femme fatale, noel & liam gallagher

𝐱𝐱𝐱𝐢𝐯. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐭

✧ 5th October 2002 ✧
Los Angeles, California

CIRCADIAN RHYTHM was a tremendous myth that people came up with for the sake of a good name and education, to put themselves forth as somebody. To briefly explain something unnecessary because they wanted to be unique and niche and something. Maia says to hell with circadian rhythm. If there was anything that she lacked, it was this particular rhythm.

The simple decoding was that Maia's inability to get a good night's sleep was the eloquent reason for this peculiar deficit in her life. She could not sleep, and therefore the only cycle she had was blinking in her bed and tracing the wild moles on her body, wishing, hoping, and imagining that it was Liam Gallagher doing so instead. It helped to brainwash her into believing that no such calamity existed, that she was alright and that the world was not as dark as she perceived it to be.

The last time Maia could ever wake up feeling refreshed and brand new must have been a good time ago. When she and Noel were still together. It did not necessarily work that way any longer, sleep was a definition that she was clueless on for a moment. That is, until she found herself adjusting to the bright and blinding lights that blared through the windows of her residence, the static conversation that seemed to have erupted quietly from her telly. There was a solid rock bone sticking up into the side of her skull——Liam's arm that she had rested her head on whilst she fell asleep for the very first time.

She had even dreamt of something. She could hardly recall the last time she had ever been pulled into a stage of a dream, one that was entirely evocative and vivid, but that familiarity was kicking in once more.

Maia thought she understood the beauty and the meaning that it bears, that these things were all around her, at all times, with or without her knowledge. She does not fully comprehend that the greatest form of beauty was Liam Gallagher himself. She does not until she's laid there in his arms, their bodies pressed together on that minimal couch, his silent breathing chattering like a lost ground of love letters, blowing poised and gentle kisses that flourished her skin and covered those insecurities that he adored. Maia's there staring at him as though she had never seen him before. And in fact, it was what it was.

The situation that both of them found themselves in was merely complex and difficult to distinguish its proclamation of exactly what they wanted from each other. It was not like things were cloudless from the grey matters, they had elements in their lives that were putrid and unable to fix. They had Nicole Appleton and Irwin May. But that had been the reason for the Norwegian's pouring drowsiness in his captivating features, because Maia had never quite felt comfortingly safe and secured as much as she did then. Liam had brought in an eventful world that she did not think she would ever see again, and for that, Liam Gallagher was the door to her heaven.

She traced him with her eyes, Liam's closed eyelids and the long dark lashes curled and consumed his winsomely hidden eyes. She never quite apprehended how one could look at somebody and almost break out into tears, she really did not, and Maia was frightened by that sudden ambush of emotions that jumped at her throat. She had no way of stopping her thumb from padding past his beautifully sunken and swollen lips, brushing over them as tender and longingly as she could. She wanted to be touching him at all times, to run her thumb past every inch of his skin and his hair and to soak in every feature and memory she had of him.