Mad Dog
pairing: 96!Liam x Fem!Reader wc: 4.3k summary: He’s mad about you. Everybody knows it, everyone can tell. But what are you doing to keep him that way? Well… Someone’s got to teach him how to be a good boy. cw: smut, power dynamics, sub!Liam, praise kink, puppy play, hair pulling, hand job, oral sex (m reciving), multiple orgasms, dry orgasm, overstimulation, crying during sex, fluffy aftercare An: there are a lot of things i didn’t get to include and wish i had, so i might do a part two of this…
✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧
Liam's hand still remembers the curve of your hip when you're no longer there.
It's an unconscious thing, his thumb moving slightly over the fabric of your dress while you were talking to someone whose name he can't recall, and it hangs suspended in the air when you excuse yourself to the bathroom. You disappear into the crowd and he follows you with his eyes until the distance does its work. Only then does he lower his arm. Only then does he go back to being Liam Gallagher.
"Fuckin' hell," says Bonehead from beside him, with a smile that isn't entirely kind. "Proper sweet, that."
Liam gives him a look.
"Shut it."
You've been at this for three hours: an industry party in a Soho venue that smells of expensive cigarettes and even more expensive opinions, the kind of place where everyone pretends they don't know who you are while clocking you from the corner of their eye. Liam should be in his element. And to some extent he is, because he always is, it's constitutional, but there's something in him tonight that's slightly... calibrated. Like someone's turned an internal dial down two or three notches.
Noel has noticed since they arrived.
"Seriously," he goes on, leaning his elbow on the bar. "This is going too far."
"What is?"
"That." He gestures vaguely in the direction you disappeared. "All of this."
Liam picks up his drink and says nothing, which already says something.
You two met about five months ago at one of these things, or something like it — an event he hadn't wanted to be at and one you were at voluntarily because someone had cancelled at the last minute. That's what you told him that night: that it hadn't exactly been your idea of a friday night.
He thought you were the strangest girl he'd ever met, which led him to think you were the most honest, and then he stopped thinking too clearly because he had other problems at the time, the kind that get sorted with more alcohol, or less, depending on who you ask.
You asked if he was alright. Nobody asked him that.
"I thought you liked her," he says at last, and he hates the way it comes out, almost defensive.
For months you'd been the person he paid attention to without anyone asking him to, without him even noticing when it had started happening. In his head it was going to be another one of his one-night things, but then there was another night, and another, and suddenly you were the person who picked up when he rang at three in the morning, without asking why he was ringing so late.
"We like her," says Noel, without thinking about it. "She's sound."
"Then I don't know what the problem is."
"The problem is you, since you've been with her."
Liam opens his mouth. Closes it.
"Look at yerself," adds Guigsy, who until now had been quiet with the particular patience of someone who's been waiting for his moment. "You're wearin' a tie, mate."
Liam glances down for half a second, just long enough for everyone to see, then looks straight ahead again with his jaw tight.
The tie had been your idea. Well, not exactly — you'd said, while he was rummaging through the wardrobe that same afternoon, that you thought it suited him. An observation. No order, no insistence, just a passing comment while you put your earrings in in front of the mirror. He put it on without a second thought and didn't think about it again until now, until Guigsy says it with that smirk.
"It's just a tie," he says.
"Yeah," says Noel. "It is."
He doesn't smile. That's what stops Liam from dismissing it entirely, because Noel always has something —an irony, a punchline— but right now he's just looking at him with that expression he uses when he's being completely serious and doesn't want it to show.
"When was the last time you actually went out?" asks Bonehead.
"I'm out now, aren't I?"
"You're at an industry event nursin' a beer you've not touched in half an hour because she prefers you don't mix." A pause. "It's not the same."
Liam doesn't answer because he can't say it's a lie. The bottle in his hand is such a small detail it almost doesn't count — it's not that he can't drink, he just doesn't particularly fancy it tonight. The difference exists. It's subtle, but it exists.
A year ago Liam didn't know the word subtle.
But a year ago he hadn't been doing well either. Though that's something he doesn't tell them, not in those words, because some things between them travel differently or don't travel at all.
But Noel knows anyway. Noel was there when the nights stretched in a way that was no longer fun, when the after of the after ended in places he shouldn't have been and with people who weren't good for him, and the next-day hangover wasn't just physical but something heavier, something that stayed. Noel saw it. Didn't say anything, or said little, because he didn't know how either, and then you appeared and somehow the problem sorted itself out and Noel breathed easier without asking himself too closely how.
Until now.
"What worries me," says his brother, choosing his words with a precision Liam finds irritating, "isn't her. It's that I don't know if you know where you end and where what she wants begins."
"I know exactly what I want."
"Do you?" Noel looks at the tie. Just for a moment, without pointing. Doesn't need to point, the gesture is already made. "Did you want this?"
The silence that follows is answer enough for both of them.
Bonehead lets out a short laugh, one of his, more to ease the tension than anything else.
"Mate, she keeps you like a dog on a lead" He says it without real malice, almost fondly, which is what makes it worse.
Guigsy laughs quietly and Noel doesn't smile but doesn't contradict him either.
Liam considers it, which is itself something new: a year ago he wouldn't have considered anything, he'd have shut the conversation down with a laugh or an insult and ordered another drink. Now the thought lands and stays, and Noel's question has longer roots than he'd like to admit.
Is that right? Is he a dog? No, it's ridiculous. He chooses. He's always chosen, that's the only thing he's ever done in his life — choose, sometimes badly and sometimes worse, but always him.
Though it's also true that tonight he put on a tie.
He opens his mouth to reply but at that moment he sees you appear at the far end of the room, weaving through clusters of people in your specific way of moving, trying not to bother anyone, and the thought stops mid-sentence. His body has already turned towards you before his head has finished the thought. Noel sees it but says nothing more.
Dog.
The word sits there, unclaimed.
The suggestion comes out of nowhere, as it always does, because that's how things work in this world: someone knows someone who has a place, and the place has what's needed, and suddenly the night that was going to end doesn't end.
"There's an after in Notting Hill," says Bonehead, in the casual tone of someone suggesting a coffee. "Marcus's place. You know how it gets."
They know how it gets. Liam knows how it gets, and there's a part of him, old and familiar, that's already half in before his mouth has said anything. '96 has been long and loud and brilliant and exhausting, and there are nights when the only answer that makes sense is more, always more, until your body asks you to stop.
"I'm in," says someone.
"Me an' all."
He looks for your eyes.
There's no warning in them, much less disappointment. It's just a look, calm and steady, the kind of look that doesn't ask for anything because it doesn't need to, as if you're simply waiting to see what he does. Nothing more. No reproach, no weight of everything you both know came before this, before you, before anyone bothered to ask if he was alright.
It lasts less than three seconds.
"I'll pass," says Liam.
Nobody pushes too hard. You get your coats, head out, and the october air on the street is cold and clean after three hours of tobacco and expensive perfume. You're ahead for a moment, saying goodbye to someone at the door, and in that gap Liam hears it behind him, low, mixed with a laugh:
"Good dog"
He doesn't turn around.
The flat smells the way it always does: the washing powder you use, the leather of his jacket on the hook, something vaguely citrusy he couldn't name. Liam sits on the edge of the bed, dropping his shoes carelessly, and listens to you moving in the bathroom — the tap, the soft sounds of your nightly routine, your voice rising above all of it telling some story about someone you'd seen at the event, a girl in a terrible dress or something, a story he follows at half-attention because there's something else lodged somewhere behind his eyes.
Good dog.
He loosens the tie without thinking, one pull, and lets it hang.
"Are you listening to me?"
"Yeah," he lies.
You laugh from the bathroom, which means you know he isn't, but you don't press it. Liam looks at the floor. The floor doesn't tell him anything useful.
When you come out, you're still talking, face washed and wearing that silk pyjama set he finds obscene in the best possible way, the one that slides over your body in a manner that strikes him as almost offensive in its simplicity. And Liam thinks, not for the first time, that you are the most irritatingly sexy thing he's ever seen even when you're not trying to be, especially when you're not trying to be.
You cross the room barefoot, dropping something on the bedside table, and he watches you without moving from where he is, with that sense that his body has decided to stay still while his head keeps turning over somewhere else.
You come to him without interrupting your sentence, place your hands on his shoulders, your thumbs finding the tight muscle on either side of his neck with a pressure that suggests you already know where it hurts before asking. He exhales without meaning to. A small sound, almost nothing, gone before he can regret making it.
His hand goes to your hip without a decision, a reflex, his fingers curving over the silk, and for a moment they're just that: the weight of his hand, the pressure of yours, the silence of the room.
"I'm proud of you, y'know?" you say, your voice shifting registers, softer, closer. "You handled tonight really well. Genuinely. You've been getting so much better lately."
Liam says nothing. Your thumbs move in slow circles and he feels the heat of your hands through his shirt.
"I think you deserve a reward."
You say it close to his ear, almost absently, as if you're only playing, but you feel him tense under your hands.
The word lands strangely, with an echo you can't hear because you weren't in that conversation — you didn't hear Bonehead laugh, didn't see Noel glance at the tie.
A reward... like a fucking treat. Liam frowns slightly, moving his hand away from your hip, and says, without looking at you:
"What am I, " he says, in a tone that's halfway to an accusation "a dog?"
You laugh. Not mockingly but genuinely, surprised —the laugh of someone who didn't see that coming— and that throws him more than any answer you could have given.
"I don't know," you say, almost in a whisper. "Are you?"
And he's about to get annoyed when he feels your fingers leave his shoulders and thread into his hair. They don't ask permission, they never do — they just take, and the grip is clean and firm and pulls his head back until you're above him, your face a few centimetres from his, smiling down at him.
And then, quieter still, almost at his mouth:
"Dog."
Liam has heard that word three times tonight. The first two left something cold and sharp in his chest. This one is different, because it's you saying it. Quietly, almost at his mouth, in that pyjama, with that smile and your fingers in his hair.
And his body doesn't wait for his head to finish working anything out, the heat drops straight down, instinctive, and the tension in his jeans is an answer clear enough it would almost embarrass him if your eyes weren't looking at him exactly the way they're looking at him right now.
Your lips are a centimetre from his, close enough that he can feel them without actual contact, and when he moves his head seeking more, you've already pulled back a centimetre. A minimal shift, and what's left is barely the lightest brush, pressure just enough for him to feel it and lose it in the same second, before he can hold onto it.
When he opens his eyes fully, he finds you smiling, that quiet satisfaction spread across your face, and he can't even be annoyed about it because his mouth is dry and his pulse is visible in his throat.
"Look at you..." you say, almost to yourself.
He doesn't know what face he's making, but the way you say it makes it easy enough to imagine.
Before he can say anything, you're already moving. Your lips find the exact spot where your thumbs had been, and Liam tilts his head to one side without deciding to, giving you more room, because his body understands these things faster than he does.
The kisses are small, deliberate, each one in a slightly different place from the last, moving slowly up the side of his neck until you stop just behind his ear, your hands sliding over his shirt, and he feels the heat of every point of contact with an almost irritating clarity, as if the fabric weren't there.
The bed shifts when you climb onto it. He feels your weight settle at his back, your knees on either side of his hips without quite touching him, and your hands come back to his shoulders, moving down his chest over his shirt, unhurried.
As if he's not going anywhere.
Your mouth doesn't leave his neck, moving towards his nape as his hair brushes your cheek. He has his eyes closed and his hands resting on his own knees because he doesn't quite know what to do with them and moving them seems to require a kind of concentration he doesn't currently have access to.
Your hands move down his chest, slowly, working open the buttons of his shirt one by one, and he feels the drag of your fingers against the fabric, the air of the room on the skin you leave uncovered. And when you reach the last button and your hands keep going, he holds his breath.
Your palm presses flat against him, over the denim, the pressure being deliberate and entirely insufficient at the same time, and his hands tighten on his knees.
"You've been such a good boy, haven't you," you murmur, close to his ear, your mouth still near his neck.
Not a real question, the kind where you already know the answer and just want to hear him say it.
Your fingers move, tracing the shape of his erection through the fabric, without urgency, making his jaw tighten slightly.
When he doesn't answer, you apply a concentrated pressure, and the sound he lets out is involuntary and completely honest, which you receive calmly, as if it were exactly what you expected.
"Haven't you, " you say, almost absently. "darling?"
Liam moves his hands to either side of him, gripping the covers.
"Yes" he says. It comes out rough, shorter than he meant it to, but it is what it is.
And it's enough for you.
Your hands move to the button of his jeans, open it without hurrying, and he lifts his hips slightly when you guide him to — just enough for you to pull them down along with his underwear and let them drop to the floor. The air of the room touches his skin, and Liam stays still, shirt open and everything else exposed, aware that you've leaned over his shoulder to look.
What you're looking at is obvious. How hard he is, the wet, pink tip, the thin thread of pre-cum working its way down slowly — everything he hasn't said aloud about how much he's enjoying this, right there.
"Yeah," you repeat, softer. "a good boy f'me."
Your hand wraps around him, fingers closing with a pressure that's too good and not enough at the same time, and you drag your thumb over the tip, collecting the pre-cum and spreading it slowly downward, covering him, and Liam shifts forward slightly with a low sound in his throat, his fists closing in the sheets, his body chasing more friction and finding only what you decide to give.
Then your teeth find the curve of his neck without warning —a brief, deliberate pressure— as he makes a sound before he can do anything about it, and almost immediately your lips return to the same spot, kissing it, then your tongue tracing the mark you've left until the muscle beneath his skin relaxes in spite of everything.
Your hand moves at a steady pace, unhurried, rising and wrapping the tip with a pressure that concentrates exactly where he feels it most before sliding back down to the base and squeezing lightly, and Liam tips his head back with his eyes closed and his teeth clenched, trying to stay still, not entirely sure why he's trying.
He can feel your breasts against his back. The thin fabric of his shirt, the silk of your pyjamas, and through those two layers the heat of your skin and the pressure of your hard nipples pressing against him with every breath, every shift you make, and he processes that information in a way that isn't entirely rational.
"You've been so good for so long," you murmur near his ear, the rhythm of your hand unchanged. "Making such an effort. Behaving yourself."
He doesn't answer in words but something in his body loosens — his shoulders dropping half a centimetre — and you feel it, because you feel everything.
"Yeah" you say, soft. "you like this, don't you?"
You add the other hand and Liam forgets whatever it was he was trying to control.
Both thumbs working the head, both palms moving along his length, and he doesn't know where to look because there's nothing to look at, only to feel, and what he feels is too much to stay still. His hands find your thighs by instinct, gripping, looking for something to hold onto.
He's close. He knows it and you know it — you can feel it in how his breathing has changed, in how his hips are chasing your hand without him deciding to.
He tries to stay quiet anyway, teeth clenched, jaw tight, that useless effort to hold onto something that no longer entirely belongs to him.
"Come on, baby," you say, your lips at the edge of his ear. "Let me hear your pretty voice."
And then one of your hands drops, cupping the weight of his balls with a soft, deliberate pressure, while the other picks up the pace, and Liam lets out the sound he'd been holding back — low and shapeless, filling the room, nothing like anything he'd planned to do.
"Come for me, pretty," you whisper, your hand still moving.
His fingers dig into your thighs, and the first pulse shakes him all the way through.
"Good boy," you say, the moment you see it, and that alone makes the next one come harder — cum reaching his stomach in several waves while Liam grips your thighs and exhales all at once, murmuring your name, or something close to it.
Your hand doesn't stop. It carries him through to the end, to the last contraction, until there's nothing left, and when his body finally goes slack you ease the pressure in your left hand, but the movement of the other continues, slower now, softer, covering his full length with a delicacy that contrasts with everything that came before and that is somehow just as intense.
"That's it," you say, as you settle back beside him. "You did so well."
You guide him with your hands on his shoulders until he's lying flat on the bed, and you take a moment to look at him: shirt open, tie hanging loose, eyes half-closed. And he lets you because he has no argument against it, and because the way you're touching him now, with that calm, feels almost as good as everything before.
You lean over him with a smile.
"But you can give me one more, can't you?"
He's about to say something, to find the words to question you, when your mouth closes around him and the argument disappears entirely.
Your tongue moves slowly, gathering what's left of him, sucking with soft, steady pressure while your hand continues along his length, and he feels the tears collecting at the corners of his eyes without being able to do anything about it, his body too full of sensation to process it all.
His hand goes to your wrist. His fingers close around the bone firmly, and there's a single moment that looks like he might stop you, like he might say enough — but then he doesn't. The fingers tighten and his hand follows your movement instead of restraining it, going with you, and his hips pull back when your mouth presses harder, only to chase you the moment he feels you retreat a millimetre.
"Fuck—" he gets out, his voice wrecked. "don't stop... please."
It hurts. He feels it in every nerve ending, too much, everything too sensitive, but the satisfaction underneath the pain is of a completely different nature, deeper, and his body has taken sides without consulting him.
The tears run from his temples into his hair while his head presses against the pillow, eyes closed, fingers around your wrist gripping like it's the only solid thing left.
But your mouth doesn't ease up until it feels him come again — a different kind of tremor, sharper, rising differently from the first. No clear warning, no recognisable build-up; instead, sudden, from the inside, a tight contraction that travels up his spine and reaches his jaw before he can prepare for anything. Almost nothing comes. Only the sensation, concentrated and strange, unlike anything he knows, and his body arches on its own, without the clear release of the first time, just something that stays, vibrating.
He lies still, because it feels as if the ceiling is doing one slow revolution above him. He blinks upward with wet eyes and lungs doing what they can, the hand that had been on your wrist now completely slack, fingers loose, no strength left for anything.
Your mouth releases him slowly, and your fingers migrate to his hip, stroking the bone with the back of your hand. Then you lower your head. A small, deliberate kiss to his thigh, almost formal in its tenderness, and you move up until you're level with him.
Your hand cradles his face before he's finished registering that you've moved, and you kiss him on the cheek, slowly, carefully, as if he were something fragile you didn't want to break. Then his mouth, while your other hand moves from his hip to his stomach, tracing slow circles. He kisses you back as best he can — lips moving with less coordination than usual, but with all the intention in the world.
"How do you feel?" you ask, against his mouth.
A beat, while he looks at you.
"Fucking brilliant," he says.
You laugh, and your fingers move into his hair, stroking it from the roots, and you leave another kiss on his mouth, smaller.
"You're incredible," you say, quietly. "Genuinely."
He closes his eyes.
"My good boy," you go on, your lips brushing his temple, his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. "So good."
Liam says nothing. He doesn't need to. There's something in his chest that has loosened in a way that doesn't have an exact name, and he stays still under your hands and your kisses and your voice, letting himself be loved with the same ease with which he let himself be undone.
That's what the others didn't see. Or they saw it and couldn't read it: that nobody makes him do anything. That Liam Gallagher, who has spent his entire life taking, demanding, who has broken things and burned bridges and been late to everything... has found in this —in lying in this bed while you card your fingers through his hair and his face does something it didn't know how to do a year ago— something he didn't know he was missing; and what looks like a lead from the outside, feels from the inside like the first time in a long while that he doesn't have to prove himself to anyone.
Because he's not a dog.
But if you call him that, in that tone, in this room… he can't say it's the worst thing he's ever been called.
