‘s alright, baby,” he soothed, kissing the corner of your mouth. “m’gonna take care of you, yeah?”
two fingers slipped inside you — slow, steady — and curled like he already knew the shape of you. like he’d dreamed about it. his thumb stayed on your clit, just enough pressure to keep you breathless.
you moaned — helpless now, high and warm and pulsing around his fingers — and he just watched you.
watched the way your chest heaved. the way your thighs twitched. the way your mouth stayed parted like you were still trying to find words.
“that’s it,” he whispered, eyes dark. “there she is. my pretty little thing.”
you whimpered again, hands reaching for him blindly — his shoulders, his hair, anything.
“need you,” you gasped. “please—”
“you’ve got me,” he said, voice low. “m’right here. not goin’ anywhere.”
he pressed his forehead to yours, breath hot, fingers working you through it, drawing you right to the edge — slow and patient, like he wanted to memorize every sound you made. like he wanted you to fall apart for him first, properly.
and you were so close. aching for it.
his voice dipped even softer. almost a secret.
“y’wanna come for me, princess?”
you nodded, a messy little sob catching in your throat.
“go on, then,” he breathed, kissing the corner of your mouth again. “be good f’me. show me how pretty you are when you come.”
you came with a soft, broken sound — hips twitching, legs tight around his wrist. he didn’t stop. didn’t rush. just kept his thumb circling slow, slow, coaxing it out of you like he’d planned it all along.
“fuckin’ beautiful,” he breathed, watching the way your face crumpled. “there it is.”
──────── .✦➤
your breath hitched, mouth falling open. he kissed it — soft and messy and open-mouthed — catching your little gasps like they were gold.
“good girl,” he murmured, fingers still moving inside you, slower now, easing you through the aftershocks. “so good f’me.”
your hand trembled against his chest, gripping his tee — the one he’d pulled back on in the haze of getting you water and settling you onto the couch, the one that still smelled like the party and smoke and him. your thighs twitched again.
“noel,” you whispered, voice shaky. “need—”
“i know,” he said, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “i know, baby. y’ready now, yeah?”
you nodded fast, still breathless, still flushed. your eyes were wide and glassy and so fucking sweet.
he just looked at you a moment, thumb brushing over your cheek. then he sat back on his knees and dragged his shirt over his head, slow and careless.
his curls were a mess again. his belt was still fastened — barely.
and the look he gave you — that half-lidded, flushed, cocky tilt of his mouth — was downright obscene.
“gonna make you feel even better now,” he said, tugging his jeans down over his hips. “been thinkin’ about it all night. your legs around me. your mouth on mine. all those fuckin’ looks you gave me—”
he leaned down again, kissing you hard this time. deeper. wetter. you tasted yourself on his tongue and moaned into it.
his cock was hot and heavy between you, sliding against your thigh as he shifted closer. but still, he didn’t fuck you yet. just pressed against you, breathing through it, letting the heat build and build until it ached.
“fuckin’ ruined me,” he muttered into your mouth. “walkin’ round bein’ all cute and needy — dancin’ like that, clingin’ to me, beggin’ for me to come home with you…”
his hand cupped your cheek again, grounding you.
“y’want it now?” he asked, barely holding it together. “want me to give it to you proper?”
“want you,” you whispered, voice wrecked. “want you to fuck me.”
his breath hitched.
──────── .✦➤
you saw it — the way his jaw clenched, how his eyes fluttered shut for half a second like he was praying for composure.
“fuckin’ hell,” he muttered. “you’ve no idea what you do to me.”
but he was already moving — lining himself up, his hand wrapped around his cock, thick and flushed and dripping at the tip. he stroked once, twice, the head brushing over your cunt, slick catching just right to make your back arch.
you whimpered, all breath and want, and he groaned — low and guttural, like it hurt to hold back.
“look at you,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “so fuckin’ pretty like this. all messy and sweet. just wantin’ to be ruined, yeah?”
you nodded, desperate. your thighs trembled where they framed his hips, your cunt already clenching around nothing.
“please, noel.”
his name sounded like music when you said it like that — soft and broken and breathless.
he pressed in slow. not just to tease, but to feel it. to watch the way your mouth dropped open, the way your nails curled into his biceps, the way your cunt squeezed around him with every inch he gave you.
he sank into you in one long, aching thrust. not fast. not brutal. just deep — so deep — like he needed you to feel every part of him. like he wanted to live there.
his mouth dropped open in a quiet gasp, hands gripping your hips like he didn’t trust himself not to come already.
“jesus christ,” he breathed. “you feel— fuck, baby. you feel perfect. warmest little pussy i’ve ever felt, swear to god.”
you choked on a moan, legs wrapping round his waist without thinking. he groaned again, a little higher this time, like the feel of your thighs pulling him closer snapped something in him.
“you don’t even know,” he rasped, fucking into you slow and steady. “how long i’ve wanted this. how fuckin’ sweet you looked tonight. all clingy n’ soft, beggin’ for me to come dance with you—shit—was so hard i had to turn away.”
his hand slipped under your thigh, lifting it slightly, opening you wider so he could press deeper.
“was tryna be good. tryna be normal. but then you come waltzin’ over, all needy, askin’ me to come dance—fuckin’ killin’ me, babe.”
you were already trembling, hands clutching his back, breath coming quicker with every slow, deep grind of his hips.
he leaned down, mouth brushing yours, then your cheek, your neck.
“kept thinkin’… if you looked at me like that one more time, i’d take you home and fuck you just like this.”
he rolled his hips again — deep, lazy, his cock hitting the spot that made your eyes roll back. and then again, and again, that same delicious pace, all control and heat and intention.
“y’like that?” he murmured. “can feel you squeezin’. fuck, you’re so fuckin’ wet, baby.”
his hand slid between you — not rushed, not fumbling — thumb brushing your clit in slow, teasing circles.
your hips jerked, moan catching in your throat. his eyes darkened, watching you fall apart for him, every flutter of your cunt around his cock, every twitch of your thighs.
“such a good girl,” he murmured. “takin’ me so well. lettin’ me play with you, make you feel good.”
you nodded, eyes glossy, too far gone for words.
“gonna come for me again?” he asked, voice ragged. “that’s it, princess. i’ve got you. just like this. let it happen.”
he kissed you — open-mouthed and soft, almost reverent — while his fingers worked you, while his hips rocked into you just right, hitting every nerve that made you burn.
“there she is,” he groaned, just as you started to shake. “fuck, there she is. give it to me, baby.”
you couldn’t hold it. not with the way he was fucking you — steady, full, like he wanted to be inside you forever. not with the way he talked — dirty and sweet all at once, like every word was meant for you alone.
you shattered under him with a cry, your thighs clamping around his waist. your back arched, and you cried out for him, cunt spasming around his cock as your orgasm crashed over you.
“fuckin’ beautiful,” he gasped, barely holding on, thrusts getting sloppy. “feel you milkin’ me—shit, baby, i’m gonna—”
he came with a groan, face buried in your neck, body shaking as he spilled inside you. one last thrust, deep and trembling, as he finally stilled.
and for a moment, everything was quiet.
just his breath, your heartbeat, the soft tangle of limbs in the dark.
──────── .✦➤
“fuckin’ love you,” he muttered, not even realising he’d said it.
not a confession.
not really.
just the truth, finally slipping out of him.
you didn’t say anything right away — too breathless, too full. your fingers just curled a little tighter in his hair, your nose nudging against his cheek, the way animals do when they trust each other. and he stayed like that for a while, still inside you, his body draped over yours like he couldn’t quite let go.
his hand stroked your side, aimless. up and down. thumb brushing your hip, then circling your tummy like he could soothe you through skin. he was still panting a bit — not dramatic, just winded, quiet — like you’d knocked the breath out of him and he hadn’t quite gotten it back.
“alright?” he murmured, lips pressed to your shoulder.
you nodded, too soft to speak, just humming a little as your arms draped around his back.
“mmmhm.”
he pulled back slow, real slow, careful like you were made of glass — like he was scared to hurt you, or maybe just scared to lose the feeling.
you both winced a bit when he slipped out. the mess, the stretch — it was a lot. but he was already there with soft kisses and hushed words, brushing your hair off your forehead, rubbing your thigh with a warm palm.
“stay here,” he said, low and gentle. “gonna sort you out, yeah?”
you nodded again, pliant. a bit dazed.
and he kissed your cheek before he stood — a soft little press, sweet as anything, then a slap to your thigh, playful.
“don’t fall asleep on me now, sleepyhead.”
you stuck your tongue out at him, and he grinned like he couldn’t stand how cute you were.
he padded out of the room, stark naked, like he didn’t care, like he forgot what modesty was. and when he came back, he had a warm flannel, a towel, and a bottle of water he must’ve grabbed from the fridge.
“open,” he said, crouching down beside the couch with the bottle already cracked.
you blinked at him, confused.
“your mouth, dummy,” he teased, holding the water to your lips. “you’re probably dehydrated, and i don’t want you faintin’ on me.”
you sipped, obedient, and he watched you the whole time — like he was making sure you didn’t spill, or choke, or disappear.
then came the cleanup.
so gentle. so absurdly gentle. he didn’t rush a single part of it — just pressed the warm cloth between your legs, soft little dabs, like he was scared of making you flinch. he muttered as he did it, almost to himself.
“knew i should’ve laid a fuckin’ towel down first… sorry, baby, i’m makin’ a mess of your thighs…”
you only giggled, drunk on him more than anything else.
he kissed your knee. then your belly. then your cheek again.
and when he was done, he pulled the blanket back over you like tucking in a child. then slipped beneath it himself and gathered you close — your head to his chest, one of your thighs thrown over his, his arm curled tight around your waist.
“you warm enough?”
“mhm.”
“want me to make tea?”
“not yet.”
“need anything?”
“you,” you mumbled.
and he just melted, babe. actually melted. pressed his face into your hair like he didn’t want you to see the way his eyes went a bit glassy. like he’d break in half if he looked at you too long.
“fuck’s sake,” he muttered. “you’re gonna be the death of me.”
you smiled into his skin.
“good.”
he laughed — real, tired, sweet — and his hand stroked lazy lines up and down your back. then your bum. then your thigh. not sexual, not yet. just possessive. loving.
“d’you wanna wear one of my proper shirts tomorrow?” he asked eventually, voice thick with sleep. “one of the ones with buttons. think you’d look well good.”
“you just want me in your clothes.”
“damn right i do,” he said. “you’re mine.”
you didn’t correct him.
you just kissed his collarbone, and let him hold you tighter.
──────── .✦➤
you woke to the sound of a kettle whistling.
the light through the curtains was pale and blue-grey, soft with that early morning hush — the kind that felt borrowed. the telly was still on, some rerun looping faint and distant in the background, colors flickering against the wall like shadows too lazy to disappear.
you were still on the couch. your cheek was pressed to the cushion, one arm tucked beneath you, the blanket half-kicked off sometime in the night. your thighs were sticky. your skin still warm from the night before, from him.
noel wasn’t there.
but you could hear him. in the kitchen — the clink of mugs, the creak of the old cupboard door, the low, tuneless hum of his voice.
you sat up slowly, wincing a little. everything ached in that good, used way. you pulled the blanket back around your shoulders, blinked blearily at the morning.
you didn’t remember what you’d said last night. if anything.
you remembered his arms.
his chest under your cheek.
his fingers, tracing lazy shapes along your spine like he couldn’t sleep unless you were there to draw them into.
but words?
no, not really.
“you’re up,” he said, soft and scratchy, when he spotted you.
“barely,” you mumbled, pulling your knees up under the blanket.
he padded over a second later, barefoot, still shirtless. joggers hanging low on his hips, curls a mess. he had two mugs in his hands — both chipped at the rim. he offered you one without fanfare.
“made yours how you like it.”
you took it with both hands, fingers wrapping around the ceramic.
“thanks.”
he sat beside you, close but not crowding. your knees bumped.
his skin was warm where it touched yours.
he didn’t look at you, not quite. just stared ahead, took a slow sip from his mug, blew at the steam like he was trying not to overthink it.
you watched him.
the soft curve of his mouth.
the pink at the tip of his nose.
the way his jaw twitched a little, like he wanted to say something and didn’t know where to start.
neither of you spoke for a moment.
you just sat there, shoulders brushing, legs tangled under the blanket.
the air was thick with sleep and steam and something you didn’t want to name yet.
finally, he cleared his throat.
“you sleep alright?”
you nodded, slow. “yeah. you?”
he hesitated.
then, quieter:
“better than i have in ages.”
you looked at him then.
really looked.
and his eyes were already on you — not shy, not cocky, just there. steady. like he’d been waiting for you to notice.
your chest ached a little.
“noel.”
he blinked.
“yeah?”
you opened your mouth —
but nothing came. no speech. no clever line.
just a flicker of something in your throat, in your ribs.
so instead… you reached.
set your mug down gently on the side table. nudged his arm with your knuckles, then curled into his side, slow, like a question. and he answered without speaking — arm sliding round your shoulders, hand finding your knee, lips brushing your hairline like instinct.
he didn’t say anything else.
but he didn’t let go.
and neither did you.
──────── .✦➤
his arm stayed around you for a long time.
long enough for your tea to go lukewarm in your mug. long enough for the telly to roll into another rerun, then another. long enough for the light to shift from early grey to proper morning.
he smelled like sleep and toothpaste and the faintest trace of you — clinging soft to his skin, in the crook of his neck.
you stayed like that until your legs started to tingle.
then he pulled back, just a little, just enough to look at you.
“reckon we should brush our teeth before liam starts shoutin’ at us through the telly.”
you groaned. “don’t say his name. ruins the vibe.”
he grinned — a sleepy, crooked thing — and stood with a stretch.
offered you a hand.
“c’mon, princess. up we get.”
you let him drag you up with a whimper and a yawn, blanket still half-draped over your shoulders. your legs were stiff. his top was bunched near the foot of the couch. your underwear was on the fucking radiator.
“jesus christ,” you mumbled, snatching them up. “we’re disgusting.”
“you love it,” he muttered, brushing past you to the bathroom, still shirtless, still smug. “s’why you keep comin’ back.”
you followed, because of course you did.
he handed you your toothbrush — the one you pretended wasn’t yours even though it’d lived in his flat for weeks now — and stood behind you while you both brushed in silence, your reflection a little blurry in the mirror.
he kissed your shoulder after. didn’t even think about it.
just did it.
like it was normal. like it’d always been.
the silence was thicker now. not awkward, not tense. just full of… something. like maybe you were both wondering what came next. like maybe you weren’t ready to ask.
you stole one of his shirts while he wasn’t looking. some old tour tee. it smelled like laundry powder and faintly of him, stretched soft over your frame. he didn’t say anything when he spotted you in it. just smirked like he was trying not to.
he made you toast again. didn’t burn it this time.
handed it over with a gentle “eat this or i’ll cry.”
kissed your forehead when you rolled your eyes at him.
you both stayed on your feet in the kitchen, eating slowly, sipping tea between bites.
his hand kept finding your hip.
yours kept brushing his wrist.
and for a while — just a little while — it felt like the world outside didn’t exist.
until it did.
a loud knock rattled the front door.
you both jumped.
noel groaned, dropped his head back against the cupboard. “fucksake.”
another knock. then bonehead’s voice — unmistakable — carrying through the thin walls.
“wake the fuck up, romeo! game’s in twenty and liam’s already nicked the good seat!”
you blinked, still chewing. “we’re going?”
noel gave you a look. “if we don’t, he’ll break the door down.”
you winced. “fuck. alright.”
──────── .✦➤
bonehead’s place was already buzzing by the time you got there. telly blaring, curtains drawn to block the sun, couch cushions kicked to the floor. someone had cracked open a lager before noon. someone else was already rolling a joint on a warped copy of nme.
liam was sprawled on the carpet like a kid, shirtless, gesturing wildly at the screen. “that was offside, you fuckin’ donkey—”
“language,” bonehead muttered, shoving him with a foot. “we’ve got company.”
liam turned, saw you both in the doorway — you, slightly flushed, wrapped in noel’s hoodie; noel, hair a mess, hand still half-laced in yours.
he blinked.
then grinned. slow. wicked.
“finally,” he said, voice full of smug. “knew you two were gonna crack eventually.”
“shut it,” noel warned, already toeing off his boots. but the tips of his ears were red.
you elbowed him lightly. “you told him?”
“didn’t have to,” liam said, stretching like a cat on the carpet. “you’re not exactly subtle, are ya? walkin’ round in his clothes, all starry-eyed—”
“liam,” noel said, low.
“—and he’s there followin’ you round like a bleedin’ puppy.”
“liam.”
bonehead just raised a brow from the kitchen doorway. “tea?”
“please,” you said, voice small. “strong.”
he nodded once. didn’t ask questions.
bless him for that.
you stepped over liam’s outstretched legs and dropped onto the sofa. he waggled his brows at you.
“so… was it good?”
“oh my god,” you groaned, hiding behind your mug as bonehead barked a laugh.
“you’re such a knobhead,” noel muttered, flopping down beside you. “can’t take you anywhere.”
“you brought me,” liam grinned, then dropped his voice theatrically. “bet she was sayin’ your name like a prayer, weren’t she—?”
“fuckin’ hell!” noel snapped, cheeks bright red now. he grabbed a throw pillow and launched it directly at liam’s head.
liam caught it with one hand and winked.
you were bright with laughter and heat, burying your face in noel’s shoulder as he grumbled, “next time i’ll shag you just to shut you up.”
liam whooped. bonehead clapped from the kitchen.
“please don’t,” guigsy muttered from the floor. “some of us are tryin’ to watch the game.”
eventually, the telly won out.
you found yourself wedged between noel and the arm of the sofa, knees pulled up, mug in hand, trying not to meet liam’s smug gaze. noel leaned into your side like it was nothing, like it’d always been this way. he kept making soft little comments about the match under his breath, half to himself, half to you — fingers tapping against your thigh in time with the commentary.
liam didn’t let up, of course. whispered something to guigsy, snorted behind his hand, muttered, “about bloody time,” like he hadn’t been the one playing matchmaker all year.
E hoje me bateu uma saudade da sua escrita e só queria você saindo da aposentaria e fazendo uma one do Kuku com a personalidade de professor igual no story que ele divulgou hoje
véi…. eu vi isso e pensei QUE porra é essa…. não estava preparada pra abalos bucetonicos essa hora da manhã ………
sendo mt sincera….. (as in a pessoa q tem hiperfoco em um professor delicioso casado💀) kuku!professor que é ESCROTO.
ele é um professor bom… da pra ver que é inteligente pra caramba, por mais que a docência não fosse seempre o sonho, ele é bom no que faz. paga as contas. não é o tipo de professor que constrói laços com a turma, de vez em quando solta aquela risadinha quando um dos alunos conta algo engraçado, da bom dia e se despede educadamente… nos corredores, só dá um tchauzinho educado, sempre com a bendita mão com a aliança, para tristeza de todas as alunas, que toda semana - em algum momento no almoço - precisam pelo menos falar uma vez o quanto o sr. kukuriczka é gostoso.
o vocês aconteceu em uma festa. evento de trabalho que seus pais estavam, precisava de um vestido.. uma maquiagem mais arrumada.. o cabelo feito, essas coisas. você saiu por só uns minutos, mexendo no seu celular e respondendo o grupo de amigas depois de umas duas taças de champagne que você foi sorrateira ao tomar e, na verdade, nem fizeram efeito. mas, parece que te atingiu igual um caminhão no momento que ouve a voz dele, chamar o seu nome. olha pra cima, perdendo o foco completamente da conversa, esquecendo até mesmo o nome das amigas, mas sorrindo educadamente, como se não fosse nada “oi, professor.. boa noite..”. ele responde com um sorrisinho fraco, relaxado - um que você tem quase certeza que nunca viu na faculdade - , as mãos no bolso, as sobrancelhas um pouco enrugadas ao perguntar o que você estava fazendo ali. você responde. ele acena a cabeça com a boca fazendo um “ahh” baixinho. você bloqueia o celular, segurando ele com as duas mãos e olhando pra vista enquanto um silêncio confortável cai em cima de vocês dois.
“você fuma?” , ele pergunta, por educação. sorri com o cigarro entre os dentes quando você responde que não, “que bom, faz mal pra você”, ele acende.
com uma desculpa que estava com dor de cabeça, fala para os seus pais que está indo embora. “ah não, tá tranquilo. vou pedir um uber”. você sempre odiou entrar em carros com motoristas bebados, mas parece que esteban tirou completamente seu bom senso. e ele não fez nada demais, só perguntou “eu tô indo embora, quer uma carona?” simplesmente. mas você sabe que essa situação não é típica entre um professor e aluna, sabe que essa pergunta segura um peso muito maior do que as palavras realmente deixam explícitas. e ele também. o trajeto é tranquilo, quieto, você passa o tempo todo observando a mão direita, grande, com um relógio no volante. a esquerda com a aliança dourada ocasionalmente, quando ele passava ela em cima da barba, fazia seu estômago embrulhar.
quando chegam no seu destino, você solta um arzinho pelo nariz, ele sai mais tremido do que você antecipava. “bem, obrigada.. pela carona”. ele dá aquele sorrisinho de novo, balança a cabeça “não há de que”. você não abre a porta, ainda. “vem aqui…” ele sussurra, e você vai. se aproxima dele, só até perto do freio de mão, segurando um ar que você não conseguiria soltar nem se quisesse, e ele percebe. ele te olha… coloca a mão esquerda na sua coxa, apalpa ela, devagarinho, cobrindo a barra do vestido e a sua pele, cheia de arrepios. fica observando a própria mão massageando a sua coxa. “ninguém vai saber, tá?”, ele diz baixinho, não é uma pergunta, nem mesmo um aviso pra te tranquilizar. só um fato. ninguém vai saber. e ele sabe que você vai concordar, ele não é idiota, percebe que você é mais reservada do que as outras colegas. e mesmo assim, solta um arzinho pelo nariz junto com um sorrisinho fraco quando você confirma, acenando com a cabeça e as sobrancelhas se juntando mesmo sem sua permissão. te beija, devagar, segura sua nuca e as vezes os dedos viajam até o seu cabelo, segurando ele com um pouco de mais força toda vez que a língua entra mais na sua boca. ele faz carinho por cima da calcinha, e luta contra um sorriso quando percebe o tecido totalmente encharcado. não fala nada. você já sabe, e ele também.
te leva pra um motel. sem muita cerimônia, sem muita conversa. o farol baixo o tempo todo, troca pouquíssimas palavras com o funcionário. e no quarto, não tem muita conversa também. volta a te beijar na cama, se deita em cima de você, as mãos voltam a te fazer aquele carinho, o tipo que te faz gemer dentro da boca dele e mover os quadris sem mesmo perceber, desesperada por mais. ele se afasta, ajoelhado entre suas pernas, levanta seu vestido devagar e observa as mãos trabalhando no tecido, você jura que ouve um arzinho pesado escapar pelo nariz grande quando a calcinha finalmente aparece, permitindo que ele coloque uma imagem no que ele sentiu na ponta dos dedos, branca, rendada, pequenininha, completamente encharcada. ele não é muito da conversa, mas ainda sim age como um cavalheiro - pelo menos nesse momento -, puxa a sua calcinha para o lado e te lambe, para cima e para baixo, devagar e torturante, os olhos fixados no seu rosto. se afasta e retoma com um beijo molhado, a boca ao redor dos seus lábios, afastando devagarinho e retomando com foco no seu clítoris e dois dedos dentro. ele não fala, mas fica metido com o fato de você ter gozado tão rápido, menos de dois minutos. ele senta em cima das canelas, apalpa sua coxa de novo enquanto você olha pra ele, respirando pesado. “você toma pílula?”, a mão vai até a própria virilha, segurando a ereção, apertando. precisando de um tipo de alívio, por menor que seja, e a mão involuntariamente aperta mais forte quando ouve um “sim..”. ele sabe que você não mentiria. engravidar durante o curso, e ainda por cima de um professor. você não é idiota.
ainda na mesma posição, tira a sua calcinha, observa sua carinha enquanto você só fica deitada ali, deixando que ele faça o que você quiser. “tira”, ele manda, a mão da uma puxadinha na barra do vestido. ele te observa tirar, não fala nada. acena com a cabeça até a beirada da cama, luta contra um sorriso quando você obedece, ficando de joelhos enquanto ele senta na beirada. não tira a blusa ainda, mas desfaz o cinto e o botão da calça, desliza ela até os pés, com o olhar fixo em você de joelhos no meio das pernas dele, paciente. esperando. coloca a mão na sua nuca enquanto abaixa o cos da cueca, silenciosamente te permite fazer algo. solta um ar pesado quando sente sua língua na cabecinha que já sujou a cueca de pré gozo. a mão continua na sua nuca, só descansando ali, e os olhos fixados na sua boca ao redor dele, apertando seu pescoço de levinho quando te sente tomar o comprimento todo na boca. a mão começa a apertar mais, guiando sua cabeça pra cima e pra baixo. quanto mais perto, menos se importa com os barulhos de engasgo e a lágrima se formando no cantinho do olho. ele até gosta. sabe que é grande, não tem o que fazer. começa a respirar mais forte quando está chegando perto do orgasmo, as mãos agora segurando seu cabelo em um rabo de cavalo enquanto vai de encontro com os quadris e a sua boca, se esvaziando na sua língua com um grunhido.
respira pesado, te olhando. “tá bem?”, e repete com a cabeça quando você acena, respirando pesado.
“deita”. demora uns segundos pra levantar, se vira e vê que você já está deitadinha, com as pernas fechadas, completamente nua. ele levanta, se desfaz da camisa, e das calças, agora completamente. fica de joelhos entre suas pernas de novo. cospe na mão, leva até o comprimento, sente ficando cada vez mais duro de novo, a mão livre no seu joelho, fazendo com que você abra as pernas pra ele de novo. desliza pra dentro de você com facilidade, devagarinho, e não se deita perto, não beija seu pescoço. só te fode ali, segurando suas coxas e vendo seu rosto se contorcer de prazer, e quando está perto de novo, os olhos automaticamente descem para os peitos que balançam com cada estocada. joga a cabeça pra trás quando goza, se esvazia na sua barriga, nem olha os jatos branquinhos saindo, não consegue levantar a cabeça e abrir os olhos. só vê a bagunça depois de alguns segundos.
te limpa, com uma toalha úmida, joga ela pro lado, se deita em cima de você e te beija de novo. fica duro quando te sente gemer dentro da boca, se afasta um pouco, a mão viaja até seu quadril, e te vira, te observando de costas, pelada na cama. apalpa sua bunda, aperta, segura forte e deixa um tapa estalado. da aquele sorrisinho de novo quando você treme embaixo do toque e solta um gemidinho, mas você não percebe. te empina, deixando você de quatro. uma mão vai para a sua buceta, esfregando e espalhando a umidade com os quatro dedos, fazendo carinho, respirando mais pesado quando ouve o barulhinho molhado e sua respiração ficar irregular. a outra mão volta para o comprimento, com cuspe de novo, dessa vez só dando umas estocadas, passando o dedão na cabecinha e puxando um ar entre os dentes. te fode de quatro, dessa vez geme baixinho, respira pesado, segura a sua bunda e olha o pau entrar e sair de você. olha sua cara contra o travesseiro, percebe os olhos fechados e a boca permanenentemente aberta, soltando gemidinhos fracos com cada estocada, e como as sobrancelhas se franzem de prazer toda vez que deixa um tapa estalado na carne. percebe só depois que deixou ela toda vermelha.
quando está perto de novo, puxa seu cabelo e cola suas costas no peito, segurando seu quadril com a mão livre enquanto te fode. a outra segura seu cabelo, mantém sua cabeça perto da dele, e com o ouvido perto da boca, consegue ouvir os gemidinhos baixos, agora mais evidentes - depois de gozar duas vezes - e mais graves, ofegantes. pode jurar que ouve um “gostosa” baixinho, mas não diz nada a respeito. dessa vez, goza dentro de você, fundo, ofegante, bagunçado. os quadris continuam mexendo devagarinho mesmo depois que se esvazia, a mão do cabelo vai até os peitos e segura os dois com uma mão só, respirando pesado enquanto se recupera do orgasmo.
se vestem, sem muita conversa de novo. te deixa em casa, os faróis ainda baixos. solta um arzinho pelo nariz quando te ouve. “boa noite… e, pode ficar tranquilo, eu não vou contar pra ninguém”
nossa mas comecei a ouvir amo dejarte asi do gustavo cerati e automaticamente me vieram flashbacks de guerra (carinhosamente) dos meus momentos namorados latinos sensuais fernando contigiani esteban kuku felipe otano…. ai q saudade deles pensei aki fernando é socio de um restaurante e ai COMO thoughts are being thunk de uma loba no restaurante no aniversário de alguem nesse restaurante e eles trocariam olhares e se amariam louca e putifiramente a noite toda aiai ….. meio q era meu sonho
gente um desabafo …. eu preciso desse homem… ah mas camila … vei … eu preciso … tipo sério … ngm me entende…… eu estou quase engolindo minhas duas mãos e depois meus dois braços e depois meu corpo inteiro e quase desaparecendo da terra tipo …. preciso…. eu preciso dele …. tô mal de vdd…. sério …. tipo serinho msm… ah mas camila isso era nos anos 90 ele não tá assim mais ….. cala .. a boca véi… sério… e tipo.. ah mas camila vc mamaria ele idoso … sim vei … sim eu mamaria …
manas hoje acompanhei uma cirurgia endometriose babadeira e simplesmente vi um dos homens mais belos que meus olhos já viram …. cirurgião com a mão gigante ! . muitos sentimentos sendo sentidos …
pairing: pre-fame + 1996 noel gallagher x reader
genre: fluff, long term relationship :p
word count: 5128
summary: you were liam’s friend’s older sister. he was the boy with the guitar case always slung over his shoulder. now it’s 1996 and you’re wrapped up in each other and all the memories that made you.
a/n: based on super sweet requests ever—thank you !! though for everyone that wants to be kissed like a secret and remembered like a song <3
noel’s bedroom was half-dark, all golden through the curtain crack, soft with the kind of silence that made you wanna stay under the covers forever. tapes scattered on the floor, cigarette pack balanced on the edge of the desk. the kind of mess only a boy would call lived-in. it smelled like old laundry and his aftershave, like sleep and dust and the lemon shampoo you left in the shower last week.
you were straddling him, legs tangled in the duvet, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. his jumper hung loose on you, sleeves past your hands. noel leaned back against the headboard, chin resting on your chest, eyelids low like the sun was too bright for him. one of his hands drummed light little rhythms against your side, barely-there taps. he did that sometimes when he was thinking—fingers twitching like they needed to write something invisible.
“one day i’m gonna be a rockstar,” he said, voice all scratch and sleep.
you looked down at him, brushing his fringe back with your fingers. “you already are.”
he huffed a quiet laugh, lips barely curling. “nah. not yet. not properly.”
“you’ve got a song on the radio.”
“yeah, but—” he shifted, head rolling to the side, cheek against your chest now. “not stadium big. not madchester-meets-the-beatles big. i mean proper. global. loud. loud enough that they hear it in fuckin’ japan.”
you smiled, nose scrunching a little. “you gonna be too famous to kiss me in public, then?”
his eyes opened just a bit, met yours. warm and sleepy and sincere. “gonna marry you.”
your heart stuttered. not because it was surprising—he’d said it before, drunk off stolen cider and rain—but this time was different. quiet. certain.
you raised a brow. “that a proposal?”
“d’you want it to be?” his voice was almost shy, not like him at all.
you pretended to think, tracing his jaw with your finger. “hmm. well, you haven’t even asked properly.”
he groaned, tucking his face back into your chest like he could hide there. “m’not gonna get on one knee in me fuckin’ socks.”
“why not?”
“you’ve seen my knees. tragic things.” he paused, breath warm against your skin. “plus… this is nicer, innit?”
you didn’t answer right away. just held him a little closer, carding your fingers through his hair.
“yeah,” you murmured after a beat. “this is perfect.”
his fingertips tapped out another beat on your side. like he was mapping you. like he was memorising the rhythm of your ribs.
“swear i’ll do it, though,” he said, quieter now. “swear i’ll get us outta here. big house, big telly. dogs. you’ll never have to look after liam again unless you want to.”
“hmm. i quite like him.”
he scoffed. “you’re the only one.”
you giggled, soft and fond. “noel?”
“mm?”
you tilted his face up with your fingers, and he looked at you with those half-lidded eyes, all soft under the lashes. “don’t forget to write a song about me when you’re famous.”
he grinned, teeth crooked and heart already yours. “already did.”
and you kissed him, slow and sleepy, with your whole sunday morning mouth. and he kissed you back like it was a promise.
you stayed like that for a while—quiet and warm and weightless. the sun climbed higher, painting soft stripes across the bedsheets, and noel’s breathing slowed under you, his fingers still tapping gentle beats like he couldn’t stop. you watched him for a long time. his lashes, the shape of him so familiar it hurt.
you weren’t thinking about the future anymore. not the tours he’d found himself on being a roadie or the madness. just the small things. the beginnings.
how did it start, again?
you couldn’t remember the exact moment he stopped being liam’s weird older brother with the too-big coat and started being yours.
but it was there, somewhere.
the first spark.
—
the first time noel really noticed you, like—noticed you—he’d just come down the stairs in that threadbare man city shirt, eyes still half-shut, hair a mess like he’d lost a fight with his own pillow. it was summer. burnage was boiling. and he’d only come down to shout at liam for nicking his guitar picks again.
but there you were.
stood in the doorway, arms crossed, hip popped like you owned the whole street. tank top, scrunchie on your wrist, chewing gum like it was a chore. you’d come to pick up your brother—jamie, the one who never shut up about liam—but now your gaze flicked lazily over to him.
to noel.
he stopped halfway down the stairs. blinked. said something dumb like, “alright?”
you raised an eyebrow. “jamie in?”
your voice was lazy and lilting and didn’t match the suburb. it stayed in his ears longer than it should’ve.
“yeah,” he mumbled. “back garden. s’playing footie with liam. probly breaking shit.”
you nodded, didn’t move yet. just let your eyes trail across the hallway, the peeling wallpaper, the wreck of shoes by the door. then back to him.
“you the brother?” you asked, like you already knew. like you’d heard the stories.
he scratched the back of his neck. “depends which one.”
you smiled, slow. “the one who’s always moaning about noise.”
his ears went pink.
you didn’t stay long—just called jamie’s name once and he came running, sweaty and breathless. you told him mum said no more than an hour and not to come home with bloody knees again. and then you were gone.
but noel stood there for a moment longer, still holding the bannister, still looking at the spot where you’d been.
“who was that?” he asked liam later.
liam had snorted. “jamie’s sister. proper bossy. always shows up like she owns the place.”
and noel, staring down at his tea, muttered, “yeah. i noticed.”
—
the second time, it was mid-july, air warm and thick with the sound of cicadas and kids chucking footballs across the street. the gallaghers’ back garden was half grass, half cigarette ends, and full of boys shouting over one another about who cheated in what game.
you were sat on the back steps, sipping flat lemonade from a pint glass, ankles crossed. your brother was inside begging your mum for a later curfew. liam was doing laps barefoot across the garden with a water pistol. it was chaos. but you didn’t mind.
noel came out with a half-tuned guitar and a stack of tab paper folded under one arm.
he didn’t say anything at first—just dropped onto the step beside you with a sigh like the sun had been arguing with him personally. his t-shirt clung to him in the heat, collar loose, a single streak of sweat along his neck. he looked wrecked. and kind of beautiful.
you glanced at the guitar. “got a song in there or just using it to look moody?”
he cracked a lazy grin. “bit of both, probably.”
“you always write out here?”
he shrugged. “more peace. until liam starts screamin’ about aliens or somethin’.”
you laughed. “so... never, then?”
he glanced sideways at you. “sometimes.”
a pause. a flicker of breeze. he adjusted the strap of his guitar, like his hands needed something to do.
“you always this quiet?” he asked after a moment. “when you’re not takin’ the piss outta me.”
“you always this nosey?” you shot back, but your voice was soft.
his mouth twitched. “i remember when you used to bring jamie over on your bike. back when your hair was all knots and you wore them stupid jelly shoes.”
you groaned. “don’t remind me.”
“i thought you were well cool,” he said simply. “still do, i s’pose.”
and just like that, your cheeks flushed warm. you weren’t used to hearing it like that. not from boys. not from noel.
before you could answer, liam came barrelling past with a handful of water balloons, soaking both of you in the process.
you squealed. noel swore. and the moment passed, but something stuck. something buzzed beneath your skin. something new.
he watched you laugh and shake out your damp hair like it was the only song worth writing that day.
—
third time it was november. the kind of wet, northern cold that soaked into your coat sleeves and made the air smell like static. you'd come by the gallaghers’ after dark to drop off your brother’s scarf — he’d forgotten it again, predictably — and noel opened the door with that sleep-mussed hair of his curling at the edges.
“didn’t think anyone’d be mad enough to come out in this,” he said, grinning.
you rolled your eyes and held up the scarf like it was a trophy. “he left this in my room again. if he catches pneumonia, it’s on me apparently.”
“heroic,” noel said, stepping back so you could come in. the lights in the house were dim, yellow and soft, the telly murmuring low from the living room. “stay for a bit?”
you did.
you sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, still wearing your coat, while he fiddled with his guitar — nothing showy, just soft chords, a little half-formed melody that melted into the walls.
“what’s that one called?” you asked, chin resting on your knees.
“dunno yet,” he said. “wrote it thinkin’ about those lights they hang up on the high street. the blue ones. shite really, but… you said once they looked like stars.”
your chest ached a little.
“maybe i’ll call it your street,” he added, eyes flicking up to yours, and for a second you thought he might say more. but he didn’t.
you leaned back on your hands and smiled. “that’d be a shit title.”
he laughed, low and warm. “yeah,” he said. “but you’d know it’s yours.”
outside, the rain pattered against the window. he kept playing. and you stayed until your toes thawed and your cheeks hurt from smiling.
—
another time, you sat on the gallagher’s back step with a mug of tea you hadn’t asked for, knees tucked to your chest, watching steam rise and vanish like thoughts you weren’t ready to name.
noel was next to you. not close. not far. just… there.
he hadn’t said much since you wandered out here, and you hadn’t either. only nodded a little when he offered you the mug, as if it were something sacred.
you could hear jamie and liam bickering inside — their voices rising and falling like a bad cover of a song you almost liked.
“you’re bein’ a knobhead,” jamie snapped.
“you said you’d trade it!”
“not my fault you didn’t ask which bloody crisps—”
the back door flew open with a groan and a slam. jamie stalked out first, followed by a scowling liam, both gripping half-eaten bags of walkers.
they spotted you and noel immediately.
“oi,” jamie said, jabbing his crisp bag toward you. “settle this.”
liam rolled his eyes. “she’s not gonna side with you just cause you’re blood.”
you blinked. “what’s the debate?”
“he nicked my cheese & onion,” jamie huffed. “i said i’d swap if he had ready salted. not if he had prawn cocktail.”
“ready salted is for toddlers,” liam said flatly.
jamie looked personally offended.
you glanced at noel, half-expecting him to roll his eyes or groan or jump into the fray.
instead, he was already looking at you. like he was waiting.
and when your eyes met — both of you half-smirking in that silent, are-you-seeing-this kind of way — something in your chest gave a quiet little knock.
“i think you’re both idiots,” you said, sipping your tea.
“agreed,” noel murmured.
jamie threw his hands up. liam made a noise like a dying kettle. they both stormed back inside.
the door slammed shut again, rattling the frame.
you turned to noel. “are they always like this?”
he snorted. “only when they’re awake.”
you laughed, and this time he smiled too — not big, not flashy. just a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. shared. quiet.
—
and once, you ended up marooned at a bus stop in burnage, rain coming down sideways like the sky had given up.
you weren’t meant to be there with him—just walking your brother home from a mate’s house, umbrella already flipped inside out, hair sticking to your forehead, the sleeves of your jumper soaked through. you only spotted noel when he passed on the other side of the road—hood down, guitar case in one hand, corner shop bag in the other, looking like the storm itself had spat him out.
“you look like a drowned rat,” you called across the street.
“cheers,” he shouted back, barely glancing up.
your brother muttered a quick see ya and disappeared through the estate gates, leaving you alone beneath the warped plastic bus shelter. noel crossed over a few seconds later, the water in his trainers squelching with every step.
“bus is late,” he said, like it was some grand revelation.
you huffed, folding your arms over your chest. “probably hiding somewhere warm. heartless bastard.”
“you sayin’ buses have hearts?”
“dunno. wouldn’t surprise me if this one didn’t. it’s a burnage bus.”
that made him laugh—quiet, from the chest—and you felt it more than heard it. his guitar case thunked gently against the shelter wall, fingers tapping slow along the side like he was counting something only he could hear.
you shivered. not dramatic, but enough.
he noticed, and without a word, took of his jacket hanging over his hoodie and held it out.
“i’m alright,” you said, too quickly.
“you’re soaked.”
“so are you.”
“yeah, but i’m used to it.”
you took it. slid your arms through the sleeves. it was still warm from him, still soft in the creases, still smelled like cigarettes and carpeted gigs and the way boys only smelled when you started to like them.
neither of you said much after that. you just stood there, close but not touching, shoulders brushing every time the wind blew in wrong. the rain on the plastic roof was deafening. noel’s tapping slowed.
“you always carry that thing?” you asked, nodding at the case.
“only when i don’t wanna talk to people,” he said.
“how’s that working out?”
he shrugged. “you’re still here.”
you nudged his elbow. “rude.”
he looked down at you then—really looked—and that smile he gave wasn’t the usual one. no smirk. no bite. just soft, tired, a little shy.
“you’re alright though,” he murmured. “even when you don’t shut up.”
you didn’t say anything back. just ducked your head a little, let the silence stretch.
the rain didn’t stop, and the bus didn’t come.
but somehow, you didn’t mind.
—
before, at school, just as winter started to loosen its grip.
the hallways were buzzing, everyone in a rush to get outside, to breathe air that didn’t bite. your sleeves were pushed to your elbows, a smudge of ink on your wrist from an unfinished essay. the corridor light hit your hair like honey. noel spotted you as he rounded the corner—carrying his guitar case, dragging his bag behind him like it owed him something.
you passed each other near the lockers, close enough to brush shoulders.
but instead of just a glance or a nod or the awkward shuffle of bodies in motion—he reached out.
not obviously. not loud. just a quiet flick of his fingers against your wrist as you passed. two knuckles grazing the skin just above your pulse. fleeting. featherlight.
you paused, glanced over your shoulder. so did he.
his expression didn’t give much away. maybe a smirk, maybe not. but something was there—tucked into the tilt of his head, the soft parting of his lips, like he wanted to say something but didn’t.
you didn’t say anything either.
just smiled, small and crooked. then kept walking.
your skin tingled where he touched it, heat blooming in your chest and trailing down your arm like something you’d remember.
—
one night, they ended up at the park.
not together, not really — you’d come looking for your brother, who’d bolted off after some screaming match at home, and found him sulking on the swings beside liam. both of them slouched like boys who thought they ruled the world. when you told them to come home, they grumbled in unison.
noel, laid out on the splintered picnic table, just lifted his head slightly. “they’ll be a while,” he said, voice soft like it’d been waiting for you.
so you sat beside him on the bench. didn’t ask permission.
the sky was indigo, half-melted into itself. the kind of colour that made you feel like something was ending, or beginning. the grass felt cold against the backs of your legs. his coat smelled like smoke and washing powder. he offered you a cigarette like it was a peace treaty.
you took it, brushing your fingers over his without meaning to.
noel lit it, then tilted the lighter toward you. the flame flickered gold in his eyes, casting that warm half-light over the freckle just above your lip, the smudge of your lipstick.
he took a drag and passed it back. lazy. familiar.
you exhaled, slow and shivering a little, and he watched your lips the entire time.
“you’ve got some under your lip,” he murmured.
you blinked. “what?”
“lipstick. here.”
he reached over, thumb brushing the edge of your mouth, slow like he was trying not to startle you. didn’t pull away right away either. just let his thumb rest there, soft against your bottom lip, eyes half-lidded and unreadable.
you were close enough to smell the tobacco on his breath. close enough to kiss. neither of you did.
then, suddenly—
“oi, what’s this then?” liam shouted from the swings. “noel and jamie’s sister sittin’ in a tree—!”
“k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” jamie howled, voice cracking as he flung himself backwards.
noel rolled his eyes. “fuck off.”
but you were already flushed, already pulling back with a huff and passing the cigarette back too quickly.
“children,” you muttered.
“absolute fuckin’ goblins,” noel agreed, slumping back again. but he didn’t stop watching you. not really. even when you looked away. even when you pretended your cheeks weren’t burning.
his arm brushed yours again, casual. his fingers tapped out some beat against his thigh. you didn’t ask what it was.
you just stayed beside him until the sky turned navy, and liam and jamie started daring each other to jump from the swings mid-air, and someone’s mum called from down the block.
and still — noel didn’t say much.
just stole one last drag from the cigarette before it burned out, handed it back with a small smile, and said, “don’t let ‘em get to you.”
—
and another time—late, loud, someone’s cousin’s house, too many bodies pressed into rooms too small. bass rattling through the floorboards, the stink of lager and perfume and pot making the air feel thick. you’d wandered into the kitchen for a drink and found him already there, leaning against the counter with a can of something cheap and his shirt unbuttoned halfway down.
he looked up and smiled crooked, all slow like he’d been waiting.
“you,” he said, like it was a full sentence.
you raised a brow. “me?”
“mhm.” he nodded, stepped forward, beer can swaying in his grip. “you look nice.”
you laughed, light and teasing. “you’re pissed.”
“bit,” he admitted, blinking slow. “but i’d say it even if i weren’t.”
you tilted your head. “yeah?”
“yeah.” his voice dropped a little, softening. “always liked the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. even when you’re not thinkin’ about it.”
you stilled.
“and how you always smell like—fuck, what is it—vanilla, but not sweet. just soft. like... like old records and sun through the curtains.”
your heart flipped. he wasn’t looking at you like a joke, not like the others. not like a punchline or a dare. he looked—honest. drunk, sure, but sincere.
“noel—”
“and your laugh,” he said, cutting you off, voice dipping further. “that proper, real one. when something actually gets you. you don’t do it all the time, but when you do, it sounds like summer.”
you blinked. heat blooming in your chest.
“and when you’re thinkin’, you bite your lip. but only the left side. dunno if you know you do that.”
you didn’t know what to say.
he took another step closer, then another, till the only thing between you was air.
“your freckles,” he murmured, almost dazed now. “and that little scar on your cheek. and—fuck it.”
and he kissed you.
hands wide on your waist, mouth softer than you'd ever imagined. he kissed you like he meant it. like he’d been dying to. like the words had gotten too big in his chest and kissing you was the only way to breathe.
you whimpered a little when his lips dragged down to your jaw.
“you’ve got this sound you make,” he mumbled against your skin, “when you’re confused. kind of a hum. you just did it.”
you laughed, flushed and breathless.
he kissed you again. deeper this time, messier.
“and your eyes,” he breathed, lips brushing yours. “green, yeah, but not just green. like moss. or storms.”
you tugged him closer, fingers curling in the fabric at his back.
he kissed you again. again. hands tangled in your hair now.
“your hands are always cold,” he whispered into your mouth. “but you touch like you mean it.”
your chest ached. throbbed. melted.
“noel,” you said, barely audible.
“yeah,” he answered, resting his forehead to yours, breathing you in like salvation. “i know.”
—
now it was 1996, and everything had changed.
except for the way he held you.
you woke to the soft shuffle of hotel sheets and the whisper of his fingers skimming your waist. sunlight spilled through the cracks in the blackout curtains, turning the room to gold. somewhere down the hall, someone was laughing. somewhere outside, fans were already waiting.
but in here, it was just the two of you. again. always.
“you’re awake,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep and cigarettes, from singing until midnight and talking too much after. he didn’t open his eyes, just pulled you closer, nose nudging your hairline. “thank fuck.”
you smiled against his chest. “thought you were dreaming of guitars and bigger stages by now.”
“nah,” he mumbled, lips brushing your forehead. “only dream i care about’s already in bed with me.”
you rolled your eyes. kissed the hollow of his throat.
the clock on the nightstand read 9:42.
noel had a soundcheck at eleven, interviews at one, and a sold-out crowd waiting for him in manchester tonight.
but right now he was a man curled around you, legs tangled, hair soft and messy, still half-drunk on sleep. still yours.
“alright, superstar,” you whispered, fingers tracing circles over his ribs. “you’ve got soundcheck in an hour. then the bbc want fifteen minutes with you, plus the japanese press want another photo for their spread.”
he groaned. loud and long, like a child.
“you memorised my fuckin’ itinerary again?”
“someone’s gotta keep you from wandering into a pub instead.”
“could’ve married my tour manager,” he muttered.
“you didn’t,” you reminded him, mouth curling against his skin. “you married your groupie.”
“nah,” he said, finally opening his eyes— wicked, still sleepy-soft. “married the only person who ever looked at me like i’d already made it.”
you paused. heart clenched in that aching, reverent way.
“that’s because you had,” you said.
he blinked once. then reached for you like he always did — urgent and slow all at once, arms locking around your waist, pulling you on top of him.
“five more minutes,” he whispered.
“you’ve got forty,” you said, settling in. “and i’m spending all of them with you.”
noel made a soft noise — halfway between a laugh and a sigh — and let his hands drift up beneath your shirt, just tracing the dip of your spine. like he needed the proof of you. like he couldn’t believe, even now, that you were still here.
“should get used to this,” he murmured.
“to what?”
“bein’ loved stupid,” he said simply, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “by me.”
you bit back a smile. buried your face in his chest to hide it. “you’re so sappy in the mornings.”
“shut up,” he said, dragging the sheet over your legs. “not my fault you’re soft like that. all fuckin’ freckled and warm and real.”
“and annoying.”
“well, yeah,” he agreed, laughing under his breath. “but i’m no better. saw you once in that bikini when we were seventeen and never stood a fuckin’ chance after that.”
you lifted your head, brow raised. “that why you married me?”
“mm. married you 'cause you’re the only one who makes me forget the noise.”
the words landed gentle, but heavy — like a pebble dropped into water. not loud, but deep.
you looked at him then. really looked.
the light stubble on his jaw. the faint shadow under his eyes — from touring, from fame, from being noel gallagher.
and beneath all that — still the boy from burnage.
still yours.
“don’t forget tonight’s show,” you whispered, tracing your finger along his chest.
he made a face. “can’t we stay in and get married again?”
“we already did that.”
“yeah, but this time i won’t cry when you walk down the aisle.”
“you didn’t cry.”
“i fuckin’ did.”
you laughed, hand covering your mouth. “you blinked really hard.”
“that’s cryin’ for me.”
a pause.
you leaned down and kissed him — slow, quiet, like you had all the time in the world. he tasted like sleep and the morning after dreams — warm breath and mint and something softer beneath, something that had always just been him.his hands curled around your waist like he didn’t even have to think about it. like it was instinct.
and it was, wasn’t it?
“gonna make me stay in bed all day,” he murmured against your mouth.
“you’ve got forty minutes, remember?” you whispered, dragging your nose along his.
“s’pose i could be late.”
“you’re headlining two sold out gigs,” you said, laughing as he tried to pull you closer. “you can’t miss soundcheck.”
“don’t care.”
but you were already slipping out from under the covers, hair messy and eyes still soft with sleep. you tugged on his hoodie from the floor — the one you’d practically stolen a decade ago and never gave back — and padded toward the bathroom.
behind you, he groaned dramatically into the pillow. “you’re cruel, y’know that?”
you looked over your shoulder, hoodie tugged halfway on, hair a wild halo from his pillow. “and you’re dramatic.”
“‘m tragic,” he mumbled. “gorgeous girl in my bed, and i’ve gotta go play fuckin’ soundcheck for a bunch of blokes with clipboards.”
you laughed under your breath, pulling the sleeves down over your wrists. “you love it.”
“i’d rather watch you brush your teeth.”
he threw the covers off and padded after you, bare feet dragging, boxers riding low on his hips. you were already leaning over the sink by the time he slouched into the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, chin resting against the frame.
you met his eyes in the mirror. “you watching me now?”
“always,” he said, simple and stupid-sincere.
you rolled your eyes, spitting toothpaste into the sink. “you’re gonna make me blush.”
he grinned, stepped behind you, wrapped his arms low around your waist — chin to your shoulder, nose in your hair. “good. suits you.”
“you’ve got ten minutes,” you said gently. “manager’s gonna come banging on the door again.”
“let her,” he mumbled. “they should be grateful i’m even awake. rockstars don’t do mornings.”
“rockstars with girlfriends do,” you teased, turning in his arms, palms flat on his chest.
he kissed you once, slow and lingering — the kind of kiss that tasted like sleep and time you didn’t have.
—
ten minutes later, the lift doors opened with a soft chime, and the two of you stepped into the hotel lobby like you’d done it a hundred times before.
the marble floor echoed faintly under your steps. not many people around — just the concierge, half-asleep behind the desk, and a couple checking out near the window. calm, hushed, a gentle prelude to the chaos waiting just beyond the glass doors.
you tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie — his hoodie — as noel adjusted his sunglasses with a practiced flick of his fingers, the two of you drifting toward the exit side by side.
“quiet before the storm,” he muttered.
you nudged him. “you’re the one who causes it.”
“not alone, i don’t,” he said, and there was something in the way he looked at you then — half-proud, half-wicked — that made you want to kiss him senseless right there in front of the hotel ficus.
but then the glass doors were sliding open.
and the sound hit you all at once — like a static wave.
shutters clicking. voices calling. flashes bursting through the late morning grey.
your name — his name — both of them together like they belonged that way.
you lifted your chin just slightly, eyes forward, walking like the pavement was yours and you’d let him walk beside you only because you liked him.
the cameras loved you for it.
and noel — noel was smirking.
one hand found your waist, slipping into that familiar spot like it was muscle memory. the other hand? up in the air, middle finger to the sky, chin tipped like a challenge.
the photographers went feral.
“c’mon, rockstar,” you murmured through a smile, “play nice.”
“this is me playin’ nice,” he said. “i didn’t spit.”
you laughed, low and easy, just loud enough for him to hear.
together, you moved through the noise — his fingers curling tighter against your hip as the cab door swung open, the driver looking mildly terrified behind the wheel.
you slid in smooth, hair catching the wind.
he followed, slamming the door shut behind him like punctuation.
inside, it was quiet again. the kind of hush that hums after noise.
noel blew out a breath, dragging his hand over his face. “they’ll write about that.”
“good,” you said, watching the buildings drift by. “give ‘em something to do.”
“you’re a fuckin’ menace,” he said, eyes still on the door, like the flashes might break through. “how d’you make ‘em all love you and still scare the shit outta me?”
you leaned over, kissed his cheek, lipstick ghosting against his skin.
“magic,” you whispered. “and maybe a little bit of eyeliner.”
he grinned.
“noel gallagher’s girl,” he murmured. “god help the world.”
gente sumi né mas vcs não acreditam em quem eu estou com hiperfoco agora . feeling like a beatlemania girly pq quero 2 atuais idosos aka irmãos gallagher do oasis
gente olaaa (ressurgindo das cinzas pra ser uma puta? who wouldve guessed‼️) estou com um hiperfoco fortíssimo no meu professor like i never wanted to s💥💥💥 a d💀🪦🪦 so bad in my life… 💔💔💔💔 affe juro devastating ele é casadissimo mas a girl can dream sabe
