warnings: ongoing panic attack, very brief religious guilt, noel deserving more, no speech marks, pre fame noel
It’s strange, coming home for summer. Stalling your car on the hill because in London, nobody drives. In Manchester, nobody really does either, but it’s quiet, and you’re the one who gives all the lifts. Making awkward small talk with the girl who works at the pub, because you knew her when you were fifteen and had illusions of the world, and now you’re twenty-one and ‘gone soft’ down South.
And he’s there, of course. On the dole, Jess tells you, getting high and occasionally setting up gear for the Inspiral Carpets, a band Jess tells you has the worst name in all of music history. You don’t think that’s true, but you don’t tell her, not wanting to defend him.
You see him for the first time since New Year at the pub the girl works at. He’s with his mates, and his brother Liam, who you’ve always found to be a bit of a straggler, is sat there too, even though he’s not old enough to be drinking. You get ID’d, even though the barman’s your Da’s mate, and get a vodka coke, because you’re going out that night and Jess told you to start drinking beforehand.
He calls your name when he stands up, as if you’re a friend, someone who he’s used to seeing, someone whose memories of him aren’t stale and unpleasant, like the potato you found at the back of the cupboard that had gone green.
“You going out? Good to see yous, didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”
It is June, and the time for rebirth has been and gone, the desire of spring dormant for another year. The sun stays up until nine, ten, eleven o’clock, and an unwanted flush creeps over your cheeks like sunburn. You tell him that yes, you’re going out, with Jess actually, and would you like to come?
As soon as you ask this, you regret it, but you don’t take it back, because his face lights up as if it’s the offer of a lifetime, and he nods eagerly. Yeah, sure, he’s saying, and he buys you a drink, even though you know now that he’s on the dole and your student grant could cover it. You sit next to him, bare thigh pressed up against his jeans, and you wonder why he always wears jeans, because isn’t it so hot in here? Jess is sat on Nathan’s lap, always fucking sits on Nathan’s lap, and she jabbers on about some workplace drama, Woolworths assistant, and you’re pressed against his thigh like it’s normal.
He lights a cigarette, dragging the ash tray closer to him, not bothering to ask you if it’s alright. Never one to ask for permission, and his brother Liam looks at it longingly, even though he’s seventeen and old enough to buy his own, has been for a year. You take pity on him where his brother doesn’t, slide him a box of cigarettes and a lighter, and he has that same smile, his face lit up. Sweet, really.
“Are you coming out too, Liam?” You ask, and he shakes his head, makes an excuse about work in the morning, and smokes his cigarette quietly. His brother is getting daring, more pints down, a hand on your thigh, so light you barely register it. But you do register it, of course you do. He’s loud, interrupting Jess’ ramblings, talking about music- always music- his Beatles, his Bowie, his Stones. Jamie nicked Sgt Pepper’s from HMV on Wednesday, apparently, and they loudly argue over the best track- quietly, you think it’s She’s Leaving Home, but you don’t say that. His hand gets further up your thigh, before Jess announces the taxi’s here, and he snatches it away like he’s been burned, as if it’s embarrassing to be vulnerable. It is, here.
You pile into the taxi, all eight of you, and Jamie gives the driver an extra fiver so he doesn’t complain about road safety or anything like laws. You sit in Jess’ lap, laughing as the boys tell a story, your skirt shifting up your thighs but making no move to tug it down. The Hacienda’s in town, and you spend the whole taxi ride laughing. Nathan pays, because he wants to impress Jess, and you queue up, and Noel’s behind you, and you pay his entry. It’s midnight, now, no more summer sun, and in the dark he’s familiar, the music too loud, but louder than the thrumming of your pulse under your skin. You lose Jess in the first twenty minutes, and you push through crowds blindly, and he’s behind you, and his fingers on your pulse are grounding.
It’s only a club, he says, calm down. He says your name, right in your ear, and you don’t want to turn around, because turning around is facing what you did, what he did. It’s June, and 1989, and in this room, your life doesn’t stretch out in front of you like it does every summer. In this room, it stays with him, with Noel, his blue eyes knowing and his pale skin remembering. You turn around, because of course you do, because you will every Christmas, and every summer, and you imagine you’ll do it until you die. I missed you, he says, and because it’s loud you think he says I want to kiss you. Are those sentences really so different, anyway?
You’re waiting, then, expectant for something he never promised to give. He blinks at you, expectant of a response you don’t know you’re meant to give, and then shakes his head. Forget it, he says, and the surge of rejection feels hot in your chest, like bile, rotting in your stomach and up through your throat. You make a sign to smoke, and he follows you, out through the club until the sticky summer heat hits you again, even if it’s cooler now because it’s nighttime. Your pulse runs hot, and your cheeks flush, and you want to ignore him when he looks at you.
He says your name, once, twice, and your hands are shaking as you reach in your bag, cigarettes you rolled earlier, no lighter. You gave them to Liam, what were you thinking? Have you got a light? You ask, and your voice sounds underwater, foreign, closer to the Southern accents you surround yourself in at uni, and he’s saying your name again. Stop, breathe, stop. Have you taken anything? Have you mixed your drugs? No, you don’t think so, and you feel like a trapped animal. You can barely see him, and when you do, there’s an unfamiliar emotion on his face, compassion maybe? Understanding? His hand is on your arm then, and you almost fold into him, that feeling in your stomach burning.
Have you got a light? You say again, and he’s putting a cigarette in your mouth, one of the bought ones because he doesn’t like rolling, and he’s lighting it for you, thumb brushing your lips. He’s murmuring something to you, and you can’t listen, too focused on that nicotine rushing through your veins. I want to go home, you’re murmuring, and he says, okay. He leads you out of the smoking area, hand on your back, doesn’t bother to go inside and tell everyone where you’re going, an Irish goodbye is in anyway.
My mam’ll pick us up, you’re saying, even though she won’t, never will. He nods, knowingly, guides you into another taxi that always wait down the bottom of Deansgate. Fog Lane, he says, and you watch the city fly past, still in some kind of a daze. Sorry, you say, and your eyes fill up with tears. You can go back to the club, Jess said you’ve not been out in ages.
It’s fine. I only came out because I wanted to spend time with you, he tells you, and you sink into the car seat, can’t look at him. He says your name again, almost pleadingly, like you’re eighteen again and the kisses he gives you are like freckles across sunny skin, and you didn’t do it and he’s yours again, you and him, him and you. You take a deep, gasping breath, and he swears under his breath, for fucks sake, and rolls the window down, so you can lean out of it and throw up, right on Wilmslow Road.
Guilt, your parents would say, Irish Catholic and disapproving. God knows what you did. Noel knows what you did, and he’s like a kicked puppy, coming back to you because he doesn’t know anything else. The taxi’s kicked you out, and he pays, and you burst into tears, right in the middle of Withington, that feeling in your chest making you want to explode.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re saying, but it doesn’t mean anything, not anymore. He’ll take everything he can get from you, desperate for attention, and you can drip feed it to him like morphine. You take big, gasping breaths, and he’s holding onto you, close and warm and trusting, even when you broke it.
Let’s go home, he says, walks the rest of the way, knows where you live still, the semi detached off Fog Lane that he used to be jealous of. The living room light is on, your mam sat up for you, and your face is in his shoulder, gasping for air, as if he could give you anything more.
I know. He says it softly, stroking your hair, and you’re gripping onto him so tightly it’s leaving crescent shapes in his forearms, and still he takes it. I know. It’s summer, and he might be yours but you’re not his, not after it all. You go inside, and he waits until your bedroom light turns off before he walks home, your curtains shutting without you looking out. It’s June, and the cycle begins again, never really ends with him. He walks home, hands in pockets, and thinks about when you were eighteen.
back in twenty [18+] [kinktober oct.10] 🕯⋆˙⟡
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ── .✦
summary: you didn’t mean to tease him. just wanted to sit in his lap, talk about gummy ropes, feel his hoodie and the hum of the radio and the way he’s always warm. but grian’s hands were warm too. and patient. and mean.
pairing: grian chatten x fem!reader genre: smut !! word count: 3857
warnings: , soft-dom!grian, shy!reader, cockwarming, orgasm control, accidental stimulation, crying (from pleasure), praise, correction, unprotected sex, public-ish, control in general, minors dni!!
a/n: my 3rd kinktober day :p. don't think i captured grian that well here i def have to work on that buttttttt hope we still like 𑣲. also don't think this is that kinky tbh but maybe you immerse yourself you'll see the vision LOL
[kinktober 2025 masterlist]
🗝️⋆｡𖦹°‧★
his mate hopped out with a lazy, “back in twenty,” and shut the door behind him. you barely looked up — just made a soft sound of acknowledgment and leaned in closer, arms wrapped around yourself, knees tucked sideways across grian’s lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
you didn’t even notice the way his breath caught.
it wasn’t intentional. you just liked being close to him. liked his hoodie, which was too big on you, sleeves swallowing your hands, the hem draped low enough to skim your bare thighs. you liked the warmth of the car, the faint hum of the radio, the quiet smell of crisp packets and cologne.
“s’getting dark,” you mumbled, chin tilted toward the window. “d’you think they’ll still have those gummy ropes left?”
“hm?” he asked, low and distracted.
“at the shop,” you said. “the ones i like. the rainbow ones.”
you turned your face into his shoulder, cheek pressed to the slope of it, and smiled sleepily.
“i’ll share if you want.”
grian’s hand flexed where it rested on your outer thigh — a casual hold, one he’d barely been aware of a minute ago. now he could feel everything. the shape of your body curled against him. the soft weight of your hip against his. the way your legs shifted, your calves brushing his jeans. the hoodie had ridden up just a little, revealing a sliver of skin above your knee.
you sighed, long and slow, and rocked your hips ever so slightly as you adjusted your weight.
grian exhaled hard through his nose.
you didn’t notice.
“maybe we should get chocolate too,” you said lightly. “oh! or the little ones. you liked those last time.”
“mm,” he murmured.
you blinked up at him with those soft, wide eyes.
“you okay, baby?”
that word. that tone. it did something to him.
he cleared his throat.
“yeah,” he said, eyes fixed straight ahead. “m’fine.”
you shifted again, trying to get more comfortable, not realizing that the movement was — to him — everything. your bum nestled a little deeper into his lap, the curve of it brushing his crotch just enough to make his stomach tighten.
“you’re warm,” you murmured, nose nudging under his jaw. “like a heater.”
“you’re not,” he said, voice slightly rough. “you’re freezing.”
you giggled.
“yeah but you like it. you’re always warm. your hands are warm.”
you took his hand gently and tucked it under your thigh, like it belonged there.
grian tensed. bit his lip hard.
you didn’t notice the way his breath shuddered. you were busy pointing out something on your phone, babbling gently about a meme or a song you’d been listening to or something funny your friend texted earlier. you kept wiggling, softly, absently — just a tiny bounce when you got excited, a little roll of your hips when you laughed.
he was going to snap.
“look,” you whispered, holding your phone up close. “this one made me laugh so bad—”
you were half-laying on him now, weight light but present, your knee nudging between his legs. the whole of your body relaxed, soft and happy and unaware of what you were doing. of how badly you were teasing him. how hard he’d gotten under you, how desperately he was trying not to rut up into the plush of your thighs like an animal.
“you’re not even laughing,” you whispered, pouting.
he swallowed thick.
“i am.”
“you’re being weird.”
“no,” he said — and finally, finally, his hand gripped your hip. tight. grounding.
“you’re just bein’ sweet,” he added, quieter. “too sweet.”
you blinked at him.
“what’s that mean?”
he looked at you, really looked — and for a moment you saw it.
his restraint. the tension across his shoulders. the careful hold on your hip like he was barely remembering where he was.
you whispered, almost shy, “did i do something wrong?”
his thumb dragged slow over your skin.
“no, angel,” he said. “but you gotta sit still now. just for a bit, alright?”
“why?”
he huffed, shook his head — laughed a little under his breath, and kissed your cheek.
“you’ll thank me later.”
‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚
you’d gone quiet again, leaning into the warmth of him with your phone still loosely in hand, screen dimmed. your head rested against his collarbone, breath slow and dreamy, and your thighs twitched once in a sleepy shift. you didn’t mean to do it — not at all — but the way your bum pressed down on him had grian biting hard on the inside of his cheek.
“careful,” he murmured low.
you looked up, blinking.
“hm?”
his voice had that edge now. warm, still — but firmer. clipped.
“told you to sit still.”
you blinked once, then twice — slow and confused like a kitten.
“i am still.”
he stared straight ahead again. his jaw worked.
“you don’t even know, do you.”
“know what?”
his hand shifted — the one at your hip, fingers sliding slightly up under the hem of the hoodie, just enough to hold you proper, all anchored and still.
you tilted your head, sweetly oblivious.
“you’re being weird.”
you didn’t know that your sighs made his skin flush hot.
didn’t know that every little shift, every innocent wriggle, every soft little “mm” you made when you got comfy sent heat pooling low in his belly.
you didn’t know.
but you were gonna find out.
“do me a favor,” he said — soft and honey-like.
you perked up instantly.
“mm?”
his other hand — the free one — came up to brush some hair behind your ear.
“stop talkin’ for a sec. just sit there for me.”
“why?” you pouted.
“i like talkin’.”
he huffed a soft laugh, kissed your temple.
“i know, peach. but you gotta be quiet now.”
he shifted under you — slow and deliberate — and you felt it. the pressure. him, under you, thick and hot through his jeans, pressing right up against your panties like it was nothing.
you froze.
he groaned low in his throat, grip tightening just slightly.
“see?”
“gri—”
“shhh,” he soothed. “shh, you’re alright. jus’ sit still now.”
but you couldn’t help it. something in you shifted — soft and shaky — and your thighs squeezed together a little without thinking. you didn’t mean to rock your hips, but you did, just barely, and grian’s breath hitched like you’d just knocked the air out of him.
“oh, baby,” he groaned.
you whimpered.
“i didn’t mean—”
“i know you didn’t. you never do.”
his voice was warm but rough now.
you could feel his breath against your cheek, his hands steadying you, holding you down when you tried to shift away.
“no, no. too late for that. stay there, pretty thing.”
“but—”
“told you to sit still.”
you trembled.
his hand slid up your side, under the hoodie, callused fingers dragging over your ribs. his other palm splayed wide across your thigh, hot and grounding.
and then — softly — he rocked up.
once. slow. deliberate.
you gasped — a little hiccup of breath — and he smiled against your jaw.
“y’hear that?” he murmured, voice low and syrup-slick.
“that’s you. makin’ those sounds. just from sittin’ on my cock.”
you whimpered again — cheeks flushed, whole body hot and tight.
“so fuckin’ sweet,” he whispered, hips grinding slow again.
“don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me, do you?”
you shook your head, helpless.
“that’s alright,” he said, kissing the corner of your mouth.
“you don’t need to know. you just sit here and let me… feel. yeah?”
you nodded. whispered,
“yeah.”
he hummed low — content — and rocked up into you again.
“good girl.”
‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚
you tried not to move. really, you did.
but the second his lips brushed the side of your neck — that slow, lazy press just beneath your jaw — you gasped and arched just slightly into him, hips rocking the smallest bit.
and that was it.
his hand shot to your waist — gripped you firm.
“told you,” he muttered, “no moving.”
“m’sorry—”
“shh. no more sorrys. just stay.”
and you did. you let him manhandle you back into position — hips slotted perfectly over his, your back flush to his chest — and he made a quiet sound when you settled, like it was relief and pain all at once.
“there we go. perfect girl.”
his hand dipped lower. slow.
dragged up under your skirt like he had all the time in the world.
you whimpered, thighs twitching.
“still,” he warned — soft, stern.
“don’t make me tell you again.”
you held your breath.
his fingers found your panties — soft cotton, thin, wet. he hummed when he felt it, when his thumb grazed that warm, sticky patch right at the center of you.
“jesus,” he muttered, “just from sittin’, yeah?”
you didn’t answer. couldn’t. you were trembling, quiet, flushed to the tips of your ears.
he slid his hand further — fingers brushing the waistband, then slipping beneath — and you let out a tiny gasp, body instinctively tensing.
he didn’t move.
“what’d i say.”
you squeezed your thighs, whispered,
“be still.”
“that’s right.”
then — one finger. slow. dragged soft through your folds, gathering slick, teasing right up against your clit but not pressing.
“god, you’re soaked,” he murmured.
“gonna make such a mess in my lap.”
you whimpered again.
his other hand stayed locked around your middle — anchoring you, holding you still — while the one between your legs worked slow and mean, barely circling your clit before dipping down again, spreading you open.
“d-don’t—”
“what’s that?” he hummed.
“don’t stop?”
you bit your lip. hard.
he chuckled — low and deep — and slipped one finger inside.
not rushed. not rough. just slow. firm.
your hips twitched instinctively and he immediately gripped tighter.
“what’d i say, baby.”
“still,” you choked.
“mhm.”
he started to move his finger — in and out, lazy, unhurried — and your whole body burned with the tension. the effort it took not to squirm, not to chase. you wanted to rock into it, you wanted to grind down, but he held you still with just that one arm.
“gonna come just like this,” he whispered.
“sittin’ pretty. not even moving.”
you whimpered — hands gripping the sleeves of your hoodie, thighs trembling.
“gonna fill you up with my fingers,” he muttered, “’til you’re leaking all over me. and you’re gonna thank me, yeah?”
“uh-huh,” you squeaked.
he groaned softly, buried his face in your neck, voice all breath and grit now.
“god, you’re so good, baby. such a good girl.”
he slipped in another finger — slow again — and you gasped, head falling back against his shoulder.
“just like that,” he murmured, “just breathe. be good. let me take care of it.”
you clenched.
“...knew you liked that.”
you whined.
‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚
eventually, his fingers stilled.
you gasped — tiny and sharp — when they slipped out, leaving you wet and empty and clenching around nothing.
“n-no—” you whimpered, hips twitching instinctively.
his arm was around your waist again in a second, holding you down.
“shh, shh. none of that,” he murmured, voice steady. “you’re not gonna come on my fingers.”
“but—”
“nah, sweetheart,” he cooed, brushing a kiss to your cheek. “need you to be full, yeah? properly full.”
you blinked up at him, eyes wide and wet. dizzy. you were so warm, so soft all over. your thighs were shaking and your panties were ruined and your voice felt far away when you whispered—
“what does that mean?”
he hummed — low and sweet, like he was so proud of you — and kissed your temple again.
“means i’m gonna fuck you real slow, bunny,” he said. “just enough to get it in. and then we’re gonna sit. like this.”
your lashes fluttered.
“sit?”
he smiled. soft. dangerous.
“yeah, baby. you’re gonna sit on my cock, just like you are now. nice and full and still. and you’re not gonna move, yeah? not even a little.”
your breath hitched. “but— i— i’ll want to.”
“i know you will,” he murmured, tilting your chin up with one finger. “that’s the point.”
he kissed you slow then — not hungry, not wild, just gentle. sweet. it made you ache. it made you throb.
“can you do that for me?” he asked. “be my good girl? just sit there, all warm and quiet, while i stuff you full?”
you nodded. nodded so fast it made him chuckle, low and loving.
“that’s my girl.”
he shifted under you, one hand reaching between you, popping the button of his jeans. you whined softly when you felt the pressure change — his hips tilting, his cock brushing up against you now, bare and thick and hot.
your breath caught.
he dragged your panties aside with one hand, other still wrapped tight around your waist. lined up slow. teasing.
you were so wet already that the head of him slipped through your folds with barely any pressure at all — and you whimpered, loud in the quiet car.
“shhh,” he whispered. “we don’t wanna be caught now, do we?”
you shook your head, helpless.
he didn’t tease long. didn’t edge or play — he just held you still, tilted your hips slightly, and sank in with one slow, steady push.
you moaned — a soft, shattered little sound — and clung to him, arms wrapped tight around his neck.
“oh, baby,” he breathed. “fuck. you feel unreal.”
he bottomed out slowly, careful, until you were stuffed full and shaking in his lap. he didn’t thrust, didn’t move again — just held you down, tight and perfect.
“feel that?” he asked, nuzzling your jaw.
you nodded, trembling.
“that’s me, baby. all the way in. all warm and deep and not movin’ an inch.”
you whimpered.
he smiled.
“now,” he whispered, brushing a kiss to your temple, “you just sit. be still. be good.”
his hand slid up to your chest — not groping, just resting — heavy and warm, like he could feel your heartbeat pounding.
“and i’ll take care of the rest.”
‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚
he didn’t move.
not even a twitch.
just sat there, hard and thick inside you, one arm looped tight around your waist and the other resting across your thigh like a warning. you were trembling in his lap, whole body buzzing from how deep he was — stuffed so full it made your head spin.
you blinked up at him, all soft lashes and glassy eyes.
“gri… can i?”
he tilted his head. smiled slow.
“can you what, baby?”
“can i… just a little?”
your hips shifted — just a tiny bounce, an unconscious twitch — and he caught it instantly. his arm flexed around you. voice low.
“what d’you think you’re doin’?”
your lips parted. “i— i wasn’t—”
“nah,” he said, gently but firm. “not yet.”
his hand splayed over your tummy, keeping you still.
you whined, quiet and breathy, and dropped your forehead to his shoulder.
“please?”
“not yet, little thing. i told you — just sit. just feel.”
you squirmed again — couldn’t help it — and that time, he pressed his palm flat to your mound, holding you down. you whimpered.
“baby,” he said, voice stern now. “what’d i say?”
your voice came out tiny. “be still.”
“that’s right.”
he kissed the top of your head.
you were trembling, clenching around him without meaning to, slick dripping down your thighs. your toes curled in your socks. it was too much. too good. and you weren’t allowed to do anything with it.
“hurts,” you whispered, breath catching.
“i know,” he said softly. “but you’re doin’ so good for me. takin’ it all like my perfect girl.”
his hand slid lower again — back between your legs, slow and warm — and you twitched.
“no—! please—”
“shhh, i got you. s’alright. just a little touch, yeah?”
he didn’t thrust. didn’t fuck. just stroked your clit so lightly it barely registered — a soft brush, over and over, like he was petting a bruise.
you moaned, low and cracked, and your thighs started to shake.
“so sensitive,” he murmured. “so sweet. bet you’d come just like this, huh? stuffed full and not even movin’.”
you whimpered. sniffled.
he rocked you — not to fuck, but to soothe — a soft shift of his lap, just enough to make his cock nudge deeper.
you gasped. your hands clutched at his hoodie.
he smiled against your cheek.
“don’t cry yet, bunny. not ‘til i say.”
but you already were — soft little tears spilling down your cheeks as you blinked, overwhelmed and burning, slick soaking the whole seat beneath you.
“can’t—” you choked.
“you can,” he cooed, fingers circling again. “you will.”
your hips jerked again — trying to bounce, trying to chase — and he immediately held you down.
“uh-uh,” he scolded, firm now. “what was that?”
you whimpered. “m’sorry—! i didn’t mean— i just— it feels—”
he kissed your cheek, wiped a tear with his thumb.
“i know it feels good, bunny. that’s why you’re not movin’. you’re gonna take it — all of it — nice and still.”
your lips quivered. your body throbbed.
“gri—” you whispered, broken.
his hand froze. just for a second.
then he groaned low, deep in his throat, and buried his face in your neck.
“oh, sweetheart. now you’ve really done it.”
‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚
you were barely holding on.
every nerve in you was shot, twitchy and raw, your whole body curling in on itself — full to the brim, overstretched and dripping. his cock still nestled deep inside, unmoving, unforgiving — your little ruined shape slotted in his lap like something pretty he didn’t plan to let go of.
he hadn’t moved, not once. just kept you cockwarming there, stuffed and still, shaking quietly as he teased your clit again and again — featherlight at first, slow and sweet, like he was winding something up.
you couldn’t stop crying. not big sobs — not yet. just quiet, broken gasps, tears welling and slipping free, wetting your lashes. your hands fisted in his hoodie like they were the only thing keeping you from floating out of your own skin.
“too much—” you whimpered. “please, please—”
he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice soft and low and wicked.
“this is what you wanted… right?”
you didn’t have time to answer. barely had time to breathe before he moved — finally moved — and fucked up into you slow, hard, all the way.
you cried out, sharp and breathless, whole body jolting forward. he caught you easily, hands still holding your waist like you were made to be in his lap.
“fuck— fuck, look at you,” he rasped. “makin’ those noises just from a my cock. wanted it so bad, didn’t you?”
you couldn’t speak — lips parted, tears spilling, thighs twitching — your whole body wound so tight it felt like a string about to snap. every time he pulled back and pushed in again it knocked the breath from your lungs.
and he didn’t stop.
he fucked you in deep, brutal rolls — slow, deliberate, mean — the kind of rhythm that crawled behind your bellybutton and made your cunt clamp down around him like it was begging.
and your clit— oh god.
his fingers hadn’t let up, still rubbing tight, unrelenting circles that made your knees buckle and your breath stutter.
you came again too fast, too hard, your whole body locking up around him with a sob.
he didn’t slow. didn’t let you hide.
“you’re gonna give me one more,” he whispered. “come on, bunny. be good for me.”
you shook your head, desperate. “i can’t—” but it didn’t matter.
his grip on you stayed firm. his voice went even softer.
“yes you can. you will. you’re mine. all fucked out and cryin’ on my cock and still gonna come for me one more time, yeah?”
you whimpered something close to yes.
he kissed the tear-slick curve of your cheek.
“atta girl.”
and then it hit — sharp and full and too much — your body locking around him, whole frame trembling as the tears poured over. you came sobbing, wrecked and wet, soaking the both of you, and he kept fucking you through it, slow now, careful, but still too much.
“shhh,” he murmured, hips still rolling gently. “shhh, just like that. soak me, baby. make a mess. you did so good.”
and you were gone.
you curled into him, face tucked under his jaw, his arms around you tight while you hiccupped your way down from it — breath short, thighs slick, your whole body buzzing.
he didn’t pull out.
he just held you there, deep inside, cock still thick and twitching, like he didn’t plan to go anywhere.
‧₊˚🕷‧₊˚
your whole body trembled with aftershocks — thighs slick, pussy still fluttering around him, your stomach too tight to speak. you were full. still. his cock deep inside you like it belonged there.
he hadn’t moved. hadn’t even thought about pulling out.
his hands rubbed slow circles over your back, the hoodie half-swallowed around you both, sleeves bunched, hem hitched up over your hips. you were cocooned in it — all soft and spent and wrecked — cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen, thighs spread over his jeans.
grian kissed the top of your head.
“there she is,” he murmured. “my good girl.”
you sniffled. your voice came out a whisper. “you’re still… in.”
he grinned into your hair. “mhm.”
“grian.”
“just makin’ sure it all stays in,” he said, lazy, smug. “you made such a fuckin’ mess, love. can’t have you leaking all over my mate’s backseat.”
you buried your face deeper, burning. your legs twitched again, still sore from how hard you’d come, and he shushed you gently, pressing his hand to the small of your back.
“easy. breathe. i’ve got you.”
you nodded. clung tighter.
and then—
a knock.
three taps on the window beside you, followed by the muffled sound of a plastic bag rustling and—
“everything alright in there?”
your whole body froze.
grian didn’t flinch. didn’t blink. didn’t even shift to hide the fact that you were still straddling him, stuffed full, hoodie rumpled and your face tucked under his chin like a little trembling secret.
he turned his head slightly toward the window.
smiled easy. all teeth.
“yeah,” he called back. “just got a bit warm in here.”
your jaw dropped against his collarbone.
the friend laughed, not suspecting a thing.
“yeah, yeah, whatever. got your gummy shits. you owe me.”
“cheers,” grian said smoothly, fingers stroking your back like nothing was out of place.
you stayed completely still — cockwarming him while your heart thundered and your legs shook and your cunt twitched around him again, helplessly.
he groaned low under his breath.
"you feel that?"
you nodded, dazed.
he kissed the top of your head again.
“guess we’ll have to stay like this a little longer, huh?”
summary : where you're two sides of the same coin, and the thing is - you can't stop looking.
warnings : angsty, smutty, fluffy
word count : 3.4k
a/n : this is so bad omfg i just had to get this out, hope yall dont hate it too much xx
The trouble is, you can’t open a bloody magazine without seeing your band’s name besides his.
It’s always the same, “two sides of the same coin,” “the new post-punk rivalry,” or your least favourite, “him and her, duelling poets of the underground.” As if you and him were born to be stacked against each other like mismatched chess pieces.
You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That you don’t care. Except every time you flick through the pages, his face is right there, angular and unreadable, and you can feel your teeth grind.
The first few times you crossed paths — sticky green rooms, backstage corridors, cigarette smoke curling in the rafters — you’d both been polite enough. A nod, a handshake, the professional veneer. But something about the way his eyes lingered too long, or how his mouth tilted in that faint, knowing smirk, had set your nerves jangling. He didn’t even have to say anything; his silence made you bristle.
And then came the interviews.
“So, what do you make of the comparisons to Fontaines?”
You’d said something diplomatic, biting your tongue. Meanwhile, a week later, he muttered to a journalist that “everybody wants to be authentic until they’ve got a stylist backstage.” He hadn’t named you, but he hadn’t needed to.
By the time the summer festivals rolled around, the tension had calcified into something sour. You didn’t go out of your way to look for him — but when you spotted his silhouette across a field, your chest tightened all the same.
–
At Glastonbury, it all came to a head.
Your band had just finished a blistering set, sweat still slicking your hair to your temples, adrenaline buzzing. You’d barely made it off stage before being herded into a small press tent. The lights were harsh, the air sticky with beer and perfume, and there he was, slouched in the opposite chair. Grian, with his shirt unbuttoned a fraction too low, collarbones gleaming with sweat, eyes lazy but sharp.
The interviewer grinned, sensing drama. “Well, this is a treat — the two brightest stars of the new scene, side by side. You two ever thought of collaborating?”
You opened your mouth, but he got there first. His voice was smooth, Dublin cutting through the air like a knife.
“Don’t think the world’s ready for that much ego in one room, do you?”
Laughter. The journalist scribbled furiously. You bristled, heat rising under your skin.
“At least I’d show up to the studio on time,” you shot back, cool and even.
His gaze snapped to you then, the first real spark in those blue-grey eyes. He tilted his head, smirk curling. “Supposing you’d have somethin’ worth showin’ up for.”
You smiled sweetly, though your nails dug crescents into your palm. “Supposing I already do.”
The tension in the air crackled like static. The journalist looked between you both, grinning like they’d struck gold. You wanted to throttle them.
–
Later, back in the artist’s compound, you caught sight of him again. He was leaning against the fencing, cigarette dangling from his fingers, talking to another frontman. His laugh carried over the murmur of conversation, low and smoky, and you hated the way it slid under your skin.
I know you’re watching.
A body wandered past, clocking the way you were staring. “Careful,” he said with a grin, nudging you with his elbow. “Keep lookin’ at him like that and people’ll stop believin’ you hate each other.”
You flushed, scowled, and shoved him off, muttering something about not giving a shit. But when you glanced back, he was already watching you, a curl of smoke escaping his lips, expression unreadable.
I know you’re right.
You tore your eyes away first, pulse thudding far too loud in your ears.
–
That was the thing about him. You could swear you despised him, swear you’d never give him the satisfaction — but the truth was harder to swallow. Every barb, every comparison, every smirk only hooked you deeper.
And the worst part? You had no idea if he knew it.
–
Two nights later, you’re at a London aftershow you barely wanted to attend. Industry parties all feel the same, too much smoke, too many flashing cameras, the air thick with sweat and ego. You’d planned to slip in for a drink, make an appearance, and leave before the hangers-on started cornering you with networking opportunities.
But then you see him.
He’s across the room, tucked into a shadowy corner booth with a pint. And beside him, too close, is someone you recognise — a journalist, all bright laugh and red lipstick, leaning in, her hand brushing his arm.
I know you’re watching.
The sight slices through you before you can stop it. Sharp, mean jealousy, curling hot in your gut. It’s ridiculous — you don’t even like him. You’ve told yourself that a hundred times. He’s smug, competitive, infuriating. He’s the reason you can’t do an interview without your band being compared to his. He’s everything you should despise.
And yet.
You can’t tear your eyes away. The way he tilts his head to hear her better, the lazy curve of his smile, the careless drape of his arm over the back of the booth. You hate how magnetic it is. Hate the thought of her getting that soft look when all he’s ever given you is barbs.
–
“Oi,” someone murmurs at your side, following your line of sight. “Careful, you’re starin’.”
Heat crawls up your neck. “M’not.”
He chuckles, low and knowing. “Sure. And I’m not half-cut already.”
You roll your eyes, but you’ve already turned away, trying to busy yourself at the bar. The drink in your hand tastes bitter, flat. The laughter from their corner carries, and you can feel your teeth grind.
It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. But the image sticks — her fingers tracing invisible patterns on his sleeve, his low voice answering something you can’t hear.
You last another ten minutes before the tightness in your chest drives you out onto the balcony, where the air is cold and mercifully clean.
–
You’re halfway through a cigarette when the door clicks open behind you. Heavy boots, that familiar Dublin smoke.
“Knew I’d find you hidin’ out here.”
You stiffen, drag on the cigarette like it’s armour. “Not hiding. Just needed air.”
He leans against the railing beside you, close enough that the smoke curls between you. “Could’ve fooled me. You looked like you wanted to kill someone in there.”
You scoff. “Why would I?”
He gives you a long, unreadable look, lips quirking. “Dunno. Maybe you didn’t like the company I was keepin’.”
The flush hits your cheeks before you can stop it. You turn away, eyes fixed on the city lights. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
He laughs, soft but sharp, and you hate how much you want to hear it again. “Not flatterin’ myself, love. Just observin’. You’ve got a face that tells on you.”
I know your thoughts.
“And you’ve got a habit of thinking everyone wants you.”
For a beat, silence. The night hums with traffic below, the cool air pricking at your skin. Then he leans in, voice low, almost a growl.
“Maybe they don’t. Maybe you do.”
The words land heavy, hot, impossible to ignore. Your chest tightens, cigarette forgotten between your fingers. You want to argue, to laugh it off, but your throat won’t cooperate.
His gaze lingers, searching, and then — infuriatingly — he straightens, pushing off the rail. “Anyway. Enjoy your air.” He slips back inside, leaving you alone with the smoke and the pulse hammering in your ears.
They’re mine as well.
–
You stand there for a long time, trying to steady your breathing. You tell yourself you hate him. You tell yourself he’s wrong.
But when you finally stub out the cigarette, the truth gnaws at you. You didn’t imagine the way your stomach flipped at his words.
You didn’t imagine wanting him to be right.
–
The next night you’re onstage, sweat stinging your eyes under the lights. The crowd roars, the kind of noise that rattles your bones, but even with the adrenaline you can’t shake last night. Can’t shake him. His voice, low against your ear, Maybe you do.
And if you change your mind.
It rattles around your head as you sing, as you grin at the front row, as you stomp through your set. And when you come offstage, heart still hammering, you find him leaning against the wall of the greenroom like he owns it. Arms crossed, hair damp from his own show. Eyes fixed on you like he’s been waiting all night.
“Good set,” he says, casual. Too casual.
You wipe your face with a towel, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingers. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Not surprised.” His mouth twitches, like he’s holding back a grin. “Just impressed. Not easy to admit, mind.”
You narrow your eyes. “What do you want, Chatten?”
I will be waiting.
“Want?” He pushes off the wall, steps closer, the smell of sweat and smoke and beer rolling off him. “I want to know why you looked like you were gonna break glass last night. Out there on the balcony.”
Your throat goes tight. “Drop it.”
But he doesn’t. He tilts his head, studying you like you’re a song he hasn’t cracked yet. “Was it her? You didn’t like seein’ me with her.”
You laugh, sharp and humourless. “You think you’re irresistible, don’t you?”
“Not to everyone.” He closes the last bit of space between you, and suddenly he’s right there, his chest brushing yours. “But maybe to you.”
The words scrape something raw inside you. You should shove him, should tell him to fuck off, but instead you just stand there, trembling with it.
He notices. Of course he notices. His hand lifts, slow, deliberate, brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead. The gentleness of it makes your stomach lurch.
“Who did this to you?” he murmurs, thumb grazing your cheekbone.
Your breath catches. “What?”
“This.” His voice is rough now. “Who makes you walk around like you’re second-best? Who’s got you thinkin’ you’re not good enough when you’re up there blowin’ the roof off?”
The shift—anger, not arrogance—undoes you. You bite your lip, eyes hot, but no words come.
He exhales sharply, jaw tight. “Fuck. It’s them, ain’t it? The press. The ones always comparin’, makin’ you feel like you’re just chasin’ us. Like you’re less.” His hand curls into a fist at his side. “They don’t know what the fuck they’re talkin’ about.”
The silence stretches. His chest rises and falls, fast, like he’s holding himself back. And then, before you can think, you whisper, “It hurts.”
Is there a sentiment you’d like to tell?
Something in him snaps. His hand cups the back of your neck and his mouth is on yours, hot and demanding. The kiss is nothing like you imagined—it’s messier, hungrier, years of rivalry combusting all at once.
You gasp into him, and he takes the chance to deepen it, tongue sliding against yours. His other hand fists in your shirt, tugging you flush against him.
You’re lost, drowning in him—his taste, bitter beer and salt, his breath, hot against your cheek; the low sound he makes when you finally kiss him back just as hard.
When he breaks away, both of you panting, he presses his forehead to yours. “Fuck, I knew it,” he mutters. “Knew you hated me ‘cause you wanted me.”
“Shut up,” you breathe, though your hands are already clutching at his shoulders, desperate.
He grins against your mouth, wicked and tender all at once. “Make me.”
–
The greenroom couch is the only witness as it spirals. He pushes you down onto it, climbing over you with a heat that’s more confession than conquest. His mouth trails your throat, biting just enough to make you gasp. His hands are everywhere—hip, waist, ribs—like he’s been starving for this.
“Look at you,” he pants, dragging your shirt up, exposing skin. “All this time, pretendin’ you couldn’t stand me.” His lips close around your nipple, tongue flicking, and you arch helplessly.
Shocking pretty face you’re making.
“Grian—”
He pulls back just enough to smirk. “Say it again.”
Your voice breaks. “Grian–”
He groans, grinding down against you, both of you hard and aching through your clothes. “Jesus Christ. You don’t know what you do to me.”
When his hand slips beneath your waistband, you gasp, shoving up into his touch. He strokes you slow, then faster, watching your face with that same sharp intensity as onstage.
“See?” he rasps. “Not second-best. Not a rival. You’re fuckin’ incredible. You hear me?”
It’s too much—his words, his hand, his mouth pressing frantic kisses into your jaw.
–
“Still think you hate me?” he asks, voice low, mocking.
Your chest heaves, heat crawling up your neck. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
That’s all it takes. He’s on you again, mouth crushing yours, teeth catching your bottom lip so hard you whimper. He swallows the sound, growling into you like he’s trying to devour every ounce of defiance.
You shove him back, breathless, just to get your own back. “You’re so full of yourself.”
He laughs, the bastard, but his eyes are molten. “And you love it.”
Before you can answer, he’s grabbing your wrist, pinning it above your head against the couch. His other hand roams your side, greedy and rough, like he’s proving a point. You squirm under him, cursing, but your body betrays you — arching, pressing closer, hungry for more.
“You think you’re better than me?” he rasps against your throat, teeth sinking in just enough to leave a mark.
A gasp rips out of you. “Maybe I am.”
His laugh is dark, low in his chest, vibrating against your skin. “We’ll see about that.”
He drags your shirt up, exposing skin, and bends to mark you properly. His mouth is brutal, sucking bruises into your chest, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach. You feel them bloom under his tongue, hot and stinging — but then he pauses, lips softening, kissing one like an apology. The contradiction sends a shiver down your spine.
“Fuck,” you breathe, trembling.
“Sensitive, are we?” he taunts, though his fingers slow, gentling their grip. He strokes down your ribs, the rough edge ebbing just enough to let you catch your breath.
“Don’t—” Your voice breaks, caught between wanting him to stop and needing him to keep going.
“Don’t what?” His eyes gleam, but when he sees the flicker of nerves in yours, something soft cuts through the fire. He presses a lingering kiss to your jaw. “I’ll take care of you. Just let me.”
The words undo you. You tug him down by the collar, kissing him with everything left in you — anger, want, fear, all tangled up. He groans into your mouth, grinding against you until you’re both gasping.
Clothes come off in a frenzy — shirts yanked, buttons popped, his belt clattering to the floor. He shoves your jeans down and you kick them away, too desperate to care. His hands roam everywhere, gripping, claiming, until you’re bare under him and burning.
When he finally thrusts into you, it’s rough, punishing — both of you chasing something more than just release. The rivalry bleeds into every movement, each snap of his hips like he’s trying to prove something. You claw at his back, leaving scratches he’ll feel tomorrow, biting his shoulder to muffle your cries.
“Still think you’re better than me?” he pants, fucking into you harder.
Tears prick your eyes from the intensity, but you choke out, “Yes—” just to rile him.
He snarls, slamming deep, and your back arches with a broken sound. “Liar. You’re mine now.”
It should feel cruel. It doesn’t. The words land like a vow, and when he sees your face twist with pleasure, his own expression softens. He leans down, kissing you through the roughness, slow and lingering even as his hips keep driving. His tongue soothes where his teeth bruised earlier, and it makes your chest ache worse than the thrusts.
Your release builds sharp and fast, his name spilling from your mouth like a prayer. He holds you through it, grip tight, eyes locked on yours. “That’s it, love. That’s it.”
I need commotion.
When you finally unravel beneath him, trembling and crying out, he follows with a hoarse groan, burying his face in your neck as he comes undone. His teeth find your skin one last time, but the bite melts into a kiss, softer than any before.
The room goes quiet, save for your ragged breaths, both of you slick with sweat, clinging like you’ll drown without the other. He doesn’t move right away. Doesn’t pull out. Just rests his forehead against yours, his hand smoothing over your hip, gentling you down from the high.
–
You’re both sprawled across the sofa, skin damp, clothes scattered like debris. Your chest rises and falls too fast, lungs still chasing air, and for a while the silence feels dangerous — heavy, fragile, like the smallest word could shatter it.
He's the one who breaks it. His voice is hoarse, softer than you’ve ever heard. “I don’t hate you.”
You blink up at the ceiling, unsure you heard right. He shifts, propping himself on his elbow so he can look at you properly. His hair’s a mess, sweat curling the strands at his temples. There’s a mark you left on his shoulder, red and raw. He touches it absently, then glances at you, something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes.
“I said it. I don’t hate you. Never did.” His throat works like the words hurt. “Just hated how they—” He jerks his chin toward nowhere, meaning the press, the endless comparisons. “Always putting us side by side. Like it’s a fuckin’ race.”
I know your thoughts.
You swallow, the truth of it twisting deep. “Felt like I couldn’t breathe without hearing your name next to mine.”
They’re mine as well.
He nods, bitter smile tugging at his lips. “Same. So I built a wall. Thought if I kept hating you, it’d hurt less.” He pauses, fingers tracing lazy patterns over your hip. The touch is absentminded, tender, completely at odds with the bite-marks and bruises dotting your skin. “But then I saw you with him last week…” His jaw tightens, words slipping sharper. “And it made me sick. Couldn’t stand it.”
You turn your head, finally meeting his gaze. “You were jealous.”
“Course I was.” His laugh is hollow, self-mocking. “Didn’t make sense, hating you and wanting you at the same time. Drove me mad.”
The honesty knocks the air out of you. Your throat burns, your own guard crumbling in the quiet. “I was jealous too,” you admit, voice small. “Every time I saw someone with you. Thought it was just rivalry. But–” You trail off, heat crawling up your neck. “It wasn’t.”
He studies you for a long moment. Then he leans down, pressing the softest kiss to the corner of your mouth. No teeth this time, no bruising. Just warm lips lingering, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go too soon.
–
Morning comes too bright. The blinds don’t quite shut, and a spear of sunlight cuts across the bed where you and he somehow ended up tangled. You blink awake, head foggy, muscles aching in places you didn’t know could ache.
For a moment, you panic — memory sharp, the rivalry, the bruises, his hands. But then you feel it, his arm heavy around your waist, steady, protective even in sleep. His fingers are curled against your stomach like he never let go.
He stirs when you shift. Groans low in his throat, presses his face into your hair. “Stop movin’, love. Too early.”
The endearment lingers in your chest, warm and dizzying. You don’t dare speak until he finally cracks open one eye. He looks nothing like the sharp rival you’ve known — softer, bare, voice still husky from sleep.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, but there’s no bite in it.
You can’t help the tiny laugh that slips out. “Like what?”
“Like I’m not a bastard.”
“Maybe you’re not,” you whisper back.
He huffs, rolls onto his back, rubbing a hand down his face. “Don’t start. I’ll ruin it.” But then his hand finds yours under the sheets, squeezing once, thumb brushing your knuckles. Quiet, grounding.
this is kinda sorta based around this interview @2manyeggs posted about...he's just so beautiful i had to. also big thanks to @onlygirlaliveinnyc for always inspiring me to write about sub liam. this one’s for you two <3
Summary: You find yourself helping to interview the next up and coming star Liam Gallagher, but you see something different. Something that maybe he hasn't tried hard enough to hide.
Word count: 7.2k
It was supposed to be another routine job. Get in, set up the camera, press record, then leave.
You got way more than you bargained for.
Technically, it was less of a paying job and more of a requirement for your film class. Was the experience worth it? Maybe. The journalism department would hire out students like you to assist them and thought themselves better for it because they weren’t the one behind the camera. Really, it was just undergrads bossing other undergrads about, everyone desperate to scrape together enough credits to graduate.
This semester you’d been paired with the uni’s small music journal. On paper it sounded like a good match. You loved music. Shooting live gigs had to beat another dull lecture hall project. In practice though? You were dead wrong.
Your partner, Rachel, was one of the journal’s writers and possibly the worst pairing they could have given you. She was bossy, unbearable, and had a knack for calling you at ridiculous hours on weekends to drag you into whatever interview she’d managed to line up on a Saturday morning.
Worse, she didn’t even care about the music. Not really. Rachel was chasing fame. She flirted shamelessly with every band that crossed her path in hopes that one of them would whisk her away to make their new muse. And when that inevitably didn’t happen, she took it out on you like it was somehow your fault.
You despised her. But you needed the credits. And, admittedly, free entry to gigs sweetened the deal. So you…tolerated her. More or less.
But you’d made the mistake of telling her your housing assignment and she no longer bothered calling. She started showing up at your door, pounding on it until you opened it, bleary eyed and half asleep. This time was no different.
“New band playing this weekend. Oasis. You heard of them?”
You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, the name vaguely familiar. “Yeah, I think so,” you muttered.
“Good. Shows at 9. I’ll need you there at noon. I’ve got an interview with the frontman.”
She didn’t wait for a response. Instead, she leaned into your mirror to check her reflection and strutted out.
You collapsed back onto the bed with a groan, draping an arm over your eyes. Think about the music, you reminded yourself. All that matters is the music.
The venue was small. A perfect breeding ground for bands trying to make it. You’d heard Oasis was “the next big thing,” but then again, every band was according to someone.
You hauled the camera gear out of the university’s dented rental van, straps digging into your shoulder as you lugged everything through the side door. A bored looking man at the entrance glanced at your student badge and handed you a press pass, waving you through.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and cigarette smoke mixed with the faint tang of stale beer. A handful of people were already milling about—local news with their clunky camcorders, a couple of freelancers with tape recorders. The usual crowd.
And then there was him.
Sat alone in the wooden bleachers was a lanky boy dressed in all denim. He was hunched over and fidgeting with his sleeve, staring at the small group forming.
That had to be the frontman. Though he didn’t look much older than you, if at all. And he definitely didn’t look like someone ready to lead a band into stardom. More like a cornered animal, eyes wary and darting beneath the weight of attention. They were wide and powder blue, softened by a natural droop that lent him a strange vulnerability. His heavy brows should’ve made his features severe, but instead they only framed a face too pretty, almost delicate, for the role he was meant to play.
Because Rachel had dragged you in last, you were stuck listening through every other outlet’s questions first, something that had her sighing and tapping her pen impatiently. You didn’t mind though. It gave you time to study the boy—Liam, as you learned when someone addressed him. You were having a hard time taking your eyes off him. There was a certain…allure to him. Something that held your attention.
The questions came at him fast. Mostly the usual throwaway stuff. Where they were from, what their influences were, what made them different. He stumbled through most of it like he’d never been asked the same thing twice in his life. He clearly wasn’t used to this. Giving interviews. Being asked the same thing over and over again. Already bored of it after one round.
By the time your turn came, he looked worn out by it all. His gaze had gone vacant, those big blue eyes more lost puppy than rising rock star.
You set up your camera quietly, checking the battery levels as Rachel flipped through her notebook of questions. You handed him a clip on mic that he fumbled with before pinning crookedly to his collar.
Rachel was already in character, lips pursed in that overly rehearsed smile she saved for anyone she thought could get her somewhere. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.
“Are you ready yet?” Rachel snapped, impatience seeping into her saccharine act as you adjusted the focus.
You fought the urge to roll your eyes and shot her a look. The problem wasn’t you, it was him. He wouldn’t keep still. His knee bounced, his hands fidgeted, and his eyes darted everywhere but the lens.
“Liam, is it?” you asked, softening your tone. “Could you hold still for just a moment?”
His gaze snapped to you, startled, like he hadn’t expected to be spoken to directly. But he nodded, shifted upright on his knees, and squared his shoulders like he was bracing for something. His eyes stayed on you while you made your last adjustments, and only when you offered a small smile and a thumbs up did some of the tension in him ease.
Rachel launched into her first question, voice suddenly honeyed, but your attention stayed on him.
He answered in short bursts, as though he were just chatting to a stranger in a pub, not sitting under scrutiny. There was something magnetic in the way he spoke. Unpolished, yes, but oddly captivating. Something like earnestness mixed with subtle stubbornness and humor. He wasn’t trying to impress her. If anything, her fakeness seemed to put him off.
At one point, he tossed out a dry, offhand remark that undercut one of Rachel’s questions. You nearly laughed outright and had to bite it back, but your lips betrayed you with the ghost of a smile.
He was funny. Effortlessly so. And he must’ve caught your amusement because his eyes flicked toward you, dragging over you once before returning to her.
It wasn't even a leer, just a slide of those vacant eyes over you, but it sent a little flutter through your chest all the same. He really was truly beautiful. And some petty part of you savored the fact that from behind the camera, you had his attention. Not Rachel. Especially not Rachel. And with a single remark he’d managed to knock her down a peg.
By the end of the interview, you were more than curious. About him. His band. You wanted to know more. Oasis sounded right up your alley too. Influenced by all the same stuff you liked. And the thought of seeing Liam perform live didn’t feel like work at all.
The bar was crowded by the time Oasis were due to go on. Loads of people seemed to be eagerly awaiting them. You, on the other hand, were waiting to be convinced. Liam had looked a bit too pretty to front a proper rock band, but you figured you’d see for yourself soon enough.
The lights dropped and the room erupted in cheers. You glanced at the stage just as they filed on. Your eyes found him first. Still in the same clothes, still unassuming. Nothing about him screamed frontman, not yet.
They took their places. Liam gripped the mic with one hand and mumbled the name of the first song. They launched into it and you liked it immediately. It was gritty and guitar heavy and you could feel it in your chest.
And then Liam opened his mouth.
The transformation was startling. Gone was the restless, awkward boy from earlier who couldn’t keep still in front of your camera. In his place stood someone else entirely. His stance stiffened, hands locking behind his back. Combined with the way his head tilted back just enough to expose the pale line of his throat, it was almost menacing.
But it was the voice that floored you. It was sharp and sneering and powerful, cutting through everything. It carried that Pistols snarl mixed with Beatles melody but instead of coming off like a cheap copy, it felt like his own.
Suddenly you got it. The hype, the “next big thing” whispers. You got why people believed it.
When the first song came to a finish, you realized you hadn’t moved, hadn’t blinked. You couldn’t drag your eyes from him if you tried, heart pounding hard in your chest.
As the set went on, you found yourself studying every movement. The more he sang, the more he transformed, confidence bleeding into every essense of his being.
You’d misjudged him completely. But the contrast was so stark you couldn’t help but wonder which one was real. And which one did you want more?
The show had ended but you were still buzzing, too wired to go home. So you lingered at the bar, nursing a drink and watching Rachel throw herself at one of the guitarists. It was equal parts desperate and entertaining. So much so that you nearly missed the figure sliding into the empty stretch of counter beside you.
When you turned, you were met with those ridiculously blue eyes.
“You were the one from earlier with the camera, yeah?”
You nodded, chewing absently on your straw. Standing this close, you suddenly realized how much he towered over you.
Liam tilted his head, studying you for a moment. “You a journalist?”
You shook your head. “Just a student. Film.”
“Ah, one of them.”
“One of what?” you challenged.
“Artsy types.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “S’pose that makes two of us.”
“Nah, not me. I’m not an artist.” His grin tilted into something cocky. “I’m a rock ‘n’ roll star.”
“All musicians are artists,” you countered, raising a brow.
That earned you a grin, wide and lopsided, and you decided you quite liked his smile.
The barman finally appeared and Liam ordered two pints without even asking what you wanted. When he slid one across the counter, you took it without protest, fingers brushing briefly over his.
One drink turned into two. Then three. Before long you were leaning into his space, shamelessly flirting. And he was flirting right back. It was like their set had revitalized him. Like he was a man reborn. Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe the beer, maybe just Liam himself, but he felt larger than life. Or maybe it was all an act…
“Right, miss journo,” he teased, fingers snagging your press pass as he flipped it between his fingers. “Got any more questions for me?”
You swatted his hand away, considering him for a moment. “Just one.”
“Oh, aye? And what’s that?”
You tried to keep your expression neutral, though amusement tugged at your lips. “Earlier, during the interview, you seemed almost…shy. But then you get up on stage and act like that. Just wondering which one’s real.”
For a second, he just looked at you, brows knitting as though he’d never thought about it. His silence stretched, oddly heavy, until he broke it with a scoff. “I ain’t shy.”
You raised your hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t say it was a bad thing. Actually thought it was kind of cute.”
“Cute?” he repeated, like the word was an insult. “I’m not cute. I’m hard.”
You let your eyes travel over him before tilting your head. “Mm. Downright adorable.”
Before he could react, you reached up and pinched his cheek.
His mouth fell open in mock offense, though the flush climbing his neck betrayed him. “Oi, pack it in,” he grumbled, swatting at your hand, but the bite wasn’t there. He ducked his head just enough for his fringe to shield his eyes, but he almost looked bashful.
“I’m not adorable,” he repeated firmly. “Don’t go spreadin’ that about.”
You arched a brow. “Hey, I’m only stating what I observed. People’ll draw their own conclusions whether you like it or not.”
That earned you a snort. He straightened, shoulders squaring like he had to reclaim some ground. “Fuckin’ students thinkin’ they know you. I’m a menace, me.”
Your laugh slipped out before you could stop it, and the crease in his brow deepened.
“Please,” you said, smirking. “You’re about as menacing as a baby deer.”
“Ok now you’re just hurtin’ my feelings,” he shot back, shaking his head as he took a long pull from his pint.
You mirrored him, lifting your glass as you studied him. Hard to tell if he was actually put out or just playing along. There was only one way to find out.
“Well,” you murmured, leaning in just slightly, “I suppose you’ll just have to prove it to me then.”
That got his attention. His gaze slid back to you, mischievous glint sparking. “Yeah?”
He tilted his head toward the back, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Fancy a line then?”
You paused, considering his words. You weren’t sure if he actually had something stashed away or if he was just looking for an excuse to get you alone. Either way, you found yourself tempted.
“Is that what rock stars do then?” you teased. “Take girls to the loo for a line?”
He just shrugged casually. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”
His hands slid into his pockets as he started toward the toilets. You watched him go for a moment before draining your drink and pushing off the sticky bar to follow.
When he pushed the door open, he cast a quick glance over his shoulder, as if checking you were still behind him. You only smirked, brushing past him as you stepped inside.
The door swung shut behind you with a heavy thud, sealing out the noise of the bar. But it also sealed the two of you in and for a moment, the silence stretched.
That’s when it hit you. The shift in his energy. The nervous flick of his eyes, the sudden quiet. He wanted to kiss you. And now that it was just the two of you, his swagger had slipped a notch. Interesting. Very interesting indeed.
“Liam?” you asked, tilting your head, “Do you actually have coke or did you just drag me in here to get off with me?”
He shrugged, but not with the same confidence he’d had at the bar. “Both, I guess.”
A slow smile curved across your lips. “Which first then?”
That earned you a grin. He rifled through his pockets before pulling out a plastic baggie the size of your fist. Enough powder to look like a fortune under the harsh lights.
Your brows shot up. “Christ. I guess you lot really are good.”
“And don’t you fucking forget it,” he muttered, already bending to cut neat white lines across the marble sink with practiced hands.
Ever the gentleman, he offered it up to you first.
You leaned down and snuffed it up in one swift motion. It hit hard, lighting up your nervous system in that addictive way. Your head tipped back, hair falling down your spine as you savored the buzz burning through you.
By the time the sting had dulled, Liam was leaning back up, wiping at his nose. His pupils were blown wide, the blue nearly swallowed whole. His face was flushed and glistening. So utterly sinful.
A dusting of powder clung beneath his nostril. You almost called him cute again, but bit it back. Instead, you tapped your own nose in silent signal, but he didn’t move.
So you stepped into his space, close enough to feel his heat, and dragged your thumb slow across his skin, gathering the residue.
“Open up,” you murmured, half joking.
His eyes locked on yours, searching like he was trying to work out if you were messing with him. Then, hesitantly, his lips wrapped around your thumb. His tongue swept across, hot and wet, and your breath stuttered.
It was over in a second, but the damage was done. You could feel that heat echoing through every inch of skin.
He leaned back and your eyes met, both of you breathing a little harder than before. There it was again. That flicker of the vulnerability you’d seen painted all over him earlier.
You understood in that moment. Saw him for what he was. A rush of heat spiraled through you as the thought settled in your gu. And before you could think twice, your mouth was on his.
It wasn’t gentle, it was frenetic. Fuelled by coke and adrenaline. His mouth crashed against yours, teeth clicking, lips sliding together messily. Your own tongue went a little numb as it tangled with his, and the dissolving residue he’d just licked from your thumb passed from his mouth to yours. The burn and acidic taste of it hit the back of your throat, dizzying.
He made a low sound, somewhere between a groan and a laugh, and seemed to come back to himself. His palm found your jaw, rough thumb pressing under your chin as he crowded you back against the cool tiled wall. The contrast made you shiver. Your fingers hooked around his waist, dragging him closer until your hips were flush.
You broke the kiss for air, your foreheads almost knocking together. “So, this the real you then?” you asked breathlessly, a half smile tugging at your lips.
His grin was wicked, lips swollen and shining. “Told ya, love. Rock ‘n’ roll star.”
Then he kissed you again, harder this time, like he needed to prove it. And as much as you were enjoying it, and wow were you enjoying it, you had an inkling. A gnawing thought that was creeping up your spine the way his hand currently was.
But before you could test that theory, the door swung open.
Someone stumbled in, the heavy door slamming against the wall. He blinked drunkenly, staring at the two of you tangled together.
“Oh, sorry,” he mumbled, and shuffled out without waiting for a reply.
For a beat, you and Liam just stared at each other, caught in the absurdity of being interrupted. Then your nails skimmed lazily through his hair, scratching at his scalp, and you tilted your head.
“Fancy coming back to mine?”
A grin split across his face and that was all the answer you needed.
The second your door clicked shut, you were on him again. The coke buzz had long since faded, but his lips were just as dizzying, leaving you lightheaded all over again. He kissed back instantly, hands gripping your hips as he steered you toward the wall until your spine met the wood with a soft thud.
At first, he slipped into the role that came easiest. Leading. Taking control. You let him, indulging in the press of his big hands, the faint scrape of stubble, the addictive, faintly metallic taste of his lips from hours at the mic. It was a head rush all its own.
But then you pushed back. Just a little at first. Met his mouth harder, tongues tangling until it turned into something closer to a battle than a kiss. He put up a fight, but it was short lived. You surged forward, stealing the rhythm, pressing harder until his balance faltered and he stumbled back a step.
His mouth parted under yours when you demanded it. He shivered when your nails grazed the nape of his neck. You smiled into the kiss, dragging one sharp nail slowly from the base of his neck, past his ear, down over the ridge of his collarbone. His gasp was soft, caught in his throat, and it lit something in you. Something triumphant. Something hungry.
When you finally broke for air, you took a long moment just to look at him. His eyes were heavy lidded and glazed. Mouth hanging open, swollen and kiss-bitten. His chest rose and fell erratically like he was trying not to show it, but the bulge straining against his jeans betrayed him more than anything else.
You cupped his face and pulled him back in for another kiss, this one slower. “Pretty,” you breathed, pressing a lingering kiss to his top lip. You could’ve sworn you heard his breath hitch before you began guiding him back toward your bed.
He let you walk him there, almost dazed, until he faltered at the edge. You pressed a palm to his chest, coaxing him down until he hit the mattress. He went slowly, pliant beneath your hands, the fight gone from him now.
You slid in beside him, bodies tangling easily, until you were propped on your elbow with your thigh slipped between his. His hand tightened over your ass as your fingers slipped beneath his denim shirt, finding the hot stretch of skin beneath. His hair was mussed, cheeks flushed, breath quickened, and when he looked up at you, it was with something caught between defiance and surrender, so sweet it made your pulse race.
“Y’know,” you started, hand sliding up his chest and around his back, “I think you’re one hell of a singer.”
You looked up at him through your lashes, catching the twitch of his lips.
“But you also clearly need to be told what to do. And badly.”
Before he could retort, you rolled him onto his back in one swift move, gripping his shoulders and pinning him to the mattress. Your thighs clamped tight around his, caging him in. His responding twitch against you didn’t go unnoticed, nor did the way his breath snagged at the sudden shift.
This time when you leaned back in to kiss him, you didn’t rush. You led with slow, teasing kisses as your fingers slipped deftly down his chest to pry open the buttons of his shirt. His hands wandered up your back, needy, until you broke away just far enough to look down at him.
He was a vision beneath you—shirt hanging open on either side, pale chest rising unevenly, dark hair scattered across his skin. You trailed a teasing nail down the center, watching the tremor he tried to hide. Lower still, your finger traced through the coarse hair just above his waistband, barely grazing sensitive skin.
His hips shifted before he could stop them, mouth clamping shut like he could trap any damning sounds in his throat.
“Look at you,” you murmured, palms flattening across his chest, pinning him harder. “Tryin’ so hard to play it tough.”
“I am,” he shot back instantly, but his voice cracked when your thumb flicked over a peaked nipple. The noise that broke out of him was muffled, but it was there. And the pink blooming high on his cheekbones betrayed him more than words ever could.
You did it again, slower this time, watching his lashes flutter and his chest arch subtly toward your hand. The sound he bit back went straight through you, heat coiling low in your belly.
Grinning, you leaned down until your lips brushed his ear, your voice a low whisper. “You don’t have to lie to me, Liam.”
He tried to grab your hips, tried to flip the script, but the second you rolled against him, his strength faltered.
“M’not lying,” he whispered, but the words were weak.
It was intoxicating, watching him swing between the two faces he wore, fighting himself. It made you want to strip him of every last defense, to see what sounds he’d make when there was nothing left to hide behind.
“No?” you murmured, dragging a sharp nail across his other nipple, just to be cruel.
His face pinched, pleasure cracking through his composure. He squirmed beneath you, biting hard into his lip, desperate to stifle the sound straining in his throat. The cords of his neck stood out as if he could hold it in by sheer will alone.
You studied him quietly. That stubbornness wasn’t refusal, it was inexperience. Uncertainty. Like no one had ever dared go there with him. That glimmer of reluctance, however small, still shone brightly, but it only made you want to coax him deeper. To draw it out of him slowly until he couldn’t deny it anymore.
“Liam,” you mused, letting the weight of his name settle heavy in the air. His lashes fluttered at the sound. “You’ve been with a woman before, yeah?”
He scoffed instantly, almost offended by the insinuation. “Course I have.”
You bit back a smile, teeth catching your lip as you leaned closer, letting your next words spill out slowly. “Right, but have you really been with someone?”
Your mouth lowered to his throat, lips brushing feather light against the tender skin there. “Given yourself over completely? No qualms, just pure pleasure?”
He sucked in a sharp breath when your teeth grazed the tender spot just below his ear. “What d’ya mean?”
You only smirked, lips brushing lower, trailing a slow path down his throat. “I mean…” Your voice was low, coaxing. “Relinquishing control. Letting someone else take the reins for once.” Your mouth opened against his sternum, warm and wet. “Surrendering.”
He went rigid beneath you, muscles tense, eyes darting to yours like you’d just spoken a forbidden word. His gaze narrowed, searching your face for a trap.
“Nah, nah,” he muttered quickly, the words defensive, like he’d been caught red handed. “I’m not one of them.”
His tone was quick, defensive, like he’d been caught. You tilted your head, softening instantly.
You tilted your head, instantly softening, stroking your thumb in a gentle arc across his chest. “One of what?”
His jaw worked. He hesitated, lashes lowering as his mouth opened, then snapped shut again. The bravado was crumbling, leaving behind something unseen. When he finally looked back up at you, it was through that almost coquettish blink you’d noticed before. Like he was trying to hide the fact that he wanted something he didn’t know how to ask for.
Your heart softened further. You reached up, brushing your thumb along the sharp plane of his cheekbone, reassuring him. “We don’t have to put a name on it,” you murmured. “Although…I say if it feels good, you shouldn’t be ashamed of it.”
Something in him stammered. The tension bled out, only slightly, but enough for you to feel the shift. His chest rose with a shaky inhale, lips parting like he wanted to argue, but your kisses landed soft and patient along his skin, almost like you were planting encouragement in his skin. The soothing drag of your mouth, the slow petting of your fingers through his hair…all of it worked at him piece by piece until he finally agreed with a shaky “Yeah…alright.”
You grinned quietly to yourself, pride flaring, before smoothing your face back into calm. He was like a skittish animal. Too quick a move and you’d spook him.
So you eased back slowly, peeling your shirt over your head. His throat bobbed as he sat up straighter, eyes fixed on your chest, wide and unblinking. The thin bra framed you, but the way he stared made you feel as though you were already bare.
You crawled back into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs until you were face to face. His hands found your hips automatically, fingers spreading tentative and warm.
You cocked your head, voice tempting. “You wanna touch?”
His adam’s apple jerked as he swallowed, then he gave the smallest, almost boyish nod. You caught his wrist gently, guiding his hand until his palm cupped the soft curve of your breast. You held him there, letting him feel. Letting him explore.
With a deft flick, you unhooked the bra, fabric falling away so there was nothing left between you. You leaned forward, offering yourself up.
It took him only a second to understand, but then his lips parted, closing over one taut nipple. His tongue swept tentatively at first until he grew bolder. The wet flick of him sent heat sparking through you, and you gasped softly, hand slipping into his hair to cradle the back of his head, holding him exactly where you wanted him.
When he moved to the other side without needing to be told, a flicker of satisfaction surged through you. And when you rolled your hips down against his lap, his hum vibrated right against your skin. The sound was needy, unguarded, and it shot through you like lightning. Beneath you, you could already feel him straining against his jeans, the heat of his flooding you.
You gave a gentle tug to his hair, easing him off with a wet pop. His lips were flushed and slick with spit, hot from your skin, and he looked up at you with an uncertainty that bordered on pleading, like he wasn’t sure whether to stop or keep going. You answered for him, bending down to replace his mouth with yours.
Your kiss was steady, gentle, and when you guided him back onto the mattress with soft praise and long, soothing strokes through his hair, he followed without resistance. Every bit of control you took seemed to draw him deeper under, his cheeks staining red as though the surrender embarrassed and thrilled him in equal measure.
You’d seen the hints from the very start. The way he’d fidgeted through that first interview, restless under everyone’s eyes. All the bravado he carried was just a shield for the boy beneath, the one who wanted someone to take the pressure away, to hold the reins so he didn’t have to. Needed it, maybe. And now, as his hands trembled faintly against your thighs, you realized he was letting you see all of it. Maybe for the first time with anyone.
Your touch softened as you slid your fingers down the length of his arms, threading between his until you brought them up above his head. You pressed them to the headboard, holding them there, feeling the jolt of resistance run through him. His muscles tensed, but your voice smoothed it all away.
“Easy,” you murmured, brushing your thumbs in slow circles over his wrists. “You’ll hold still for me, won’t you?”
His throat worked around a swallow, eyes flicking up to you. When you released him, he didn’t move. Just lay there, chest rising and falling too fast, lips parted as his tongue darted out to wet them, waiting. Wanting.
And he liked it. God, he liked it. He tried to mask it, jaw clenched, gaze angled low like he could bluff his way through, but his body betrayed him. The way his chest heaved, the way his cock strained so hard against the denim it looked painful. Stretched out like that beneath you, he looked almost indecent.
“That’s it,” you purred, trailing your nails down his chest before letting your palms flatten over his ribs. “You’re doing so good for me.”
That got him. Color bloomed high on his cheeks, eyes skittering away like he could hide behind the movement, but his hips shifted restlessly, answering to something he couldn’t suppress. You caught it instantly and pressed in closer until you felt the heat and pulse of him through the denim. A slow grind drew a sharp inhale from him, his lashes fluttering shut.
“Sensitive, are we?” you teased softly.
“Shut up,” he muttered, but it came out weak. Especially when your hand slid down his chest and he arched into the touch before he could stop himself.
You leaned down until your bare chests met, skin sliding on skin, and brushed your lips along his jaw, down the strong line of his throat. You lingered there, tasting his pulse with the tip of your tongue, feeling the jump of it under your mouth as he swallowed hard.
“Relax, Liam,” you soothed, voice low as your mouth trailed lower. “Just let me.”
He gave the smallest nod, almost imperceptible, but you felt it. You kissed your way back up to his mouth, catching the broken sound that escaped him when you pressed against him just right. This time he kissed back with hunger, like something inside him had finally stopped fighting. Still, his hands flexed around the headboard, knuckles tightening as though he had to physically stop himself from reaching for you.
You smiled against his lips, soft and reassuring, as your hand slid lower. His breath hitched sharply when your palm pressed against the bulge straining in his jeans. His knuckles went white, but he stayed still. Obedient. Just like you’d asked.
“There we go,” you murmured, dragging out every second of unzipping him. The metal teeth parting filled the quiet, the sound making his chest rise under you. “Just sit still for me.”
When your hand finally wrapped loosely around him, his head tipped back, a broken sound spilling free before he could bite it down. His hips jerked once on instinct, but you pressed a steady palm into his hip.
“Good, Liam,” you breathed as he stilled, stroking him in slow, languid passes.
The words seemed to undo him more than your touch did. His lashes fluttered, his mouth fell slack, and a flush crept down the column of his throat.
You tightened your grip just enough to wring a sharp gasp out of him. “Well, would you look at that,” you purred, watching his cock twitch helplessly in your fist. “All worked up, and I’ve barely even touched you.”
The sound that tore out of him was half-moan, half-plea. Something raw that sounded dangerously close to please.
“Mm, maybe,” you hummed, dragging your finger down to the base in one achingly slow stroke, teasing until his whole body shuddered. “But you look so pretty like this.”
He bit hard into his lip, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving under the strain. His thighs trembled with the effort it took not to rut up into your hand, desperate for friction. You could feel the need coiled tight beneath your palm, burning, but he stayed still. He followed your rule.
“Good boy,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips as his breath caught.
You rewarded him with one long, deliberate lick, tongue flattening as you dragged from base to tip. His hips jolted off the bed despite himself, a strangled gasp ripping out of him. You stopped just shy of the crown, savoring the desperate twitch in your hand, before sliding lower and nestling between his thighs.
Your mouth closed around him in a different way, sucking one of his balls into the wet heat of your mouth, tongue laving slow and steady. His gasp fractured into a high, startled whine, head knocking back against the pillows like it was too heavy to hold upright. The skin burned under your tongue, flushed dark red, and the tremor running through him told you all you needed to know—he’d never been touched like this before.
Your fingers slid lower, teasing over the sweat slick curve of his thighs, until you pressed light and exploratory at that sensitive place just behind his balls. The sound he made wasn’t a word at all but a startled yelp.
Your head snapped up, certain you’d gone too far. His wide eyes locked with yours, wild and glassy, like he couldn’t quite believe the noise had come from his own throat either.
You let him slip free of your mouth with a wet pop, stroking his thigh to soothe. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” he panted, chest straining with each breath. “Just…never felt that before.”
Your palm smoothed down his trembling thigh, coaxing him to stay open, to trust. “You like it?”
A flush crept high on his cheeks and his eyes darted away. You smirked, his silence its own confession, and let your fingered wander back, slower this time. You traced soft circles over that spot again, savoring the shudder that rolled through him, before pressing firmer.
His lashes fluttered, eyes clamping shut as if he couldn’t withstand the flood of sensation. A bead of precum welled at his tip, glistening, and you paused long enough to drag it away with your fingertip. You held it up briefly, a soft laugh spilling from your lips.
The sound made his hips twitch, pathetic in their reach, chasing after what you’d denied him. But he didn’t break. He didn’t beg. He only gripped the headboard tighter, knuckles straining as he forced himself to obey.
You took pity on him, rummaging in the drawer beside your bed until your fingers closed around a bottle. The telltale click of the cap made his eyes flick open, wide and wary, but before he could form a word, the first cool drizzle of lube spilled down his cock. He jolted, a hiss tearing raw from his throat, his whole length twitching violently as the slick traced over sensitive skin.
Your hand wrapped around him an instant later.
He stretched out beneath you, spine bowing, chest heaving ragged with every shaky breath. You started light, a tormenting glide that barely counted as touch, nowhere near enough to satisfy, watching him unravel at the absence of pressure. When you finally tightened your grip and stroked him properly, his head lolled to the side with a strangled groan, eyebrows knit in helpless bliss.
And just when he was sinking into it, just when his hips began to move without thought, you let go.
He choked on a moan, hips snapping up as if he could chase your hand back. His eyes went wide, pleading, and the guttural sounds in his throat died before they could leave him. You swiped at the tip of his leaking cock, teasing, before finally returning your grip.
But it became a game. Again and again, you brought him right to the edge and left him stranded. Every time, he unraveled a little more—gasps turning to whimpers, whimpers dissolving into desperate, broken sounds that he couldn’t stifle. Each small cry made your pulse race, the rawness of it hypnotic.
By the last time you pulled away, his cry had become almost a wail. His head thrashed weakly against the pillows, and you could see the helpless tension in every taut muscle.
“Please—please, no, I’m so close, I— I can’t—” His voice cracked, the words dissolving under his own desperation.
You leaned over him, grin tugging at your lips, one hand brushing through his sweat damp hair, the other hovering, teasing. “Yes you can,” you whispered, voice soft but commanding.
When your hand returned, it was steady, merciless. Every muscle in his body locked tight, bracing for release. He was right there, teetering on the brink, hips pressing up erratically, and then, just as he thought he might finally let go, you pulled away.
The sound that tore out of him was wrecked, a sob that was helpless and humiliating and, to you, achingly beautiful.
You gave him no time to recover. Your hand was back on him in an instant, stroking with ruthless precision, dragging him straight back up the cliff.
“I’m—I’m gonna—” he stammered, hips stuttering helplessly into your fist. The moment you pulled away again, a broken cry ripped free. His hips snapped up, chasing only air, and his whole body shuddered as his cock twitched pathetically, spilling the first spurts across his stomach with a soft, wounded whine.
You watched transfixed as he spilled untouched, ruined by nothing but need and denial. The sight of him like this made your pulse spike. You wrapped your hand around him once again.
This time, there would be no mercy.
His body trembled violently under your touch, every twitch magnified as you stroked with merciless precision. His back arched clean off the bed, his head thrown back, incoherent whimpers spilling past his lips. His hands clenched the headboard so tightly it shook.
“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” His voice cracked, dissolving into babbles, each sound a plea, even when words failed him.
“Come on, Liam,” you coaxed, low and firm, a command disguised as comfort.
He gasped sharply, body seizing as he rutted into your hand. Release tore out of him in violent spurts, spattering high onto his chest. The sounds he made were raw, almost feral, like his chest had been cleaved open, and all the chaos inside him was now spilling out.
You pumped him through every last pulse until his thighs shook, until the overstimulation had him shivering violently. Only then did you ease off, watching him lie ruined beneath your hand, twitching and perfect.
He flinched when you reached up, every inch of him hypersensitive, but when your hands closed gently over his, still white-knuckled on the headboard, he allowed you to guide them down to his sides.
His palms were raw, skin flushed and tender from gripping so hard, but you cradled them in yours, pressing soft kisses to each angry red mark. He winced at the touch, but the faint way his fingers curled back around yours told you he liked the care.
You shifted to lie beside him, gathering his head into the crook of your chest. He curled inward, still trembling faintly from the aftershocks. One hand moved slowly down his spine, tracing a steady line, while the other carded through the damp strands of his hair. The warmth of your chest against his ear, the soft rhythm of your breath, seemed to calm him.
“You did so good,” you whispered, letting the words sink into him. You felt his chest rise and fall, gradually slowing, his body beginning to relax against you.
When he finally cracked his eyes open, they shone faintly, damp at the corners. He blinked rapidly, as though trying to hide it, then rasped, voice hoarse, “That was fuckin’ mental.”
You let out a soft laugh, pressing a tender kiss to his temple. “But you loved it,” you murmured, and the faint flush that spread across his cheeks told you he couldn’t deny it, even if he tried.
He ducked his gaze, lips twitching, like he couldn’t quite let himself say it aloud. Then he scoffed, half-hearted, reaching for a semblance of dignity. “Loved nothin’. You just—” The words caught, tangled with the blush creeping higher across his cheeks, and his mouth twitched into something softer he couldn’t quite fight down.
“Mmhm,” you teased, eyes narrowing knowingly. “Could’ve fooled me.”
He huffed, hiding his face against your chest, mumbling, almost petulant, “Shut up.”
But the shy little grin curving his lip said something else. His hand, small and tentative, found yours and laced fingers with yours, squeezing ever so slightly. You felt the warmth of it, the quiet honesty.
You pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Yeah,” you murmured, letting your words settle between you, “you loved it.”
His lips twitched up again, barely visible, but enough. Enough for you to know that whatever he said, whatever he tried to hide, he couldn’t fully mask the truth. And as he curled closer, melting into the rhythm of your heartbeat beneath him, it was clear—you’d seen all the cracks, all the softness, and he didn’t even mind.
this ended up spiraling into something far beyond what i planned………,,enjoy.
Part 1
Summary: Noel doesn't like when you push his boundaries...or does he?
Word count: 6.1k
After that eventful evening, you couldn’t get the image out of your head.
Noel on stage. Wearing the same jeans you’d made him come in like a teenager. Strumming his guitar like his life depended on it. Proper rockstar mode.
You hadn’t been sure if your eyes were playing tricks on you. His guitar shielded most of him from view, but you could’ve sworn he was half-hard again. In front of thousands. Interesting.
When he came off stage, slick with sweat and high off adrenaline, he nearly picked you up and spun you. His mouth was on yours before you could even speak, heat and urgency spilling out of him like he’d been holding it in all night. Between kisses you’d managed to whisper, “That was the best I’ve ever seen you play,” against his lips. He’d only laughed, low and rough in a way that had shivers shooting down your spine.
That was the moment you knew you were in for it. And you were right. He spent the night holed up in a hotel room with you, making you scream his name over and over again instead of getting shitfaced with the crew like he usually would.
But the next night he was back to normal. Well, not normal exactly, but the fire you’d stoked in him had burned out. Gone. Snuffed out as quickly as it had ignited. And god what a shame that was.
You wanted it back.
“You should take these off for tonight,” you murmured, sprawled across the couch in his dressing room, fingers toying with the waistband of his boxers.
He gave you a long look. “Oh I should, should I?”
You grinned, snapping the elastic lightly against his hip. “Just a thought.”
His stomach muscles tightened at the sting, but he didn’t make a move to peel them off. Instead he tilted his head, suspicion flickering in his eyes. “Why are you so intent on me going commando for a show?”
Curling closer, you tried to coax him, sweeten him into agreement. Your hand slid up his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall. “I just think it’s sexy. Watching you play like that. I like knowing.”
A sly smile crept over his face. “I will if you will.”
“Deal,” you shot back without hesitation, already reaching for his zipper.
“Oi—hang on.” He caught your wrists, startled like he hadn’t actually expected you to agree. “I can’t get up there knowing you’re stood there with no knickers. I’ll lose my place.”
“Then why bother suggesting it,” you pouted.
“Because I didn’t think you’d call my bluff,” he muttered, amusement threaded through his voice. Then he pressed a slow kiss against the inside of your wrist, lips grazing your pulse. You melted instantly, traitorously, as he knew you would.
“Fine,” you agreed with an over exaggerated sigh. “I guess I’ll live.”
He leaned in, brushing a soft kiss over your pout. “Atta girl.”
You’d just have to get more creative then.
The following week you tried again. You’d been patient. Waiting. Ready to pounce.
You let the clock tick down to fifteen minutes before showtime. Noel was perched half-sitting against a flight case, sipping his drink with that deceptively relaxed posture he always had before going on. You slid in close, arms looping casually around his neck.
“Missed you,” you said with a seductive smile.
He’d spent the whole afternoon giving interviews, and you’d made yourself scarce on purpose. His only answer was to lean into you, pressing a quick, fond kiss to your forehead before turning back to the chatter.
Slowly, careful not to draw eyes, you shifted until your back rested snug against his chest, disguising it as nothing more than a natural lean.
Then you started.
At first it was nothing. Just the barest shift of your hips brushing against him like an accident. When he didn’t react, you pressed closer, waiting.
Minutes ticked by. You did it again, just a touch harder. His grip around his drink tightened imperceptively. You were gonna have to do better than that.
Your eyes flicked to the clock. Five minutes. Perfect.
You ground back properly this time. Heat shot through your veins when you felt him stir against you.
“What are you doing,” he said under his breath.
“Nothing,” you said innocently, turning to face him.
His eyes narrowed in warning. “You’d better be. You know I can’t go out there when—”
You cut him off with another grind, sharper this time. Satisfaction bloomed hot in your chest at the undeniable press of him hardening against you.
His hand clamped down on your waist, fingers digging hard enough to bruise.
“Stop it. I’m serious.”
His voice had dropped an octave the way it always did when he was proper angry. It was almost enough to make you stop. Almost.
You pushed your luck with one more precise roll of your hips. His nostrils flared, jaw locked tight as he fought through the surge of arousal.
“I swear to fucking god—”
A PA’s voice cut sharp across the hall, calling his name. Both of you jerked toward the sound. A forced smile was plastered on his face, but you caught the flush creeping up his neck. Bingo.
He didn’t move you. Couldn’t. If he shoved you away now, everyone would get an eyeful of the problem you’d just saddled him with.
His guitar was thrust into his hands. He swung it over his shoulder, then turned back to you. The smile vanished instantly, replaced by something darker. For a second you wondered if maybe you’d gone too far. He hated being thrown off before a show more than anything.
But then he was leaning in close, voice full of barely restrained temper. “When I get off this stage I’m gonna fuck you so hard you can’t walk straight.”
And then he was gone, stalking toward the lights.
You watched him go, breathless, your pulse hammering. That hadn’t been the reaction you’d been expecting. You just wanted to wind him up and watch him go. Watch him lean into that sensual edge. Let himself be exposed. But you hadn’t accounted for that.
He tried, and failed, to discreetly shift his guitar to hide the thick outline pressing against his jeans. The way his jaw clenched as he forced himself to focus only made your blood sing.
You lingered at the edge of the stage, watching him stride into the roar of the crowd, waving like it was second nature.
And then he opened his mouth.
The first note hit you straight in the gut. His voice rang clear and rich, smooth as it settled into your veins like a drug. Your chest fluttered as you watched him, entranced not just by how good he sounded, but by how utterly amazing he looked.
It took a few dizzy minutes for your mind to catch up. To remember what you’d done to him backstage. To remember what he was trying so hard to keep hidden.
Your gaze dipped lower, past the guitar, and the sight hit you like lightning. Heat shot through you, pooling low in your belly until you could feel yourself throbbing. He was trying to angle himself, to shift the guitar just so. But you saw it. God, you saw it.
You couldn’t look away. Every note, every strum, every flicker of expression only wound you tighter. He looked untouchable. Commanding attention with nothing more than his guitar and that voice.
Your eyes kept tracing the line of his throat as he leaned into the mic, the way his mouth shaped each word. The rasp in his voice was rougher tonight and the thought that you caused that sent a delicious shiver through you.
He played like he was possessed, fingers flying sharp and precise, really leaning into it. But you heard more than just the music. You heard restraint. Fury. Desire leashed so tightly it hummed under every chord.
Every time he shifted his weight, you searched for it. And every time, there it was. Poorly hidden. Impossible to disguise once you knew what to look for. You wondered if anyone else saw it.
Song after song blurred together. Every time he leaned into the mic, lips brushing it like a kiss, your mouth dried up. Every time his fingers slid across the fretboard, your imagination filled in the blanks of where else they’d been. Where else they’d go.
And then came the song you’d been waiting for.
There’s something in the way she moves me to distraction.
It was already a sexy song in its own right. But now it was catastrophic. The first chord hit and your chest tightened, breath sticking in your throat.
He sang it differently tonight. Sharper. More sultry. He looked right at you when he delivered the chorus, his eyes pinning you where you stood side stage. Heat bloomed low in your stomach like he’d just laid a hand there.
The effect was devastating. Your skin prickled. You shifted your weight, thighs pressing together in a desperate attempt for relief.
When the final chord rang out and the lights dimmed, you just stood there, nearly shaking at what you knew would come next.
Because the last thing you saw before the stage went dark was him looking straight at you, chest heaving, jaw clenched, sweat gleaming along his temple. His expression was unreadable except for the storm brewing in it.
He stalked offstage, guitar slung low, and your whole body seized. Heart hammering, pulse thrumming in your ears, you couldn’t breathe as he cut a straight line toward you.
The closer he came, the more you felt it radiating off him. The performance hadn’t burned the tension out of him, it had only wound him tighter. The fury, the arousal, the ache you’d planted in him before he went onstage had only festered, growing hotter and more dangerous.
He reached you in two strides. In one swift move, his hand tangled hard in your hair.
“You think you’re clever?” His voice was rough, shredded raw from singing.
Your lips parted, defiance mixing with heat in your belly. “Maybe.”
His nostrils flared. In the next instant he was crowding you behind a flight case so hard that the cold metal edges dug into your spine. His body was pressed flush against yours and—oh god, there it was. He was so hard you almost felt bad for putting him in this situation.
“Been hard for an hour,” he ground out. “An hour. All I could think about was what I was gonna do to you when I finally got my hands on you.”
“You sure it was just from me?” It was out of your mouth before you could stop yourself.
That broke something in him. His mouth crashed onto yours, tongue forcing its way in. It wasn’t sweet. It was retribution. You could feel everything he felt. The pent up frustration. The hunger. His rage. It all tasted so sweet on your tongue.
You gave it all right back, clawing at him with ferocity. It was a fight as much as a kiss. Him telling you off for fucking with his focus. You telling him it had been worth it. That he’d played better, rawer, more electric than you’d ever seen. He disagreed, pushing back harder until finally you gave in. You wanted him more than you wanted to win.
Somewhere down the hall, you heard the crew shouting. Laughter. The slam of a door. Distantly you realized the situation you were in. He had tucked you into a shadowed corner, but you looked like you were consuming each other. Your leg was hitched around his hip, your hands tangled in his hair, his grip bruising at your waist. There wasn't an ounce of space between you.
You broke the kiss, gasping, chest heaving against his. You could feel him throbbing through his jeans, pressed hot against you. He breathed into your mouth, ragged, then suddenly pushed off.
Before you could speak, he seized your wrist and yanked you after him. You stumbled, nearly tripping over a coil of cables, but his grip was iron, dragging you through the maze of equipment. You almost laughed at the shock of it. How it had all worked out so well in your favor.
You barely had time to catch your breath before he was shouldering open a door at the end of the hall, shoving you both inside an empty green room and kicking it shut behind you.
The second the lock clicked he was on you.
Your back slammed the wall hard enough to rattle a framed poster. His mouth crashed against yours, hot and merciless, while his hips ground into you like he was trying to fuse you to the plaster. The solid heat of his cock pressed right where you ached and your whole body lit up, nails clawing at the back of his shirt. His hands were everywhere. Rough palms slid beneath your top, squeezing your breast hard enough to make you gasp.
“D’you have any idea what you’ve done?” he growled against your mouth. His breath was ragged, voice darker than you’d ever heard it. “Making me stand out there trying to play like normal while my cock’s been aching. While I can feel you watching me.”
The shameless heat that surged through you made you laugh, breathless and wicked.
His hand snapped up to your jaw, forcing your head back until your eyes met his. His gaze was fevered, pupils blown wide, torn between fury and want.
“Don’t laugh. Don’t you dare fucking laugh like you’re proud of it.”
Your smile faltered but the thrill in your gut only grew sharper.
“You wanted me pissed off?” His thumb pressed harder into your jaw, just shy of cruel. “Congratulations, love. You’ve fucking got me.”
You didn’t even get the chance to answer. He spun you in one swift motion, bending you over the arm of the sofa. The fabric scratched your palms as you caught yourself, chest heaving. One sharp tug and your zipper was undone, jeans yanked down your thighs. Cold air hit your skin a split second before his fingers did.
Two of them dragged through your slick, spreading you open. Your whole body jerked forward, heat licking up your spine. Your legs trembled at the sudden contact you’d been craving just as much as he had.
He leaned down, chest hot against your back. His voice was a low taunt in your ear. “Well, well, well, would you look at that? You’re so wet you’d think you planned all this.”
Your mouth opened to protest, but then his thumb dragged over your swollen clit and your knees buckled.
“What was that?” His tone was smug, cruel in its teasing as his thumb worked in ruthless circles.
“I—”
You didn’t even get the chance. Two fingers sunk into you before you could finish. The sudden stretch made your voice break.
“Didn’t quite catch that, love,” he muttered, curling his fingers deep, already hitting that spot that made you shudder. He kept a relentless rhythm, dragging you higher while you clutched at the sofa.
The pleasure was blinding. Your words collapsed into moans. He wouldn’t let you breathe, wouldn’t let you speak. The same fingers that had been punishing his guitar strings not minutes ago were now buried inside you, playing your body like he could draw the same sounds out.
You whined when the heel of his hand ground against you, slick soaking his hand. Your brain had whited out. Your body was already tightening around him, legs trembling with the effort to stay upright.
“Yeah, this is just what you wanted,” he spat. “Fucking brat.”
Just when you thought you were going to break, his fingers disappeared. The wet sound made your stomach flip, but then came the sharp metallic clink of his belt buckle. A hand pressed between your shoulder blades, shoving you further down over the sofa until your back arched helplessly for him.
“Noel—I meant no harm by it, really,” you gasped frantically, just as the thick head of his cock nudged at your entrance.
“I’m afraid you can’t hide the evidence, darling.” His laugh was dark, merciless, as his hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you in place. “You’re too fucking soaked to plead innocent.”
And then he drove into you.
Your breath caught sharp in your throat as he stretched you open, dragging a cry from your chest. The heat of him was unbearable, the sheer hardness forcing your body to give way. His moan broke against your skin as he bottomed out, filling you to the hilt.
“Christ…” he muttered, voice low and ragged, almost lost in his own groan. You wanted desperately to turn, to catch the wildfire in his eyes, but your body wouldn’t obey, too shaky to do anything but take it.
He set a brutal pace immediately, each thrust punishing and precise. Like every ounce of frustration he’d held back onstage was now being driven straight into you. The sound of his hips smacking against you filled the room, and you could only choke on moan after moan as pleasure crashed through your system. The angle was devastating, hitting so perfectly deep inside you thought you might melt.
“God this better not make its way into The Sun,” he snarled, his breath hot against your ear. “I can see the headline now: Noel Gallagher blunders his way through show with raging hard on.” His hips slammed harder. “Fuck you for making me do that.”
He fisted a hand in your hair, yanking your head back as he buried himself deep. The sharp sting blended with the dizzying drag of him inside you, and you shuddered helplessly.
“Fuck—Noel, but you were incredible,” you gasped, face pressing into the cushions. “You played incredible…” The words broke apart, crumbling under the tide of pleasure.
He groaned darkly, hips pounding harder, clearly spurred by the praise. “Don’t think flattery’s gonna save you now, sweetheart,” he snapped. “You think a compliment’s gonna make me forget the way you had me straining against my jeans in front of thousands?
You whimpered as the rhythm grew rougher, his cock hitting that devastating spot over and over.
“You better not ever fucking do that again. Ever.”
He punctuated the final word with a sudden slap across your ass. The crack echoed and your breath caught, body jolting forward before your hips were pushing back to meet him.
“You hear me?” His voice rasped hot against your ear as another smack landed, harder. “Never.”
The burn of the slap had you clenching tight around him, the mix of pain and pleasure making your whole body shiver.
He ground deep inside you, his cock hitting that perfect spot with cruel precision, halting just long enough to make you writhe. “Say it,” he growled, voice low and commanding. “I wanna hear you say it. Loud and clear.”
Your voice broke into a desperate wail. “I won’t—I swear, Noel, I won’t.”
His responding groan came from deep in his chest, vibrating against your back as he locked one arm around your waist and hauled you flush to him. His cock pulsed inside you, whole body shaking with it.
“Fuckin’ hell, you feel so good.” His fingers bruised your hips, dragging you back onto him harder, like he couldn’t get deep enough. “All mine. All fucking mine.”
Moans spilled helplessly from your lips, your body unraveling with each punishing snap of his hips. “Yours,” you gasped, the word caught between cries. “I—all yours Noel…”
His breathing turned frantic, ragged, louder than the obscene clap of skin. You reached blindly, tangling your fingers with his where it gripped you, needing something to cling to as you pushed back harder, taking him deeper. He hit a spot so devastating your whole body seized, convulsing around him.
His rhythm faltered. You could feel him hovering right at the edge. That’s when you twisted the knife.
“I did it on purpose,” you panted. “Wanted to watch you play like you were fucking me in front of all those people.”
That was it. You felt the tension in his body snap as a ragged, guttural groan tore out of him. His body locked tight against yours. You felt the hot rush of him spilling inside you, his release violent and consuming. His cock twitched deep as your own climax crashed over you. Your walls clamped around him, shaking, pulling him tighter, riding the heat of his release until neither of you could breathe.
He buried his face in your neck, cursing into your skin, your name whispered over and over like prayer and damnation all at once. He held you so tight it almost hurt, every pulse of him inside you matching the aftershocks trembling through your own body.
When it was finally over, he collapsed against you, chest heaving, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. His weight pinned you deliciously to the cushions, his shivers still rippling faintly. A smile tugged faintly at your lips, exhausted and sated, as you listened to him finally come down.
Maybe that’s when you got the idea.
See, you’d figured something out about Noel. Secretly, he liked being watched. Not just performing onstage, though of course that fed him too, but the rush of being caught off guard. Of eyes on him when he wasn’t expecting it. He’d never say it outright, but you’d seen enough to know.
And once you saw it, your brain began cooking up wild scenarios. Noel with his head tipped back, jaw tight, fist wrapped around his cock, breath ragged, only for him to look up and find you there. Watching. You wanted to see him falter under your gaze. To see if he’d break, or even better, perform for you.
The image lodged deep and wouldn’t let go. The problem was Noel didn’t really have a reason to touch himself. You never left any desire unfulfilled. Which meant if you wanted that vision to come true, you’d have to create the opportunity.
So you started scheming.
You began withholding sex. Well, not withholding altogether—you weren't strong enough for that—but perhaps blueballing a bit.
On days when he was intent on fingering you until you came at least twice or when you’d wake with his mouth already between your thighs, you let him take you apart without offering anything in return. Not that reciprocation was mandatory every single time, but you could tell when he was in a state. Cock flushed and leaking, ready to bury himself inside you. That’s when you’d slip away. Mumble something about needing water, or being too sore, or too tired. Leave him strung out and aching.
The first time you tried it, he’d looked genuinely confused. One moment he was licking you from his lips, pupils blown wide, staring at you like a starving man, and the next, you were sliding from the sheets. His eyes followed you the whole time you moved about the room, tracking you with a heaviness that was hard to ignore.
That was when you knew you were onto something.
You thought it was brilliant. Evil, maybe, but brilliant. Because eventually he’d break. He’d get desperate enough to take matters into his own hands. And when he did…you’d be there. Eyes on him. Ready.
Now you just had to catch him.
It was harder than you thought it’d be. Every attempt slipped through your fingers. You lingered in the hall, ear pressed to the door. Cracked an eye open in the dark, waiting for him to give in. But he never did. Not once.
So you tightened the reins. Pushed harder. Starved him of relief until you were practically shaking with the effort of keeping your own hands off him. You were sure he’d crack. But still nothing. Not even a complaint.
It only made you more determined.
That was when you started scheming properly. If he wouldn’t break under pressure, maybe you had to bait the trap differently. Maybe he needed the illusion of privacy.
A planned “night out with friends.” A few parting kisses at the door, open mouthed and wet with just enough tongue to leave him strung out. Maybe a couple of love bites along his neck and chest, marks that would throb and remind him of you long after you were “gone.”
Then you’d slip out, let the front door slam shut, and circle back. Lurk in the quiet corners of your own house waiting for the moment he thought he was alone.
It was a gamble. You had no idea when he’d give in. Maybe right after you left, still half hard from your teasing. Maybe hours later, when the ache had become unbearable. Maybe just before bed, when he finally thought fuck it. Or maybe not at all.
Truthfully, you were only one failed attempt away from scrapping the whole idea altogether. You missed the feel of his cock on your tongue, the way he’d fist your hair and mutter when you swallowed him down. You missed the blowjobs you’d deliberately forgone to keep him on edge.
But if it worked…
If you caught him in the act, desperate and unguarded, you’d finally get to see him lose it for you in a whole new way.
You slipped into his favorite dress, the one that clung to every curve like it was made for you. Just to be cruel, you spritzed the faintest hint of his cologne along your neck and wrists. It was subtle, but enough to drive him crazy if he got too close.
You drifted around the house while he lounged on the couch with a half finished beer at his side, eyes supposedly glued to the football match. Supposedly. You could feel his gaze snag on you whenever you crossed the room, the corner of your mouth twitching into a private smile.
You only had one job tonight. Wind him up before you “left.”
So you stepped directly into his line of vision, blocking the screen with a tilt of your hip. “Well…?” you asked, cocking your head with faux innocence. “How do I look?”
His eyes dragged over you, slow and shameless, mouth parting just a fraction before he let out a low whistle.
“Absolutely fucking stunning.”
A satisfied hum curled in your chest. You twirled once for good measure, the hem of your dress flaring just enough to tease, then flopped down beside him like you hadn’t just set him up.
“Y’know,” you murmured, sliding your hand onto his knee with practiced nonchalance, “I’ve got a few minutes…”
“Oh yeah?” His eyes flicked to yours, quick, then darted back to the telly.
That wouldn’t do. Rolling your eyes, you leaned closer, lips grazing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Yeah…” and let your tongue flick against him, a ghost of a lick.
He twitched. It was the tiniest movement, thigh flexing under your hand, but when you pressed your mouth to his neck you knew you had him. He smelled like him. All warm and musky. It was addictive. You cupped his jaw, turning his head just so, and laid a slow, indulgent trail of kisses down to his collarbone. You sucked at the hollow there, knowing it was a weak spot, and lingered just long enough before pulling back to meet his eyes.
Now you had his full attention. His gaze had gone darker, hungry, and you rewarded him with a mischievous smile before brushing your lips against his.
The kiss started slow and sweet, a parting lovers kiss, but heat flared between you as soon as he leaned in. His hand tangled in your hair and the sweetness melted into something darker.
That was when you pulled away, a bit breathless, lips curved. “Careful,” you teased, running a hand down his chest. “You’ll mess up my hair.”
He chased your mouth, stealing one last chaste kiss before you squirmed out of reach, laughing as you smoothed your dress again.
“Tease,” he muttered, though his smirk betrayed him.
“You’ve got lip gloss all over, you know,” you shot back, swiping your thumb over his mouth, leaving his lips pink and glistening. You turned to the mirror, reapplying and watching his reflection from the corner of your eye.
When you bent to rifle through your purse, you caught him watching. Eyes fixed on your ass. Gaze lingering just a little too long.
You smiled to yourself. The trap was set. And if the tightness in his jaw was anything to go by, it was already working.
You gave him an hour. He’d never sacrifice football for anything so you figured he’d wait until the match was over before giving in.
When you finally slipped back into the house, your heart was pounding so loud you were sure it echoed off the walls. The living room was empty, the couch abandoned. Your pulse picked up. Maybe, just maybe, this was going to work.
Kicking off your shoes with barely a sound, you padded down the hallway toward the bedroom, every step careful. Your palms were clammy, anticipation coiled tight in your stomach. You reached the doorway, peeked through the smallest crack, and froze.
There he was. Sprawled across the bed, propped lazily against the headboard. His shirt was rucked halfway up his stomach, exposing skin flushed warm pink. His eyes were shut tight, head tipped back, a faint furrow between his brows. And his hand was wrapped around his cock, stroking in those slow, indulgent pulls you knew he liked.
Your breath caught hard in your throat. You blinked rapidly just to make sure you weren’t imagining it. But no. This was real. Your plan had actually worked.
A hot flush ran through you. Your pulse was everywhere. Thudding in your chest, racing in your stomach, pounding low between your thighs. You were already throbbing. Just the sight of him like this was enough to make you dizzy.
His mouth fell open slightly and the most delicate little sound spilled out. It was so unguarded. So fragile. So unlike him that it shot through you like lightning.
You pressed yourself silently to the doorframe, eyes drinking him in. His hand tightened just slightly, thumb dragging over the head, spreading wetness, and his whole body shuddered. His face softened, features melting into pure pleasure, cheeks and throat tinged pink. When a low, drawn out moan escaped him, you had to bite your lip to keep quiet.
Then, suddenly, his eyes cracked open.
It was only a sliver, but it was enough. You saw the exact second he spotted you. The recognition hit him like a physical thing. His eyes widened and his flush deepened from soft pink to a furious, helpless red. A violent shiver tore through him, like being caught only spurred him on.
His breathing turned ragged. Instead of stopping, his hand sped up, pumping faster, rougher, his hips jerking slightly against his fist. His head tipped back against the headboard, lashes fluttering, moans spilling out uncontrollably now.
You stayed frozen where you were, watching through the cracked door in awe.
He moved with more confidence now, rhythm steady, strokes sure. You realized in a rush what it was. He liked the performance of it all. The act of being watched was turning him on even more than his own hand.
His eyes flicked to you every so often, checking, needing, and each time they met yours your stomach plummeted. His hips would lift automatically, like your gaze alone dragged him higher.
You couldn’t stand it anymore. You pushed the door open wider to get a better view. He looked pitiful spread across the bed. Flushed and sweating, cock swollen in his fist. All desperate and needy.
“Well, well, well…” Your voice dripped indulgent mockery as you leaned against the doorframe. “Look at you. All hot and bothered with no one to help out.”
A whine clawed its way out of his throat, one of pure desperation. It sent a thrill through you, spurring you further. You stalked across the room and sank into a cushioned chair, crossing one leg over the other like you had all the time in the world.
“I bet you wanna come so bad, hm?” Your tone was soft and teasing, egging him on.
His hips jerked helplessly against his fist, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip like he could hold the noise in.
“Nuh-uh,” you chided, voice firm. “Let me hear you.”
His mouth fell open and the moans spilled freely, each one breaking out of him in shaky bursts. His eyes tried to stay open, fixed on you, but fluttered shut with each wave of pleasure.
“You love this,” you whispered, leaning forward in your chair, eyes locked on his flushed body. “Love me sitting here. Watching you.”
His head tipped back instantly, like the words alone sent him spiraling. He let out a strangled moan, pumping faster.
“Go on then,” you murmured, voice low. “Come for me. Since you’re so desperate for attention.”
The words barely left your lips before he shattered. A violent shudder tore through him, back arching, spilling hot over his hand. His moans came broken, breathy, piercing the quiet as his body seized and trembled. You watched, awestruck, as he lost control completely, every pulse of his orgasm written across his face.
When it finally passed, his hand dropped limply to his side, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut.
He was still catching his breath when you eased onto the mattress, the warmth of him radiating through the sheets. His eyes stayed shut, chest rising and falling in uneven swells.
You reached for his hand gently, guiding his fingers to your mouth. He let you, too spent to resist. His breath hitched when your tongue flicked over the mess.
When you finished, you pressed a soft kiss to the tip of each finger before shifting lower. His eyes followed you as you leaned in and wrapped your lips around the head of his cock.
He whimpered as you sucked the last drops from him, the sound small and raw. Your touch was delicate though, more devotion than lust.
When you finally let him slip free, you crawled up his chest and curled against him. His skin was still hot beneath your cheek and there was the faintest tinge of pink dusting his face like a blush.
But he wouldn’t quite look at you. His eyes darted away, his body stiff beneath your weight, unease practically radiating off him.
“Hey,” you murmured, cupping his jaw with gentle fingers, tilting his head until his eyes met yours. “Don’t be embarrassed. You looked so fucking beautiful like that.”
His gaze searched yours, uncertainty written across every feature.
“Noel,” you whispered, voice dropping low as you reached for his hand. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He huffed a breath like he didn’t believe you, but you guided his hand up your thigh, beneath your dress, until his fingers pressed right against your soaked core.
He blinked rapidly when he felt the dampness waiting for him. His breath caught in his throat as you rolled your hips against his palm, letting him feel every ounce of evidence.
“I’m dead serious,” you said, breath hitching.
“That's all from…watching me?” he finally croaked, astonishment heavy in his voice.
You nodded nice and slow, letting it sink in.
He swore under his breath, hand flexing against you, but then his expression shifted. Something close to suspicion was starting to creep in. “Hang on. Why are you home so early?”
You bit back a grin, playing it casual. “Just missed you, s’all.”
But he saw right through you.
“Did you fuck…” He pulled back a little, smirk tugging at his lips. “And here I was, thinking I could sneak a quick wank. Been fucking dying for it.”
You winced, guilt sparking instantly. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that.”
His eyes narrowed, then widened. He sat up sharply. “Hang on, you did that on purpose? Christ—” He scrubbed a hand over his face, exhaling like you’d just dropped a weight off his chest. “Had me thinking I’d done something wrong.”
Your heart broke a little. You suddenly hated that you’d done this in the first place even though the payoff had been so sweet. You clung to him, peppering kisses wherever you could reach, babbling apologies until finally your mouth pressed to his, soft and sweet. “I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”
He sighed, arms closing around you, holding you snug against his chest. His mouth brushed your temple, his voice low and warm. “Don’t need making up, love.” Then, with a crooked grin, he tilted your chin so you had to look at him. “Just start sucking me off again.”
A helpless smile broke over your face, the weight of guilt slipping away as easily as his arms held you.
