I am literally obsessed with "Drop Dead"—I am absolutely loving Olivia's new album; it's a journey, and "Less" makes me cry every fucking time. Anyway, I just wanted to say I've missed posting; I'm lazy and can't be bothered to edit the posts, but stay tuned regardless. Love ya xx
So, my situationship’s actually got a girlfriend now. And get this—she’s my co-worker. So there’s me, just stood there watching him pick her up from work, and they’re walking off hand in hand... honestly, whatever…🚬
⟡ ݁₊Graham realises before you. He notices that you are quieter or that you sigh in a certain way, and suddenly he appears with that worried puppy look, adjusting his glasses. 'You alright, love? You look a bit... peaked."
⟡ ݁₊It won't let you move. If you try to get up to go for water, he puts a soft hand on your shoulder and forces you to sit down. "Stay put. I've got it." In five minutes he has transformed the sofa into a nest of blankets, pillows and a pair of his older and softer cardigans so that they smell like him.
⟡ ݁₊He tells you the most brilliant, useless bits of nonsense just to keep your mind off the pain.
⟡ ݁₊When the pain gets ugly and makes you want to cry for anything, he doesn't get scared. He gets into bed with you and lets you hide in his chest. He strokes your hair with those long guitarist fingers, with a delicacy that makes you feel like crystal.
⟡ ݁₊If you feel "ugly " or swollen, he looks at you as if you were the most beautiful thing he has seen in the entire tour. It kisses your forehead, the tip of your nose and each of your knuckles. "You're lovely, you know? Even when you're grumpy. Especially then."
⟡ ݁₊Falling Asleep: You fall asleep listening to his heartbeat and the rubbing of his fingers against your scalp. The last thing you feel is that he wraps you better and whispers to you: "Go to sleep, darling. I'm right here."
I physically cannot write anything spicy while the sun is up. It feels illegal. But once the clock strikes midnight? Proper filth. God save the Queen (or King, whatever), because my search history won’t.
cw: phone sex , smutty obvi , fluff , established relationship
☏word count: 1,466.
plot: A call at midnight breaks the distance.
𓂃 𓍯 𓂃 𓍯 𓂃 𓂃 𓍯 𓂃 𓂃 𓍯 𓂃𓂃 𓍯 𓂃 𓍯 𓂃 𓂃 𓍯
𝟶𝟷:𝟷𝟷𓏲
The hum of the air conditioning in your London flat was the only thing breaking the midnight silence. You had just finished sorting through your work files; your feet were aching, and you were infinitely grateful to have tossed your heels aside for the day.
You looked at yourself in the hallway mirror as you tied your hair up into a messy high bun, leaving a few stray strands loose that had already lost their shape from the day. You were wearing a giant blue jumper you’d stolen from Graham before he went on tour; your body was completely lost in the fabric, which still held a faint trace of his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke.
Just as you were about to crawl into bed, the telephone on the nightstand rang. The moment you answered, the background noise told you everything: distant laughter, the muffled echo of a hotel corridor, and the slam of a bedroom door.
"Tell me you’re not asleep..." Graham’s voice trailed down the line, unusually raspy. His accent was much thicker, heavier, the way it always got when he was physically exhausted. "Sorry for the hour, I know it’s bloody late. I’ve just got up to the room and... God, I just had to call you."
"Don’t worry, love. Almost. I’ve just finished sorting out some paperwork," you laughed softly, slipping under the duvet. "How was the show?"
"Paperwork? How boring..." he complained with a lazy chuckle, and you heard the heavy thud of his shoes dropping onto the hotel floor. A long, weary sigh travelled through the receiver, straight into your ear.
"The show was alright, I suppose. Loud. But I hate these hotels, honestly. The sheets smell of bleach, the mattress is like a brick, and the radiator makes this awful clicking sound every five minutes. I miss you. We’ve got to travel early tomorrow, and I can still hear the echo of Dave’s drums rattling in my head..."
Graham kept talking, rambling on about the backstage catering, a guitar string that had snapped during the third song, and how freezing the weather was in that city. He could talk for hours if you let him; he was a wonderful talker, and you genuinely loved listening to him. But you weren’t paying attention to the words anymore. It was his voice.
That low register, the sound of his breath brushing against the mouthpiece, the tiny catches in his throat from exhaustion between sentences. Hearing him speak like that—so unguarded, so vulnerable, and so damn far away—sparked a sudden heat in your stomach.
You shifted against the pillows, feeling the warmth of the blue jumper brush against your bare thighs. The loneliness of the flat suddenly felt incredibly warm.
"I miss you too," you interrupted softly, deliberately lowering your voice, letting the rustle of your duvet filter through the line. "Actually... I’m wearing your blue jumper."
An abrupt silence fell over the other end. You could picture him perfectly: shifting to the middle of the bed with his brown hair completely messy, pushing his glasses up his nose with his index finger, and biting his lower lip nervously, just like he always did.
"The... the blue one?" his voice pitched slightly higher, caught in a thread of surprise, losing half its fatigue. "It’s massive on you. Comes down to your knees."
"It’s bloody huge," you whispered. You slid a hand slowly up the inside of your thigh, enjoying the contrast of your cool fingers against your skin, which was already beginning to flush.
You heard a dry throat-clearing sound. Graham inhaled sharply, as if he’d suddenly run out of oxygen. The atmosphere shifted completely in a split second; the whiny, post-gig mood evaporated.
"Right, yeah?" he murmured. He tried to sound casual, using his usual intellectual tone, but the tremor in his voice betrayed just how fast his heart had started racing. You heard the violent creak of the hotel bed as he sat bolt upright, unable to keep still. "And... and what are you doing wearing it?"
"I was thinking about what you did the night before you left," you continued smoothly, guiding him, knowing perfectly well that his shyness needed that push, but once he was in, there was no turning back. "How you had me up against the desk in the hallway."
A low, muffled groan—a barely audible "oh, God..."—escaped Graham’s lips, followed by a nervous chuckle that melted you inside. You could practically feel his nerves vibrating through the wire; that distinct bashfulness of his that always cropped up when things got a bit too intense, but it was accompanied by a breath that was growing heavier and hotter by the second.
"Fuck me..." you heard him mutter away from the receiver, likely running a hand over his face, overwhelmed by the memory. "I thought you were going to kill me because we nearly knocked the lamp over... You were... you were so loud that night."
Graham’s tone wasn’t that of a tired man anymore. It was thick, dark.
You closed your eyes and slid your hand up to your left breast, kneading it and slowly rubbing your nipple. You slid your hand back down toward your thighs, slipping beneath the blue fabric, searching for your own warmth. The first touch made you let out a shallow sigh, a restrained gasp that travelled straight down the phone line and hit Graham's ear.
"Love?" Graham spoke through the phone. His voice was a plea—slurred, shaking, but wired with absolute urgency. "Tell me... tell me what you’re doing right now. Please. Don't go quiet on me."
That word, that "love" uttered with such desperation, his breath hitching, made you squeeze your thighs together.
A muffled whimper of his name was all you could manage in response, while on the other side of the line, the silence broke with a deep exhalation, a choked curse Graham muttered through his teeth. The sharp rasp of a zip gave way to the quick, rhythmic, desperate friction of his hand against his own skin.
"Fuck, don’t do this to me... not when I’m a bloody ocean away."
"if..." you panted, arching your back as your fingers found the exact spot. The contrast of your own ragged breathing echoing in the empty flat turned you on even more. "If you were here... I’d make you use your mouth for something other than talking."
You slipped two fingers beneath the hem of the blue jumper, finding yourself completely soaked. You let out a clean, high moan, deliberately close to the phone’s microphone, knowing exactly the effect it would have on him.
"I’d have you on your knees by the bed, Graham," you whispered dirtily, drawing out the words with a confidence that made him let out a strangled curse. "I’d make you beg me. I’d make you look up at me from below while I touch myself just like I’m doing right now... look how I have to use my own fingers because my boyfriend is too busy playing guitar in another country."
"Fuck... you’re going to kill me, you’re honestly going to kill me," Graham groaned. The sound of his movements became almost frantic, desperate.
You could picture him with his eyes squeezed shut, his head thrown back, his knuckles white from tension. "I'm... fuck, I'm so hard for you right now. You have no idea what you do to me."
Increasing the speed of your fingers, you felt the tension coil up your legs, forcing you to arch your back against the sheets. "Listen to me... I want you to imagine my hands around your neck. I want you to move for me, Graham. Faster. Do it."
"Yeah... yeah, tell me more," he begged, completely submissive to your commands, sliding his hand up and down his completely slick, flushed shaft, his voice trailing off in a deliciously filthy way. "God, your voice..."
"I want you to think about what I’m going to do to you when you get back," you continued, panting harder, losing control of your own rhythm as the climax began to close in on you. "I’m going to take your clothes off slowly, but I’m not going to let you touch me. You’re going to have to earn it. You’re going to taste every single drop of what you’re making me feel right now... Ah!... Graham..."
Your own moan cut off as a wave of intense heat crashed through your core. Your muscles clenched, squeezing the phone tightly against your ear as your body trembled beneath the blue jumper, finally surrendering to the orgasm that shook you completely.
On the other side of the line, the sound of Graham’s breathing became erratic, almost painful. Hearing you come drove him right over the edge.
"And then?" he pleaded, his voice broken, a desperate thread of a whisper that betrayed how close he was. "Please, tell me what else... don’t leave me like this..."
Still shivering, slowly catching your breath, you smiled wickedly against the pillow.
"And then... I’d give you the best blowjob of your life," you murmured, dragging out the words with agonizing slowness. "I’d make you ask for it, make you beg me not to stop, watching the goosebumps break out all over your skin... And only when you’re about to lose your mind, I’d let you fill me up. So deep you’ll forget what bloody city you’re even in. Think you could handle that, Graham? Think you could keep it together?"
A harsh, muffled, completely broken groan hit the phone receiver. The final question was the ultimate trigger; Graham couldn't answer with words, only with the primal, desperate sound of his own release.
You heard the mattress creak violently one last time, followed by a deep exhalation, a trembling gasp that seemed to scrape his throat before melting into a long, exhausted sigh. The frantic pace on the other side of the line stopped dead, leaving only the echo of his erratic, heavy, wet breathing filling the silence of his hotel room.
You lay still, your chest rising and falling, basking in the sound of his surrender while the warmth of your own climax finished settling into your body.
Several seconds passed with nothing but the sound of breath being recovered. Finally, the rustle of hotel sheets indicated that Graham was flopping back onto the bed, completely undone.
You smiled self-satisfied against the pillow, adjusting the fabric of the blue jumper, which now felt heavier and warmer against your skin.
"That quick, Coxon? I thought you boys in the band had more stamina," you teased gently, though your own tone still carried the lazy afterglow of pleasure.
You heard a faint, slightly embarrassed but deeply intimate laugh. You could easily picture him wiping his hand with a tissue from the nightstand, his cheeks flushed and his brown hair sticking to his forehead with sweat.
"Don’t push your luck," he warned, and you heard the metallic clink of his glasses as he slipped them back on—an unconscious habit of his, even when sitting alone in a dark room. "When I get back to London... you won't have enough time to regret everything you said tonight. I swear to God."
"It’s a promise, then."
"It’s a threat"
he corrected, though the sweet, smitten tone completely gave away his real feelings. There was a brief pause, and his voice dropped again, losing the post-orgasm tension to return to that vulnerable warmth from the start. "Thanks for pick up the phone... well, for playing along. I was honestly going out of my mind in this room."
"Anytime, love. Now try to get some rest. You've got a long journey tomorrow."
"Yeah... the bloody tour bus, I have to be there at seven," he sighed, and the rustle of the receiver against his pillow echoed as he rolled onto his side.
You were just about to reply when two sharp knocks rapped against Graham's door.
"Oi, open up! I'm freezing my bollocks off out here!"
"...Damon, fuck's sake!" Graham’s whisper instantly turned into a hiss of pure panic.
You heard the violent groan of the mattress as he bolted out of bed, followed by a dull thud; he’d probably tripped over his own shoes in the dark while trying to pull his trousers up in a mad rush.
"Oi, Graham! I know you're awake, I saw the bloody light under the door!" Damon's voice came through the line, muffled but clear, dragging his words in that distinct, lazy, annoying tone of his. "Alex kept the only key to my room and I'm not sleeping in the corridor. Open up."
On the other end of the phone, Graham’s breathing was pure chaos. The contrast between the heavy, filthy, incredibly intimate atmosphere they had shared a minute ago and the abrupt interruption from his frontman was almost comical.
"Just... a second!" Graham shouted toward the door, trying to make his voice sound normal, though it was still completely raspy and out of breath. He pressed the receiver to his mouth, speaking in a frantic whisper, "Love, I’ve got to go. That idiot Damon is outside and... God, I'm still half-naked."
A soft, muffled giggle escaped you against the pillow. You pulled the blue jumper tighter around yourself, thoroughly enjoying the chaos on the other side.
"Don’t open it looking like that, Coxon. He’ll figure it out instantly," you teased in a low voice, dialling up the sensuality just to torment him a bit more. "Though it would be funny for him to see how I left you..."
"You’re evil... you’re genuinely evil," Graham groaned, and you could hear the rustle of fabric as he finished dressing against the clock. Quick footsteps hurried toward the door.
"Graham, move it!" Damon complained again, giving another loose thump to the wood. "I swear I can hear someone talking in there. Have you got someone in there?"
"I’m coming!" Graham snapped back.
Graham finally swung the door open. There stood Damon with his stupid smirk, immediately peering over Graham’s shoulder. "Who're you talking to?" he asked, spotting the landline telephone sitting face up on the nightstand.
"No one," Graham blurted out, planting himself firmly in the doorframe to block his way.
"No one?" Damon let out a proper laugh, drawing out his words with that cheeky, arrogant confidence of his. He wasn’t buying it for a second. He locked his eyes onto Graham’s bright red cheeks, his messy hair, and finally, the off-the-hook phone. "Coxon, you’re red as a tomato and the phone’s off the hook."
On the other side of the line, in your quiet London flat, you heard a muffled scuffle, and suddenly, Damon’s house clear, mocking voice filled your ear.
"Aha! I knew it was you!" Damon exclaimed, letting out a triumphant laugh. "Hello!!. Sorry to break up the long-distance romance, but this idiot had me freezing outside while you had him... well, I assume quite entertained, judging by the look of pure panic on his face right now."
You clamped a hand over the sleeve of the blue jumper, letting out a loud laugh against the pillow. It was impossible not to crack up at the situation.
"Give me that back!" Graham’s desperate shout echoed in the background. You heard the sound of rustling sheets and a heavy thud; Graham had quite literally lunged at him to wrestle the phone away.
"Tell him to get off me!" Damon complained, pulling the receiver away from his mouth as he ducked his guitarist's swipes. "Listen, do me a favour and tell him to go to sleep, yeah? We’re travelling early tomorrow, and if Graham’s in a foul mood because he hasn’t slept, he’s going to take it out on me the whole bus ride."
After one last violent rustle, there was a groan from Damon followed by quick footsteps. Graham had finally regained control of the phone.
"Love? You still there?" Graham’s voice came through the receiver completely breathless, panting, carrying a wave of embarrassment so intense you could feel it from miles away. "God... I am so sorry. He’s an absolute knob."
"I’ll call you tomorrow, yeah?" Graham whispered hurriedly, his tone returning to his usual sweet, slightly flustered self. "Try to get some sleep. I love you."
"I love you too, Graham. Have fun with your guest," you teased one last time, thoroughly enjoying his misery.
"Shut up..." he managed to murmur affectionately before the line cut off with a sharp click.
✶ his is a contained intensity that explodes as soon as you close the glass door. He is the kind of man who would stare at you through the steam, with that heavy and cynical look that becomes soft just for you.
It all started when Oasis finally took off. Noel bought that London flat with the bathroom that looked like it belonged in a magazine—the one you'd both obsessed over when house-hunting. You'd just moved in, and he was absolutely spent after an eternal day in the studio. You were mid-shower when he walked in just to splash his face, but he stopped dead, mesmerised by your silhouette through the glass.
You didn't look away; you gave him a proper show until you finally locked eyes through the steam. "Oi, you pervert," you teased with a smirk. He pretended indifference at first, muttering a dry, "Yes, love?" But his gaze never left you. When you pressed your boobs against the transparent door, his jaw tightened. "Think you're dead clever, don't you?" He murmured before stepping in.
✶ It corners you against the wall, using its weight to dominate the space.
✶ While the hot water slides down his back, he leans to bite your earlobe and whispers something about how fucking good you look under that light, with a voice so full of smoke and cynicism that it makes you forget even your own name.
✶ Slow kisses that taste like water and expensive soap. He takes his time to worship your neck, leaving marks that he knows you will not be able to cover easily with clothes.
✶ Whispered orders. "Turn around," or "Stay still." with that Macunian scratchy tone of voice, in a very low voice, is much more lethal than any scream.
✶ Slow and deep thrusts.
✶ He holds you by the thighs while the water hits his shoulders, keeping you close, as if you were the only song he wants to play forever.
✶ He likes to see you all soapy and slippery
✶ He likes to use the weight of his body to crush you against the wall. You will feel his chest firm against your back and his hands going down your hips, squeezing hard, making it clear that in that space of two square metres, you are his.
✶ He will end the session by washing your hair with an almost reverent calm, enjoying the post-chaos silence.
✶He is the one who wraps you in a huge and warm towel, looking at you with silent pride while smoking a cigarette in front of the fogged mirror, seeing you through the reflection with that face of “I am the owner of the world”.
Sometimes, when they are at a boring dinner, he leans over and whispers in your ear: "I hope the water heater is on, because as soon as we get home you won't leave the bathroom for an hour."
۶ৎWith Liam, it’s all or nothing. He’s impulsive, electric, and fucking loud. The shower isn't for washing; it’s just the place where he couldn't wait another second to have you. ۶ৎ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ۶ৎ
For Liam, the discovery was much wilder, happening during those first world tours in posh hotels where he felt like the King of the World. One night, after a soundcheck fuelled by adrenaline, he stumbles into the room smelling of cigarettes, sweat and beer, with the energy through the clouds. You were already taking a bath to go to sleep, but Liam doesn't know what "decency" is.
۶ৎ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ۶ৎ
۶ৎ He drags you underwater without caring if you still have your clothes on or if the water is burning. His hands are impatient, grabbing your hair or your waist with an urgency that makes you tremble.
۶ৎ That trademark arrogance translates into the shower as a need for you to look at him. He lifts your chin while ramming into you, eyes locked on yours, wanting to catch every single reaction.
۶ৎ He loves to see how your hands desperately search for somewhere to hold on (his hair, the taps, his shoulders). Feeling that you "need" it to not fall is its biggest drug.
۶ৎHe likes to see how your back arches under the stream of water when he bites your shoulder.
۶ৎ A lot of dirty talk with that very strong Mancunian accent. He calls you "mine" and tells you that you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
۶ৎ It's messy and physical. Choppy laughter when someone slips, kisses that bite, and that feeling that the outside world does not exist while his hands run all over you under the stream of water.
۶ৎ He loves to see you after everything happens, soaked, with makeup running (if you had) and that look of "I don't know what just happened", while he smiles at you with that smugness that he knows has left you ruined.
۶ৎ When he finishes, he stays hugging you under the water, with heavy breathing hitting your chest, refusing to let you go even though the steam has already disised.
۶ৎHe will take you out of the shower carrying you, laughing at how much they are soaking the floor, and he will probably want to stay in bed without even drying himself
۶ৎ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ۶ৎ
How he mention it later :
Liam has no shame. If they are with the lads in the pub, he will say things referring to it just to see you suffer. You hit him on the shoulder telling him that he is too drunk to shut up, but he just laughs: "Don't make that face, if it was you who almost ripped off the tap from the wall from so much squeezing...".
"William!", you will tell him trying to cover your face from shame while he takes a sip of his beer with a smile of victory.
Listen, when I was a young’un (and, let’s be real, still now), I had it proper bad for Paul McCartney. I remember clocking him for the first time on the cover of one of my old man’s vinyls and I was just floored, wasn't I? Absolute goner.
Anyway, I ended up making a Wattpad account and started scribbling all sorts about him. I found some of those old drafts the other day and bloody hell—honestly, why didn't anyone confiscate my phone? I was doing way too much.
Point is, I was wondering if you lot want me to bring back Sexy Macca round these parts? Just a thought.
love youse all! and thank you very much for the love you have given to the account ᡴꪫ
☆ The glasses situation: He constantly forgets to take them off. You’ve lost count of the times you’ve had to gently slide the frames off the bridge of his nose after he’s fallen asleep mid-sentence. He’ll give a little sleepy mumble, eyes fluttering shut, completely oblivious to the fact that you’ve just saved his glasses from being absolutely mangled by morning.
☆ Don’t even bother buying your own pyjamas. You’re forever swiping one of his old, thin Corduroy button-downs or a battered Fred Perry polo. They’re a bit scratchy, but they smell properly of him—faint tobacco and old vinyl—and he’s right chuffed seeing them hanging off your shoulders.
☆ Graham isn't one for grand, cinematic declarations, but in the sack, he’s pure sugar. Before dousing the bedside lamp, he’d lean in for that signature nose-to-nose bump. He’s not one for performative PDA, but in the quiet of the bedroom, he’s the softest man alive. He’d mutter a muffled, sleepy "night, love" against your temple.
☆ Even when he’s knackered, his hands are never still. While you’re settling in, he’ll spend ages tracing patterns on the back of your hand or absent-mindedly playing with the hem of your shirt. It’s like he’s trying to memorise the texture of your skin, his fingers moving with that same restless, twitchy energy he has on stage, but infinitely more gentle.
☆ The human radiator. Seriously, the man is a furnace. In the dead of winter, it’s a godsend; in the summer, it’s a total nightmare. He’s got a habit of tucking his freezing feet under your calves just to hear you shriek, flashing you that cheeky, gap-toothed grin when you try to kick him off.
☆ He’s a massive nuzzler. He likes to bury his face right in the crook of your neck, his messy fringe tickling your skin. You can feel the rhythm of his breathing slowing down as he settles, his long, knobby fingers loosely interlaced with yours under the duvet.
☆ The morning after Waking up to find him already staring at you, eyes soft and sleepy behind a curtain of messy hair. No words, just him pulling you closer, his chin resting on top of your head. He’s content to stay in the "haze" of the bed for as long as possible before the rest of the world—and Damon’s frantic phone calls —inevitably catches up to him.
“No Distance Left to Run” hits like a proper gut punch every single time. Just me screaming IT’S OVERRRRR in my room ignoring all my responsibilities like a total mess. Actually, how am I meant to go about my day after that?? Crying fr, god help me.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌A/n: I'm finally back, loves! So sorry for the delay, life's been a bit mental lately, hasn't it? But I'm making it up to you with a deep dive into our favourite shy guitarist. This one is... well, it's a lot. Grab a cuppa and enjoy!🤎☕️.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
A = Aftercare: (what they're like after sex)
He is incredibly sweet, almost to a fault. Once the dust settles, he's immediately fussing over you-tucking the duvet around your shoulders, bringing you a glass of water, and whispering praise. He'll cuddle you in a comfortable silence until you both catch your breath, but let's be real: he's definitely the one who falls asleep first, snoring softly against your neck.
B = Body Part:(their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's)
On him? His hands. Full stop. Those long, agile guitarist's fingers are capable of making you see stars.
On you? He is utterly obsessed with your mouth. He loves watching you bite your lip when he's... busy down there. (And yes, he's 100% a "bum" person over "tits"— there's just something about the way you look from behind that drives him mad).
C = Cum: (anything to do with cum, basically)
A creampie is his silent way of claiming you. Especially if you've been together for years, it's deeply territorial for him. He'll bury his face in the crook of your neck to muffle a groan, making sure he's as deep as possible when he finally loses it.
D = Dirty Secret: (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
definitely have a sextape (it was totally your idea).
You framed it as an "emergency kit" for when he's away on tour, but it turned into something incredibly intimate and raw. He made sure the camera captured exactly what he's most obsessed with. I can just picture Damon grabbing the camcorder to film some absolute rubbish, and Graham nearly ripping his arm off to get it back.
E = Experience: (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)
Babe, the man was in Blur. He's seen it all. Don't let the "geeky" specs fool you; he knows exactly which buttons to press and how to use a rhythm to his absolute advantage. He's a pro, even if he acts shy about it.
F = Favourite Position: (this goes without saying)
Cowgirl. He's a massive fan of the visual. Seeing you move on top of him while he holds your hips (or pins your hands above your head) allows him to admire every single flush and flick of your expression.
G = Goofy: (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
It's a mix! He can be intense and focused, but if something silly happens-like a weird noise or falling off the bed-he'll collapse into giggles with you. He's not one to get moody if the "vibe" breaks. He'll kiss you through his laughter, whispering something dorky to make you blush before getting back to business.
H = Hair: (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
He keeps things tidy down there, though I doubt he'd go for a full shave. He's a bit of a "messy" lad in daily life, but he's very particular about hygiene-he never wants to smell anything less than clean. Regarding you? He couldn't care less. Natural or smooth, he thinks you're gorgeous regardless.
I = Intimacy: (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
For Graham, sex and love are tangled up like guitar strings. There's always a lot of eye contact (when his glasses aren't flying off) and soft, breathless "I love you" in the heat of the moment. It's never just physical; it's a soul-connection.
J = Jacking Off: (masturbation headcanon)
He's a frequent flier in this department, especially on the tour bus. He has a very vivid imagination and usually replays specific memories of you in his head to get the job done-specifically that one time in the studio.
K = Kink: (one or more of their kinks)
Light restraint. He loves holding your hands above your head to keep you still. Also, when you're in missionary, he's a huge fan of you grabbing him by the neck-it makes him feel that desperate, frantic kind of need.
L= Location: (favorite places to do the do)
Secretly? He loves the kitchen counter. But his all-time favourite is the recording studio. Pressing you up against the mixing desk while the monitors are still warm from a session? That's his peak.
M = Motivation: (what turns them on, gets them going)
Your confidence. Nothing turns him on more than seeing you take initiative or hearing how much you're enjoying what he's doing. The sound of your breathing hitching is his absolute fuel.
N= No: (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)
Anything involving real pain or heavy degradation is a hard "no." He wants to adore you, not hurt you. The idea of actually causing you distress kills his mood instantly.
He's also not big on elaborate roleplay; he prefers the real you.
O = Oral: (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
He prefers giving. He's a perfectionist by nature and will take all the time in the world to ensure you're coming apart at the seams. However, he's a sucker for the visual of you looking down at him, wide-eyed and breathless, while you return the favour.
Р = Pace: (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual etc.)
Gradual. He starts slow, almost torturously so, to savour every inch of you. But once he loses his self-control, the pace becomes steady and athletic. He has the stamina of a man who spends two hours jumping around a stage so he can for a while.
Q = Quickie: (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
They're rare because he's a "slow-burn" kind of guy, but when they happen, they're frantic. Up against a wall or in the back of the tour van between soundcheck and the gig-sweaty, nervous, and high on adrenaline.
R = Risk: (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Moderate. He wouldn't do it in a public park, but a dressing room with the rest of the band just on the other side of the door? Absolutely.
> *Imagine: You're riding him on a leather sofa while the lads are laughing in the hallway. He's got his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet, and you've got yours over his, both of you vibrating with the thrill of not getting caught.*
S = Stamina: (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Usually 2-3 rounds. Again, the man is a performer. He can handle a couple of long sessions without even breaking a sweat.
T = Toys: (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
He doesn't feel the need for them, but he's intellectually curious. If you bring something into the bedroom, he'll examine it like a new guitar pedal before putting it to very, very good use.
U = Unfair: (how much they like to tease)
He is a massive tease. He's the king of touching you under the table at a posh dinner or whispering something filthy in your ear. He loves the tension of making you want him when you can't have him.
V = Volume: (how loud they are, what sounds they make,etc.)
He's not a loud talker, but he's "vocal." Expect deep groans from the back of his throat, shaky exhales, and lots of "Oh, God" or "f-ing hell" whispered against your skin.
W = Wildcard: (a random headcanon for the character)
You're shagging after a long night at the Brits. His glasses are sliding down his nose, so you reach up to push them back-but on a whim, you snatch them off his face and put them on yourself. They're slightly wonky because of the way he's hitting you, and when he looks up and sees you staring back through his own lenses, he absolutely loses it, his pace turning hard and desperate.
X= X-Ray: (let's see what's going on under those clothes)
He's got a lovely "happy trail" of dark hair leading down from his navel. As for his kit? It's surprisingly large, veiny, and very, very impressive.
Y = Yearning: (how high is their sex drive?)
His libido is sky-high but very selective. He doesn't want
"anyone"; he wants you. He's the type of boyfriend who always needs a hand on your thigh while driving or his foot hooked around yours under the table. When he's on tour, he misses you so much it aches-which is why he's a total menace the moment he gets home.
Z = ZZZ: (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
Like we said, Graham loses battery life fast after the climax. Once he knows you're sorted, he's out. He sleeps with one arm thrown over your waist, anchoring you to him. You'll probably have to be the one to gently slide his glasses off his face while he's already dreaming.
Your fanfics are so cute and well written❤️, love the way you write graham😭🙏
Tysm!!🥺 I’m absolutely chuffed you’re enjoying the fics. Lovely comments like this definitely keep me inspired to write more of our favourite guitarist. Sending lots of love back!🤎
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