(Based on a request for a reunion fic. Noel has been putting so much thought and effort into these shows, carrying a lot in his shoulders)
The rehearsal space had thinned out by late afternoon. The crew were breaking down lights, wrapping cables, checking rigging. The songs were all technically in place. The set was final. And still, Noel paced.
He wasn’t storming around, wasn’t shouting instructions — just moving through the space with that particular focus that made everyone else hesitate to interrupt. Quiet, deliberate, hands constantly adjusting things that didn’t need adjusting.
You watched from the corner. Arms folded, jacket still on. You’d seen this version of him before — not unraveling, but compressing.
He was holding it all too tightly.
Liam tossed a water bottle your way. You caught it, barely.
“He’ll still be tuning that bloody intro when we’re ninety,” he said under his breath.
Bonehead shrugged, looping a cable behind him. “He’s not wrong, though. We sound solid. It’s ready.”
Liam leaned in, stage whisper. “He just doesn’t know how to stop. That’s the real problem. You ever seen him actually relax?”
You didn’t answer. You just watched Noel finish another pass at a solo, then lower his guitar and stare at the floor like the notes were still echoing there.
At home, the flat was too quiet.
He’d walked in behind you without a word, dropped his bag near the door, and gone straight to the kitchen. You listened to him go through the motions — kettle, glass, fridge door, the hum of the tap — all with the precision of someone who wasn’t really there.
He wasn’t avoiding you. He wasn’t shutting down. He was just up in his head again, caught in loops you couldn’t quite follow. You could see it in his shoulders, the way he moved like he was still in rehearsal.
You leaned against the doorway, watching him drink half a glass of water in silence.
He didn’t answer right away. Just nodded a little. “Fine.”
You stepped further into the kitchen. “You’ve said that every day this week.”
“It’s nearly there.” He paused. “Still needs… something.”
He looked up then. Eyes tired but sharp. A familiar flicker of tension across his jaw.
“You’re chasing it,” you said gently.
“I’m keeping it steady,” he said. “Everyone else wants to say we’ve done the work — tick the box, move on — but I know what it feels like when a song isn’t sitting quite right.”
“And when will it be right?”
He breathed out through his nose, rubbed the back of his neck.
“When it shuts up in my head for five minutes.”
“I know what they all think,” he added. “That I’m too far in. That I’m over it. Like I’m gonna tweak us off a cliff. But I’m not trying to be difficult. I just… I want it to land. And stay landed.”
You took a slow breath, stepped closer again. “It’s not about being difficult. You’re carrying a lot. I see that.”
He met your eyes. Held them this time.
“This whole thing,” he said, voice quieter, “I’ve been telling myself it’s just a victory lap. Bit of closure, you know? A nod to the old days. But that’s not really it.”
“I want them to hear it and feel the years. All of them. Everything that changed. Everything we still are.” He shrugged. “You only get one shot at a moment like that. One. And it either sticks or it doesn’t.”
You watched him. “And what about you?”
“You said what you want them to feel. What do you want for yourself?”
He went still. Looked down at the counter, then back at you.
“To feel like I was actually there.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy — it was honest.
You crossed the space between you and placed your palms gently on his chest.
His eyes closed, just for a second.
“You’re not here yet,” you said. “Not really.”
He didn’t move. “I know.”
“You’re still in your head, running circles. Solving things that don’t need solving.”
He gave a small, tired smile. “Better that than sitting still.”
“Not always,” you said. “You don’t need to outthink this. You just need to let yourself be in it.”
“Yeah?” he murmured, voice low. “And how exactly do I do that?”
You slid your hands up under his shirt, skin to skin now, fingers warm and slow and deliberate.
“You let me bring you back down.”
He inhaled — sharp, then steady. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.
“You think touch is gonna fix what rehearsal can’t?” he said, dry.
“I think you’ve been up in your head for days,” you whispered. “And I think the only way back is through your body.”
A beat passed. His hand found your waist.
“And you’re volunteering for that job, are you?”
You smiled, lips grazing the curve of his neck. “Gladly.”
He didn’t answer. Not with words.
But he stilled — not in peace, not yet, but like something in him was waiting. Braced. Even here, with the door closed and the night behind him, he was still moving — his mind caught in loops, chasing every detail he hadn’t fixed, every soundcheck that hadn’t gone quite right. His shoulders were drawn in, not collapsed, just… tight. Held. Like he couldn’t stop holding everything up at once.
You kept your eyes on him, watching the way his gaze tracked you — hungry, reverent, barely holding steady. His hands twitched at his sides like they didn’t know what to do without permission.
You ran your hands slowly down your stomach, then hooked your thumbs under the band of your underwear. Not just a slip or slide. You wanted him to see.
Turned until your back was to him, legs just slightly parted, then leaned forward — deliberately — giving him the full view of your ass, bare under the soft stretch of fabric still clinging to your hips.
Then you bent lower, just enough to shift your weight, and pushed them down.
Letting gravity do the rest.
You heard the breath drag out of him behind you — sharp, unsteady.
You stepped out of them, slow and graceful, then straightened with calm precision. You didn’t look back at him right away.
Let him feel it — the way you moved, the confidence in your body, the fact that you knew exactly what he saw.
When you turned to face him again, fully naked, his eyes were locked on you like you were the only thing in the world holding him together.
You smiled — a little mean, a lot affectionate.
“Still with me?” you asked.
His throat worked to swallow.
“Yeah,” he said, voice low and rough. “Fuck yeah.”
You stepped close enough for him to feel the heat of your skin.
“But no touching,” you reminded him, voice soft now, intimate. “Not yet.”
And the way his breath stuttered — the way he nodded — told you how deep in your hands he already was.
You didn’t break eye contact.
You reached for the hem of your shirt and peeled it off slowly, lifting your arms just enough to stretch and show him the line of your waist, the shape of your ribs. Your bra followed — one strap at a time — dropped to the floor like an afterthought.
His eyes moved across you like a man starving.
You touched yourself then. One hand sliding up to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until your breath caught. The other moved lower — through your slick folds, slow and certain. Circling your clit just a little and pushing a finger into your wet entrance. Unhurried. Deliberate.
He watched every movement — eyes fixed, lips parted — the kind of look people wear when they’re trying not to fall to their knees.
You didn’t look away. You wanted him to feel it. All of it.
His gaze darkened. His mouth parted.
You brought your fingers to your lips first — tasting yourself without flinching. Then, eyes locked on his, you stepped close, lifted your hand to his mouth.
“Here,” you said softly. “Stay with me.”
He didn’t speak. Just leaned in and took your finger into his mouth, tongue brushing over skin still slick with you. His breath changed — deeper, slower — and something in his shoulders gave, like a thread inside him had finally gone slack.
You smiled — not soft, but real. Because he was here now. Fully present. And you were going to keep him there.
You leaned in and kissed the center of his chest — warm and slow. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. But his breath changed. And that was enough.
Your hands slid up to the first button of his shirt.
Just looked at him — one quiet question.
He gave the answer in a breath, a shift of his shoulders, the way his hands dropped loosely to his sides. Open. Willing.
You undid the top button. Then the next. Then one more.
With each, more of him came into view — the curve of his collarbone, the line of his sternum, the soft brush of chest hair you’d kissed your way across more than once. And still, this felt different. Slower. Deeper.
You leaned in and pressed your mouth there — into the warmth of his skin, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing.
He smelled like the tail end of cologne and salt and something entirely him.
You ran your hands across his chest, fingers spreading over the hair there, then tracing lower — palms flat, thumbs brushing outward as you explored the soft muscle, the give of him. You watched his face the whole time. Watched the way his jaw twitched, his breath stuttered, his focus locked entirely on you.
When you kissed lower — just beneath his ribs — he tilted his head back with a soft exhale that sounded like surrender.
His eyes dropped to yours, glassy and sharp all at once. “Completely.”
You dropped the shirt to the floor and stayed close.
You didn’t rush. You stepped behind him, hands sliding up over his shoulders — warm, certain — and let your thumbs press into the tight muscle there. Just enough to tell his body it could let go.
You felt the tension right away, the kind that had built slowly and settled deep — rehearsal after rehearsal, hour after hour in his own head. You worked into it gently, kneading just enough to draw out the first real exhale from his chest.
Not planned. Not controlled.
“Strong,” you murmured, moving to face him again. “And always carrying too much.”
He almost smiled at that, but it didn’t last.
His arms next — coiled with power and memory. You turned his wrists over in your hands, kissed each palm like a promise. Then his hands — rough, familiar, callused in places that told stories. You held them for a second longer than you needed to, just to feel his fingers relax in yours.
Then you dropped to your knees.
He blinked down at you — uncertain, but still.
Your hands went to his belt. You undid it slowly, the leather whispering through the loops. You popped the button, lowered the zip, and tugged everything down — jeans, boxers, the whole last layer of armour gone in one practiced pull.
His cock was already hard.
You let your eyes move over him — not just between his legs, though that, too — but all of him. The way colour lingered high on his chest, the subtle rise and fall of his breath that wasn’t quite steady yet. The curve of his belly, softer than it used to be — a part of him you knew he avoided in the mirror, even if he never said it out loud.
So you touched him there — low on his belly, just where the softness swelled. The place he never talked about but always tried to move past. You smoothed your palms over it gently, then leaned in and kissed it.
He shifted — not pulling away, but bracing, like he wasn’t sure what came next.
You felt the breath stutter in his chest.
“I know,” you said quietly. “This is the part you don’t like.”
His eyes flicked away — not out of shame, but habit. That old instinct to disappear under someone’s gaze.
You kissed him again, slower this time. Then looked up at him.
“I love it,” you said. “I love you. This is part of you. And I want it just as much as anything else.”
He let out a quiet breath — not relief, not disbelief. Just stillness. Like your words had finally landed somewhere solid.
You stayed there, hands resting over the softest part of him, until you felt the tension drain from his hips. Not gone completely — but fading. Willing.
And when he looked down at you again, eyes just a little glassy, you knew he heard you this time.
You wrapped your hand gently around his cock, and it throbbed in your palm — hot, heavy, already slick.
Then you looked up at him. “Hold on to me.”
He hesitated — just a flicker of uncertainty in his fingers.
You reached for him, took his wrists, and guided his hands into your hair. “Here,” you said. “Just hold. That’s all you have to do.”
He threaded his fingers in slowly, like he was afraid of gripping too hard — but the moment your mouth closed around him, he tightened. Not to push or take control, just to anchor himself to you.
His breath left in a ragged sound, half moan, half surrender. You felt it — in the way his thighs tensed, the way his grip in your hair firmed with every slow pull of your lips, every deep draw of your mouth around him.
You sucked him in deliberately — not teasing, not tentative. You wanted him to feel it. All of it. You gave him rhythm, heat, pressure, and a place to land.
“Fuck…” he breathed. “Fuck, that—”
You hummed around him, slow and deliberate. Felt his cock jump in your mouth when the vibration hit. You started a rhythm — unhurried, precise, deep — and held his hips still when they tried to chase it.
He was already losing it. You could feel it in the way his thighs tensed under your palms, in the tremble in his arms, in the broken little gasps he gave you every time you pulled back just enough to drag your tongue across the head.
“You’re stunning like this,” you said, licking a drop of precum from the tip. “Do you know what you look like when you let go?”
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
So you told him anyway. Mouth pressed to the curve of his stomach:
“You look gorgeous. You’re finally just here. With me.”
He groaned, deep and rough. One of his hands cupped the back of your head, gentle, almost reverent.
You took him in again — slower this time. Let your tongue press firm, your lips seal tighter. He choked on a moan and shuddered hard under you.
“Jesus, I’m—fuck, if you keep doing that I—”
You pulled off slowly, a glisten left on your lips, your breath matching his now.
“You’re not coming yet,” you said softly. “Not until I have you deep inside me.”
And he just nodded, jaw slack, mouth parted, chest heaving.
You kissed your way back up his body, slow and deliberate.
His hands rested on your hips, but not to take control — just to feel. He looked at you like you’d taken the last piece of him and still wanted more. You could feel the heat from him, the tension low in his belly, the way he was holding on by threads.
“Still with me?” you asked softly.
He nodded, voice caught somewhere in his throat. “Yeah. Just—fuck.”
You smiled, leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth.
“You don’t have to do anything,” you whispered. “Just lie back. Let me take care of you.”
You guided him down with a hand to his chest — not forceful, just certain — until he was flat on his back, cock resting heavy against his stomach, eyes on you like you were the only thing that existed.
You climbed over him again, this time slower, knees on either side of his thighs. You took a moment just to look — at the flushed skin across his chest, the strong line of his arms, the heat still blooming at the curve of his belly. He was all tension and softness, heat and held breath. And yours.
You reached between you and wrapped your hand around him again. He was hard and slick, still trembling slightly in your grip.
Then you lined him up, and began to lower yourself onto him.
He gasped the moment you started — just from the first press of your heat against him.
And when you sank down, slow, tight, inch by inch, his whole body tensed — a long, low groan torn from his throat.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” His hands gripped the sheets. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unreal.”
You didn’t speak yet. You just moved — slow grind, circling your hips once you had him fully inside, letting him feel every inch of it. His cock pulsed deep inside you, twitching helplessly as you tightened around him.
“You’re not going anywhere,” you said, your voice low and rough. “You stay right here. You let me do this.”
He moaned. “Yeah. Yes. Fuck—please.”
You rode him slow at first. Deep, steady rhythm. Every time you dropped your hips, he gasped like it shocked him — like the pleasure was too much, too real, and he had no defences left.
You could feel how wrecked he was beneath you. The way his muscles kept tensing, trying to hold something back. So you leaned forward, hands braced on his chest, and whispered:
“You’re allowed to fall apart. That’s what this is for.”
He choked on a breath. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”
You kissed him. “That’s the point.”
You picked up the pace — not faster, just harder, more focused. Each grind hit deeper, more precise. His thighs trembled beneath you, and his grip on your hips tightened like he needed the anchor — like you were the only thing keeping him from breaking apart completely.
The sounds coming out of him were nothing short of wrecked. Low, hoarse, helpless.
“Fuck,” he breathed, head tilting back against the pillows. “The way you ride me—”
You rolled your hips again, slow and deep, dragging him right to the edge. He gasped — swore again, softer this time, like it was pulled out of him.
“No one’s ever taken me like this,” he murmured. “Not like this. Not all of me.”
You bent over him, pressing your chest to his, and he kissed your shoulder, open-mouthed and hungry. But you didn’t slow down. You kept moving — driving him further in, dragging more from him with every shift, every push.
“I don’t want this to stop,” he whispered. “Don’t stop. Please—”
You cupped his jaw, made him look at you. Eyes wide, lips parted, completely yours.
“Look at me,” you said. “I want to see you.”
He did. God, he did — eyes burning, hands still gripping your hips like he couldn’t trust the ground without them.
You ground down harder, moved with the exact rhythm that you knew would keep him right on that edge. His breath was all stuttered exhale now, mouth open but speechless — like even his words had finally given out.
And still, his eyes never left you.
“You’re stunning,” you said again, firm. “So fucking stunning like this. All mine.”
His eyes rolled back. He was barely holding on.
“I’m gonna—Christ—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. I want it. Let go.”
He came with a full-body shudder, voice breaking open, cock pulsing deep inside you in wave after wave. His hands gripped your waist like he might float away without you. His mouth found your shoulder, your throat, somewhere to bury the sound of how completely he was unraveling.
You stayed on him, letting him come down, breathing with him, not moving until his grip softened and the tension drained from his arms.
When you finally eased off, he made a quiet noise — not pain, not discomfort. Just the ache of being emptied.
You lay beside him, hand over his chest, feeling it rise and fall under your palm.
Then, hoarse, he said, “No one’s ever handled me like that.”
You leaned in. Kissed him once — not teasing, not soft.
“You needed it,” you said.
He looked at you like he couldn’t believe he’d earned this. And you just stayed there, hand on his chest, while his heart finally stopped racing.
And the weight of the entire world — for now — wasn’t his to carry anymore.
He shut the door with his foot, shrugged out of his jacket, and tossed it over the chair like it had wronged him. Still pink in the face. Hair damp from a too-fast shower. The buzz hadn’t worn off yet, but it had cooled — more blood-warm than electric.
You were curled up on the hotel sofa, barefoot in one of his shirts, watching him like he was a storm cloud that had finally stopped spinning.
“You survived,” you said.
He snorted. “You say that like it wasn’t the greatest fucking comeback in history.”
“Alright,” he allowed. “Maybe second greatest. Jury’s out.”
He dropped beside you on the sofa, limbs loose. Head tilted back, jaw relaxed — a rare thing lately. For a while, he didn’t speak. Just breathed. Like the silence was more interesting than anything else he could say.
Then: “I didn’t fuck it up.”
“No,” you said. “You didn’t.”
“Didn’t trip. Didn’t blank. Solos came out clean.”
“It was more than clean,” you said. “You looked like you were flying.”
His mouth twitched. “Felt like my hands were doing it before I could think. Haven’t had that in years.”
Eventually, he turned his head and looked at you, eyes quieter now.
“I should probably thank you. For not telling me to shut up every time I lost an hour reworking a drum cue.”
“I like it when you talk shop,” you said.
“I like you when you talk shop.”
He huffed a laugh. “Sickening.”
“You really did sort me out, though,” he said. “That night.”
“Didn’t realise how far gone I was till you had me flat on my back saying, ‘hold on, that’s all you have to do.’ Christ.”
“Bit too well. Might’ve blacked out. Still investigating.”
His tone dropped a little, honest now. “But yeah. You didn’t just get me off. You brought me back. Into myself.”
“I liked that,” he added.
“You liked being handled.”
He gave you a look. “I liked not having to be in charge for once.”
You didn’t speak. Just held the look.
“You’re the only person who’s ever made that feel safe,” he said, quiet now. “Letting go.”
Then, with a snort: “Still think you went too far kissing my gut like it’s the Second Coming.”
You grinned. “That belly’s mine.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well. It’s getting harder to ignore these days.”
You softened, just a little. “And I love it.”
He didn’t argue — but he didn’t joke again either. Just looked at you for a beat, then leaned in and kissed your cheek.
He shrugged, mouth twitching at the corner. “Yeah, well. Everyone’s got a flaw.”
But the way he pulled you into his chest, arms around you, breath leaving him slow — that was the clearest yes he’d ever given.
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