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sadaboutniall · 4 years

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something about you;

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Twenty Four. November, 2016.

**this chapter contains smut. 18+ only please**

They decide to take it slow. They can’t just jump back in where they left off, Isla says, when ‘where they left off’ is nearly a decade ago. This, she tells him, her head resting on his chest, his hand trailing through her hair, is too precious to fuck up again.

So they take it slow: proper dates, afternoons spent walking along the Thames sharing ice cream and giggling, early evenings in beer gardens passing pints back and forth between them. She takes him to the Serpentine Galleries and the Saatchi Gallery and he takes her to Abbey Road Studios to show her what it’s like inside. They pick restaurants together and order take away and Niall cooks for Isla, too, spending hours mastering her favorites, working out how he can change the recipes to make them his own, to make them special for her. They double date with Mully and Emilia a few times, thighs pressed together on their side of the booth as their friends talk about wedding planners and save the dates, Niall’s fingers dancing over Isla’s knee, Isla’s lips pressed together to hold back a smile.

Niall’s favorite moments, though, are the ones like this: late on a rainy Tuesday evening, Isla curled up across from him on the couch with her knees against her chest, a book balancing on her thighs. Legs stretched out in front of him on the couch, Niall’s strumming his guitar kind of mindlessly, humming the tune that’s trapped in his head, notebook and pen discarded on the coffee table. Niall’s flat is closer to Isla’s office than her own, and she’s been staying over more nights than not lately, but the novelty of it still hasn’t worn off for Niall, at least.

‘Isles,’ he says, and Isla looks up from her book, craning her neck toward Niall. She’s in an Adidas sweatshirt that belongs to him and these tiny, tiny pajama shorts, bunched up around the thick of her thighs. From here, he can just manage to touch her thigh with the tip of his foot to get her attention. He can’t take his eyes off her. ‘Come here.’

‘I’m trying to read,’ she smiles, but she closes the book anyway, dropping one leg to the floor. ‘Do you need something?’

‘You,’ he places his guitar on the chair behind him, pulls out his best pout and puppy dog eyes. ‘Come here, wanna kiss.’

With a dramatic heave of a sigh, Isla sits up and crawls across the couch toward Niall, who spreads his legs to make space for her. She fits between them perfectly, settles herself so that her face hovers a centimeter above his.

‘So spoilt,’ she whispers, dropping down to press her lips against his. Easy, he slides one hands up under her sweatshirt and over her bare back, settling where the band of her bra would be, if she was wearing one. His other hand comes up to cup her face, thumb pressed against the wet crease of her lips when she pulls away.

‘Can you blame me?’ He asks her, tapping his thumb against her lips. She opens her mouth just enough, he presses his thumb in. ‘You should see yourself.’

Isla hums low around Niall’s finger, pressing her body up so she brushes against Niall’s crotch, smiling when he hisses at the rush of contact. Finger still in her mouth, Niall slides his other hand down Isla’s back to tap her bum, pushing her further up his body.

‘Look good,’ he tells her, pressing his lips to the heat of her neck. He mouths against her skin, nipping at her freckles and soothing over the bites with his tongue. Above him, Isla whimpers, tugging the hair at the base of Niall’s neck. ‘You want something, pet?’

When he looks up at her, it’s like his heart stops. It’s impossible, how far they’ve come, how much he still loves her.

‘Come here,’ he tells her, surging up to press his lips against hers again. He cups her cheek and when he pulls away she looks as wild as he feels, chest heaving, face flushing up. ‘Come here,’ he repeats, tugging at the bottom of her sweatshirt. ‘Wanna make you feel good.’

He can’t imagine a better sight than this: leaning back on his elbows, Isla stripping above him. She pulls the jumper off easy, tossing it behind her and shaking out her hair, and then stands up off him to get rid of the shorts, dropping them to the floor, switching places with Niall on the couch. Now he’s above her, hand sliding down her body to rest between her thighs, to press against where she wants him.

‘You too,’ Isla whimpers, fingers wrapping around Niall’s wrist. ‘Take your clothes off.’

‘And I’m the spoilt one,’ Niall bites back a smile, shivering as Isla slides her hands up underneath his tshirt, fingers dancing over the shadow of his lower abs. He pulls his shirt over his head as she fiddles with the drawstring of his joggers, tugging it gently, slowly, until it releases. She pushes them off, hands dragging over his thighs, nails scratching just enough to make him hiss.

‘You act like you don’t like it,’ Isla cups her hand around the bulge in Niall’s boxers, squeezing gently.

‘Like what?’ He manages, through a whimper.

‘Giving me what I want.’ She pushes against the back of his thighs to move him forward, up, up, up her body until he’s hovering over her face and she can lean up, mouthing over where he’s straining in his boxers. She runs her tongue over his abs, straight up giggling when he lets out a low, quiet moan.

‘This what you want?’ He asks, because he wants to hear her say it. ‘You want me in your mouth?’

Isla nods, tugging at the bottom of his boxers until he’s out of them, his cock pressed against her lips, her eyes wide, locked on his. She keeps them like that as she wraps her lips around him, hollows out her cheeks, presses her tongue against the underside of his dick. Niall groans, low from the back of his throat, lip caught between his teeth. It’s ridiculous at this angle, Isla underneath him so he can see all of it, can see the way her throat works, the way her mouth stretches. He could die.

She’s good, always has been, but, fuck, he can’t think straight, the way her tongue works, the way her mouth waters. She swallows around him and he almost cries, hand coming up to cup her cheek again, to feel her jaw work as she takes him as far as she can until she gags. When she pulls back it’s fucking sinful, the mess she’s made, the way she looks, swollen lips, a string of spit trailing from his tip to her mouth. She takes a deep breath and goes right back for it, hand coming up to Niall’s hip to steady him, to stop him from fucking forward into her motuh.

‘Fuck,’ he tells her, hand gentle around her neck, thumb pressed against her necklace. ‘You look so fucking pretty like this, petal.’

Isla hums around him again, a shot of electricity through his body and he gasps, hips jerking forward, hand tightening, just a tiny bit, around her neck.

‘Stop, stop, don’t wanna come like this,’ he gasps and Isla does, dropping her head back on the couch, tucking her hair, damp with saliva and sweat, behind her ears. ‘Fucking hell, Isla.’

Isla laughs, scrubbing a hand over her face. He meant what he said: she’s so fucking beautiful, enough to makes his breath catch in his throat, make him almost want to cry.

‘Said I wanted to make you feel good,’ Niall drops down so he’s lying over Isla, holding himself up on one forearm, the other hand finding its way back down to the space between her thighs. ‘This feel good?’

Isla nods, head tipping back, exposing her neck to him again. He nips at it, then. ‘Tell me, pet.’

‘Yeah,’ Isla breathes out, eyes fluttering shut as Niall’s fingers flutter over her clit, his middle finger sliding forward. ‘Feels so good, so, so—Niall.’

He surges forward for a kiss at the same time as he presses two fingers into her, causing her to gasp against his mouth, buck her hips up into his hand. He lets her set the rhythm, lets her ride his fingers while he snogs her stupid, the taste of himself still in her mouth. He’s good at this and he knows it, deft, callused fingers working in and out, soft and hard, quick and careful. He keeps going until she whimpers, cants her hips up, up, up, up, tugs sharply at his hair.

‘Lemme hear you,’ he says, and she does, gasping his name out loud, coming on his fingers.

He doesn’t give her a break.

‘Wanna fuck you,’ he says, face buried in her neck, fingers still working. ‘Can I fuck you?’

‘Niall,’ says Isla, tugging at his hair again, sharper this time. ‘If you’re not inside me in the next fifteen seconds—’

‘Easy, petal,’ he giggles, pulling back so he can look at her, flushed red and fucked out. ‘My room, come on. Need a condom.’

She wraps his legs around his middle and it’s surprisingly easy, carrying her to his bedroom while they make out, kicking the door shut behind them, lowering her onto his bed. He fishes a condom out of the nightstand and wastes no time getting it on, only pausing once he’s lined up, pressed against her. She’s fucking soaked, and he can’t think straight.

‘Okay?’ he asks her, hitching her legs up so they rest on his shoulders. He loves it like this, the way he gets to bend over her body.

Isla nods quickly. She’s rolling her thumb and forefinger over her own nipple and Niall goes for it all at once: pushes into her and drops his head, replacing her fingers with his mouth, grazing his teeth over where she’d just been. She’s gasping below him, little ‘ah, ah, ah’ noises falling from her lips every time he thrusts, little whimpers when he pauses, pulls back, changes his rhythm. She’s everywhere: hands on his face, on his abs, on his thighs, on his ass. It’s perfectly overwhelming and overwhelmingly perfect and Niall knows he doesn’t have long, not when it’s like this, not when it’s her.

‘So good for me, lover,’ he tells her, picking up the pace when he can tell she’s getting close, too. ‘You’re so fucking beautiful. You make me feel so good.’

Isla opens her mouth to reply but it’s mostly just a moan, not enough coherent syllables for Niall to string together and he likes that, likes knowing he does that to her, wants to do it again, again, again, again. Foreheads pressed together they pant into each other’s mouths and when Isla comes Niall does, too, like he was waiting for her, like she was waiting for him.

Spent, he lowers Isla’s legs gently, careful of the stretch, and rolls off the bed to deal with the condom, the mess. He comes back to find Isla already tucked up under the covers, cheeks still flushed red, eyes trailing his naked body.

‘You look good,’ she says, scooting over to make space for Niall. He comes up under the covers from the foot of the bed and Isla opens her legs up for him without any hesitation, moaning gently when he presses a few kisses to the inside of her thighs, to her clit. He mouths over her for a moment, stopping when she tugs at his hair, tells him she wants to see his pretty face.

He makes his way up from under the covers and she giggles, runs a hand gently through his hair. ‘Hi,’ she whispers. ‘I like your hair like this.’

‘What? All over the place? S’fucking mad.’

‘No, I mean the color,’ she scratches at his scalp and Niall hums. ‘Like that the brown’s coming in. It suits you.’

‘You think so?’ Niall kisses Isla’s neck, lets himself relax into her body.

‘I do. You look grown up.’

‘Mmm,’ Niall hums, settling his head down on Isla’s chest. She wraps her arms around him, nails gently trailing over his shoulders. He’s so tired now, limbs heavy, body warm. He’s never felt this comfortable in his life, he thinks—never felt so at home, so safe, so loved. ‘I guess we are. Grown up, I mean.’

‘Guess so,’ Isla presses a kiss to Niall’s hair. He can hear her heart in her chest, a steady rhythm, his to hold. ‘I love you.’

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