“It’s still a good idea, though.” Liam defends, pulling the beanie he’d put on for bed further down over his eyebrows with a tug. Lying with his head against one of your pillows, sniffing the perfume-scented cotton as though it were a perfectly cut line of coke on a mirrored table, he’d tried to rack his brain for all the tips and tricks to stay warm that he’d retained from his childhood, only to dismiss them all in favour of offering up the most intimate option imaginable.
“Stop wafting, you’re letting all the cold air in.” Voice muffled from where you’d yanked the covers up towards your chin, you’re more focused on Liam’s chronic habit of fidgeting than you are anything else. It was a sentiment echoed almost every time you’d shared a bed, bickering like an old married couple rather than a pair of flatmates, arguing about who was snoring and who had the most surface area of the blanket, before falling asleep, limbs tangled together like the wires at the back of the television, unsure where one person ended, and the other began.
“It’s not shagging.” For good measure, and despite the fact you hadn’t asked, Liam clarifies his previous argument further; suddenly remarkably keen to explain the semantics of what constitutes sex and what doesn't. Though it could be considered extreme, it still seemed like the only viable option, considering you’d tried everything else to ward off the cold of the broken heater, and had begun joking about what song you’d both choose in the event of having a joint funeral, imagining you both might succumb to hypothermia in the middle of the night.
“It’s literally the textbook definition of shagging.” Even while sounding fed up, you still lean into where he’s burying his nose further into the back of your shoulder. It’s hard to counteract that, because technically you’re right. It’s what they teach teenagers in schools the world over, trying to explain the logistics of sperm and menstrual cycles through fits of their of collective giggles; to further his case for cockwarming, Liam tries to recall what he’d learnt in his own sex-ed class, though all he can seem to remember is blowing up condoms like balloons and then getting sent out to the corridor as punishment.
“Not really.” Fluttering his eyes closed, he rubs his cheek against the soft material of your jumper. In his head, the idea of being physically inside you didn’t feel very far from where you already were, an easy and painless leap, just as it had been to go from merely cuddling on the sofa to touching himself at the thought of you, and then stealing your underwear from the bottom of the laundry basket; it was an entirely different plane to the things he did with other girls, so far removed that comparing them made his skin crawl.
“Still.” Liam’s so close against your back that he can feel the vibration of your vocal cords as you speak; chin hooked over your shoulder, staring at the clutter on your desk amongst your textbooks and the photos of him and your friends that you’d pinned to your wall, he tries not to think about how warm you’d both be if he could finally sink into you, arms wrapped around your middle with his hot breath fanning against your neck as he tries to not twitch or move.
“It won’t be dead dirty or anything. It’s jus’ like spooning.” He reassures, doubling down on his theory that it’s just an extreme version of a hug, while still inspecting your collage of pictures to distract himself; your Velvet Underground poster, and that childhood photo of you on your birthday blowing out your candles, and that polaroid of him and your best friend from university posing stupidly with their tongues out that you treasure like gold. “I’ve done it before.”
“Huh, when?” There’d been mentions of Liam’s past girlfriends and escapades, both in passing and in great detail depending on whether he was in an oversharing mood or not, though clearly, you can’t recall him mentioning this. It was as though you could feel the lie radiating off him, like that time he’d broken the bathroom door and insisted it wasn’t him, and earlier, when you’d appeared through the front door to find the whole flat freezing, with him sitting on the sofa declaring everything was fine despite the heater making an ominous beeping noise down the hall.
“Dunno, just have.” It’s easier to let the fib slip through his teeth when he’s not facing you, nose buried into the back of your hair and pressing into the nape of your neck; he doesn’t know what always gives him away, whether it’s a twinkle in his eye or a curl of his lip, but you can usually see through him almost instantly, seemingly without even consciously trying. He inhales deeply, letting the smell of your shampoo tickle the inside of his nostrils before he speaks again: “It’ll be warm.”
“Okay, fine.” Halfway through a shiver that makes your spine curl, it’s as though the sudden rush of cold air is your final deciding factor. In any other situation, if this was that girl who could do that crazy thing with her tongue, or that model from the pub who’d now gone back to New York, he’d reach out in search of a condom. Though because it’s you, the idea feels dirty somehow, like the crinkling of the foil packet and the act of putting it on might taint what you’re both about to do, solidifying it as an inappropriate act rather than an extension of platonic admiration.
“Reckon y’might need to be a bit wet first.” Stupidly, he hadn’t thought of that until now. Though you loved him, and would often tell him so in passing almost every day as you left to go to your lectures or wished him goodnight on the way to your bedroom, he’s still sure you didn’t get aroused with the emotion like he often did; your love manifested itself in different ways, like sharing inside jokes until your stomachs ached from laughing, and sitting on the bathroom floor so he could have someone to talk to while he was in the shower.
“Oh, my god.” Huffing as though this extra inconvenience might be your last straw, you fiddle underneath the covers to undo the neatly tied strings of your pyjama bottoms; Liam hadn’t counted the amount of blankets you’d both collected and piled on top of your bed in an attempt to ward off the cold, though he’d guess it was in the ballpark of about twelve, not including the tiny knitted one your grandma had gifted you, which you’d put on top for ‘good luck’ rather than any extra warmth.
“Well, how else am I supposed to do it? I’m not a magician.” Liam whines, jutting his bottom lip out. Then, with all sincerity, he suggests the kind of information you had once divulged after exhausting every other avenue of conversation, bringing up his knowledge of your masturbatory habits as though he was just mentioning how you like to take your tea with two sugars and extra milk: “You could hump your pillow a bit first, I know y’like that.”
“Don’t talk about that.” Months ago, while making snacks in the kitchen after a night out, you’d exchanged secrets as usual and then made him swear on everything that he wouldn’t repeat any of it, linking your pinky with his and then kissing the spot as though that would validate it further. Whilst Liam had kept his promise, it still never stopped him thinking about it; closing his eyes after a long day and imagining you straddling your pillow, steadying yourself against the headboard and letting out little huffs of pleasure. “Are you even hard yet?”
“Yeah.” He replies, perhaps far too quickly for it to contain any ounce of normalcy. Though, truthfully, this relationship had gone far past its original arrangement of having someone to split the rent with, and had now teetered over into something borderline unexplainable; the other week, walking home in the winter sunshine, you’d both played one of those stupid games of ‘would you rather’ to pass the time, only to become completely floored at the realisation that you’d do absolutely anything for one another, no matter how weird and no matter how gross.
“Really?” You push your hips back against him slightly, as though he might be lying and you need to check, and Liam grunts into your shoulder with the movement. The vein on the underside of his cock pulses violently, like he’s gained a second heartbeat between now and when you’d both first slipped into bed earlier, squeezing each other close in that way which has become emblematic of showing one another love and affection, holding the other person right up to the point where their ribs start to hurt, and they need to gasp for air.
“It’s jus’ cause it’s you.” Nibbling at the label sticking out the back of your jumper, he holds the square of material between his teeth; something for his jaw to sink into so he can distract himself from the way his boner has been throbbing against the back of your thigh, probably turning an alarming shade of purple in his boxers, with patches of precum seeping through to his tracksuit bottoms. Hand snaking down towards your front, he tugs at the elastic of your knickers, right where the little decorative bow sits. “Pull these down, too.”
The near silence is deafening as he helps you. Shuffling under the weight of the blankets to get your underwear down by your knees, he’s already panting at the sheer thought of what you’re both about to do; sometimes, when you’re squished together cuddling, he murmurs about wanting to be closer, and now he’s about to be the closest he can physically get, literally inside you, hopefully about to feel every hitch of your breath and flutter of your pelvic floor.
Index finger sliding between your legs, he lets a moan rip through his throat, stuttering at what he finds. “Fuckin’ — Jesus, y’so wet.” It catches him completely off guard, hits him square in the chest harder than any punch. For a second, he can barely move his fingers, rendered both speechless and paralysed with his tongue stuck against the roof of his mouth. Though eventually, he musters up enough brain power to collect your slick, dragging the stickiness around in a way that makes him feel like he’s going to keel over and die. “God, y’like a furnace. Dunno how you’re cold.”
“Liam, don’t.” It’s only two words, and arguably very vague, though he still instantly understands why you're embarrassed; head buried into the cushions, with your ears turning red, you’re more shy about the prospect of him speaking the dirty words aloud than the fact he’s slowly sinking his finger into you, right up to the second knuckle, until you’re squeezing around him like a vice. He supposes it’s a side effect of being around one another all the time, that basically reading each other's minds based on the inflexion of words alone is something only a best friend can do.
“It’s just me, it’s alright.” He repeats it like a mantra; the same Liam as always, who begs to wear your jumpers so he can walk around smelling of your perfume and who drives you insane with his nonsensical questions. Something that’ll remain unchanged even if you’re both about to do something like this, without a condom too, because you’ve both delusionally convinced yourselves that the biology of it all somehow pauses if you both disclose that you’re not counting it as ‘real sex’.
Breath mingling together, you both whimper at the obscene noise as he pulls his finger out, the heat of you still seeping into his skin; wiping the excess by the hem of his sweatshirt, he imagines wearing it out one day under his jacket, and the warmth that would spread from his heart to the pit of his stomach knowing there was proof of your intimacy right there with him all day, like his own little security blanket or lucky charm.
“Fuck sake’ — wait.” Sighing out, he tries to pull his boxers down; all the blood has rushed from his brain to his crotch, and trying to perform any action suddenly feels like he’s attempting to dissect a complicated crossword puzzle. Tugging at the waistband, he’s a desperate shade of purple, just as predicted, and breathing heavily already. “Help me.” It sounds pathetic, but he is; concentrating on lining himself up properly so he can slide in, attempting to stay calm so he doesn’t finish prematurely and make a mess against the back of your leg.
“Back a bit.” There’s an awkward amount of shuffling, and a shared sharp intake of breath as your hand wraps around his length to guide him. If he could be bothered, and able to, he’d lean over in search of the switch of your bedside lamp so he could see everything more clearly; stare at the way his cock is going all shiny with your slick, and the fact you’re so slippery down there that it takes a couple of attempts to actually gain enough traction to push in.
“There?” He bites into your shoulder, already slobbering over the fabric like an excited puppy. Eyes adjusting to the dark of under the covers, he watches the tip disappear into your entrance, staring with his mouth agape until it physically hurts to watch and he has to look away; this isn’t even over yet, and he already knows he’ll revisit this exact moment a thousand times over, preparing in advance for when he finally goes on tour, where he’ll probably start suffering from the worst case of homesickness ever recorded. “Fuckin’ hell, you're tight.”
“Liam.” He’s heard you say his name more times than he could ever count, both in conversation and shouted from the other side of the flat when you wanted something; sometimes, you didn’t even have to utter the second syllable before his ears pricked, as though he had a sixth sense for it. Though he’d never heard it like this, all breathy and whining like you’ll die if he doesn’t do something else; if you were any other girl, he’d move his hand to rub your clit, but he doesn't know if something like that would tip it all over the edge, if that would somehow cross a line.
“Have to move.” It’s all too much, and he can’t help his hips from stuttering; he can even smell you now, that distinct aroma of your arousal that he recognises from burying his nose into almost every pair of knickers you own. It seems silly now with the benefit of hindsight, juvenile even, that he thought he’d be able to stay still with your walls fluttering and clenching around him. That he’d be able to power through the lewd squelching noises your cunt had been making to close his eyes and fall asleep. “Not – y’not gonna be mad at me, are you?”
“No.” Cheek squished against the side of his arm from where he’s got them wrapped around you; you kiss the inside of his elbow. If he wasn’t already so far gone, trying to stay calm while listening to your little moans, he’d laugh and say that it tickles; maybe later you both might have time to giggle, with sweat covering your foreheads despite the cold room, talking about complete and utter nonsense as you both stare up at the wallpaper peeling on the ceiling.
“Promise, say you promise.” There are tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, and he feels like they’ll spill over any minute. It’s annoying how well you both fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle, with your walls squeezing the exact parts of his cock that make his eyes roll into the back of his head. He opens his mouth, chews on a mouthful of your wool jumper and watches the string of saliva dangling there in between you both as he moves away to speak. “Hate when you’re mad at me.”
“I promise.” There’s another kiss, then another; the kind you plant on the top of his head when he feels poorly or sad, and Liam almost feels relaxed enough to come and has to stop himself, clenching his eyes shut in deep concentration as he shallows out his thrusts; he has to wait at least a bit longer, he wants to rock against you, grind deep, drag it out until both your brains go all gooey with the pleasure. Letting out another little squeak, you manage to babble out something else that makes his heart hurt: “It’s okay, y’my best friend.”
saturday
“Doesn’t seem that cold to me.” Noel comments from where he’s been standing in the kitchen, waiting for his brother to put his shoes on and absentmindedly fiddling with the badges he’d pinned to his jacket. Though Liam had dismissed them as nothing but empty threats, spat out in the heat of an argument when he was particularly angry about finding his lead singer still in bed rather than in the recording booth, Noel had actually stuck to his word and started picking him up on the way to the studio.
“That's ‘cause they’ve fixed it now, ya’ dickhead.” Liam huffs, half-awake and leaning over to tie his shoelaces with his eyebrows all furrowed like he’s trying to solve rocket science; before he’d even had the chance to brush his teeth or wipe the sleep from his eyes, someone had come over to fix the heater, standing by the cupboard it was kept in for all but thirty seconds before declaring it was up and running again, making Liam feel painfully stupid that it’d been that easy to fix this whole time.
“Did you break it?” Suddenly reverting back to the ways of their adolescence, Noel turns to accuse his brother; although luckily, this time around, a violent argument wouldn’t be followed by having to share a room, stewing in anger in their twin beds as they tried to fall asleep, and occasionally hurling whispered insults in an effort to the keep the volume down, worried they’d wake up their mother down the hall with their creative vulgar language if they spoke in anything but hushed tones.
“No.” Liam replies without a second thought, licking the pad of his thumb and trying to rub out the smudge of dirt he’d spotted on his new pair of trainers. Passing him on the way to the kitchen, you tenderly smooth out the back of his hair from where he’d slept on it funny, and he feels his shoulders untense at the contact; annoyingly, it just made him yearn for an undisturbed morning even more, where he could put his head in your lap and sit in comfortable silence while watching the children's cartoons they always play on a Saturday mornings.
“Did he break it?” Noel addresses you, rehashing an alliance that Liam wasn’t too keen on. Though it’s always heartwarming to see the two people he’s closest to getting along well, it still never fails to make him feel slightly uneasy, as though you both might suddenly shun him and form an alliance of your own, where you could gossip about all his bad habits and questionable coping mechanisms in peace; sometimes, just seeing you and Noel laughing about something he’s not included in is enough to make him sulk for the next hour.
“It was already sort of broken.” The cupboard door makes an awkward creaking noise as you open it, searching for the jar of raspberry jam to make your toast, just as Liam watches you do almost every morning; sometimes, when you’re feeling particularly tired after studying all night, he makes some for you and wordlessly places the plate on your bedside table, hearing you shout a sweet little ‘thank you’ from the other room once you’ve woken up and spotted it next to your pile of books.
“See.” Liam stands up, trying to fix the creases at the front of his jumper. Though he hadn’t even left yet, he was already preparing to utter out a very smug ‘I told you so’ once the day was finished at the studio and he hadn’t been needed, keen to somehow convince Noel that his habit of skivving was in fact a tactical and sensible choice, rather than just a decision borne out of pure laziness and the urge to either go to the pub or spend most of the day with you.
“Well, that means fuck all.” Drinking the last of the tea that he’d made upon arriving, Noel laughs to himself. “You’d cover up a murder for each other, never mind a broken heater.” Once, all fuzzy from too many beers, Noel had tried to explain yours and Liam’s relationship to someone who had just met you both, and after a while of deliberations and laughter, had landed on the description of ‘a psychologist's wet dream’, making Liam kick him from underneath the table in protest.
“Yeah, yours.” It had been on Liam’s mind from the moment he’d woken up to the doorbell ringing and the bedsheets all sticky, crawling out of your room to answer the door to the electrain, uncaring that his dishevelled look reeked of sex, before tumbling back in next to you and murmuring grumpily into your neck. He’d been sound asleep again when Noel had shown up, knocking on the front door in a jarring way that made Liam jump out of his skin, his head still spaced out from earlier, when he’d come so hard he’d seen white.
“Piss off.” Noel sneers, moving to put his empty mug in the sink with the rest of the unwashed dishes, giving you a hug from the side as you scrape the burnt bits off your toast; this was the last slice left after you’d graciously offered both him and Liam pieces of their own, setting them up for a day of recording like they’re two little kids being sent off on a school trip, rather than two men who would probably bicker all day with cans of beers in their hands. “See you later.”
“Go away, she’s my friend, not yours.” Suddenly five again, with a pout to match, Liam strides over to bid you farewell; wrapping his arms around your middle, doing that quintessential thing of hugging you so tightly that it squeezes all the air out of your lungs. After last night, he’d realised he could never be close enough to you, and that he’d perhaps only be fully satisfied if he could press his soul up next to yours. Though for now, sex is close, and it makes his insides feel all warm like he’s swallowed the first sip of a piping hot cup of tea. “Bye.”
“Liam, ow.” Laughing, you try to push him off so you can open the drawer for a clean butter knife. The back of your hair is still all messy from last night, like his was earlier, and he smooths it out gently before planting a comically loud kiss to the crown of your head, accentuating the squeaky ‘mwah’ noise with his lips and making Noel groan from across the room; murmuring something about a taxi still waiting outside, and ignoring the impending dig about him still not being able to drive despite being in his late twenties, and with no urge to try.
“Fucking hurry up.” Noel shouts one last time, as though he’s a dad making a final warning, and Liam reluctantly follows behind him, somehow hoping he might turn around at the last minute and dismiss him for the day, so he could linger around and annoy you; making you laugh until the sides of your eyes crinkled up, and eating the crusts of your toast because you don’t like them. Though at the very least, he still has the comfort of sitting in the studio and daydreaming about the way you’d panted into the pillow as he hit the top of your cervix.
so, i think noel’s grey streak has been there for a while, actually?
we all know it and love it- that one little patch of gray hair noel has in his bangs. in the late 2000s it was really obvious, especially before the rest of his hair went grey. i thought that’s when it started to go grey but!! after some detective work, i think it might have been there since 1994. exhibit 1:
i don’t think this is just his hair catching the light, there seem to be a few thick grey hairs right in that same spot. huh!
in 1995, this could be a trick of the light, but it is in the exact spot, isn’t it?
i couldn’t find any photos from 1996 that were high quality enough for me to feel confident it’s not just the light, but it’s pretty visible starting in 1997.
in 1998 i think it’s undeniably there- note the difference in texture from the rest of his hair!
it is 100% visible by 1999- you don’t have to try and spot it anymore.
2000 onwards, he has a bright silver patch in his hair and it’s so cute.
short little streak in 2002
and finally, in 2004, the contrast becomes the most obvious. delightful.
in conclusion: it might be a trick of the light but i don’t think so.
i love you britpop tumblr, here are things i see every day that brighten my day
- moot getting possessive over alex james whenever someone calls him their girlfriend
- moot gushing over their stupid idiot nerd loser graham on the daily doesnt matter if it’s a photo from 30 years ago or a month ago and at the same time hating themself for doing so (this is a cycle)
- MANY moots losing their minds thirsting over noel gallagher’s fucked up everything (you guys make my day every day)
- moots calling liam their pet dog unless it’s 2014 to current liam, then it’s the same as noel
- trio of ian brown fans supporting each other & admiring him like an angel
- britpop fanartists when they make super realistic grandpa noel art and call him sexy
What the difference between transexual and transgender?
I heard that the difference was that transexuals have medically transitioned where transgender haven't.
But like is there a difference or are they just synonyms?
I mean if they are I prefer transgender because transexual doesn't make sense to me because it makes it seem like a sexual thing and I don't want to be associated with sex cause I'm ace and the thought of anyone thinking about me in any manner close to sexual creep me out.
i think its different for a lot of people but to me and my own transsexual is just a transgender person whos primarily focused on the medical aspects of transition. every transsexual person is also transgender, but transsexual is just a more specific terms for trans people who either have medically transitioned, are medically transitioning, or want to medically transition. some people believe that only trans people who have had/want bottom surgery and/or binary trans people are transsexual but i disagree with this, and some trans people use the term transsexual because theyre "ashamed" of other trans people and "arent like those weird freaks" and i do not respect them. im not rly sure what to say about that bit at the end but you dont have to call yourself transsexual if you dont want to, even if you could fit the definition. one of the nice things about labels is that you dont have to use them and if another label makes you feel more comfortable then you can just use that one lol. i personally use transsexual and transgender interchangeably unless im talking about specifically transsexual people
they're similar words and there's a lot of overlap so it's easy to confuse them, but a transgender person is defined as (Wikipedia) [a person who] has a gender identity different from that typically associated with the sex they were assigned at birth, whereas Transsexual is a planet in the galaxy of Transylvania and the home of the scientist Dr. Frank N. Furter
I get so unexplainably maternal everytime I see the beatles when they were kids and starting out (they're older than my grandma and even in the early 60s older than me now)
prguitarman
jacobvanloon
yousharknotpass
amandla
dailybridgerton
titsay
areudirty
gracieabrams
snowghoul
