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creads · 1 month ago

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k-i-s-s-i-n-g ☾⋆｡𖦹 °✩⋆

pairing: pre-fame + 1996 noel gallagher x reader genre: fluff, long term relationship :p word count: 5128 summary: you were liam’s friend’s older sister. he was the boy with the guitar case always slung over his shoulder. now it’s 1996 and you’re wrapped up in each other and all the memories that made you. a/n: based on super sweet requests ever—thank you !! though for everyone that wants to be kissed like a secret and remembered like a song <3

noel’s bedroom was half-dark, all golden through the curtain crack, soft with the kind of silence that made you wanna stay under the covers forever. tapes scattered on the floor, cigarette pack balanced on the edge of the desk. the kind of mess only a boy would call lived-in. it smelled like old laundry and his aftershave, like sleep and dust and the lemon shampoo you left in the shower last week.

you were straddling him, legs tangled in the duvet, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his hips. his jumper hung loose on you, sleeves past your hands. noel leaned back against the headboard, chin resting on your chest, eyelids low like the sun was too bright for him. one of his hands drummed light little rhythms against your side, barely-there taps. he did that sometimes when he was thinking—fingers twitching like they needed to write something invisible.

“one day i’m gonna be a rockstar,” he said, voice all scratch and sleep.

you looked down at him, brushing his fringe back with your fingers. “you already are.”

he huffed a quiet laugh, lips barely curling. “nah. not yet. not properly.”

“you’ve got a song on the radio.”

“yeah, but—” he shifted, head rolling to the side, cheek against your chest now. “not stadium big. not madchester-meets-the-beatles big. i mean proper. global. loud. loud enough that they hear it in fuckin’ japan.”

you smiled, nose scrunching a little. “you gonna be too famous to kiss me in public, then?”

his eyes opened just a bit, met yours. warm and sleepy and sincere. “gonna marry you.”

your heart stuttered. not because it was surprising—he’d said it before, drunk off stolen cider and rain—but this time was different. quiet. certain.

you raised a brow. “that a proposal?”

“d’you want it to be?” his voice was almost shy, not like him at all.

you pretended to think, tracing his jaw with your finger. “hmm. well, you haven’t even asked properly.”

he groaned, tucking his face back into your chest like he could hide there. “m’not gonna get on one knee in me fuckin’ socks.”

“why not?”

“you’ve seen my knees. tragic things.” he paused, breath warm against your skin. “plus… this is nicer, innit?”

you didn’t answer right away. just held him a little closer, carding your fingers through his hair.

“yeah,” you murmured after a beat. “this is perfect.”

his fingertips tapped out another beat on your side. like he was mapping you. like he was memorising the rhythm of your ribs.

“swear i’ll do it, though,” he said, quieter now. “swear i’ll get us outta here. big house, big telly. dogs. you’ll never have to look after liam again unless you want to.”

“hmm. i quite like him.”

he scoffed. “you’re the only one.”

you giggled, soft and fond. “noel?”

“mm?”

you tilted his face up with your fingers, and he looked at you with those half-lidded eyes, all soft under the lashes. “don’t forget to write a song about me when you’re famous.”

he grinned, teeth crooked and heart already yours. “already did.”

and you kissed him, slow and sleepy, with your whole sunday morning mouth. and he kissed you back like it was a promise.

you stayed like that for a while—quiet and warm and weightless. the sun climbed higher, painting soft stripes across the bedsheets, and noel’s breathing slowed under you, his fingers still tapping gentle beats like he couldn’t stop. you watched him for a long time. his lashes, the shape of him so familiar it hurt.

you weren’t thinking about the future anymore. not the tours he’d found himself on being a roadie or the madness. just the small things. the beginnings.

how did it start, again?

you couldn’t remember the exact moment he stopped being liam’s weird older brother with the too-big coat and started being yours.

but it was there, somewhere.

the first spark.

—

the first time noel really noticed you, like—noticed you—he’d just come down the stairs in that threadbare man city shirt, eyes still half-shut, hair a mess like he’d lost a fight with his own pillow. it was summer. burnage was boiling. and he’d only come down to shout at liam for nicking his guitar picks again.

but there you were.

stood in the doorway, arms crossed, hip popped like you owned the whole street. tank top, scrunchie on your wrist, chewing gum like it was a chore. you’d come to pick up your brother—jamie, the one who never shut up about liam—but now your gaze flicked lazily over to him.

to noel.

he stopped halfway down the stairs. blinked. said something dumb like, “alright?”

you raised an eyebrow. “jamie in?”

your voice was lazy and lilting and didn’t match the suburb. it stayed in his ears longer than it should’ve.

“yeah,” he mumbled. “back garden. s’playing footie with liam. probly breaking shit.”

you nodded, didn’t move yet. just let your eyes trail across the hallway, the peeling wallpaper, the wreck of shoes by the door. then back to him.

“you the brother?” you asked, like you already knew. like you’d heard the stories.

he scratched the back of his neck. “depends which one.”

you smiled, slow. “the one who’s always moaning about noise.”

his ears went pink.

you didn’t stay long—just called jamie’s name once and he came running, sweaty and breathless. you told him mum said no more than an hour and not to come home with bloody knees again. and then you were gone.

but noel stood there for a moment longer, still holding the bannister, still looking at the spot where you’d been.

“who was that?” he asked liam later.

liam had snorted. “jamie’s sister. proper bossy. always shows up like she owns the place.”

and noel, staring down at his tea, muttered, “yeah. i noticed.”

—

the second time, it was mid-july, air warm and thick with the sound of cicadas and kids chucking footballs across the street. the gallaghers’ back garden was half grass, half cigarette ends, and full of boys shouting over one another about who cheated in what game.

you were sat on the back steps, sipping flat lemonade from a pint glass, ankles crossed. your brother was inside begging your mum for a later curfew. liam was doing laps barefoot across the garden with a water pistol. it was chaos. but you didn’t mind.

noel came out with a half-tuned guitar and a stack of tab paper folded under one arm.

he didn’t say anything at first—just dropped onto the step beside you with a sigh like the sun had been arguing with him personally. his t-shirt clung to him in the heat, collar loose, a single streak of sweat along his neck. he looked wrecked. and kind of beautiful.

you glanced at the guitar. “got a song in there or just using it to look moody?”

he cracked a lazy grin. “bit of both, probably.”

“you always write out here?”

he shrugged. “more peace. until liam starts screamin’ about aliens or somethin’.”

you laughed. “so... never, then?”

he glanced sideways at you. “sometimes.”

a pause. a flicker of breeze. he adjusted the strap of his guitar, like his hands needed something to do.

“you always this quiet?” he asked after a moment. “when you’re not takin’ the piss outta me.”

“you always this nosey?” you shot back, but your voice was soft.

his mouth twitched. “i remember when you used to bring jamie over on your bike. back when your hair was all knots and you wore them stupid jelly shoes.”

you groaned. “don’t remind me.”

“i thought you were well cool,” he said simply. “still do, i s’pose.”

and just like that, your cheeks flushed warm. you weren’t used to hearing it like that. not from boys. not from noel.

before you could answer, liam came barrelling past with a handful of water balloons, soaking both of you in the process.

you squealed. noel swore. and the moment passed, but something stuck. something buzzed beneath your skin. something new.

he watched you laugh and shake out your damp hair like it was the only song worth writing that day.

—

third time it was november. the kind of wet, northern cold that soaked into your coat sleeves and made the air smell like static. you'd come by the gallaghers’ after dark to drop off your brother’s scarf — he’d forgotten it again, predictably — and noel opened the door with that sleep-mussed hair of his curling at the edges.

“didn’t think anyone’d be mad enough to come out in this,” he said, grinning.

you rolled your eyes and held up the scarf like it was a trophy. “he left this in my room again. if he catches pneumonia, it’s on me apparently.”

“heroic,” noel said, stepping back so you could come in. the lights in the house were dim, yellow and soft, the telly murmuring low from the living room. “stay for a bit?”

you did.

you sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, still wearing your coat, while he fiddled with his guitar — nothing showy, just soft chords, a little half-formed melody that melted into the walls.

“what’s that one called?” you asked, chin resting on your knees.

“dunno yet,” he said. “wrote it thinkin’ about those lights they hang up on the high street. the blue ones. shite really, but… you said once they looked like stars.”

your chest ached a little.

“maybe i’ll call it your street,” he added, eyes flicking up to yours, and for a second you thought he might say more. but he didn’t.

you leaned back on your hands and smiled. “that’d be a shit title.”

he laughed, low and warm. “yeah,” he said. “but you’d know it’s yours.”

outside, the rain pattered against the window. he kept playing. and you stayed until your toes thawed and your cheeks hurt from smiling.

—

another time, you sat on the gallagher’s back step with a mug of tea you hadn’t asked for, knees tucked to your chest, watching steam rise and vanish like thoughts you weren’t ready to name.

noel was next to you. not close. not far. just… there.

he hadn’t said much since you wandered out here, and you hadn’t either. only nodded a little when he offered you the mug, as if it were something sacred.

you could hear jamie and liam bickering inside — their voices rising and falling like a bad cover of a song you almost liked.

“you’re bein’ a knobhead,” jamie snapped.

“you said you’d trade it!”

“not my fault you didn’t ask which bloody crisps—”

the back door flew open with a groan and a slam. jamie stalked out first, followed by a scowling liam, both gripping half-eaten bags of walkers.

they spotted you and noel immediately.

“oi,” jamie said, jabbing his crisp bag toward you. “settle this.”

liam rolled his eyes. “she’s not gonna side with you just cause you’re blood.”

you blinked. “what’s the debate?”

“he nicked my cheese & onion,” jamie huffed. “i said i’d swap if he had ready salted. not if he had prawn cocktail.”

“ready salted is for toddlers,” liam said flatly.

jamie looked personally offended.

you glanced at noel, half-expecting him to roll his eyes or groan or jump into the fray.

instead, he was already looking at you. like he was waiting.

and when your eyes met — both of you half-smirking in that silent, are-you-seeing-this kind of way — something in your chest gave a quiet little knock.

“i think you’re both idiots,” you said, sipping your tea.

“agreed,” noel murmured.

jamie threw his hands up. liam made a noise like a dying kettle. they both stormed back inside.

the door slammed shut again, rattling the frame.

you turned to noel. “are they always like this?”

he snorted. “only when they’re awake.”

you laughed, and this time he smiled too — not big, not flashy. just a flicker of amusement at the corners of his mouth. shared. quiet.

—

and once, you ended up marooned at a bus stop in burnage, rain coming down sideways like the sky had given up.

you weren’t meant to be there with him—just walking your brother home from a mate’s house, umbrella already flipped inside out, hair sticking to your forehead, the sleeves of your jumper soaked through. you only spotted noel when he passed on the other side of the road—hood down, guitar case in one hand, corner shop bag in the other, looking like the storm itself had spat him out.

“you look like a drowned rat,” you called across the street.

“cheers,” he shouted back, barely glancing up.

your brother muttered a quick see ya and disappeared through the estate gates, leaving you alone beneath the warped plastic bus shelter. noel crossed over a few seconds later, the water in his trainers squelching with every step.

“bus is late,” he said, like it was some grand revelation.

you huffed, folding your arms over your chest. “probably hiding somewhere warm. heartless bastard.”

“you sayin’ buses have hearts?”

“dunno. wouldn’t surprise me if this one didn’t. it’s a burnage bus.”

that made him laugh—quiet, from the chest—and you felt it more than heard it. his guitar case thunked gently against the shelter wall, fingers tapping slow along the side like he was counting something only he could hear.

you shivered. not dramatic, but enough.

he noticed, and without a word, took of his jacket hanging over his hoodie and held it out.

“i’m alright,” you said, too quickly.

“you’re soaked.”

“so are you.”

“yeah, but i’m used to it.”

you took it. slid your arms through the sleeves. it was still warm from him, still soft in the creases, still smelled like cigarettes and carpeted gigs and the way boys only smelled when you started to like them.

neither of you said much after that. you just stood there, close but not touching, shoulders brushing every time the wind blew in wrong. the rain on the plastic roof was deafening. noel’s tapping slowed.

“you always carry that thing?” you asked, nodding at the case.

“only when i don’t wanna talk to people,” he said.

“how’s that working out?”

he shrugged. “you’re still here.”

you nudged his elbow. “rude.”

he looked down at you then—really looked—and that smile he gave wasn’t the usual one. no smirk. no bite. just soft, tired, a little shy.

“you’re alright though,” he murmured. “even when you don’t shut up.”

you didn’t say anything back. just ducked your head a little, let the silence stretch.

the rain didn’t stop, and the bus didn’t come.

but somehow, you didn’t mind.

—

before, at school, just as winter started to loosen its grip.

the hallways were buzzing, everyone in a rush to get outside, to breathe air that didn’t bite. your sleeves were pushed to your elbows, a smudge of ink on your wrist from an unfinished essay. the corridor light hit your hair like honey. noel spotted you as he rounded the corner—carrying his guitar case, dragging his bag behind him like it owed him something.

you passed each other near the lockers, close enough to brush shoulders.

but instead of just a glance or a nod or the awkward shuffle of bodies in motion—he reached out.

not obviously. not loud. just a quiet flick of his fingers against your wrist as you passed. two knuckles grazing the skin just above your pulse. fleeting. featherlight.

you paused, glanced over your shoulder. so did he.

his expression didn’t give much away. maybe a smirk, maybe not. but something was there—tucked into the tilt of his head, the soft parting of his lips, like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

you didn’t say anything either.

just smiled, small and crooked. then kept walking.

your skin tingled where he touched it, heat blooming in your chest and trailing down your arm like something you’d remember.

— one night, they ended up at the park.

not together, not really — you’d come looking for your brother, who’d bolted off after some screaming match at home, and found him sulking on the swings beside liam. both of them slouched like boys who thought they ruled the world. when you told them to come home, they grumbled in unison.

noel, laid out on the splintered picnic table, just lifted his head slightly. “they’ll be a while,” he said, voice soft like it’d been waiting for you.

so you sat beside him on the bench. didn’t ask permission.

the sky was indigo, half-melted into itself. the kind of colour that made you feel like something was ending, or beginning. the grass felt cold against the backs of your legs. his coat smelled like smoke and washing powder. he offered you a cigarette like it was a peace treaty.

you took it, brushing your fingers over his without meaning to.

noel lit it, then tilted the lighter toward you. the flame flickered gold in his eyes, casting that warm half-light over the freckle just above your lip, the smudge of your lipstick.

he took a drag and passed it back. lazy. familiar.

you exhaled, slow and shivering a little, and he watched your lips the entire time.

“you’ve got some under your lip,” he murmured.

you blinked. “what?”

“lipstick. here.”

he reached over, thumb brushing the edge of your mouth, slow like he was trying not to startle you. didn’t pull away right away either. just let his thumb rest there, soft against your bottom lip, eyes half-lidded and unreadable.

you were close enough to smell the tobacco on his breath. close enough to kiss. neither of you did.

then, suddenly—

“oi, what’s this then?” liam shouted from the swings. “noel and jamie’s sister sittin’ in a tree—!”

“k-i-s-s-i-n-g!” jamie howled, voice cracking as he flung himself backwards.

noel rolled his eyes. “fuck off.”

but you were already flushed, already pulling back with a huff and passing the cigarette back too quickly.

“children,” you muttered.

“absolute fuckin’ goblins,” noel agreed, slumping back again. but he didn’t stop watching you. not really. even when you looked away. even when you pretended your cheeks weren’t burning.

his arm brushed yours again, casual. his fingers tapped out some beat against his thigh. you didn’t ask what it was.

you just stayed beside him until the sky turned navy, and liam and jamie started daring each other to jump from the swings mid-air, and someone’s mum called from down the block.

and still — noel didn’t say much.

just stole one last drag from the cigarette before it burned out, handed it back with a small smile, and said, “don’t let ‘em get to you.”

—

and another time—late, loud, someone’s cousin’s house, too many bodies pressed into rooms too small. bass rattling through the floorboards, the stink of lager and perfume and pot making the air feel thick. you’d wandered into the kitchen for a drink and found him already there, leaning against the counter with a can of something cheap and his shirt unbuttoned halfway down.

he looked up and smiled crooked, all slow like he’d been waiting.

“you,” he said, like it was a full sentence.

you raised a brow. “me?”

“mhm.” he nodded, stepped forward, beer can swaying in his grip. “you look nice.”

you laughed, light and teasing. “you’re pissed.”

“bit,” he admitted, blinking slow. “but i’d say it even if i weren’t.”

you tilted your head. “yeah?”

“yeah.” his voice dropped a little, softening. “always liked the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. even when you’re not thinkin’ about it.”

you stilled.

“and how you always smell like—fuck, what is it—vanilla, but not sweet. just soft. like... like old records and sun through the curtains.”

your heart flipped. he wasn’t looking at you like a joke, not like the others. not like a punchline or a dare. he looked—honest. drunk, sure, but sincere.

“noel—”

“and your laugh,” he said, cutting you off, voice dipping further. “that proper, real one. when something actually gets you. you don’t do it all the time, but when you do, it sounds like summer.”

you blinked. heat blooming in your chest.

“and when you’re thinkin’, you bite your lip. but only the left side. dunno if you know you do that.”

you didn’t know what to say.

he took another step closer, then another, till the only thing between you was air.

“your freckles,” he murmured, almost dazed now. “and that little scar on your cheek. and—fuck it.”

and he kissed you.

hands wide on your waist, mouth softer than you'd ever imagined. he kissed you like he meant it. like he’d been dying to. like the words had gotten too big in his chest and kissing you was the only way to breathe.

you whimpered a little when his lips dragged down to your jaw.

“you’ve got this sound you make,” he mumbled against your skin, “when you’re confused. kind of a hum. you just did it.”

you laughed, flushed and breathless.

he kissed you again. deeper this time, messier.

“and your eyes,” he breathed, lips brushing yours. “green, yeah, but not just green. like moss. or storms.”

you tugged him closer, fingers curling in the fabric at his back.

he kissed you again. again. hands tangled in your hair now.

“your hands are always cold,” he whispered into your mouth. “but you touch like you mean it.”

your chest ached. throbbed. melted.

“noel,” you said, barely audible.

“yeah,” he answered, resting his forehead to yours, breathing you in like salvation. “i know.”

—

now it was 1996, and everything had changed. except for the way he held you.

you woke to the soft shuffle of hotel sheets and the whisper of his fingers skimming your waist. sunlight spilled through the cracks in the blackout curtains, turning the room to gold. somewhere down the hall, someone was laughing. somewhere outside, fans were already waiting. but in here, it was just the two of you. again. always.

“you’re awake,” he murmured, voice rough from sleep and cigarettes, from singing until midnight and talking too much after. he didn’t open his eyes, just pulled you closer, nose nudging your hairline. “thank fuck.”

you smiled against his chest. “thought you were dreaming of guitars and bigger stages by now.”

“nah,” he mumbled, lips brushing your forehead. “only dream i care about’s already in bed with me.”

you rolled your eyes. kissed the hollow of his throat.

the clock on the nightstand read 9:42. noel had a soundcheck at eleven, interviews at one, and a sold-out crowd waiting for him in manchester tonight. but right now he was a man curled around you, legs tangled, hair soft and messy, still half-drunk on sleep. still yours.

“alright, superstar,” you whispered, fingers tracing circles over his ribs. “you’ve got soundcheck in an hour. then the bbc want fifteen minutes with you, plus the japanese press want another photo for their spread.”

he groaned. loud and long, like a child. “you memorised my fuckin’ itinerary again?”

“someone’s gotta keep you from wandering into a pub instead.”

“could’ve married my tour manager,” he muttered.

“you didn’t,” you reminded him, mouth curling against his skin. “you married your groupie.”

“nah,” he said, finally opening his eyes— wicked, still sleepy-soft. “married the only person who ever looked at me like i’d already made it.”

you paused. heart clenched in that aching, reverent way.

“that’s because you had,” you said.

he blinked once. then reached for you like he always did — urgent and slow all at once, arms locking around your waist, pulling you on top of him.

“five more minutes,” he whispered.

“you’ve got forty,” you said, settling in. “and i’m spending all of them with you.”

noel made a soft noise — halfway between a laugh and a sigh — and let his hands drift up beneath your shirt, just tracing the dip of your spine. like he needed the proof of you. like he couldn’t believe, even now, that you were still here.

“should get used to this,” he murmured.

“to what?”

“bein’ loved stupid,” he said simply, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “by me.”

you bit back a smile. buried your face in his chest to hide it. “you’re so sappy in the mornings.”

“shut up,” he said, dragging the sheet over your legs. “not my fault you’re soft like that. all fuckin’ freckled and warm and real.”

“and annoying.”

“well, yeah,” he agreed, laughing under his breath. “but i’m no better. saw you once in that bikini when we were seventeen and never stood a fuckin’ chance after that.”

you lifted your head, brow raised. “that why you married me?”

“mm. married you 'cause you’re the only one who makes me forget the noise.”

the words landed gentle, but heavy — like a pebble dropped into water. not loud, but deep. you looked at him then. really looked. the light stubble on his jaw. the faint shadow under his eyes — from touring, from fame, from being noel gallagher. and beneath all that — still the boy from burnage. still yours.

“don’t forget tonight’s show,” you whispered, tracing your finger along his chest.

he made a face. “can’t we stay in and get married again?”

“we already did that.”

“yeah, but this time i won’t cry when you walk down the aisle.”

“you didn’t cry.”

“i fuckin’ did.”

you laughed, hand covering your mouth. “you blinked really hard.”

“that’s cryin’ for me.”

a pause.

you leaned down and kissed him — slow, quiet, like you had all the time in the world. he tasted like sleep and the morning after dreams — warm breath and mint and something softer beneath, something that had always just been him.his hands curled around your waist like he didn’t even have to think about it. like it was instinct. and it was, wasn’t it?

“gonna make me stay in bed all day,” he murmured against your mouth.

“you’ve got forty minutes, remember?” you whispered, dragging your nose along his.

“s’pose i could be late.”

“you’re headlining two sold out gigs,” you said, laughing as he tried to pull you closer. “you can’t miss soundcheck.”

“don’t care.”

but you were already slipping out from under the covers, hair messy and eyes still soft with sleep. you tugged on his hoodie from the floor — the one you’d practically stolen a decade ago and never gave back — and padded toward the bathroom.

behind you, he groaned dramatically into the pillow. “you’re cruel, y’know that?”

you looked over your shoulder, hoodie tugged halfway on, hair a wild halo from his pillow. “and you’re dramatic.”

“‘m tragic,” he mumbled. “gorgeous girl in my bed, and i’ve gotta go play fuckin’ soundcheck for a bunch of blokes with clipboards.”

you laughed under your breath, pulling the sleeves down over your wrists. “you love it.”

“i’d rather watch you brush your teeth.”

he threw the covers off and padded after you, bare feet dragging, boxers riding low on his hips. you were already leaning over the sink by the time he slouched into the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, chin resting against the frame.

you met his eyes in the mirror. “you watching me now?”

“always,” he said, simple and stupid-sincere.

you rolled your eyes, spitting toothpaste into the sink. “you’re gonna make me blush.”

he grinned, stepped behind you, wrapped his arms low around your waist — chin to your shoulder, nose in your hair. “good. suits you.”

“you’ve got ten minutes,” you said gently. “manager’s gonna come banging on the door again.”

“let her,” he mumbled. “they should be grateful i’m even awake. rockstars don’t do mornings.”

“rockstars with girlfriends do,” you teased, turning in his arms, palms flat on his chest.

he kissed you once, slow and lingering — the kind of kiss that tasted like sleep and time you didn’t have.

—

ten minutes later, the lift doors opened with a soft chime, and the two of you stepped into the hotel lobby like you’d done it a hundred times before.

the marble floor echoed faintly under your steps. not many people around — just the concierge, half-asleep behind the desk, and a couple checking out near the window. calm, hushed, a gentle prelude to the chaos waiting just beyond the glass doors.

you tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie — his hoodie — as noel adjusted his sunglasses with a practiced flick of his fingers, the two of you drifting toward the exit side by side.

“quiet before the storm,” he muttered.

you nudged him. “you’re the one who causes it.”

“not alone, i don’t,” he said, and there was something in the way he looked at you then — half-proud, half-wicked — that made you want to kiss him senseless right there in front of the hotel ficus.

but then the glass doors were sliding open.

and the sound hit you all at once — like a static wave.

shutters clicking. voices calling. flashes bursting through the late morning grey. your name — his name — both of them together like they belonged that way.

you lifted your chin just slightly, eyes forward, walking like the pavement was yours and you’d let him walk beside you only because you liked him.

the cameras loved you for it.

and noel — noel was smirking.

one hand found your waist, slipping into that familiar spot like it was muscle memory. the other hand? up in the air, middle finger to the sky, chin tipped like a challenge.

the photographers went feral.

“c’mon, rockstar,” you murmured through a smile, “play nice.”

“this is me playin’ nice,” he said. “i didn’t spit.”

you laughed, low and easy, just loud enough for him to hear.

together, you moved through the noise — his fingers curling tighter against your hip as the cab door swung open, the driver looking mildly terrified behind the wheel.

you slid in smooth, hair catching the wind. he followed, slamming the door shut behind him like punctuation.

inside, it was quiet again. the kind of hush that hums after noise.

noel blew out a breath, dragging his hand over his face. “they’ll write about that.”

“good,” you said, watching the buildings drift by. “give ‘em something to do.”

“you’re a fuckin’ menace,” he said, eyes still on the door, like the flashes might break through. “how d’you make ‘em all love you and still scare the shit outta me?”

you leaned over, kissed his cheek, lipstick ghosting against his skin.

“magic,” you whispered. “and maybe a little bit of eyeliner.”

he grinned.

“noel gallagher’s girl,” he murmured. “god help the world.”

#reblog #on my knees at walmart #avisei q eu tava na fase oasis. dont talk to me im so fucking serious rn….#meu coração está doendo… cut the cameras . deadass

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creads · 6 months ago

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feeling so normal about this

^᪲notas da autora: linguagem imprópria!, fer mais velho que a reader!, sexo desprotegido (dnv, mas nada que deve ser repetido)!, um leve lactation kink!, fer sendo um super papai e um super maridinho!

^᪲sinopse:: lobona mamãe que tá insegura com o peso após o parto e Fernando maridinho ajudando ela.

Fer papai tem meu coração todinho.

𝐎 𝐏𝐄𝐈𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐄 Fernando estava completo nu da maneira mais intimamente adorável possível, e por cima, babado. Ele sentia as mãozinhas pequenas que tocavam a sua pele enquanto o argentino embalava em seus braços fortes, a fragilidade daquele bebezinho com poucos dias de nascimento. Ele via o rostinho, como estava encolhidinho nos braços do papai. O pequeno de nome Jorge tinha um dos dedos calejados do pai entre os lábios, coçando a gengivinha.

Ele alisou bem lentamente os poucos cabelinhos dele. "Shh.. tá tudo bem, o papai do pequenito está aqui. Ele vai cuidar, vai dar muito carinho. O papai cuida de você... a mamãe precisa descansar, não é pequenito?". Ele sussurrava para acalmar a mente do bebê. Ele poderia não entender nadinha de nada, mas sentia o amor no ar.

Aquele cheirinho, os olhinhos tão inocentes que as vezes mal abriam, aquelas mãozinhas que seguraram com uma curiosidade o dedo do papai e levava até a boquinha.

Os olhinhos dele estavam fechados e não viam muito, mas os dele brilhavam com uma admiração guardada pelo bebê. O argentino achava difícil viver sem aquilo, depois de descobrir o que era a paternidade. Estava sendo um pai babão, coruja mesmo. Mas não só por pequenito, como ele o chamava. Mas também pela sua esposa.

Naquela madrugada quase silenciosa, de domingo, fazia cerca de quarenta e um dias que o parto normal tinha acontecido. Era de se esperar que você estivesse cansada, se recuperando com a doce ajuda dele. Mas ele notava algo mais. Ele não era bobo, mesmo que você negasse e tentasse focar só no bebê, ele sabia que tinha alguma coisa errada, que te incomodava.

Percebeu sozinho. Vendo tudo aquilo às escondidas: você com lágrimas nos olhos, mas que não pareciam somente de alegria, viu a maneira preocupada que se olhava no espelho depois de um banho juntos e como deslizava os dedos contra a barriga, que ainda estava um pouco grandinha pelo tempo de puerpério.

Mas aquela frase que você soltou antes de adormecer na noite do sábado, pesou no coração dele e confirmou o que estava presenciando nos últimos dias. "Eu tô uma baleia". Caralho. A sua carinha de choro o matava. Porque não sabia o que dizer.

Sim, ele notou que você engordou um pouco mas, você estava carregando o bem mais precioso de vocês. Notou e amou ainda mais. Ver seu corpo se adaptar para dar a luz ao menininho mais adorável do mundo era a coisa que ele mais amou na sua gravidez. Seus desejos que ele amou atender, como você o olhava. E até quando vocês faziam sexo mais lentinho para não machucar nem a você nem ao pequeno Jorginho, só para matar a vontade dos dois. Mas nada aniquilava o mulherão da porra que você era. Você o chamava de louco, quando no meio da noite ele te acordava com beijos molhados no pescoço, sussurrando como um homem necessitado.

"Eu preciso de você".

Ele precisava. Não precisava só porque estar dentro de você era uma das suas coisas favoritas na rotina dele, mas porque a alma dele precisava da sua. Do seu consolo, dos seus beijos e abraços. E como ele sempre voltava a repetir, "não deveria ser loucura eu querer transar com minha própria esposa toda hora. Você é muito tentadora, eu já lhe disse isso".

Você o deixava louco, seu cheiro o deixava louco, seus cabelos, seu sorriso meio torto de tanta paixão, e para ficar claro, você ser a mãe do filho dele, que era a carinha todinha da mamãe, deixava ele louco também.

Assim que o berço outra vez adornou a sonolência do menininho, Fernando o colocou lá em um beijo suave, quase para que não pudesse sentir. O olhou completamente bobo por mais alguns minutos, e foi retornar para os braços da esposa.

Através da porta entreaberta, ele foi ágil em reconhecer o chorinho baixo e abafado, mas que não vinha do quarto de bebê. Era você. Ele não demorou muito. Fechando a porta e se arrastando para ficar agarradinho com você embaixo da coberta, ele não falou nada de início, mas as ações foram cruciais.

Os lábios dele se encostaram em seu ombro e os braços te envolveram com carinho e um cuidado, entendia seu momento e todas suas inseguranças, como se sentia, como estava se vendo. Ele fez um carinho em seu pescoço com o nariz e a deixou chorar um pouquinho, sentindo você amolecer nos braços cabeludos dele.

Quando seus olhos encontraram os dele, o sorriso dele era tão triste quanto o seu. Ele apenas segurou seu rosto entre os dedos compridos e sussurrou. "O que eu preciso fazer por você? Você só precisa pedir, meu anjo". Ele começou, dando uma pausa para deixar beijos carinhosos em seu rosto. "Vou até o céu por você. Me fale, sabe que eu amo sua voz. Es... todo para mí". Aquele sotaque latino rouco no seu ouvido te fazia tremer.

Você se remexeu na direção dele. "Fer-". Com a voz chorosa, foi tudo o que pôde dizer.

Naquele momento, Fernando queria poder arrancar os próprios olhos escuros para que você visse o que ele estava vendo todos os dias, vendo você, naqueles quase seis anos de um relacionamento mais que bom. Como ele fazia que cada dia você se apaixonasse mais por ele. Com beijos, com presentes, mas com a presença dele em quase todos os momentos da sua vida.

Os beijos dos lábios dele terminaram em seus lábios gordinhos, com ele tocando seu rostinho que ainda estava um pouco inchadinho.

Puta que pariu, como era que você conseguia ficar mais bonita a cada segundo que ele te olhava? Devia ser um dom que só você tinha, ele dizia. "Deixa eu provar o quanto você mexe comigo, nena... que você sempre vai ser a mulher mais linda desse mundo. A minha mulher". Ele quase pediu com os lábios colados em um beijinho nos seus.

O gemidinho que você deixou escapar ao vento, necessitado como de alguém que fazia um tempo que não tinha um foda com o maridinho por causa da recuperação do parto, deixou ele completamente desarmado. Aquilo era tudo o que ele precisava.

Com um sorrisinho quase malicioso, ele torceu intensamente para que o Jorge dormisse o restante da noite e selou um beijo na sua testa, antes de se levantar e caminhar até a cômoda próxima ao banheiro do quarto de vocês. Seu peito passou a arder, de saudade e de desejo, de amor por você. Um amor que tomava todo o corpo dele.

O amor dele por você era como um vírus do bem, que vinha cheio de tesão, de carinho, e de fantasias.

Seus dedos grossos foram mais ágeis que das outras milhares de vezes em encontrar o lubrificante íntimo, bem refrescante que ele mesmo fez questão de comprar para você. Fernando era um marido muito eficiente, desde que você você manifestou desejo de voltar a fazer amor com ele na gravidez, pesquisou tudo. Estudou tudo sobre como poderia dar prazer a você nesse período.

Quando se voltou para você, ele nem parecia aquele homem sério e fechado que o mundo conhecia. Sua dancinha foi só uma maneira de tirar um sorriso sincero, uma risada de você. A sua risadinha o fez suavizar. "Se divertindo, mô?".

De repente a cama aconchegou o corpo dele e afundou ao seu lado, ele tirou o lençol de cima de você e até ajustou o ar-condicionado para você não ficar com frio. As mãos dele deslizaram pelo seu ventre, desceram mais um pouquinho até suas coxas indo a parte interna.

"Eu vou cuidar de você, nena". Disse baixinho, inclinando o próprio corpo na direção da sua boca. E você toda molinha já. Selinhos foram deixados ali, enquanto ele abria o frasco do lubrificante para deixar uma das mãos dele umidecidas. Aqueles mesmos dedos calejados deslizaram pele superfície da sua fenda, brincando com as suas dobras e a preparando para aquilo que estava por vir.

A sua bucetinha estava mais ressecada no período de gravidez e iria continuar assim um tempo após o parto. Era o esperado para o momento, e ele sabia que precisava ir com mais calma, controlar seu próprio tesão para não sair nada errado e ainda assim dar o prazer que você merecia, então o polegar circulou bem lento ali.

Um gemidinho deixou os seus lábios, baixinho e surpreso inicialmente. Ele sorriu para você. Depois ecoou junto com um pequeno sobressalto, quando o dedo indicador do argentino entrou bem devagarinho na sua entrada.

Para ajudar, ele derramou um pouco mais do líquido nas mãos, até deixou escorrer na suas dobras, melando a parte interna das coxas e a virilha. Os movimentos começaram, o dedo calejado entrando devagar no buraquinho e saindo igualmente no mesmo ritmo. Ele acabou mordendo o lábio inferior, "Você é tão linda...". Ele sussurrou contra sua boquinha, te beijando antes de se deitar com o rosto entre suas pernas.

"E vou te mostrar o quanto". Fernando terminou de dizer, com beijos em suas coxas. A língua molhada desceu e subiu em sua bucetinha, deixando a região sensível e mais gostosa de saborear. Aquele era o passatempo favorito dele, o momento do dia que mais amava. Ver você daquela posição, segurando as suas perninhas para não fechar enquanto ele te comia. Era tudo.

Os lábios do argentino se esbaldaram nas suas dobras, que ficavam mais molhadas com o tempo, brincando com o seu clitóris e com a entradinha enquanto chupava cada partezinha. "Amor~". Você deixou escapar, e ele sorriu quase suspirando contra o local umidecido que você se remexia para roçar contra ele.

Uma mão subiu para brincar com o biquinho duro do seu seio farto de leite. Vez ou outra ele apertava a mama ou o mamilo entre os dedos dele. Devido a amamentação recente, o líquido branquinho melava os dedos dele com facilidade, mas esperando uma reação contrariada de Fernando, você só recebeu um sorriso largo e malicioso.

Subindo vários beijos tesudos pelo ventre e a sua barriga inchadinha, ele então, chegou nos seus seios durinhos de tesão e de leite. A língua do homem rodeou o biquinho, com um sorriso na boca. "Mi mujer... porque faz uma coisa dessa comigo, sabes não posso perder o controle". Ele chupou. Chupou com vontade, sem nem sequer se importar com o gostinho do leite escorrendo na garganta dele. Ele adorou, se fosse ser sincero. Era quase afrodisíaco. Ele te olhava, admirando suas feições de surpresa e excitação, ele tinha seu seio quase todo na boca, ainda dedando seu buraquinho e depois apenas roçava a ponta da língua no seu mamilo.

Você estava quase em choque, quase gozando somente nos dedos dele, sensível, mas também confortável e confiante que Fernando Contigiani nunca te machucaria. Fechando os olhinhos, deixando o corpo relaxar, os braços esticados na cama e a cabeça no travesseiro, ele se deixou aproveitar.

Afastando a boca de seus seios só para se posicionar melhor entre suas pernas que fazia questão de deixar bem abertinhas para ele. Com um gemido gutural, ele entrou em sua bucetinha com a cabecinha dolorida, e respondeu com um sorriso quando você abriu os olhos arregalados.

"Sentiu falta de me ver te comendo... Senhora Contigiani?". Ele se movia devagarinho, com o controle da profundidade que podia e não podia chegar dentro de você ainda. Tudo para n��o te machucar, ele não se perdoaria por isso. Uma mão deslizou para levar seu rosto na direção dos olhos dele novamente. "Olha para o homem que botou um filho em você, nena". Mas era ele que não conseguia tirar os olhos de você.

Mesmo que não entrasse completamente, ele gemia como um louco no seu ouvido, prestes a se deitando em cima de você. Ele entrava e saía quase como uma provocação, uma promessa silenciosa do que você fazia com ele.

Foi só então depois de muito vai e vem, de muitos gemidos e promessas sussurradas no seu ouvido, de tão sensível que você estava, que não demorou para ter um orgasmo e sentir o líquido espeço escorrer e melar o pau dele todinho. Ele continuou dentro por mais algum tempinho, usando da força em seus cotovelos na cama para beijar seu rosto todinho, com mais carinho e ternura.

Suado e ofegante, com o peito em um movimento irregular como o seu, ele pegou seu rosto nas duas mãos, te olhando como se fosse o maior tesouro da vida dele. "Eu te amo, senhora Contigiani". Sussurrou quase sem conseguir falar. Notando seu estado bagunçado, mas tímido e adorável, Fernando saiu de dentro de você, jogando o corpo nu em exaustão ao seu lado na cama. As mãos do argentino te puxaram para mais perto, o nariz dele voltando a descansar no seu pescoço coberto pelas mechas de seus cabelos.

Ele deixou que a sua perna parasse encima da dele e sorriu com sua retribuição recíproca. "Eu também te amo muito, Fer". O cafuné em seus cabelos era para te fazer dormir primeiro, para que você se confortasse com o abraço apertado de tanto amor dele.

E naquela madrugada escura, na mais forte reafirmação de amor devoto possível, você dormiu acolhidinha nos braços fortes e cabeludos de Fernando, e ele amou estar ali com a família dele.

^᪲𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐒 𝐃𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄 — não consigo. eu preciso do fer sendo papai do meu baby (alguém notou a referência do nome do nenê?).

#reblog #ai que saco ai que sacooo

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