Work Text:
Graham lingers behind the photographers and their giant cameras and commanding voices, a small cup of alcohol held gently in his hands, fingertips pressing tight into the glass and leaving fingerprint smudges over the clear surface. He gingerly takes another sip as his eyes rove the room: his bandmates and the two major Oasis figureheads, Liam and Noel, all posing for the papers with their crude awards. The stances they choose are either typical of them or almost mocking, depending on who they're lined shoulder to shoulder with before the endless sound of snapping photos. He watches mindlessly, a fog in his head, as Noel and Damon condescendingly slip arms around each other's shoulders and wear faux cheery smiles for the people telling them what to do.
Graham's mouth twists into some semblance of a frown, still thinking about how he'd stamped a kiss onto Liam's cheek earlier, even if it was just for laughs. Just to see how he'd react, if they'd get a crystal clear shot of it, if Liam was really that far up his own ass that he'd whip around and smack Graham senseless for it. He didn't. He'd just snapped at the workers, accusing them of making it happen. The man in question is currently off to the side of the set, fiddling with his fingers and picking at his nails, intermittently glancing over at Noel. He looks like he's waiting for him so they can leave.
Personally, Graham doesn't need to wait for anyone before leaving. Except that he does, really, because he only intends to step away for a moment before he hurries back with his band and takes a group cab with them, but he wants to leave for a moment. He edges closer to Dave, who glances over at him as they softly knock shoulders, and he murmurs he's going for a smoke break wherever he can get one. Dave nods, pats his shoulder, tells him not to be long, and Graham scurries off after downing the rest of his drink and placing the emptied glass on a small round table by the door.
Messing with the fluffy cuffs of his plaid jacket for lack of anything better to busy his twitchy hands with, Graham trudges down the hallway, only slightly tipsy and very much coherent enough to follow the maze of doors and walkways to a back alley. His tolerance has gotten great lately, which is both fascinating to him and unbelievably annoying, 'cause it means he's got to just keep drinking more and more to get as wasted as he wants to be in order to lose himself in it. But it's interesting, because of the way the human body works. But he doesn't feel like being philosophical about alcoholism right now, as he finds his way to an exit door and heaves it open, sliding his hands into his jean pockets to pat around for his cigarettes and his lighter.
He slips a nondescript pack out, and he thinks he might've nicked these from Alex (better give them back later instead of chain smoking them, then, lest he get crucified by their bassist for being a thief when he's got all the money he could ever want in the world) as he delicately drags one out, the long white stick settling between his careful fingers, and then his equally as careful lips when he places it there, between them. Graham sniffs as he folds the little box shut and stuffs it back in the wide pocket of his trousers, frayed at the edges, and moves to lean back against the cold wall while he extracts his lighter from the opposite pocket. Graham makes an uncomfortable noise in the back of his throat as his jacket scratches against his skin, and he shrugs it off so it pools around his shoes on the concrete ground. He winces at the thought of it collecting the dirt and grime below, but he makes no move to pick it back up.
When he lights it after a brief struggle with the flame that keeps going out, he slides down to the floor and situates himself on the plush plaid and wiggles a little more to get comfortable, inhaling the smoke deeply and huffing it out through his nose in two neat streams of fog. Now that he's outside he's properly cold now, and he likes the way the chill of it seeps into his skin like watering moss, leaving an ache in his bones that he's always been fond of. His insides burn with the bright heat of the cig while his soft exterior turns to ice, even with the layers that he's got on, wrapped both tight and loose in his clothes like a shabby-looking Christmas present. He's sitting in a sort of compact alleyway, he processes– except it's not really an alleyway, ‘cause the only way to get into it is by exiting a building, all closed-off save for the four doors he can spot leading into it. The dark sky is above his head, barely visible between towering companies.
He takes another drag and the end of it glows red-hot before fading, and he lets it sit in his lungs and feels the taste of it in his mouth for a moment before the smoke's back out in a cloud again, unfurling tendrils in the air in front of him while he leans forward to rest his chin on his knees, tucking them up to his chest. The denim scratches at his legs as it's pulled taut and the softness of his shirt and vest cling to his jeans, and he's about to close his eyes and just let himself drift when he hears the door open again, and jolts, looking up and over with wide eyes behind the thick rims of his glasses.
Liam Gallagher walks out, his signature strut eye-catching even in the dim night of this little hole Graham's found himself in, and, fuck, of course it'd be him– he's come to beat the living daylights out of Graham for planting that kiss on his cheek earlier, and God, why'd he do that? His jump of surprise made a bit of noise when he shuffled on the ground, boots scraping against the concrete and jacket being pressed further beneath his body, but when Liam glances quickly over at him, all he does is nod once as a greeting and take a seat beside Graham, as if they've been mates all their lives and Graham wasn't just terrified he was about to be pummeled and left alone to bleed all over the ground in a back alley.
Maybe it was too harsh of an assumption now, Graham thinks, watching Liam shimmy against the wall to get comfortable as he had, looking every bit as innocent as someone as young as them is supposed to be. His face looks like it's softened, like someone's sloughed off the layer of his expression that makes him look like he'd kick your arse in a heartbeat, like he's angry all the time, and revealed something underneath that's all gentle slopes and relaxed muscle, not the hard almost-façade he sees.
But he's letting his mind try to connect too much too soon; perhaps Liam really is a prick. But he doesn't know why the man's seemed to visibly let his guard down now that they're alone, so, perhaps Liam isn't a prick at all. Perhaps Graham's brain was just seeing what it wanted to see: a tosser for him to scowl at when he saw him and his band come on the telly or when he looked at them in magazines, just to fall in line with Damon and Alex's apparent exaggerated hatred for Oasis. For the press, of course. To fit in nice and snug like, as though he's a dish being aligned neatly with all the other plates in the cabinets.
Liam looks over to him, and his light hydrangea-blue eyes look almost doe-like this way, wide with eyelashes heavy over them and fanning out softly beneath the lower lid. He blinks, and so does Graham, tilting his head at someone he's learned to hate. But, no, this isn't that someone. This is somebody new.
"What, I got somethin' on me face?" Liam says, his accent like a bubbling stream, and only after he's said that does Graham realize that he's been staring so hard he might as well have burned holes into the side of Liam’s cheek, and, feeling like an idiot, he blinks himself out of his stupor and looks away. Pointedly, at the sandpapery texture of the ground, the small little stones scattered across it, forgotten pieces of trash and the occasional long-gone cigarette butt he can spot in the distance. He can't tell if Liam was trying to be rude or not, but his voice seemed gentle like the downy feathers of a baby bird, if not a little roughened by its extended use tonight at the awards show and the photoshoot and the party prior to it all and whatever else he might've had going on.
"No, um, sorry," he murmurs, clumsily around his cigarette, before he takes a hit of it and pulls it from his mouth again. He turns his head the let the cloud pool from past his lips away from Liam, and he hopes it means something to the other man, because if he really didn't want him here or felt like picking a fight (and losing, to be honest, probably in ten seconds flat) he'd have coughed it all out into his face and maybe flicked the still-flaming fag at him for good measure.
"Just…" Graham tries to continue, but he finds he's nervous and, with a shiver at both the cold and the awkwardness he knows is seeping from his every pore, he puts a stop to it after that. "I dunno."
Liam hums a bit and Graham lets himself take a quick look over to him one more time, finds that he's got what is probably the last free glass of alcohol that'd been set up at the photoshoot's room. He's absentmindedly swirling it round and round in the little cup as he stares up at the sky, blocked by nighttime clouds, leaning his head back against the wall with his dark jacket bunching where it's crushed to the ground on either side of him and slung over his torso. Graham feels a brief, indignant sort of sorrow at knowing someone else has nabbed another drink instead of him, and he goes to look away, but Liam catches him before he can properly tear his eyes off, and they end up staring at each other again. Graham feels utterly stupid and is about to apologize again, and then maybe a third or fourth or hundredth time, until Liam cuts him off before he can even begin by holding up his cup and saying, "Y'want this? Haven't touched it just yet."
"Yeah," Graham says, before he can stop himself, but Liam just nods like he gets it with the faintest smile curling his lips upward, and sets the alcohol down on the ground in the space between the two of them. Graham takes it eagerly and lets his cigarette hang from between his fingers, over his knee, embers flickering off of it as he knocks back half the drink in one go and places it on his other side, the cup being blocked from Liam's sight by his legs.
"Christ, got that one down quick," Liam murmurs, eyebrows raised a little. "Gotta trade me now, though, cos I ain't givin' you no good drink for free, right. Bum a ciggy, real quick?"
Graham hums in agreement and slots his own between his lips before tugging the stolen pack back out again, opening it and offering it to Liam. He scrutinizes the lot of them for a moment before he makes a confident sound in the back of his throat and plucks one, stuffing the long white stick between his jaws roughly, and Graham watches it shift there before settling against his teeth and his lips.
He's just about to offer his light once he's put away the pack again but he's too late: Liam's shuffling closer and he's leaning in, and Graham's eyes go wide as saucers as the other man presses the ends of their cigarettes tightly together and inhales harshly, his own then sparking to life. But, fuck, they're so close, and Liam's brows knit together in concentration as his eyes focus on their cigarettes before he's pulling away, and smoke fans from his open mouth like a broad, ashen flower blossoming against his face. Graham lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding– didn't know he'd been inhaling, and an unwieldy amount of smog pushes its way through his nose and he coughs, shivers again.
"Fuck, cold as well?" Liam says, and apparently he was looking as Graham shuddered against the air, and Graham looks back to him as he quickly extracts his cigarette from his mouth and leans over, so his upper half is draped onto his knees. He’s trying not to look like he just accidentally sucked in too much nicotine after years of smoking, like he'd suddenly become some sort of idiot kid trying it out for the first time and not the experienced smoker he knows he actually is. To Graham's utmost surprise, again, Liam cants forward so he can shrug out of his jacket, and he tosses it at Graham, and it smacks firmly into his clothed thighs and slides down into his lap while he looks at Liam incredulously. "Would tell you to pick up your jacket, but it looks like you're usin' it as a fuckin' cushion rather than what it's s'posed to be for, yeah? Give mine back though, when you've got to leave. No fuckin’ souvenirs from me, no."
Graham wonders why on Earth Liam's being so nice, and he nearly opens his mouth to say it out loud, startling himself. Instead, as he's staring at Liam, he catches a familiar flash of the print on the back of his white shirt when he leans forward to flick something off his shoes, and studies it intently, even when Liam settles back against the wall.
"Like my shirt, yeah?" he asks, seems almost proud as he turns round, and it is what Graham thought it was: a Beatles shirt, the band's logos previously hidden by the inky brown jacket that's now made itself a home on Graham's body, and is, in fact, keeping him warm as it's supposed to. "Fan of 'em?"
"Who isn't? Only weirdos," Graham mutters, the last part mostly to himself, but Liam lets a harsh laugh fly at the way he'd spat it out so scornfully, nodding in understanding like he agrees. It's not a withering noise, no, it's playful, a genuine ring of joy out in the alley with them, and against all odds Graham finds a smile sliding across his face as he stifles giggles next to the lead singer of Oasis, of all bands, with his jacket in his lap and his beer by his hip and his shoulder pressed into his. Graham has no idea when Liam had scooted that close, but he doesn't mind.
"Well, out with it then. Who's ya favorite?" Liam asks leaning forward a little as he relaxes fully, wedged next to Graham, not close enough to him for it to feel weird or stuffy but enough for them to feel the subtle, summery heat radiating off one another's bodies, warming up considerably at the points where their bodies meet. His legs sort of fall open and his knee nearly knocks into Graham's but just brushes past it, and he yawns and licks his lips, and he looks utterly at ease, and it makes Graham feel much the same. They melt against each other like ice cubes in an empty glass, compressed and slowly but surely turning liquid.
"McCartney," Graham replies, assuredly. "Brilliant man, he is. Fucking, uh… fucking excellent on those bass and– fuck, and other guitar strings, honestly. And his vocals as well. Sometimes I can't get enough of his stuff, just got to, um, put one of my records on. Forever and ever."
"McCartney," Liam repeats, the name rolling around in his mouth like marbles on a track, all swirling down the same path. And then he's looking around like he's considering, thinking, slowly starting to nod and twist his lips thoughtfully into a smile. Graham lets smoke fill his lungs again and continues to puff it out away from Liam, making sure not to get it anywhere near him, god forbid that happen– he takes another swig of his drink when he's done with that as well, liquid gold running smoothly down his throat while Liam makes a polite noise of assent. "Yeah, yeah, fair enough. You seem like the type to like him– and no, trust me, that's a compliment, mate. Fuckin' genius, isn't he? All of 'em, I mean, but my favorite's Lennon."
Liam says it like he's boasting, and he does look proud of it, a shining smile easing across his face and features as he cocks his head towards Graham. Graham smiles back, chuckles a little, tells him he also seems like the type to like Lennon, that he sort of already knew because he's seen snippets of Liam talking about it in the papers and maybe once on the news; he can't remember. Liam's smile reaches his eyes even more than before when he says this, and he's damn near beaming like an isolated ray of sunshine in this dark, dank space underneath the shadow of midnight, and Graham can't help but think: fuck, the way Liam's face seems to let the smile just wash over him is absolutely hypnotizing, his cheeks swelling and his lips curving and his eyes nearly falling shut as he squints through his grin, dark eyelashes furling over his lids.
"Yeah?" Liam asks, and he seems pleasantly surprised. "Didn't think any of you lot listened to the press when they talked about me and my group, come on. Don't think you're pullin' me leg though, cos you do really seem to know."
Graham feels giddy for some reason, and he catches himself leaning a little more into Liam than before, the man allowing their arms and legs to mesh side-to-side, their short sleeves leaving more warmed skin to press into, the soft to coarse hairs on their arms brushing together each time they shift, or laugh, or move in any other way. The denim of their trousers rub and catch and it's rough, and it makes Graham's skin turn hot where he feels it the most. He wonders if Liam feels the same.
"Um, sometimes, I just leave the telly on," he murmurs, still smiling, and he brings his hand up to his mouth to gnaw on the tip of his thumb, a habit he's had ever since he's been able to remember, since he was a little kid listening to the echo of The Beatles upstairs in his bedroom as his parents play it loud, down in the living room below him. "It just kind of plays stuff, y'know what I mean? Can't help but pick up on some things."
"Nah, ya love me and my band," Liam says, but he's messing with him, seems to know Graham is being serious about the background noise. That background noise he hears drone on as he writes his music and strums his guitars and drinks himself to the point of no return on the floor in front of his television, surrounded by frantically scribbled drawings he's made on papers strewn about, or by more empty bottles with not even a drop left in them because he refuses to waste any of it. Scrapped lyrics, his and Damon's and Alex’s and Dave’s clothes, dishes he's yet to bring to the kitchen to clean up because he just can't be arsed.
"You wish," Graham laughs, and finishes off his drink, the glass molding around his lips before he sets it off to the side for good, and turns himself more properly towards Liam, their bodies closer than before, almost like they're– shit, almost like they're flirting with each other. Like one of them's some bird who's curving her body into theirs and smiling, almost uncontrollably, and giggling and trying to get as close to them as possible like she's trying to get them stuck together permanently. Graham coughs, slightly. "Um, but anyway– I can, um, sort of see it in you. You know, the fact you love Lennon. I– I don't know how to explain it, but, um… yeah." And then he snorts at himself, at how ridiculous he sounds, but Liam's still absorbed.
"Interestin'," he says, and he's nodding again, and Graham thinks that might be Liam's habit. In the way that he bites his nails down to the quick and can't seem to quit teething on his soft and smooth fingers, Liam's bobbing his head to everything, looking super serious, rocking his head back and forth almost unconsciously. "Sorta like you and McCartney, yeah… Yeah, I get you, man."
"McCartney's superior, though," Graham says with a slight yawn and a smug lilt to his challenging words, and as expected, Liam turns his head at breakneck speeds to look at Graham with his thick brows raised so high that he can barely see them past the dark tufts of hair that hang over Liam's forehead.
"Really? I– oh, sod off, Graham, don't get me started on Beatle competition shite," Liam says, but he's still laughing, still leaning back into Graham. Graham processes the cigarette he’s had has been out for ages by now, and he makes an awkward sound as he flicks it off to his side and darts his leg out at an angle to stamp it fully out with the heel of his boot. Liam's is out as well, he notes, but the other man apparently can't be bothered with getting rid of it if it gives his fingers something to do, rolling the fag between them and passing it back and forth from hand to hand like he's playing catch with it.
Graham laughs with him, pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his curving nose when they start to slide down with how much he's been jostled around, be it by Liam or himself laughing, and nearly jumps out of his skin at the next words that leave Liam's mouth.
"Got a few posters of 'im on me walls, Lennon. Fuckin' 'ell, got myself off to those maybe a million times. And counting, really."
Graham's chocolatey eyes are wide and his eyebrows high and his expression is almost comical, straight out of something he'd have likely seen playing on his family's telly one night, a cartoon, legs criss-crossed before the screen as he watches raptly and lets the moving pictures steal his attention away, let himself be enamored with them. Not too dissimilar from how enamored Liam apparently is with his John Lennon posters, apparently, but not enough that he'd pitch a bleeding tent over Thomas the Train or something else as equally as horrifying as that thought. Not that– not that Lennon isn’t fit, he supposes. "Really?"
"Yeah, really," Liam says, and he's so nonchalant about it, so utterly uncaring of what Graham might think that, in fact, he keeps going. "Tellin' me you never thought of McCartney that way, are you? Fuck me, Graham, Lennon's bloody attractive, but that man's eyes have got some sort of spell cast on them, swear it."
"Christ," Graham murmurs, still shocked– although, the novelty of the abrupt statement's beginning to wear off, and his astonishment's dropping down back to where it'd been prior: at zero.
Now, Graham’s had his fair share of homosexual experiences, and it's nothing to poke fun at or scorn people for or anything, and he knows it. Most of which have admittedly been with Damon, fooling around when they were even younger than they are now or pulling each other into restrooms when they can manage it, fumbling with the flies of their jeans until one of them takes both their cocks in hand and strokes until they've made a mess of each other. Damon even lets him fuck him, bury himself to the hilt in his arse, which Graham finds as a sort of compliment to his ability to both put Damon at ease and to make him feel good, and it boosts his ego more when Damon rides him hard and still holds the reigns of control in the bedroom, telling Graham how much he likes it and how good he is until he cums deep inside and Damon shoots onto his stomach with a shout.
He flushes, next to Liam, thinking about this, drags the teeth of his lower jaw over the jut of his thumb where it connects to the rest of his hand, but he can't stop now that the floodgates have been opened; he's kissed Damon before, kissed Alex, kissed Dave– even if kissing Dave ended up being more awkward than good, and they'd both agreed to never cross that odd little line in the sand ever again. Damon's good, a bit rough and sloppy but in a way that makes Graham's mind turn to fuzz, nipping little pathways up Graham's neck or along the curve of his jawline when he can manage it. Alex is great as well, but he's gentler, more sensual whereas Damon's more insistent and, well, hornier. Alex has a tendency to back him against a wall where he can lean down and make it slow, make it hot, slide their tongues together and drag his over the edges of Graham's teeth as Graham sucks in a breath and lets it out in the form of a shaky whine. Fuck.
So, yes, he's not a stranger to anything like that and he's certainly not inexperienced with it, it's just– for him, the guitarist of Blur, it's a bit of a shock hearing it from the lead singer of Oasis, who'll apparently pull any other bird off the street and into his bed to fuck her headlights out, before leaving her on the side of the road again so she can stumble her way home on shaky legs, while he smokes the high of his orgasm off. Or, whatever rockstars do.
He's hard. He's also relatively mortified that the train of thought that delivered him there stemmed from Liam Gallagher informing him casually, out of the blue, that he's cum countless times looking into the eyes of John Lennon through a poster on his wall.
"Need help with that, do you?" Liam asks, and the smile's audible in his voice. Shite, Graham forgot to cover himself, or bend away in time, or whatever other way there is to hide the fact he's already half-mast from the mental nosedive he'd just taken into the pits of debauchery hidden somewhere in the back of his mind. But, fuck, did Liam just offer to help him?
"No," he stammers out, and it sounds high-pitched and needy and he flushes and shudders at the sound of his own voice, twisting his hips away from Liam now in the most feeble of attempts to pretend like nothing's going on. His entire body feels electrified, like there's plasma in his veins and lightning and static in his head where his brain's supposed to be. "I can– I can take care of it meself, um, later. Or it'll be gone by then."
"Suit yerself," Liam says, and he's readjusting himself but Graham's got his head turned away, but there's so much shuffling and he's worried he's grossed Liam out enough for him to leave despite Liam just offering to jerk him off — his prick twitches at the thought, fuck! — about five seconds ago, but then– "I'll take care of mine, then. You get yours done whenever.”
His? He's–
Graham turns his head to look so fast that it might've flown off his body and bounced off a wall and rolled away into the darker corners of the alley had it not been for his neck, and his mouth falls open dumbly as he sees Liam start to loosen his belt in the loops of his trousers, bringing unavoidable attention to the sharp bulge his jeans have formed because, shit, he's hard as well. Liam seems to sense this staring like he's a mind-reader of sorts, and he looks over at Graham with his eyes wide in that pretty doe-like way again, and he pauses. "I mean, fuck. Unless it makes you uncomfortable. I just figured it didn't, cos, well… but if you want me to stop–?"
"No," Graham says suddenly, startling himself with his own words. A shock of heat runs through his body like a river of molten lava and he shivers yet again at the implications he’s made, at the implications Liam's made, the hot-to-the-touch feeling laced between each syllable they speak, so fragile it might break and so boiling it might burn them. "You can– you can, um… fuck. You can if you want."
"I do want," Liam says with a sheepish smile bleeding into his voice, and Graham hears the teeth of his zipper roughly slip open, the sound like ghosting his fingernails over the hard uninterrupted keys of a piano and hearing them catch and click against the shallow dips between the cool white material. Denim folds in and over itself to Graham's side, coarse and soft at once, rustling as Liam supposedly shucks his trousers down past his hips enough for him to get to himself– then, the noise of his belt loosely flopping from off his stomach and slapping into the ground, the metal rattling once or twice against the freezing concrete beneath them. Graham chews on his lip, slides a finger into his mouth again so he can chew the knuckle up, before he realizes the sight of him having his hands in his mouth might be drastically misconstrued right now and he freezes up to slide it out slowly, like if he moves slow Liam won't notice.
Liam's humming for a moment, low, and Graham knows his mouth is open just off the way it sounds and then there's the absolutely filthy scrape of a tongue over the palm of a hand to his left, and Graham feels his resolve breaking as the urge to look grows and grows, even though there's no reason for him to try and prevent himself from staring. Liam's clearly fine with him being here as he — shit, shit — as he jerks off, or else he wouldn't be wetting his rough skin to use as makeshift lotion, spit cooling on his hand, hurried little noises of fabric while he folds his pants down enough to take himself out, and Graham’s hearing small whispery grunts that pool in the back of Liam's throat and escape like water leaking through a faulty roof.
When Graham can hear his groan of relief and the slick sound of an upstroke on heated skin, he tears his eyes off the piece of sand or dirt that his brain had suddenly found much more interesting than what is essentially a live show happening next to him (with Liam fucking Gallagher as the star) and jerks his head towards Liam to look.
Fuck, he shouldn't have. Or maybe he should’ve sooner.
Liam's leaning his head back against the wall and the long pale stretch of his throat is on display, the mouth-watering outline of the slant of shaved skin below his chin, swooping up into his Adam's apple, curving down again as his neck fans out into his collarbone, which is currently being silhouetted by his cloudy white shirt as it's drawn tight against him, with how he's reclining. It bobs as he swallows, and he licks his lips wetly, and they're watermelon pink and glistening and Graham can trace their shape with his eyes in the way that he can with Liam's sweaty throat, and Graham's mouth is open enough for him to be audibly breathing, hard. But the fact he can see his shoulder moving his arm working while he strokes at his cock takes his mind immediately off anything he himself might be doing, because it's better, what he’s seeing, more important, and he follows the alluring trail of his collar all the way down to his fingertips where they're wrapped around his twitching length. And, fuck, if he isn't big; no wonder he's got so many girls gagging for it, Graham thinks, because he would be too (and arguably, he is), with the way it looks disappearing past the malleable webs between his fingers, dusky pink-orange with clear precum beading at the slit, looking utterly heavy and thick in his grasp as he thumbs the foreskin. Graham wants it in his mouth. Graham wants it in his guts. He lets out a whimpering noise at both of those back-to-back thoughts, and then he slaps one of his shaky hands over his mouth in shock, but it's too late 'cause Liam's heard it and his head lazily turns to look at Graham, looking attractively arrogant, and the guitarist can't even find it in himself to try and wipe that smirk off his face.
"Like what you see, yeah?" Liam asks, and his canines snag his full lower lip while he speaks and his voice sounds raspy and deep and hot with it all. It makes Graham feel dizzy, the man's trickling soft Mancunian accent rearing its head, somehow even more than usual now that Liam's gotten lightheaded with the feeling of his cock in his hand, his horniness magnifying his voice until it's both thick and thin and Graham realizes he finds it unbearably appealing. He couldn't have stopped himself from nodding in response to Liam, even if he tried. "Yeah," Liam smiles, lax, eyes hooded with shimmery lids while his sharp eyelashes bring out his blues, and he draws out the word and lets it wobble in his mouth before he drops it. "'S big, right? Fuck, get birds tellin' me that left n' right, never know if they're tellin' the truth or they're just tryin' to flatter me."
"They're right," Graham chokes out even though he knows Liam’s just egging him on to hear him say it, transfixed by the sight of Liam's hips starting to heft themselves up so he can shove himself through the ring of his hand and fuck his fist, steadily picking up the pace. The noise that the base of his dick makes when it’s slapping wetly into the curled side of his hand is making Graham feel shaky. "You're big, fuck."
"Got a cock to reference mine off of, do you?" Liam sighs, and he swipes his thumb just beneath the line of the head where blood-dark skin tapers off into a deeper coral pink, and he lets out a moan that rings in Graham's ears like he's just struck a pristine bell with his vocal chords, and Graham files that sweet little movement away for later on the horrible off-chance he ever gets his slim hands on Liam Gallagher's prick. He wonders, if Liam were to ever get his hands on Graham's and the feeling were mutual, if he'd also target his weak spots until his thighs are trembling and his arms are shaking as he grips onto whatever he can reach, his mouth perpetually open in a prolonged moan.
"Um, yeah," Graham murmurs, and he's not lying, because he does. He's got two– he's got Damon's and Alex's, and they're big as well, and he thinks Liam might be bigger than Alex at least but he's not sure if anybody on the planet can surpass the size Damon's managed to have. Thick, as well, and somehow Graham makes himself feel scandalized by thinking about another man's erection while he's got a perfectly good one right next to him that he should be giving attention to. "You're massive, wide…" Graham says, the situation having made him brainless, and his fingers are back at his lips again as he picks at the plush skin of them, bordering on pinker than fruit punch. "'S good."
Liam's expression briefly looks almost pained, pinched at his words as he wrinkles his nose and furrows his painted brushstroke brows, eyes sealed tightly shut and his mouth open enough for Graham to watch the faintest of light glint off the points of his eggshell-pale, smooth teeth. He can't pull himself away from it, and so he edges impossibly closer, and he can feel the way Liam's arm goes from quick to entirely furious, the slapping sounds echoing in the alleyway and in Graham's hazy brain. But the movement made Graham's trousers crease harder over the crotch of his jeans and it gives his erection (that he'd admittedly forgotten about, in light of the revelation that is Liam's gorgeous cock) just the slightest bit of relief that has him reeling, letting out a stuttering whine before he can stuff it back down.
Liam whines back, like they're having a conversation purely constructed of the lewdest sounds they can manage, and Graham hysterically thinks it might be in the same line as a musical duet: a back-and-forth of lyrical talking, communicating through breathy panting and slick sounds, delicate high-pitched background vocals and damp lips parting to rehearse. Liam’s letting out gruff but light moans that sound so like his singing, so utterly Liam , that Graham finds himself immediately wanting to rush off to a record shop and buy forty copies of Definitely Maybe and Morning Glory just to let the voice of the man next to him bounce off his ears and through his space a million times more. And anything else Liam sings, maybe. Maybe he can secretly nab a ticket to a gig of theirs, even if the crowd might recognize him and would possibly stone him to death in the middle of “Live Forever” while Oasis dances and plays up on stage. Would Liam let him backstage, or would the rest of his band maul him at first sight, or is Graham thinking too far ahead and just fantasizing more about Liam now that he's plastered to the man's side while he touches himself?
Fuck, definitely the last one. Graham can't take it anymore, and as Liam widens his legs more and presses himself harder into the side of Graham's folded knees, tilts his head further towards Graham with a soft moan, Graham bites his lip and readjusts himself so he can push Liam's jacket up enough that he can get to his belt and loosen it and tug it hurriedly off his waist. He drops it on his side like how Liam's has fallen to his own, and darts a hand down beneath his jeans to palm himself through his boxers. He lets out a gutted noise and Liam mirrors it again, and when he looks over he finds that the other's gaze is fixed on where his hand disappears into his trousers, and how it makes Liam's jacket move in small little rustling motions atop his arm, with the slow caress of his hand over the straining material of his pants. Shit, he knows what Liam sees, and he’ll make it better– Graham immediately uses his free hand to grab onto Liam's jacket and hugs it to his chest, tucks his chin over it, and the quickness of it all makes his glasses slip down his nose, but he doesn't care enough to fix them right now. Liam swears under his breath, still watching as Graham arches his hips up so he can pull his briefs down low enough for his cock to pop out, in order to properly get a hand on it. It bobs out and smacks against the cinnabar-peach-gold plaid of his shirt, and he makes a startled little noise before he picks the weight of it off his clothes and twists his body so he can comfortably hold himself up in his hand.
"Fuckin' cute-looking," Liam grits out, still thrusting into the slippery hole of his fist and crushing the pads of his fingers together and over the length of him, tight as he can make it without it hurting. Graham goes red (redder) in the face and gasps at his words, twitches so hard that he accidentally tightens his hand round the girth of his prick and he draws out his moan, biting down hard on his lip halfway through it to try and stifle how much he's truly enjoying this. But Liam is relentless. "Doesn't hafta be that big, shit, I'd still– ugh, no, shouldn’ fucking say tha’– but 's so pretty, so pink."
Liam's slurred filth swims around Graham and he'd almost be drowning in it, except that it's so good, and in his single-minded craze to make skin-on-skin contact with his cock he'd forgotten to wet his hand. He makes a pitiful noise as he releases himself and nearly shoves his fingers down his throat, petting them over his tongue and scooping up the drool that had been collecting in the corners of his mouth this entire time, salivating over Liam's cock or someone else's or both. Picturing Liam arching hard on his bed and groaning as he cums into his hand, staring at the posters on his wall. Shit, was that really what started this?
He pulls his hand out of his mouth and curls his fingers down against his palm, smears the saliva he's got on them over as much of his hand as he can reach, and then he's got it back on his cock and he's squeezing his eyes shut and a long noise of relief that's soft like wispy tufts of cotton leaves him, and he sinks against Liam's side with a meek shiver running through his body. It's less of Liam's arm practically vibrating against Graham’s side and more of his hips doing that now, the feel of their trousers scraping together as he thrusts into his grasp pulling Graham's mind somewhere pleasantly cloudy, feeling butterfly-delicate and floaty as he strokes himself and speeds up quicker than he normally would with Liam next to him fucking his fist like it's the end of the world.
It's like the steady beat of a song, and fuck, if Graham can't quit relating it all to music– but he can't help it, it's woven itself through his bones and his muscle and his skin and blood, and it's all over him in everything he sees– and they fall into each other's rhythm like they've rehearsed it a hundred times, the repetitive slippery slap of their hands, the moans they continue to parrot and the melodic thing they're making together privately (publicly) in this closed-off dark space, and sure, Graham might be slightly out of his mind while hard for Liam Gallagher beyond all reason, but it's so good, and he's gonna–
One of the doors across the alley shifts open suddenly, and it's just a crack, like someone's leaning onto a push door with their back to shove it open that way, but Graham struggles hard to smother the scream he nearly lets out after remembering they're somewhere people can just walk into, and lets go of himself instantly. He shoves Liam's jacket down hard, covers himself, turns his entire body away from Liam and onto his other side so he's curled up enough to cover the fact his belt's off and on the ground next to him, and that he's hard. Liam seems to be in a similar state of panicked disarray, and his cock is tucked back into his pants faster than Graham has ever seen anyone do, trousers back up and belt clumsily slid behind his back.
There's a heavy, painstaking lull in their action, where they both have to tighten their lips and try desperately not to pant like they've both just run marathons, cant their knees up towards themselves to try and block their erections, pretend they aren't flushed and sweaty and that they don't smell heady like sex. Graham's cock is still wet with his spit and the precum that'd begun to leak from it, and he chews the inside of his cheek and tries to discreetly tuck his hand beneath the baggy jacket to stuff himself away again, moving like he'll be knifed if he's caught. He might as well be, he supposes.
The door is still cracked slightly, and they can hear a voice echoing through the small opening, and it sounds like they're angry, snapping at someone in front of them about needing their break, or something. But then they make a loud, frustrated noise, snap "Fine!", and let go of the door to go back inside of the building.
After a solid thirty seconds once the heavy door has clicked back shut, Graham lets out a frantic bark of laughter, dissolving into giggles as his cock softens and he pulls Liam's jacket back to correctly put himself back into his pants. Liam joins in within a heartbeat, and he's putting himself away as well, leaning forward to plant his elbows on his knees. Quickly, with some sense of embarrassment, Graham checks to see if he got any precum on the intensely dark brown fabric of Liam's jacket, and sighs easily once he sees that he hasn't. He hands it back to Liam, who takes it with another soft chuckle. "Thanks. No fun stuff on it, yeah?"
"Yeah," Graham says, fighting back a smile as he lets his head hang a little, but not in dejection, just out of habit. Their cheeks are still mutually pink. He's yawning a little and sliding his belt back into his trousers, buckling it and trying to ignore the cold feeling of being denied an orgasm so suddenly and so harshly, when Liam stands up beside him, rocking heavy on his heels. He looks up at the other man while he tightens his belt and grabs blindly for the glass that he knows is somewhere by him, quivering fingertips scraping against the rough pocked concrete and sending frigid shocks up his arm with the violent contrast of temperature, and Liam stares back down at him, looking like he wants to say something. Graham finds the long-since empty glass and tugs his jacket out from beneath him and waits, looking up at Liam with wide, rich hickory brown eyes.
"I, uh…" Liam says, shifting his weight onto his other leg, and then back and forth like he can't decide which one he'd like to stand on more. Then, he sighs and shakes his head a little, as though he's surrendered to a nagging little thought in the back of his mind, eating at his edges. "Oh, fuck me. Come on up here, would you? Get off that nasty ground."
Graham complies, knees popping like he's eighty as he bends them to stand, holding his jacket awkwardly in front of his groin like his erection hasn't already flagged and he still needs to cover it up, glass held carefully in the other hand. He's just a bit taller than Liam, he notices, but really only just a bit, 'cause the way Liam acts and the way he talks and holds himself and nearly everything else he does makes him feel at least two heads higher than Graham. But, no, just a little. Enough to barely be noticeable if you're looking from afar or if you are one of them and you've got to either glance up or glance down. He wants to chew on his fingers, again, but his hands are occupied.
"D'ya think you could, um, come back to mine or summat? Obviously, y'don't got to if y'don't want to, but. I think that was a pretty shite way to finish, well, whatever that was. I'm sort of interested in reachin' the end o' that, do y'know what I mean?" Liam laughs, and he rubs the knobs of his knuckles over his plump lips a little as he sways his hips to lean on his other foot again, looking almost bashful. Graham finds it irresistibly charming of him that he's got himself coming off as some hardcore rock n' roll star over the press, some uncaring lad who smokes and drinks and shags when he likes no matter where, and the mushy guitarist of Blur has got him blushing in an alleyway like a schoolgirl after they both got their little masturbation session interrupted by a stranger. He smiles a little, shoves a laugh that had attempted to bubble up over their situation back down, chews his lip and nods so his hair bobs, and his glasses slide down, and he scrunches his nose up a few times so they slide as far back as he can get them that way.
"Um, yeah, yeah," Graham says, voice soft and still slightly wobbly, like a fawn on its gangly new legs trying to stand, like the petals of a flower shaking in the path of incessant wind. "I'd– I'd love to, actually, um. Just… oh–" Graham pauses, remembering something he'd heard about Liam's place somewhere, either off the telly or something he'd glimpsed in the papers somehow, "–doesn't your house have people fucking hidin' in the bushes outside, like it's some kind of battlefield or somethin’? Dunno if I should be showing my face over there, might get whacked by a hooligan taken a liking to your lawn."
Liam bursts out into laughter and rocks forward where he stands, starting to slip his jacket back on, stuffing his arms through the dark sleeves, hooking his thumbs into the pockets and swaying again. "Yeah, yeah. That's fair, I s'pose. Got some fuckin' lunatics out there, don't I? Like I'm growin' a garden full o' weeds, or summat."
"You could come to mine," Graham says, fighting back an utterly aggressive smile and another laugh that's trying to force its way out of his throat, so he just ends up looking like a smiling ditzy bird trying to steady herself on her heels in her fluffy skirt and skimpy top in front of the almighty and gorgeous Liam Gallagher. Liam raises his brows and pouts his lips, nodding and looking back and forth between thin air and Graham until he finally settles down and cocks his head to the left, locking their eyes again. "I've got, um, some records back at mine… Beatles albums, and stuff. If you'd want to play one while we, um. Yeah."
Liam hums, a smile still smeared over his face, nodding. "Massive idea," he chuckles, shoes scuffing over the ground as he turns a little, edging the tiniest bit closer to Graham. "Get it on to stellar sound, have stellar sex. Where's your place, then?"
Graham makes a small noise in his throat, hands his glass over to Liam so he can hold it for a moment, and pats his back pockets, turning his head slightly towards them before his finger catches on the outline of one of his pens through the denim and pulls it out. He steps forward to lightly manhandle one of Liam's arms out of his jacket sleeves, and sets to writing out his address on the man's forearm, his scrawling handwriting creeping onto the bend of his bicep. Liam watches him, eyes still big like he's being mesmerized by Graham's hand holding his arm still, his fingers curled neatly around the ballpoint pen as it bleeds ink into the other man's pale, very faintly freckled skin. And then once it’s down he lets go, and he immediately misses the warmth he had of Liam in his hands, close enough that Liam had very slowly tucked his chin over Graham's shoulder to watch him scribble his place down.
"Remember that off the top of your head?" Liam murmurs, turning his forearm over once or twice, as if he's admiring Graham's impression on his body. "Can't be arsed for that, meself. I just go based off my surroundings, y'know?" He pats a hand over his newly drawn-on arm a little before he attentively tugs the sleeve back on, like he's careful not to fuck up what the guitarist's left behind; it makes some soft and sappy part of Graham feel warm on the inside, makes him want to melt back against Liam and take them both out again regardless of who might want to join their "smoke break" out here, stroke them both to the end and whine into the side of Liam's pretty throat.
"Yeah," Graham smiles, feeling nearly as shy as Liam looks, and there's another far gentler lull in this interaction now, where they both stand there in a comfortable quiet moment, neither wanting to leave all that much. Liam breaks the silence, carefully.
"Um. Sorta came out here for somethin', actually… yeah. Maybe."
Graham looks at him, eyes round and waiting, and he holds his hand out to take his glass back from Liam. But he shakes his head, briefly mutters he'll take it back himself and Graham whispers a nearly inaudible thanks.
"I kind of… fuck. Kind of wanted another kiss off you," Liam mumbles, clear sky blue eyes darting off Graham's face again, and the latter can see color blossom beautifully across the stunning arches of his cheeks and the tip of his curving nose. It looks like someone's taken makeup to him and dusted a load of orange-y blush across his features, blended it all into his fair skin, let it shine against him, and Graham feels his own face heat up just looking at Liam, even more so after processing the words. "Liked how it felt on my face. Wanted more, but. Again, y'don't got to do it. I"
Graham cuts him off by taking a bold step forward, and tightens his grip on his plaid jacket, letting it dangle at his side so he's not holding it in front of himself and blocking his way to Liam. He's still not looking at Graham, and he wonders if Liam's worried he's going to try and do something, and the thought makes him feel so terrible that he lurches forward clumsily to stamp another soft kiss on the middle of Liam's cheek. The shorter man's breath hitches and Graham sees his eyes flutter closed, but he's still feeling bold, and he uses his free hand to grab onto Liam's upper arm while he continues to kiss his face, leaving a trail of his lips in a line down to the jut of his jaw, pressing even more wet kisses along the bone. Liam's mouth falls open and he pants gently into Graham's ear while his face continues to get peppered with kisses, one just below his lips once he's traced far enough over his jaw to get there, before he arches the string of kisses and presses one, slow and hot, over the corner of Liam's mouth.
He pulls back to look at Liam, feeling fuzzy, and quickly meets his pale eyes, searching his own relentlessly like he's on a quest for something desperate, something he looks like he might explode if he doesn't get. Graham swallows and Liam's eyes flicker to the tendons of his throat working, before he looks back up and around the alley like he's checking to make extra sure nobody's here right now, before he saunters even closer and demurely brings a hand up to place on the side of Graham's soft face. He presses his thumb a little more into his cheek but nowhere near enough to be an uncomfortable amount of force, just to see the plush skin give beneath the tip of his finger. Graham blinks at him, and Liam blinks back, looking almost innocent if not for the way his breathing is picking up and how deeply his cheeks are flushed, and, of course, if not for the fact he had his fist tight around his cock next to Graham earlier. He slinks closer and presses his lips tenderly to Graham's, and both their eyes flutter shut.
"Mmh," Graham moans, their lips still closed as they kiss gently, like the calm of the ocean on a warm summer day, the sky clear and seafoam eating up the shoreline in pleasant waves. They keep repeatedly pulling back, and in those brief moments Graham can feel the balmy temperature of both of their breaths mingling and fanning out barely against their faces before they fall back in, lips to pliable lips, growing wetter and wetter with their spit as their noses brush together and Graham burns at all of the touch, brings one of his own thin hands up to Liam's face to mirror him and hold the man's cheek. He brushes his thumb underneath the velvety skin beneath his eye and it's light, like holding paper in his hands, and he feels like he's been lit on fire from the inside in the most addictive way possible.
He's got to pull back for real now so they can get going, and fuck, his bandmates are going to be looking for him, and Noel might also come storming down the halls in search of his little brother, and the last thing Graham wants right now is for another Gallagher to kick the door open and catch him kissing one of their own. Christ, that'd be fucked. He angles his head down and his mouth slides off Liam's, but Liam keeps pressing angelic little kisses against the sides of his lips, where his nose bridge slopes into his cheek, the outer corner of his wide eyes, and Graham whines softly and slides his hand from his cheek down his neck to grip onto his bicep, to knead at it mindlessly. "Liam, I've got to get going," he whispers, and it's sugary like vanilla ice cream, searing like a cup of hot cocoa. "Been gone too long. And I've– I've, um, got to get back and prep stuff. For our, um… future endeavors."
Liam giggles again at Graham's words, steamy hot against Graham's cheekbone, presses one last chaste kiss to the top of it, and pulls back while he lets his hand fall from Graham's face to his throat, and then completely off of him. But he's still smiling, head cocked, and he pats the hand that's still tight to his arm before letting his fingers trace down from Graham's nails to his knuckles. "Yeah, yeah. Yeah. See you in a couple o' hours, alright?" And before Graham can answer, Liam's swaggering off back towards the door they'd come out from, blowing a last kiss over his shoulder before he swings it open, disappearing back into the building.
Graham stands there, heart beating a stamp into his throat and hands coming up to clutch his dirty jacket to his chest, staring after where Liam's gone. He's still flushed pink, and suddenly he remembers he's got things to do now, and he yelps to himself and scurries after him.
| | | | | | | |
When Graham rushes himself up the steps to his place, he feels almost giddy with the excitement of something new and supremely unsuspected, for the first time in ages. Blur's been eating at his soul and tugging his brain out of his head and wiping all his slates clean, whereas he wants them full of things that are so very him he won't even glance at them again because of how they belong– but they're being erased and replaced to make room for the band that spiraled out of their control after Leisure but mostly after Modern Life Is Rubbish , more after the others until it became utter insanity with “Country House”. Fuck, that pissed him off, made him want to tear his eyes out at every other given second during any part of the process, made him rethink his decision to join Damon's band all those years ago. But Liam's hit him like a train off its rails and he's got something new to sustain him, stupidly hopes it lasts and knows he's banking too hard on Liam staying with him, even staying friends with him, but. Hopefully it'll be enough to hold him over until he can try and knock sense into Blur. He’s always gotten attached to his hook-ups anyway, this is nothing new. He’ll get over it again.
He hurries up the stairs to his floor and fumbles with his keys about seventeen separate times before he swears to himself and manages to get it to click in the lock, quickly letting himself in so his cat doesn't escape, 'cause he tries every single time. Sure enough, once Graham's shifted to close the door by pressing his back to it, the cat's already waiting by his feet and meowing, loud, and he crouches down to shush him and pet him gently on his forehead with his thumb. He moves to scratch behind his ears before he stands up to lock the door and bolt it shut and do whatever else to the little metal things on his door, before he pauses to take a breath.
Right. He's got to prep stuff, like he'd do with Damon. They've had their fair share of marathon sex surprisingly, and not necessarily to music, but Graham isn't a stranger to letting his friend put a record under the needle to spin and timing their climaxes to the peak of the song and oozing into each other lazily on the comedown. Damon coiled around his orgasm-hot body as he drifts in and out of sleep, fucked out and content from the violently long hammering Graham had given to him minutes prior. But he's not supposed to be thinking about Dames right now, he's supposed to be thinking about Liam.
Instead of starting on any of the things he'd mentioned first, he immediately goes to shower. He's got to wipe himself clean in multiple places and wash himself thoroughly with his soap, and maybe just freshen up to look nice for Liam as well, and so he does. He barely fights off an excruciating boner in the shower when he has to gently wipe his cock off with a rag, Liam on his mind (and still Damon as well, just a little), but he manages and escapes the shower with no erection, slipping a soft blue shirt on with tight black briefs and bleached baggy jeans.
He bites the thin edge of his nail as he runs through his mental checklist: food and drinks, 'cause they're going to be too lazy to go out of the room; towels for any mess they might make, and thank god he'd gotten them washed last night instead of putting it off for the seventh time in a row; generally clean up his flat because it's gone a little fucked from how long he'd decided cleaning was a sin and lived in a mess out of pure spite; for this occasion in particular, sift through all his records and pull out all his Beatles albums and his John Lennon stuff, let Liam pick from his array of music and decide on what they want to have running while they go at it like there's no tomorrow. He won't finger himself open just yet, either in case Liam wants to do it himself or if he wants to watch or something, or if Liam somehow ends up being on the bottom. He doubts that severely, just as he doubts Liam's actually had a proper homosexual experience with another person involved, so he'll leave that for when they get there. Fuck, he's got to set up the lube and condoms as well, leave those on the nightstand in reach of the bed. At least he’s clean, doesn’t have to worry about getting anything from him on Liam, hasn’t slept with anyone since the test. He huffs and pats himself on the face, and he gets to work.
The food and drink is higher priority than anything else on his list, honestly, because he's learned every time he cums he gets inconsolably hungry and he's got to stuff his face with something or other (not cock, that doesn't count), and if he doesn't his stomach will twist itself inside out and he'll get surly. He really doesn't know what causes it, but fuck him if he'll wonder; he gets hungry after he orgasms and that's that.
He decides on four sandwiches and two different kinds, just for something to distract himself from the butterflies in his stomach, starts with BLTs, tugs his bedroom record player out to set it on the kitchen counter as he cooks and pops The Wall in it while he grunts with the weight of the frying pan he heaves onto the stove. Graham cuts a slice of butter off the stick and pushes it round the pan with a spatula after drizzling a thin line of olive oil onto the hot surface, his cat looking up at the kitchen island with wide eyes and meowing, pleading. Graham can't help but sigh and rip a few pieces of cold bacon apart, dropping them to the floor for him to snatch up. When he puts the bacon on carefully, he fishes out two plates from the dishwasher and parts them on the counter, slips white bread into the toaster, and then multitasks a third time by running a tomato under the water of the sink and slices it into broad cuts on a bamboo chopping board. He darts back to the bacon and flips it, and the toaster dings and pops the bread back up and he rushes over there, too, pulls the pieces out and winces at the burn he feels as he tries to set them neatly on the first plate, replacing their spots in the toaster with two more slices of bread. The cat's running around beneath his feet frantically like he senses something's going on, and he laughs a little while he digs his thumbs into a head of lettuce and peels it into smaller leaves. He's done soon enough, his tongue stuck out between his lips and teeth in concentration as he flips the stove off and smears mayo on one of each of the pieces of bread, smoothing it down as much as possible, starts stacking the ingredients and making sure it looks relatively presentable. Even if he does stuff the sandwiches into soft plastic bags anyway, fucking them up considerably in spite of his attempts to get them in there, all meticulous like.
He sighs at the sight of them, his flat smelling like bacon and warm bread, and then he gasps and nearly smacks himself upon realizing he'd forgotten to set up the cooler. And okay, yes, a cooler for breaks from sex might sound stupid to some people. But he's not going to be eating hot sandwiches and drinking warm booze if his life depends on it, and he's done it with Damon and it's worked better than anything he's tried before, so. He peers into his freezer and opens his little purple cooler, taking the ice scoop to the wide open bag of it he's got and dumping it into the empty white interior of the tiny icebox. It rattles around and he hears his cat skitter across the floor in surprise at the loud noise and suppresses a snort, before he carefully places the sandwiches over the ice and swipes a few frozen cubes over them.
After he lifts the cooler onto the counter and snaps it shut so it doesn't melt immediately, Graham's set on making two tuna salad sandwiches, trying to duck under his cat's swatting paws and persistent affection to pull out a bowl from the floor-adjacent drawers beneath the stove, laughing. “Goodbye Blue Sky” bleeds into the air through the record player while he takes out all the ingredients quickly, shoveling tuna and mayonnaise and celery, onion, relish, all into one wide glass bowl. He squeezes lemon juice and garlic into it, following it up with salt and pepper before he starts rolling the contents around to mix it properly. Graham chews on his lip as he works, toasts four more pieces of bread and while he waits he cracks open a can of beer to nurse on as he moves through his "marathon sex with Liam Gallagher" checklist. He layers the tuna stuff between thick, fresh lettuce pieces, presses the sandwiches down so they don't fall apart miserably once he puts them in the bags, and seals them in the cooler with the BLTs. While he's on it, he pulls out the remaining beers in the pack he's been drinking from lately and arranges them nicely in the cooler, beside the sandwiches.
His cat runs around his feet and rubs his black fur against his shins while Graham trudges to his bedroom and stacks all the loose papers on his nightstand into one neat pile to make room for the neon purple cooler, and he nearly knocks over his large lamp in the process, cursing under his breath.
He turns round to pick out all his Beatles music on the shelves across from his bed, humming to himself as Pink Floyd drones on from within the kitchen. The wooden table tucked into the corner (that previously had various random objects on it until Graham swept it all off into his arms and dumped it on his bed) ends up with every album on it alongside one Lennon album — Imagine — and Graham finds himself hoping his selection's alright. Well, it must be, he's got all the albums, nearly. He's got McCartney and Harrison and Starr stuff as well, but he figures Liam would like it better if he were presented with Lennon alone, the fanboy he is.
Graham finds a nice place for the shit he's just put on his bed in the newly empty area of one of the shelves, making sure it's all stood properly upright and not in danger of toppling over or anything. "One Of My Turns" thrums on and he can't help but move in time with the lazier part of the song, probably looking like a right idiot tidying up his room and his flat as a whole in slow motion, as he dumps his dirty laundry on the floor of its designated, albeit cramped room. But he doesn't care all that much, speeding up with the tune and nearly leaping through his drawing-room back to his bed to fling open the drawer, picking out the condoms and lube to set them next to the cooler.
He pauses when he sees the flavored lube — fucking hell, vanilla — and he bursts into a quick fit of laughter at the sight. Damon had made him buy it just for laughs when they'd found their way into a dingy but packed sex shop while on tour, somewhere in northern Europe, he thinks. The blond had picked up the sleek bottle (fuck, it's massive, takes up so much room in his drawers) and erupted into giggles upon spotting the vanilla bean logo stamped onto it, shown it to Graham and shoved it into the guitarist's hands before he could even think about saying no. All things considered, it's not the worst thing either of them have had in their mouths. It's reasonably tasty. He sets it by the cooler as well, past the regular lubricant, just to see if they'll get up to it.
Graham's letting "Don't Leave Me Now" echo in his head as he carries fluffy, warm towels to his bed when he hears a heavy, patterned knock at the door, sounding almost like clockwork. He can hazard a guess as to who's behind there, and he nearly jumps out of his skin and rushes to plant the towels carefully on his bed without rumpling them too much, and scoops his cat up in his arms to hold to himself so he doesn't try and make a break for it. Again.
He's blocked off the peephole with about seventy pieces of gaffer tape so he can't really look through it to check who’s there, even if he’s got a sneaking suspicion– and the reason for it is that people can't really look back through it and at him, to try and snap unwilling photos in case they find his bloody house and think it a good idea to pick locks or knock until his head's ringing, or something else horrible like that. It's not happened before, as far as he can remember, but he's too paranoid of it to stick himself in one place for long, and even if he's had this flat for quite a while, he still spends most of his nights at Damon's or Dave's or Alex's, depending on who'll take him. Sometimes, Jamie. Sometimes, his friends from art school, some of which are more infatuated with him now that he’s become the accidental face of a British music movement, and only end up making him uncomfortable now. There was a point where he'd push an entire couch in front of this place’s door before he went to bed, but the locks sort of remedied that when he got them installed… while he was away, of course, so whoever was working on it couldn’t see who lived here.
The cat writhes in his hands and he shushes him gently, and fruitlessly, as he undoes all the barricades as quick as he can with one hand and slips the door open a smidge, peering out into the hall with wide eyes. A smile breaks out across his features when he sees Liam standing there whistling, leaning, trying to peer into the opening of the door, beaming like sunshine when he spots Graham, who ushers him in immediately. Graham feels like a flat stone in the sun, in a weird way, being warmed by the light as he hurriedly lets Liam into his flat, quickly shoves the door shut behind him and begins to do up the locks as his cat finally struggles hard enough to spring out of his arms and onto the floor. He hears Liam toe his heavy shoes off as they knock against the trim at the bottom of the wall, arranged neatly there.
"Cat, huh?" Liam asks, and when Graham's done with the locks he turns around to find Liam already cross-legged on the floor with the cat in his lap, rubbing his small feline face against Liam's chin and purring like a motorcycle. Something about the sight of the other man already comfortable in his place with his cat rolling around on his legs makes Graham bite his lip, shift onto his other foot and feel his face warm as Liam looks up at him, baby blue eyes as wide as ever. They shine in the lights overhead. "What's its name?"
"His name's, uh, Puss. But Bastard really suits him better though, so, that's mostly what I call him. Sorry, normally I sort of, um, give him a tie, so he’s nice and presentable for visitors, but you caught me in the middle of stuff," he says, pulling one of his hands up to chew on his knuckles, finding it suddenly painfully hard to make eye contact. Fuck, in the alley, it felt almost hysterically easy to take his cock out next to this man, even though it was in public rather than private, and now that he's got Liam in his house ready to shag him suddenly he's got the jitters. It makes him want to punch himself in the face or something, set himself straight (but not like that) and tell himself to man up in preparation for maybe an hour of sex with Liam Gallagher. Quit being a wimp. Bend over for him already. Shit, Pink Floyd's still playing– whatever, he'll just let it run until it's over, it's pretty close.
"Bastard. A tie," Liam says through a thicket of chuckles, shaking his head fondly at the cat and wrinkling his nose when he gets his cheek swatted. Then, the cat runs off, somewhere towards the couches, and Graham knows almost for certain that he's going to have to pick up more knocked-over shit after he recovers from their night of fun. Cat's a fan of mischief. Liam watches him go before he places his hands on his knees and heaves himself up, looking at Graham with an amused smile and half-lidded eyes, and Graham wants to kiss him. "Massive name, mega cat."
"Thanks," he laughs, and the record stutters to a stop after he speaks, so he motions Liam to follow with a jerk of his head, peeling the vinyl out cautiously and tucking the entire record player under one arm to bring back into his room. The other man struts after him, undoubtedly looking all around his house and at the stuff he's got. Graham knows he's sort of a hoarder, but it's not exactly something he hates being; rather, he's a fan of all the stuff he's collected over the years from shops or as gifts from friends and family, inside jokes or genuine presents, from tiny little figurines to clothes and everything in-between and elsewhere. Sometimes, he surrounds himself with it all, coiling into his dad's old jacket or holding the little strange plush his sister had given to him. Just to… he doesn't know. They make him feel better. They also might make him feel worse, some days.
When they make it into his room, Liam hums and beelines it to the table with all the records on it before Graham's even set the turntable down beside them, sifting through and tapping his fingernails on the wide plastic surfaces where the album covers are printed. Graham puts The Wall away and slides it back into his shelf with all his million other vinyls, and tells Liam he's got to quickly feed the cat (a little extra, this time, because he's going to be gone for a good minute and there’s a high chance he’s going to be sleeping through noon), and once he comes back and locks the bedroom door, Liam's waggling Please Please Me at Graham, and wiggling his eyebrows as well. Graham snorts and crosses his arms, hands curled underneath his biceps as he watches Liam slide out the record. The title, right.
"Oh, wait, before you put that on," Graham says, and he's already feeling himself turning red as a bleeding tomato even before Liam turns around, with a brow raised, waiting for him to speak. How the hell does he say this? "Um. Earlier, when I said I had stuff, um, prepped. I figure I should tell you before we start, right? So you, uh, know…"
"Alright, yeah," Liam says, nodding, and he puts the vinyl back down on the little container it's been in for ages. "Tell us, then."
"Okay, so, um. First. Have you done this before? Like, you know, with a bloke."
"Nah," Liam says, shaking his head and rocking on his socked heels, looking round the room at the two patterned towels and rags on the bed, lingering on the lube and condoms beneath the lamp by the cooler. Graham bites the inside of his cheek, twisting his lips and humming, trying to think on what to say next, but Liam beats him to it. "Y'worried I don' know how it works though? Nah, nah, been a fantasy for a while. I know all the–" he pauses, gesturing vaguely and suddenly looking hesitant, biting his lip and not meeting Graham's eyes, "–intricacies. The, um," and then, he makes a vulgar motion with two of his fingers, like they're supposed to be inside someone, and Graham feels an extremely embarrassing full-body shudder run through him, like he's been dunked in an ice bath. Fuck, that's a thought: Liam fingering himself.
"Oh," he says dumbly, when he remembers he's got to speak. There seem to be thick cotton balls in his throat. Nervously, pressing the pads of his fingers into the skin of his arms, revealed by his soft short-sleeve shirt, he says, "Well, um. You can f– you can fuck me, if you'd like. Don't got to, um… be the one taking it."
"Really?" Liam says, and he sounds genuinely surprised, looks it as well, when Graham glances up to him again, after deciding he's done staring fiery holes into the thin side of his John Lennon album and avoiding the other's pale turquoise gaze. Graham chews on his lip and feels hot all over when Liam continues. "I– yeah, I s'pose, if you'd be alright with it, yeah? Was a little nervous about havin' the real thing in me. But you're fine with the real thing in you?"
"Yeah," Graham says, nodding and managing not to break eye contact within the first fifteen seconds of making it again. Liam's tilted his head curiously, like he wants him to elaborate or something, before he looks over to all the stuff he's prepared, back to Graham, raising his eyebrows. That look says: "Done this before?"
"Yes, I've done this before," he admits, with a small, timid laugh, unfolding his hands and arms to scratch the back of his neck, nails grazing the soft and downy hairs that are dusted along his skin there. He weighs what'll happen if he reveals it was with Damon in his head, and decides he's not going to risk that in the slightest, not really in favor of possibly being decked and blue balled after all the time he's spent waiting and cleaning up his act for Liam to come over, so he shuts his mouth about that topic in particular. "I was sort of the one doing the fucking, though. So. I know how to, um, do it. With a bloke. But all this other stuff," he points vaguely to all the items set out, the condoms and lube and the towels and cooler, "it's important too. Don't need to explain protection and lube, um… towels for mess, but you might know that as well. But the cooler– uhm, fuck, that's sort of embarrassing. But I get really hungry after I–" he goes quiet, like saying this word out loud is naughty even though he's well into adulthood and about to spread his arsecheeks anyway, "–after I cum. So. Easier than getting all the way out of bed and grabbing somethin’."
"Man, you're smart," Liam says, looking impressed and bobbing his head like he's agreeing with his own statement despite being the one to say it. Graham blinks and fiddles with his thumbs, pinches the airy material of his blue shirt at the hem and tugs on it a little, can't help but let a fuzzy smile worm its way across his face. "I just get fuckin' pissed off, d'you know what I mean? Rage about it, not feelin' like gettin' out of my bed to get a snack. Make myself mad. Should take this idea of yours and use it for myself, Christ– but anyway, thank fuck. I dunno what I was worried about, then, ya clearly know what you're doing."
"I guess so," Graham smiles, and then he loosens his trousers preemptively. Liam stares, transfixed, when Graham climbs onto the bed and lays a towel out flat, rolling onto his back to properly get comfortable on top of it. He watches Liam swallow, peel his black socks from his ankles and throw them in the emptiest corner of Graham's room, smoothly unbuckling and sliding his belt out of its loops. Graham quickly jolts up to move the rest of the towels out of the way of all the action and sets them on the other, emptier bedside table, and then settles back on the one they're using now, trying not to look like a total idiot when he spreads his legs open in what he hopes is a suave way, like a silky stroke of watercolor over paper. Liam makes a noise in the back of his throat and finally rips his eyes off Graham, picks the vinyl for Please Please Me back up, and slots it into the record player before pulling the needle properly over it and letting it spin, the volume up high.
Liam nearly throws himself onto the bed as soon as he's put the thing in and Graham stifles a laugh, legs still spread wide as Liam crawls over him and between them, one hand sliding up from the clothed inside of his thigh and up to part his knee even further, eliciting a soft moan of anticipation from Graham. Liam darts forward to swallow his noises and seals their lips tight together, and Graham moans again, eyes easing shut while Liam's hand continues to stroke over his knee, the other playing with the loops of his jeans. The record pops and skips a few times, and then "I Saw Her Standing There" floods the room, and Graham shivers, arching up into Liam as he flattens himself atop Graham's front, effectively pushing his thighs apart with his body.
"Need these off," Liam huffs against the corner of his mouth, pulling at his trousers, needy, and Graham whines in agreement, lifting his hips up feebly to try and help Liam ease them off his body. He lifts Liam up a little as well, the weight of him solid over his body, and the shorter man grunts at the movement and begrudgingly pushes himself up to help yank the denim off Graham's legs so he can get to his steadily growing erection. While he's up, his trousers fly off as well, and they're left in their pants and Graham groans when Liam presses back down and keeps his legs held apart, slotting their groins together easily through tight, smooth cloth. Liam licks a stripe up the angle of his jaw and he bites down hard on his lip, before Liam's pulling it open with a finger, telling him he wants to hear him, and when Graham whines Liam kisses the column of his throat before moving back up to his mouth.
The twang of guitar is like fluff in his head as Liam coaxes his mouth open with his wet tongue, the fluff turned to a buzz as he complies, and Liam groans and slips his tongue below Graham's own, stroking up the silken underside before he traces the backs of his teeth and presses the tip into the points of his canines. Graham breathes hard, feels Liam's prick rub up against his through their pants, can't help but thrust into the feeling and gasp, the noise damp and desperate. Liam drinks it up with the rest of them, grits out some of his own heady sounds, and jerks his hips down erratically into Graham's when he pushes up into Liam. Fuck, it's dizzying, the way their tongues drag together and their lips catch against their teeth, skin hot on skin and drool pooling between, crushed together lewdly.
Liam's lips are plump and he knows how to kiss, and he's not too rough but not too gentle, even if Graham's a fan of both. It's a pleasant halfway point that makes his chest feel like it's got a balloon swelling up inside of it, rubber squeaking against the walls of the hollow spaces there, and he sighs hard, tilting his head so his nose digs into Liam's cheek and Liam's digs into his. When the man pulls back, taking deep breaths and sliding his hands underneath the bottom of Graham's shirt to stroke at his warm sides, Graham breaks out into goosebumps beneath his touch and kisses all over his face, where he can reach, and Liam screws his eyes shut and moans. It's like every place he touches, fresh color blooms, salmon pink in the shape of his lips until it runs outwards, spreads across his skin.
"Fuck, Graham, so fuckin' good," Liam hisses, arches his neck so that he pushes his face more into Graham's mouth, wanting. Graham lets out an unbroken string of moans, sounding like a buoy floating up and down in the sea, harsh and quiet and back again, muffled by the fact he's currently sucking a faint flower of a bruise into Liam's soft white neck, irregular because of their mutual thrusting. Liam seems to pick up on something there, though, and he swears under his breath before he pulls back, leaving Graham's mouth to pop sinfully loud off the shaved skin of Liam's pretty throat, moaning wistfully at the sudden loss of pressure over his fully hard cock.
"Like that, do you? Gettin' praised, hm," Liam murmurs thoughtfully, and then he's throwing the jacket he had on into the corner where his socks went, and Graham hadn't even realized it was still there, pulling his shirt off next so the guitarist can see the expanse of pale skin his clothes had been hiding and shit, is he gorgeous. Graham wants to flatten the undersides of his hands over his chest and drag his fingertips through the grove of hair there, run them down to his stomach and watch the slightly supple skin dip beneath the pressure of him, kiss patterns into flushed ivory and count the barely-there freckles he sees splashed upon parts of him. But no, Graham's distracted, he's right, Graham does like the praise– loves it, in fact, and he nearly chokes on his own whine when he processes that Liam's recognized this. So, he nods furiously, hoping as coherently as he can that Liam will keep it up.
"Good. 'Cause I like talkin', alright?" Liam says, and he's smiling and biting into his lip with his sharp teeth so hard they leave an indent that slowly fills back up when he lets go, looking utterly soft. Graham wants them back, wants them all over him, but he doesn't know where he'd ask for them first. When Liam pulls his pants down enough for his thick cock to bob out, Graham stutters on a gasp at the sight of it and chucks his own briefs away immediately, leaving Liam to lick his lips at the sight of him, both nervously and salaciously.
Graham almost hadn't noticed the beat or two of silence between the songs, "Misery" purring its way into their ears with almost melancholy guitar and vocals before turning on its head to feel bittersweet, and Graham swears, painfully aroused at the fact he'd been so caught up in Liam that everything else in the room had turned into delightful static.
Liam leans over Graham to reach the nightstand and pulls a condom off of it, and his cock swings between his legs over Graham's, and it looks absolutely filthy and Graham is transfixed by the size of him. He has no idea now if he's bigger than Damon or not, and it'd never happen but he'd need to hold them side by side just to see, because he's definitely at least as girthy as him, and Graham wants it so far inside of him he won't be able to breathe. He's almost overcome with the urge to stroke it, but he has to hold himself off and writhe pitifully underneath the other man instead– y'know, disease, and all that. He should've asked Liam to get checked before coming over, because Graham knows he himself doesn't have anything (Damon forces both of them alongside Alex to go and check every month, really, just to be sure, because they love it without anything between them, and they go to extreme measures for protected sex with other people as well), fuck, then he could pound him raw and cum in him and watch it seep out–
"Vanilla lube?" Liam laughs, and Graham is shocked out of his hypnotized daze with his own sudden bark of laughter, which he covers his mouth in embarrassment after emitting. "Really? Different kinda fuckin' ice cream cone, innit? Why the hell do you have th–? Man, it's funny."
"D– someone made me get it," he chuckles, squirming, still unable to quit looking at the other man's blood-filled heavy cock. He gets himself startled again and really does look away this time when something thuds next to him on the bed, the bristles of the towel digging into his back as he turns his neck to look over, laughing through his nose when he sees the vanilla lube lying on its side by his arm. "What, you wanna use it? Didn't take you as the vanilla type."
Graham gets swatted lightly on the back of his thigh for his innuendo and barely manages to hold back a moan at even that feeling, his ears and his nose and his rounded cheeks going a brilliant ruby even if Liam didn't actually hear the sound he'd made. Bringing his eyes back to Liam, he watches as the man drags the flavored lubricant to where he's sitting between Graham's spread legs, along with a condom and a smaller bottle of regular lube. Then, he rings his big hand around his leaking cock and Graham inhales so sharply he almost gags on his own spit at the sight of Liam stroking himself, slowly, using the precum beading at the tip as natural slick to swipe over the rest of his cock with his fingertips. The hairs on the back of Graham's neck raise and he shivers for what seems like the millionth time this night, bowing his back so his hips dig further into the bed and fisting his hands in the fat pillow beneath his head. But then Liam shifts to spread his own knees further open and sinks a little more against the mattress, asks, "Aren't you gonna toss yourself off? C'mon, fuck, do it," and Graham is absolutely helpless but to obey.
His hand is between his legs in record time and he follows in Liam's footsteps by straightening his hand and dragging his palm over his tip so he collects a wet smear of pre over the soft skin, rubs it up and down each side of his prick while his teeth dig into his lip and his other hand tightens even more on the pillow, and when he strokes it's not enough to feel entirely good but it'll get there the longer he pumps himself. Liam's fixated on the sight of it, and Graham sees what he sees, again: their dicks are essentially right next to each other, and they really would be if it weren't for the scare of sickness that they seem to be in mutual silent agreement of, and they're both getting a damn good view of it. Graham's shorter, marginally slimmer length in front of (or behind, if he's looking through Liam's eyes) Liam's meaty uncut cock with that plump vein slithering up underneath it, but not quite underneath, because it's sort of encroaching on a side, but it's not entirely on the side, either. Fuck, he sounds idiotic. He wants to trace it with his fingers and his tongue so bad that he lets out a deep, deep whine, something that makes Liam curse and fuck into his hand a little harder.
Abruptly, Liam stops moving altogether and squeezes his fist around the base of his dick to apparently stem off the peak he'd been reaching, but Graham can't stop, the slip of his hand up his twitching cock too good now to let it go. So he watches Liam, open-mouthed with an expression like dripping spray paint running down the walls, wet and relentlessly runny, Liam grimacing for a split second before he regretfully lets go of himself and reaches over to throw a condom on Graham's chest, pulling the vanilla lube to himself. Then, he points to the regular lube. "Put some o' that lube in the condom, yeah? I've heard it can be pretty fuckin' good, the way it feels, and I don't want your cum in me mouth without knowin' what ya've got. If you have got anything, anyway. But I want you down my bloody throat, right?"
"Right," Graham whimpers, forgets he can say, “hey, I’m clean, I have the papers”, has to suddenly jolt his hand away from himself, thrusting fruitlessly into the air and feeling frustrated at the lack of friction. But then he reminds himself Liam Gallagher's going to give him a blowjob, even if it's through a condom, and he gets excited enough not to care as he snatches up the white rubber and bites down gently on his tongue while he squirts a few small drops of lube into his fingertips (some into the condom itself), smearing it all around the inside of the latex once he's got it out. And then he's wiggling a little, rolling it down on himself, and he groans just at the feeling of the lube smearing itself over his cock and the condom compressing it even more over his skin, hips working minutely while Liam stares with the vanilla stuff in hand.
"Anna (Go To Him)" begins to play after some quiet when Liam aggressively rips the top of the bottle off and just dips his fingers into the container of lubricant instead of squirting it out onto his palm like a normal person, gathering a dollop of it over his fingers before he flops to his stomach, cock rubbing into the towel (he ruts it against the thing a few times just out of habit, and it makes Graham purse his lips hungrily) as he looks up at Graham, eyes huge. He awkwardly shifts around and swings an arm over Graham's thigh, curling into the outside and planting a firm hand on his hip to hold himself up properly, biting his lip.
When he smears his sturdy, lube-drenched fingers over the first stretch of Graham's cock, Graham’s mouth falls open and his body goes limp, eyebrows knit together as he exercises an extraordinary amount of restraint not to immediately fuck his hips up as hard as he possibly can, smack it into Liam's mouth already. Liam seems to tell he wants to, smiles and pops his lips a little, licks them and starts working his mouth to gather spit while he keeps applying the flavored lube to his length, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Graham’s own and Graham's prick. Graham’s mildly shocked at his apparent knowledge of how this goes, before he remembers Liam’s probably received a quadrillion blowjobs by now and is basing his tactics off the birds who’d done it to him.
Liam looks really into it now, mouth open in silent puffs of breath and eyes becoming more and more focused on the cock in front of him, almost glazed over, and Graham can just barely feel the heat of his mouth radiating against himself through the condom, like the ghost of a touch, and fuck, does Graham need it. His dick is now thoroughly slathered with sweet-smelling lube, and Liam licks his lips one more time before he grips him properly just above the base with an elbow planted gauchely (and slightly painfully) on the middle of Graham's thigh, and says, "Pull me lips over me teeth, right? Fuck, let me give it a go first. Finger yourself," and carefully seals his plump lips over the tip.
He's applying more suction than someone usually would, and Graham suspects it's because he knows it's not the same with a condom on, and it's fucking great, addictive, and Graham wants himself balls deep in Liam's throat as he yelps out a shuddery, high sound. But he won't, and he won't fuck Liam's mouth because it's his first time sucking cock and Graham might explode in under a second if he does and, not to mention, they're using protection for a reason– he's got to resign himself to moaning and listening to Liam's command, frantically reaching for the non-scented bottle of lube next to him and pumping some out onto his fingers, turning the angle strained as he twists his hips a little and reaches down to fuck himself on his digits.
Liam groans around his mouthful at the sloppy sound of Graham quickly sliding his forefinger inside himself, wasting no time in thrusting it in and out until the odd feeling and slight pain fades entirely into pleasure, and Graham thinks he's doing spectacularly for his first blowjob, with his pink lips swollen over his glossy length, spit he'd gathered in his mouth spilling forward with a simple lift of his tongue and running down Graham, gooey and so, so warm. It's hard to feel through condoms, but he can tell it's searing at least, and he can tell that Liam's making it borderline airtight 'cause he knows, and the obscene squelch of lube inside the condom is making him feel lightheaded and already close to climaxing. Quickly, Graham slips another finger in alongside his first and plunges them in hard, pressing a currently-free fingertip roughly against his perineum and rolling it over that spot, his toes curling and voice catching in his throat as Liam holds the condom steady when he drags off, cheeks hollowed.
The shorter man peers down between Graham's legs briefly, still supporting his wet cock gingerly with the pads of his fingers, bites his lip watching Graham's fingers rush into himself while The Beatles harmonize in the background. Fuck, this situation is so– so– he doesn't know the word. What he does know is that Liam's pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the concealed slit of his head, and then laving his tongue firmly over it to collect up all the spit and lube that's pooled there. He licks his lips more, humming as he kisses Graham once more, twice, three times, before he's pulling back again so he can continue to watch the show that Graham's putting on.
"It don't taste all that terrible," he says, and his voice is raw like it's been angrily scrubbed with a dry sponge and Graham tosses his head to and fro like he's frantic about something, and he is, he's just trying not to shoot into the rubber immediately and make Liam the first person to ever get him off this fast with a blowjob. To The Beatles, as an extra category, for fun. Then, Liam leans in and inhales deeply against Graham and the condom, tilting his neck at a weird angle so his neck stubble doesn't graze against his bollocks or anything. "It does smell pretty good, yeah, I'll give it that, I s'pose. Probably the rubber doin' it, though. Get all that manmade taste and shite in ya mouth, when all ya want is somethin' else manmade. Or rather, here, somethin' out of a nice little ice cream van." And then he goes back in for more, making it halfway down the length of Graham with what the guitarist firmly believes to be the most aggressive tightness he's ever felt around his cock in his entire life, maybe even compared to the first time he fucked someone.
Graham nearly screams through his clenched teeth and immediately stuffs a third finger into his arse, concentrates on jerking his fingers over his prostate over all else, the slippery and almost walled-off warmth of Liam making him feeling ditzy and stupid, drool pooling up enough underneath his tongue and on the outsides of his teeth that it's starting to almost spill over and out his lips each time he thrashes his head about. And then Liam's lowering himself as far as he can go without touching his mouth to the base of Graham's cock where the rubber ends, lips smushed against his fingers that quiver over that line, and when Graham pushes his fingers as solidly as he can against his sweet spot, he's cumming with a yelp and a following fucked-out whine.
Liam makes a startled little choked-off sound when he fills the condom, and he screws his eyes shut, lashes a dark and delicate curl against his cheek while he slowly pulls off and incrementally lets his cheeks fill out again, until he's popped off the head and he's pulling his lips into his mouth to suck the liquid off them. Graham's head spins and he quakes through the aftershocks, slowly slipping his fingers out of himself and gasping weakly at the feeling of emptiness, clenching around nothing and sinking back into the towel on the bed, the back of his neck sweaty and pressed into the warmed pillow behind him.
When he comes to, Liam's banged open the door to the bathroom attached to his bedroom, and he can hear the sink running alongside the furiously fast scrubbing of hands, and Graham tries to catch his breath and pull his condom off without the mess inside spilling out. He manages it, ties it, holds it awkwardly pinched between his thin fingers and gets up on legs made of jelly to go and toss it in the bin on the opposite side of his nightstand. When he shifts back onto the towel Liam flies out of the bathroom before he pauses and swings around again, swearing, clumsily turning off the light and shutting the door, and then he really does fly onto the bed, hopping up on it when he nears Graham. Graham blinks.
"Graham," Liam groans, and he looks almost pained, his cock still red and heavy between his legs, and Graham wants to bring him off as quickly as he can, fingers wrapped tight around his length until he's making nonstop streams of sound and he collapses like a house of cards in Graham's hold. "Graham, fuck. Please tell me you're clean. Are you clean?"
Graham's dark eyebrows rise up his forehead and he suddenly feels another spike of arousal stab its way up his body, and he breathes hard, and his wet prick twitches again, shifting so that his cotton-soft thighs rub together and the faded smattering of freckles on the insides connect like drawing a line through stars to form a constellation. His red knees knock and he says articulately, "um," until Liam seems to sort of snap, in a much gentler way than Graham would ever expect, and he shifts heavily forward to grab Graham by the shoulders with his large hands and looks importantly into his eyes. "Are you clean?"
"I– yeah, yes. I've got the, um. The paper. From just three days ago. It's in one of the drawers, if you want to check. And I haven't had sex with anyone else in that, um, time," Graham murmurs, gesturing to his bedside table, cock plumping up again at Liam's insistency, and his gut dips like he's on a rollercoaster as he slowly starts to process where this is going. Or, he at least has an inkling, unsure if Liam will actually abandon condoms entirely. The record pauses, and there's a breath, and then when "Chains" bounces onto the vinyl, Liam drags himself backwards and flips Graham up onto his back by the thighs, spreads them, and starts to work two fingers into his lube-slick arse at once.
Graham moans, twists, and more precum pops and drools from the head of him, his lanky legs already beginning to shake like a leaf in the wind again, Liam making soft grunts of his own as he thrusts his fingers greedily into Graham's hole and watches intently, like he's utterly enthralled. And, fuck, it's good– his fingers are broad and confusingly soft, it's like strokes of a filbert brush every time the pads brush against the wet heat of his insides, and each time the bend of the knuckles knock against an inner wall he chokes out a sob, grabbing for the nearest thing to brace himself with, which ends up being Liam's silken hair.
The R'n'B drums and thick strings simmer in his head as though they're sinking into a boiling pot as he and Liam both moan at once, as one, and the resulting meshed noise makes Graham wonder if they'd sound good together. Fuck, that would be a sight, a sound, and he’d sort of thought about it earlier: Graham Coxon and Liam Gallagher stood together in front of the same microphone, with a sticker-covered polished guitar on one and a moon-white star tambourine on the other, strumming and shaking, the air buzzing with their voices clear against the mic's cold metal grille, lips a hair's breadth off from one another. The thought is erotic enough for Graham to keep on moaning, head curling forward off his pillows and his chin digging into his collarbone, eyes squeezed shut so he doesn't cum at the mere sight of Liam panting. Liam panting, with a hand snaked in his dark hair and his fingers slamming so hard into Graham that he can hear the wet sounds of it down below, can feel the burning skin around it tingle each time Liam's harsh pushes in leave his knuckles ramming hard into the sensitive spots just past his rim.
"Oh, Liam, fuck–!" Graham cries out helplessly, and he's still so orgasm-loose and fuzzy round the edges and sensitive from the previous one that he's already so close, so quick. His cock's at full-mast again and it's almost bobbing with the strength Liam's putting into his fingering, and then suddenly Liam knows exactly where to curl into when he stuffs a third finger inside, and of course he does, because he's done this to himself before. He misses occasionally because the angle’s new to him, but he’s still acting like he’s done this no less than seventy times, and it’s successfully driving Graham mad.
Liam's suddenly abusing his prostate with all three fingertips, alternating on which one's pressed down like he's playing an instrument with keys, and Graham blinks bleary eyes open for half a second just to see Liam's arm jerking himself off somewhere below, and he's got his lips dropped open in a wet-looking O with a silent breath of ecstasy, and, fuck, Graham cums again. It hits him hard enough for brilliant white sparks to dot and burst at the edges of his vision, and for him to arch so far off the bed that Liam's fingers accidentally end up gliding out of him, dragging bodily fluids and lube out onto the towel in a small and glistening puddle of filth.
Through the bright glitter suddenly cast all over the room, stuffed in his ears and prickling pleasantly all over his skin in a hot-cold sweat, he distantly registers the sound of Liam cumming, and then he processes it's the sound of Liam fucking cumming , and he opens his eyes as wide as he can and desperately tries to will all the dazzling fluff out of his sight so he can look. Everything's blurry like he's seeing through tears, and he might be, but Liam's entire face is pinched except for his eyes and his mouth, which are opened lazily, shining and almost wobbly, like a drop of water teetering on the edge of something before it slips too far over the side and drops off.
Graham almost swears when he realizes he'd forgotten to bring tissues to clean themselves up with, reminded upon seeing the streaks of cornsilk white across Liam's loosely curled fingers and his own stomach, coming down from his orgasmic high slowly, gently. Liam is face-down on the towel now, hair almost grazing the mess Graham's made, and so Graham pushes himself up onto shaky elbows and draws his knees together in an almost instinctively shy motion, moaning quietly at the way more liquid leaks from him. "Boys" is playing now, and he hadn't realized again that another song had started swimming its way smoothly through the air, and he huffs, a quiet little thing of pleasure and relaxation. Annoyed at his legs (which keep trying to get him to topple onto the floor) as he hurries into the bathroom, he plucks the tissue box from the counter and lets the door click shut, tossing them onto the bed and trying to aim away from the wetness of the towel.
Liam looks up at him sleepily with a subdued grunt, eyes mere slits of light blue, his head now resting on the arm that isn't attached to his cum-covered hand. Graham hums, sits daintily down on the scratchy fabric, situates himself with both his legs bent to one side, and Liam brushes a palm over the back of his thighs and lets his fingertips catch on the swells of them, cloud-soft like lambskin. He offers a quick tissue, and the shorter man hoists himself forward enough to plant a cushiony kiss on a corner of the diamond-shaped bend behind his knee before taking it from him, wiping himself off with a slightly in-focus and out-of-focus look as he regains himself gradually.
"Give us a kiss?" Graham asks when he's done, and his voice is so gravelly that it's crackling like a wood-filled fireplace, and Liam nods and climbs up the bed to press himself against Graham's back. The head of his prick is snug in the dip his spine forms and Graham bites his cheek at how careful Liam's being, not letting it snag on his cock-ready hole just in case, and he turns his head to face Liam and trails his tongue against Liam's bottom lip before he can take the lead, doing it again and slipping it inside after the other man moans.
They make out tenderly for the rest of this song, and Liam's got his hands up his shirt thumbing over his nipples and flicking them every now and again, which gets Graham going for the third time, cock stirring miraculously after two extraordinary orgasms. He thanks whatever higher power there might be for blessing him with irregular stamina, even considering he's young, and apparently Liam as well, because he can feel the man's dick getting hard again before he backs his hips up a little more to stop pressing into Graham. When Liam sits up to slide Graham's shirt off, at last, and when he flips him over so he can sit between his legs and rolls a condom on, Graham holds his breath in suspense. The record does the same, going quiet after "Boys", and he looks up at Liam with his syrupy eyes after watching him grip the base of his concealed cock to hold it securely, edging his knees forward.
The press of the head against Graham's arse is blunt, and he bites his lips hard, dragging his teeth over them and rubbing them ruddy and raw. Liam glances at him. "You alright? Ready?" he murmurs, accent a gentle hum in his charmingly high voice, and Graham nods so hard it feels like his head might slip off his neck and his hair bounces with the movement, murmuring yes, he wants it, he's ready, needs it–
"Ask Me Why" starts to spin round and round on the vinyl record as Liam grips one of his legs, his own cock with the other, and slowly drops his weight onto his kneeling legs so that the tip pops in with ease.
"Oh– oh, oh my– fuck–" Graham jitters out, shrill and shuddering, because Liam is big . Granted, he's never exactly taken cock before which might’ve been something he’d neglected to mention, only given it or only had fingers in him, and he's not been left bloody gaping by Damon's or Alex’s even though they’ve asked about it (“Dunno, sorry… think I’ve got to be in a mood for it. But one day, yeah.”), so he hasn't felt anything quite like this before. It's not bad by any means, not at all, but he thinks if Liam started properly fucking him anytime soon he'd be cumming in an instant and he doesn't want to look like an amateur (even though, technically speaking, in this situation, he is). He pushes himself off the bed and Liam moves with the change of position to help him, Graham sitting up now and leaning forward so his forehead falls weakly against Liam's bold collarbone, breathing hard and trying not to lose his mind.
"You okay?" Liam murmurs, and the strangled way he speaks like he's got intense hands ringed around his throat clues Graham in on the fact he's not the only one feeling like he's bursting at the seams, and it dimly registers, right, Liam's not been inside a man before, just as Graham hasn't had a man inside him. Graham whines and nods faintly, mouths at the jutting bone just below the hollow of Liam's throat and rubs his nose against the arching line of his neck, the shaved hairs there scratchy and nice on his sweating skin. Every cell in Liam's body seems to be shaking and Graham wraps his arms around his back and clutches at his shoulder blades, and he continues to softly gnaw at the other's front, Liam nearly convulsing as he lets go of Graham's thigh and his own prick in favor of holding onto his hips for dear life, like handles. It's like static wherever they touch, electric in the way they spasm and curl into each other, Liam pushing in inch by painstaking inch, full and twitching and staggeringly hot through the condom.
"Just– ah , ah fuck– just go slow, p-please," Graham gasps, digs his fingernails into Liam's back and feels his eyes flutter and roll into his head of their own accord, as his arse flattens against the broad plane of Liam's masculine hips, his dick fully wedged to the hilt within his hole. He feels like he can't breathe, feels like it's nudging up against the wet entrance of his throat with how deep it is and he stifles a choked mewl, lets the soft song purling through his bedroom lap at his body like the salty white froth of the ocean would be framing his body if he were to lie down in the shining wet sand at the seashore. Bits of shells and dull rainbow sea glass and weathered pebbles nestled against his beach-flecked figure as he whines, squeezes his watering eyes shut and feels beaded sweat roll down the slant of his temple, forcibly relaxes himself and feels his body melt like candle wax against a twinkling flame around Liam's cock.
"Y'so fuckin' good, Graham," Liam moans, kneading mindlessly at Graham's curved hips, tilting his head so the underside of his chin brushes against his hair where he's tucked his head beneath Liam's, at a mutually needed standstill. At each fractional shift of their bodies, even when they breathe in and out, they twitch and their breaths catch, stuttering like irregular staccato, although they're finally beginning to adjust. The dull feeling of something hard and thick in him sizzles from odd to good, to great, slow and soupy like sludge, lethargic magma in the guts of a volcano. "Tight. Tighter than– fuck, tighter than anyone I-I've been in, God, 's good–"
Graham moans helplessly at the other’s words and the sensations of it all, and when Liam rocks minutely up into him he feels like a spinning top, the world unfocused and dim around him, and he rocks back down as best as he can in this position. He continues to hold Liam by the shoulders, guitar-roughened fingertips stuck to peach fuzz and flushed skin, his unmoving lips now just pressed open and into Liam's skin rather than kissing at it, physically unable to muster up the energy to do so right now. Liam's the same, breaths puffing against Graham's fluffy hair, fingers pressing marks into his thin waist, slowly beginning to pull him back down onto the cock in him.
"Hahh– fuck, fuck – ready?" Liam asks, and he sounds like he's begging, and Graham nods so aggressively that it disorients him, leaving him feeling more dopey than ever before, even from the moment Liam had penetrated him. Liam nods, murmurs little affirmations under his breath, gritting his teeth and readjusting to widen his own legs to better fit Graham into his lap. Graham's legs end up spread wide on either side of the other man, shaking from the knees down and no doubt looking like debauchery incarnate if he were to view them from behind: willowy legs unfurled like lotus petals around Liam's tensed up torso with pretty hands stuck to his curving, blush-dusted form. And Graham nods again, because he needs it, needs it more than anything right now, and he wants to be fucked the way he fucks Damon, hard and ruthless and everything in-between until he can barely breathe afterwards.
And then he thinks, fuck, Liam has absolutely got to be a mind-reader, because when "Please Please Me" starts, he drags out slowly and it's thick, smooth, and fucks back in hard enough for Graham to bounce in his lap and scream.
Liam doesn't wait for him either, no, because he's Liam and he's a rockstar, and so he should fuck like one too, Graham supposes. But that's not a complaint whatsoever, not right now, not when Graham is on the receiving end of the horsepower the other man's putting behind his hips, and the speed of them, which is entirely inhuman. He pumps hard and heavy into Graham and he's grunting like a feral animal, snarling into Graham's ears with each cruel slap of skin on skin, jabbing deep into him on each exhilarating upstroke.
A constant stream of noise is pushing past Graham's lips and he can't seem to stop moaning, in tune with the fact Liam seems to be much the same, his expression taut like when you pull a cord a bit too tight so it strains from where it's plugged in, dangerously close to snapping out. He'd look like if he were in excruciating pain if not for the bend of their bodies together, the near half-moon curve his bowed back makes against Liam's slight hunch, the interlacing colors of them with their dark hair and milky skin and hidden freckles, like a suggestive painting. Oh, fuck– Graham whines harder at that, even harder than he did at the thought of a song with their voices wreathed intricately and intimately: the thought of them becoming a painting. One of his paintings.
The knowledge and certainty he's going to make it happen as soon as possible hits him with such immediate force, knowing he'll get it done, knowing he'll mix paints and pick over brushes and scrutinize a canvas until it feels right just so he can paint this moment, now, and usually he won't draw himself, but he can do it so vague nobody but him and perhaps Liam will know what's going on within it. Two shapes, a gradient pale to red to dark, flecked with tan– Graham's legs are almost like springs, the way they're being jostled with each thrust, and he moans feebly, drool running down his chin and slipping over Liam's ivory skin, wet and lazy as it runs down from his clavicle and into his dusky chest hair.
Liam's perfectly in time with the song, and it dovetails brilliantly with their coupling, and Graham's cock is weeping precum all over Liam's stomach every time they brush together and the friction is just shy of enough, until Liam's saying "come on, come on," with the record and Graham's sucking in a sharp breath and his tip catches on the swell of Liam's stomach when he breathes out, pushing into it, and he cums explosively. He feels like driftwood being thrashed in a storm over the open sea, spasming so hard that he tightens his hold on the other man instinctively and pulls them even tighter together, cock trapped between their bodies as he paint Liam’s stomach with white, Liam having to change his angle with a frantic sense of need in order to get himself off. Graham rides the waves, constant, fucked through his orgasm so properly that it just keeps going, moaning uselessly and wrapping his legs around the small of the other's back, locking them together when Liam yelps and his hips quiver against Graham's arse, and he jerks his head down to press the side of his face against Graham's neck, close and warm and everything Graham needs. Distantly, he thinks tears might be running down his face, but he can't know for sure until he stops feeling like he's viewing himself in third-person and reconnects his mind to his body.
When he can think again, still feeling hot all over and somehow like the condensation on a glass of alcohol, Liam's sat on the edge of the bed leaning over him to gently pat his face with a wet washcloth, eyebrows furrowed and lips pouted as he concentrates and tries to be as gentle as possible. Graham looks over at him leisurely, blinking slowly, and receives a slow blink back, and he closes his eyes to let Liam continue swiping saltwater streaks from his pinkened cheeks. Then, Liam shifts closer to the foot of the bed so he can clean Graham's cum from his stomach, and the guitarist whines at each brush while Liam pets at his hip, trying to soothe him through the overstimulation.
"Mmh," Graham groans, weak, and Liam pulls away after he's done, to toss the dirtied rag somewhere into the bathroom, and he hears the cooler ease open as the ice rattles and Liam picks something out for himself. Then, Liam's plastered to his side and he opens his eyes, looks at him and gets caught on his gorgeous blue gaze that looks steel-gray in the light, and realizes he got him a beer, too. He takes it gratefully with shaky hands once it's opened for him, still looking at the other man with wide eyes until he takes a sip of the foam and angles his head up to swallow it appropriately.
At the sound of "Love Me Do", which he believes is already almost over, something dawns on him, and he starts giggling like a madman until Liam's raised brows and comically large eyes convince him to spit it out. "I– sorry. We both just came to a song with a fucking harmonica in it, that's all, I just…" and he trails off again into another fit of chuckles, Liam joining in gradually on the laughter and pressing the sides of their arms together, knocking another gulp of his can back and snorting around the metal of the top. The action nearly sends the bubbles at the opening of the can flying everywhere and Liam cackles harder, Graham feeling like he's fusing with the man next to him where their damp skin is stuck together, welding together with the bed in turn where the prickling towel rubs against him.
"Mega, that," Liam says fondly, nodding, taking another heavy swig of his alcohol and licking his lips, looking over to Graham with a smirk etched across his face. "Now I can say I've shagged someone to it, yeah? Funny fuckin' noise to get railed to, innit."
"Fuck, maybe," he yawns in reply, stretching his arms out above his head and tensing his legs, like a cat straightening out its long limbs in the sparkling sun after a nap atop its little carpet tower. He nurses his can still, throat moving like the perpetually rocking swells of water, feels Liam's eyes dragged over to the fluid motion like it's magnetic or something. "Not like I could tell it was going on, though. Your cock fucked the hearing out of my head, and Christ , it is big."
Liam rolls towards him a little, angling his body but not quite lying on his side, laughing around the shiny wet rim of the can where his lips have left foggy, moist imprints. And then he tilts his head back and downs the rest in one go as Graham slants his posture towards Liam like he's done with Graham, impulsively reaches a hand out to run the backs of his fingers against the length of his bared throat, humming as he scratches back and forth over the stubble. Liam raises a pronounced eyebrow at him, looking like a single thick stroke of obsidian pigment come alive on a linen canvas, but he makes no move to tug insistently at Graham's wrist for him to pull away or anything, so he lets his hand slip down to thumb over the other's defined collar, gentler in the hollow between the bones.
"You like 'em big, then?" Liam asks after a moment, having carelessly tossed the emptied drink behind him, and Graham's done that too many times alone in his room to care if someone else starts throwing garbage on his floor. But he flusters at Liam's words, because he knows he's right, knows he's had his eye drawn one hundred too many times to the way Damon's cock smacks up against his belly whenever it's pulled out, when it sways, risqué and red between his legs as Graham rams into him from behind. Alex's is no different, thick and mouthwatering against his palm, and he's guilty of blowing both of them any bloody chance he can get.
"Mmh, might," he mumbles, face still too marred by crimson flush for him to give a proper answer, and Liam smiles like he knows, and his canines catch on his full lower lip in a way that tugs some of the skin back into his mouth and draws Graham's gaze immediately. Briefly, but Liam still catches it, smiles harder, arches his chest into Graham's lazy touch and trails a hand down to grab one of his thighs, tugs it up over his hip so Graham's legs are open like the spread pages of a book.
"P.S. I Love You" brings them closer together, Graham having been tilted enough to be practically on his stomach now, save for the creamy pale leg still thrown up over Liam's waist, breaths hot as they mingle and hands sweaty while they wander over expanses of skin, gripping at one another's shoulders and sides and the sensitive spots just beneath the bases of their skulls, where wispy hairs feel like feathery dandelion seeds. The acoustic guitars and maracas make it feel like a cloudless summer day, and it might as well be with how hot they are, skin clinging to skin that pulls thickly apart with an oily sound of sweat.
Graham finishes his own beer quickly, throws it where Liam had thrown his, feels his cock stir once more as Liam slides a hand over his throat and applies a slight amount of pressure just where his chin meets his throat, eliciting a whine. Liam nips at his mouth and sucks on his puffy lower lip in response, merely experimenting with the hand he's got round Graham's slender neck, not exerting any real force. Graham likes the way it feels when he swallows against the firm shape of the other's palm, but then it's gone and he's sighing out a deeper breath, tilting his head to better lick (and moan) into Liam's mouth when the other man pinches his nipple and flicks it.
Graham's hips are thrusting uselessly, sluggishly into the open air, and Liam can feel the undulation of his body and glances down to smile against the corner of his soft lips before kissing him again, deeply. Liam's hard again too, and he flops onto his back again to roll a condom over his prick, saying to Graham, "Gonna fuck you like that, right? Stay still," and makes sure the rubber is over him well enough for an angle like that. Graham shivers and listens, wriggling a little with anticipation, the leg he'd had over Liam having slipped down far enough for him to rest the heel of his foot on the other's upper thigh. He slants it to dig into Liam's skin slightly, and Liam huffs good-naturedly at him.
Their legs thread together like rattan woven into a wicker basket when Liam hoists Graham's up for a moment to guide himself back in, one thigh squished against the shorter man's ribs and the other held fast between Liam's, both of which are bent cozily into his frame. The right is cuddled against the underside of one of Graham's and the left is canted in a way that miraculously manages to make the angle of Liam's cock where it's hard against his prostate even better. He lets out a shaky breath as he adjusts to the fullness again, eyes closed as the side of his face and Liam's make contact, and the feeling of Liam's eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbone is barely there, as are the wet little sounds he keeps making with his lips over Graham's jawline, but fuck, it makes Graham feel like he's drunk off his arse with ecstasy.
"Baby It's You" is on now, the beat of silence between the album's songs having passed when they were getting lazily situated, and Liam hums peacefully along to the lovey-dovey little tune, and Graham has to fight back a smile against the other's cheek. They move with the song now, not too slow but not too aggressively fast, still enough to get them both to whine on each push in and exhale harshly on each drag out, easygoing but steady.
Graham leans to the side to kiss Liam's cheek, a perfect copy of earlier that night, and Liam's hips stutter hard and he grits his teeth and groans, in time with Graham's startled high-pitched noise at the abrupt movement. But they slip back into their pace afterwards without another thought, even if Graham keeps imprinting soft open-mouthed kisses up along Liam's jawline, his cock weeping precum each time Liam aims for his sweet spot– and hits it, with disorienting accuracy, and Graham just has to keep reminding himself: Liam's done it before, he's fingered himself before, knows where to aim and how to do it, and each time he does he lurches further up the peak to orgasm.
But, he tries to stave off his orgasm for now. He wants this one to last, doesn't want to be a quivering loose mess of cum and sweat and tears of pleasure too soon, but he'll let himself go at some point. He wants to be coherent, wants to make it through the rest of the album, wants Liam fucking him for fourteen songs total and doesn't want to take the coward's way out by having to quit on track ten. They're close, he can do it.
"Kiss," Liam requests, trying valiantly to keep his voice steady and failing impressively when it cracks, even on just one syllable, and a surge of affection so sudden it sends him reeling compels Graham to seal their lips together. He's tired of this, getting attached to his flings, but he always does this, and anyway, this is marathon sex with someone and he doesn't do that for just anybody (nor does he let just anybody fuck his arsehole) so he’s got a bit of an excuse if he feels a little clingier than normal. It feels like a rich sunrise blooming where their mouths meet, a new morning each and every time. They don't even pry each other's lips open, no; it's closed, it's soft and wet and their noses brush, tapping against the dip of their cheeks, and Liam folds a hand into Graham's soft hair and simply holds their faces and foreheads tenderly together when they break apart.
His other hand is digging into Graham's arse, fingertips leaving shallow notches with how hard he's holding onto him, evidently trying not to cum as well. And then he moves to angle the tip of his cock away from Graham's prostate and slows himself like how music would fall into a rallentando, staving off how close they both were, still managing to keep time with the music's tempo.
When he opens his eyes and finds his own burning face before Liam's the other man looks almost like he's been stabbed with the way his expression is all twisted up and rigid, the bridge of his nose wrinkled in a way that makes Graham want to kiss it, and he recognizes the expression as "still trying not to cum too soon". He pushes gently at either side of Liam's chest, tries to tighten his legs as hard as he can around the other's hips, and with a confused whine Liam stills, blinks his bleary angel-blue eyes open to peer at Graham, who gives him a simple quick kiss on the corner of his plump lips before shifting back enough for Liam's cock to glide smoothly out of his arse. And then he sits up and guides a confused, red-faced Liam onto his back, and only when he plants a hand on either of Liam's shoulders and pushes him into the towel atop the mattress while swinging a leg over his hips does realization cross his face, and he can feel his prick twitch heavily against his hole through the condom.
The sympathetic-sounding strings and vocals of "Do You Want To Know A Secret” wind around them as Graham adjusts again, folds his knees forward after leaning back to brace himself on Liam's thick, rosy buttermilk thighs, coarse hairs against his palms while he rolls his hips backwards into the other's prick so it ruts between his cheeks. Liam groans, tries fruitlessly to fuck up into the tight heat that is Graham's insides, and Graham laughs breathlessly as he slips against his round behind and makes a frustrated noise in response to the guitarist's chuckling. But then he pools his weight onto his left side, his leg digging into the mattress as he tries not to grab onto Liam too hard, so he can use his right hand to guide Liam's lubed-up cock back inside, dropping his weight down onto it the second he knows it's stably inside of him.
Liam makes a choked-off misty sound and the pillow gets audibly crushed beneath the back of his head when he lurches against the material, and when Graham looks up after the brief daze he burns through, hips waggling to get Liam's cock as deep as possible, the pale stretch of the other's throat is exposed and bared to the sky (or the ceiling, really, they're indoors) and he wants to suck red and blue and purple into every part of it. His other hand makes its way back onto Liam's leg for added solidity, and he starts to pitch himself up and down, panting hard at the broad slides out and in, his precum leaving flecks of wet on the soft skin of Liam's heaving abdomen when it either presses simply against his navel or flies from his cock with the filthy way it bounces in time with the rhythm he’s using to ride Liam.
His hands find Graham's hips and he starts trying to thrust up in earnest now, but the angle's made awkward only because of Graham's weight on his hands, which are in turn on Liam's legs, and eventually Liam lets out a snarl and sits up quickly, wrapping his arms round the small of Graham's back and flopping down again. His hips cant up, synchronized with the movement so his cock doesn't get dragged out of Graham again, and Graham trembles against him, mewls, holds tightly onto Liam's biceps as the other man starts to pound into him roughly.
Liam's milk-white legs are at an angle, bent to form corners so they can hold Graham up and keep him impaled on the other's stocky dick, latex rubbing his sensitive spongy walls at such a high speed that Graham can't even comprehend it in the moment, and not a noise floats past his wide open drool-soaked lips while tears coat his hooded eyes. Liam's spectacularly turned the song double time, maybe a fraction more, and Graham just lets his entire body go limp as he's manhandled within an inch of his life.
It builds up too quickly for him to notice, his climax; Liam's driving into him so hard that he doesn't quite know if he can feel his skin from the backs of his thighs all the way up to the globes of his arse, where it's undoubtedly growing brighter and brighter in color, each slap of their bodies starbursting in rainbows over his frame and behind his eyes, his cock rubbing furiously between their compressed stomachs until he's cumming without another thought. He screams, can barely hear himself and feels like he's dunked his head underwater with the way everything sounds, and Liam thrusts into him through it all, successfully turning his limbs to gelatin and his brain to mush with overstimulation. His tears are tacky against Liam's fuzzy chest but eventually his monstrously quick hips come to a stop and he buries himself to the hilt within Graham, gasping, jolting in small surges and curling his head into the pillow beneath him while he fills the condom.
Fingertips bury themselves into the supple fat of Graham's arse and he's being pulled upward so Liam's cock wetly slides out and slaps against one of his thighs, staining the inside of it with all kinds of vulgar liquids. Then, Liam carefully maneuvers Graham off of him — who is currently doing his best impression of an opossum gone into a state of catatonia, looking lifeless and staring off into space save for the rabbit-quick rise and fall of his chest and the way he blinks like he's just been told something utterly shocking — while biting his lip and edging the used rubber off himself, fleeing momentarily to toss it away with where he assumes the previous one to be, in the bedroom’s bin.
But it seems something's set Liam off, and he's still somehow– fuck, he's still somehow hard, and he's staring vehemently down at his length as he tugs another condom onto it and smooths it out while Graham lies there, looking and feeling quite dead. Liam shoehorns himself between Graham's legs again and quickly leans down, face smushed against a spot where the points of Graham's ribs lie beneath his skin, and the contact makes him whine but it's so Liam can work an arm beneath his back and lift him up, dragging a pillow beneath his hips and getting him settled on it, kissing his soft cock for good measure in a way that makes Graham's mouth drop open further, moaning.
Liam eyes him for a moment, and it's for long enough that the rhythmic brushed drums of "A Taste Of Honey" kick up and begin to scrape against their ears, sounding fur-soft. And then Liam twists his mouth into a pout, pulls himself forward and grabs Graham's legs by the underside of his knees, drags them up into the air while simultaneously using his own knees to shift the pillow beneath him backwards, still supporting him, until he's got his knees practically on either side of his ears in a position that Graham knows is going to leave his head spinning. He's done this one to a good amount of birds, and he feels stupidly horny about being put into it, in a way that has him shaking and his prick twitching again in a heroic effort to get hard again– he doesn't think that'll be happening, and that's fine, because he still wants this so bad he might spontaneously combust if he doesn't get it.
Overhead is Liam now, and he's silhouetted by the ceiling light and outlined in a glow of pale gold, and if Graham had a crumb of energy left in his body he'd be running his hands reverently over the spots of his skin where shadow and luminosity meet like he's stopped to admire a beautiful painting. Or maybe, a sculpture. Of marble or clay, he isn’t sure, but either would suit Liam’s features. His arms fall on either side of him as the sudden heavy weight of Liam’s body holds his legs up in this position, not allowing them to falter, even when he shifts his hips down to ram into him again. Graham lets out a devastated-sounding wail, enough to make Liam pause until he's babbling, "No, f-fuck, don't– don't st-stop, please, more, more–!" and Liam's decided he'll best the last song's double time by quadrupling this one's.
Or, at least, it certainly feels that way. Graham knows for almost a fact that it's just his oversensitive body and thoroughly pleased fuzzy mind that's telling him this, that Liam's fucking him so hard he's going to break the bed and run a hole through the entire mattress until they wind up on the floor, but he can't help it if it feels this good, his prostate being swiped at on every other pass and each surface of his body electrified. His cock jerks with the movement and with the white-hot thrill running through his veins, and he whimpers and whines and writhes and weeps while Liam keeps on going, and he belts out nonsensical words and phrases, the only consistent ones being "yes!" and "please!" and "fuck, more!"
The angle is invigorating and he feels like he might cum again, wonders if that's possible with how much he has, fuck, knows he's going to be too sore to even sit down tomorrow and prays he's not got to come into the studio or go to any press shite that day, because he's going to be acting like a knob with how mumbly and pissed off he'll be, knows the rest of his band will hate him for it. But when Liam nails his sweet spot and shifts deeper from that bundle of nerves and presses his hips flush to Graham, he finds he doesn't care, thinks, let them be mad, because he's getting the best dick of his life right now and they can go off and fuck themselves because he's allowed to be miffed and a bit embarrassed afterwards if it's gotten him sore. Still every bit as worth it, though– Liam's hammering, hard, and Graham's arching like he's reached his peak again but his cock simply spasms and nothing more, like he's all out of semen for the night. Apparently, Liam, who had been looking down at his cock and his face all the while, finds this unbelievably hot, and he snaps his hips one final time before he twists through another orgasm and groans from deep in his throat.
They've accidentally found themselves maybe thirty seconds or so into "There's A Place" already, after Liam's back from tossing another condom, and he slides another on immediately, but rather than pushing himself back into Graham on the spot he throws himself on top of the guitarist and shoves his tongue down his throat. Graham can't respond with the amount of enthusiasm he's being given and it makes him whine sadly, and he weakly brings his shaking, thin hands up to the other's shoulders and holds onto them tenderly, soft and light as silk. This seems to rub off on the other man who slows down, pulls back to simply lick at Graham's lips and kisses at them gently, noses at his cheek and thumbs the tear streaks so their neat paths break into drying smudges, cold on his face. Liam kisses those, too, until Graham looks at his doe eyes and leans up shakily to plant one on the curve of his chin, earning himself a shudder for that.
"One more," Liam breathes, and his voice is absolutely ragged like it's been dragged through an old street full of shattered glass bottles and spare grains of dirt and sand, and Graham finds it undeniably attractive. This reminds him of the sensation of Liam's still-erect cock pressing into his soft V-line. "Fuck, is that alright? Just one m-more round, to the last song. You've been so fuckin' good, Christ, so good for m-me."
Graham's nodding before he can even process it all, and then when he does he's nodding harder, and his mouth seems incapable of shutting now after these last few rounds, but that's fine. Liam takes the rest of the song (which is not much longer) to turn Graham onto his stomach and to pet over his shoulders, to kiss the freckles on the backs of his arms and rest his cheek gently in the lengthy dip of his spine, kneading at his thighs and nearly massaging him, trying to get him to relax and melt into the bed even further. The pillow's still under his hips and his prick is firmly trapped against it, and he wants to rub himself against the satiny surface of it, but Liam's robbed the life from his body in one of the best ways he can think of, so he settles for Liam rocking his hips for him, guiding him through it, moaning weakly at the friction against his length.
Liam's positioned himself so he's flat over Graham's back, crushing him into his bed when "Twist And Shout" comes on, and this is the last one so Liam gives it his all for the third time in a row after murmuring, "Fuck, gonna make you twist and shout." Graham doesn't have time or power to snort before the other's hips are a blur against his curved frame again and he lets out a shocked "Oh–!" when he picks up the pace instantaneously, and the roughly sung lyrics make his head ring like a gong that's been struck hard as thunder, as Liam demonstrates the fact he's just discovered how to maintain an angle that is spot-on against his prostate, every single time, and Liam's moaning with him, almost just as loud. They're seeing stars together, he knows, like they're staring up at the night sky in the country away from all the accursed lights of the cities and towns, and Graham's drooling all over his pillow as Liam's arms rubs against his front where he's coiled them around his chest to get a better hold on him, animalistic and vigorous.
It really, really feels like they're beginning to fuse now, a hot flame held up to the both of them so their sharp edges start to melt and seep into each other to become rounded and softer, to be stuck to each other for as long as they can see ahead. It's a combination of the sweat, the warmth, the fact Liam's inside of him and all around him at once like he's being constricted by a patterned boa, and he finds he adores the feeling of Liam's stomach slotted into the slight curve of his back so perfectly that it makes him gasp harder and summon the strength he'd lost to frantically push his hips into the pillow, even if just for a moment or so. The surprise of it makes Liam whimper and press his summery wet forehead to the line of Graham's shoulder blade, and Graham pictures how Liam looks right now, his muscles and bones and skin visibly working to keep it up, to keep fucking him, and Graham cums, astoundingly, body apparently unable to resist it as a final moan pummels its way up through his throat in the form of a broken "Liam."
Liam cums too, when he tightens around the girth of his cock, hidden away in the condom– he still wants it raw, still wants his cum leaking out of his arse, but they can save that idea for later if Liam's as enthralled and rejuvenated by this experience as Graham is. His hold slackens instantly after he's finished twitching through it and he slips his arms out from underneath Graham, still balls deep in the guitarist but unable to move, except for panting heavily and licking his lips, which Graham can just barely feel against his back.
But eventually, he's got to pull out anyway, and he does, pushing up heavily to watch his cock drag out of Graham's puffy loosened hole, and then rolling onto his back next to the taller man, both of them needing deep, deep breaths after this. The vinyl pauses indefinitely and it signifies Please Please Me has come to an end, and they both continue to lie there for however long, recovering from the sex like they'd just run hard enough for their legs to become weak and for their lungs to burn in protest, the back of Liam's hand splayed warmly over Graham's side where they’re still touching.
Soon enough, Graham's curling into Liam's side, legs and rear beginning to feel profoundly sore after he comes down from the continuous high, and he nestles into the crook where Liam's arm meets his body and tucks his head there, arms pulled to his chest and warm against Liam's softly breathing form. Liam hums, a content sound, and coils his arm around Graham's loose shoulders, thumbing at his creamy skin and tilting his head into Graham's, cheek brushing against soft hair. It's comfortable, and the air in the room seems to be cooling around them as all the heat instead pools between them on the bed, and Graham lets his eyes droop closed, lashes a dark smudge against his reddened, still-wet face.
They just breathe, for a while. Deep, in and out, drifting through drowsiness and awareness, punctuated by the occasional yawn or quiet noise they let out as they shift in each other's holds.
At some point, Liam unsticks himself from Graham and presses a lazy kiss to his mouth that gets softly returned, Graham's tongue licking at the corner of Liam's pretty lips for a brief moment before kissing that same spot once the shorter man begins to pull away. "Got to fuckin' shower, you do," Liam says hoarsely, brushing sweaty tufts of hair away from the guitarist's forehead and pushing them back or tucking them behind his pink ears, fingernails carding through thin strands. "Don't want all that sticky shite gettin' worse, yeah? I'll run it for you."
Graham blinks in surprise as Liam pulls away and heads to the bathroom, tying off his last condom (which he'd forgotten to tug off until now) and throwing it into the bin in front of the door as he trudges past to the bathtub. Graham's limbs flop uselessly like a squid out of water onto the bed, and he sniffs a little when the water starts to run in the other room, pattering rhythmically on the ceramic tub floor, the knobs twisting with squeaks as Liam changes the temperature to something less frigid and more like the pleasantly boiling feel of a hot tub. He didn't expect the other man to stay after this, much less get him a hot shower prepped, and when Liam trots back into the room to rifle through Graham's closet to grab him clothes, Graham finds himself wanting to kiss him. Very badly.
Liam ends up pulling out a loose sage and lemon-colored shirt, with sleeves that hang down past the bends of his elbows, and smooth black pants. No trousers, which he figures is because they simultaneously don't need them right now and because it'd be useless to put something tight and warm on right now, and when Liam heads back into the bathroom he lays it all out on the countertop with a towel. Graham shamelessly watches the sway of the other's arse and thighs, the very slight dips of his waist and the lewdly eye-catching way his cock bobs between his legs as he walks.
Liam nicks one of his boxers and slide his legs into it, cursing under his breath, saying, "Fuck, how small're your hips? Feels like I'm squeezing meself into a fuckin', uh… I dunno. But, fuck." And Graham laughs at him, body shaking slightly where he's on his stomach atop the bed, limp and lazy. Liam shoots him a playful glare over the matter before he hurries over to Graham and starts trying to get him up out of bed, murmuring, "alright, come on, come on, up," and Graham complies as best as he can with Liam's assistance. He's got an arm wound tight around Graham's middle as he walks him to the shower.
The shorter man points a finger at him imperially once Graham's seated, bow-legged on the tub's floor, says, "Wash ya self, I'm gonna go do other shite, and then I'm hoppin' in once ya done," and leaves the door to the bathroom cracked open enough to see out into the bedroom and into the bathroom, before Graham hears his room’s door click open and closed.
He obeys Liam's order with a soft, affectionately amused snort, squirting shampoo into his palm and working it into his dampened hair, slicked back and flat over his neck with running water. Flipping his position around, he leans his head back and lets his hands get caught in the hot spray, brushing his palms from his hairline back through to the ends of his rich brown tufts, feeling the bubbly shampoo slip from off his head and down the drain. And then he's using his hands to spread body wash all over himself because he doesn't feel like using the stupid pink shower pouf Alex had given him as a gag gift — "Pouf for the poof?" — and earned himself a lighthearted slap for, blinking through droplets as he slicks his skin with a soapy scent he can't be bothered to decipher. Or read off the label, for that matter. He hasn't got his glasses and the steam and water's making it all blurry, anyways.
By the time he's managed to stand with the help of the walls he clings onto, letting the suds run off his body in foamy waves, Liam's back in the room with two plates and he's puttering about Graham's living space, mostly eyeing the wall of albums he's got on his shelves. Their eyes meet through the gap in the door and Graham looks away, mouth twisting as he blushes, and he doesn't know why because Liam's just been in him about fourteen-hundred separate times and they've cuddled after sex, but maybe it's just his post-orgasmic brain being stupid with him. He'll do it sometimes after he's with Damon or Alex, but it feels different from now, because they actually know each other and aren't technically strangers to one another.
Graham slips on his clothes and Liam passes him on his way into the bathroom, and Graham notices he's stealing another pair of pants and one of his Kinks t-shirts, finds that he doesn't mind as Liam stops them both briefly in the doorway to kiss and mouth a little at the slope of Graham's neck before he struts into the still-misty shower. He hears the water start up again behind him, the door still open, and when he looks to the bed he notices Liam's changed the towel they were previously lying on, removed the pillow he’d placed beneath Graham’s hips, and set out two plates for each of them, one bagged sandwich per. The urge to kiss him grows stronger.
The guitarist lies himself down, wincing awkwardly at the throb of pain through his thoroughly used arse before he can get himself fully on his back, grabbing for the tuna salad sandwich plate and placing it neatly on his chest, wiggling his hips and yawning, a tingling feeling briefly shooting through his lithe legs. Almost like he's on autopilot, Graham softly picks the plastic bag open and gingerly pulls the sandwich out, trying not to spill it everywhere or fuck it up in some other way, blinking sleepily and folding the bag into a neat little square that just pops back up and unfurls when he places it aside.
He's nibbling at the crust and the layered lettuce and licking the tuna off his lips when Liam emerges in a cloud of vapor, before murmuring something to himself that Graham can't hear, and he sees the blurry shape of Liam reverse into the bathroom again to towel his hair dry aggressively, shaking it out like a wet dog afterwards. Liam strides over and slides into bed next to him comfortably, like he belongs there, and Graham would like him to, watching Liam pick up his own sandwich and lean over to grab them both a beer can. Graham takes it with a quiet "thanks", looks at Liam with wide chocolatey eyes, and he looks back.
Liam leans in to kiss him, softly, and their lips are moist and fresh against each other, still humid from washing themselves. Graham melts into it immediately, craving it like an addict, and they seem to get distracted from their food for a moment, kissing softly at one another's mouths. Graham likes the feel of Liam's full lips against his own and Liam humming pleased vibrations into the curved lines of Graham's, wonders if Liam’s got anything he likes about kissing him yet, or if Graham’s just too attached too soon. When they pull back again to eat, Graham finds that he quite enjoys the way Liam looks in his shirt, and knows he's already going to let him keep it regardless of what anyone thinks of it. If they even notice, that is. It's not like he wears that one out and about too often.
When they're done, Liam takes their trash out and tosses it in one of the bins outside of his room, tucked into the corner of the kitchen, and slips back in to turn off the overhead light and cuddle up to Graham again in his warm bedroom. Belatedly, Graham remembers that it's actually late at night, possibly close to dawn, and it's not an afternoon tryst they've just engaged in, and sleepiness hits him like a freight train while he yawns slowly next to Liam.
"I can stay here, right? Just wanted to, um… make sure," Liam murmurs, and he sounds exhausted.
"Of course you can stay," Graham mumbles, eyebrows furrowing for a brief moment like it’s ridiculous he’d have even asked to, curling harder into Liam's form and and wrapping his arms around his back, throwing a leg over his body and tugging him even closer, relishing in the cheek kiss he gets in response. "I'd be a fucking… horrible host if I kicked you out after that. So, quit your worrying and snuggle with me. Um, if you want."
Liam huffs his adoring laughter against Graham’s neck. Graham kisses him again until their eyes flutter closed when they’re unable to be forced open any longer, and they sag into each other snugly while they drift to sleep.