Archive of Our Own

If any of his former bandmates saw him now, they'd probably say he's gone soft. Well that, or that he has a soft spot for the boy, which he does. Chris would throw a fit, that's for certain — he's never forgiven John for asking him to sing ‘more like Liam’, bless him— and Ian would just fix him a look, one of those that say «you're way in over your head, mate». Which he might be, to be fair. 

He looks at Liam again, who's sitting at the foot of the bed, gaze lost. He hasn't said a word since John came to the room, he just gave him a short nod as he opened the door and then sat on the bed. And, if he's being fair to the kid, he hadn't actually called for John, had he. John just came out of his own volition and stubbornness. Because he could tell there was something off about Liam. 

They'd been recording in Los Angeles for two weeks now, studio and producer both hand-picked by Liam. It was a strange thing really, how easy John let certain things go with the kid. Maybe it was because the songs were all John's, so it was only fair to let the singer choose all the other things. Or perhaps it was because John hadn't handled his career so well, after the Roses, so he didn't want to make any showbiz choices. Liam on the other hand, had a bit of a tumble, but then he had recovered— which is the understatement of the fucking century. The lad had exceeded all expectations, he was a star once again. Probably the last rockstar, if he's being honest. 

And yet, here he is, shoulders slumped, head down as he fidgets. John's been staring at him for a bit now, just wondering what the fuck he should do as his feet start to ache. He couldn't invite him for a drink, ‘cos that couldn't end well. Talking about whatever is ailing him would be the reasonable choice, ‘course, but John's not a talker. He has no fucking clue, really, on how to make him feel better or giving him advice and that. That's what he likes about making art, really, is that it's all about the senses, the visuals, the sound and what makes you feel, the words — if there are any— are secondary. He doesn't need them; or maybe that's what he tells himself ‘cos he's no good with them. 

“Liam,” He starts, his voice rather loud in the quiet room, even if he's quite soft spoken. “What's going on with you, kidda? Summat you wanna tell me?”

The lad barely reacts, just giving him a shrug in response while his baby blues remain lost somewhere, plump lips curled down into almost a pout. Perhaps the most tragic thing about Liam is how beautiful he looks when he's like this. John's seen him in gigs before, just completely out of it, whether it be ‘cos of the booze, the drugs or just the never ending tour schedule; Liam's eyes would unfocus, his mouth hanging just slightly agape while his hand would be shaking the tambourine almost on autopilot. He remembers seeing him like that back in the nineties, half of him worried for the kid, and the other half just hypnotized by him. It was mesmerising in the way baroque paintings were, with the soft porcelain skin surrounded by darkness, all movement and chaos, and yet completely still. So alien and inviting at the same time.

It must be so frustrating for Liam that his unease looks so appealing. It makes everyone else that finds themselves around Liam behave like— well, like they do. And John likes to think that he's different, ‘cos he understands how it is, to be in the spotlight and to be analysed and gawked at. But then again he doesn't understand, not completely, ‘cos he doesn't look or sound or even walk like Liam, he's just a normal bloke. Liam is anything but, and John couldn't help but be amazed by him, sometimes, and he'd have to catch himself before he said something embarrassing. Or before he overstepped that very fine line they've been dancing around, if they even have, ‘cos it very well could be just wishful thinking. Suddenly, John's brought back to reality when he hears a small sigh escape Liam's lips, as if he's exhausted about something. Perhaps by John's inaction. So he presses his lips together and decides to set it aside. What the lad needs now is some support, not that other can of worms. 

“Mate, c'mon.” He insists, sitting on the bed by his side. “What's happened?”

Liam closes his eyes and rests his head on John's shoulder. John jumps only slightly, but quickly wraps an arm around the kid. It's strange how the singer sometimes behaves as if he's a hundred years old, tired and worn from living a million different lives in barely five decades, and other times he's just like this. It reminds him a bit of his own children, the way he just silently expects John to fix things. 

Then again, Liam didn't really have a father, did he? Well, he did, but he was a dickhead. So maybe that particular place was filled by Liam's brothers. Except for the fact that Noel isn't here, and hasn't been for a long time. John lets out a quiet sigh, rubbing small circles on Liam's arm. The kid feels rather small like this, all curled up with his arms just limp as his sides while John embraces him. 

“Liam,” He starts again, his hand still rubbing Liam's arm. “C'mon baby, tell me what this is about, yeah?”

Liam perks up then, head tilting back just slightly so he's looking up at John, colossal blue eyes staring at him. “I dunno,” Liam mumbles, his voice coming out softer than John expected. “Can’t sleep. I couldn't yesterday either, y'know. Too wired.”

“Why?”

Liam shuffles in place, muttering. “Dunno, just— I sound fuckin' rubbish, don't I?”

John's eyebrows fly up. “What? You mean your voice on the record? It sounds fuckin' fantastic kidda, I don't know what you're on about.”

The kid's eyes flutter then, his mouth opening just a millimetre and then closing back again into a thin line. John frowns. He thought maybe Liam needed a bit of reassurance, but even that seems to fall short. He's so close to John as well, he can feel the singer's puffs of breath against his neck. There's something slightly off kilter about Liam, even in the way he breathes. Maybe even in the way those thick, dark eyelashes flutter. There's just something that's just that bit out of place, like a clock that's behind only by two minutes. 

“What d'you want, Liam?” He tries, instead. 

He can hear a sharp intake of breath before the softest of whispers: “Wouldn’t mind a cuddle.”

“A cuddle?” John repeats, dumbly. 

He feels him nod against him. 

A cuddle. Quite polysemous, that. Right, polysemy, that's something he learned in South Trafford — back in his college days before Ian dragged him out for the band— it's about words and symbols having multiple meanings and all that. Like for example, when Liam says Rock'n'roll, it refers to music, ‘course, but it also works as a descriptor for all their bad decisions. Don't matter if you get kicked out of a ferry mate, it's Rock'n'roll, innit, it's a lifestyle and that. Same for when John referred to Ian as his partner, he was, in the sense that he was his colleague, his friend, his rival and perhaps something else that the English language couldn't really cover. So when Liam says, right, that he wants a cuddle, he's letting John decide what it means. ‘Cos it could be just a hug and have it all fraternal and all, or it could be something else. Something John won't be able to come back from. 

His hands reach out just a bit and then stop before really doing anything. For a beat he stays like that, with his hands in the midst of doing something he might regret, while Liam's eyes stare at him, unblinking, like he might miss something if he closes them. Maybe Liam needs a firm hand. Perhaps what he needs is some tough love, some right, get up and stop yer moaning, we've got a fuckin’ record to make, but he's tried that before. He's tried the strict, cold leader thing before and it didn't work. And even if he did, he doesn't think he could do it to Liam. Not when he seems so small, so trusting, eyes shining with something most people lose after they've grown.

His hands move again, finding themselves on Liam's torso, his palms fitting on the curve of the waist. It feels thin and solid in his grasp, he holds them there for a second before pulling. Liam just follows, his body rising from the mattress as John moves him— he doesn't want to say he manhandles him, ‘cos he's being gentle and careful of the kid's new hips— and he pulls him onto his lap, the weight rather familiar on his thighs. It's not that different from when he used to hold his kids, really. He rearranges Liam’s torso until John's chest is flushed with the lad's back and wraps his arms around the waist, holding him in place. 

“Alright, then?” He murmurs, against the back of Liam's neck. 

He feels so warm and small in his arms, and it gives him a certain wish to squeeze him or shake him a bit, if only to calm this effervescent feeling bubbling inside of him at the prospect of having Liam like this. He doesn't know what it is, if he's being honest. Liam tilts his head down and his hair at the back of his head brushes against John's nose. He can feel the singer's still tense, his arms stiff at his sides, but he doesn't move or try to climb off.

“Tell me what you need, Liam.” He says as softly as he can manage, watching the goosebumps that rise on Liam's neck when John's breath hits the skin. 

“‘s fuckin' embarrassing, this.” Liam mutters. “Fuckin' weird and that. You don't— You don't have to, yeah?”

John shakes his head, his hands starting to rub Liam's abdomen in little circles. As if Liam's ill was barely a stomach ache and not whatever storm was brewing in his head. He doesn't blame the kid, he's had it rough at times, especially when he was little. Violence and misery are two things that are almost certain to wreck you, or at least, bend you out of shape, just a slight bit. And Liam, if all he wants is a cuddle when he feels down, then John reckons the kid is doing pretty well, considering everything that's happened to him. Therefore, there's no need to be embarrassed.

“Go on.” He encourages, giving Liam's tummy a soft squeeze. 

He can't see Liam's face like this, but he can still spot the way his throat works when he swallows, before tilting his head back, as if he's going to turn and say something— but his lips part in silence, his body stilling. He can feel the kid's breath fastening, the quick breaths the only sound in the rooms.

Then, Liam is tilting his head to the other side, exposing the white expanse of his neck to John. John blinks, his eyes flicking between the pale skin there, the veins pumping right below the skin, and the side profile. He's not looking at him, but he still sees Liam's chin tremble just barely, tilting his head further back as he leans his torso closer to John. Before, there was some ambiguity, he could find some plausible deniability in the deep hole of those polysemous words, but this— this was as straightforward as anything could be. Like a bullet, or a neon sign. 

He can feel his own hands tremble as he licks his lips. He watches the little moles on Liam's neck, they're only two, so small you can barely see them, and a little scar right next to them. He wonders how he got that, but harmless reasons that come to mind are far too few. It angers him then, how anyone could be such a bastard to harm this boy. The same boy John is leaving waiting right now, as he thinks about this more than he wants to and less than he should. His chest fills with air as he takes a deep breath before he dives his head down to place his lips on the skin of Liam's neck. 

It's warm to the touch, warmer than he thought, to the point he wonders if the kid's feverish. He slides his mouth over the neck, just enjoying the tingling of his lips against the soft skin. He feels Liam shiver in his hold, and John dares to open his mouth, just slightly, enough to mouth at the skin, almost jumping when he licks and tastes something salty and sweet at the same time.

Liam squirms on his lap, and the movement sends a shiver through John's spine. They're both stone cold sober, practically out of excuses and with no chance of pretending it never happened, he realises distantly. He finds he doesn't mind. He gently nips at the skin and his breath strutters at the soft whimper Liam lets out. He sounds beautiful, ‘course. He wouldn't expect anything else.

His hands are wrinkling Liam's clothes, he notes, with how hard he's clutching them at the kid's front. He forces himself to not be so stiff, slowly rolling his shoulders a bit and loosening his fists. Liam on the other hand, is quickly melting into his touch, like he has no spine to hold himself up. He seems so vulnerable like this, just letting John do as he pleases. He could very well harm him. He could bite into the skin until blood pours out like a fountain.

Deliriously, John suddenly remembers he came here to help in a way a mentor would, or a father, perhaps. A hand on the shoulder, some encouraging words, or maybe tough love, if needed. He supposes this is not too different, given the way Liam tries to hide his face, squirming in John's lap with seemingly no idea what he wants, just waiting for him to do something. Soft hands — a singer's hands, with no guitar callouses to be seen— grab at John's in a clumsy manner, trying to make him hold Liam tighter, or perhaps pull his top off. John just lets him move, watching him in a trance until Liam whines, frustrated.

Then, Liam sits up, taking a deep breath before sitting back down, grinding his arse against John's crotch. He gasps, his hands flying to clutch Liam's torso, while the singer keeps rocking his hips up and down, not really pulling away, just moving enough to make them both breathe heavily. Just enough for Liam's arse to grind on his cock. There's heat pooling at the bottom of his stomach and John can't help the buck of hips, meeting Liam's.

“Fuck, Da’—” Liam gasps, his hands thrashing to find something to hold on to, until his head seems to catch on to what he's just said, and he stops to a halt; his entire body tensing. 

John blinks, and a faint twinge of discomfort washes over him, as well as a hot pulse of want, all of it pouring into a burning sensation twisting low in his gut. He breathes again — he didn't realise he was holding back a breath— and feels Liam trying to scramble off his lap, but his hands fly to hold him in place. 

The thing is, ‘John’ has many meanings as well. He's Liam's mate, but he's also his songwriter, as well as his colleague, an idol, and perhaps, a father; he reckons as his lips meet the crown of Liam's head. He hears Liam take a shivering breath before his shaky hands start to wander over John's, pushing them down, the palms sliding lower and lower on the torso. John goes along easily, letting himself be guided until his right hand is palming Liam's crotch. And perhaps it seems a bit contradictory to everything else he mentioned earlier, but to him it makes perfect sense. Liam is a rather broken boy with many needs, and John will be whatever the kid needs. 

“There's summat wrong with me.” Liam slurs, voice trembling.

John tuts, leaving a kiss on the lad's temple. “Not at all, love, just— you want this, hmm?”

Liam turns his head to the side, and now John can see his face: completely flushed, covered by a thin layer of sweat and contorting as he bites his trembling bottom lip, but still he nods once with his eyes closed, almost as if it pains him to do so.

“Sh, sh, it's alright, kidda.” He coos. “No need to be embarrassed with me, yeah?”

The kid whines and John just starts moving his hand, working him through the trousers. He hears Liam’s breath stutter as John starts to unbuckle the boy's belt, before swiftly lowering the zip. He grabs Liam by the jaw and John gently tilts him towards himself so he can see his face, and only then he gets a hand inside the trousers. He watches the way Liam's half lidded eyes flutter when John wraps a hand around his length, feeling the boy twitch in his grip. The body on his lap goes slack and John's holding him up then, one hand on Liam's hip and the other down his trousers. It's rather mesmerising, the way his lips part, gasping as John starts to stroke his cock, his eyes opening to reveal those dilated pupils, so dark and wide like he's back on the gak. 

He pulls his hand away and ignores the whine that comes out of the singer, to spit on his palm. He slicks Liam's length with the spit, resisting the urge to smile when he gets a small whimper in return. He's so beautiful like this, his body free of all tension as he melts in his arms. John then twists his hand, trying to go slower, if only so see how he reacts, as if he was aiming to study his reactions. He learns that Liam starts shaking his head and his eyes squeeze shut when he goes too slow, but when his hands speeds up the kid begins to pant, clinging onto John with clumsy hands. 

“Ah fuck, John— I'm—”

He's so receptive to every touch, John's tempted to start taking notes of his reactions or maybe grab a camera to record him, but he's brought back to reality by Liam's arms flapping around desperately as he groans, a perfect mix between desperate and frustrated. 

“So impatient.” John clicks his tongue, before diving his nose in Liam's brunette locks and inhaling there, the scent of a sweet aftershave mixed with sweat filling his lungs. He closes his eyes, enjoying the smell— it's far too sweet for a bloke and John wonders if the kid is wearing lady's cologne — before he starts nibbling on Liam's earlobe, drawing a breathy moan from him. 

Liam is mumbling something as his hands fumble over John's, but he can't quite make out the words, his mind laser focused on the task at hand. He slides his palm and thumbs at the tip, drawing some pre come at the tip which he uses to slick his strokes even more. The kid practically mewls, his leg kicking in reflex. John's wondering how long he could have him like this for, until a hand is reaching back, almost hitting him in the eye. 

“What is it?” John asks, voice soft as his fists stops to a halt.

John watches the lad shrug rather sheepishly, face blushing even more as his eyes dart to the side. Ah. 

“You want more, kidda?” John smiles, his fingers tapping on Liam's hip.

A beat passes, and then “Wan’ it all, d'you know what I mean?” Liam mutters, voice so quiet John's grateful the room's silent or he wouldn't have heard it. 

It's quite endearing, the fact that he's so shy about it. Maybe to other people it'd seem out of place for Liam Gallagher, the frontman, the rockstar, the hard man of Rock'n'roll and all that— but not to him. He knows his kid, and he knows what he wants. Everything, of course. But he wants to earn it, first. 

“Right then, get on the bed.” He says, pointing to the centre of the mattress. 

Liam scrambles off his lap then, crawling up the bed on all fours. John stands up, shaking his legs a little as they had fallen asleep, and stretches his arms. He can feel his legs are going to be aching tomorrow, and he wishes he was younger. Maybe if they'd done this in the nineties he would've been able to carry Liam around — maybe have him against the wall — he's sure the kid would love that, since he had clearly enjoyed sitting on John's lap. He wonders for a minute if maybe Liam had never done that as a child, and that's why he wants it now. Although, he's certain he remembers him sitting on Noel's lap, once, chatting away about some film he'd seen as his hands gestured wildly. He recalls Noel watching him amusedly, hand firm on the small back of his little brother. 

A small noise reaches his ears and suddenly he realises Liam is lying on the bed, looking at him with his eyes wide in something like concern— or maybe doubt. And he couldn't have that, could he? John climbs on the bed as well, walking on his knees until he is in front of Liam. 

He's gorgeous like this, with his back on the mattress and his arms at his side, legs spreading apart like an invitation. His eyes are wide and shining, slowly blinking as his mouth hangs agape. He's just waiting, but he's waiting obediently, all pliant and well behaved, and he's waiting for John. 

“Alright, let's take all this clobber off you then, yeah?” 

Liam nods before lifting his arms. John smiles as he pulls the shirt off of him. “That's it, good lad.” He coos and he can feel Liam shiver under the praise. They do  the same with the trousers: he gently pulls them off while Liam lifts his hips, making as easy as he can, humming happily when John takes his keks off and leaves them on the floor. 

He takes a moment then, to admire the beautiful creature he has in front of him. Liam's the most gorgeous man he's ever seen — even though he can feel a part of him protesting to that statement— even with the scars from his hip surgery over his pale skin. He's standing right on the edge of being muscled, but he still has a small bit of softness in his thighs and stomach. John places his hands over the waist, caressing the skin there, and slides them up, right until the chest, holding onto his pectorals and giving them a gentle squeeze. He can feel the skin rising in goosebumps under his palms, and John hums before diving his head down and mouthing at the skin. He licks the skin around the nipple, teasing, and it makes Liam let out a small whine. 

John chuckles against the skin, finally mouthing at the nipple and enjoying the contented sigh that spills from Liam's lips. A part of him wishes he could record this, make his lovely sounds into a tune. It wouldn't even need lyrics, just some bassline, a soft rift and Liam's voice dripping over it like honey. 

He pulls his mouth away with a small pop and looks up at Liam, his hair all disheveled and sticking in different directions as he pants. Still, his hands are right at the sides of his head, like a puppet with its strings cut. He crawls over Liam, leaving a small kiss on his forehead and keeping his lips there for a few seconds. “You're being so good, kidda.” He breathes against the skin. “Reckon you deserve your prize, hmm?”

Liam just nods fervently and wraps his arms around John's neck, pulling him down for a hug. John has to hold back a yelp, not expecting it, but still wraps his arms around the kid as the position allows it, feeling the warmth of Liam's skin even through the fabric of his clothes. That reminds him, he should probably take his shirt off. 

He pulls away before he pulls his shirt over his head, discarding it somewhere. He knows he's not much to look at, but he doesn't think Liam cares about having someone fit right now— if that was the case, he could just go to the city centre and have any bird he fancied, being him— but rather someone who knows him. Someone he can be fragile with, and trust them not to shatter him into a million pieces. So after he finally kicks his trousers, he gently pushes Liam's legs apart and shuffles until he's knelt between them. 

He doesn't know how to position them in a way that won't hurt Liam's hips, but he reckons this is the safest choice. 

“Liam,” He calls, hands squeezing the lad's thighs. Liam hums, blinking as he expects him to continue. “Kidda, I need you to tell me if summat hurts, yeah?”

Liam frowns. “Don't care.”

John frowns in return, more out of confusion than anger. “What d'you mean you don't care?”

He shrugs. “Wan’ it to hurt, d'you know what I mean? Just a little bit.”

His eyes squeeze shut. This is not for him. It's for Liam, therefore, he can have whatever he wants. He takes a deep breath, feeling his chest expand and then deflate as the air leaves him. “Right, okay.”

He's too far gone to argue anyway, groaning at the ache between his legs as Liam points to the drawer in the bedside table. John quickly rummages through it until he finds a little lube package, half full. He throws a look Liam's way but the lad just keeps his eyes down, pressing his lips together. He wonders if Liam used it on his own, just shoving his fingers inside himself when he felt lonely. The image burns liquid fire through his veins, imagining him moaning in his bed as he thrusted his fingers in and out. Or perhaps he'd used it with someone else, and it had been another bloke bending Liam over while John was working in the studio.

His slicked fingers are circling the entrance before he can even think about it, some lube getting on the bed sheets. He's looming over Liam as the tip of his finger is pressing against the entrance. “You've been letting someone else do this to you, baby?” He breathes out, voice rougher than he expected. 

Liam's eyes snap open as the finger breaches him, his fists squeezing the bedsheets. “No, no,” He mumbles, licking his lips as John works his finger deeper. “No one else, just Da’.”

The nickname still makes John's heart skip a beat, feeling like it's hitting his own ribcage, but he nods contentedly, petting Liam's hair with his free hand. He starts moving his finger in slow thrusts, feeling the muscle give way as he works his finger deeper. He knows the kid said he wants it to hurt, but he doesn't want to properly hurt him. So he gets another finger inside, his own prick twitching at the small gasp Liam lets out. 

He pushes the pair of fingers in and out, making a scissoring motion as he stretches the entrance. It makes him dizzy, knowing he's digging inside of the kid, properly touching him from the inside. His eyes flicker between staring at the red hole stretching around his fingers and watching the way Liam's face contorts as the fingers breach him, his eyelashes fluttering. 

John has to palm himself with his free hand, the ache of his hard-on far too overwhelming to ignore. He can't remember the last time he felt like this, his skin flushed and covered by sweat, his face hot and his muscles taut as he had to hold himself back like when he was young. There's something about Liam, he decides. Something that's drawing him in, making him feel like there's a fire coming from his insides, spreading to the rest of his body as it scorches his soul. He can feel the tingling on his fingertips, and he doesn't think drugs came close to this. Not charlie, or even acid. He dives his nose in the crook of Liam's neck and inhales there, losing himself in the scent of something unnameable, and yet it feels like home.

“John.” Liam calls him, voice as soft as he's ever heard it. 

And John knows, because they reached a point where they know without words. And perhaps that's what Liam needs, someone to understand without words, someone who knows what he wants and will give it to him. 

John pulls his fingers out, wiping them on the sheets before grabbing onto Liam's hips. He pulls the singer towards him, until their cocks are almost flushed with each others’. He holds himself up with both arms at the sides of Liam's head and lines up his length right against the entrance. He looks at Liam, eyes fixed on the baby blues staring up at him, and starts pushing inside. 

He has to hold his breath as he rocks his hips, the entrance squeezing in a tight grip. He fights to keep his eyes open, trying to focus on the way Liam's mouth hangs agape as he enters him. It's a tight fit, more than he thought, and John keeps slowly pushing inside, knowing it must be painful, the way the walls are stretching around his cock. 

“That's it, c'mon, you're doing great kidda.” He grounds out, more than halfway in. He knows it must hurt, he knows it does, because he can see it in the drop of sweat sliding down Liam's face, and in how his brow furrows, he hears it in the way his breath stutters every few seconds. 

He finally bottoms out, his entire body draped over Liam's. He takes a few deep breaths, resisting the urge to rut mindlessly like a teenager, his arms trembling just the tiniest bit as he holds himself up. It's been so long since he's been with a bloke, and it's Liam. It seemed impossible, a while back, and now the boy had served himself on a silver platter— it was the stuff of dreams, this.

Liam lets out a whine then, rocking back his hips as if to get the length even deeper inside of him. John lets out a groan and gets the message, beginning to move in firm thrusts. There's a bit of a drag every time he pulls out and he can hear the kid hiss each time. He shuffles a bit, changing the angle as he grabs Liam's waist, and this time when he thrusts his cock all the way to the hilt, he punches a loud moan out of the boy. He starts picking up a rhythm, pumping his hips, and Christ, the noises Liam makes. The way his voice goes a bit high pitched after a particularly deep thrust, his breath hitching as words get cut off or lost between small breathy ah-ah-ah’s. It drives John slightly mad, and he seriously considers recording the sound for prosperity. But he can't, can he. 

And this feels slightly like cheating, if not a bit delirious, but he imagines Liam singing the Roses tunes. He pictures that rough yet melodic voice over his riff, singing You adore me, you adore me, you adore me and John could rip his own hair out. Like a siren calling him to the deep, that is. I wanna be adored. He can hear it, and he knows it would be beyond perfect, just an inch beyond too much. Like looking into the sun. I wanna, I wanna, I wanna be adored. But he could, he knows Liam would if he only asked. I gotta be adored. He would get it, he'd understand. Because Liam is adored, he's revered. He's the only god left in the temple, and maybe there's far too many men adoring him, but John will take what he can get. As long as he's the one making Liam feel like this. 

“You like that, kidda? Da’ making you feel good?” He pants, thrusting inside with a bit more speed now, his hands holding onto the skin with a grip he knows will leave some bruises. 

Below him, Liam lets out a whimper, squeezing the sheets with one fist while the other flies up to hold on to John's back. “Yeah, Da’, fuckin' love it, oh—”

John raises an eyebrow, and pulls his right hand away from the kid's waits for a second, just to slap the skin there, the sound of the strike of his palm resonating in the room. Liam yelps then, his body spasming in response. 

“Don't curse,” John says, trying his best to keep his voice steady. “Good lads don't say bad words, yeah?”

He can feel Liam's entrance clenching around him, and he has to hold back a groan. Hands come up to John's shoulders then, and when he looks down, he can see Liam's wide pupils staring back at him, like endless pools of darkness that threaten to pull him down.

“Oh, sorry Da’, ‘m sorry— didn't mean it.” He slurs, his voice stuttering with every thrust as his hands come up to cover his face. 

John tuts before diving down to nuzzle at the kid's temple, feeling the strands of hair tickling his skin. “I know you didn't, baby. C'mon, let da’ see you.”

The hands part, and he can see those baby blues peeking through the fingers. “That's it, that's a good lad.” John coos, slowing down his thrusts. 

He feels Liam's hair bristling at the words at the same time he makes a happy noise, and John realises the kid needs to know he's good. Which he knew already, just from being in the studio, ‘cos Liam would groan and huff after finishing a take, saying it was rubbish, when most of the time it had been brilliant. It was like he was starved of kindness, sometimes. But he didn't want it just because, — when John praised him casually, he'd divert his eyes, shifting uncomfortably— Liam wanted to deserve it. 

“Liam,” He starts, leaving a trail of kisses from the ear to his jawline, mouthing at the damp skin as he stops his thrusts. “Let me try summat.”

Liam hums below him, his legs falling limp on the bed. John stands on his knees, watching him. He takes a hold of the singer's legs, his sweaty hands almost slipping off the skin. He manhandles him until Liam is laid on his side, legs together and flexed. This way, John can see the puckered entrance right between the thighs— it's all red and puffy, and sticky with dried lube to the touch.

He grabs the lube once again and slicks his length, tossing himself off as he watches Liam making himself comfortable in this new position. He's certain it won't hurt his hips, but John will definitely reach deeper like this, and those thighs muscles will most certainly ache tomorrow. 

“Da’?” Liam questions, voice soft and uncertain.

“I'm right here, love,” He whispers, shuffling on his knees until he's right against Liam, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. “Da’s gonna make you feel good, alright?”

Liam’s eyes are half lidded and a bit cloudy, but he still nods and mutters. “Alright, daddy.”

Then he's pushing inside once again, all the way to hilt. It draws a loud moan out of Liam, closer to a shout, but he still sees his eyes rolling to the back of his head. Good. John starts moving quickly then, feeling he's hitting that one spot inside blokes, the one that makes them go mad. He wonders if Liam could come just from that. He feels the right spot that makes the kid wail with every shove of his cock, and he drills against it. 

“Such a good boy.” He groans, watching a drop of sweat fall from his forehead to Liam's arse. He stares at the skin jiggling a little with every snap of John's hips, the back of his thighs getting redder by the minute. 

The only sounds in the room are the ones coming from Liam's lips, driving John madder and madder, and the slap of skin against skin, both increasing in volume as John pulls out halfway and then roughly pushes inside, the entrance tightening as he hits deep within him. He could almost imagine seeing his own cock through Liam's skin, just reaching so deep you could see it from the outside. 

A muffled sound interrupts his line of thought, and he's met with the sight of Liam biting on his fist as his body is rocked up the bed with every snap of John's hips. His moans are almost muted now, covered up by the fist that Liam's is drooling on as he digs his teeth in it. He can see the glistening spit falling from the red lips to the knuckles, soft sounds far too soft. John drapes himself over Liam, his torso covering him completely, and noses at the kid's cheek. 

“Don't do that, c’mon,” He coaxes, voice hoarser than before. “I told you, I want to hear you.”

Liam shakes his head as he writhes on the bed, almost headbutting John in the process.

John lets out a groan and changes the angle a bit, trying to coax a sound of his boy and he hears his breath hitch. “There's no reason to be ashamed, kidda.” He breathes out, feeling his lower back starting to ache but paying it no mind at all. He clears his throat and, almost like an order, he says: “Be a good boy and let Da’ hear you, Liam.”

He feels the lad tense under him, his back aching as his face scrunches up and finally he gasps. “Da’, oh— feels so good, ah—”

John grins like the cat who got the cream and starts speeding up his thrusts, now fully panting as he shoves his length as far as he can with every movement. “That's it, that's a good lad, c'mon.”

Liam is squirming now, his limbs twitching wildly as they look for something to hold on to. “I need it, daddy, p-please—,” He whimpers, and it looks almost painful, how the words seem to escape against his will. “I've been good, I need it, ngh—”

John gives a particularly rough thrust, the force of it jostling Liam up the bed and almost making him bang his head against the headboard. “Yes, you've been so good, darling.” He groans, feeling the ache in his groin grow more urgent. “My good boy, what d'you want? Tell da’— fuck, go on, baby.”

He watches the kid blink rapidly, and suddenly a few tears are falling from those shining blue eyes, the water making the blue even more intense. “Inside me.” Liam hiccups, his shaky hands finally settling around the back of John's neck. 

John gasps, feeling his own prick twitch as his movements grow sloppy. This kid is going to kill him, he's gonna give him a heart attack. He wipes the sweat off his forehead and does his best not to trip over his own tongue. “Oh? You want me to fill you up, baby?”

“Yeah.” Liam exclaims, closer to a shout, as his breath quickens, the rise and fall of his chest speeding almost to the point of hyperventilation, the tears falling even faster. “Wan’ it all, da’, please, oh— give it to me.”

The walls start clenching around his cock, making the entrance even tighter, and he can't help letting out a deep moan. He's at the end of his rope. He cradles Liam's jaw with one hand, locking in place so he can't look away, and he can feel himself going too fast, too erratic. “Yeah, I will, I will. It's all for my baby, all for you.”

“Yeah, yeah, y-you're going to fill me up, get me up the duff,” Liam babbles incoherently and it makes John's heart rise to his throat. “‘cos you love me.” He sobs. 

Oh. His beautiful boy. His poor angel, that's what he wanted, after all. If only he knew John would give him anything. Love was not enough to encompass how much he feels for him, how it all overflows from his soul— how far he's willing to go for the boy. He'd do anything. He would become anything.

“Yes, I love you,” He breathes out, pushing as deep as he can, rocking his hips there as Liam shouts. “Fuck, I love you, I adore you, kidda. Fuckin' Christ— take it.” He mumbles, pumping his hips as he spills inside. 

He slumps on top of the kid, his limbs aching and weak. Under him, Liam’s body tenses, muscles going taut, and John has half a mind to reach a hand down and wrap his fist around Liam's cock, finding it all wet like a bird. "C'mon baby, you've been so good, let go for Da'." He whispers and before he can stroke him twice the kid is already shooting ropes of come onto their torsos with a whimper, his body arching off the bed as he covers his mouth with the back of his hand, choking back a scream. John's grateful he kept his eyes open to watch him like this, at the peak of ecstasy, and it was as divine as he imagined. Perhaps even more, as Liam gets lost in the aftershocks, his body twitching. He's a mess of sweat and come, and yet he remains painfully beautiful. 

It's quiet after a few minutes, their slowing breaths the only sound in the room. Now, without the heat and the desperation, John can feel his hips starting to hurt, same as his arms. At one point he slumped down on the bed right by Liam's side, his muscles limp. At his right, Liam has his eyes open, but not as wide and alert as before, nor cloudy and hazy as they were a few minutes back. They're half lidded, slightly reddened, his gaze stuck on the roof as the singer hums a tune John doesn't recognise. He fixes his eyes on the trail of dried tears on his cheeks, falling right to his collarbone, and is relieved to find the lad a bit more relaxed, his body melted onto the mattress as the tears finally stop pouring. 

“Liam? How are you feeling?”

Liam smiles, gaze still on the ceiling. “Better, now.”

John swallows. “Alright. That's good.”

They both nod in tandem, and Liam huffs a laugh at that. He watches Liam reach to the bedside table and hears him rummaging through the drawer. Then he's lying on the bed again, this time with a fag in his mouth and a lighter in his hand. John stares at the way the fingers flick the lighter on, the flame lightning Liam's face with a warm glow. When the singer blows out the first cloud of smoke, John can't help but follow it with his gaze, rather hypnotised by the way it curves and slides through the air.

“Oi. You want some?” Liam croaks out, offering the fag.

He takes it, not meeting the kid's eyes. He takes a drag, the air burning in his lungs as he keeps his eyes on the opposite wall. It's fucking ridiculous, but now that is all said and done, John almost wants to cover himself with a blanket, suddenly bashful. He blows the smoke, the lines swirling in the air as he knocks some leftover ash off. 

“Sorry for freaking out and that,” Liam offers, taking the fag between his fingers when John gives it back to him. “Sometimes I get too deep inside me own head, d'you know what I mean? I get a bit lost, yeah?” He takes a drag, the tip of the cigarette glowing orange. “And, y'know, thank you for not being weird out and that. I know it's fuckin'— I dunno, fucked up. Like I know there's summat wrong with me, but you still helped me, so, cheers.”

John huffs. “There's nothing wrong with you, mate. And I came here on my own volition, yeah? No one forced me to. You didn't even ask me to, love. Did it on my own and that.”

Liam turns to meet his gaze then. As soon as their eyes meet, it feels like something has changed. It feels different, even the air they're breathing feels unfamiliar. 

“Yeah. I suppose that's why I— y'know,” Liam mutters, gesturing vaguely with the hand holding the cigarette, the smoke moving in wild lines. “I trust you, yeah?”

“Yeah, I know.”

The lad offers him the last of the fag and John takes it, taking a deep, long drag and holding it, feeling the hot smoke in him, almost burning his throat. When he lets out the smoke, he feels strangely at ease, although there's one last thing rattling at the back of his mind. 

“What was doing your head in, then?” He asks, stubbing the cigarette on the posh ashtray that's on the bedside table. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Liam bite the side of his cheek. “Just some shit, like, silly things, really. I'm a bit like a dog, d'you know what I mean? Sometimes I need someone else to take me out for a walk and pet me on the head, tell me I'm good and all that.” He mutters, wiping some ash from his leg. “I don't like being put on the shelf, y'know, just fuckin' forgotten until someone else decides to put me out of me misery. Sounds fuckin' childish and that, but I need to be looked at, y'know. Need a chat and a cuddle, every once in a while. ‘Cos I miss— y'know, people. And love. I need love; everyone does, d'you know what I mean?”

John's eyebrows furrow, trying to piece together what the kid's rambling about. He understands, though. He felt neglected, that's all. But he wonders if he's talking about Debbie— if anything, his missus seemed a bit too focused on Liam, following him everywhere like a hawk. He reckons Liam has gotten all Debbie had to offer, and just like John, she had given it all away quite easily. 

But then there's the other matter, isn't there? The one that's everything but easy. The one that still has so much to give and yet he won't give in, even if Liam is begging on his knees. John doesn't know if it's strength or just cruelty, the ease with which the other fella keeps denying Liam. John couldn't. He adores the kid far too much to deny him anything. If he asked for the sun, he'd take it down and bring it to him in a little box just for Liam to warm himself up. 

And perhaps that's the daft thing of all this. Because, deep down, he doesn't think Liam would do the same. Maybe he would, but John wouldn't ask, anyway. Liam's hands are far too busy clasped together in a prayer to do anything, and even now his gaze is locked elsewhere, following someone else. In a constant state of wait, simply expecting. 

He watches the kid, letting a soft sigh as he stretches. He doesn't seem nervous now, nor knackered. He seems at peace, weirdly. And John would like to take credit for it, but. He recalls Liam squeezing his eyes shut at the end, plump lips working around a name, the sound choked under his palm right at the last second. 

John wonders, then, what exactly he was replacing.

“Well, you deserve to be treated nice, y'know?” John shrugs. 

Liam eyes flick up then, staring at him for a moment, eyes filled with something he doesn't recognise. Suddenly he shifts, leaning closer until he's resting his head on John's chest, practically curled over him. John wraps his arms around him in autopilot, placing his cheek on top of Liam's head. The hair tickles his skin and he blows it away with every breath. He feels Liam's arm wrap around his torso as well, the fingers tapping some melody on his side.

John's not daft. He knows he'll have to go back to his room, at some point. And beyond that, he knows after the album is done, they're done. That sentence alone was enough to make his chest ache, but beyond every promise, every comment that they would make about another record and more tunes, and despite how many songs John writes for him; he knows Liam will go back home. 

There's a bitter feeling rising in his throat, the words threatening to come out to the point he has to bite his tongue. He could tell him how he feels, how much he would give. Because John would give the kid anything he wanted. He'd be so good to him, he'd give him his music, his words, his art. He would look after him, he'd spoil him and coddle him for however long Liam would have him. He would never insult him, or demean him— he would never hurt him, he couldn't. He would love him to the point of reverence, nothing but pure adoration for him.

Still, he knows. Well, he doesn't, but he can make a pretty good fucking guess. John lets out a long, tired sigh that he feels in his bones, and he kisses the top of Liam's head, lingering just a second to inhale the scent once again, committing it to memory. At least Liam didn't say it back, didn't torture him with the sound of the illusion.

When he pulls his mouth away, the kid nuzzles against his cheek. “Is there anythin’ you want, mate?” He asks, warm breath grazing the skin of John's chest. 

John blinks, his tongue seemingly made of lead as it rests heavy in his mouth. “No, kidda, I didn't do it ‘cos— y'know. You don't owe me nowt.” He grounds out. 

“No, but I'd like to do summat for you, d'you know what I mean?” Liam insists.

He hopes Liam can't hear his heartbeat from where he is, resting right on his chest. He really doesn't want the kid hearing the way his heart skips a beat every time he imagines Liam's voice singing his songs— not these ones, not the ones from this record, the other ones, the ones that were his best. The holy ones. 

He can almost hear it, taste it in his tongue. And maybe a stronger bloke would refuse. 

“There is summat, actually.” He admits, finally. “But I don't want you to feel obligated to do it, y'know?”

“I know, don't worry mate, I'm the one offering, yeah? Now go on, what is it?”

He winces before even saying the words. “When the record's done, maybe you could sing a tune for me, and we'll record it? It won't go on the album or anything, ‘course, it'd be just for me, just a private thing.”

Liam turns to look at him, blue eyes shooting right through his soul even if his gaze softens. “Yeah, ‘course. D'you have a tune in mind?

“Y'know, a Roses one. So I'll need a few days, just to have to practice me guitar parts and that.”

“Right.” Liam replies, closing his eyes as he lies his head on John's chest again. “You reckon Ian would like that?” 

John snorts. Well, what Ian doesn't know won't hurt him. He pets Liam's hair again, brushing his fingers through the brunette locks. After a few minutes, he feels himself growing rather drowsy, and even though a little voice in his head tells him that he shouldn't sleep sitting up, he closes his eyes as well. 

John holds the cassette in his hands, flipping it around. It might seem rather silly, having the tune in a cassette instead of a file in his phone, or even a CD. But he likes this better, feels like it's safer this way, as he can't delete it by accident but can hold it in his hand, the plastic corners digging into his palm. Besides, he thought that if he had to rewind the tape every time he wanted to listen to it again, maybe he wouldn't listen to it many times. 

He presses play again, the Walkman making a small whirring sound before the sound of the faint bass line reaches his ears. He'll have to hide the tape the next time he sees his mates. Maybe they wouldn't be angry, maybe they'd be honored. But then again, a part of him wants to keep this for himself. John closes his eyes, the sound of his guitar invading him, and waits, holding his breath.

He lets out a deep sigh when he hears Liam's voice, a shiver climbing down his spine. He can see him behind his eyelids, the image of his throat working as he sang seared into his mind. He looked beautiful, and sounded— Christ. It feels like death. No, like something beyond it. No one really deserves to hear this, perhaps not even him. But maybe this can be his consolation, a small window to what he could never have. Just a small taste of heaven, just enough to die a little each time. He clutches the cassette and daydreams, already thinking about rewinding the tape once again.