Being best friends with Anaïs, you convinced yourself your feelings for her were wrong, and one evening it all bubbles over.
3.2k words
Anaïs Gallagher x f!reader
cw: they've got really bad internalised homophobia
a/n: for all the girlies that need wlw representation in this fandom. don't you dare let this flop
London was always louder at night.
It was the sort of noise you'd grown used to— buskers on Camden High Street, the screech of night buses grinding their way down the road or the hiss the tube made when it came to a stop at the next station, the shuffle of strangers clutching paper bags of takeaway chips on their way home from a night out.
You'd grown up among it, the thrum and the neon and the half-broken pavements. And so had Anaïs.
Maybe that was part of the reason why the two of you always ended up here when there was nowhere else to be. Aimlessly wandering through the streets in search of something to do or see.
Tonight, she walked beside you, long coat swishing at her ankles, a cigarette dangling carelessly between two fingers. Her blonde hair glowed under the yellow lamplight like some halo, though you'd never dare tell her that. You stuffed your hands in your pockets and tried not to look too long at the way the smoke she exhaled curled around her.
You hated yourself a little for it. For how easy it was to notice her, to want her near. Because you knew, somewhere deep down, that this wasn't how you were supposed to feel—not about your best friend, not about another girl.
But you couldn't help it.
"Where d'you wanna go?" she asked then, voice low, distracted.
"Don't mind," you said, which was always what you said. The truth was, wherever Anaïs wanted to go, you'd follow. That had been the way of things since you were kids—since afternoons in the park where she'd boss you around in make-believe games, since the school corridors where her laughter rang out like something you'd spend a lifetime chasing.
"You never mind. You're supposed to make decisions once in a while. It's boring otherwise."
She flicked ash onto the pavement and nudged your shoulder with hers and you smiled without meaning to. "I like when you choose."
Anaïs gave you that look, the one that had engraved itself in your mind over the past 15 years of friendship. A tilt of her head, eyes narrowed as though she was trying to see through you. It always made you feel transparent, like she'd uncover the truth if she just stared long enough—the steady, aching pull in your chest whenever she was near.Her eyes lingered on your for a second longer than usual but then she laughed and bumped your shoulder. "You're impossible."
And maybe that was true, but at least it was safer to joke than to confess the truth. You'd follow her anywhere, not because of the city, not because of the night or the search for some entertainment, but because being beside her was the only place you ever wanted to be.
Back when you were both kids love hadn't been complicated and you hadn't had a word for the way you wanted her near. You'd just thought she was the bravest, brightest person in the world, the one who dared you to climb fences and steal penny sweets from the corner shop you always ended up paying for anyway.
It should have been simple. Best friends. That was all.
If someone would've asked, you wouldn't have been able too tell them when exactly your feelings had shifted, when admiration blurred into longing, when a hug left your stomach flipping and her laugh started to feel like the only sound that mattered.
And that was the part that scared you. Because girls didn't look at girls like that. At least, not if they wanted things to stay easy.So you never said a word.
The party was tucked down in the living room of the house of the parents of someone you didn't know. The music was already shaking the walls when you arrived and Anaïs grabbed your wrist without asking, tugging you inside. Suddenly it was too loud, too bright, too much. People swarmed the flat, laughing and shouting over the bass.
Anaïs, of course, fit right in. She disappeared into the crowd, hugging one person, laughing with another, then reappeared with two cups of neon liquid. She pressed one into your hand.
"Drink."
You sniffed it, grimaced. "What is that?"
"Does it matter?"
"If I want to live, yeah," you laughed, inspecting the contents of your cup with a critical eye. Anaïs shrugged, muttering something about only living once before clinking your cup with hers and downing a gulp.
You followed, the sweetness mixed with hard alcohol sharp in your throat. It made your head spin almost immediately, which helped, in a way. It drowned the noise in your chest every time Anaïs touched you.
And she touched you a lot that night. Pulled you into the living room to dance, fingers wrapping around yours like it was nothing. Tugged you back when you tried to step away, laughing as you stumbled. Her body pressed close when someone pushed past, her breath hot against your cheek.
And God, it felt good. Too good.
But you willed yourself to stop. Friends danced like this. Friends held hands in crowded rooms. It only felt different because you were making it different.
It was past three when you left. The streets were quieter now, shadows stretching across the pavement. You walked side by side, both a bit tipsy, the buzz of the night softening into something else.
Anaïs slipped her arm through yours. "I like nights like this," she exhaled, leaning her head briefly against your shoulder.
You froze. Your whole body wanted to lean into her, to hold onto that soft weight, but your mind screamed at you, forcing you to keep walking.
"Yeah," you said finally. "Not just the parties. Us. You and me."
Your throat burned. If she knew what those words did to you… if she knew how badly you wanted to say, me too, but more, so much more. Instead you swallowed it down, nodding and staying silent the rest of the way to her flat.
"Stay over. Can't be bothered sending you home this hour," she hummed as she fumbled with the keys to her front door.You nodded, heart lurching.
Her bedroom was a mess in the familiar way: Polaroids on the walls, piles of books, her perfume hanging in the air. She disappeared to wash up, and you sat on the edge of her bed, staring at your hands, too perplexed to do the same.
When she returned, face soft without makeup, something in your chest felt like it cracked open. She looked so beautiful, and it scared you, because beautiful wasn't how you were supposed to see your best friend.
She slid under the covers and patted the space beside her. You lay stiffly, careful not to touch. Anaïs however turned toward you immediately, breath warm on your cheek.
"Thanks for tonight," she whispered, half-asleep already.
"Anytime."
"You're my favourite person, y'know?"
Your heart clenched. You wanted to believe she meant it in the same way you did but you couldn't let yourself. It was too risky, too dangerous to hope.
"You too," you whispered back, watching as her lips curled into a sleepy smile, and soon her breathing slowing.
You stayed awake, watching the rise and fall of her shoulders, every nerve in your body alive with the closeness of her. Wanting to reach out. Wanting to say everything. Wanting—terrified of wanting.
A week later it was someone's birthday, and Anaïs had begged you to be her plus-one because "Everyone's bringing someone!". She said it like a challenge, like you'd be letting her down if you didn't come. The party was at some pub in Islington, and by the time you finally squeezed out into the street again, it was already the wrong side of midnight. Someone had convinced Anaïs to keep the night going at the birthday child's overpriced flat a few streets away, and of course she tugged you along with her, like she always did.
The city looked different when you were drunk.
Streetlights bled into halos, the streets blurred and the pavement shifted beneath you, the cold air felt sharper on your cheeks... You stumbled a little as you walked, but Anaïs steadied you with a hand on your elbow, her laughter warm against your ear.
You wished she wouldn't touch you when you were like this, when your skin was buzzing, your heart a mess, because it made it harder to remember the rules. And yet, here you were again, trailing after again because saying no to Anaïs had never been an option.
The music inside the flat wasn't too loud and the lights dim, everything soaked in the sweet stink of cheap alcohol and perfume after barely half an hour. Anaïs slid easily into the crowd, greeting people you'd never met before, while you hovered at the edge, clutching your drink too tightly.
It was always like this: her at the centre, you orbiting around her, waiting.You tried to relax, tried laughing when she pulled you into conversations, but it was hard when every nerve in you was tuned to her. To the way she leaned close when she whispered something in your ear. To the way she let her hand linger on your arm just a second longer than needed.
Sometimes you thought Anaïs must feel it too. That flicker of something in the way her eyes held yours, in the way she said your name. But then she'd pull back, smile like it meant nothing, and you'd be left wondering if you'd imagined it all.
But later that night, it happened.
You'd slipped away to the loo, just for a moment, grateful for the excuse to catch your breath and let the alcohol settle. The mirror told you things you didn't want to see—flushed cheeks, eyes a little too bright—and when you finally pushed your way back into the cramped living room, you'd lost track of her.
Then you saw her.
Anaïs was perched on the arm of a sagging sofa, talking to some lad you didn't recognise. He looked like every other boy at parties like this: a little too confident, a little too casual, leaning back with that lazy grin that assumed the world was always listening. He was a boy, and you were not. And that was the problem.
You froze where you stood, tucked into a shadowed corner, and watched. He tossed out a joke. She laughed, the sound spilling bright and effortless even through the noise, as if it belonged more to him than to the night. Another joke, and this time her hand came down on his arm, fingers curling over his bicep as her head tipped back, amusement written all over.
Something knotted sharp in your chest. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, voices rising and falling around you like a current you couldn't step out of. You tried to tell yourself it didn't matter, that it was harmless, that she touched everyone that way. But every time her laughter broke free, it cracked something open in you.
Minutes dragged on. Ten of them, maybe more, maybe less, each one stretching unbearably long. You stood there, heart thudding, unable to move, unable to look away.
And when you caught her gaze across the room, caught red-handed in your staring, you couldn't bear it any longer.
You pushed through the press of bodies, storming off toward the kitchen with one single thought: more alcohol, something to numb the sharp edges.
You didn't mean to drink so much, but every cup pressed into your hand blurred the ache a little more, until your head was foggy and your body heavy. You ended up leaning against the counter, staring at the tiled floor glassy-eyed as if it could steady you.
That was where Anaïs found you.
"Hey," she said softly, pushing the door shut behind her and subsequently drowning out the tinny music from the living room. Her voice was different now; quieter, tentative. She looked nervous, almost guilty, and that scared you more than anything. "Hey. What's wrong?"
You shook your head, biting your lip. "Doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters," she pressed, stepping closer. "You ran off like I'd kicked your puppy. Tell me."
The words tumbled out before you could stop them, thick with alcohol and months, no years of silence. "I just– I can't stand it when you look at other people like that. Like they're the only one in the room. Because I–" Your voice broke. "Because I love you."
You stared at the floor, cheeks burning, wishing you could claw the words back into your throat. But it was too late. They were out there, hanging heavy in the air, undeniable.
When Anaïs didn't answer, panic clawed at your chest. "I know it's wrong," you blurted, voice shaking. "I know I'm not supposed to feel this way about you. About a girl. But I can't help it, Anaïs. I've loved you forever. And it hurts—God, it hurts that you don't see it."
Silence again. You finally looked up, bracing for rejection. But Anaïs wasn't angry. She wasn't laughing, either. She just looked… terrified.
Her eyes were wide, shining, and she shook her head slightly like she was trying to clear it.
"What?" you whispered out, voice cracking and eyes brimming with tears. "You can't like me," she finally said, shaking her head, though her voice wavered like she wasn’t sure she believed her own words. "You can't like me."
The tears came before you could stop them, stinging your eyes until they spilled over hot and fast. You hated how they burned, hated how they carried that sharp edge of shame. "I know that, Anaïs," you whispered, your throat tight and breaking. "Don’t you think I know that? That's why I can't... I can't stand it seeing a lad look at you like that and have you look back like you want him because I know you'll never want me like that!"
Your voice cracked, and you had to swallow down a sob. The silence that fell between you then was heavy and pressing and you could only hear the faint music from the next room over. Here, in the kitchen's half-light, every second felt heavy enough to crush you.
"How do you know that?" Anaïs whispered out then, after a long, uncomfortable moment. You let out a hollow laugh that immediately crumbled into a sniffle.
"How do I– Anaïs, you're you and I'm just… me." You scrubbed at your cheeks with trembling hands, desperate to get rid of the tears that showed how much this was breaking you. "You shine. Everyone wants you. And I…" You shook your head, words failing.
Anaïs frowned, her brows knitting together in confusion. "What? Don't– don't say that about yourself."
Her voice was soft but firm, and in the dim light, you could see the hurt in her eyes—not at you, but for you. She stepped a little closer, as if she couldn't help it, as if she was being pulled toward you despite everything she just said.
Her frown deepened, and she shook her head slowly, as if searching for words she didn’t trust herself to speak. "You don't see yourself clearly," she said finally, her voice unsteady but urgent. "You talk like you're nothing, but… do you even know what it does to me when you look at me like that?"
Your heart lurched painfully in your chest. For a moment you weren't sure you'd heard her right. "What are you talking about?" you whispered, barely able to breathe.
Anaïs hesitated, her hands flexing uselessly at her sides, and then she pressed them flat to the counter as though bracing herself against her own thoughts. "I shouldn't say this," she muttered. "It's wrong. It's..." She bit the word off, her jaw tight, but then she looked up at you, eyes shining with something that made your stomach twist. "But I feel it, too. When he was talking to me just now and he smiled at me and told me i was pretty, I kept thinking… I wish it was you telling me that instead."
The room swayed around you, the soft hum of music from the other side of the wall growing sharp in your ears. Your lips parted, but no words came.
"You don't understand," Anaïs said quickly, almost desperately now. "I've told myself a hundred times it isn't allowed. That I can't… I shouldn't even think about you that way." Her voice cracked, and she shook her head. "Girls don't... we're not supposed to–"
You cut her off with a trembling laugh, though it sounded nothing like laughter. "Don't you think I've been telling myself the same thing? Every day?" Your tears had slowed, but your cheeks still glistened. "That it's disgusting. That I'm disgusting. That if you knew what I felt, you'd hate me for it."
Anaïs flinched, a soft sound escaping her throat, almost a sob. She stepped forward then, slowly, like every inch was a battle against all the voices in her head telling her to stop. "I could never hate you," she whispered, her breath shaky. "I hate me for wanting this. For wanting you."
The words hung between you, trembling and fragile, and the air seemed to thrum with them. Both of you stood there, trembling, terrified of what you'd just admitted but unable to take it back.
Anaïs finally lifted her hand, hesitating in the space between you, her fingers shaking. She didn't touch you, but the nearness of it was enough to make your chest ache. Her hand hovered there, trembling in the space between.
You could see her chest rising and falling too quickly, her lips parted as if she might speak again and then stopping herself. And then, like she couldn't hold herself back any longer, Anaïs closed the last inches between you and slipped her arms around your shoulders. The hug was sudden but not forceful—gentle, tentative, as though she feared you might push her away.
You didn't. The instant her warmth wrapped around you, your own arms clutched at her waist, clinging like you might drown without her.It wasn't a kiss or anything the world would call a confession, but it was real. Her face pressed against your hair, your damp cheek against her neck, both of you breathing raggedly in the quiet of that kitchen.
"I don't know what this means," Anaïs whispered, her voice muffled against you. "I don't know if we're allowed to feel this way. I'm so scared."
You closed your eyes tight, holding her even closer. "Me too," you admitted, your voice breaking. "But I'd rather be scared with you than pretend I don't feel it at all."
She shivered in your arms, and you felt her nod against your shoulder. The music from the next room carried on, distant and oblivious, while the two of you stood tangled together.
part 1
summary : where you want liam to keep you there and stay.
warnings : bondagee smuttt, angst but its resolved lowkey badddd but ehehehehe
word count : 3.8k
a/n : okay yall i cant tell if this is amazing or horrific so you can be the judge of that, im gonna tag a bunch of ppl who may wanna read it for various reasons @almosthumongousfunsblog, @onlygirlaliveinnyc, @alivedeaddemo (sozzles if yall dont xx) also would you like me to start a taglist? lmk guys and then ill sort it out! also kinktober send in a req okay bybybye
You’d stopped checking the time on your phone an hour ago. The digits only made it worse, each minute that passed like a jab reminding you he hadn’t come when he said he would. Half-drunk coffee sat cold on the bedside table. The same playlist had looped twice, you hadn’t had the heart to change it.
The apartment felt heavy with waiting — the hush of the street outside, the little flicker of headlights across the carpet. You sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting in the hem of your slip, telling yourself you should’ve left. Told yourself you wouldn’t do this again.
The lock finally clicked.
He stepped in with that practiced grin, the kind that had probably disarmed more than a few people in its lifetime. A shoulder to the doorframe, hair mussed like he’d styled it carelessly in the car, eyes bright in the dim light. He looked exactly the same as every time before — which was the problem.
“You’re late.” Your voice came out sharper than you meant, a little raw around the edges.
He smirked, peeled off his jacket in one fluid movement. “And you’re still here. Lucky me.”
It landed cocky, but you didn’t bite like you usually would. You only looked at him, cool and unamused, letting the silence stretch until his grin faltered just a fraction.
“This isn’t funny, Liam.”
“I didn’t say it was.” He crossed the room anyway, boots heavy on the wood floor. Close enough that his cologne hit you — smoke, leather, a sharp clean note under it. Familiar, intoxicating. Your pulse betrayed you, beating harder despite yourself.
He tilted his head, studied you. “Still wearing that for me, though.” His hand brushed the hem of your slip, knuckles grazing your thigh.
You caught his wrist before he could push higher. “This isn’t the same novelty. It’s a pattern.”
For a moment, something flickered across his face — recognition, maybe. Or annoyance. Hard to tell. Then he leaned in close enough that his breath touched your cheek, voice dropping low.
“Pattern or not, you’re still mine.”
And then his grip closed around your hand, firm, dragging you up from the edge of the bed. His mouth was already on your throat, his body hot and heavy as he backed you toward the mattress, like a pattern carved into your veins, one you were trying desperately to change.
–
He doesn’t even let you sit. The second your knees brush the mattress, he’s got you face-down over it, his palm heavy at the back of your neck. The weight isn’t cruel — it’s directive. His scent wraps around you–smoke still clinging to his jacket, cologne sharp and warm, the faint burn of whiskey on his breath when he leans down.
“Stay,” he rasps, and the single syllable digs right down your spine.
You grip the sheet like it’ll save you, but part of you resists — arches against the press, testing. He notices immediately. He always does. His fingers tighten, his hips pin your ass to the edge of the bed. A growl, low in his throat. “Don’t start.”
You push again, just slightly, curious if he’ll falter. Instead, his hand leaves your neck, tangles in your hair, and jerks your head back so your mouth parts on a gasp. He holds you like that, bent and helpless but not afraid, your scalp prickling under his grip.
“That what you want?” His voice is rough, steady. “Push me till I remind you who you belong to?”
Your thighs clench, betraying you.
He laughs — dark, triumphant — and uses the slack of his belt to bind your wrists behind your back. Not tight enough to hurt, just enough to strip the option of control from your fingers. When he slides your panties down, his knuckles drag against your skin, rough from guitar strings and cigarettes. You shiver.
He nudges your legs apart with his knee. “Good girl,” he mutters, almost distracted, like he can’t help the praise. “Hold still.”
The first press of him inside you steals your breath, and he doesn’t give you time to adjust. His hips snap forward hard, the mattress squeaking under the sudden impact. Your cheek grinds into the sheets, lips parted around a ragged moan.
“Fuck— look at you.” His voice is low, guttural. “So wet for me after sulkin’ all night. You love it when I take it out on you, don’t you?”
Your whimper is answer enough, and he punishes you for it anyway — pulling almost all the way out, holding, waiting. You arch back, desperate, but he denies you, teasing the head just at your entrance.
“Beg.”
You shake your head, stubborn even now.
Wrong move. His hand slides under your chin, fingers wrapping your throat. Not a squeeze, just pressure — a reminder. Your pulse thunders against his palm, and when you finally meet his eyes over your shoulder, there’s a flicker there. Hesitation, a check-in, guilt.
You nod, breath shallow, and his mouth curves — relief disguised as arrogance. He slams back in, sharp enough to make your whole body jolt.
The pace is brutal, relentless. Each thrust wrings another sound out of you, his grunts mingling with your cries, the slap of skin and the creak of the bedframe turning the room into a stage for obscenity. You lose count of how many times he pulls you to the edge, pulls out, waits until you’re shaking and swearing before giving you just enough again.
“Pathetic,” he spits between thrusts, though his hand strokes over your hip almost tenderly. “Cryin’ for me. Can’t even think straight, can you? All you know is my cock.”
Tears sting your eyes, frustration and arousal mixing until you can’t tell the difference. You sob into the sheet, and he groans, fucking you harder.
“That’s it. That’s my girl.”
He doesn’t let up, even when you start to tremble too much to hold yourself. He shifts, one arm hooking under your body, hauling you upright so your back crashes against his chest. Your wrists still bound, his hand snakes down between your thighs, thumb circling your clit mercilessly as he drives into you.
“Come for me. Do it. Let me feel you.” His voice is hoarse, like he’s begging even as he commands.
When it hits, it’s messy, wrenching, your whole body bowing in his arms. He doesn’t stop — keeps fucking you through it, overstimulating until you’re gasping, shaking your head, whimpering broken pleas. He eats it up, groaning in your ear. “God, you’re perfect like this. Wrecked on me. Mine.”
And then he slips. Mid-thrust, jaw tight, he mutters something he never planned to let out,
“Don’t ever leave me.”
Your body clenches at his slip, the raw confession, and he buries his face in your shoulder like he could swallow it back down. Too late. His thrusts get frantic, ragged, chasing the inevitable.
“Fuck— you feel that? You’re squeezin’ the life out of me.” His voice is rough, desperate now. “Gonna ruin me, you will.”
His hand tightens around your throat, not choking, just holding — as if keeping you tethered to him while the pace turns savage. Each thrust ricochets through you, overstimulation bordering on unbearable, but you can’t stop clinging to the heat of him.
You whine, nearly incoherent, your head lolling against his shoulder. “Too much—”
“Shhh, take it,” he rasps, teeth scraping your ear. “Take every fuckin’ drop. You’re mine, yeah? Say it.”
You manage a broken nod, a cracked whisper, “Yours.”
That’s all it takes. With a guttural groan, he slams deep and holds, his cock pulsing inside you as he comes. Hot, thick, messy — you feel it flood you, spill when he drags back, and he curses under his breath, like the sheer fact of it overwhelms him.
“Jesus Christ,” he gasps, thrusting shallow, trying to milk every last spasm out of you both. His voice is torn between awe and obsession. “Look at the fuckin’ mess we make.”
You collapse forward onto the mattress, wrists still bound, cum already dripping down your thighs. He follows, pressing his chest to your back, his breath ragged, his weight heavy and anchoring. For a beat, there’s silence — just the sound of him trying to remember how to breathe.
Then softer, almost too soft for him, “Good girl. My perfect girl.”
–
The room is thick with heat and the faint reek of sex — sweat cooling on your skin, his cologne gone sour under it, the sheets damp and twisted. He sprawls half across you, chest heaving, lips dragging lazy kisses along your shoulder like he can’t stop touching.
For a moment, it’s tender. His hand strokes your thigh in idle circles, and you almost let yourself sink into it — almost. But the ache is already coiling back, that hollow place the sex never seems to fill.
You swallow, voice hoarse. “You know I sat here over an hour waiting.”
He chuckles against your skin, the sound warm, careless. “Worth it though, yeah?”
It’s the kind of shrug he always gives, a joke meant to smooth the edge off. But you don’t feel smooth. You feel scraped raw.
You shift out from under him, tugging the sheet up around your chest, cocooning yourself in something that isn’t him. The sudden distance makes him frown, like he can’t quite place where the change happened.
Your phone is on the nightstand. You reach for it, screen lighting up empty in your hand, and the silence that follows is heavier than anything he just did to your body.
He props up on an elbow, watching. “What’s that about?”
You don’t answer right away. Because maybe you don’t know how to say it — that the bruises and the moans and the mess weren’t enough this time. That you want something he hasn’t given yet.
The pause stretches, and for once, he doesn’t laugh it off.
–
You don’t look at him when you finally speak. “You’re always late.”
He exhales through his nose, half a laugh, but it doesn’t land. “C’mon, don’t start—”
“I’m not starting.” Your voice is sharper than you mean it to be, but you don’t take it back. “I’m just saying. You show up when you feel like it, smelling like smoke and beer, and you—” You falter, throat tight. “—you fuck me like this is all I’m good for.”
The words hang between you, jagged and hot. His smirk fades, jaw twitching.
“Don’t talk shit,” he mutters, sitting up, dragging a hand through his hair. “You know I don’t treat you like that.”
You finally look at him, stung and furious. “Then what do you call it? You think just because you make me come so hard I can’t stand, that it’s enough? That I’ll just keep waiting in some hotel room while you—” You bite the rest back, but the thought is there, bitter. While you’re out with someone else.
His eyes sharpen, catching it. “While I what?”
You press your lips together, clutching the sheet tighter around you, but it’s too late. He’s already on his knees on the mattress, crowding closer, not playful now — serious in a way that makes your stomach knot.
“You think I’m fuckin’ around behind your back?” His voice is low, dangerous, but there’s something else under it — not anger. Something wounded.
“I don’t know what to think,” you admit, voice cracking. “You’re never here when you say you’ll be. You turn up late, all rough, and I—” You shake your head, tears pricking. “I don’t want to be one of your toys, Liam. I want to be the only one.”
The silence after that is deafening.
He just stares at you, chest heaving, expression unreadable — like your words hit deeper than anything you’ve ever said.
–
His first sound is a scoff. Flat, dismissive. “Fuck off.”
But then he’s moving — fast. Snatching his shirt from the floor and hurling it toward the dresser like it burned him. It lands crumpled, forgotten. He’s pacing now, bare feet thudding against the rug, jaw locked tight.
“Don’t you dare paint me like some cunt who can’t keep his dick to himself,” he spits, running both hands through his hair, tugging like he wants to rip it out. “You think I don’t know I’m late, that I fuck things up? You think I don’t hear the way you breathe when I walk in, like you’ve already given up on me?”
You flinch, but he isn’t looking at you — he’s glaring at the wall, at himself.
His voice cracks before he can stop it. “I don’t want others. I don’t. I just—” He slams his palm against the dresser, wood rattling. “I just sometimes act like I do ‘cause it’s easier than being the one who stays. D’you get that? Easier to be a bastard than to admit I’m scared shitless of losing you, or worse — of you seeing what a boring, ordinary fuck I really am.”
The words come jagged, uneven, raw. His chest heaves, sweat shining at his collarbone. He drags his hand down his face and lets out a noise — half laugh, half groan.
“You make me want to be less of a cunt.” He says it like it hurts, like it costs him something to admit. His eyes finally lift to yours, red-rimmed and wild. “And I don’t know how to fucking do that, but I know I want to.”
–
The words just hang there, jagged, raw. He’s not looking at you, not really — just somewhere past your shoulder, pacing like if he stops moving he’ll drown. His bare feet drag against the floorboards, heavy, restless. His chest is rising and falling too fast, and you can see the vein in his temple ticking, like the admission hurt him more than a punch ever could.
The silence between you thickens until it’s unbearable. You force it to snap.
“Wanting doesn’t make you show up.”
His head jerks, sharp as if you slapped him. He sneers “Don’t start with that—”
“No, I will start with that.” You sit forward, clutching the sheet to your chest. Your voice shakes, but it doesn’t matter. “You talk about wanting me, about wanting to be better, but where the fuck are you when I’m sat up waiting? Where are you when I wonder if you’re fucking someone else, because it’s easier than dealing with me?”
He whirls, face twisted. “Jesus Christ, you think I’ve been with anyone else?” His laugh is harsh, almost manic. “You think I’d fuck around after this? After you?”
“Don’t twist it,” you bite back. “I’m not saying you have. I’m saying you disappear, Liam. You make me feel disposable.”
The word lands like a blade. His shoulders jerk as if the air left his lungs. He grabs the nearest thing — his crumpled shirt — and hurls it across the room. It smacks the wall, harmless, but the violence of it rattles. He paces again, running a hand over his face, down his throat.
“Disposable?” he growls, voice ragged. “You think I don’t care because I’m late? Because I’m a fuck-up with time?” He stops dead, eyes burning into you, raw and unguarded. “I don’t know how to stay, alright? I don’t fucking know how. But disposable? No. Not you. Never you.”
And just like that the room goes quiet.
–
You don’t know when the silence shifts from jagged to charged — only that the air feels heavier, more dangerous in a different way. He’s still standing there, shirtless, chest rising and falling, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself back from something reckless.
Then he moves. Crossing the room in three steps, rough fingers catching your chin, his mouth opens, but his voice catches somewhere in his throat, like the words break him more than they will you.
He kisses you hard, filthy, hands already sliding under the sheet you’ve wrapped around yourself. In seconds, you’re flat against the mattress, wrists pinned above your head — his belt wrapped quick and sure around them. The leather bites lightly against your skin, just enough to remind you of every time you stayed.
“You like that?” he growls, dragging his mouth down your neck, nipping at the soft place until he’s sure there’ll be bruises tomorrow. His tongue follows after, hot and soothing. “Good girl. Pretty wrists tied up just for me.”
He trails lower, teeth scraping your collarbone, and when you arch up to meet him, he chuckles darkly. “Always so eager. Always ready to take it.” His fingers press into your jaw, thumb nudging your lips open. He slips two fingers into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue, watching your throat work. “Look at you. Perfect little slut f’me.”
Your eyes water when he presses harder, not cruel, just insistent. He watches your face, every twitch, every tremor — then pulls his fingers out, smearing your spit across your cheek like a signature.
“Mine,” he says simply, and there’s no irony in it now.
His hand slips between your thighs, slick already coating his knuckles. He works you fast, precise, until your back is arching, begging. And then — nothing. He pulls away.
“Not yet.”
You whine, tugging uselessly at the belt binding your wrists, hips rolling up into air. He smirks, cruel in a way that makes you wetter. “Pathetic. Look at you. Can’t even wait five seconds.” He slaps your thigh lightly, enough to sting. “You’ll come when I say so. You get that?”
“Yes,” you gasp.
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, sir.”
The word hangs between you, heavier than the belt. His pupils blow wide, lips curling. “That’s right. Knew you had it in you.”
He leans down, breath hot against your ear. “I’m going to take you apart. And then I’ll put you back together. No one else gets to do that. No one else even fucking looks at you like this.”
And then he’s inside you, no warning, stretching you open, making you cry out against his shoulder. His thrusts are brutal from the start, his palm on your throat, pressing just enough to keep you aware of his strength, his control.
“Mine,” he grits out again, biting down on your shoulder as if to brand you. “All fucking mine.”
–
His rhythm is merciless, hips crashing into yours with enough force to shake the headboard, but the belt around your wrists holds steady. Every thrust has you right at the brink, trembling, clenching around him.
And every time you start to tip over the edge, he pulls back. Slows down. Smirks like he’s savoring your ruin.
“Not yet,” he mutters against your skin, dragging his teeth down your throat. “You don’t get to come until I tell you. You understand?”
Your whole body burns, need spiraling into something painful, delicious. “Please,” you whine, trying to grind up into him.
He catches your jaw, squeezing, making you look at him. His eyes are wild, but focused. “Beg prettier.”
“Please, sir. Please let me come.”
He groans like the sound alone is enough to undo him. “You think I’d fuck someone disposable like this?” Then he fucks into you harder, hand tightening at your throat, just shy of cutting your air. Your vision sparks, pleasure coiled so tight it feels like you’ll shatter.
But he stops again, pulling out suddenly, leaving you empty, wrecked. He fists himself, dragging his cock against your swollen slit, smearing your wetness over both of you. Humiliation burns, and he feeds on it.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “Spread out, dripping, crying for me. Gonna show everyone how mine you really are.” He spits down onto you, working it in with the head of his cock, sliding against your clit until you scream.
And then, softer, reverent, “No one else gets this. No one else could take you. No one else could take me.”
When he finally slams back inside, it’s frantic, his control unraveling. Each thrust drags a moan from your throat until your voice is raw. He leans close, panting against your ear. “I’m staying. You hear me? I’m not going anywhere, not tonight.”
The words hit harder than the thrusts, something inside you cracking wide open. “I want more,” you choke out, tears slipping hot down your temples. “Not just this. I want you.”
He falters, hips stuttering, a groan tearing from his chest. “Fuck— You’ve got me. You’ve always had me.”
And with that, he drives into you with vicious intent, thumb finding your clit, working you with precision. This time he doesn’t stop. He holds you there, locked against him, until the orgasm rips through you violent and unstoppable. You sob, writhing, every nerve alight as he fucks you through it.
“Take it,” he grits out. “Take all of it.”
His release follows, hot and messy, filling you deep. He keeps thrusting, grinding into you even as you’re oversensitive, overstimulated. His fingers spread you open, making sure his come stays inside. “Keep it,” he orders, almost tender through the rasp. “Don’t waste a drop. It’s me in you.”
When he finally collapses against you, both of you shaking, he’s still inside, still holding your bound wrists above your head. His mouth brushes yours, softer now, words breaking apart into something almost shy.
“I’ll fuck up again. I know I will. But I’ll try, love. Swear down.”
And for the first time all night, you believe him.
–
The first thing you register is the smell of coffee. Strong, a little burnt, but real. When you blink awake, he’s there — sitting on the edge of the bed in yesterday’s t-shirt, holding out a chipped mug like it’s some peace offering from a dream.
“Didn’t spill it this time,” he mutters, almost sheepish. “Small miracles.”
Your voice is rough with sleep. “You made this?”
He smirks, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Course I did. Didn’t trust the kettle not to bollocks it up without me.”
It’s ridiculous. It’s sweet. It’s more than you expected.
You sip, watching him like you’re trying to catch him out. “Words are easy,” you say softly. “Show me.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods once, decisive. “Alright.”
Later, when you’re curled back under the duvet, your phone buzzes. A text from him, already on his way to rehearsals,
Bus is late. Thought you’d want to know. Don’t wait at the window like some daft film star. I’ll ring when I land.
And he does. Mid-afternoon, your phone lights up with his name. No text, no brush-off. A proper call. His voice tired but steady, asking about your day before his. It’s clumsy, but it’s something.
You sip the last of the lukewarm coffee and see his name still glowing on your phone, you feel the first thread of it winding tight.
–
The club haze is the same — sweat, bass, the endless shuffle of bodies — but he isn’t. Not anymore.
He’s posted at the side of the stage, drink in hand before the gig, jaw set, eyes flicking like knives toward anyone who lets their gaze linger too long on you. Old Liam would’ve just glared and let it fester. This one reaches into his pocket.
Your phone buzzes between drinks. A blurry photo, his boots, propped on the side rail,
Missin’ you. Hurry up an’ wreck me again.
When the set ends, he texts again before the lights even cool,
I’m still a daft cunt, love — but I’m your daft cunt now.
Noel taking you away from your newborn for a dinner date is hard at first but then you realise you needed the time alone a little.
1.4k words
early 00s NG x mum!reader
a/n: based on this request. and i know you're all active rn, i dare you to let this flop 🙂↕️ ALSO, reqs are open again, yayy! I'm gonna start answering stuff in my inbox tomorrow, so get ready for new stuff on the plan
It had been months since you and Noel had gone anywhere alone together. Life had shrunk, structured only around late-night feeds, nappies, and lullabies. It was now filled with the tiny sounds of your newborn—soft hiccups, squeaky cries, the steady breathing when she finally gave in and slept.
And you loved it. You loved her more than you'd ever thought possible. But somewhere along the past few months, you and Noel had disappeared into the roles of parents instead of being yourselves.
Tonight, for the first time since bringing her home, you were trying to reclaim a sliver of your life before. A sitter was in the lounge, cheerful and competent, already cooing over the baby as you hovered in the doorway like you were leaving her with a stranger at a train station.
"Love," Noel hummed gently, tugging your coat from the hook. "She'll be fine. Not like we're leaving her with a pack of wild wolves."
You shot him a look, though your lips twitched despite yourself. "It's not funny. She's only three months old, Noel. What if she wakes up and–"
"Then she'll be picked up, fed, and sung to badly by someone who's getting paid good money for it," he cut in, reaching for your hand and squeezing your fingers lightly. "Look, if you wanna cancel and stay home, I'm fine with that. But this is our chance."
His eyes softened when he caught the crease between your brows, sighing softly. "She'll be asleep before we're even on the street."
Still, you lingered, checking the bag of nappies, the bottles, the little stack of blankets folded on the armchair, as though you were going on holiday instead of dinner fifteen minutes away.
So Noel waited, patient in his own way. Leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved in the pockets of his black coat as he hummed under his breath. Finally, you forced yourself into your own coat he'd had slung over his arm 5 minutes ago. The sitter waved cheerfully, the baby squirming in her arms, and Noel's hand closed warmly around yours as he led you out into the London night.
The air was sharp, still holding a chill despite it being spring. The streetlights painted everything amber as you started walking down the street in search of a cab. Noel's stride was easy, relaxed, and you tried to match it, though your stomach felt as if you'd left it behind in the nursery.
"You're quiet," Noel said after a block, gently squeezing your shoulder.
"I'm just… thinking."
"Uh-huh." He tilted his head, watching you out of the corner of his eye. "Overthinking."
You let out a helpless laugh, shaking your head.
"She's breathing, love. And the sitter's not an idiot. Made sure of it. She'll be fine." His voice was warm but edged with certainty. "And anyway, if anything happens, we're fifteen minutes away. You'll leg it faster than I can hail a cab."
You pictured it—you sprinting through the streets in heels, Noel jogging after with a resigned sigh—and the tension in your chest eased, giving way to a small chuckle.
The restaurant Noel had picked wasn't fancy, but it was private, dimly lit, the kind of place where the waitstaff obviously knew him but pretended not to. You'd been here years ago when you'd moved down here, before the big tours and the tabloids and nappies, back when all you worried about was whether the wine you chose might've been five quid too expensive.
Sliding into a booth, you looked around, almost startled at the ordinary hush of it all. The low murmur of conversation, the clink of cutlery—it felt like stepping out of the chaos of your new life into a slower rhythm.
"You look like you don't know what to do with yourself," Noel teased gently after a moment, reading your face.
You smoothed down the napkin you'd placed on your lap. "Maybe I don't.
"Seated across from each other, menus half-forgotten, you realized how long it had been since you'd actually looked at him without the constant undercurrent of parental chaos. He was studying you in that deliberate way of his, chin resting on one hand.
"What?" you asked self-consciously, fingers fiddling with the edge of your napkin."
Just starin' at me missus, is all. Sue me," he hummed with a shrug, though the corner of his mouth lifted. "You look different tonight."
"Different how?"
"Like the girl I married years ago. The one who used to keep me up all night talkin' about gigs and songs instead of us being out of nappies already." His expression softened. "Not that I don't like the new version, mind. She's pretty fookin' brilliant. But it's nice, innit? Just us again for a bit."
Heat crept into your cheeks and you looked down, smiling despite yourself. "It is nice, yeah.."
Dinner was easier than you'd expected. Conversation between you unfolded like it used to, tangling between stories of the band, little jokes about the waiter's Franz-Ferdinand-esque mustache, Noel's dry commentary on the couple at the bar who were clearly on a first date.
By the time dessert arrived, you realized you'd actually laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks. And not at a baby. Noel leaned back, satisfied, as if he'd accomplished some private mission. "Told you we'd survive one night out," he said.
You rolled your eyes but smiled. "You were right."
"Say that again, slowly. Don't hear it often."You kicked him under the table and Noel broke out into laughter stifled only by his hand.
The cab ride back was quieter. You rested your head on your husband's shoulder, the city sliding past the window in streaks of light as you listened to the hum of the car and his breathing. For the first time since you'd left the house earlier, the sharp edge of worry dulled into something gentler, a near ache of longing instead of panic.
"Miss her, don't you?" Noel whispered against your hair, voice low.
"Of course I do."
"Good. Be a bit weird if you didn't," he hummed, kissing the top of your head then and you could almost feel him smiling. "But she'll be asleep, like I told you. And you'll check on her. And everything'll be exactly the same as when we left."
You smiled against his shoulder. "You're very smug about this."
"Not smug, happy I got you to calm down a bit."
The house was quiet when you unlocked the front door. Noel toed his shoes off by the mat, glancing toward the living room where the sitter was curled up with a paperback, an empty mug beside her.
"All good?" he asked in a low voice, helping you shrug off your coat.You nodded, smiling. "Perfect. She went down without a fuss, hasn't stirred since. I'll be off, then?"
You thanked her probably three times more than necessary, pressed the cash into her hand, and walked her to the door. The click of it shutting behind her left you and Noel alone again, the hush of the house wrapping around you both.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, almost in unison, you turned toward the stairs.
You crept up carefully, Noel following close behind, his hand brushing the small of your back as though to steady you. The nursery door was ajar, and the faint glow of your daughter's nightlight spilled into the hallway.
Your breath caught as you pushed it open.
There she was, your daughter, curled into herself in the cot, tiny fists near her face, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. A soft snuffle escaped her, and your heart clenched with something so fierce it nearly hurt.
"See?" Noel murmured behind you. "Exactly the same as when we left, but asleep.
"You shot him a look, but your smile was hopeless. He smiled back, softer than you'd ever seen him, the kind of smile he only saved for these quiet moments.
And standing there in the nursery, you realized you didn't regret going out—not for dinner, not for the glass of wine, not even for the brief escape into who you'd been before being a mum. And it was because coming back into the warm cocoon of home and parenthood, was better than anything else.
You leaned against Noel, heart full to bursting, and whispered, "Okay, yeah. You were right."
He chuckled, pressing his lips to your hair. "Always am, love. Always am. Now let's not waste an empty house with a sleeping baby, mh?"
thanks for the tag but bro this is gonna take a while i have no idea ummm
maybe like
gilded lily by cults (i mean its half in the name right)
orrr maybe open arms jorge rivera-herrans + steven dookie (that has like plot in there but it kinda fits me ig bc im very trusting sometimes (my phonk friend calls me naive))
@ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper @lastpigeonparty @mixed-match-archive @astrophelthegremlin @its-oliver-bitches @frooglet @gay-ass-nerd0w0 @baskabytheanglerfish @cerulean156 @literary-chameleon @grandpappypickle @gayfurbyboi and anyone else who wants to join :))
liam pulls you close, noel keeps you steady [drunk!reader hcs] ⋆˚꩜｡
a/n: a draft i never bothered to post :p
noel ♡.ᐟ.ᐟ
ᝰ you get giggly at the pub, drape yourself over his shoulder and whisper something nonsense in his ear — he doesn’t flinch. just glances at you sideways and mutters,
“you’re pissed, aren’t you?”
like he didn’t already notice the minute your voice got floaty.
ᝰ when you loop your arms around his neck and sway against him like you’re slow dancing to the stone roses playing too loud, he huffs but lets it happen.
“jesus christ. alright, twirl then. if you must.”
ᝰ he holds your drink when you forget where you put it. when you ask where it went, he lifts it straight to your lips.
“still got half. now sip, lightweight.”
ᝰ you kiss his cheek in the middle of his sentence and he just blinks, pauses, then carries on like nothing happened. but his hand finds your thigh under the table.
ᝰ if you cling to him while he’s trying to stand up, he mutters,
“if you topple us both, i’m not savin’ you. i’ll let us go down together, romeo and fuckin’ juliet.”
ᝰ if you wander off, he’s up immediately, scanning the room like a dad at the zoo. finds you talking to someone’s girlfriend and just slides an arm around your waist.
ᝰ you lean against him in the cab, mumbling something soft and dreamy into his collar. he rests his chin on your head and pretends not to smile.
ᝰ when you call him “my noel” with wine-bright eyes, he just grunts.
“yeah, yeah. tell me that again when you’re sober.”
ᝰ if you fall asleep on his lap once you’re home, he won’t move for hours. lights a cigarette over your head and smokes slow, legs going numb, hand petting your thigh like it’s instinct.
ᝰ he doesn’t laugh when you cry about the moon being “too pretty.” just kisses your temple and says,
“you’re alright, sweetheart. moon’s not going anywhere.”
ᝰ if you start singing over the music at the pub — badly — he tries to look annoyed but he’s already mouthing the lyrics with you.
ᝰ helps you out of your boots when you get home, all patient sighs and rough hands.
“bloody hell. how do you walk in these?”
ᝰ tucks you into bed like you’re made of glass, kisses your forehead like a thank you.
“no more gin for you, missus. s’official.”
ᝰ you tell him he’s handsome four times in twenty minutes and he just smirks at the table.
“never seen you this nice sober. maybe i should let you get pissed more often.”
ᝰ keeps a bottle of water by the bed before you even ask. painkillers, too.
ᝰ if you crawl into his lap on the sofa and cling like you’ll float away, he doesn’t say a word. just hums low in his throat and threads his fingers through yours.
ᝰ if you’re all messy and flushed and half-crying on his chest, he just rubs your back and says,
“there you go, let it out. got you. got you.”
ᝰ and when you start saying “i love you” every five seconds, all whiny and soft and breathless, he leans in close and whispers,
“i know, angel. now sleep.”
liam ♡.ᐟ.ᐟ
ᝰ the second he sees you all tipsy and starry-eyed, he grins like he won the lottery.
“uh oh. here she fuckin’ comes.”
arms already open. fully prepared to be climbed like a tree.
ᝰ kisses your cheek every time you giggle. every time. like a game he refuses to lose.
ᝰ when you press your cold drink to his cheek and laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world, he flinches dramatically and shouts,
“attempted murder! lock her up!”
ᝰ lets you play with his rings, his hair, the zipper on his jacket — whatever your clingy little hands want.
murmurs, “take what you need, babe.”
ᝰ if you go quiet all of a sudden and blink real slow, he cradles your face in both hands and goes,
“you’re not gonna puke on me, are ya? i’ll still love you. but give us a heads-up.”
ᝰ tells the bartender you’re “on your fairy juice again.”
then immediately follows it with, “don’t cut her off, though. she’s dead fit like this.”
ᝰ if you sway too much on your way to the loo, he’s right behind you like a bodyguard.
“careful, babe. we’ve had enough near-death experiences this week.”
ᝰ tells you you're pretty at least six times before you even get your coat on.
ᝰ holds your drink so you can lean into him properly. still somehow manages to drink from both straws at once without letting go of you.
ᝰ if you call him “my liam” all slurred and dreamy, he blushes like you just proposed.
“say that again. say it proper. say it slow.”
ᝰ when you fall asleep half-on him, half-off the bed, he maneuvers you back into his arms with the skill of a man who’s done this before.
“nah, babe. you’re not goin’ anywhere.”
ᝰ tucks your hair behind your ears like he’s unwrapping something delicate. smiles so soft it barely fits on his face.
“you’re fuckin’ lovely, y’know that?”
ᝰ lets you trace the tattoo on his shoulder while you mumble stories that don’t go anywhere.
“yeah, babe. tell me again. love when you ramble.”
ᝰ kisses your knuckles one by one while you giggle into his hoodie.
“can’t help it. you’re just so fuckin’ cute when you’re pissed.”
ᝰ and when you start whining that you love him, over and over again, voice all sloshy and high, he kisses you breathless and says,
“good. ‘cause i fuckin’ adore you. even when you’re all wobbly and weird.”
bonus ♡.ᐟ.ᐟ
you’re liam’s girl, but noel helps too ❤︎
ᝰ liam’s got you in his lap at the pub, both arms wrapped around your waist while you drunkenly babble about how cool his hands are — and noel, from across the booth, just mutters,
“she’s fuckin’ gone. d’you want me to get her a water or are we just ridin’ this wave?”
ᝰ when you start crying into liam’s jacket about something small and incomprehensible, liam’s going, “she’s sensitive, innit,” and noel just gently slides a napkin across the table like it’s a truce flag.
“wipe your face, sweetheart. we’re not gettin’ kicked out over this.”
ᝰ noel holds your other hand in the cab home because liam’s too busy trying to kiss your cheek and rock you against his chest.
“can you two sit still?”
liam: “we’re in love, mate.”
ᝰ you fall over trying to take your boots off and liam collapses laughing, but noel’s the one who catches you. steadies your shoulders, brushes your hair from your eyes.
“you alright, trouble?”
liam, still on the floor: “mine. she’s mine.”
ᝰ when you start whispering “liam liam liam liam liam” over and over again like a spell, noel just rolls his eyes and throws a blanket over you both.
“jesus christ. you’re pathetic. she’s obsessed with you.”
liam just smirks: “i know.”
you’re noel’s girl, but liam helps too ❤︎
ᝰ noel’s got an arm around you in the corner of the booth, thumb brushing your side while you sway into him, tipsy and flushed — and liam shows up with your missing pint and says,
“she’s mine for the night, yeah?”
noel doesn’t even look up.
“try it and die.”
ᝰ when you start hiccuping and giggling into noel’s collar, liam leans over and pokes your cheek.
“she’s gone, chief.”
noel hums.
“she’s cute, though. better drunk than you ever are.”
ᝰ you start unzipping noel’s hoodie at the table and muttering “too warm,” and liam immediately tosses his own jacket at you like a blanket.
“she can wear mine. she’s family.”
noel grunts: “she’s not your fuckin’ puppy.”
ᝰ back at the flat, you’re trying to climb noel like a ladder while he’s trying to make toast — and liam’s just following you both around with a bottle of water.
“hydration for the drunk angel! drink up!”
noel: “get out of the kitchen, liam.”
you: “love you liammm.”
noel: “i swear to god.”
ᝰ when you fall asleep sideways on noel’s chest, one leg still on the floor, liam tosses you a pillow and pulls a blanket over your legs.
“you’re alright, love. sleep it off.”then glances at noel and goes,
“you’re punchin’, mate.”
noel, already stroking your arm: “i fuckin’ know.”
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
areudirty
ellievsbear
amandla
gamechangershow
andulkaphoto
stormborns
romaincrisis
