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hobidreams · 4 years

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TES Minis: IV {M}

to celebrate yoongi’s first big break, you give him a proper treat.

pairing: yoongi x reader genre: smut, fluff words: 2.4k contains: condomless sex, dirty talk, oral (m), they get it on in semi-public (there is a limo), yoongi gets spoiled <3 a/n: this is a drabble for The Early Shift, but can be read as a standalone. this was written as a commission for Black Lives Matter!

It’s not a big deal.

Okay, it’s a little bit of a big deal. But is it a big enough deal to warrant all this splurging? Yoongi doesn’t know, as he watches you swipe your credit card on the machine, his stomach pleasantly full of extremely expensive steak. (He doesn’t even know how much the bill actually comes to; the menu didn’t have prices, that’s how fancy this place is.) But damn, was it tasty. And watching you try not to spill anything on your only nice dress was very entertaining indeed.

“Babe, stop it,” you snap, drawing his attention to your slight pout.

“Stop what? I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re thinking again.”

“It may surprise you, but I do that sometimes.”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean. Get out of that snarky,” he gives you a look, “but cute mind. All of this is worth it, Yoongi. Your song, going platinum? Of course we have to celebrate!”

“But it’s just one song and there were four other producers—”

“No. You’re not allowed to downplay yourself like that.” You reach over the table, grabbing his hand. You squeeze until he’s smiling (a little exasperatedly) right back at you. He likes the attention, even if it does make him squirm. He deserves to feel proud of how hard he worked. Speaking of, you check your watch and wince at the time. “Come on, we have to go!”

“There’s still more?” Yoongi asks, downing the bit of bubbly alcohol left in his flute before pulling on his blazer.

“Duh. Have you ever known me to half-ass anything?”

“Nope. Never.” His eyes wane as he laughs, flashing those pink gums. “Drives me nuts.”

Stepping into the elevator, he bundles you close against him as it begins to descend. He presses an easy kiss to your cheek while he links your warm fingers together, wordlessly rubbing his thumb on your skin. His tell, for when he’s feeling especially close to you. Your heart grows two sizes bigger.

You’re right on time when you reach the ground floor, dragging Yoongi along to the front of the building. You swivel your head, looking for—ah.

When Yoongi sees the sleek black limousine pull up in front of you, his jaw absolutely drops. You resolve it was worth every won to rent the thing.

“You didn’t.”

“I totally did.”

The young chauffeur steps out of the driver’s seat with a friendly smile and a bow. You return both when he opens the backseat door for you two. “Thank you,” you say, and climb in.

“Where did you even find one of these?” Yoongi is still incredulous as he follows you inside, running his fingers along the nice leather. Limos of this size are rare around town, so you get his disbelief.

You shrug like it was no biggie. “Jungkook knows a guy who knows a guy.”

“Wow. He’s well connected for a kid.” He says it without malice; Jungkook is who he went straight to when he was looking for a flower guy for your first anniversary. That bouquet had been damn magnificent.

Yoongi’s still looking at the full bottles of wine and whiskey that line the sides when the car starts to move. “Where’re we heading?” Some notes of an R&B influenced song float through the air.

“Taking the long way home, so settle in.”

Among all this luxury, Yoongi’s a sight to behold in his dark suit, legs slightly spread, arms stretched, plump lips still a bit wet and doubly enticing. It’s with a smile that you shuffle towards him, messing up your tint on his mouth as a simmering heat lights in your veins.

“Your home or mine?” He whispers when you break for a breath, amused at the baby pink that now rims the side of his lips. He’s also panting a bit more, the crotch of his nice pants starting to feel tight.

“Soon to be ours.”

Yoongi’s eyes soften as he strokes a few strands of your hair. “God, I love you.”

“Sap.” You laugh, squishing his cheek with a finger before going back to get another kiss. This one gets a little steamier than you both intended but you roll with it, tongue slipping into his mouth to meet his in an easy rhythm. Then his hand is on your chest, sliding between the fabric to cup a bare breast in his palm, to squeeze in a way that never fails to make you moan.

“Wait, fuck, shit,” he mutters when he opens his eyes to watch you react, and he remembers where the hell he is right now. He hurriedly pulls his hand away, casting a glance at the poor driver who definitely does not deserve to witness the two of you behaving like horny teenagers.

You quirk a cheeky eyebrow at him. Then to his surprise, you shove him, making him fall backwards onto the leather seats.

“What’re you—”

“Shhhh, we’re celebrating.”

You feel around near the sunroof, and grin when you find the button you’re looking for. With a quiet whirr, the partition starts to go up, blocking the driver from view.

“D-Did you drink too much champagne?” He knows all the ins and outs of your expressions, and this one is dangerous.

“Nope.”

Your smile may be lopsided, but he can tell it’s a hundred percent genuine as you stoop between his legs and run fingers across his belt. You’ve got it unbuckled in seconds, his cock out just as swiftly. Despite all his protests, it’s already half-hard, firm between your fingers.

“Babe, is this even legal?”

You dip your head and Yoongi hisses when your tongue meets his bare skin, unabashedly lapping a stripe across the frenulum. “Who knows,” you hum.

“Baaabe...” He thinks he might lose his mind, watching how you draw back to let a trail of spit drip from your bottom lip right onto his dick, smearing it all over the now-turgid head with your thumb. His girl, still so beautiful even though the only lighting comes from the blurry rows of streetlights that speed past.

You keep your hand slightly slack, sliding it along the shaft at a teasing pace so all you hear is the sensual beat of the current song and your boyfriend’s supressed moans. Occasionally you’ll use your mouth, suck the head into sudden heat to watch how Yoongi’s eyes glaze over with pleasure. But if he thinks this is all you’ve got, then he doesn’t know you at all.

“Open your hand,” you whisper, lips wet against him.

He does. Then gives a groan of disbelieving arousal when you deposit something slinky and black onto his palm. It’s still warm, and he can smell how aroused you are from here. Yoongi had watched you put on the tempting thing a few hours before dinner, but he never imagined he’d be touching them in this scenario. When did you even remove them? It’s a question that no longer matters when you lift your skirt up.

“Damn, I’ve got to write more songs,” Yoongi growls, still keeping his voice muted and low.

You laugh as you dip the hand that’d been on his dick between your thighs. It’s a bit of a challenge to keep yourself balanced on this rather narrow seat, but your determination (or stubbornness) wins out. You part your folds enough so he can hear how ready you are for him.

The sound makes Yoongi eager, already pushing up so he can feel for himself, but you shake your head. “Let me spoil you,” you purr, collecting some slick with two fingertips before slathering it onto the cock that twitches with interest.

“This is more like a punishment.” But he shuts up fast when you start to lower yourself, when he feels the first bit of your tightness accept him, squeeze him. You take it so achingly slow, swallowing an inch just to ease off and make him savor it, all with mischief in your casual expression.

Reality is, though, it’s a struggle. Oh god, you definitely wish you followed Jungkook’s leg and core workouts more strictly now, as you fight to keep from just sinking fully down in one move. At least your muscles haven’t started trembling yet, though they’re getting there as you lean forward, try to alleviate some of the strain by resting your elbows beside his head.

“Hi,” you whisper when your eyes meet, then kiss away his quiet moan as you drop another inch. The limo seems to hum beneath you as you get closer to home, the apartment that now houses two of your newly adopted plants, and a music producing station now truly on its way to becoming fully-fledged. A space that’s slowly becoming seamlessly shared. “Yoon, I’m so fucking proud of you.”

“I can—” he chokes when your cunt clenches, “I can feel that.” It’s getting harder and harder for him to keep his mouth shut. You love that, when he can’t help but groan at how well you fit together.

Lower you go, letting your mouth run. “Fuck babe, you’re stretching me out, so goo—”

The pressure comes all at once. Your bodies suddenly jerk forward with the car and in your surprise, you slam down, crying out when his cock smacks against your cervix. The burn quite literally knocks the breath from you, lethal when coupled with the sharp spike of pleasure at being so full. There goes your plan of slow seduction, but neither of you are complaining.

“Sorry!” The driver calls, his voice coming through alarmingly clear through the partition. “Sudden red light!”

You look at Yoongi, and he looks at you. Silly smiles bloom across both your faces before you bury your nose into his neck. His white shirt is getting wrinkly, but who cares because you feel him shift inside you, nudge against your sweet spot and bliss pools in your stomach while you whimper.

“You should be quieter, since the divide is that thin,” Yoongi mutters, hand fondly squeezing your ass. “Even if I like hearing you scream.”

You roll your eyes. “The question is, can you?” It’s a little cramped still, but you work with what you got. Swivel your hips, grinding your clit onto him so he feels how much tighter you become. You scrunch the dress up, wanting to give him a view of how you sheathe all of him with every stroke. He groans appreciatively despite himself.

But it stops being about teasing him soon enough, once that haze of need takes over your brain and you start moving faster without even realizing it. It isn’t long before you’re practically bouncing on his cock, dragging you both closer to your ends with each sloppy squelch. “Shit, if you do that—”

“It’s all you,” you gasp, and it’s true. Yoongi always feels this good in you, no matter if it’s on your tiny single bed or in the backroom of a coffeeshop or an expensive ass luxury limo. On that delicious thought, you press two fingers to your needy clit and whine so loudly it makes Yoongi look at you in alarm. (It’s still fucking hot.)

You cum first, but that’s no surprise. It’s a point of pride for him to never leave you on the edge, and he’s happy to stave off his own orgasm for as long as it takes to get there. Sometimes even twice. But there’s no need for that now when your cunt is leaving him with no other choice than to unravel and fuck his cream as deeply inside you as possible. His hands clamp down on your thighs as his face screws up in concentration, enjoying every last pulse before he’s left with just pants and aftershocks. Just for fun, you manually give him a squeeze of your walls, just to watch him scrunch his nose in oversensitivity.

“Devil.”

You stick your tongue out at him.

It’s only when his cock softens enough to slip out of you that you gingerly shift back onto the seat, sitting with your ass slightly tilted up until he can hand you back the scraps that make up your panties. You feel humid, but it’s kind of nice with his cum still stuffed inside you.

“I think we should rent limos at least once a year,” you say, glowing with sweaty satisfaction. “That was fun.” While this night had cost you a whole paycheck, you’re graduating this year anyway, hopefully into a full-time job. You make a cheeky mental note to set 1% of your future paycheck aside for limo rides or other sex-cursions.

“Yeah, it really was.” Yoongi chuckles as he watches you smooth out your hair.

Seconds later, post-nut clarity evidently settles into his brain because his face falls. “I’m going to have to tip that poor driver everything I have, aren’t I?”

You flash all your teeth with your grin.

Groaning, he glares at his cock before tucking it back into his boxers. “Your pussy is gonna be the death of me.” But he makes you cuddle with him anyway, even though you’re both sticky and your fancy clothes definitely need some heavy dry cleaning.

Outside, you’re starting to recognize the neighbourhood and shops, your scenic route coming to an end. Yoongi sees it too, so he pulls out his wallet and starts flipping through the bills. He looks up every so often, as if doing the mental gymnastics as to figure out how much this kind of thing is worth. He looks so earnest that it makes you feel a little bad for him.

“Yoongi,” you say, after he pulls out way too much money. “Remember when I said Jungkook knows a guy?”

“Yeah...?”

You shut his wallet for him. “The driver does this kind of thing often. So, don’t need to worry about it. He’s used to it.”

Yoongi stares at you blankly. Then his eyes narrow, bottom lip jutting out in a pout that is not supposed to be adorable but totally is. “I was panicking this entire time! I was so worried that—I thought—You just—! Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” You cackle, planting yourself squarely in his lap before leaning your head on his shoulder. He’s so warm and solid against you, effortlessly comfortable. “Love you,” you say with a smile, “super proud of you.”

Yoongi’s still grumbling when he presses his face into your hair. You don’t hear exactly what he says but you’re pretty sure it’s something like “you’re the worst.” Or maybe (probably) it’s “you’re insufferable.” Either way, it means you’re the most precious person on this earth.

a/n: i can’t tell you how much i love writing soft Yoongi! i hope you love him too 💕 bonus: how did Yoongi ask you to move in? ♡

#ficswithluv #yoongi smut #bts smut #bts imagines #yoongi x reader #yoongi fluff #min yoongi #the early shift #rain writes #<3 <3 <3

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calumcest · 4 years

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i took a walk with my fame down memory lane (i never did find my way back) - chapter four

[ao3]

is it technically tuesday? yes. are we going to talk about that? no. everybody lives in at least gmt-1 now suck it up

@tirednotflirting yet again...i cannot sing your praises enough for reading this ENTIRE fucking thing!! although it looks a bit different here to how it looks on the google doc because its not in bold and theres no ‘finishh’ in sight nor my insane random words that i write down when i know exactly the words i want to say but i’m too lazy to write them. am i the worst writer known to man? possibly

we are getting to the juicy stuff now...its quarter to fucking malum o’clock...

also if you saw the title of this chapter before i went to check you didn’t see it. close your eyes

By the time Calum wakes up the next afternoon, they’re already halfway back to Manchester, somewhere on the M40. Predictably, Liam's up, vibrating with that impatient energy he’s always got when he can’t snort or drink it away, and Calum’s the second one to rise, padding into the lounge area sleepily, yawning loudly and rubbing his eyes. His head’s fucking pounding, and his mouth is dry and disgusting, but Liam, because he sometimes is the angel his doe eyes and full lips make him out to be, has already put out a cup of water and two paracetamols for him.

“How the fuck are you never hungover?” Calum grumbles, throwing himself down on the sofa next to Liam and nestling into his side as he downs the paracetamol.

“Luck of the Irish,” Liam tells him, resting his cheek on Calum’s head. Calum makes a noise of discontent and turns to press his face into Liam’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut like it’s going to stop his head from hurting.

“You deserve a hangover,” he mumbles. “You were off your fucking head last night.”

“And you weren’t?”

“Never said that.” Liam huffs out a soft laugh.

“Nearly fainted in the fucking toilets, you did.” Calum scowls.

“Fuck off,” he says, as his memory flashes back to last night - yeah, he did almost fucking faint in the toilets, but that was only because- and then his eyes fly open, because fuck. Jesus fucking Christ.

Michael.

“Our kid barely even made it back to the bus last night,” Liam says, and it’s just meant to be casual conversation, maybe a little contemptuous, but it makes Calum’s lungs collapse in on themselves with guilt.

He’d spoken to Michael. He’d come to some sort of a fucking understanding with Michael, something he can’t quite remember and doesn’t quite understand. Fuck, he might have even called Michael pretty. Jesus Christ. He’s fairly certain any and all of that goes against his promise to Noel.

“Oh?” he says, when he remembers to speak. Liam just hums, and Calum tries not to exhale too shakily as his mind races.

It’s not his fault, he tells himself. Not really. He’d been there first, hadn’t he? Michael had been the one to walk up to him, and the one who hadn’t walked away. And sure, maybe Calum had been the one to strike up conversation, but it hadn’t exactly been friendly, had it? And Michael had been the one to ask questions, to change the topic, and to level the playing field when Calum had accidentally let something slip. Plus, Calum had been drunk and high, so he can’t really be held accountable for his actions, can he?

Liam’s still talking, but Calum’s not listening, and it doesn’t even matter because Liam cuts himself off when Tony stumbles into the lounge area, bleary-eyed and yawning. There’s no paracetamol set out for him, and Liam makes no move to get any.

“I’m looking forward to a fucking break,” Tony says a little hoarsely, and flops down on the sofa opposite Liam and Calum.

“Fucking when?” Liam says. “We’ve got Top of the Pops in two days.” Tony groans, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“Fucking Top of the Pops,” he mumbles. “Why the fuck did we agree to that?”

“For the money,” Liam says.

“Don’t even get to play the fucking drums,” Tony says, muffled by his palms.

“Thank fuck for that,” Liam mutters.

-------

Top of the Pops is exactly the bland, boring nightmare Calum expects it to be.

They’re shepherded into some kind of studio for a rehearsal and informed that they’ll be recording a live track then and there which will be mixed together with the album version, and none of them will actually be playing live. Liam’s having absolutely fucking none of it, and for once neither is Noel, and Calum, Bonehead and Tony all decide to step back and enjoy the show that is both Gallaghers on the same team for once.

After a lot of shouting, swearing and a few threats of violence, it’s decided that they’ll go ahead with recording the backing track but Liam will sing live. Noel’s absolutely fucking furious about not being allowed to play live, but it’s almost entirely forgotten when he sees the setup for the stage - Tony on drums in the front, Calum and Bonehead on a step behind him, and Liam and Noel on another step right at the back. The BBC aren’t budging on that, though, despite Calum, Bonehead, and Alan all weighing in to agree that it’s fucking stupid to have the stars of the band stood right at the back, and a nasty row breaks out between the Gallaghers and the production team, ending in Calum having to move at the speed of fucking light when he sees Liam tense into the all-too-familiar I’m going to fucking deck you stance. A lawsuit with the BBC is still well beyond their budget, no matter how well the singles have been doing.

Calum manages to talk Liam down, and Liam manages to talk Noel down, and they’re only ten minutes behind schedule by the time that the brothers have reluctantly agreed to do the show, which is pretty good going for them. They trail to the stage to the sound of screaming and cheering, which makes Calum’s head spin a little bit as he picks up his unplugged bass. They’re really fucking making it now, he thinks in awe, as he looks out at the sea of excited faces and spots a few white Oasis shirts. They’re really fucking doing this.

They get set up and pretend to play Shakermaker, and Liam sounds fucking gorgeous, like he’s making a point to the producers, and Noel slings his arm around Liam as they walk off, a protective, proud gesture that Liam grins at and leans into. They’re fucking unstoppable, Calum thinks, as he trails after them, Noel’s arm tight around Liam and Liam stumbling over his own feet as he tries to press as close to Noel as possible. The two of them on the same side is a fucking sight to behold.

They’re at a hotel that night, and Liam and Bonehead decide they want to go out but Tony and Noel want to stay in, and Calum decides he’s too tired to stay up for the length of time it’s going to take him to find someone willing to fuck him.

(“What d’you think coke’s for?” Liam says to him, and Calum rolls his eyes.)

Calum falls asleep almost as soon as his head touches the pillow, and he wakes up early to the sound of Liam stumbling into the room, high and drunk and probably something else, bruises blooming all over his throat and grinning giddily.

“Good night?” Calum says.

“The best,” Liam declares, and then passes out on his bed.

They have to drive back to Manchester that day, though, because they’ve got a show in Leeds tomorrow, so Liam only gets about four hours of rest before Alan’s banging on the door and yelling at them to get the fuck up, lazy fuckers, didn’t I fucking tell you bus call’s at twelve? To his credit, though, he only complains about a hundred times, and stops when Noel rolls his eyes, holds his arms open and lets Liam snuggle into him and have a nap while Noel chats to Alan about the setlist for America.

Calum tunes most of it out, because he’s not fussed about what’s on the setlist and he trusts Noel to pick the best of his own songs, and spends two hours getting absolutely thrashed at chess by Tony. By the time they’re back in Manchester, Calum’s lost a game of chess to literally everybody on the bus, including Liam, who's being taught the rules of chess by Noel and Bonehead as they play, and Calum decides he’s never fucking playing chess ever again.

(“We’re fucking buying some new games,” he says moodily, when Liam flicks his king over nonchalantly.

“No need to get so mardy,” Bonehead says, stretching out and grinning at Calum.

“Fuck you,” Calum grumbles, sweeping all the pieces off the chess board. “We’re getting a game that I can fucking win.”

“Alright,” Noel says, grinning. “How about Frustration?”)

Calum’s mum has dinner ready for him when he drags himself up the path and into the house, and she fusses over the state of his hair and his clothes and says really, Calum in a disapproving voice whenever Calum uses colourful language to describe exactly what he thinks about the production team of Top of the Pops. Calum rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling when she tuts at him for fondly calling Liam a silly cunt for the fourth time that evening, because it’s nice. It makes him feel like a kid again, but in the best possible way; warm, protected, like someone’s still looking out for him.

His dad gets back from work around seven, and they sit down to watch the Top of the Pops performance together. Calum’s heart swells with pride when it’s their turn to play, because they look fucking cool. The staging’s still shite, granted, but Liam looks every inch the rock ‘n’ roll star he claims to be, and the rest of them look lazily and effortlessly cool, helped enormously by the fact they’re half in the shadows, lights focused on the Gallaghers.

Calum’s parents are polite about the song, and he can see they’re beaming with pride, but he can also tell they don’t really get it. It’s okay, he thinks, unable to help the smile that creeps onto his face as he watches his parents watch him on TV. They like jazz. It’s probably for the best that they don’t think it’s good music.

Calum’s mum switches to some soap opera after Top of the Pops, and his dad grumbles not this again and pulls out his newspaper, but Calum can see his face popping over the top of the paper every two seconds. After three minutes he comments wasn’t Sheila dating Mark last week? She’s not having an affair with Bertie, is she? Calum snorts, and his dad glares at him, opening his mouth to make a defensive remark about how he doesn’t follow this show, it’s absolute rubbish, but then the phone rings.

“I’ll get it,” Calum says, before anyone has the chance to say anything, mostly to avoid having to listen to his dad’s I’m not watching this, Calum, don’t be cheeky spiel, and his mum just nods absent-mindedly, waving a dismissive hand at him, eyes glued to the TV. Calum heads for the phone in the kitchen, just because it’s the closest, jogging to get there before it rings out.

“Hello?” he says, when he picks up. There’s silence at the other end of the line, and he frowns. “Hello?” he tries again.

“Hi.” Calum’s stomach drops.

“ Michael? ”

“Yeah.”

“What the f- how the- what? What? ” Calum’s heart is beating out of his fucking chest, almost covering the embarrassment that’s flaring up as foggy memories of their last conversation drag themselves to the forefront of his mind.

“Sorry,” Michael says, and he sighs, and Calum can just imagine him running his fingers through his hair, a small crease between his brows. “Fuck, I- sorry. I shouldn’t’ve-”

“No,” Calum says abruptly, clutching the receiver, dreading the fucking dial tone. “No, I just- how did you get this number?” There’s a moment of silence.

“Only so many Joy Hoods in the book,” Michael says, and Calum exhales, hoping the crackling static of the phone line will hide how shaky it is.

“Oh,” he says. Michael had sought him out. Michael wants to talk. Michael still remembers his mum’s name.

“I saw you,” Michael says suddenly, into the uncomfortable silence that’s blossomed between them, neither of them knowing what to say next. “On Top of the Pops.”

“Yeah?” Calum doesn’t trust himself to say any more, but the question on the tip of his tongue is evident in the eagerness in his tone, anyway.

“Yeah.” There’s a pause. “Sounded good.”

“That’s because it’s a backing track.” Michael huffs out a laugh, sounding a little surprised, like he wasn’t expecting it to come out.

“I guess,” he allows. They lapse into silence again, loud and uncomfortable, before Michael sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds a little regretful. “I shouldn’t’ve called.”

“No,” Calum blurts. “I’m glad you did.” The phone’s warm against his fingers, slippery from his hot, sweaty hands, and he’s clasping it so hard he thinks it might break. He tries to focus on that rather than on what he’s just said, on the knife-edge he feels like they’re poised on, each word a weight that could unbalance them.

“Are you?” Michael sounds a little doubtful, and a little sceptical.

“Yeah.” Michael hums, like he’s mulling something over.

“Do your bandmates know?” Calum’s heart skips a beat.

“Know what?”

“That we talked.” At Glastonbury, while you were drunk and high and out of your fucking mind. You called me pretty, by the way. He doesn’t say any of that, but Calum’s mind tacks it on helpfully anyway.

“Do yours?” Calum says, deflecting, because his stomach’s bottoming out with the sheer weight of the guilt, of the broken promise. Or was it broken? Calum barely remembers, just remembers the look on Michael’s face, the tiny microexpressions, the glassiness of his eyes.

“No.” Calum inhales sharply, can’t fucking help himself - Michael’s talking to Calum, and the rest of Blur don’t know. That's got to mean something, even if Calum isn't entirely sure what.

“Oh.”

“Do they know?” Michael asks again. Calum stares at the hob opposite him, weighing up his answer.

If he says yes, he’ll be lying, and whatever the fuck him and Michael have going on right now is so fragile that one lie like that will send it all crumbling down, pulverise it so thoroughly that it’ll never be able to be built back up again. If he says no, though, he’ll be doing the same to Oasis, to his best mates, to his career. There's no right answer.

“Not yet,” he settles on eventually, straddling the line between Oasis and Michael. It’s the truth - he hasn’t told them, but they might find out at some point.

“Are you going to tell them?” Fucking hell. Trust Michael to pick at the loose thread.

“Maybe. I don’t know.” It’s true, and that’s the best Calum can offer him.

There’s a moment of silence, neither of them really knowing what to say, and it’s fucking gut-wrenching because Calum’s never had that with Michael. He’d never even had to think about what to say with Michael - he’d just existed, just been, and that was always enough.

“Luke and Ashton asked about you,” Michael says, and Calum’s breath hitches.

“Oh?” he says. “How are they?”

“Good,” Michael says. “They’re good.” He pauses for a moment, and then adds: “Luke’s a pilot, now. Or training to be, I think. I don’t know. Ashton’s a teacher.”

“Oh,” Calum says, voice small. Two of his best mates, in an earlier life; two spotty blonde teenage boys laughing on the beach at Calum splashing Michael in the water, shooting each other furtive glances across crowded rooms, getting high just for an excuse to shotgun. A fucking pilot and a teacher.

“Yeah,” Michael says.

“Did they ever get their shit together?” Calum asks.

“What? Oh, yeah. Fuck, has it been that long?” Michael exhales heavily. “They’ve been together for years.”

“Oh.” Calum doesn’t know what else to say to that. He’s trying to imagine it; a pilot and a teacher, fucking hell. Maybe Luke brings Ashton little gifts from his trips abroad. Maybe Ashton writes Luke postcards while his pupils work. Who does the cooking? Luke definitely doesn’t clean. Or maybe he does. If Michael’s changed this much, maybe Luke has, too.

“What about you?” Michael asks.

“What about me?” Calum’s not sure what Michael’s asking. Michael knows what he’s up to - he’s in Oasis, spending all his money on intoxicants, trying to exist alongside the supernova that’s the Gallagher brothers.

“Y’know.” Calum doesn’t know.

“I have no id-”

“Are you seeing anyone?” Michael says it all in a rush, like it’s taken a lot of courage to say it. It probably has, Calum thinks. He wouldn’t have asked Michael. It’s sort of reassuring, actually, makes something a little warm blossom in his chest, because that’s still so Michael . Michael always blurted out questions, always demanded answers, always kept social etiquette and politeness as an afterthought.

“No,” Calum says. He swallows, and then adds: “Are you?”

“No.” Good, Calum wants to say, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have Michael like that anymore; he doesn’t have the right.

“Why did you call?” he says instead. Michael hesitates.

“I saw you on TV,” he says eventually. That’s not a reason.

“Why did you call?” Calum presses. Michael inhales, and doesn’t exhale for a moment.

“I don’t know,” he admits eventually, on a long, heavy exhale. Calum doesn’t blame him. None of this really makes sense to him either; the fact he feels like this after five years of not seeing Michael, after four years of not speaking to him, after three years of not thinking about him. He’s not sure why he wants this, whatever this is, not sure why he wants more of Michael, not sure why his heart feels drawn to Michael like it’s north and Michael’s south.

“Yeah,” Calum says, hoping it conveys I understand.

“I almost reached out,” Michael says suddenly. “A few times. Over the past year, I mean.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Didn’t want to.”

“Why didn’t you tell your band?”

“Didn’t know how,” Michael says. Calum gets that too; he’d thought about it as well, entertained the idea, turned it over and over in his mind, but he’d never known what to say. I fucked the guitarist from Blur - I was in love with him actually - and I don’t know why I can’t get him off my mind would probably have sparked even worse reactions than the way it had come out did.

“They seem really protective of you,” Calum says.

“They are,” Michael says, and there’s a small smile evident in his tone. “Not like yours, though. I don’t think all the money in the world could get Graham to start a fight on my behalf.” Calum can’t help the startled laugh that escapes him.

“I don’t think all the money in the would could get Liam not to start a fight on my behalf,” Calum says, and Michael huffs out a soft laugh.

"I'm glad you found such good friends," he says, and the smile is ripped off Calum's face at the jarring reminder that they don't know each other anymore. It sounds so distant, like Michael's content with this arm's-length distance between them, two people who used to know everything about each other and are now making polite small talk.

“Yeah,” Calum says. “I’m glad, too.” He can’t bring himself to say what he really means - I’m sorry it was good enough to take me from you. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to say it.

“I should go,” Michael says after a minute. Calum wants to say no, don’t, stay, but he forces the words back down and nods, still staring blankly at the hob.

“Yeah,” Calum says. “Me too.”

“It was-”

“Don’t,” Calum says abruptly, as his stomach twists. It was nice talking to you. It was nice catching up. He doesn’t want to hear the finality of the words, the forced politeness, the jarring dissonance that is the boy he’d known and loved for so long and the man he is now.

Michael doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then he sighs.

“Look,” he says. “I- you don’t-” he cuts himself off, takes a deep breath, and starts again. “D’you want my number?”

“Do I- uh, yeah,” Calum says, a little stupidly, glancing around wildly for something to write on.

“I’m on tour for the next few months,” Michael says, as Calum snatches up a recipe his mum had left lying out, and an incredibly unsharpened pencil. “But I’ll- y’know. When I’m home.” I’ll call you. He can’t bring himself to say it, and Calum doesn’t blame him.

“Okay,” Calum says.

“You got a pen?”

“Yeah.” Michael rattles off a number, some area code Calum doesn’t recognise, something starting 071. He writes it down hastily, hoping he’s heard it right because he doesn’t want to ask is that five like hive or nine like fine , and then rips the corner of the recipe off and tucks it into his pocket.

“Got it,” Calum says, dropping the pencil onto the counter with a clatter. “071, where’s that?”

“London.”

“Oh. Uh. Cool,” Calum says.

“Well,” Michael says, a touch awkwardly. “See you around, then, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Calum echoes. There’s one more moment, the two of them listening to each other breathing, a second suspended in time, and then it’s broken by a click and a dial tone.

Calum puts the phone down a little dazedly, just as his mum wanders into the kitchen.

“Who was it?” she asks. Calum hesitates, and she raises an eyebrow, which means he’s lost the opportunity to say oh, just a cold call.

“Michael,” he says, and her eyes widen.

“Clifford?” she says. He nods. Who the fuck else is it going to be, Michael the sound engineer that had mixed two fucking tracks in Cornwall? “I didn’t know you two still spoke.”

“We don’t.” Her face softens.

“Oh, honey,” she says gently, and Calum swallows. He hasn’t told her yet, hasn’t told her about the awards ceremony and Glastonbury, and somehow, he doesn’t quite want to. She seems to sense it, though, because she just sighs and pulls him into a warm, tight hug. Calum wraps his arms around her, closes his eyes and buries his face in her shoulder. Even though he’s half a foot taller than her, even though she only comes up to his collarbone, it still feels like she’s the one protecting him, like he’s small and cocooned in her arms.

She lets go after a minute, fussing over him messing up his hair, and he groans at her and ducks out of the way of her meddling fingers, but the warm feeling stays, and when she smiles at him and tells him she’s going to bake him his favourite biscuits tomorrow, he feels seventeen again.

(Or maybe that’s just Michael.)

-------

July and August pass in the blink of an eye.

After Leeds, they have three weeks off. Calum finally fixes the garden wall, and for the first few days, he finds himself jumping every time the phone rings. It’s never Michael though - most of the time it’s one of the brothers, asking whether Calum wants to go to the pub or get high or go out on the pull, and sometimes it’s Alan, reminding him that he’s got to be here on this day at this time and there on that day at that time and is he writing all this down because he’s going to be responsible for getting Liam there too since Noel’s going ahead this time.

They go down to London for a few days, record a few new versions of songs and one demo of a new song that Noel’s written but isn’t sure about yet. As soon as he’s heard Liam’s vocals on it, though, his eyes light up, and Calum files the bassline away, because he knows it’s going to be on the next album now, no matter how much Noel’s pretending to hum and haw about it. He can’t fucking let Liam have anything, though, so when Liam comes out of the live room, bright-eyed and desperate for Noel’s affirmation, Noel curls his lip and tells him that sounded fucking shite, Christ, you’re almost as useless as Tony. It culminates in a huge fight that Calum and Bonehead manage to duck out of before it begins, only finding out about it when they get woken by a sombre-looking Alan in the middle of the night and informed they’re all being kicked out of the hotel because Liam’s trashed the bar and Noel’s chucked a TV out of the window of his room that landed on the hotel manager’s car.

They play their first show in America on the 21st - their first show outside of Europe - and it goes well. Noel’s not impressed by the country, having toured there with the Inspirals half a decade earlier, but the rest of them are in fucking awe, and Calum catches tiny, fond smiles playing on Noel’s lips when he sees Liam staring at the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building, lips parted and eyes wide.

Noel’s finally managed to get his way on Live Forever too, it seems, because they’re shepherded into Central Park a few days later, half of them hungover and half of them still blind drunk, to film a video. The director seems to be even fucking higher than they are, because he comes up with ideas like Liam singing while sitting on a chair nailed to a wall, and the band take it upon themselves to start suggesting ever more ludicrous ideas, just to see what sticks. Liam throws in chucking a bucket of water over Bonehead, and Calum suggests burying the drum kit, and Noel goes why don’t we just bury the fucking drummer? The director thinks that’s a fucking brilliant idea, inspired, creative, and Noel shoots Calum a look and says wow, is that how easy this is? You just fucking randomly suggest nonsense and people just go and film it?

(He doesn’t bother showing up for most of the second day of filming, and Calum can’t really blame him.)

They fly back to the UK and play another festival on the 31st of July, and as Calum passes by one of the posters on the way to the stage he does a double take, because Blur are on there. Liam sees him looking, though, and taps the top of the poster wordlessly as he walks past - Sat 30th July. Calum can’t help the way his stomach sinks at that. Michael was here yesterday, and Calum’s here today. Maybe that’s a sign, he thinks. Maybe fate is trying to tell him something.

Live Forever comes out in early August, and people fucking love it. Calum’s getting stopped in the street in fucking Wolverhampton - Wolverhampton - and asked to sign autographs, which makes his head spin. They’re really fucking making it now, he thinks, when he calls his mum from a payphone and she tells him that they’ve had people turning up at the door asking for interviews. This is what the rise to the top feels like, powered by coke and booze and Noel's guitar.

They play a festival in Sweden which sees Noel, Liam and Bonehead smashing up a hotel bar with the guys from Primal Scream, who they’d met at T in the Park, and Richard Ashcroft, who they’ve known for years, and once again Calum’s woken up in the middle of the night and informed that they’ve been asked to leave - not just the hotel this time, but the country. He’s driven to the police station where Bonehead, Liam and Noel are being held, and has to stand with the harsh lights hurting his eyes while Alan tries to hash things out with the Swedish police, and then the three fucking delinquents come stumbling out, grinning and reeking of alcohol.

("Are you trying to get arrested in every single fucking country we visit?" Calum asks Liam, as they make their way to the car.

"No," Liam says, "but that's a fucking mega idea, that."

Shit.)

They have to film another music video in August, but since it’s for Cigarettes & Alcohol Marcus at the record label lets them bargain the video down from a full on shoot to the filming of a live gig at the Borderline in London and hiring a few pretty faces to mingle with them backstage. It’s not bad, Calum thinks, as Liam hands him a beer and grins drunkenly for the cameras. Slap a fucking black and white filter on it and it’ll look almost intentionally dingy.

A week after that, the album comes out.

Calum hadn’t really realised what album releases would entail, but apparently, it’s a lot of fucking interviews. The first few are quite exciting - they’re still not that used to interviews; a few radio shows, a few TV shows, the odd magazine - but after days on end of answering the same questions hour after hour, Calum starts joining Liam for his hourly smoke breaks, just for something to liven the mood.

They play a show in London the day the album comes out, and Calum finds himself scanning the screaming crowd for blonde hair, pale skin, sea-green eyes, a pretty smile, but Michael’s not there. Calum hadn’t really expected him to be - it’s a small venue, and apparently it’s been sold out for weeks - but it doesn’t stop him feeling disappointed all the same, having to turn to the back of the stage for a minute to collect himself. Tony shoots him a strange look over his hi-hat, but doesn’t say anything, and Calum sends up a quick prayer of thanks that it was Tony and not Noel that had noticed.

The album goes gold in three days - the fastest-selling debut album in British history - but they barely even have time to celebrate because they’re heading to Sweden again the next day and Alan tells them with an unusually stern expression that he’s had to twist a lot of arms to get them back in and they’re absolutely fucking not allowed to get drunk or high or fight anybody until they’ve been in and out of Sweden. Liam moans and bitches about it but accepts reluctantly, spending the entire journey to Sweden yawning and rubbing his eyes and making sleepy conversation until he falls asleep on Noel’s shoulder.

The show in Sweden goes off without a hitch, and they’re in Dublin the next day - their first Irish show - and the brothers go fucking mental. Calum joins in for a bit but can’t keep up; two Irish Mancunians in Dublin is far too much for his Australian stomach to handle. Belfast is no better, and the day after that they play the Haçienda in Manchester - one of the most famous clubs in their hometown - and after the three-day-binge even the Gallaghers are worn out and sleep for the majority of the two days they have off before heading to Europe and then to Japan.

Japan is fucking insane. Fans are swarming around them the minute they step off the plane, drunk off the free little bottles of booze, and the crowd sings their songs back at them louder than any English fans ever have done. Calum’s glad he’s not singing, because he gets choked up when Liam steps away from the microphone for a second during Live Forever and the crowd scream did you ever feel the pain in the morning rain as it soaks you to the bone? He sees Liam’s eyes widen, sees the way he swallows before starting the chorus, sees the way his gaze flits to Noel and they hold each other’s gazes for a split second, something that only the two of them can read in it, and his heart swells with pride and love. God, he fucking loves his job, he loves the music, he loves his band, he loves the fans, he fucking loves it all.

They’re riding off the high of Japan when they get to America again, due to play a whole host of shows throughout the rest of September until the end of October, when it all goes wrong.

They’re not made for America, Calum thinks. They gets thrown out of a radio show for swearing live on-air; they get in a fight with the bouncers at some famous club in Hollywood; and one night in LA they even get a visit from the police, who arrive with their guns drawn, because Bonehead won’t stop playing Supersonic with his amp on full volume at six in the morning. Noel cackles when he sees them and tells them to fucking go ahead, shoot the cunt, and Maggie, their poor, overworked, underpaid tour manager, rushes out in her pyjamas and bargains with the police, tries to smooth things over. Calum thinks that’ll be it, that’ll be the big story of the tour, but it’s all overshadowed when they get to the Whisky a Go Go, some famous club that they’re told repeatedly it’s an honour to be playing.

Oasis being Oasis, they’re looking for coke. Someone procures a bag of white powder at soundcheck, and Liam grabs it greedily and starts cutting it into lines as the rest of the band circle around it like vultures, and as it goes up Calum’s nose he thinks fucking hell, this feels a bit fucking different. He shrugs it off, though, and hands the rolled up dollar bill to Bonehead - maybe American coke’s just stronger.

It hits him like a fucking train. He’s buzzing with the kind of energy that he’s never had from coke before, higher than he’s ever been before, more euphoric, feels fucking unstoppable, but there’s a dirty edge to it, something gritty and nasty that he just doesn’t like. It’s too late, though, because it’s gone down, and he thinks fucking hell - well, at least it’ll wear off in about half an hour.

It doesn’t.

He’s sweating, heart pounding in his chest, vision sharp and blurry at the same time when they get on stage. Everyone else seems to be in a similar situation - Bonehead’s eyes are wide and flitting left to right, right to left, and Liam’s jittery and bouncing on his heels. Noel’s somewhere else completely - he starts playing fucking Bring It On Down when the rest of them start up with Fade Away, and he plays the solo of Supersonic during Cigarettes & Alcohol. They have to play Roll With It one-and-a-half times, because Calum’s bass amp explodes a minute in, and Liam starts shouting at the audience after a crowdsurfer knocks his mic stand over, and then starts shouting at Noel for fucking God knows what, yelling at him to fuck off, until he launches his tambourine at Noel, hitting him on the shoulder, and storms offstage as the set ends.

Calum heads off dazedly, trying to slow his pounding heart and thinking fucking hell, what the fuck was in that coke? The brothers are still yelling at each other backstage, pupils dilated and faces red, and don’t stop yelling as they’re herded into a car to get back to the hotel, are still screaming at each other as Maggie ushers them up the stairs and into their separate hotel rooms. They each shout a venomous fuck you, you fucking cunt at each other before slamming their doors, and Calum, who’s due to room with Liam that night, decides he’d rather sleep on Bonehead and Tony’s floor than brave that.

He can’t fucking sleep, though. The high just doesn’t stop. He’s so wired, feels so fucking strung out and awful, barely cognisant of what’s going on around him but hyperaware at the same time and he just wants to fucking sleep, just wants to rest. He can’t, though, and neither can Bonehead or Tony, and they just pace around the room, vibrating with energy, muttering what the fuck do they do to the coke over here, eh? every few minutes.

Time passes so fucking slowly, every minute inching by painfully, and by the time it’s morning Calum’s starting to finally, finally come down. He feels semi-human by the time the knock on their door for breakfast comes, and wrenches it open, still dressed in last night’s clothes, to find a serious-looking Maggie, a crease between her brows.

“What?” he says, because he knows, he just knows something’s happened.

“Noel’s left,” she says. Oh. Well. That’s hardly grounds for a face like that.

“Will he be back for soundcheck?” Calum asks.

“He’s gone, Calum.”

“What d’you mean, he’s gone?” Calum’s not quite getting it.

“He asked for his passport and some money,” Maggie says. “And he’s gone.” Calum stares at her. Noel can’t be gone. He might have left, sure, but he can’t have gone.

“Wha’s tha’?” Bonehead calls groggily, from across the room. He’d come down a few hours ago, managed to force himself to sleep, and he sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Noel’s gone,” Maggie repeats, a little louder. Tony turns from where he’s sat in the corner of the room, twisting his fingers this way and that, eyes wide.

“Gone where?” Bonehead asks.

“I don’t know,” Maggie says.

“What d’you mean, you don’t know?”

“He’s gone, Bonehead. Took his passport, took some money, and left.” There’s a moment of stunned silence.

“Does Liam know?” Tony asks. Maggie bites her lip, and shakes her head.

“I thought I’d tell you first.”

“Shit,” Bonehead breathes. “He’s gone? ” Maggie nods.

“Yeah,” she says. “Suitcase and all.”

Fuck.

“Oh, fuck,” Calum mutters, and sits down on the bed. “He’ll come back, though, won’t he?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie admits. “He sounded pretty certain about it.”

“Why the fuck did you let him go?” Bonehead demands.

“I can’t hold him hostage, can I?” Maggie says. “He’s fucking twenty-seven years old.”

“Shit,” Tony says. “Oh, God. Shit. ”

“I’m going to tell Liam,” Maggie says, sounding a little nervous about it. She probably should be, Calum thinks distantly, staring unblinkingly at the carpet. Noel’s gone.

“I’ll come with you,” he finds himself saying, more for Liam’s sake than Maggie’s. He stands up robotically, completely on autopilot, and follows her out of the room, leaving Bonehead and Tony in shocked silence.

Liam answers his door on the first knock, already awake and showered, and his face falls when he sees it’s not Noel. Oh, God. The kid’s going to be fucking beside himself.

“Can we come in?” Maggie says, aiming for sweet. Liam’s eyes narrow.

“What’s happened?” he says. Maggie hesitates.

“Noel’s gone,” she says softly, after a moment.

“Where to?”

“He’s gone, Liam,” Calum says. The words feel strange on his lips. Noel can’t be gone, not now, not when they’re finally getting somewhere. Not without fucking saying anything to them.

“Where?”

“We don’t know,” Maggie says, still gentle, still kind, still trying to soften the blow. Liam looks about five years old, damp hair plastered to his face, eyes wide and shining with something that looks like fear, maybe, or loss, or rejection. Or maybe all of them with a sheen of anxiety.

“Fuck,” he says, but he doesn’t sound angry. “Is he going to be okay? Is he alright? Did you speak to him?”

“He just asked for his passport and some money,” Maggie says.

“But he’s okay?”

“I- he seemed okay, yeah, but-”

“Okay,” Liam says, like he’s trying to steady himself. “When’s he coming back?”

“I-” Maggie cuts herself off, and takes a deep breath. “I think he’s gone for good, Liam.”

Calum can see it, the moment it registers in Liam’s mind, sees it in the way his eyes widen and his lips part, in the panic that rises in his eyes.

“He’s not,” Liam says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “He wouldn’t fucking do that.”

“He’s gone,” Maggie says again, softer than before, and then reaches inside her coat pocket. “He left you a letter.” Liam stares down at the folded envelope in her hand, and then snatches it and shuts the door in both of their faces.

They stand there for a moment, and then Maggie turns to Calum.

“Well,” she says, like she’s bracing herself. “That could’ve gone worse.”

“Yeah,” Calum says vaguely, still staring at the door.

It couldn’t be worse, though.

-------

Alan tells them not to worry, for the first few days. Noel’s disappeared before, and he’s quit before, and he always comes back.

So they try not to worry. Bonehead starts drinking at eleven in the morning, and Calum tries not to worry. Tony and Maggie have hushed conversations under their breath, and Calum tries not to worry. Liam doesn’t leave his room, and Calum tries not to worry.

They get a fucking bollocking about the gig from Alan, from Marcus, from fucking Maggie, even, but it feels hollow because they all know they’re not going to get the only bollocking that really matters - the one from Noel. They sit there silently while Alan rages about how embarrassing it was, while Marcus runs through numbers and statistics about sales and how they’re going to be affected, while Maggie gives them disappointed looks and says really, snorting meth hours before a concert, what were you thinking?

Yeah. They’d snorted fucking meth. Some absolute fucking idiot - William John Paul Gallagher - had mistaken meth for coke. It’s why they were absolutely out of their fucking minds, why Calum hadn’t been able to sleep that night, and why Liam and Noel’s argument had been more ferocious than usual. It might also explain why all of this feels even more overwhelming than usual, why the comedown feels like it’s just not going away, why whenever Calum walks past Noel’s empty hotel room he feels like he’s suffocating.

By the third day, even Calum’s at a loss. He’s been getting out of the hotel, going for long walks and getting lost and having to ask for directions to get back, standing by the sea and breathing in the salty air to try and clear his mind. He’s worried about Noel, more than anything - Noel doesn’t usually leave without saying anything, without getting the last word in, which is what makes this feel all the more real, like this is the time it’s going to stick.

Although, Calum thinks, maybe Noel did get the last word. He’d written a letter to Liam, after all; maybe he’d said something in there about where he was going, what he was doing, something that makes this whole situation make any sort of sense. Maybe Liam knows something the rest of them don’t.

He knocks on Liam’s door after he doesn’t show up for lunch again, and Liam answers, looking a little dishevelled, and a lot drunk.

“What?” he says dully.

“What did the letter say?” Calum asks. Liam stares at him for a minute, and then opens the door enough to let Calum walk in.

The room’s a fucking tip. Liam’s clothes are strewn all over the floor - which, granted, isn’t exactly new - and Calum can see white powder residue on the coffee table, the desk, even the fucking bedside table. Next to the smudges of powder on the bedside table is the letter Noel had left, rolled up tightly, but creased all over. Liam’s been reading it, using it to snort drugs, smoothing it out and reading it again, rinse and repeat.

Calum sighs, and sits down on the chair next to Liam’s bed, throwing him a doleful look. Noel’s Calum’s best friend, sure, and Calum’s not got a clue what to do without him, but he’s Liam’s brother. His flesh and blood, the boy who held Liam’s hand while he crossed the road, who nursed him through his first black eye, who writes songs with lyrics like please, brother, let it be, after a fight. Liam's never not had Noel looking out for him - through exasperation and curses and fists connecting with jaws, but there nonetheless. Liam hasn’t got a chance without Noel.

Liam throws himself down on the bed and stares up at the ceiling, and Calum puts his hand on Liam’s shin, fingers resting lightly against rough denim. I’m here, he’s trying to say, but it feels hollow to the both of them, because he’s not Noel.

“What did he say?” Calum asks again. Liam stares up at the ceiling, blinks once, and then opens his mouth.

“He told me he loved me,” he says. Calum’s stomach twists. That’s not a good thing, not from Noel. He’d never say that, least of all to Liam, unless what he was trying to say was goodbye.

“Oh,” Calum says, and tries not to let the panic seep into his voice. “Did he say where he was going?” Liam shakes his head.

“Just a bunch of shite about how can we be brothers anymore, blah blah blah,” he says, voice rising mockingly on Noel’s words. Anger works for Liam, especially where Noel’s concerned. It’s the only way he knows how to feel about Noel. “Can’t do this anymore, it’s not me it’s you, all that breakup bullshit.”

“What about your mum?” Calum says, even though he knows the answer to that, because Alan’s been calling Peggy pretty much every hour. Liam shakes his head.

“She’s fucking beside herself,” he says, fury licking at the edges of his tone. “I get doing it to me, up and leaving like that, because that’s us, innit, but to mam? I’ll fucking kill the prick myself if I ever see him again.” He doesn’t mean it, but Calum lets him pretend that they both believe it.

“You should eat,” Calum says, after a moment of silence.

“Probably,” Liam says, to the ceiling. He blinks up at it one more time, and then rolls onto his side.

“He’s a fucking cunt,” he announces, but he doesn’t sound convinced, and his voice wavers a little. Calum sighs and reaches his hand out, and Liam extends his own to lace his fingers with Calum’s, blinking at him with glassy, tired eyes.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, and his voice is definitely wobbly now. “I didn’t mean to push him away. I love him.”

“I know,” Calum says, and squeezes Liam’s hand in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. “He knows, too.”

“I wouldn’t’ve said it if I knew,” Liam says, swallowing hard. “I wouldn’t’ve been such a cunt.”

“Yeah, you would’ve,” Calum says, but it’s not unkind. “That’s how you two are.”

“Cain and Abel.”

“Doesn’t Cain kill Abel?”

“Isn’t Noel killing me?” Calum’s not really sure what to say to that. He supposes, in a way, Liam’s right. One of them’s got to fall off the tightrope at some point, and Liam’s never going to push Noel. And Liam would be all too happy to fall off, if it were for Noel.

“He needs you,” he says eventually. “He’s always needed you.”

“Does he fuck,” Liam says flatly.

“He’d never let anyone but you sing his songs,” Calum says. “That’s the highest praise you can get from Noel.” Liam’s silent for a moment, because he knows Calum’s right, and then he sighs again, loud and heavy.

“I’m hungry,” he says, and Calum closes his eyes in relief. "I want fish and chips."

“Order room service,” Calum suggests. Liam blinks at him.

"Do they do fish and chips?"

"They will if you offer them enough money." Liam hums, like he's thinking about it.

“Will you stay?” he asks lowly. Calum hesitates, and then nods.

“‘Course I will,” he says, and gives Liam’s hand another squeeze. Liam smiles at him, small but genuine.

“Love you,” he says. Calum smiles back, soft and fond.

“Love you too,” he says.

“Enough to find me good fish and chips in LA?” Liam says hopefully, and Calum laughs.

“Nowhere near enough for that,” he says, and Liam sighs dramatically, but he’s smiling too, which is the best Calum can hope for.

-------

A few hours later, while searching for a pack of cigarettes, Calum comes across the spare room key to Noel’s room that Noel had pressed in his hand wordlessly on their first night. Calum hadn’t really been sure what to make of it - was it an invitation for late-night songwriting, or the first acknowledgement of that night a few years ago either of them have ever made? - but it hadn’t even mattered, because Noel had left so soon anyway.

He’s heading to the room before he’s even really thought about it, unlocking the door and taking in the too-empty, too-clean room. The bed’s been perfectly made by the staff, nothing like the slapdash job Noel usually does, and there’s no suitcase with clothes spilling out of it kicked in the corner of the room, no shoes strewn across the floor as Noel had kicked them off on his way to the bed. It’s almost overwhelming, to know that this room housed the decision that could end Calum’s career, and that this is the last connection he could ever have to Noel. It feels almost suffocating, like the walls are too big and too white for Calum, and he finds himself sitting down on the bed and reaching for the phone before he’s really thought through what he’s doing.

He’d memorised the number, of course. He hadn’t really meant to; he’d just read the little scrap of paper so often that it had stuck. He barely even hesitates as he dials, chest so heavy with the crushing weight of the empty room, of the silence Noel's left in his wake.

The phone rings four times and Calum doesn’t even realise his fist is clenched until there’s a click and a shuffling sound, and his fingers relax.

“Hello?” Michael sounds casual, relaxed, a little sleepy. Calum clutches the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” Michael repeats.

“Michael.” He hears a sharp intake of breath.

“Calum?” Michael says. “Aren’t you in America?”

“Yeah.”

“Fucking hell. You’d better make this quick, then.” He doesn’t hang up, though, which is something. Calum just listens to him breathing for a minute, not really sure what he actually wants to say, or if he wants to say anything at all.

“Calum?” Michael says, jolting him back to reality.

“Noel’s gone,” Calum says.

“What d’you mean, he’s gone? Where?”

“Dunno.” There’s a pause.

“You lost your songwriter?”

“He’s gone. Left.” Michael inhales deeply.

“Where? Where’d he go?”

“We don’t know.” Michael exhales.

“Oh, Calum,” he says, and he sounds sorry and sad. Calum’s eyes flutter shut, trying to soak in the sound of his voice.

“I-” Calum cuts himself off, because he doesn’t actually know what he’s trying to say.

“I’m sorry,” Michael says, and he sounds like he means it.

“Are you?” Calum can’t help but ask, a little bitterly. If Michael rang him and said Damon had left Blur, Calum would probably feel honour-bound to tell Noel. Or, he wouldn’t, now. Fuck.

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Michael says, tone a little hard. Calum puts his head in his hands.

“I don’t know,” he mumbles.

“Why did you call me if you think that?”

“I don’t know,” Calum says again, hearing the hopelessness in his own voice. “I just- I don’t know.” Michael sighs.

“How’s Liam taking it?” he says. He’s trying, Calum can tell. He’s trying, for Calum’s sake.

“Fucking terribly,” Calum admits. “Noel wrote him a letter.”

“A letter?”

“Yeah. A- a fucking, like, goodbye note, I don’t know. He’s a mess.”

“Jesus.” Michael hesitates for a moment, and then adds: “What happened?”

“Him and Liam had a fight,” Calum says. “And we played a fucking awful gig in LA.”

“Don’t they fight all the time?”

“Yeah.”

“Why this time, then?” Calum shrugs.

“We did meth,” he says.

“You- you did meth? ” Michael sounds horrified. “ Calum, fucking-”

“We thought it was coke,” Calum says.

“How the fuck- ”

“I don’t fucking know, Liam’s a fucking idiot,” Calum says, even though he’d put the stuff up his nose too.

“Fucking hell,” Michael breathes. “Alright. Jesus. And Noel just- just, what, took off?”

“Yeah,” Calum says, gut twisting at the words. “Took his passport and some money and left.”

“Passport?” Michael says. “Did he go home?”

“No.” There’s a pause.

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Calum agrees, and it sounds listless, but he means it with every fibre of his fucking being.

“I’m sorry, Calum,” Michael says softly. Calum blinks at the wall.

“Yeah,” he says again. “Thanks.” Michael sighs.

“What are you going to do now?” he says.

“I have no fucking idea,” Calum says, the words acrid in his mouth. What the fuck are they going to do now? None of the rest of them can fucking write, can they? Not like Noel, at least.

“Are you going to finish the tour?”

“I don’t know, Michael,” Calum says. All the questions are making his head hurt. He hasn’t even thought that far ahead, hasn’t really considered anything beyond where the fuck is Noel, I hope Noel’s alright, I’m going to fucking kill Noel. He doesn’t even know if they’d be allowed to play Noel’s songs - there’s got to be some kind of legal bullshit about royalties involved, hasn’t there? God, Noel’s always handled that stuff. Calum’s never read a fucking contract in his life, just signed where Noel told him to sign. Noel had been the one to sort out their management, to negotiate the record deal, to get the contracts for the tours. Who the fuck are Oasis without him?

“Hey,” Michael says gently. “It’ll be alright.”

“Will it?”

“Yeah.” Michael has nothing to back his words up, no events or facts he can point to and say see, it’ll be fine, but somehow, Calum believes him. Maybe because he wants to believe him, with every scrap of his soul, or maybe just because it’s Michael.

“Thanks,” Calum says, and it comes out tired. Michael just hums in response, and they lapse into silence. It’s not uncomfortable, though, not like the last time Michael had been at the other end of a phone line. They’re existing in tandem, and it feels like something slotting into a place that Calum didn’t know was empty.

“I can’t believe you did meth ,” Michael says after a while, in disbelief, and Calum can’t help the way his lips hitch up in a faint smile.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says.

“Y’know, the tabloids aren’t wrong about you,” Michael says, and there’s a smile in his voice too. He’s teasing Calum. “Always calling you a bunch of hooligans. Taking meth because you think it’s coke, fucking hell.”

Calum huffs out a laugh, fingers curling around the receiver as his heart flips in his chest. Michael reads about him in the papers.

“That’s just Liam,” he says.

“So you weren’t deported from Sweden?”

“Well-”

“Exactly,” Michael says, and Calum can hear him grinning.

“That was because of Liam,” Calum says. He pauses, and then adds: “And Noel. And Bonehead.” Michael laughs, soft and melodic, and for one split, giddy second Calum thinks fuck, I want to spend the rest of my life hearing you laugh. He’s sure he doesn’t mean it, though. It’s probably the fucking days-long comedown, and the fact he’s feeling Noel’s absence like nothing else. It's the first time he's heard someone laugh since Noel left, after all.

“I can’t believe that’s what I’m up against,” Michael says, and it’s still soft and amused, but Calum can hear the slight tinge of sadness to it.

“Yeah,” Calum says, smile fading. “That’s your competition.” Michael exhales heavily, and Calum thinks they might be thinking the same thing. How did we go from us to competition?

“Why did you call me?” Michael asks. Calum’s fingers twitch against the phone.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I just- I don’t know.” He hesitates, and then adds: “Why did you call me? After Top of the Pops, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Michael says. He’d said the same thing two months ago. But, two months ago he hadn’t added what he does this time: “D’you really want to do this now?”

“Do what?” Calum says.

“Talk about this. Us. Now.” Calum swallows.

“No,” he says. He never wants to talk about it. He wants to walk the edge of this precipice forever, doesn’t ever want Michael to say c’mon, let’s jump, because he doesn’t know what he’ll find at the bottom. He doesn’t know whether Michael’s just biding his time, waiting until they can have their big what happened to us? talk to say everything that he’s thought for the past five years, get it all off his chest, and then fuck off and leave. He’d be well within his rights to, Calum thinks, but that doesn’t stop the mere thought of it from making his heart ache.

“Okay,” Michael says. “But we-” he’s interrupted by Calum and Liam’s door slamming open. Calum starts in surprise, phone slipping out of his fingers, and whips around to see Bonehead standing in the doorway.

“We’ve found him,” Bonehead says breathlessly. “He’s in San Diego.”

“You’ve found him?” Calum repeats. “What? How?”

“Maggie got his phone bills and traced all the numbers,” Bonehead says. “Found one in San Diego. Remember that girl, whatsherface, Leah? Dunno, doesn’t matter, we’ve found him. ”

“And?” Calum says, heart in his mouth. “Did you talk to him? Is he okay? Is he coming back?”

“Yeah,” Bonehead says, grinning widely. “He’s coming back.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Calum mutters, stomach somersaulting. “Does Liam know?” Bonehead’s smile falters.

“Yeah,” he says. Oh. Noel’s going to have fucking hell to pay.

“Oh,” Calum says. Bonehead looks at him for a moment, both of them thinking the same thing - there’s going to be fucking fireworks - and then he grins again.

“Well,” he says, “at least we’ve got our fucking songwriter back, eh?”

“Yeah,” Calum says, and laughs, a little lightheaded. Fucking hell. Noel’s coming back.

“Bonehead!” he hears someone yell - Liam, he thinks - and Bonehead sticks his head back out of the door.

“Aye?”

“...go out...fish and chips...you ask Calum?” is all he can make out. Bonehead casts a glance over at Calum.

“Fancy going out for tea?” he says. “Liam reckons he’s found a chippy.” Calum raises his eyebrows. Fucking hell. Might as well have one last supper before Noel gets back and all hell breaks loose.

“Alright,” he says, and gets up to leave, making the phone clatter to the floor. He picks it up hastily, and Bonehead frowns at him.

“Who’ve you been talking to?” he says. Calum clutches the receiver to his chest.

“No one,” he says. “Was going to ring my mum.” Bonehead’s face doesn’t clear, and his eyes narrow, like he’s trying to work something out. Shit, it’s fucking three in the morning in England, isn’t it? Fuck.

“Bonehead!” Calum hears Liam yell again, sounding more aggravated this time, and Bonehead sighs in exasperation and turns back around.

“Fucking hell, who the fuck are you, my missus?” Bonehead yells back. “I”m fucking coming, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

“I’ll just-” Calum motions at the bed vaguely, hoping it’ll come across like he’s got some final organising to do - fucking make the already-pristine bed, or something, anything to make Bonehead leave so he can hang up on Michael - and Bonehead just nods, already halfway out of the door and on his way to Liam.

Calum brings the receiver back up to his ear, ready to make some excuse to Michael, but all he hears is a dial tone.

Michael’s already gone.

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chapter five

#malum #5sos fic #5sos fanfic #5sos fanfiction #5sos slash #god do you know how long it takes to format fic on ao3 because of how i write it in google docs #a solid 15 minutes of deleting line breaks #anyway i hope everyone is well i have been busy but i will be back on my bullshit #imminently might i add #might even write some more of soulmate au but don't hold me to that #odds on i put some cheeky britpop references in #everyone will hate me but you know what! its my fic! i can make them hear dlbia in costa if i want!#anyway now that i'm safely at least 8 tags down i can mention noel gallagher #i can't even tell you how much i fancy this man its actually uncouth #like yall thought richard madden was bad this is richard madden but x834273472349234 #and its NOEL FUCKING GALLAGHER #can my brain make a SINGLE good decision please i'm BEGGING you #this is going to be my quarantine memory #like in years to come when people are like what did you do during quarantine!#oh just thirsted over a 53 year old man wbu :)#anyway off topic i have missed being here #im signing off for the night now but i'll be back tomorrow #please leave inane shit in my inbox and especially comments about noel gallagher #although if i see ONE submission of that picture of his feet this blog is getting deleted

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honestsycrets · 6 years

Text

Irreplaceable PVII: Who Was He?

See my masterlist for the rest of the series.

One day, something was different.

Time had passed. You knew something was off. Not with you but.. Kitta. She hadn’t gotten up yet; and while your relationship was strained as of late, you knew that you had to check on her. Ivar had gone raiding some time ago and while you waited for him to come home, you had your obligations. The main one of those was to keep Uxi clean, happy and fed. However, Kitta is your other obligation.

“Kitta?” You press the ruddy curtains apart. Little Uxi bubbles in beside you, trotting on his fat little feet with Ragnhild following close behind. There is nothing but silence. All of the Queen’s things are as they were. Her fluffy bed is neatly made and a luxurious dress drapes over the furs in a smooth, deep red.

“Ma!” Uxi chirps, doddling in with bubbly giggles.

“Maybe she woke early, my lady.” Ragnhild says stomping after Uxi who seeks out her loom. Turning the corner of her bed, you think maybe she has gone out to oversee Ivar’s newest defenses before you trip onto the ground with a thud, a small groan bumping off of your lips. The soft, squishy firmness alerts you that it was a body-- Kitta’s limp body. You tumble off of her, crawling over her side.

“Kitta!” You shake her shoulder, looking her over. Her pale night dress ims oist with blood about her stomach, sure, but also lower. You yanked up her nightdress, finding the scent like a miasma of blood and infection between her legs. You don’t need to be told to know what had happened there. But her stomach?

“Ragnhild, call me a healer!”

Kitta woke up a while later despite her best efforts not to at all. Days had passed and while you didn’t know what to tell Ivar when he landed, he understood on that misty pier why his first wife wasn’t there. Another miscarriage had taken her over in grief and with Ivar not around? She had hurt herself.

“I wasn’t going to kill myself.” Kitta says one night after dinner. Sure, she didn’t. She just dipped the knife into her gut for fun. “I was just… angry.”

You sit beside her with the remnants of your griddle cooked fish in your lap. Ivar had been by her side relentlessly since he came home. Now, he is asleep while you care for her. “I understand.” You say. “I was similar… when I lost my virginity.”

Kitta turns her head away from the roof bracing beams. “Who was he again?”

You flush. It had been sometime since you thought of Ubbe. Yes, perhaps at night… when no one was around, you thought the sex fondly. You would drag your nightgown over your thighs for better access. You remembered how his fingers twisted, the taste of salt and blood on his lips from Uppsala’s live sacrifices and how he brought you to your knees without even being inside you.

Your cheeks are hot. “No… I couldn’t say that.” You leave your hands from your fish in order to drift up to your cheeks.

“Tell me about it. Look at what I did. I need something to keep me entertained.” She says up to you before motioning down to her stomach. Technically-- you didn’t owe her shit. Not after she disrespected you, but you were weak to her. You look over the wound in her stomach. As much as you fought with her lately-- as much as you found yourself jealous how your husband would drop anything for her, she is charming. You want to make her emerald eyes glisten again.

“It… was a Ragnarsson.” You admit. Her eyes go from big-- to bigger.

“His brother?!” She squeals out. Your hands clasp over her mouth while looking back to Ivar. You don’t know what he would do if he knew. Lately, he had been... changing. In a way, you chalk up his aggression to the birth of your son. Even Hvitserk was on the receiving end of his rage. All so often, you would reassure him that Hvitserk was nothing to be so insecure about. Hvitserk was a friend. A sweet, kind friend.

“Yes. Don’t tell Ivar-- he’ll be rash.” You hush her. She tries to press for who.

“If it isn’t Hvitserk, it might be Bjorn, Ubbe or Sigurd. Let’s hope it isn’t Sigurd.” Kitta narrows out the competition. Hvitserk is an awful lover. He would have tried to sneak in already if it was him. Besides, he seems to be little more than a brother to you. The empty look on your face when Sigurd is mentioned tells her that it couldn’t be him either.

“Ooh, so you caught his older brothers. Ivar was mine. Was the mystery brother any good?” She asks.

You thwack her with your with your rag from cleaning after your meal, pressing a bit of buttered bread into her mouth. “You’re prettier when you’re quiet.” You mumble.

“So wh...y di’n’t you marry ‘im?” She asks between crumbling bites. It all came rushing back.

“You don’t want to marry me?” Your hands folded in your naked lap. Ubbe slid his trousers back over his ass. You spent much of the night and into the last morning you would be in Uppsala with Ubbe. Your cunt was stuffed full of his seed and yet-- he was leaving. “I’m not ready.” Ubbe says. He hover his shoulder with the bundle of braids shifting. He stretches his hand out to graze over your plump lips. “I would make you miserable. I’ve done enough damage.” You weren’t sure whether that was good or bad. In one way, at least he wasn’t the type of man to trap you in marriage. But as you remembered, you took a tea of pennyroyal a few weeks later.

You wish you could banish those thoughts away.

Kitta healed nicely. It was none of your business what had happened between Ivar and she. They discussed it and that was the extent of what you knew. You had not whined to Ivar about the past month he spent with Kitta. While she healed the last few months, you spent time with your now year and a half year old. Uxi climbed whatever he might be able to find, tried to leap off of heights and snuggled the stuffed toys Ragnhild made him to death. So that day, when you hear the stomp of a crutch from behind you, you didn’t honestly expect to see Ivar in the doorway.

“Fa!” Uxi whips away from your skirts at lightning speed, pointing his index finger as he bolts towards his father. He stops short of him, pointing and inching back as Ivar moves forward.

“Uxi, come here Uxi.” Ivar calls, walking toward the table to ditch his crutch and maneuver onto the ground. It was easier for him when chasing his child. Uxi makes a huffing noise, chuffing laughs out but timidly keeping beside you.

“Go Uxi. Go with your fadir.” You pull your skirts away, from his little hands to urge him forward. He takes a few shy steps up to him, poking him in the cheek.

“When did he learn this?” Ivar asks, eyes drifting down to Uxi. He pokes again and runs off to hold your skirts. Instead of catering to his shyness, you fall onto the ground beside your husband. A few pokes later he lost interest, zigzagging through the room to bring Ivar back miscellaneous items. Very quickly the mound of random items begins to build into a small hoard.

“A few days ago.” You smile, stacking block and ball and on the top of the hoard. Then you hand the boy a piece of bread. “Give your father a kiss, Uxi.”

Uxi holds one of your glass bead necklaces in his other plump, tiny hand. He boredly tugs your necklace while you blow soft kisses to the little boy. Uxi moves forward so that you might place a kiss to his cheek.

“Good boy.” You worship. Ivar swipes up his son to hold him in his lap and buries his face into the side of his neck. It lasts only seconds before Uxi breaks his father’s grip and shoots off again. Ragnhild follows him, giving opportunity for Ivar to drag you into his lap. He presses kisses over the body of your neck. You hum appreciatively for each kiss, dropping your hands down to Ivar’s on your hips.

“I found something out.” Ivar drags his lips, the tickle of his moustache against your skin up toward your ear. “Kitta told me one of my brothers took your virginity.” Ivar whispers into your ear. “So who was he?”

Your heart palpitates. She TOLD him?! You should have expected as much but somehow-- you feel betrayed. Your whole body rips into shakes within his arms. The words-- his name, it’s caught on your tongue. Uxi comes back around, handing you his piece of bread then turns away and runs to play again. Ivar glimmers a half smile at the boy before it drops altogether. He teases his lips around the shell of your ear, turning his face in your hair.

“It doesn’t matter.” He hums. “I’ll just fill you up with another child instead.”

Since he found out that one of his brothers had claimed your virginity months ago, everything had changed. He kept Hvitserk within eyesight when you were in the room. Despite not asking again who had taken your virginity, you knew that he was punishing his brother for one of them having done it.

It was the midsummer’s festival and the celebrations were abound. You had woven wreaths, tossed corn doilies into the roaring flames and Ivar had blessed a ship under Baldur’s name. Your father and many other kings were there-- including one familiar one from your time in Uppsala prior to your marriage to Ivar.

King Sverri. A king of icy lands and fine wolfish furs.

Also the King that dragged you out of sorrow-- once upon a time. It feels so long ago now. He’s grown his muscles, lean as he is. You may have feasted the sight earlier-- curious to the bodies of men. It was only natural, you assure yourself. You would never cheat on your husband.

“Do you dance, my Lady Princess?” King Sverri staggers beside you on the beach, his dark hair curling down over his pale skin, catching on the stubble. He was a tall, willowy thing donned in a rich green tunic, belts carrying axes on either side of his hips.

“I can’t say I have since we last met!” You laugh.

“That’s been years, my Princess.” Sverri spins you around the raging beach fire towards an adorned maypole spinning in brilliant red and drab white and black. It is up in celebration of the Vanir for fertility both for Midgard and the humans residing upon its surface. For as fearsome as the king was, the feminine flower crown on his head from Kattegat’s young girls made him as happy as sunshine.

The king was of course not doing such dancing. He spun words with the other kings and his brother. Hvitserk recounts so called sensual occurrences between the Christian women and he-- noting that they may look shy and modest but were anything but.

“Where is (Y/N)?” Ivar asks just as Kitta sat beside him on his sandy blanket. He takes Kitta’s hands up for a small kiss. He quickly realizes that the roll in her eyes is purely because he asks where you were. His eyes slip away from the burning embers to crowds of men and slaves.

“Dancing.” Kitta says, wiggling a new ring on her fingertips for a kiss. He gives her another, mumbling his words on her ring.

“With Hvitserk?” He asks, though it sounds more like a statement.

Kitta shakes her head. “With the King Sverri.”

“What?” His voice drips down into a low snarl. Ivar’s demeanor shifts, dropping her fingers.

“They’re actually kind of cute— Ivar!” Ivar drops to the beach, dragging himself through the sand. Kitta follows after him.

“She’s pregnant. It's harmless if Sverri fucks her. Better yet to give him incentive to keep his men and shieldmaidens with you.” Kitta chimes in. Ivar snarls up at his wife, jerking back as the shuffling of people around him kicked aggravatingly small grains of sand in his face.

“Shut up! He’s not touching her.” Ivar drags himself until he caught sight of Sverri twisting you back in from a spin. You hit his chest a bit clumsily. One of his hands slip away from his upper chest toward his shoulder. Sverri’s calloused hands dip low on your back. His moppish black hair tickles your lips and you look away from him when he leaned in for a kiss. Sverri draws back in his defeat, letting his forehead rest upon your head.

“A… ah. I think my husband might not… like this.” You hum. Sverri keeps quiet, eyes glazing you over.

“I wouldn’t either… if you were mine.”

“(Y/N)!” You press away from his chest. A harsh call of your name from below alerts you to Ivar. Immediately you know from the wildness in his eyes that you were in some sort of deep trouble. You break away completely from Sverri to run over to your husband, beginning to kneel in the sand.

“Iv… Ivar. That wasn’t-- I didn’t mean to.” You came up beside him. He reach out to tug you down. You tumble on the ground a little harshly, hands flying instinctually to your stomach. Ivar lurches over you, ignoring both Sverri and Kitta. Your hands hook around his neck as he bears down at you.

“Let us make something clear. I may share Kitta… But never you. You are the mother to MY children. Do you understand?” Ivar asks. You look up into his blown wide eyes. Ivar slips his slender hips between your legs. Was he going to make a display of you here? You wish you could melt away.

“Yes… my husband. Perfectly.” You mumble. As soon as his rant has began, it ebbs. You have neither the time nor the energy to fight his burning need for dominance over a foreign king. At the end of it all-- you were his.

Every king would know. King Sweyn would know with his lavicious eyes that bore a little too long at your ass during ceremony. King Faksi-- who gave you in marriage would know. This king from a far distance would know. He’d know very well.

“We’re going to your rooms.” Ivar snarls, dragging himself through the sandy beach. As you lay there, Kitta slips behind you to pull you up. In a mixture of frustration, you look to Kitta.

“Why would you tell him about Ubbe and I?” You ask her, finding that her eyebrow cocks. Your back stiffens the moment the words hit the surface-- you just slipped.

“I said nothing about Ubbe, (Y/N). Or Sverri.” Kitta laughs. “I only told him a brother fucked you. But now I know which.”

“I trusted you not to tell him, Kitta. I took care of you!” You shove her back, finding Kitta was quick to fall dramatically. Despite her creating a scene, she wears an amused smile. Sverri jerks forward to grip your wrist when you were about to jump her.

“She isn’t worth your time, my Lady Princess.” He whispers in your ear with a warm, soothing puff. You drop your raised fist.

“(Y/N)!” Ivar calls you.

Sverri was right. She wasn’t.

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#ivar the boneless #ivar #ivar x reader #vikings imagine #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #honestsycrets #vikings/reader #vikings fics #vikings imagines #ivar the boneless/reader #ivar/reader #viking ivar #imagines #irreplaceable prologue #irreplaceable update #history vikings

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