My brand SPANKING, FILTHY new blog!
Tumblr is hiding my other blog (i-have-a-wonky-eye-too) so I'm starting this one. I'm moving everything over and making even more FILTHIER stories as a middle finger to Tumblr!
18+ BLOG
Noel Gallagher - collection of oneshots/requests about Noel
Let me fly you to the moon... - When Noel wrote his debut solo album, he thought the tracks as love songs for a woman he hadn’t yet met, a premonition set to music. In 2011, that melody found its muse. What began as a chance encounter between a rock star and a fan quickly defied the "groupie" cliché, revealing a connection so profound it felt like a long-awaited reunion of soulmates.
Love is a rich man - '20+!Noel Gallagher x younger!female reader. Collection of oneshots - Despite the intensity of the spark, Noel and Y/n felt between them, Noel chooses the path of duty over desire, deciding to work on his marriage and leaving Y/N behind after a passionate one night stand. As time progresses and the cracks in his marriage become impossible to mend, he and Y/N find their way back to one another. Noel finds himself navigating the complexities of a public divorce whilst trying to keep your relationship hidden until the ink on the divorce papers dry. Is this a soul-deep love story born from the ashes of the past, or was it merely a fleeting fancy fueled by the thrill of the forbidden?
We need each other - Threesome; 1995/2025!Liam, Y/n and Noel. NOT GCEST! 2 STORIES - 1 SET IN '95/1 SET IN '25
Liam Gallagher - collection of oneshots/requests about Liam
Once - Working hair and make-up at one of the biggest festivals in the world wasn't the big dream you had thought it would be. Hell on Earth more like. Then you met Liam Gallagher and everything changed... 2017!Liam Gallagher meets Y/n. (Series based on these oneshots I've All I Need / And More)
So honey please don't let go. - oneshot 2013!dilf!Noel Gallagher x fiance!younger!f!reader
<Part 1</ Continuing story to Let me fly you to the moon...
Warnings: 18+ readers, smut, age-gap, established relationship, blow job, mutual masturbation, nipple play, cuming on breast
May 29, 2013
On the morning of Noel’s 46th birthday, you woke up before him. You carefully sat against the headboard and took a moment to just look at him, the man who was officially yours. He looked younger when he was asleep, the sharp "Chief" lines of his face softened.
You grinned and reached over for your phone that sat on the bedside table and took a sneaky picture of him whilst he slept, holding your giggle in the best you could.
You leaned over and pressed a kiss to Noel’s stubbly cheek close to his mouth. "Happy Birthday, old man," you whispered.
Noel didn't open his eyes, but a slow, sleepy smirk spread across his face. "Old? I’m like a fine wine, love. Or a vintage Gibson. I only get better with age and a bit of wear and tear." He opened one eye to look at you.
"And a lot of moisturizing," you teased, sitting up again.
Noel finally sat up, his hair a magnificent mess of "just rolled out of bed" rockstar chic as he let out a tired groan. He slipped his arm over your shoulders and pulled you into his side, kissing the top of your head. "So," he said, pulling you back down into the duvet. "46. Halfway to 92. I reckon I’ve got at least another forty years of annoying you left in me."
"Only forty?" You laughed, resting your head on his chest and slipped your arm around his waist. "I was hoping for fifty."
"Let's not get greedy, love. My knees are already starting to click when I stand up."
A frantic scratching sounded at the bedroom door.
Noel sighed, a look of mock-betrayal on his face. "And here comes the real star of the show. Let the ginger menace in, will ya?"
You hopped out of bed, not fazed by your lack of clothing and opened the door. Ziggy charged in, skidding across the hardwood before leaping onto the bed and landing directly on Noel’s stomach.
"Oof! Bloody hell, Ziggy! I'm an old man today, have some respect!" Noel wheezed, though he was already scratching the kitten behind the ears.
You walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a small, flat box wrapped in silver paper. "This is from me. And Ziggy helped pick it out. Mostly by trying to eat the ribbon."
Noel took the box, his expression shifting from playful to genuinely touched. He opened it slowly, revealing a vintage, leather-bound notebook with the initials N.G. embossed in gold on the corner. Inside the front cover, you’d tucked a Polaroid of the three of you that had been taken on the day you got engaged.
Noel stared at the photo for a long time. He didn't say anything, but he cleared his throat twice.
"For the new songs," you said softly. "The ones for the next chapter."
Noel looked up at you, his eyes unusually bright. He reached out, snagging your waist and pulling you into a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of sleep and soulmates. "It’s perfect," he murmured against your lips. “Thanks, love.”
"Come on then, birthday boy," you said, swatting his arm playfully. "Get dressed. Anais is coming over for lunch, and she’s apparently made you a card that involves a lot of glitter and some very questionable poetry."
"Glitter? In this house? We’ll be finding it in the sofa cushions until 2015.” Noel groaned, falling back onto the pillows dramatically making you giggle.
“Better than your sweaty socks.” You muttered as you attempted to get up from the bed, but Noel quickly pulled you back onto the bed making you laugh even more.
“Cheeky sod.” He chuckled as he wacked you with a pillow.
By 2 PM, the kitchen island looked like a craft shop had exploded. Anais sat proudly across from her dad, who was currently nursing a glass of wine while sporting a singular, large piece of pink glitter stuck to the end of his nose.
“You’re supposed to read the poem out loud, Dad,” Anais insisted, leaning on her elbows. “It’s art.”
Noel cleared his throat as he held the card (which was more glue than paper) at arm’s length. “Right. Here we go. ‘Roses are red, your hair is quite grey... you’re the best dad in the world, even if you’re ancient today.’” He looked up, deadpan. “Ancient? I’ve seen 80-year-olds in better shape than you on a Monday morning, kid.”
“It rhymes!” she defended, giggling.
“It’s a masterpiece,” you chimed in, leaning over Noel’s shoulder to drop a plate of sandwiches onto the island. You couldn't resist; you reached out and flicked the glitter off his nose. “Very festive, love.”
“I’m surrounded by comedians,” Noel muttered, though he pulled Anais into a one-armed side hug, kissing the top of her head.
The "vultures" outside had thinned out, bored of waiting for a rockstar to do something rockstar-ish on his birthday. When you asked Noel what he wanted to do for his birthday, he said something that involved peace and quiet. So, the rest of the afternoon was surprisingly domestic. The three of you sat in the lounge watching a film with a cuppa and some birthday cake that you and Anais had baked. It was uneven, dripping with buttercream and jam, Victoria Sponge that had far too much icing sugar on one side, but Noel thought it tasted delicious and had two generous slices.
Once Anais had been picked up by Meg, after a series of dramatic hugs and a final warning from Noel to "keep the glitter contained at your mam's house", the house fell into a quiet, warm lull. Ziggy was fast asleep on the back of the sofa, exhausted from a day of chasing ribbons and stealing ham from sandwiches. It was time for the adults to celebrate the birthday boy’s special day.
You headed upstairs to find Noel staring at a row of shirts in the wardrobe, looking uncharacteristically indecisive.
"Do I look old for my age, love?” he mused, pulling out a dark navy button-down.
"You know you don’t.” you said, stepping up behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist. You caught your reflection in the mirror, your engagement ring catching the late afternoon light. "You look gorgeous. And like you said this morning, you’re like a vintage Gibson. Built to last, always sounds amazing and feels good in my hands.” You whispered teasingly as you ran your hand over his crotch with a giggle.
Noel let out a dry, short breath, not quite a laugh, more like a nervous exhale, turning in your arms to face you. He rested his hands on your hips as he looked past you, squinting at his own reflection in the mirror, tracing the lines around his eyes that seemed a little deeper in the unforgiving afternoon sun.
"I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror earlier," he said, his voice dropping into that rare, quiet register he only used when it was just the two of you. "Next to you, in your leather jacket and that 'don't-give-a-toss' look... I looked like I’d been through the wars, love. Grey hair, lines everywhere. I’m 46 today. You’re... well, you’re in your prime." He looked back at you, his hands tightening slightly on your hips. "You sure you aren't gonna wake up in five years, look over at the snoring old Manc next to you, and wonder where the rock star went?"
You felt a sharp pang of affection in your chest. The "Chief" was always so bulletproof in public, so sure of his own legend, that seeing this flicker of human doubt was like seeing the raw demo of a perfect song.
"Noel Thomas David Gallagher, look at me," you said, pulling your hands from his waist to cup his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "First of all, the 'rock star' isn't in the hair colour or the lack of wrinkles. It's in the way you walk into a room like you own the floorboards. It's in that brilliant, stubborn mind of yours."
You ran your thumb over the line at the corner of his eye.
"I don't see an 'old man.' I see the man who I flashed my tits to at an Oasis gig. The man who took me to a record shop where we first met, got down on one knee and told me he loved me. I see the man who defended me against his own family. I see the man that makes me feel more loved than I have ever felt, every single day we spend together. And for the record," You gave him a playful, wicked little smirk. "The 'wear and tear' looks incredibly good on you. You've got that rugged, 'I’ve-seen-it-all' thing going on. It’s a lot sexier than a boy who’s never had a story to tell."
Noel’s tension seemed to bleed out of him. A slow, genuine grin started to tug at the corners of his mouth, the one that made his eyes crinkle in exactly the way you loved to photograph.
"Rugged, eh?" he mused, his confidence returning like a physical tide. "So, what you’re saying is, I’m like a vintage Jaguar. A bit of trouble to start in the morning, but once I’m going, I’m the best ride in London?"
You laughed, "Exactly," You leaned up to press a firm kiss to his lips. "Now put the navy shirt on. You look sophisticated, dangerous, and precisely like the man I’m going to marry."
Noel chuckled, snagging the shirt and pulling you back in for one more lingering kiss. "I can work with that."
The two of you began getting ready for your night out at The Firehouse where you had booked a table for a special birthday dinner.
Noel wore the navy shirt with dark denim jeans, and polished black boots with a leather jacket. He looked sharp and sexy. You slipped into sleek black silk slip dress that fit you like a second skin, a tailored blazer over your shoulders, a pair of strappy black heels, paired with the "Diamond Shield". You truly felt like you belonged on Noel’s arm, and his reassuring “Fuckin’ ‘ell, love,” really helped.
As he checked his collar in the mirror, he caught your eye through the glass and winked, the same wink he’d given you in the wings of the Albert Hall. The doubt was gone. The Chief was back, but as you headed down the stairs to the waiting car, you knew he was carrying that little leather-bound notebook in his pocket, ready for the next forty years of lyrics.
The drive to ChilternFirehouse was quick. Noel seemed unusually chatty, mostly talking about the new demos he’d been working on in the notebook you gave him. When Alan pulled up to the entrance, the usual handful of photographers were there, but Noel handled it with a quick, practiced wave as he ushered you inside.
The hostess greeted you with a knowing smile. "Right this way, Mr. Gallagher. Your table is ready in the back gallery."
As you walked through the bustling restaurant, Noel kept his hand firmly around yours and close to his side. When the hostess pulled back the heavy velvet curtain to the private dining area, you felt Noel's grip tighten slightly.
"SURPRISE!"
The room erupted. You saw the familiar, grinning faces of the High-Flying Birds, along with a handful of Noel’s closest friends and long-time crew members. There were streamers handing from the light fittings, a few "Happy Birthday" balloons floating around and enough booze on the table to launch a small ship.
Noel froze, his jaw dropping for a split second before a massive, genuine grin broke across his face. "You set of bastards!" he shouted over the cheers. "I told her I wanted a quiet one!"
"Don't look at me!" you laughed, holding your hands up. "I just followed orders."
"Happy Birthday, Chief!" Mike yelled, thrusting a glass of something fizzy into Noel's hand and clapping him on the back.
The evening turned into a riot of laughter, tour stories and the women gushing over the engagement ring and the story of how Noel asked you. There was no talk of charts or press, just the people who actually knew the man behind the headlines and the number ones. Between courses of oysters and ribeye, the lads kept toasting to "The Old Man" and "The Future Mrs. G."
At one point, Noel leaned over to you, his face flushed with wine and happiness, and whispered into your ear, "You knew about this the whole time, didn't you?"
"It’s a possibility," you teased, sipping your wine.
Noel shook his head, looking around at the room full of people who genuinely loved him. He looked back at you, his eyes soft. "Suppose we’ll have to have this lot on the wedding guest list won’t we.”
"Definitely," you agreed, clinking your glass against his. "Happy Birthday, love."
"Best one yet," he said and kissed you. For once, the man who was famous for having something to say was perfectly content to keep his mouth shut, sit back and enjoy the music of the people around him.
The night at the Firehouse roared on, a chaotic symphony of banter, clinking glasses, and the kind of laughter that only comes from decades of shared road stories. Noel was in his element, leaning back in his chair, a cigarette (strictly "off the record," given the indoor setting) tucked behind his ear, holding court with a sharp-witted anecdote about a lost tour bus in 1994 with his left hand firmly placed at the base of your neck.
By midnight, the table was a graveyard of empty bottles and discarded party poppers. The High-Flying Birds were debating the merits of various 70s synth-pop bands, and Noel was looking at you with that glazed, heavy-lidded expression that told you he was officially "done" with being forty-six for the day.
"Right," he announced, standing up a bit unsteadily and slapping the table. "Before Mike starts singing 'Wonderwall' in a high-pitched voice, we’re making a move. Thanks for the booze, you lot. Try not to get arrested on the way home."
A chorus of "Happy Birthday, Chief!" followed you both out into the crisp London air. The drive home was quiet, your head resting on his shoulder while he hummed a melody under his breath, likely one of the new ones he’d been working on.
Back at the house, the silence was a welcome relief. Ziggy didn't even wake up as you crept inside; he was just a ginger ball of fur tucked into the corner of the sofa.
Noel shed his leather jacket, tossing it over the banister, and immediately began unbuttoning his navy shirt. He stopped halfway, looking at you as you kicked off your heels with a sigh of relief.
"You really pulled that off, didn't you?" he murmured, leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom. "The surprise. The lads. I honestly thought we were just going for a boring pasta and a moan about my back."
"I have my ways, Gallagher," you said, stepping toward him and sliding your hands inside his open shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin. "I wanted you to see that getting older isn't so bad when you've got the right people around you."
Noel wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He looked down at you, your engagement ring sparkling in the dim hallway light, and for a second, the cocky rockstar was nowhere to be seen. It was just your Noelie.
"I’ve spent a lot of birthdays in a lot of different places, love," he said softly, his voice thick with sincerity. "Backstages, hotels, planes... usually surrounded by a thousand people I didn't actually like. But this?" He kissed your forehead, then your nose. "Waking up with you, the messy cake with the kid, and then seeing that lot tonight... fuckin’ perfect."
He leaned down, captured your lips in a slow, deep kiss that tasted of the expensive red wine and the promise of that private, quiet wedding you'd discussed earlier.
The air between you was thick, charged with the lingering adrenaline of the party and the deep, possessive intimacy that had been building all day.
Noel didn’t move as you pulled back from the kiss, his eyes dark and heavy as he watched you. You didn't say a word; you simply reached up and slid the silk straps of your dress off your shoulders. The black fabric slithered down your body, pooling at your hips before you stepped out of it completely, leaving you in nothing but your lace thong.
Noel’s breath hitched, his hands tightening on your hips. “Fucking hell, love… you’re trying to kill me on my birthday, aren’t you?”
Instead of answering, you slowly sank to your knees on the plush carpet. You looked up at him through your lashes, the "Diamond Shield" on your finger catching the dim lamp light as you reached for the belt of his jeans. Noel let out a low, jagged groan, his head falling back against the doorframe as you unzipped him.
With practiced ease, you reached inside his underwear, your warm palm closing around the rigid length of his cock. He was pulsing, already leaking a bead of cum that you smeared over the head with your thumb. You leaned forward, the tip of your tongue flicking over the velvety head of him.
“Y/n…,” he rasped, his fingers tangling in your hair, not to pull you away, but to anchor himself as you took him into your mouth.
You swirled your tongue around the head of him before wrapping your lips around him and taking him deep, your eyes fixed on his as you worked him with a slow, rhythmic suction. Noel’s hips jerked instinctively, his breath hitching into short, sharp pants. The sound of him, the raw, unfiltered vulnerability of a man who usually had a comeback for everything, turned you on more than any song he’d ever written.
You used your left hand to stroke the base while your mouth focused on the tip, pushing him to the very edge. You could feel the muscles in his thighs tensioning underneath your other hand, his fingers tightening in your hair as he neared the point of no return.
“Wait. Wait, love,” he choked out, his voice a broken whisper. “I want to see you. Stop.”
You pulled back off him with a pop, a thin string of saliva connecting you for a second before you sat back on your heels. You reached for the waistband of your thong and tights, shimming them down until you were completely bare. Then, you arched your back, pushing your chest forward and cupping your plump breasts, offering them up to him. Your nipples were dark, pebble-hard in the cool air.
“Watch me, Noel,” you whispered, your voice thick with desire.
Noel looked down at you, his chest heaving. “Fuck.” He looked wrecked, his hair dishevelled and his blue eyes burning with an intense, frantic hunger. He wrapped his hand around his cock, his knuckles white as he began to stroke himself in a fast, desperate rhythm, his gaze locked onto your chest.
You moaned as you pinched one of your nipples with your right hand. You slipped your left hand down between your legs. You moaned as you gave your clit a few strokes, your eyes fixed on Noel’s hand moving up and down his thick cock.
“That’s it, baby… look at me… watch your fiancé, Noel.”
He didn't need telling twice. He picked up the pace, his breath coming in ragged, guttural hitches. You watched the play of muscles in his forearm, the way his jaw was clenched so tight the bone stood out. He was close, you could see it in the way his eyes began to roll back.
“I’m gonna, fuck, Y/n. I’m gonna cum!”
He gave three more frantic, heavy tugs of his hand, his body racking with a sudden, violent shudder. A low, primal roar ripped from his throat as he erupted. The first thick ropes of heat hit your collarbone before splattering across your pale, rounded breasts. He didn't stop, his hand working through the climax until you were painted in his warmth, the white cream stark against your skin.
Noel stood there for a moment, his hand falling limp at his side, his head bowed as he tried to find his breath. The room was silent except for his ragged gasping. Slowly, he dropped to his knees in front of you, his forehead resting against yours.
“Happy birthday, Noelie,” you breathed, reaching out to stroke his damp hair.
He let out a weak, shaky chuckle, his eyes opening to look at the mess he’d made on you. He reached up and with his thumb he wiped up a stray drop of his cum from the curve of your breast before looking up at you with a look of pure, unadulterated devotion. He held his thumb up and let out a breathy groan as you wrapped your lips around his thumb and sucked it clean.
“Forty-six,” he wheezed, a tired, triumphant smirk returning to his face. “Best. Fucking. Birthday. Ever.”
Warnings: 18+ readers, swearing, age gap (Noel is 38 & reader is 21), Liam being Liam
As you both came down from the high, the garage felt quieter than it ever had before. Noel stayed buried in the crook of your neck for a long time, his heartbeat slowing against your chest.
He finally pulled back, a smudge of grease now decorating his cheekbone, and gave you a slow, crooked smirk.
"Right," he panted, smoothing a stray hair from your face. "I think the timing is definitely sorted now."
***
Noel casually refastened his trousers, completely unbothered by the open garage doors or the damp country air drifting inside as you pulled the heavy cashmere sweater down, the fabric enveloping you in a cloud of warmth that smelled entirely of him. Noel watched you with that same lazy, appreciative smirk, his fingers lingering on your hip for a fraction of a second before he finally let go to run a hand through his messy hair.
Your legs slowly unwound from his waist, sliding down the smooth, metallic curve of the Jaguar’s wing until your bare feet touched the cold concrete floor. The contrast was a sharp, grounding reminder of reality, but you didn't want to move out of his space just yet. You let out a weak, breathy laugh, your hands slipping down from his shoulders to rest against his chest.
"You've got a bit of..." You reached up, your thumb gently wiping at the dark streak of engine grease on his cheekbone, only succeeding in smudging it slightly further across his skin. "Never mind. It suits you. Very rock 'n' roll."
Noel caught your hand, catching your fingers in his and pressing a brief, warm kiss to your palm. His eyes were still dark, heavy-lidded, and intensely focused on you. "Fucking hell, Y/N," he muttered, shaking his head with a slow, disbelieving smile. "I don't think I’ve ever had a morning quite like this one. Go from getting ready to murder the press to having my favourite car fixed and getting absolutely ruined on the bonnet of it."
You felt yourself blush at his words. “That makes the two of us then.” You let out a soft, nervous laugh. “I don’t usually allow myself to be charmed into bed, or on to the bonnet of a jag, so easily.” You blushed even more making Noel’s grin stretch.
"Is that right?" Noel asked, his voice dropping into that teasing, gravelly purr. He didn't let go of your hand; instead, he used his grip to gently tug you back into his chest, completely unbothered by the fact that you were standing bare-legged on his garage floor in nothing but his sweater. "Well, darlin’, I’d say the bonnet of a Jag counts as an exceptional circumstance. Standard rules don't apply when you're busy rewriting the future of the British music press."
He looked past you for a second, his eyes tracking the long, elegant lines of the now-purring machine beneath you. He tapped his knuckles against the green paintwork. "Besides, she hadn't sung like that in ten years. You performed a bloody miracle. I'd say you earned a bit of a celebration." He smiled before he leaned in a gave you a soft peck, "Come on you," he said, nodding toward the heavy timber door that led back into the house. "Before we both freeze to death out here.” He said giving your bare backside a playful pat making you yelp. “And you look like you need a proper scrub, grease monkey."
The house was warm the moment you stepped into the hallway. Noel led you upstairs to his massive, slate-tiled bathroom that featured a rainfall shower large enough to park the Jaguar in. Without a word, he turned the brass handles, and the room instantly filled with a thick, comforting steam.
Shedding the sweater, you stepped under the cascading hot water, letting out a long, shuddering sigh as the tension of the last twenty-four hours finally washed away. Noel joined you a moment later. There was no frantic urgency this time; it was quiet and intimate. He took the bar of soap, working up a thick lather between his calloused palms before gently scrubbing the stubborn engine grease from your shoulders and the small of your back. You leaned into his chest as the water sluiced down your bodies, carrying the scent of petrol, scotch, and sweat down the drain.
When you finally stepped out, wrapped in impossibly plush towels, Noel disappeared into his dressing room and returned with a bundle of fresh clothes.
"Best I can do, darlin'," he chuckled, handing them over.
It was a soft, vintage black polo shirt and a pair of dark denim jeans that you had to cinch tightly at the waist with one of his leather belts, rolling the cuffs up three times so they didn't drag. It was ridiculous, but as you looked at yourself in the mirror, wearing Noel Gallagher’s wardrobe with your hair damp and your skin flushed, you didn't care. You felt indestructible.
Downstairs in the kitchen, the atmosphere was domestic and easy.
“I can manage eggs on toast without burning the kitchen down, love. If you want anything fancy, you’re on your own.” Noel offered as he pulled the bread out of the bread bin.
You shook your head with a giggle and grabbed the carton of eggs from the side. “In that case, shall I make breakfast?”
Noel chuckled, “Be my guest, love. I’ll pop the bread in the toaster.”
A few minutes later, the smell of burning toast and brewing coffee filled the air as you took charge of the stove, expertly flipping eggs in a copper skillet while Noel leaned against the counter as he watched you with a look of quiet contentment.
"You're not bad with a spatula, y’know," he noted, a teasing glint in his eye. "Is there anything you can't fix?"
"Your brother's attitude, probably," you shot back, plating up the eggs.
Noel laughed as he grabbed the burnt toast and handed it to you to butter. “No one can fix that.” Noel mumbled as he stood behind you and caged you in against the countertop as you set about buttering the toast. Noel rested his chin on your shoulder and breathed in his own scent that was now covering you. “You smell good, love.”
Yous smiled. “I smell like you.”
Noel grinned, his hands moving to rest on your hips as he pressed his face against your neck. “Exactly.” He pressed a small kiss to your skin then another one further up your neck making you giggle.
“You’re a menace, Mr Gallagher. Breakfast is going to be cold if you carry on.” You let your head fall back against his shoulder as he kept kissing your neck and his hands began to slowly wonder.
"Cold breakfast is a small price to pay for my undivided attention, darlin'," Noel murmured against your ear, his hands sliding up under the hem of the vintage polo shirt, his thumbs tracing the line of your hip bones.
You let out a soft laugh, leaning back into his solid chest as you tried to focus on slicing the eggs. "I'm beginning to think 'The Chief' is just a title you use to boss people around in the studio. In reality, you're just a massive distraction."
"I am the boss," he corrected playfully, his teeth nipping gently at your earlobe, sending a familiar thrill straight down your spine. "And right now, I'm ordering you to stop worrying about the bloody toast and—"
The heavy, rattling thud of the front door being violently kicked open shattered the quiet domesticity of the room like a brick through a window.
"Noel! You fat, balding bastard, wake up!" a loud, unmistakable Manchester drawl barked from the hallway. Heavy, stomping footsteps echoed on the stone floor, accompanied by the rustle of a massive plastic bag. "You better have some fucking tea on, man, I've been in a car for an hour and—"
Noel instantly froze, his hands dropping from your waist as his head snapped toward the doorway. "What the fucking hell is he doing here?" he muttered, his posture instantly shifting from relaxed lover to defensive older brother.
Liam Gallagher swaggered into the kitchen holding a massive plastic bag filled to the top with newspapers. He stopped dead in his tracks the second his eyes landed on the scene by the stove.
He blinked. Once. Twice. His jaw slowly went slack, his gaze traveling from Noel who was still standing entirely too close to you, down to the oversized black polo shirt you were wearing, the cinched leather belt, and the rolled-up denim jeans. Finally, his eyes snapped up to your face, recognizing the "bird from the back" who had completely dismantled the press room the night before.
"Fucking hell," Liam breathed, a look of genuine, unadulterated shock crossing his features. He looked like he’d just watched someone turn water into lager. "Shut up. No way."
"What do you want, Liam?" Noel snapped, stepping forward to partially shield you, his face darkening.
Liam didn't even look at his brother. He was staring at you, a slow, bewildered realization dawning on him. "You... you're here? In his house? Wearing his fucking gear?" He let out a sharp, jagged laugh, tossing the heavy bundle of morning newspapers onto the kitchen island. "I don't fucking believe it. I thought for sure you’d have come to my room last night after that show! I was waiting for a knock, man! And you’re out here with him? The boring one?"
"She's got taste, Liam. Clearly," Noel shot back, his voice dripping with venom. "Now piss off."
"Hold your horses, potato head," Liam scoffed, finally tearing his eyes away from you to glare at Noel, though a massive, chaotic grin was still plastered across his face. "I came here to show you the papers, innit. The whole fucking world is talking about her!"
He slapped the top newspaper on the pile. It was a major tabloid, and right there on the sidebar was a blurry photo of you walking out of the press conference, accompanied by the headline: OASIS PRESS CONFERENCE COLLAPSES AS FREELANCE "TEA GIRL" GOES ROGUE.
"Look at this!" Liam crowed, pacing around the kitchen island like a caged tiger, full of frantic morning energy. "They're calling it a 'psychotic break'! They’re saying you’ve lost your marbles!" He stopped, leaning over the counter to look you dead in the eye. "But I think it took massive, iron bollocks, mate. Seriously. You’re a fucking legend."
Before you could answer, a sharp, electronic buzzing cut through the tension. It wasn't your phone, yours was still firmly switched off. It was Noel’s. He pulled it from his pocket, his brow furrowing as he looked at the screen.
"It’s Marcus," Noel muttered, referencing the Oasis manager. He pressed the button, putting it on speaker as he set it on the counter. "Marcus. What’s the damage?"
"Noel, thank God," the manager's frantic voice echoed through the kitchen. "Your phone's been ringing out. Listen, that editor from The Champion—Carter? He’s been calling the office non-stop since six AM. He’s absolutely panicking, trying to claim the girl has had a complete mental collapse, saying the magazine isn’t responsible for anything she says or does. He’s basically sucking up, begging us not to pull our press access for the rest of the tour."
Noel let out a cold, dismissive snort. "Tell Carter to go perform an unnatural act on himself. The girl doesn't work for him anymore anyway."
"Wait, there's more," Marcus sighed. "The Guardian arts editor contacted our PR team an hour ago. Noel... did you encourage her to send them an article?"
You felt a sudden bolt of ice in your stomach, your fingers tightening around the handle of the spatula.
Noel’s expression went completely serious. "Yeah. I did. I told him to run it. It’s a belter of a piece."
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line. "They’re not going to publish it, Noel. The legal team flagged it. Because she names Miller and explicitly accuses him of... well, marital indiscretions, and because she completely eviscerates the established press pack, The Guardian’s lawyers are terrified of a defamation suit. They pulled it from the morning layout. It's dead in the water."
The silence that followed was heavy. Noel’s jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white as he leaned against the counter. "Cowards," he hissed. "Fucking corporate, spineless cowards."
"Right, what’s all this then?" Liam interrupted, his loud voice cutting through the gloom. He looked between the two of you, his curiosity piqued. "What did she write? What are you lot on about?"
Noel didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the floor in a dark, brooding simmer. But you had decided last night that you were done being a ghost. You walked over to the kitchen island, picked up Noel’s laptop which he had brought up from the study earlier and spun it around to face Liam.
"Read it yourself," you said, your voice remarkably steady.
Liam squinted at the screen, shifting his weight as he began to read your raw, unedited words. Noel watched him out of the corner of his eye, clearly expecting his brother to explode the moment he hit the paragraph about his failing vocal cords.
Instead, the kitchen went entirely quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the ticking of the stove clock. Liam’s eyes scanned the text, his head tilting side to side. Slowly, the chaotic smirk vanished from his face, replaced by a strange, focused intensity.
"Fucking hell," Liam muttered under his breath. He hit the paragraph about himself, the part where you called him a note-missing cunt but begged him to find the bright-eyed lad’s rock 'n' roll gruff again. He stopped. He read it twice.
Noel braced himself, stepping half an inch closer to you, ready for a blowout.
But Liam just looked up, a completely genuine, stunned expression in his eyes. "She’s right," he said softly, looking at Noel.
Noel blinked, utterly floored. "What?"
"She’s bloody right, man!" Liam yelled, his voice bouncing off the tiled walls. "I have been hiding behind the big dick energy! My throat’s been killing me since the stadium rehearsals, and I've just been shouting over the top of it because the songs are too fucking high!" He turned back to the laptop, tapping the screen with a blunt finger. "And this bit about the old blokes? The vultures? I’ve been saying the exact same thing for bloody ages, Noel! They don't care about the tunes! They just want us to punch each other so they can sell papers!"
Noel stared at his brother like he’d just started speaking fluent Japanese. "You... you agree with her? I've been telling you to look after your voice for three years and you told me to go stick a guitar up my arse!"
"Yeah, well, you're a miserable old bastard, aren't you?" Liam shot back with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I’m not gonna listen to you, am I? But I'll listen to a pretty bird who actually knows what a syncopated rhythm is."
Liam turned his full attention back to you. The aggressive, posturing frontman vanished for a brief second, replaced by something resembling a gentleman or at least, as close to a gentleman as a Gallagher could get.
"Listen, love," Liam said, his voice dropping into a rare, quiet sincerity. "Am sorry about yesterday. In the room. I was just playing up to the crowd, innit. Didn't mean to make you feel small. You’ve got proper class."
You felt a genuine smile break across your face, the residual anger from the press room finally evaporating. "Thank you, Liam. I appreciate that."
"Right, well, don't get too choked up about it," Liam instantly grinned, the trademark chaotic twinkle returning to his eyes as he threw his shoulders back. "I still think you’ve got great tits, though. Absolute belters. Even better in his shirt." He gave you a massive, exaggerated wink.
"Oi! You disrespectful prick!" Noel roared, instantly grabbing a heavy, wooden rolling pin from the counter and hurling it straight at his brother's head.
Liam ducked with a raucous, barking laugh, the rolling pin clattering harmlessly against the far wall.
Completely unbothered by his brother’s murderous glare, Liam swaggered around the counter, dragged a high stool over, and sat himself down directly in front of your breakfasts.
Without asking, he snatched up a fork, dragged the plate containing Noel’s carefully buttered, slightly charred toast and perfectly flipped eggs toward himself, and dug in with the frantic appetite of a man who had spent the early morning hours recovering from a heavy session.
"Fucking starvin', me," Liam mumbled around a mouthful of egg. "And you can't cook for shit, Noel. Eggs are alright though, love. Proper greasy. Just how I like 'em."
Noel stood with his arms crossed, his chest heaving as he watched his breakfast disappear into his brother's cavernous mouth. "You've got five minutes, Liam. Eat the food, take your bag of fucking trash tabloids, and get out of my house before I find something heavier than a rolling pin."
"Calm your noodles, potato head," Liam scoffed, pointing his fork toward the laptop screen where your unedited article was still proudly displayed. He swallowed hard, washed it down with a swig of Noel’s lukewarm coffee straight from the pot, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "We’ve got a proper crisis on our hands here. If The Guardian’s legal team is full of spineless, suit-wearing melts, then what’s the plan? What are you gonna do now, Y/N? If they won't publish you, none of the other big rags will. They’re all part of the same little circle-jerk, aren't they? All terrified of getting sued by each other."
You leaned back against the counter, your fingers tracing the hem of Noel’s oversized black polo shirt. The sudden rush of adrenaline from the phone call with Marcus had left a lingering, cold weight in your stomach. "I don't know," you admitted honestly, looking between the two brothers. "If The Guardian is passing on it because of the legal risks, Mojo or Q won't touch it either. Carter's probably already poisoned the well with every editor in London by now, telling them I'm a loose cannon. I'm officially blacklisted before I've even had my first proper byline."
Noel didn't hesitate. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his eyes narrowing into that sharp, clinical focus that usually preceded a massive financial or creative decision.
"Then I'll buy a fucking magazine," Noel said, his voice entirely flat, devoid of any hyperbole. "Or a newspaper. I'll buy a printing press and hire a distribution team myself. We'll set up a new monthly publication, call it whatever the fuck you want, and you can be the Editor-in-Chief. You can hire whoever you want, write whatever you want, and if Miller or Carter want to sue us, they can talk to my lawyers. I’ve got enough money to tie them up in court until they’re living in a cardboard box under Euston station."
You let out a sudden, startled laugh, waiting for the punchline, but Noel’s expression didn't change. He wasn't smiling. He was staring at you with a deadly, unsentimental seriousness that made your breath catch.
"Noel, stop it," you said, reaching out to press a hand against his chest, feeling the solid, steady thud of his heart beneath his shirt. "You cannot be serious. You are not buying a national publication just because a bunch of corporate lawyers wouldn't run a forty-five-hundred-word rant about Liam's throat and a tabloid editor's wife. Do not be so bloody daft."
"I'm not being daft," Noel countered, his hand coming up to cover yours, his fingers pressing firmly into your skin. "I'm telling you how the world works when you've got the leverage. Why should you have to play by their rules? They're fossils, Y/N. The whole system is rotten, and you just proved you're the only person with the guts to call it out. If the platform doesn't exist for a proper writer, then I'll build the fucking platform."
"He's not joking, love," Liam interjected, pointing his fork at Noel while chewing on another piece of toast. "He’s a control freak, innit. Buys houses he don't live in, buys guitars he don't play. If he buys a magazine, he'll just spend all day arguing with the printers about the font size. But he’s right about one thing—you’re the first proper music writer we've seen in years. Everyone else just writes these polite little press releases or tries to guess what kind of shoes I'm wearing. You actually listened to the tune. You talked about the architecture of the bloody track, man."
Liam set his fork down with a loud clack against the plate, his chaotic energy shifting into something much more grounded as he leaned over the kitchen island, his blue eyes locked onto yours.
"So you ain't figuring this out by yourself, mate," Liam said firmly, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly tone that commanded a stadium. "You're with us now. Like it or lump it. If the big papers are too scared to run the truth, then we'll make them look like the absolute frauds they are. We'll put it out ourselves. We don't need their permission to change the way people listen."
The grey morning rain continued to beat a steady rhythm against the wide kitchen windows, but inside, the kitchen the pressure felt like it was about to erupt. You stood between Noel and Liam, wearing Noel’s clothes, holding Liam’s attention and for the first time since you walked out of that public library at twelve years old, you realized that the calling wasn't about finding a place in the old world. It was about having the courage to let the old world burn so you could build something real from the ashes.
You looked at the two of them, completely overwhelmed by the surreal trajectory your morning had taken. One brother was offering to purchase a national printing press on a whim, and the other was casually nodding along while polishing off your breakfast.
"Let’s just calm down for a second, alright?" you said, letting out a soft chuckle as you rubbed the back of your neck. "We don't need to trigger a hostile takeover of the British media landscape before midday. It's 2005. People are starting to put things online now. I could just start a blog or something. I’ll publish the unedited piece there, link it on the music forums, and try to build an audience from the ground up. If it gets enough traction, a proper editor with some actual backbone might eventually see it and pick it up."
Noel scoffed, crossing his arms and leaning his weight back against the counter. "A blog? What, so you can be read by three spotty teenagers in their bedrooms and a bloke in Sheffield who thinks we haven't made a good record since 1994? Don't think small, Y/N. That's what Carter and Thompson want you to do. They want you to hide away in some dark corner of the internet where you can't hurt them."
He went quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping a rhythmic pattern against his forearm as that sharp, calculating mind of his began to spin a new angle. A slow, wicked grin began to spread across his face, his eyes lighting up with that trademark Gallagher brilliance.
"Hold on," Noel murmured, leaning forward. "Why don't we give them something they physically cannot ignore? The Guardian won't run a piece that's just you throwing grenades at the press pack. Fine. But what if you write a proper, definitive feature? An exclusive. You interview the whole band. Me, Liam, Gem, Andy. The full works. We give you total, unfettered access. No soundbites, no PR babysitters, no bullshit. Just the music, the mechanics, and the actual reality of the band."
Liam paused, his fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes widening as the genius of the plan hit him. He let out a sharp, raucous bark of a laugh, slapping his hand down on the kitchen island so hard the empty coffee pot rattled.
"Fucking hell, Noel, you’ve actually had a good idea for once in your miserable life!" Liam crowed, pointing his fork excitedly between you and his brother. "That’s it! That’s brilliant! We can put out an official statement from management saying we’ve barred every single tabloid hack from the venues, and we've personally hired you to write the definitive tour profile. We tell 'em we asked you to do it because you’re a proper music critic who actually understands the tunes, not like those fat, lazy bastards who just want to ask about my knickers."
Liam leaned over the counter, his blue eyes flashing with pure, chaotic delight as he gave you a massive, conspiratorial grin. "Plus, it makes us look like absolute geniuses, innit? Standing up for the real writers. And let’s be honest, darlin', I’ve always loved a psycho. You’ve got that proper, dangerous edge. The papers will absolutely lose their minds when they realize they've been locked out and the 'tea girl' is the only one sitting on the tour bus."
Noel looked over at his brother, a rare, genuine expression of agreement softening his sharp features before he turned his gaze back to you. The intensity in his eyes was heavy, warm, and entirely grounding.
"Think about it, Y/N," Noel said softly, his voice dropping into that low, persuasive register that felt like a private conversation just for the two of you, even with Liam sitting right there. "An exclusive Oasis feature, written by the girl who dismantled the press room. If we hand that to The Guardian or Mojo on a silver platter, their legal teams won't be able to say a word. The demand will be too massive. They'll have to run it, and they'll have to put your name on the front cover to get it."
He stepped closer, his hand coming up to gently rest on your hip over the coarse denim of his own jeans you were wearing, his thumb brushing against the fabric in a slow, reassuring motion.
"You wanted to change the way a generation listens," Noel whispered, a proud, crooked smile playing on his lips. "This is how you start the fire. What do you say, grease monkey? You ready to come on the road with us?"
"On the road?" you repeated, your voice a breathless octave higher than normal as you gaped at him. "For the tour?"
You looked between the two brothers, the sheer absurdity of the situation finally crystallizing into something tangible. On one side stood Liam, grinning like a schoolboy who’d just successfully smuggled a firework into the school assembly; on the other was Noel, his hand a warm, grounding anchor on your hip, watching you with an intensity that made the rest of the world vanish.
"Not just the tour, darlin'," Noel corrected softly, his voice a low vibration that seemed to buzz right through the denim of his jeans and against your skin. "The whole fucking circus. The lead-up, the warm-up gigs, the lot. And we're shooting the video for 'Lyla' next week. I want you on set for that, too. You’ll see how the whole machine works from the first spark to the final explosion. By the time you're done typing, you won't just have an article; you'll have the blueprint of this entire era."
“Fucking ‘ell, you must be good in the sack if you’re getting the, all access treatment.” Liam winked at you with a smirk making you blush.
"Shut your fucking mouth, Liam!" Noel snapped, his hand tightening on your hip for a split second as his head whipped around to glare at his brother. The domestic warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by a sudden, protective heat. "One more comment like that and I’ll smack you in the gob before we even hit the road. I'm not joking, you disrespectful prick."
"Alright, alright, keep your wig on, potato head!" Liam threw his hands up in mock surrender, though the massive, shit-eating grin never left his face. He hopped off the high stool, snagging one last piece of crust from the plate and tossing it into his mouth. "Just paying a compliment, innit. She’s got the Chief acting like a lovesick teenager. It’s beautiful, man. Proper rock 'n' roll romance." He swaggered toward the kitchen door, slinging his arms wide as if he were already walking out onto the stage at Hampden Park. "I’m off to the studio to yell at the microphone until my throat bleeds. Sort out the paperwork with Marcus, Noel. And you," Liam stopped, pointing a blunt finger at you, his eyes locking onto yours with that chaotic, undeniable charisma. "Pack a bloody bag, darlin’. The bus leaves when we say it leaves. Don't let him bore you to death before next week."
With a sharp, barking laugh that echoed through the high ceilings of the house, Liam vanished down the hallway. A moment later, the heavy oak front door slammed shut, the vibration rattling the copper pans hanging above the stove.
The sudden silence in the kitchen felt heavy, thick with the residual energy of the Gallagher storm that had just passed through. The grey London rain was still drumming against the glass, but the atmosphere inside had shifted completely.
Noel let out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders dropping as he leaned his forehead against yours. The scent of him; tobacco, expensive soap, and the faint, musky heat of the bedroom, wrapped around you like a heavy blanket.
"Am sorry about him," Noel muttered, his voice a low, morning-cracked rumble. "He’s got the social grace of a fucking bulldozer. But..." He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. "...I meant what I said. The tour. The video shoot next week. The whole bloody lot."
You looked down at yourself, at the oversized black polo shirt that drowned your frame, the leather belt cinched tight, and your bare feet resting on his warm stone floor. Your heart was performing a frantic, syncopated solo against your ribs. Yesterday you were a glorified tea girl, a ghost fixing the spelling of "Stratocaster" for men who hated you. Today, you were being handed the keys to the biggest rock 'n' roll machine in the country.
"Noel," you breathed, your voice trembling slightly despite the fire roaring in your chest. "This is insane. If I come on the road with you, if management bars the rest of the press pack... the tabloids won't just call me a loose cannon. They'll dismantle my entire life. They'll look into my dad's garage, they'll look into my past, they'll try to find every bit of dirt they can to prove I only got this gig because..." Your eyes drifted down, your cheeks flushing a furious, hot pink. “I’m good in the sack.”
Noel reached up, his calloused fingers catching your chin and forcing you to look at him. The lazy, teasing smirk was entirely gone. His face was set in those hard, unyielding lines that defined his entire career. "Let 'em look," Noel said fiercely, his thumb sweeping across your lower lip. "Let the bastards dig. What are they gonna find? That you know more about music than their entire editorial board combined? That you can fix a classic Jag engine in thirty seconds while 'specialists' stare at it for weeks? You’re not a groupie, Y/N. You’re not some pretty bird we're keeping around for the scenery. You're the person who's going to document the most, loudmouth band there is. And if anyone tries to say otherwise, they can answer to me."
He stepped in closer, caging you against the countertop, his chest pressing firmly against yours. The heat between you was visceral, layered with the cerebral thrill of the article you’d just sent and the raw, physical memory of the Jaguar's bonnet.
"The 'Lyla' video shoot is next Tuesday," Noel murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate register that made the rest of the universe cease to exist. "It's a proper sixties-style setup. Loud, colourful, chaotic. Perfect for a girl with a mouth like a terrace hooligan and a brain like a scientist.” He smiled, “I want you there from the start of the chaos to the last wrap. You write the blueprint of the track; you write the reality of the circus. No filters. Just your voice."
You looked at him, the last remnants of your fear evaporating, replaced by a cold, dangerous confidence. You reached up, your fingers tangling into the short, thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down until his breath was mingling with yours.
"Okay… but let’s get one thing straight right now," you warned, your tone dropping an octave, dripping with absolute seriousness. "If I’m doing this, I’m doing it as a journalist. A proper critic. I’m not a PR mouthpiece, and I’m certainly not going to be a cheerleader for your egos. If you give me total access, you get the real deal. That means if the gigs are sloppy, I’m writing it. If the vocals are shot, it’s going in the piece. If you two start acting like a pair of spoiled, toxic toddlers in the dressing room, the whole world is going to read about it in meticulous detail.” You whispered against his lips, a slow, wicked smile spreading across your face. “I won't go easy on either of you. Not for a single second."
Noel let out a low, dark growl of a laugh, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, lifting you effortlessly back onto the edge of the kitchen counter. “Wouldn’t want you to be any different.” he muttered, before crashing his mouth against yours, shattering the last bit of morning silence with a rhythm that was entirely your own.
The next morning arrived with the kind of soft, grey London light that usually encouraged a lie-in, but the house in Little Venice was already humming. The smell of strong coffee filled the kitchen, and Ziggy was busy chasing his own shadow across the hardwood floor.
You were perched on a stool at the marble island, wrapped in one of Noel’s oversized cardigans, clutching a steaming mug. Noel sat next to you, his iPad propped up against a fruit bowl, scrolling through the digital editions of the morning papers.
"Blimey," Noel muttered, a smirk playing on his lips. "We’re 'The New Royal Wedding' according to one of these rags. Though I think I’d look better in a crown than Charles."
"Let me see," you laughed, leaning over.
The headlines were a blur of GALLAGHER GETS HITCHED and RECORD SHOP ROMANCE. Most were surprisingly sweet, focusing on the Sifters Records story.
But as you opened Instagram to check your own post, the mood shifted. You scrolled past thousands of "Congratulations!" and "Crying for you both!" until a specific notification caught your eye. Your heart did a slow, uncomfortable thud.
Noel’s Ex: “A record shop? Really? How very... predictable. Best of luck, you'll need it.”
You went cold. It wasn't just a comment; it was a public jab from the woman he’d spent years with before you. It felt like a deliberate attempt to sour the sweetness of the weekend.
"Noel," you whispered, sliding your phone toward him. "Look at this."
Noel’s face hardened instantly. His jaw set as he read the words. "For god’s sake," he hissed, his thumb hovering over the 'block' button. "She just can’t help herself, can she? Right, that’s it-"
"Wait," you said, your eyes widening as you scrolled down. "Look who replied to her."
Underneath the snarky comment, a new notification had appeared just seconds ago from an account that had been silent in Noel’s life for four long, bitter years.
liamgallagher: “Leave ‘em alone, you bitter old skinflint. It’s a top place for a top bird. Congrats RKID. About time you did something right. LG x”
The kitchen went dead silent. Noel froze, his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. He stared at the screen, his eyes scanning the handle over and over.
"Is that... is that actually him?" you asked, your voice barely a breath.
Noel squinted at the screen. "Verified. It’s the real deal. The loudmouthed idiot actually used his thumbs for something useful for once."
You looked at Noel, expecting him to be annoyed that his brother had crashed the announcement, but instead, you saw his throat move as he swallowed hard. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes, not quite tears, but a softening of a grudge that had felt permanent since Paris in 2009.
"He defended me," you said softly. "And he called you 'R Kid'."
Noel let out a short, shaky laugh and shook his head, leaning back in his chair. "Typical Liam. Can’t send a private text to save his life, has to do it in front of the whole bloody world. Four years of silence and he breaks it to tell my ex to pipe down."
He looked at the photo of you two again, the one where he was kissing your temple. He looked at Liam's "LG x" at the bottom. The tension that had been held in Noel’s shoulders for years seemed to dissipate, just a fraction.
"He’s still a knobhead," Noel murmured, though there was a definite trace of affection in his voice. "But he’s a knobhead with good timing."
Ziggy jumped up onto the counter, letting out a loud meow and stepping right onto the iPad screen.
"See?" you teased, bumping your shoulder against Noel's. "The whole family is coming together. Even the ones you aren't talking to."
Noel reached out, snagging your hand and pulling it to his chest, right over his heart. "Don't get ahead of yourself, love. I’m not inviting him to the stag do just yet." He paused, a small, genuine smile breaking through. "But... it’s a start. A proper 'Good Morning' if I ever saw one."
He picked up his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen.
"What are you doing?" you asked.
"I'm liking the comment," he said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "That'll give the papers something to talk about for the next six months. Let's give 'em a real show."
Noel tapped the screen one last time, a sharp click as he “liked” Liam’s comment. He tossed his phone onto the marble counter as if it were a live grenade.
“There. That’s the internet broken for the week. Let ‘em choke on that.” He turned to you, his eyes softening as they raked over you in his oversized knitwear. “Right. No more phones. No more ‘sources.’ Just us, the ginger menace, and a very large delivery of Thai food. Deal?”
“Deal,” you whispered, slipping off the stool to wrap your arms around his neck.
For the next seventy-two hours, the front gates stayed locked and the kitchen in Little Venice felt like a fortified bunker of domestic bliss. Outside, the world was dissecting your ring, your past, and the sudden, seismic digital olive branch from Liam, but inside, the only thing that mattered was the temperature of the tea and whose turn it was to dangle the feather string for Ziggy. The paparazzi eventually got bored of photographing your closed curtains and migrated back to Soho, leaving you in a cocoon of hazy, post-engagement magic.
Mornings were spent tangled in your bedsheets, Noel tracing the tan lines on your shoulders and whispering “fiancée” against your skin until the word lost all meaning and just became a hum of affection. You rediscovered Noel’s massive film collection. You spent one entire afternoon watching the Beatles films. The evenings you sat on the floor of the living room, surrounded by travel brochures as you bounced honeymoon ideas off one another whilst a record played.
But the idyllic stillness of a break from the road always came with a side effect: Noel’s restless, hyperactive energy. With the High-Flying Birds on hiatus, the Chief had no stadium to command, no setlists to obsess over, and no journalists to bait. Consequently, all that focused, creative intensity shifted entirely onto you. A bored Noel Gallagher was a dangerous thing, but a Noel Gallagher who had just secured the love of his life was something else entirely predatory, playful, and utterly insatiable.
The domesticity didn’t just soften him; it seemed to act as an aphrodisiac. He couldn’t walk past you without a hand sliding under your shirt or a firm grip on your hip pulling you back against him. The engagement ring on your finger caught the light coming through the kitchen windows as you tried to make coffee, only for Noel to spin you around, his mouth finding yours with a hunger that suggested he hadn’t seen you in years rather than minutes.
It became a feverish routine. You were making up for lost time. You had sex on the velvet sofa in the drawing room with the morning sun streaming through the Victorian glass; you found yourselves tangled together on the rug in your shared office, surrounded by the scent of old paper and expensive tobacco. Every room in the Little Venice house became a sanctuary for a different position, a different pace. He was discovering you all over again, marking his territory with a ferocity that left you breathless and bruised in the best possible ways.
The peak of this creative and carnal obsession happened in the one place Noel usually deemed sacred: the home studio.
“I’ve got an idea,” he’d muttered, dragging you by the hand down the stairs. You expected a new melody or a lyric about the rain, but when the heavy soundproof door clicked shut, the atmosphere shifted. The room was bathed in the low, amber glow of the equipment lights.
He didn’t pick up a guitar. Instead, he reached over and hit ‘Record’ on the console, the reels beginning their silent, hypnotic spin.
“Noel, what are you doing?” you laughed, even as he backed you up against the mixing desk. The cold metal of the faders pressed into your lower back, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from him.
“Atmosphere, love,” he murmured, his hands already working the buttons of your jeans. “The texture of a moment. I want the sound of it. The real thing. Put a bit of soul into the track.”
The sheer audacity of it; the Chief wanting to capture the raw, unedited soundtrack of your intimacy for some future psych-rock masterpiece, sent a jolt of adrenaline through you. As he lifted you onto the desk, pushing aside lyric sheets and half-empty glasses of water, the only sound in the room was the rhythmic hum of the machinery and the quickening of your shared breath.
There, amidst the vintage pre-amps and the ghosts of a hundred hit songs, he took you with a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt like a prayer. You weren’t just his photographer or his fiancée; in that room, you were his muse in the most primal sense. Every gasp, every whispered “Noel,” and the frantic scratch of your nails against his shoulders was being captured by the high-fidelity mics. He watched your face with a terrifyingly focused intensity, his hand tangled in your hair, ensuring you didn’t look away.
When the “session” finally ended, you were both slumped against the gear, lungs burning, the silence of the room amplified by the tiny red ‘Recording’ light still glowing like a watchful eye.
“That,” Noel wheezed, pressing a sweat-slicked kiss to your forehead as he finally reached over to stop the tape, “is going to be the best B-side the world has ever heard. Or maybe I’ll just keep it for myself. My private anthem.”
He helped you down, his hands lingering on your waist, the boredom completely vanished, replaced by a smug, post-coital grin. The world outside could keep its rumours and its tabloid headlines. Within these walls, the Chief was home, and he had never felt (or sounded) better.
The high of the "Little Venice Lockdown" was eventually punctured by the reality of the calendar.
The quiet bubble of domestic bliss in Little Venice finally burst as the calendar flipped to the final week of March 2013. The teenage cancer trust gigs at the Royal Albert Hall were a staple in Noel’s calendar, and for the first time, you weren’t just a fly on the wall or the "new girl"—you were the woman with the diamond shield and the official title.
The transition from the soundproofed intimacy of your home studio to the echoey, grand corridors of the Royal Albert Hall was jarring. For Noel, it was a homecoming. For you, it was a professional gauntlet.
The "needy, horny fiancé" who spent all morning tangled in your legs was replaced by the "Chief" within minutes of stepping into the venue. He moved through the backstage area with a renewed purpose, but his newfound status as an engaged man changed the dynamic.
He didn't just walk into a room; he ushered you in first. He didn't just introduce you; he boasted. Every time he ran into a peer—be it Damon Albarn, Graham Coxon, or the organizers—he’d hook a possessive arm around your waist, pull you flush against his side, and beam.
"You lot met Y/N? My gorgeous fiancé. Award-winner, she is. Smashed it at the Abbey Road show. Best eyes in the business, and she's all mine."
You’d blush, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear while clutching your Leica, feeling the weight of the "Future Mrs. Gallagher" title. Noel seemed to take a perverse pleasure in the juxtaposition of your "rock star DNA" and your professional accolades. He was no longer just the legend on stage; he was the proud partner of the legend behind the lens.
Despite the social whirlwind, you had a job to do. You retreated into the shadows of the wings, the heavy bass of the rehearsals vibrating through the floorboards.
While Noel was busy curating the shows, you were capturing the grit. You shot the exhaustion in the eyes of the young musicians, the way the light hit the dust in the rafters of the Albert Hall, and the quiet moments where Noel would sit alone in the dressing room, tuning his Gibson with a focused, meditative intensity.
One moment you were the professional, dodging roadies and balancing on flight cases to get the perfect silhouette of Noel against the crimson velvet of the hall. The next, Noel would catch your eye from across the stage during a soundcheck with a wicked grin that told you exactly how much he missed the "Little Venice Lockdown."
The TCT gigs were a magnet for the industry elite and the lingering shadows of Noel's past life. At the after-show drinks in the hospitality bar, you found yourself standing your ground.
When a particularly posh music executive tried to talk over you, patronizingly asking if you were "just taking a few snaps for the scrapbook," Noel didn't even give you a chance to snap back. He leaned over, clinked his beer bottle against the man’s glass, and said coolly:
"She’s got a better portfolio than your entire roster, mate. Keep up."
He then turned to you with a wink as his hand slid across your waist and pulled you into his side.
By the final night of the residency, the "reconciliation" with Liam was still the talk of the backstage area. People were looking for cracks, for drama, but you and Noel were a united front. You had become more than just a girlfriend; you were his stabilizer.
As the final chords of "Don't Look Back in Anger" echoed through the circular hall, you stood at the side of the stage, camera raised. You captured the moment Noel looked up at the ceiling, the sweat dripping off his chin, a look of pure, unadulterated peace on his face.
He looked over at you, held up his left hand—the one without a ring—and pointed to your finger, the diamond catching the strobe lights.
The message was clear. The music was his life, but you were his home. And as the roadies began to pack away the gear, Noel caught your hand, pulled you into the shadows behind the amplifiers, and kissed you with a hunger that promised the rest of the year was going to be even louder than March.
Pinned
daddy-issues-galore
Jul 15, 2025
Masterlist of Masterlists!
Noel Gallagher - collection of oneshots/requests about Noel
Let me fly you to the moon... - When Noel wrote his debut solo album, he thought the tracks as love songs for a woman he hadn’t yet met, a premonition set to music. In 2011, that melody found its muse. What began as a chance encounter between a rock star and a fan quickly defied the "groupie" cliché, revealing a connection so profound it felt like a long-awaited reunion of soulmates.
Love is a rich man - '20+!Noel Gallagher x younger!female reader. Collection of oneshots - Despite the intensity of the spark, Noel and Y/n felt between them, Noel chooses the path of duty over desire, deciding to work on his marriage and leaving Y/N behind after a passionate one night stand. As time progresses and the cracks in his marriage become impossible to mend, he and Y/N find their way back to one another. Noel finds himself navigating the complexities of a public divorce whilst trying to keep your relationship hidden until the ink on the divorce papers dry. Is this a soul-deep love story born from the ashes of the past, or was it merely a fleeting fancy fueled by the thrill of the forbidden?
We need each other - Threesome; 1995/2025!Liam, Y/n and Noel. NOT GCEST! 2 STORIES - 1 SET IN '95/1 SET IN '25
Liam Gallagher - collection of oneshots/requests about Liam
Once - Working hair and make-up at one of the biggest festivals in the world wasn't the big dream you had thought it would be. Hell on Earth more like. Then you met Liam Gallagher and everything changed... 2017!Liam Gallagher meets Y/n. (Series based on these oneshots I've All I Need / And More)
'95 Noel Gallagher x f!reader x Liam Gallagher threesome (not gcest) SMUT
This is a part of the 'We need each other' mini series.
We need each other... < reader here <
Warnings: first kiss, under age experiences between reader and Liam, (both same age), 18+ readers, smut, oral (f/m receiving), nipple play, finger, anal finger, hand job, anal, protected sex, threesome (separate), swearing, dirty talk, rough, manhandling, dom!Liam, dom!Noel, sub!reader, use of slag/whore, drug use (coke/weed)
For as long as you can remember, Liam had always been your best friend. You don’t remember a time when he wasn’t.
If it wasn’t for your mams meeting when they did, you would never have been in each other’s lives. Your mam was Irish and met Peggy at an Irish social club after the Gallagher’s moved to Burnage. They quickly became good friends after bonding over the things similar in their lives, mostly their children and their newborn babies that were born weeks apart. They confided in each other about their abusive husbands.
It wasn’t until many years later when you were about twelve when the Gallagher’s (minus Tommy) moved in just a couple doors down from you. That’s when you really remember your friendship with Liam changing. You were always round at the Gallagher’s house, favouring it there over your own home since your dad was still very much in the picture and made your life hell.
New Years Eve 1984 – 12 years old
The social club was buzzing with excitement, chatter and dancing as the new year loomed closer. The adults were well into their drinks, the older kids not fair behind and the younger kids getting high on sugar. You’d been sat with your mam and dad on and off all night, occasionally running off with Liam and the other kids that were your age.
“Oi,” Liam ran up to the chair you sat in and leaned close to your ear, “Come wiv me.”
You looked up to see if your mam was paying you any attention before you jumped off your seat with a grin. Liam took your hand in his and pulled you after him, the pair of you laughing as you ran through the crowd of drunken people dancing. You came to as stop on the other side of the room next to the buffet table where Liam dropped down onto his knees and slipped under the tablecloth.
“C’mon,” He held the tablecloth up for you to get under.
You let out a small giggle as you did, crawling along the floor until you got to the middle of the table and sat beside Liam on the sticky wooden floor.
“Look what I’ve got.” Liam grinned from ear to ear as he held up a can of beer.
You raised your eyebrows at him, “Where’d you nick that from?”
“R’Noel.” Liam said with a cheeky grin as he cracked the can open with ease. He took a swig before handing it to you, “Go on.” He nodded to the can.
You chewed the inside of your cheek as you thought about it. “Me dad will kill me, Liam.”
Liam huffed, “Yer dad’s pissed. He won’t be able to tell.” He tried to reassure you as he shoved the can into your hand. “Go on.”
You nodded and took a swig, pulling a face at the taste as you gulped the beer down. “Uh, disgustin’.”
Liam laughed at you, “Such a girl.” He shook his head and took another swig.
“How can you drink it so easy?” You scowled as he handed it back to you.
“Got used to it. Drink enough and you forget the taste.” He shrugged. The two of you quietly shared the can of beer for a moment before Liam turned to you. “R’Noel said that we’re meant to kiss someone at midnight.”
“Why?” You raised your eyebrow at him.
He shrugged looking down to his crossed legs, “Somet you have to do.” He paused before looking at you again. “Shall we kiss at midnight? Don’t fancy kissin’ me mam.” He joked making you giggle.
“Isn’t it weird though… For us to. Yer me best mate.”
“You rather kiss r’Noel?” He joked making you screw your face up.
“Don’t be daft.” You laughed with him, trying to hide the fact that you’d die if Noel kissed you. You looked down bashfully as you picked at the loose thread on your trousers, “I’ve never… kissed a boy before.”
Liam’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You serious?”
You nodded feeling your face burn with embarrassment. When you started the new school year, all the girls in your class bragged about all the boys they’ve kissed and how many boys like them. You’d been picked on for your lack of experience with boys.
Liam cleared his throat as he moved closer to you, “Well… I’ve never, kissed a girl before.”
You frowned looking up to him. “Yer lying.”
Liam shook his head. “I’d never lie to you.” He gave you a small smile as the countdown to midnight began. “So? We gonna kiss or what?”
You drew in a deep breath and nodded. “Okay. But don’t be tellin’ everyone.” You warned as you scooted closer to him.
As the countdown got to a few seconds, you slowly leaned into each other. Your breath shook with nerves and excitement; you were about to have your first kiss. With Liam. As the clock hit midnight, you and Liam pressed your lips together. Neither of you were sure how long you were meant to stay pressed together. It was a bit wet, tasted like beer and crisps but overall, not a bad first kiss.
You pulled back from each other and just stared at one another before you both burst out laughing. “I hope they get better than that.” You joked making Liam scoff.
“What you talkin’ ‘bout. Am a pro already.” He grinned at you.
1986 – 14 years old
You were round at Liam’s like you were most evenings avoiding going home. The two of you were sat on the floor of his shared bedroom as you listened to The Beatles (like always) and just pratting about when Noel pushed opened the door with a typical teenage huff.
“Yer mam’s on the blower. Wants you home.”
You frowned, “But am stayin’ over.”
Noel shrugged with a huff as he walked into the room and flopped down onto his bed. “Just tellin’ you what she’s said.” He said as he grabbed his magazine from the bedside table and began reading it.
You gave Liam a worried look. “Dad must be back from the pub.”
Liam shook his head, “Don’t go. What’s he gonna do, come round and drag you home.” He tutted as he leaned back on the floor. “Knobhead.” He muttered.
“Oi,” Noel warned.
“What? You know he is.” Liam huffed at Noel. “Bastard always hittin’-”
“Even so. Don’t be swearin’ like that in mam’s house. She’ll clip you round the ear if she hears you.” Noel reminded Liam making you smile.
“Nowt worse than a Peggy smack at the back of the head.” You cringed as if you could feel it happening.
Noel chuckled, “She knows the sweet spot.” He winked at you making you giggle and blush. “You should be off, love. Or he will be round if he’s in one of them moods.” He gave you an apologetic look. Noel hated your dad as much as he hated his own.
You nodded and got up much to Liam’s dismay. You said bye to Peggy on your way out and reluctantly made your way home. The house was quiet by the time you got back which unnerved you. You had no idea what you were walking into.
“Mam?” You called out as you shut the front door.
You could hear her crying quietly in the kitchen. As you walked down the hallway you held your breath. You stepped into the kitchen to find her hunched over the kitchen sink. Blood covered the floor. It dripped down the side of your mam’s head, mixing with her tears.
“Mam?” You rushed over to her in a panic.
“Y/n, love,” She sniffled and wiped her eyes as she turned to face you. Her eye was swollen, and a bruise was forming already.
“What’s he done to you now?” You carefully helped her sit down on a chair at the kitchen table. You grabbed a tea towel and pressed it against her head.
“He’s drunk… as usual… started complaining about something…” She shook her head as she cried. “I shouldn’t have said what I-”
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.” You snapped at her. “Don’t blame yerself for him being a cunt.”
“Am a cunt am I?”
You jumped at the sound of your dad’s voice in the doorway. You gulped as he just stood there and stared at you. “Well… yer not a good man, are you?” You glared back. “Good men don’t beat their wives or children.” You said as you walked towards him. “Good men don’t make their wives work two jobs and take all the money away from their family and spend it down at the pub.” You shouted. “Good men don’t just think of themselves.” You let out a cry after the back of your dad’s hand hit your face, busting your lip.
“Shut your mouth, you ungrateful little bitch.”
“What’s wrong, dad? The truth too hard to swallow.” You spat at him.
“I said,” Your dad grabbed a hold of your hair and dragged you through the door. He ignored your mam’s pleads and your cries as you clawed at his hands. “Shut your fuckin mouth.” He pushed you to the bottom of the stairs. “Get upstairs.”
You knelt on the floor glaring up at him in defiance. “No. Not until me mam’s sorted.”
“She’ll sort herself. Get upstairs.” He grabbed you by your hair again and pushed you up a couple of the stairs.
“I said NO!” You through your arm back smacking your dad in the mouth with your fist.
Your mam’s breath caught in her throat as she stared wide eyed at the two of you, fear swimming her eyes as she waited for your dad’s next move. “Please, don’t.”
“You little bitch!” Your dad once again struck you across the face, knocking you down the steps you were stood on and into the banister.
You banged your forehead on the corner as you fell to the floor, crying out in pain. The next thing you heard was your mam crying and begging your dad as he shouted back at her. Then you heard your mam screaming out in pain. You used all the energy you had left to push yourself up and run for the front door, blocking out your dad’s shouts as you pulled the door open and ran. Your vision was blurred with tears and blood as you ran down the street until you got to the door of your safe place. You burst through the door almost falling over as you did and slammed the door shut drawing the attention of everyone in the house.
Noel was the first to come bounding out of the kitchen. “What’s all the bang-” His eyes widened at the sight of you, “Fuckin’ ‘ell.” Noel reached out and grabbed a hold of you before you could collapse to the floor. “MAM!”
“Oh, lord.” Peggy came rushing out of the living room in a panic as Liam barrelled down the stairs.
“Y/N!” Liam called out as he jumped the three bottom steps. “What the fuck happened?”
“Shift, the pair of you. Liam, get the plasters from upstairs.” Peggy pushed Liam back up the stairs.
You shook your head as you held onto to Noel, “I should have kept me mouth shut.” You cried against his chest.
“Don’t, Y/n.” Noel whispered against the top of your head as he held you tight against his chest. His heart was breaking at the sight of you. He knew what it was like to have your father beat you.
“Noelie, take her into the kitchen.” Peggy ordered as she picked up the phone from the hallway table.
Noel did as his mam said and took you into the kitchen before carefully sitting you down at the kitchen table. “Calm down, knobhead.” Noel said to Liam as he rushed into the kitchen in a panic.
“She’s bleeding badly though.”
“And mam will sort it. But you bein’ hysterical ain’t gonna fuckin’ help, is it?” Noe gave him a pointed look as he lit his cigarette.
You giggled at the pair of them, “What happened to not swearin’ in yer mam’s house?” They began laughing with you as Peggy walked into the kitchen.
“Right… What happened, sweetheart?” Peggy asked softly as she sat down next to you and went about cleaning you up.
You sniffled, “Me dad… he’s drunk. I walked into to blood everywhere and… me mam started blamin’ herself for him hittin’ her… and he heard me call him a cunt-”
“Good girl.” Liam winked at you.
“Liam,” Peggy warned.
You shook your head. “I should have kept me mouth shut… I only wound him up… he grabbed me by the hair and tried forcin’ me upstairs, but I refused and… then I ended up smackin’ him in the face-” You cried.
Noel knelt beside you and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a hug.
“Am gettin’ blood on you.” You sniffled trying to pull back from him.
“Don’t matter, love.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. The sound of banging on the front door made you jump. “I’ll get it. Oi.” Noel pushed Liam back as he tried to leave the kitchen muttering about smashing your dad’s face in, “Stay with Y/n. I’ve got it.” Noel gave you a wink before leaving the kitchen, shutting the door behind him as he did.
“What if dad hurts him?” You panicked looking at Peggy.
“Nah, r’Noel can handle himself.” Liam sat beside you and picked your hand up, pressing a kiss to your knuckles where they were scraped. “Looks like you smacked him good yerself.” He teased making you smile. “That’s better.”
That night as the police carted your dad off to the cells and an ambulance took your mam to the hospital, you stayed with the Gallagher’s. Peggy allowed you to sleep in the boys’ room where you shared with Liam. He held you all night as you shook out of fear and cried quietly. He kissed your forehead as he whispered reassuring words to you, promising to protect you for the rest of his life.
1987 – 15 years old
You continued to stay out of the house as much as you possibly could. Any time things kicked off with your dad, you were out of your bedroom window and letting yourself in the backdoor at the Gallagher’s where you were welcomed with opened arms every time.
“Can’t she just move in mam?” Liam asked one night over fish and chips at the dining table.
“I was under the impression she has.” Noel joked giving you a nudge making you stuck your tongue out at him.
“Piss off- ah, sorry Peg.” You winched as you rubbed the back of your head where she had whacked you.
The boys laughed at you and continued to eat.
“Mam? Can she?” Liam tried using his best puppy dog look on her making Noel roll his eyes at him.
“And where the bloody ‘ell would she sleep? The sofa ain’t a permanent place.” Peggy sighed softly. “Am afraid there’s just not enough space, love.”
“He’s not hit you again, has he?” Noel asked as he corrected your fingers over the strings of his guitar.
It was just the two of you hanging out in his room, the two of you sat on his bed. Noel was trying to teach you some chords to a new song on his guitar as you waited for Liam to get home. You chewed the inside of your cheek not answering his question. “Oi,” He nudged you, “Has he?”
You let out a heavy sigh and looked up to meet his gaze, “Nowt serious. Just grabbed me arm the other night and dragged me upstairs.”
Noel’s brow furrowed, “Show me.” You shook your head and continued to pluck the strings, but Noel placed his hand over yours to stop you. “Y/n, show me. What if he’s seriously hurt you?
You shook your head, “Am fine.”
Noel frowned at you, “What if he’s done some proper damage this time? Please, Y/n. Just, to reassure me.” He said as he gave you that famous Gallagher puppy look that had you caving.
“Uh, fine,” You huffed and handed him his guitar.
Noel gave you a smug grin as he put his guitar safely on his bed as you took your jumper off. Noel averted his eyes as your shirt raised up a little not wanting to be a pervert or anything. When he saw the bruise that had formed on your arm that clearly looked like a hand, anger boiled in his chest. “Bastard.” He muttered as he reached out and gently stroked his thumb just under where the bruise sat. “Does it hurt?” He asked.
You shook your head, “Nah. Not anymore.” You gulped feeling a lump in your throat. “Don’t tell, Liam, please.” You whispered and quickly pulled your jumper back on.
Noel nodded, clearing his throat. “I won’t.”
It was quiet between you for a moment before you looked up to meet his gaze, “Why is it always me? He never used to hit me brother.” You whispered. Tears filled your eyes as you looked at him.
Noel sighed softly and put his arm around your shoulders. “I dunno, love. Why does any bloke hit his wife and kid? Cause their bastards.” He balled his fist up as he thought back to his own dad beating him and how you must be feeling. “Don’t blame yerself, love.”
Before you could answer him, the front door slammed shut and someone stormed upstairs.
Liam walked into the room and glared at the two of you. “What you doin’ ‘ere?”
“Hello to you too, William.” You rolled your eyes at him. “I was waitin’ for you, but clearly yer in a mood so, am off home.” You said standing up.
“No, don’t.” Liam reached out and stopped you as you went to walk past him. “Just wont expectin’ to see you in ‘ere with him.” Liam nodded to Noel. “What yous doin’, anyway? You looked cosy.”
“Noel was tryin’ to teach me some new chords.” You explained and sat back beside Noel.
“Tryin’, bein’ the main word there.” He teased receiving an elbow in the side from you. Noel looked up to Liam with a furrowed brow, “What’s up with yer mardy arse, anyway? Slammin’ the front door like the worlds done you wrong.”
Liam frowned, “Don’t start, knobhead.” He huffed as he walked over to his bed.
Noel shook his head with a huff, “Charmin’.” Noel stood up and grabbed his jacket from the end of his bed. “Am off to pub. Do me a favour, love and sort his mardy arse out before I get back.” Noel gave you a wink before he left making you blush.
You looked over to Liam and raised your eyebrow at him, “So? What’s crawled up yer backside?” You asked and laid beside him on the bed.
He didn’t answer you right away. The pair of you just laid side by side, your feet crossed at the ankles and your hands laid over your stomach as you stared at the ceiling. Usually, the silence was comfortable, but you could practically feel Liam’s anger vibrating off him.
“Fuckin’ Mary Jackson.” He huffed making you look at him confused. “Says I don’t know how to finger a bird.”
Before you could stop yourself, laugher spilled out of your mouth making Liam even more pissed off than he was already.
“Not even that funny.” He huffed making you laugh even more.
“Sorry-” You covered your mouth to stifle your laugh. Eventually you calmed down enough to ask, “What, happened?”
He shook his head, “Am not talkin’ ‘bout it, so just forget it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and pouted like a small child.
“Fine, mardy arse.” You rolled your eyes and sat up, “Am off if yer gonna be like this all night.”
Liam sighed and grabbed your arm to stop you moving. “If I tell you, you better not laugh, or I swear, am kickin’ you out.”
“Just fuckin’ tell me, will ya’.” You huffed and laid back down beside you.
Liam groaned and covered his face with his hands before huffing, “Right, so, we met up after school, yeah? Flirted and that. Had a couple of snogs. She let me stick me hand up her skirt. I thought, nice one. Here we go… but she just, rolled her eyes and huffed. Said it was like I was trying to blindly flick a light switch.”
“Oh,” You bit your bottom lip and screwed your eyes shut as you turned away. You begged yourself not to laugh at poor Liam’s distress, but you’d seen Liam trying to switch the light off without looking at the switch, so you had the image of him in your head pretty clear.
“Yer laughin’.” Liam huffed.
“Am not-” You burst out laughing and quickly rolled over and hid your face in his pillow.
“Knobhead.” He shook his head trying to remain pissed off with you, but he couldn’t, not with you laughing beside him like you were. “She don’t know want she’s talkin’ ‘bout.”
You rolled back over and took a deep breath, wiping the tears from your eyes as you did. “I mean, she’s had most boys in the class finger her so, I’d say she’s an expert.” You joked making Liam crack a smile. “You just need practice.”
Liam rolled his eyes at you, “Dint even get to try out me new trick.” He pouted making you laugh.
“What new trick?”
“Won’t you like to know.” He winked at you making you roll your eyes.
“Am good actually. Don’t want Mary Jackson’s cast offs.” You joked as you sat up only to have Liam pull you back down to the bed.
“Oi!” Liam laughed as he began tickling your sides, knowing where you were super ticklish.
You let out a fit of giggles, begging Liam to stop. He rolled over you, making your breath catch in your throat as he laid over you. His warm body laid over yours and his arms framed your head as he settled between your spread legs. Bad day to wear a skirt and no tights.
Liam licked his lips as he looked down at yours before meeting your eyes again. “I’ve got an idea.” He whispered. His warm breath licking your lips as he did.
“Dangerous.” You joked receiving a poke in the side from him making you giggle again.
“Am serious...” He said as he rolled off you onto his side still facing you. “What if, we practice together?”
You raised your eyebrow at him, “What? Like, us two, do it?” You began blushing at the thought.
Liam shook his head then paused, “Well, maybe.” He rolled onto his back. “We’re best mates, yeah? We were each other’s first kiss, and we’ve practiced that with each other over the years, right?” You hummed and nodded, wanting him to carry on. “Well, why don’t we just practice the other stuff with each other. Save us embarrassin’ ourselves like I bloody have today.” He huffed dramatically making you giggle.
“But we’re best mates, Liam. What if it changes stuff between us?” You frowned. “I don’t want to lose you because you’ve seen me tits and laughed.”
Liam gave you a deadpanned look, “One, all tits are great, and two, I’ve seen yer tits already, remember?” Liam smirked at you and wiggled his eyebrows making you blush.
How could you forget? It only happened a few weeks ago. The bathroom at your house had been having some work done to it so you were using the bathroom at Peggy’s if you needed a shower.
You’d just got out of the shower and as you were reaching for your towel Liam barged into the bathroom thinking it was Noel in there. The two of you stared at each, shocked and silent. Liam’s hand was still on the doorknob with his eyes on your wet tits, and you clutched the towel against your lower half, having only just managed to cover it. If it wasn’t for Noel shouting up to Liam as he began climbing the stairs, you might never have snapped out of your daze.
“LIAM!” You’d screeched at him as you covered yourself properly with the towel.
Liam’s eyes comically widened as be pulled the door shut. “Sorry.”
“You bein’ a pervert, Liam?” Noel chuckled to himself as he walked into their shared bedroom. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he closed his eyes, trying to rid his mind of the glimpse he’d gotten.
“Even so,” Your mind began racing with thoughts.
It would be nice to know your first time experiencing things so vulnerable and intimate would be with someone you knew wouldn’t judge you, but that person was Liam, your best friend. Had you thought about Liam in a sexual way before? Yes. And you were ashamed to think things like that about your best friend, but hormones were racing, and you’d be a fool not to notice the way he was growing into a good-looking lad.
“You trust me, don’t you?”
You looked up to meet Liam’s gaze and nodded. “Course I do.” You gulped, “Am just... worried. You make me feel like I can do anythin’, and if I was to lose you because I’m terrible at somethin’... it would kill me, Liam.” You admitted.
Liam huffed out a laugh, “You kiddin?” When you shook your head Liam rolled onto his side to face you. “Yer mad. It’s you that grounds me. I’d be lost without you. Probably got me head kicked in loads by now if it weren’t for you talkin’ me out of the trouble I get into.” He gave you a cheeky grin.
You turned on to your side to face him. “You might regret not goin’ for someone like Mary Jackson.”
Liam frowned, “Oh and things with Mary Jackson worked out great for me, dint they.” He huffed dramatically making you laugh. Liam smiled at you and gently stroked your hair back from your face making you blush. “Don’t tell anyone this, okay, but I always thought you’d be me first time…” He admitted making your roll your eyes.
“Give over, you soppy sod.”
“Seriously.” Liam smiled, “It makes sense that this stuff happens with you first... Don’t seem right with anyone else, does it? Who knows, maybe we like it so much we ended up married and that.”
You screwed your face up, “No chance. Yer not me type.” You joked.
“Right, sorry. Forgot. Yer so madly in love with r’Noel.” Liam made kissing noises in your face and began tickling your sides making your burst out laughing trying to wiggle away from him.
“Liam, stop.” You wheezed as he tickled even harder and kept kissing your cheek. “Please. Am gonna pee.” You laughed.
Liam eventually stopped but he didn’t remove his hands from you, only moved closer so your noses were almost touching and whispered, “So? You up for it?”
You drew in a shaky breath and nodded, “Okay… but promise me if you find someone better, you don’t pass it up because of me.”
Liam’s brow furrowed, “There is no one better, love. I trust no one like I trust you.”
-----
Over the next year or so, you and Liam ‘practised’ together a lot any chance you got. When Noel left to go roadie for the Inspiral Carpets, that gave Liam his own room much to his delight and the two of you had somewhere to practise without the risk of Noel catching you. Your dad had left a couple of weeks before your sixteenth birthday and perhaps any normal person would have been devastated but you were happy that he’d left. Best birthday ever, you’d whispered against Liam’s lips after the two of you had sneaked off to his bedroom at the birthday party that he’d convinced his mam to let him through for you.
It wasn’t until the New Year’s Eve after your sixteenth birthday did you decide you were ready to do the deed. For the first time in your life, your mam had let you miss the New Year’s Eve party at the social club, so you were spending it alone with Liam at his watching crap TV. As soon as Peggy had left, you surprised Liam by telling him that you were ready to go all the way that night. He jumped up off the sofa and told you to wait there before heading upstairs after ten minutes. When you eventually made it upstairs to his room, he’d turned the lights off and hung some of the old Christmas lights around the room. He’d even changed his bedding. “Meant to be romantic, init.”
It wasn’t magical. It was awkward and clumsy. Still nerve wrecking even with Liam, but by the end of it, the two of you laid beside each other, your faces almost touching. Smiling at one another as you caught your breath before Liam cracked a joke, “Told you I was a pro already.”
After that day things changed between you. You were closer. Liam would always have an arm around your neck or shoulders, yours would be around his waist. You’d snuggle into Liam’s side, and he would press kisses to your forehead or cheek. Those around you noticed the change in your behaviour and when they saw you together acting like a couple they began asking if you were seeing each other. You weren’t, far from it. You were still best mates, but something more as well. “Soulmates, love. We get each other more than anyone we get hitch to ever will. Trust me…”
1991 – 19 years old
By the time Noel came home from being on the road with the Inspiral Carpets things had changed drastically.
Noel grunted as he carted his bags upstairs and pushed open his bedroom door, stopping instantly as he walked in when he saw a lass bent over his bed with her arse in the air. From where he was stood, he could see right up her skirt and the lacy pair of knickers she was wearing. He cleared his throat making her jump. “Can I help you?”
You spun around and faced Noel with an excited grin, “NOEL!”
Noel’s face burned red as you ran up to him and wrapped your arms around his neck. Noel awkwardly hugged you, not sure where he should put his arms. You were no longer the little kid from down the road he was forced to babysit with his brother, but a young woman – a good looking one as well. “Uh, hi, Y/n. What you, doin’, to me bed?” He cleared his throat.
You pulled back from him bashfully as you brushed a piece of your hair behind your ear. “Oh, hm, lookin’ for somethin’ Liam’s hid… and… it’s his bed, now.”
Noel’s brow furrowed, “What?” He looked over to Liam’s proper bed and saw that it wasn’t made up.
“Liam moved to yer bed as soon as you left… Said it was better than his,” You shrugged.
Noel grunted as he moved over to his bed and chucked his bags down onto the bed. “Well, he can fuck off back to his now.”
You rolled your eyes but smiled, “It’s good to have you back, Noel.” You sat down on Liam’s bed and watched him. “How come yer back?”
Noel huffed out a laugh, “Got sacked.”
You began grinning at him. “Surprised it took so long.” You joked.
“Cheeky sod.” He chuckled and moved the duvet back, pausing when he saw what you must have been looking for. “Uhm… so, you and r’kid then?”
You looked at him confused, “Us what?”
“Mam said yous are seein’ each other or somet. Have been for a while.”
You rolled your eyes with a chuckle, “We’re not... seein’ each other.” You blushed and fiddled with some lint on the mattress.
Noel hummed as he picked up the red lace and turned around holding it the air between his thumb and index with a smirk. “So, these aren’t what you were lookin’ for?” He smirked at you.
You gasped with wide eyes. You reached out and snatched them from him. “They’re not-”
Noel shook his head with a chuckle and went back to unpacking his bags. “Yer lucky mam dint find ‘em.”
“Yeah, lucky.” Your face burned with embarrassment as you shoved the pair of knickers into your bag. You looked up to Noel with a small smile, “What you bring me back?”
Noel’s head fell back as he let out a loud laugh. “And what makes you think I brought you owt back?”
“You promised you would.” You pouted at him making him grin.
He rolled his eyes but still smiled as he reached into his bag and pulled out a couple of different sized boxes. “’ere you go.”
Your eyes lit up. You took them from him with an excited giggle making Noel smile. “Why did you get me so many?” You asked as you looked at the various boxes of chocolates.
“’Cause yer a fiend for it.” He smiled and winked at you.
You looked up to him with a grin, “Thank you, Noel.” You jumped up from Liam’s bed and wrapped your arms around his waist, smiling when he hugged back. The two of you stayed like that for a few minutes, soaking up each other’s presence after so long. “Shit,” You gasped when you saw the time on the bedside clock and pushed back from him. “I need to be off. The lads will be waitin’ for me.”
“Lads?” Noel asked as you grabbed your bag off the bed.
You nodded and paused at the door, “The band.”
“Band?”
“Yeah… Liam’s… well, Bonehead’s band, but Liam’s-” You began laughing to yourself when Noel gave you a confused look. “Thought Peggy told you ‘bout it?”
“Dint think she was serious. R’Liam hates music.”
You shook your head, “Not anymore.” You grinned at him. “You should come and see ‘em… They’re not that bad actually… songs are shit… and the band’s name is fuckin’ terrible… but Liam’s a pretty good singer actually.”
“Singer?” Noel huffed out a laugh. “Fuck off.”
You shook your head with a laugh, “Seriously.” You glanced at the clock again. “Shit. I need to go. See you later.” You called out as you left.
You’d barely made it out the front door when it opened again and Noel was shouting your name as he ran after you. And the rest was history.
1995 – 23 years old
The night had been a blur; drinking, drugs, performing, smoking, shouting, laughing, partying. Noel and Liam sat beside each other on a small sofa with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. They weren’t paying attention to who was talking to them; could have been a load of suits from the record label or some tarts that had wormed their way backstage earlier. They were too focused on what you were doing. More specifically, what the guy who you’d been talking to for the past half hour was doing. He kept reaching out and touching your bare waist or arm, stepping closer to you as he spoke and you were clearly not enjoying it from the scowl you were wearing. You’d been talking to Bonehead when the guy came over and cornered you.
Noel exhaled a puff of smoke before saying, “Shunt you be goin’ over and savin’ her.”
“She’ll let me know if she needs me to.” Liam answered. “If yer that bothered by the prick, you go over.” Liam nodded towards you with a knowing smirk.
Noel frowned as he drew in another breath of smoke then exhaled, “She’s yer bird.”
Liam rolled his eyes at him, “How many times, she ain’t me bird.”
“Sorry, forgot. Yer soulmates.” Noel scoffed. “Knobhead.” He muttered under his breath making Liam glare at him.
“Don’t start yer mardin’.”
“What? ‘Cuase I find it hard to believe that’s what you really think. C’mon, Li. The pair of you are constantly shaggin’. You either fancy her or yer using her.” Noel huffed.
“What if she’s usin’ me?”
Noel shook his head, “Y/n’s not like that. It’s serious for her.”
“You don’t know nothin’ ‘bout me and her.” Liam snapped at him. “She’s a woman with needs and am a man with needs.”
“Why shag other birds then? If you’ve got somet good with her-”
“We ain’t together, fuck’s sake.” Liam huffed. “It won’t work. We’ve too much history and that.”
Noel’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Yer mad.”
“No, yer a knobhead.” Liam turned in his seat to face him. “Yer sat ‘ere tellin’ me I should be with her proper and that when yer the one that fuckin’ fancies her, but yer too chicken shit to do anythin’ ‘bout it.”
“Don’t be fuckin’ daft.” Noel shook his head as he gulped down his beer.
“Oh, c’mon. Don’t tell me you don’t. You practically melt into a puddle any time she laughs at one of yer shit jokes. I’ve seen the way yer eyes follow her ‘bout.” Liam rolled his eyes. “She’s just as fuckin’ bad.”
Noel scoffed, “Piss off.”
Liam shook his head with a chuckle, “You really are blind, aren’t you.”
“To what?”
“Her.” Liam nodded over to where you were still stuck talking to the same guy. “She’s mad ‘bout you, man. Fancies the arse off you. Proper like. She has done for ages. Why’d you think she’s always flirtin’ with you?”
“Piss off, would you. Y/n, dunt fancy me. She only does that to whined you up.” Noel huffed and lit another cigarette.
Liam shook his head and sat back with a heavy huff. “Fine. Believe what you want…” He looked back over to you, “If you’d have played yer cards right tonight, you’d have been fuckin’ her, but whatever.”
Noel frowned at him. “What you on ‘bout?”
Liam grinned at him, “She had a dream other night. ‘Bout you. A proper dirty one by the sounds she was makin’.”
“Piss off.”
“Honest… Said yous were havin’ a threesome.” Liam smirked at him.
Noel’s mouth hung open as he stared at Liam, his words stuck as he thought over what he’d just said.
Liam’s smirk widened before he stood up. “Off for a piss.” He winked at Noel before leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Will this torture never end? You’d been stuck getting talked at by some bloke that worked for the record label, although you didn’t know exactly who he was. He had started flirting with you (poorly) after Bonehead had disappeared, bastard. You had hoped one of the lads would have come and saved you, but it seemed everyone was lost in their own little bubble. Noel and Liam were having a heated discussion, so they weren’t paying you any attention, also bastards. And none of the other lads were anywhere insight, bastards. You’d tried to leave a couple of times but the guy had kept talking and moved in front of you so you couldn’t move anywhere. You’d have used the excuse of going to bathroom but you had a feeling this guy would probably follow you just so he could keep talking to you.
You glanced back over to where Liam and Noel had been sat and frowned when you saw that Liam had disappeared, but Noel had been joined by some bird you didn’t recognise. Looked like she was flirting too. Noel looked uncomfortable by the whole thing. You could tell by the way he was holding himself as close as he could to the arm of the seat as he looked around anywhere that wasn’t the woman.
“Are you listening?” The guy leaned in close to your ear.
You shook your head, “Sorry. I need to be gettin’ back.” You nodded over to Noel. “He’s lookin’ for me.” You offered a small smile and began to push past him only to be grabbed by the arm.
“How’d you know him? You a groupie or somethin’?” He gave you a once over as he licked his bottom lip making you scowl.
You scowled at him, “He’s me fella.” You rolled your eyes and barged past him. You walked over to Noel and bent over the back of the sofa, sliding your hands over his shoulders and down his chest making him jump. Noel looked over his shoulder and began smiling when he saw it was you. You pressed your lips against his ear as you wrapped your arms around his neck. “Am back baby.” You giggled and kissed his cheek making Noel smile.
He reached for your hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it as he relaxed. “Where you been, love? Was gettin’ worried.”
“Got stuck talkin’ to some drunk bloke.” You smirked when you heard the bird sat next to Noel huff. You reached up to cup his cheek with your other hand, “Go with it,” You whispered and pressed a kiss to Noel’s lips catching him off guard. You pulled back with a grin and stood up. You moved around to the side of the sofa and fell into Noel’s lap with a giggle as he tugged on your hand.
“Excuse me, we were talking.” The bird huffed as she glared daggers at you.
Your arms wound round Noel’s neck as his arm wrapped around your waist pulling you to sit in his lap. You scowled back at her, “Yer excused.” You rolled your eyes before pressing your mouth against Noel’s again, this time you slipped your tongue across his lips wanting to deepen the kiss.
Noel quickly caught on and let himself enjoy the kiss whilst it lasted. He licked into your mouth as he spread his right hand across your thigh, pulling a soft moan from you. The pair of you got lost in the kiss, missing the woman getting up and leaving. It wasn’t until Noel’s hand fell to the empty spot beside him that he realised she had. He pulled back and looked to make sure she had, but as he did you began peppering kisses across his neck and jaw making his breath catch in his throat. “She’s, g-gone, love.”
You hummed against his throat making him groan softly, “Yeah, but yer helpin’ me out of me own sticky situation.” You whispered as your eyes locked on to the bloke that had been pestering you as he made his way over to you.
Noel frowned, “That prick botherin’ you?”
You nodded and pulled back to look at Noel with a pout. “He’s just asked if I was a groupie.” You rolled your eyes with huff making Noel grin.
“What did you say?”
“Told him you were me fella. Two birds and all that.” You giggled to yourself, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have.”
Noel chuckled as he brushed your hair back from your face. “Don’t be daft. Wasn’t like I wasn’t enjoyin’ our little moment.” He winked at you making you blush.
Before the bloke that had been talking to you could sit down beside Noel, Liam slipped into the seat and lifted your feet into his lap. He looked up to the bloke with a glare, “What?”
He looked between the three of you, “She a prossie or somet? Only I’ve seen her snoggin’ the pair of you now. And she said he was her fella… I can’t have you having prostitutes in here. It looks bad for the label-”
“Who you fuckin’ calling a prossie?” Noel glared up at the bloke angrily as he pulled you closer to him.
“Am Y/n Fuckin’ Y/l/n. Oasis photographer, you creppy little shit. Piss off.” You huffed at him making Noel and Liam grin at each other.
“You heard her, dick head.” Liam laughed.
“Piss off.” Noel said with a stern look. “Or we’ll make the label look bad.” He said as he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a bag of coke.
Liam’s eyes widened with excitement. “I’ve got an idea.” He said completely ignoring the bloke beside them.
“Dangerous.” You and Noel said simultaneously, giggling as Liam huffed at you as he called you knobheads.
----------
The three of you disappeared to Liam’s hotel room to continue partying as a trio. More drinks, more smoking and lots more drugs were shared between you.
You were now sat in Liam’s lap as Noel racked up a few lines of coke. You and Liam were lazily kissing each other as he ran his hand over your thigh, under the hem of your mini skirt and up over your backside making you moan into his mouth. Noel looked to where Liam’s hand was and felt his throat dry.
“Liam says you had a dream ‘bout me.” He blurted out making his own face flush with embarrassment.
You froze in Liam’s lap before hiding your face in Liam’s neck. “Why would you tell him?” You mumbled against his neck making Liam chuckle.
“Said I could make it happen, dint I.” Liam licked his lips and looked at Noel. “You been thinkin’ ‘bout it then?”
Noel quickly inhaled his line before sitting back and closing his eyes. “Hard not to.”
Liam chuckled softly, “Yeah, it’s been stuck in me head since she told me.”
Noel frowned at him, “What you thinkin’ ‘bout me shaggin’ for?”
“Not you, knobhead.” Liam rolled his eyes. “This one.” He gave your backside a pat. Liam pressed his lips against your ear, “Tell him ‘bout yer dream, love.”
You raised your head form his shoulder and shook your head, “It’s embarrassing.” You said glancing over to Noel.
Liam reached up and pinched your chin and turned your head to face him, “Nowt to be embarrassed ‘bout love. Tell R’Noel what you were dreamin’ ‘bout… Tell him ‘bout how it had you humpin’ me leg like a bitch in heat.” Liam smirked up at you making you look down bashfully. When you didn’t speak right away, he leaned in close to your ear as he turned your head, so you were looking at Noel. “Go on… tell him ‘bout what he was doin’ to you in yer dream.”
You chewed the inside of your cheek as you met Noel’s gaze, “You were fuckin’ me...” Your cheeks flushed crimson.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell.” Noel groaned as he dropped his head back onto the sofa.
Liam grinned against your cheek, “Tell him ‘bout how hard you came as you rode me cock muttering his name. Go on. Be a good girl and tell him.” Liam gave your backside a firmer pat making you moan a little.
“What happened?” Noel asked.
You looked up to meet his gaze, “I, uh,” You gulped, “Couldn’t sleep, because I was, worked up from the dream, so I, uh,” You chewed the inside of your cheek. “I begged Liam to let me, fuck him… so I rode him and, I accidently, said yer name because I was thinkin’ ‘bout the dream.” You blushed even more.
Liam looked at Noel. “Tell me you don’t want to now.”
Noel rolled his eyes at him and dropped his head into his hands, “Shut the fuck up.”
You furrowed your brow at Liam, “What you on ‘bout?”
Liam looked up to you, “It’s yer turn, love.” He nodded to the table where the coke was.
You nodded and slipped off Liam’s lap into the spot between him and Noel. You bent over and inhaled a line of coke, falling back into the cushions with closed eyes as you handed Liam the rolled-up note.
Liam took it from you and chucked it onto the table. He gave you a playful smirk and ran his hand over your thigh, “Top off, love.”
You rolled your eyes at him playfully and sat up, lifting your top up over your head so you were sat in your bra and skirt.
“What yous fuckin’ playin’ at?” Noel asked looking at you quizzically as he sat back.
“We’re meant to be rockstars, yeah?” Liam said as he picked the bag of coke up and poured a bit out onto the curve of your right breast. “What’s more rock and roll than this?” He winked at Noel before inhaling his line.
You let out a breathy moan as he ran his tongue over your skin to clean up any coke left behind making Noel look away and cleared his throat.
“You should try it.” Liam said as he poured out some more coke onto your other breast. “You don’t mind r’Noel havin’ a go on you, do you love?” He looked up to you with a knowing smile.
Noel shook his head, “Am good.”
You nodded giggling as you looked at Noel. “Go on.”
Noel looked between you the pair of you then briefly at the line of coke that was on your left breast. He shook his head with a chuckle, “Fuckin’ mad yous.” He leaned forwards and inhaled the coke.
“Don’t forget to clean it up.” You let out a breathy giggle.
Noel ran his tongue over your skin like Liam did making your breath hitch and your eyes roll back.
Liam watched with a smirk as his stroked circles on your thigh where his hand rested. “Think you’ve cleaned it all up mate.” Liam joked after Noel spent a little too long licking your breast.
Noel’s face flushed red as he sat back from you and looked away making Liam laugh even more. “You never said what your great idea was.” Noel grabbed his drink from the coffee table.
“Ah, that.” Liam grinned and looked to you then Noel. “Let’s have a threesome.”
Noel choked on his drink almost spilling it all over himself. “Fuckin’, ‘ell.”
“Bloody ‘ell, Liam.” You huffed as you gave Noel a pat on the back. “Y’kay?”
Noel coughed, “M’fine.” He glared at Liam, “What the fuck you on ‘bout? We can’t have a threesome, knobhead.”
“Why not?”
Noel looked at you before he huffed. “We’re brothers.”
“So. Twins have threesomes in pornos.” Liam huffed.
You burst out laughing and fell back into the cushions. “What are you on ‘bout?”
“How hard is it to understand? The three of us have a threesome. Fuckin’ proper rock star behaviour.” Liam grinned.
“Pretty sure the rock star part ‘bout a threesome is you, shag two birds.” You said to him.
Noel nodded with a frown, “And not yer brother.”
“Am not sayin’ we shag, dickhead. Am sayin’ we shag her.” Liam placed his hand high up on your thigh and gave it a squeeze. “Like in yer dream, love.” He smirked looking to Noel. “She dint mention that I was the third person, did she.”
Noel drew in a deep breath and shook his head, covering his face with his hands as he did. “Fuckin’ ‘ell.” He groaned and sat up. “This is mental.” He looked between you. “We can’t. Imagine what folk would say if they knew.”
“I ain’t tellin’ anyone, are you?” Liam asked.
“Of course not.” Noel huffed.
“Then what’s stoppin’ us?” Liam asked as he looked at Noel then you.
You looked up to Noel bashfully as you chewed on the inside of your cheek. Could you really do this?
Noel’s brow furrowed as he looked away from the two of you. He silently grabbed his cigarette packet from the table and took one out, lighting it and inhaling a big lung full of smoke before letting it out. “I ain’t touchin’ yer dick.” Noel gave Liam a stern look making you laugh. He looked down at you and began smiling to himself. “You really dream ‘bout us both?”
Liam smirked as he snatched Noel’s cigarette from him and inhaled. “Guess which hole you were fillin’.”
“Liam.” You smacked his shoulder. “He doesn’t need to know that.”
Noel raised his eyebrow at you. “Well, if you want yer dream to come true, love, I need to know all the dirty details.” He winked at you making you blush.
You looked up at Liam then Noel before you drew in a deep breath. You pushed the coffee table forwards then slipped off the sofa and knelt on the floor in front of the boys facing them. “It started off with me like this. You two stand in front of me and I suck you both off at the same time.” You whispered as you looked down bashfully. “Before either of you cum, you make me get on the bed and you, Noel,” You run your hand over his thigh gently. “Make me cum with your tongue and fingers… then, you make me cum again whilst stretchin’ my-”
Noel reached out and grabbed a hold of the back of your head pulling you forwards, crashing his lips against yours in a hungry kiss. Liam licked his lips as he stood up and began unbuckling his belt.
You pulled back from Noel with a breathy giggle, “Eager?”
Noel chuckled, “Somet like that.” He looked at Liam and rolled his eyes at Liam stood beside you with his cock out. “Clearly not as eager as him.” Noel joked making you laugh.
“Stop wasting time, man.” Liam smirked at you. He wrapped his hand around his cock and gave it stroke as he looked down at you. “Come get your lips round this, love.” He winked cheekily making you giggle.
You stared up at Liam through your eyelashes, making sure to keep your eyes locked with his as you reached out and slipped your fingers around the base of his cock. You let out a satisfied hum as you ran your tongue over the bulbous head, licking up his pre-cum. Liam let out his own breathy moan as you took him into your mouth. His hand fell to the back of your head as you softly suckled and squeezed the base of his cock just the way he liked.
Noel’s eyes were stuck to the way your lips stretched around Liam’s cock. He watched the way your throat bobbed and the way you slowly stroked your fingers along the length of Laim’s cock. “Fuck,” He drew in a sharp breath as he watched you.
You pulled off Liam’s cock with a pop. You smirked up at Liam before spitting on the head of his cock, stroking the length of him with your hand and using your saliva as lube. You bit your bottom lip as Liam’s head tipped back with a soft moan. “You like that, baby?” You whispered only to receive a deeper moan as you squeezed lightly around Liam’s base. You turned to Noel and gave him your best innocent look, “Joinin’ us?” You asked and battered your eyelashes at him for good measure.
Noel’s throat bobbed as he nodded. He stood up, unbuckling his belt as he did and dropped his jeans. Your eyes widened and your mouth dropped slightly at the sight of him. He wasn’t as long as Liam, but he was a little girthier, and Liam was pretty girthy himself.
“Fuck,” You groaned softly. You felt a little nervous as you wrapped your hand around Noel’s cock. You looked between the two and gulped before looking up at the pair, almost choking on your breath at the sight above you. Shit, that’s hot.
“Go on, love. Put him in yer mouth.” Liam nodded before pulling his shirt up over his head.
You looked back to Noel with a soft smile before you leaned forwards and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of his cock. Noel’s eyes fell shut as he reached out and laid his hand over your cheek, he needed to ground himself. Your lips felt like heaven against him.
“Oh, fuck,” He let out a low moan as you wrapped your lips around him and moaned.
You didn’t move much, just slowly swirling your tongue around his hot tip as you stared up at him. You softly squeezed your hand at his base as your other one kept working Liam’s. Liam spat into his hand and ran his palm over his tip, his head tipping back with a deep moan as you moved your hand down to cup his balls, gently squeezing before once more wrapping around his shaft. You pulled off Noel with a pop, grinning when he let out a small whine at the loss of your lips.
You moved your hand slowly along his cock as you stared up at him. “Tell me what you like, Noel. I’ll do whatever you want me to.”
Noel gulped and glanced at Liam before looking back to you. You looked so beautiful on your knees as you stared up at them, looking innocent when you were doing something so sinful. “I, uh, want-” His eyes flicked down to your lace covered chest as he ran his tongue over his lips. “Want to see yer tits… whilst you-”
You giggled and stood up with Liam’s help. He leaned forwards and kissed you hard as he reached round you to unclip your bra with great success having done so plenty of times before without looking. He chucked it somewhere across the room and pressed his face between your breasts, peppering kisses across your supple flesh as his hands groped your backside under your skirt.
“Liam,” You giggled and met Noel’s eyes as Liam took one of your nipples into his mouth making you moaned. “Do you want me to undress or what?”
Liam chuckled as he stood back up straight, “Sorry, love. Y’know I can’t help meself.” He winked at you and delivered a harsh slap to your backside making you yelp.
You went to unzip your skirt, but Noel reached out and stopped you.
“You can leave that on for now, love.” His cheeks flushed as he slowly slid his hand under the hem of your skirt and his fingers wrapped around the lace of your panties. “It makes you look innocent.”
You gasped as you heard the thin material of your panties rip before they fell to your feet. Your eyes widened and looked up to Noel. “Rude. I could have stepped out of them, y’know.”
Noel grinned at you cheekily, “Where’s the fun in that, though.” He pulled you against him and crashed his lips against yours. The velvety tip of his cock pressed against your stomach with pre-cum smearing across your skin making you moan softly into his mouth.
You pulled back from him with a small giggle before dropping back to your knees in front of them. As you looked up at them you took Liam’s cock in your hand and spat on him, slowly stroking him as you took Noel’s in your other hand and repeated your actions. Both moaned together as you worked them with your hands. You watched their faces twist in pleasure before wrapping your lips around Noel’s tip, suckling for a moment before you began bobbing your head, taking more of him in each time. After a couple of minutes, you pulled off Noel with a pop and swapped to Liam, repeated the process as you stroked Noel with your hand.
Noel and Liam alternated from watching your mouth, to your hands, to your tits bouncing with every bob of your head. The little moans and slurps making their cocks twitch in your hold. It was like being in heaven and hell at the same time.
“Fuck.” Noel moaned deeply as you took his full length into your mouth until the head of his cock was deep in your throat. His eyes rolled shut as he gripped your hair in his hand.
You pulled back gasping for air, your eyes watering as you looked up at Noel with a wicked grin before you moved onto Liam and did the same thing.
“Fuck me, love.” Liam moaned as he slid his hand under your chin and thrust his hips towards your face, fucking your mouth slightly as you sucked his cock like your life depended on it.
Noel’s eyes were fixed on the way your mouth and throat happily accepted Liam’s cock making him groan and look away. “Fuck.” He gulped and shook his head. “Uh, can we, move over to the bed? If Y/n keeps suckin’ me cock am gonna cum before anythin’ else happens.” He chuckled softly making you pull off Liam’s cock making him huff.
“Sorry, am bein’ greedy.” You grinned up at him with a small giggle.
Liam reached down and helped you stand up. “It’s only cause he’s old, love.” Liam joked before he pressed another kiss to your lips.
Noel rolled his eyes, “Piss off. I just want to get me head between her legs.” Noel winked at you with a playful grin making you blush. He reached out for your hand, “Can’t wait to make her cum.” He said as he pulled you towards him and moved over to the bed.
Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as Noel unzipped your skirt and pushed it down to the floor before he finally removed his top. You let your eyes wonder over Noel’s body, biting your bottom lip as you reached out and gently run your fingers over Noel’s chest, looking up to meet his gaze. You blushed and looked down, only for Noel to pinch your chin and raise your head so you were looking at his face.
“We don’t need to go any further if you don’t want to, love.” He whispered wearing a soft smile.
You felt your heart flutter. “I want to.” You whispered and smiled up at him. “Do you?”
Noel nodded and pressed a kiss to your lips, “Lay down for me, love.”
You climbed onto the bed as Noel knelt on the floor. He gave you a playful wink as you laid on your back with your thighs spread before he dragged you to the edge of the bed making you giggle.
Noel smirked at you and looked down to your glistening pussy, “Fuck… yer beautiful.” Noel whispered as he stroked his knuckles between your folds making your breath catch in the back of your throat. Noel licked his lips as did it again but this time he kept his eyes on your face as he did it. The way your brow furrowed, and your mouth opened slight made his cock twitch. “Fuck…”
Noel didn’t waste any more time. He leaned forwards and pressed his mouth against your cunt. You let out a deep moan as Noel ran his tongue up and down your pussy, dipping it inside and fucking you with it before licking back up to your clit. With his free hand, Noel took a hold of his cock and jerked himself off in time with his tongue, moaning into your cunt. You reached down and threaded your fingers through his hair and rolled your hips against his mouth.
“Fuck.” You groaned arching your back off the bed as Noel nudged your sensitive clit with his nose as he tongue fucked you making your eyes roll back.
Liam let out his own deep moan from where he had pulled up a chair. You glanced over to him and let out a deep pornographic moan at the sight. He had pulled out a bottle of lube from somewhere and was jerking himself off as he watched you fall apart. “You look so fuckin’ gorgeous, baby.” He hissed as he rolled his palm over the head of his cock.
Noel spat directly onto your cunt, pushing his index and middle fingers inside of you making you moan deeply and move your attention back to him as he pumped them in and out of you. He continued to suck on your clit as he curled his fingers pushing against your G-spot. “C’mon, baby,” He moaned against you as he curled and twisted his fingers making you gasp for breath. “If you want me to stretch you open… need you to cum for me… c’mon, baby… yer cunt feels so fuckin’ tight.” He growled against you before taking your clit back between his lips.
Your eyes rolled backwards as sucked harshly on your clit and curled his fingers just right, making your cry out and cum around his fingers.
He pulled back with a smirk, “Fuckin’ gorgeous.” He licked his lps.
Liam groaned, “Wait until she cum’s around yer cock.”
Noel frowned and ignored him. He withdrew is fingers and let you catch your breath. “You good, love?”
You nodded and raised your head to look at him between your legs and gave him a tired smile. You let out a soft moan as Noel sucked on his fingers and winked at you. A breathy moan coming from Liam drew your attention back over to him. “Yer not stayin’ there are you?”
Liam grinned, “Just enjoyin’ the show.” He winked at you as he stood up and walked over to the bed. “You gonna let r’Noel stretch yer other hole?” He asked as he held the lube up with a grin.
You nodded grinning.
Noel shook his head with a chuckle as he took the lube from Liam. “Full of surprises you are.”
“You’ve seen nowt yet.” Liam grinned. “C’mon,” Liam patted the bed in front of him. “Hands and knees…”
You rolled over and got onto your hands and knees letting out a small giggle as you heard Noel groan behind you. Liam rolled his eyes and delivered a hard slap to your backside making you yelp. You glared up at him, “Oi, Noel’s in charge of that.” You let out another yelp as Noel slapped your left cheek. You looked over your shoulder to find him grinning. “Yer lucky yous are cute.” You rolled your eyes.
Noel looked up to Liam, “You gonna stuff her mouth so she stops her mardin’?”
Liam chuckled as he took hold of his cock in his right hand and the back of your head in his other, “Open up princess.”
You eagerly opened your mouth for Liam to slip his cock into your mouth. You moaned almost instantly, sucking and swirling your tongue around the tip.
Noel ran his tongue over his bottom lip as he admired the slight red handprints on your backside and your glistening pussy. He placed his hands on both cheeks and spread them apart before he spat onto your puckered hole smirking when you moaned around Liam’s cock. He slowly began pressing his thumb against your puckered hole.
“Fuck.” Liam groaned. You moaned around his cock as Noel pushed his thumb fully into you. Liam’s hips slowly began moving, “You… don’t need to be so gentle with her.” He bit his lip and tightened his hold on your hair as you swallowed around him. “I’ve played plenty with her recently… she fuckin’ loves it… don’t you, gorgeous, ay? She’s a proper, dirty slag. Aren’t you?” Liam asked as he gave your cheek a soft pat making you moan even more around him.
Noel pulled his thumb out of you and grabbed the lube, squirting a generous amount onto his index and middle fingers then some onto your arsehole. The coolness made you gasp around Liam’s cock and in turn made him groan and shove his cock further into your mouth. Noel pressed his thick fingers against your tight hole and slowly began working them inside.
You pulled off Liam’s cock and cried out, “Fuuuhk.” You bent down and pressed your forehead against the bed. “God, Noel,” You groaned as he twisted his wrist and worked his fingers back and forth. “M-More,” You begged.
“More?” Liam smirked and reached down to wrap his hand around your throat and raise your head back up so he could push his cock back into your mouth. “Keep suckin’, love… I’ll give you more.” He said as he looked down at Noel.
You moaned around his cock as he kept a firm hold of your throat. Fucking into your mouth as he reached behind you and pushed two of his fingers inside of your cunt making you cry out around his cock.
Noel and Liam worked in tandem, their fingers fucking both holes as Liam fucked into your mouth, keeping a firm hold of your throat so you couldn’t move away. You drooled and whined around his cock as your cunt squeezed around Liam’s fingers.
“Fuck,” Noel leaned forwards and pressed his lips against the inside of your thighs, lightly nipping at your skin making you gasp. “You gonna cum, sweet girl?”
Liam moaned, “She’s fuckin’ close. Her cunt is squeezin’ me fingers so fuckin’ hard… slap her arse… go on… call her a slag, she loves it.” He smirked at Noel.
Noel frowned, “I ain’t doin’ that.”
Liam rolled his eyes and pulled his cock out of your mouth. “Tell him.” Liam ordered as he kept fucking you with his fingers.
You nodded whining, “Yes. Please. Can I cum?”
“I said, tell him.” He gave your cheek a soft pat. “Use yer fuckin’ words like a big girl and we might let you cum.”
“Call me a slag… please, Noel.” You whined and pushed yourself back onto their fingers. “Need to cum.”
Liam once again held your throat, “Open.” He ordered and shoved his cock inside your mouth making you choke as he hit your throat.
“Christ, Liam.” Noel frowned slightly. “Do you need to be so fuckin’ rough?”
Liam grinned at him, “She loves it. Trust me. You want her to make a mess, call her a slag.” Liam pushed his cock to the back of your throat and held it there, waiting until tears formed in your eyes before he pulled out.
You gasped for air. “Shit. Please. Need to cum.” You whined as Liam shoved a third finger into your pussy. “Please,” You cried out.
Noel reluctantly gave your backside a harsh slap. “You like that?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
“Yeah? You like it rough?” He asked, giving your backside another smack as he slipped another finger inside your tight hole making you cry out.
“Fuck, yes.” You pushed back onto their fingers, desperately fucking them, hoping for that sweet relief.
Liam quickly shoved his cock back into your mouth making you gag as he harshly fucked your throat.
“Look at you. Fuckin’ yerself on us fingers like a whore... ay? Desperate, aren’t you. Fuckin’ slag.” Noel delivered one final harsh slap to your backside making your eyes roll back as you cried out around Liam’s cock and began cuming around his fingers.
Liam withdrew from your mouth and quickly removed his fingers from your pussy. He worked your clit in harsh, firm circles making a noise that was somewhere between a strangled scream, and a cry escape your tired throat. Noel's eyes stayed locked onto your cunt as he kept fucking your arsehole with his fingers. He watched as you made a mess, your juices squirt all over his and Liam’s hands as Liam kept rubbing your cunt.
“S’too much,” You gasped, feeling your body go limp as you fell forwards.
“Fuck me,” Noel slowly withdrew his fingers from you, groaning as he watched your cunt and arsehole twitch. Beautiful.
“Love?” Liam knelt beside the bed and gently stroked your hair back from your face as you laid curled up on your side. “Y/n?” He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, “You with us?”
Noel’s brow furrowed as he watched the two of you.
“Babe?” Liam cupped your face and smiled as you began to look up at him with a tired smile. “Lost you for a minute then.” He chuckled softly and helped you sit up.
You hummed, “Think I went to space,” You giggled making Liam chuckle.
“Not surprised.” He smirked as he looked down at the mess you’d made. “You good to carry on?”
You nodded and looked back to Noel with a smile. “I don’t think I can take both of you together... s’too much.”
Noel offered you a small smile. “That’s fine, love. Don’t think me back will hack it.” He winked at you making you laugh. “Yous go first.” Noel leaned forwards and kissed you softly.
You nodded and looked up to Liam, “How’d you want me, Liam?”
“Back. Then r’Noel can suck yer tits like I know he’s desperate to.” Liam smirked, looking proud when he managed to make Noel blush.
You let out a small giggle as you were manhandled into yet another position, so your head was dangling off the bed almost as Liam settled between your legs. You bit your bottom as you watched Liam slipped a condom on, giving you cheeky grin and wink as he did before he pushed the head of his cock into your cunt.
Your let out a low, breathy moan arching your back. “Oh God, Liam.”
Liam wrapped your legs around his waist and gripped your hips firmly as he delivered a harsh thrust making you yelp. “Fuck. Yer cunt is tight.” He grunted.
Noel watched your face twist in pleasure, and your tits bounce with each thrust. He absentmindedly reached out and cupped your breasts in his hands, moaning softly as he kneaded them. “Fuck,” He let out his own breathy groan as you wrapped your right hand around his cock. “God, Y/n,” His mouth hung open and his eyes screwed shut.
You slowly began stroking his cock, twisting your hand around him. His hips snapped forward, fucking your hand.
He moaned, giving another roll of his hips, sliding his cock over your palm. He pressed his face between your breasts, lightly leaving open mouthed kisses against them. “S’good,” He moaned. He wrapped his lips around your nipple, sucking and swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud as he kept fucking your hand.
“God,” You moaned loudly, your lips brushing Noel’s sweaty neck as Liam slammed into you letting out his own groans as he did.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,”
It wasn’t long before you were a whimpering and whining mess under them. Liam fucked you slow and hard as Noel worked on your tits, sucking and licking, occasionally nipping. The moment Liam pressed his thumb against your throbbing clit you were done, creaming out. Liam picked up a bit of pace until he couldn’t take any more of your cunt squeezing his cock. He gave one final hard thrust and he too came, filling the condom full of cum.
“Shit.” He panted, slowly he pulled out of you, making you whine and fall onto the bed beside you. “Fuck,” He let out a breathy chuckle.
Noel carefully lifted your tired body off the edge of the bed before you fell, the two of you giggling as he did. “Want a line to wake you up?” He asked as a joke.
You nodded, “As long as I can sniffled it off you this time.” You joked back.
“Alrigh’.” Noel winked and went to get the coke. He joined you back on the bed and gave you the bag if coke. “You choose where.”
You shook your head with a small giggle as you told him to lay back a bit. You emptied some out onto his stomach just next to his belly button and inhaled, making sure to lick any up you may have left behind.
Noel groaned from deep in his throat as you lapped at his skin. “My turn,” Noel smirked as he sat up and crashed his lips against yours, taking the bag if coke from you. He pushed you back onto the bed and looked at Liam, “You want some?”
Liam nodded.
Noel emptied two lots out onto each of your breasts just above your nipple and gave you a wink before he leaned down, inhaling it in before swirling his tongue around your nipple making your groan. As he continued, Liam inhaled his before doing the same to your other nipple. The two of them sucked and nipped at your breasts making your eyes roll shut and the filthiest of moans fall from your lips. You reached up and threaded your fingers through their hair, pulling their face away from your tits and up to your mouth. You crashed your lips against Noel’s first as Liam started kissing and sucking your throat. Noel licked into your mouth as Liam lightly bit and sucked a mark onto your throat. After a few minutes they swapped, Noel leaving an equally big matching mark on the opposite side of your throat.
They were driving you mad. “Please, Noel...” You whined as he bit your neck lightly.
Noel pulled back from you with chuckle, “Still so desperate, even after bein’ fucked once.”
Liam chuckled as he sat up against the headboard and spread his legs out in front of him. “She loves it, don’t you, love?”
You nodded biting your bottom lip as you sat up and got onto your knees. You crawled over to Liam and began kissing his neck. “You love it too... yer just as much of a slut as I am.” You licked his throat making him groan before nipping just below his jaw where you knew he loved. “Gonna let me suck yer cock again? Please… baby boy.” You whispered teasingly making Liam groan.
He nodded breathlessly as your hand wrapped around his cock that had begun to stiffen again. “Fuck,”
Noel stood up and gave the inside of your thigh a smack making you yelp, “C’mon. Hands and knees. Now.” Noel ordered.
You looked back at him over your shoulder as you moved backwards on your hands and knees. You leaned forwards, spreading your legs as you gave your backside a wiggle.
Noel rolled his eyes before slapping his hand across your backside making you yelp. “Fuckin’ brat.” He muttered and grabbed a condom.
You bit back a moan as you watched him roll it down his cock.
Noel smirked as he watched you. He stepped forwards and gently slid both his hands over your hips making your breath catch in your throat. He held your cheeks a bit firmer and spread them apart to get a better view of your puckered hole. “You sure you want this, love?”
You moaned and nodded. “Yes.” Your breath stuttered as he began rubbing his hard length between your spread cheeks teasingly. “Oh, fuck…" You gasped.
"Fuck!" Noel’s eyes closed with a moan.
Liam groaned as he watched your face and listened to you beg, his cock twitched in your hand as he ran his eyes over your body as Noel slowly teased you.
You let out a breathy moan as he slid his cock a few back and forth a couple times. “Please.” You begged.
“C’mon, love. Stop teasin’…” Liam’s fingers gently tugged your hair to get your attention back on him.
You leaned down and wrapped your lips around his cock once more, moaning at the salty taste.
Noel picked the lube back up and squirted some into his hand, coating his cock generously in it before he pushed two of his fingers that were coated in the lube against your puckered hole, easily stretching and slipping inside. You let out a deep moan around Liam’s cock as you pushed back onto Noel’s fingers. Noel licked his lips as he removed his fingers and took hold of his cock and gently pressed the head against your puckered hole.
“Shh, baby,” He whispered as he ran his hand over your hip soothingly as you cried out at the intrusion.
Liam cupped your cheek with his hand, “You doin’ great, gorgeous.”
You pulled off Liam’s cock with a pop, “Fuuuuhk.” Your eyes closed as you lowered your upper body against the bed, your fingers screwing up in the covers as Noel slowly filled you.
Noel’s mouth fell slack as your arsehole swallowed his cock. He moved at a slow pace, slowly filling you to the brim with his cock until his balls were flush against your cunt. You let out a pornographic moan and your eyes rolled backwards at the feeling. “Christ,” He hissed as he settled within you for a moment to catch his breath.
“Fuck me,” Liam moaned at the sight of you. “Baby, still with us?” He asked as he ran his hand over your back.
You hummed and slowly pushed yourself up onto your hands, hissing slightly as you shifted on Noel’s cock. “M’good… s’full.” You opened your eyes and looked up to Liam, licking your lips. He looked so fucking beautiful spread out in front of you, your hand still wrapped around his hard cock. “Kiss me, Liam.” You whispered.
Liam grinned at you and leaned down as he threaded his fingers through your hair and pulled you forwards, pressing his lips against yours. His tongue slipped inside and licked deep into your mouth.
"Fuck." Noel moaned as you slipped off his cock. “Can I move, Y/n? Please… am gonna,” Noel groaned again as you pulled back from Liam and pushed back onto his cock. Noel’s fingers dug into your hips.
“Please, Noel. Need it. Need you.” You whined as his cock filled your arsehole again.
Noel breathed in deeply before slowly he withdrew his cock from you. “Fuuuck,” He let out a deep moan as he began pushing back inside you.
“God!” You cried out as he pushed back in a bit further. “Fuck… yes,” You let out a breathy moan. You reached down and wrapped your lips around Liam’s cock as Noel slowly fucked into you.
“Ohh, baby, yer doin’ s’good.” He whispered against your lips. “Lookin’ so fuckin’ beautiful. All fucked out… fuckin’ gorgeous. Ain’t she, Noel?”
Noel nodded with a deep moan, “Perfect.” His head fell back. “Fuckin’, perfect,” He smacked your arse cheek making you pulled of Liam’s cock with sharp cry.
Liam pulled you to him and crashed his mouth against yours, moaning into your mouth as your hand squeezed around his cock.
"Oh, fuck!" You gasped against Liam’s mouth. "Please, Noel-" You gave a roll of your hips. "Harder." You begged.
Noel licked his lips as his eyes met Liam’s for reassurance. When Liam nodded, Noel gripped your hips tighter and began moving faster, firmer, his hips began to bounce against your backside.
"Oh God, yes!" You cried out loudly as Noel pushed in deeper.
“Fuck,” Liam moaned as he watched you. With each harsh thrust Noel delivered, your tits bounced, and your face screwed up in pleasure mixed with pain. “You close, love? You gonna cum for us?”
You nodded whimpering as Noel fucked you harder and faster. Your eyes rolled backwards as Noel delivered another harsh slap to your backside whilst Liam fondled your breasts.
“Shit, baby. That’s it-” Noel moaned loudly. He reached round and pressed his fingers against your clit making you gasp and moan.
You were a babbling mess between them. “Oh, God… yes!” You moaned, pushing yourself back to meet Noel’s thrusts.
Liam pinched your nipple in between his thumb and index finger, tugging on it as he fucked your hand. "Takin’ us cocks, so, good."
Noel groaned loudly at the sound of his balls slappy against your wet pussy. “Fuckin’ slag!”
You nodded whimpering as his cock hit deeper inside you. "FUCK! YES! NOEL!” You cried out cuming and pushed Noel over the edge with you.
Noel delivered one final hard thrust and settled inside you, cuming hard as he gripped your hip and thigh in his hands.
“Fuck me.” Liam whimpered as it all became too much. His balls tightened and his cock spurted cum all over your hand and his stomach. “Oh, god…” He dropped his head back against the headboard.
Your body felt like jelly suddenly, almost falling forwards on top of Liam. He carefully moved you to the side as Noel withdrew from you making you whimper.
Noel’s chest heaved as he caught his breath and laid out beside the two of you on the bed, his arm resting over his eyes as he did. “Well, fuck,”
You let out a breathy giggle as you slowly rolled over onto your back. “I ache in places I din’t know you could.”
Liam chuckled, “We ain’t doin’ that again.” He groaned as he slid down the headboard and laid beside you. “Me back’s fuckin’ killin’ me.”
Noel shook his head with a breathy chuckle. “And he says am old.” He looked down to you with a grin, “Proper rock star behaviour, aye love?” He winked making you giggle.
“Fuck off.”
Silence settled over the room as the three of you laid beside each other. It was a while before anyone spoke, and it was Noel that broke the silence.
“I should, uh, get to me room… shower and that.” He sounded a little awkward as he sat up.
Liam looked down at you and nodded, “I’ll go stick the shower on, love.” He stood up and walked into the bathroom without a care making you smile to yourself.
You grabbed the covers and pulled them over yourself as Noel gathered his things and dressed quickly. “So…” You started, “Things won’t be awkward between us now, will they?”
Noel paused on the end of the bed, his shoes half on and his shirt unbuttoned. “There’s no need for it to be… Right?”
You shook your head, “No. Of course not.”
“… Not like we’re gonna be, spoutin’ our mouths off ‘bout tonight… are we?”
You shook your head, “Our secret.” You offered him a small smile which he returned.
Noel stood up, “I best be off… see you tomorrow, yeah.” He leaned over the bed and kissed your cheek before he began making his way to the day. “See you tomorrow, knobhead.” He called out to Liam before opening the door and leaving.
Liam stepped back into the room with a heavy sigh, “You should make the first move. Admit how you feel.”
You shook your head, “Don’t think it’ll change anyhtin’, Liam… he’s not interested.”
Back in his room, Noel stood under the shower with his head against the wall. What a fuckin’ idiot, he thought to himself. How can you be in love with your brother’s, bird?
The Yellowstone's Healer of the Heart. - John Dutton x female reader (Y/n Thorne/Y/n L/n) Chapter 2/?
A Dutton's Claim, A Thorne's End
August 1998
The August heat in Montana was thick and oppressive, a shimmering haze that made the mountains look like a smudge of charcoal against a brassy sky. You pulled your truck into the Yellowstone gravel at 7:00 AM, two hours behind schedule.
John was standing by the equipment shed, his arms crossed over his chest, his face a mask of iron. He’d been watching the drive for over an hour. As you stepped out of the truck, the door creaking in the stillness, he didn't even wait for you to reach him.
"You're late," he called out, his voice sharp and clinical. "The horses for the North pasture should have been saddled an hour ago. I don't care how many degrees you're working on, Y/n, on this ranch, time is the only thing we can't afford to waste."
You didn't stop walking. You didn't even look at him. Your eyes were fixed on the stable doors, your movements mechanical, like a clockwork doll winding down. Your clothes were wrinkled, your hair was a mess of tangles, and your skin had a grey, translucent quality that made you look like a ghost wandering into the light.
"I'm going to work, John," you said, your voice a flat, hollow rasp.
John stepped into your path, his brow furrowed. He was used to your fire, your quick-witted retorts. This silence was wrong. "I'm talking to you. Look at me."
You stopped, finally lifting your gaze. Your eyes were bloodshot and rimmed with a terrifying, dry grief. "My mother died three hours ago," you said, the words falling out of your mouth like stones. "I'm going to the stables. I have work to do."
You pushed past him, your shoulder clipping his. John stood frozen for a beat, the air leaving his lungs as if he’d been kicked by a mule. He turned, watching your retreating back, before he followed you into the cool, dim shadows of the barn.
"Y/n, wait," he said, his voice dropping the authority, replaced by a rare, jagged concern. "What do you mean she's gone? What happened?"
You were at the tack room, reaching for a saddle that was too heavy for you to lift with your trembling hands. You hauled it off the rack, and it crashed to the dirt floor, the stirrups clattering. You stared at it for a second, then dropped to your knees, your fingers clawing at the leather.
"She was in pain," you whispered, the dam finally cracking. "She was screaming, John. I told him... I told Silas we needed the doctor. I told him she needed the morphine, something to stop the transition from being a goddamn torture chamber."
John moved toward you, reaching out, but you flinched back, your voice rising in a frantic, broken pitch.
"He wouldn't let me out! He told me I was a doctor now, that I should 'fix it.' He locked the door from the outside, John. He told me to make her comfortable and then he went to his study with a bottle of bourbon. My brothers... they just left. They went into town because they didn't want to hear her. They left me in there with her."
You looked up at him, tears finally spilling over, hot and thick. "I'm a vet. I can perform a C-section in a field, I can stitch a lung, but I couldn't do a single thing for her. I just held her hand and watched the light go out of her eyes while my father drank himself into a stupor downstairs. I had to wait for her to go cold before he’d even turn the key."
The rage that flickered in John’s eyes was tectonic—a silent, murderous heat directed toward the Silver Thistle. But as you collapsed forward, your forehead resting against the dusty saddle, the patriarch of the Yellowstone disappeared.
He didn't hesitate. He dropped to the dirt beside you and pulled you into his chest, his large, calloused hands wrapping around your head and shoulders, anchoring you. He held you with a fierce, protective grip that had nothing to do with neighbours and everything to do with the bond forged in the line shack.
"I've got you," he muttered into your hair, his voice thick and grounding. "Shh. You're here now. You're at the Yellowstone."
You sobbed into his shirt, the smell of tobacco and old leather finally breaking the numbness. For a few minutes, the world was just the sound of your ragged breathing and the steady, heavy beat of John’s heart. He didn't offer empty platitudes or tell you it would be okay. He simply held you in the dirt, a silent sentinel against the cruelty of the man across the fence line.
"You aren't going back there today," John said, his grip tightening as you tried to pull away. "You aren't going back there at all if I have a say in it. You stay here. You hear me? You're with us now."
The day of the funeral was a suffocating display of hypocrisy. From the window of your childhood bedroom, you watched the black SUVs and mud-splattered trucks line the drive of the Silver Thistle. Your father had made his decree the night before, his breath stinking of cheap rye and malice. "You're the reason she gave up," he’d hissed, his hand heavy on the doorframe. "You brought the smell of the morgue into this house with your books and your scalpels. You aren't fit to stand at her grave. You stay here, or you leave for good."
He didn't just ban you; he broke you. He took the one thing you had left—the right to say goodbye—and turned it into a weapon of penance.
But you weren't a girl who followed orders anymore. As the procession moved toward the family plot, you slipped out the back, cutting through the tall grass and the jagged fence line. You didn't head for the cemetery. You headed for the "Witch’s Finger," a rocky outcropping on the edge of the Yellowstone property where the wild lavender grew thick. It was the only place your mother had ever looked truly happy, away from the demands of the Thorne men.
The sky, as if sensing the rot in the valley, finally split open.
The rain wasn't a drizzle; it was a deluge, cold and relentless, turning the dirt to a slurry of grey mud. You stood at the edge of the cliff, your black silk dress clinging to your skin like a second, mourning skin. In your hands, you clutched a bouquet of wild Thistle and Larkspur, now battered and sodden, their petals bleeding colour onto your pale knuckles. You weren't just crying; you were shattering, the sound of your grief lost in the roar of the wind.
John found you there. He hadn't seen you at the service, and the moment he saw Silas Thorne’s smug, drunken face without you by his side, he knew. He’d left the mourners behind, driving his truck through the mud until the terrain grew too rough, then tracking you on foot through the storm.
"Y/n!"
His voice cut through the rain, low and commanding. He looked like a titan in the mist, his waxed canvas coat dark with water. When he reached you, he didn't ask why you were there. He saw the way you were swaying on the edge, the way your eyes were fixed on the void below.
"He wouldn't let me say goodbye, John," you choked out, the flowers slipping from your fingers and tumbling into the ravine. "He told me I killed her. He told me my hands were too dirty to touch her casket."
John’s jaw set into a hard, dangerous line. He stepped toward you, his boots heavy in the muck, and pulled you back from the ledge. His hands were warm—blisteringly warm against your frozen skin. "He’s a small man, Y/n. A small, bitter man trying to drown his shame in your tears. You don't listen to him. You hear me?"
But the logic didn't reach the part of you that was screaming. You looked up at him, your eyelashes spiked with rain and salt, and the despair in your gaze was so absolute it made his breath hitch. You didn't want comfort. You didn't want a sermon on strength. You wanted to vanish. You wanted the world to stop turning, to stop hurting, even for a second.
"Make me forget," you whispered, reaching out to grab the lapels of his coat, pulling him down toward you. "Please, John. I can't breathe. I can't... I just need to feel something else. Anything else."
"Y/n, you're grieving. You don't know what you're asking," he rasped, though his hands had already found your waist, his thumbs digging into the soft curve of your hips. He knew it was a betrayal of his friend, a betrayal of the order of things, a sin against the very dirt they stood on.
"I know exactly what I'm asking," you cried, your voice breaking against his chest. "I’m a doctor, remember? I know how much it takes to stop the heart from breaking. Help me. Please."
The look in your eyes—the raw, feral need for an escape—broke the last of his resolve. John didn't say another word. He swept you up, carrying you through the downpour to a secluded hunter’s lean-to tucked beneath a canopy of ancient, weeping hemlocks.
Inside, the world was reduced to the sound of rain hammering on the tin roof and the frantic, heavy rhythm of your breathing. There was no gentleness, no slow build. It was a collision of two people who had spent their lives holding back the tide, finally letting it pull them under.
John stripped away the wet silk of your dress with a desperate efficiency, his hands trembling with a mix of hunger and a protective rage that he couldn't voice. When he pushed you back against the rough-hewn timber of the wall, the friction of the wood and the heat of his body felt like the only real things left in the universe.
It was fast, punishing, and honest. He held you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, his mouth devouring your cries of grief and turning them into something else—something sharp and vital. In the dark, with the scent of pine and rain-drenched wool filling the air, he drove the image of your mother’s cold hand and your father’s sneer out of your mind. For those minutes, there was only the weight of him, the burn of his skin, and the raw, rhythmic pulse of life that Silas Thorne couldn't touch.
When it was over, the silence that followed wasn't cold. John didn't pull away. He stayed wrapped around you, his heavy coat draped over both your shivering bodies as the storm began to lose its teeth. He held you against his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head, his heartbeat steady and slow against your ear.
"You're a Thorne by blood," he whispered into the quiet, his voice like gravel. "But you're a Dutton by spirit. And as long as I’m standing, you never have to face that man alone again. You hear me? Never again."
You didn't answer. You just closed your eyes, finally still, the heat of him acting as the only medicine that could actually reach the wound. In the aftermath of the storm, as the rain turned to a soft mist, you weren't the "neighbour’s daughter" or the "intended." You were his, forged in the mud and the grief, a secret buried deep in the soil of the Yellowstone.
The rain eventually tapered off into a rhythmic dripping from the hemlock needles, leaving the world in a state of saturated, heavy silence. The air in the lean-to was thick with the scent of damp earth and the ghost of the heat you had shared. John was the first to move, his transition back into the role of the stoic patriarch as swift and surgical as a knife twist. He didn't look at you with pity; he looked at you with a grim, shared understanding of the cost of survival.
With hands that were remarkably steady, he helped you back into the ruined silk of your black dress. He didn't fumble with the small buttons at the nape of your neck; his fingers moved with the same clinical precision you used in the clinic, cinching the fabric closed. He draped his heavy, waxed canvas coat over your shoulders to hide the mud and the tears in the hem. He didn't say a word as he led you back to his truck, the engine’s low growl the only thing disturbing the funereal quiet of the ridge.
The drive back to the Silver Thistle was a study in compartmentalization. By the time the gravel of your father's driveway crunched beneath the tires, the man who had held you with desperate ferocity was gone. In his place sat John Dutton, the neighbour, the business partner, the man with a legacy to protect.
"Dry your eyes," he said, his voice flat and gravelly, devoid of the intimacy from an hour ago. "You walked off to clear your head because the grief got too heavy. You found shelter in one of my line shacks and I happened across you while checking the fences. That’s the story. Keep it simple."
He didn't wait for your nod. He climbed out, rounded the hood, and opened your door. The mask was perfect. When your father, Silas, stumbled out onto the porch—eyes bloodshot and a fresh glass of amber liquid in his hand—John met his gaze with a terrifyingly neutral expression.
"Found her out near the Finger, Silas," John called out, his voice projecting the weary patience of a man doing a neighborly chore. "The storm caught her. She’s cold and she’s had enough of a day. I’d suggest you let her get to bed before the pneumonia sets in and wastes that tuition you’re paying."
You climbed out of the truck, the heavy coat slipping from your shoulders. John caught it before it hit the mud. For a split second, your fingers brushed his as you handed it back. It was the only moment of truth—a spark of heat that nearly burned through the facade. Then, you turned and walked past your father without a word, the "future vet" returning to her cage, while John tipped his hat and drove away.
Silas grunted, looking between the two of you with a hazy suspicion that couldn't quite find a foothold. "Always the damn hero, aren't you, John? Get inside, girl. You look like a drowned rat."
The Yellowstone's Healer of the Heart. Chapter 1/? - The History of Y/n Thorne.
John Dutton x female reader (Y/n Thorne/Y/n L/n)
(Photo not mine)
Series/Chapter warnings: 18+ readers, grief, death, toxic father, abusive father, abusive brothers, old fashioned views, description of medical procedures (may not be accurate), violence, blood, sexism, protective John Dutton, protective reader, talks of arranged marriage, swearing, smut, pining, longing, older man/younger woman, age gap - 15 years
Growing up on the Silver Thistle, a ranch that shared a jagged thirty-mile fence line with the Yellowstone, meant your life was dictated by the same unforgiving geography as the Duttons. You were the youngest of four, a girl born into a house of men who viewed you as something to be protected, polished, and eventually married off. Your father, Silas Thorne, forbade you from the brutality of the chutes and the branding pens. He'd often mumble, "It's a man's job, girl," before sending you next door to "play" with the Dutton boy. He didn't realise in doing so, he was handing you over to the very life he tried to deny you.
From the moment you were old enough to climb a fence, you and Lee were inseparable. To your parents and grandparents, you were a charming pastoral romance in the making, John Dutton Sr (Lee's grandfather) and your father already spoke of your eventual union as a way to consolidate grazing rights and bloodlines. To you and Lee, however, neither of you saw marriage (at least not with each other), you were just two friends living your life by each other's side. Your bond was forged in sweat and rebellion. You were Lee's sanctuary and his greatest competitor while both John Sr. and John Jr. (Lee's father) were often hard on Lee, grooming him to be the stoic soldier of the Yellowstone.
You weren't just "playing"; you were becoming the finest ranch hand the Yellowstone never officially hired. Under the watchful, often amused eyes of the Yellowstone veterans, you developed a seat on a horse that was more fluid than any of your brothers' or even Lee. You didn't break horses; you negotiated with them. You possessed an innate "cow sense", that rare ability to predict where a heifer would bolt before she even twitched. By twelve, you could move a hundred head through a narrow gate better than men twice your age. John Dutton saw it. He watched you from the porch, a quiet observer of the way you commanded the dirt. He saw that you had the "mean" required to survive Montana, a grit your father tried to smother under sundresses and piano lessons.
While Silas spoke of your future in terms of "settling down", John spoke to you like a partner in the making. He knew that while your brothers loved the status of the ranch, you loved the beast itself. He saw that your hands were meant for more than just holding a bridal bouquet; they were meant for the messy, vital work of keeping a kingdom alive. He'd seen the way your hands didn't shake when it came time to stitch a barbwire cut or reset a foal's leg.
John (like his father and his son) had always been a man of few words, but his observations were surgical. He had watched you kneel in the freezing muck of a March blizzard to tube feed a weak calf that your own brothers had given up on.
On the days when the wind whipped off the peaks with enough bite to draw blood, and your own father was inside nursing a bourbon by the fire, John would find you in the Yellowstone barns. John would often walk up behind you while you were checking a mare's pulse or treating a hoof abscess. He wouldn't offer to help, he knew you didn't need it. Instead, he'd just nod and watch you work (silent, clinical, and efficient) and he'd see a reflection of the same fire that kept him upright.
There were only two people in the whole world who knew what you really wanted to do with your future: Lee and John. Lee knew because the two of you told each other your deepest, darkest secrets – and John knew because he saw it in your eyes, he saw it in the way you cared for the livestock, the horses, even the predators that stalked the ranch – you didn't want them to suffer.
It was a particularly brutal spring in 1992 when there was a shift. Everyone in the valley was struggling with the cold. A respiratory infection was ripping through the calves, the local vet was three towns over, buried in his own crisis, but you had spent forty-eight hours straight in the Yellowstone sick-pen, calculating fluid replacements and monitoring temperatures with a notebook tucked into your belt, refusing to give up and let a single calf die. This was what prompted the conversation between you and John.
John walked in at 3:00 AM, smelling of tobacco and cold air. He watched you skilfully navigate the math of a complicated dosage, no calculator, just raw focus and a pencil nub.
"Lee said you and your father had words again," John said, leaning against the stall door, his shadow stretching long and jagged over the straw in the dim yellow light of the barn. He wasn't looking at the sick calf; he was looking at the way you didn't flinch when the animal kicked, the way your fingers moved with a surgeon's precision even though they were stained with dirt and medicine.
"He wants me to go to finishing school in Switzerland, John," you said, your voice raspy from lack of sleep and the dry Montana dust. You didn't look up from your notebook as you scribbled the dosage. "Says it'll 'round out' my education. As if being able to identify Mozart is going to help when a heifer is breech in a blizzard."
John let out a short, dry huff that might have been a laugh if the man ever actually laughed. "Switzerland. Lot of mountains. Not enough cows."
"He told me I'm wasting my life playing 'ranch hand' for a family that isn't mine," you continued, finally capping the needle and standing up. Your back popped, a sharp sound in the quiet barn. "He says the Thistle doesn't need a vet; it needs a hostess. He told me if I want to look at blood and guts all day, I should marry a butcher." You huffed.
John pushed off the door, stepping into the pen. He reached out, taking the notebook from your hand. He didn't look at the math; he looked at the notes you'd made in the margins, observations on the calf's breathing, the clarity of its eyes, the subtle shift in its gait.
"Your father is looking at the fence line, Y/n," John said, his voice low and gravelly. "He sees a daughter he can trade for a legacy. But he's blind to what's standing right in front of him." He handed the notebook back, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the cold air feel heavier. "You go to vet school. Not because you need a degree to prove you're smart, I already know you're the smartest person in this valley but because the Yellowstone is going to need a doctor who loves the land as much as the animals. Someone who doesn't look at a ledger when a life is on the line."
"He won't pay for it," you whispered, the admission stinging. "He said if I leave for a 'man's trade,' I leave with nothing but the clothes on my back."
John adjusted his hat, the brim casting a shadow over his face, but his gaze never wavered.
"Silas Thorne might own your name, but he doesn't own your hands. And he sure as hell doesn't own your future." He paused, looking out toward the dark horizon where the Yellowstone met the sky. "You get your applications ready. You go where you need to go. I'll handle your father."
He turned to leave, but stopped at the edge of the stall, looking back over his shoulder.
"And don't worry about Lee. He'll be grumpy for a month, then he'll realize he's just glad he's got someone to call when the world starts dying around him. Now, finish that dose and go get some sleep. You've got a long way to go before you're a doctor."
You don't know when John spoke to your father or what he said to him, but by the following evening when you returned to the Silver Thistle, your father agreed to let you go and pay for your intuition. After his chat with John, Silas viewed your departure for veterinary school as a sophisticated way for a "ranch daughter" to pass the time before marriage, John Dutton saw it for exactly what it was: the sharpening of a blade.
By supporting your career, John was quietly validating your rebellion against your father's traditionalism. He gave you the permission Silas withheld.
When the time came for you to leave for veterinarian school in September of '92, your father believed it was just a faze, but when you looked at John, you saw the truth. And John made it clear: "The Yellowstone will always have a clinic waiting for you. I don't care what your father says about 'hobbies.' You get that degree, and you come home. You'll be the one who keeps this legacy standing when the rest of us are too old to climb a horse."
The transition from the wild, high-altitude freedom of the Yellowstone to the sterile, fluorescent-lit lecture halls of Colorado State University was a physical shock. You arrived in Fort Collins with calloused hands and a wardrobe that smelled faintly of wood smoke and dirt, a stark contrast to the city kids who grew up in suburban clinics smelling sterile.
The first two years were an exercise in biting your tongue. While other students recoiled at the smell of the anatomy lab or struggled to memorize the complex chambers of a ruminant stomach, you moved through the work with a grim, practiced efficiency. Your "cow sense" translated into a terrifyingly accurate diagnostic instinct. Where others saw a list of symptoms, you saw the animal's posture, the subtle tuck of a tail or the glazed look you'd seen a thousand times in a Montana blizzard. You were 500 miles away, but the Yellowstone never left you.
Every Friday night, while your peers were at the local bars, you were at the payphone.
Lee would talk for an hour about the new colts, his voice a tether to the dirt. He was your anchor even if his letters were mostly short notes about fence repairs and weather patterns. Any time you felt homesick, you'd read his letters and you'd be right back there in the dirt of Yellowstone.
John called once a month. He didn't ask about your grades. He'd describe a specific lameness in one of his prize bulls and wait. He'd always say he wasn't checking on you; he was just consulting you. When you gave the right answer, the silence on the other end felt like a coronation. He'd then say the Yellowstone was missing you.
On the rare occasion when you did call the Silver Thistle, if it wasn't your mother who answered the phone, the call would be over within five minutes. Your father asked the same question, "When will you be home?" before he handed the phone to the next person and the line went dead.
As you moved into your clinical years, the "delicate" daughter Silas Thorne tried to cultivate was buried under layers of surgical scrubs and the hardened skin of a surgeon. While your classmates specialized in small animal internal medicine, aiming for clean, suburban practices, you spent your rotations in the mud of the university's large animal clinic.
You became a legend among the professors for your "mountain hands." You could palpate a mare in a freezing barn without flinching, and your sutures were as tight and functional as a well-thrown diamond hitch.
At the Silver Thistle, the silence grew colder. Your brothers were now running the day-to-day operations under Silas, but the ranch was stagnating. They managed the land like a business ledger, not a living thing. Whenever you came home for the briefest of holidays, your father would look at your scarred knuckles and the smell of antiseptic that clung to your skin with visible distaste.
"You've proven your point, Y/n," he'd say over Christmas dinner in 1996. "You've had your fun. Come home, marry Lee, and let's put this 'doctoring' nonsense behind us."
You would roll your eyes and look across the table at your brothers, men who couldn't see a storm coming until the snow hit their hats and then you'd look out the window toward the Yellowstone lights. You weren't a mistress. You were the damn cavalry. And Lee certainly wasn't the man you were dreaming of.
1998
Late spring brought the smell of wood smoke, crisp mornings, the start of life and stagnant grief. It had been a year since Evelyn's horse went down, leaving a hole in the Yellowstone that felt like a canyon. Now, returning from your clinical rotations, you were met with a second blow: your mother's confession that her own time was measured in months, not years.
At twenty-three, you were no longer the "pea in a pod" with Lee. The girl who ran through the dirt had sharpened into a woman with a doctor's hands and a gaze that held too much understanding. When you walked into the Yellowstone main barn, John Dutton didn't see a neighbour's kid. He saw a woman who looked like the future (vibrant, capable, and devastatingly alive) while he felt like a man being erased by the past.
The guilt gnawed at him. To look at you and feel a stir of hunger, especially with Evelyn's ghost still pacing the halls and your mother's life fading next door, felt like a betrayal of the highest order.
"I need to get out of this house," John muttered, tossing a saddle blanket over his big sorrel. "You coming?"
You didn't hesitate. You rode out toward the high ridges, the silence between you heavy with the things neither of you could fix. But the sky turned bruised and purple within the hour. A "black tail" blizzard swept off the peaks, erasing the horizon in a curtain of blinding white.
"The old line shack!" John shouted over the wind. "Lean into the wind, stay on my tail!"
By the time you reached the small, cedar-plank cabin, the world was a void.
Inside, the air was lung-shakingly cold. John moved with a frantic, restless energy, grabbing an old axe to split the seasoned wood stacked in the corner. He was swinging too hard, venting a year's worth of rage on the timber. The blade glanced off a knot, slicing a jagged line across his forearm.
"Dammit," he hissed, dropping the axe as blood blossomed through his heavy coat.
"Sit down, John. Before you bleed out on the only dry floor we've got," you commanded. Your voice was steady, the vet in you taking over.
You didn't have your medical kit but you, you were able to use what you had around you. You tore a strip of clean linen from your shirt, your fingers working with a practiced, clinical grace. You had to peel back his layers, feeling the heat of his skin against the freezing air. As you cleaned the wound with a splash of high-proof whiskey from his flask, the proximity became a physical weight.
You were kneeling between his knees, your face inches from his. The fire he'd managed to start began to crackle, casting a low, amber glow over the room. The smell of cedar, wet wool, and copper blood filled the small space.
John looked down at you, his jaw tight. He saw the way your hair was damp with melted snow and the way your eyes held a grief that mirrored his own. He felt ashamed of how much he wanted to reach out, and yet, the ache of being alone was suddenly louder than the storm outside.
"You're supposed to be at school," he rasped, his voice breaking. "You're supposed to be far away from all this dying."
"I'm exactly where I need to be," you whispered.
He reached out with his uninjured hand, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. It wasn't a gentle gesture; it was desperate. You didn't pull away. You leaned into it, seeking the heat of someone who understood that the land takes as much as it gives.
The whiskey was passed between you, burning and numbing the grief that swam in your veins. When he finally leaned forward and pressed his mouth to yours, it wasn't a cinematic kiss. It was a collision. It tasted of salt and wood smoke.
Everything happened with a frantic, rough urgency. There was no grace in the way you stripped away the heavy layers of denim and wool in front of the growing fire. It was a physical exorcism. On the floorboards, with the storm howling against the logs, it was fast and punishing. It wasn't about love or the "marriage" your parents had planned for you and Lee. It was about proving you were still alive in a year that had been defined by death.
John's hands were calloused and heavy, pinning you to the moment, while you matched his intensity, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. For those frantic minutes, the grief for Evelyn and the fear for your mother were drowned out by the raw, rhythmic heat of the fire and the man holding you.
The fire in the hearth became the only sun in your world that night. Every time the embers began to fade and the Montana chill crept through the chinks in the cabin logs, another swallow of whiskey passed between you - sharp, burning, and blurring the lines of the life you were supposed to lead.
There was no tenderness in the way you moved together; it was a desperate, rhythmic combat against the silence of the valley and the ghosts of the women you were both losing. John's hands were heavy, anchoring you to the present, while you met his intensity with a ferocity that surprised even him. Every time you came together, it was an attempt to sweat out the grief. Under the flickering amber light, you weren't the "neighbour's daughter" or the "future vet" and he wasn't the patriarch. You were just two heart-sore predators hunting for heat in a frozen wasteland.
By the third time, the whiskey had done its work. The urgency slowed into something deeper, a heavy, wordless physical dialogue. You fell into a fitful, shallow sleep wrapped in a moth-eaten wool blanket, the smell of wood smoke and John's skin marking you more permanently than any degree ever could.
When the sun finally broke over the jagged white peaks of the Gallatin Range, the world was blindingly bright and terrifyingly quiet. The storm had passed, leaving three feet of untouched powder and a sky so blue it looked artificial.
Inside the cabin, the fire was cold ash. The intimacy of the night before didn't survive the dawn. As you pulled on your stiff, cold denim and laced your boots, the weight of the Yellowstone—and the Silver Thistle—settled back onto your shoulders.
John stood by the window, his silhouette dark against the snow. He looked older than he had by the firelight, the lines around his eyes etched deep by a decade of hard winters and the fresh trauma of the last year.
"We were freezing," John said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that didn't quite meet your eyes. "The whiskey and the cold... a person does what they have to do to keep their blood moving."
"I know, John," you replied, your voice steady, though your heart was hammering against your ribs. "It was survival. Nothing more."
It was a lie, and you both knew it, but it was the only bridge back to the world where you were supposed to marry his son.
The trek back to the main house was a slog through deep drifts. You rode in single file, the only sound the rhythmic crunch of the horses' hooves and their heavy, steaming breath. As the ranch chimneys came into view, the reality of Lee and your dying mother hit you like a physical blow.
You stopped your horse at the tree line, just before the clearing where the bunkhouse and the main house sat.
John pulled his horse alongside yours. He didn't touch you. "You head straight to your truck," he commanded. "If anyone asks, the storm caught us at the line shack, and we spent the night keeping the horses from freezing. That's the truth of it."
You nodded; your face flushed from the wind and the secret. You didn't say goodbye to Lee. You didn't face your father's scrutiny or your mother's fading eyes. You threw your bags into your truck, the engine groaning in the cold, and drove out of the valley before the mud could even dry on your tires.
As you watched the Yellowstone gates disappear in your rear-view mirror, you felt the sharp sting of the whiskey still on your tongue. You were heading back to the sterile, predictable world of medicine, but you were carrying the heat of John Dutton under your skin, a secret that felt like a slow-acting poison, or perhaps the only thing keeping you warm.
First off, I'm sorry my activity on here has been almost none existent recently.
For a while now I've been struggling with my mental health, and I haven't had to energy or been in the right head space to write (or read) anything. It’s gotten to a point recently where I've had to speak to a doctor after months and months of keeping everything to myself. I've felt like I was drowning in my every day life. I've felt anxious, worthless and like a burden. I lost all interest in things that once gave me so much joy - I found them to be hard work and pointless. It's honestly been such a hard six months or so, but now I've finally spoken to my boyfriend, my family and friends and my doctor about what's been going on, I feel so much better.
It's probably going to take a while to be back to my bright and bubbly self, but I've started the work.
Secondly, I've started rereading my work and coming up with ideas, so hopefully I'll have something new to post soon.
Thank you all for your time and continuous support.
Im a Noel boy so beware of the heavy Bias, we are starved for fics at the moment but my favourite writers are pretty alive for what it's worth
White Mustang always always always by @celestialgallaghers and The Rivalry by @highflyingcami hands down the best series' on this site I cannot get enough... cami always keeps us well fed... mmm borrowed shirt mmm noel's pretty bird mmm amsterdamage Ily cami <3
As far as writers go: @celestialgallaghers @highflyingcami @2manyeggs @shesselectricc @qatarsprint2023 and @strwbryluver absolutely COOK for both Liam and Noel usually smutty but other genres too OH OH AND @daddy-issues-galore OMFDS how could I forget LMFYTTM HAD ME FED FOR MONTHS I miss it so much PLEEAAASEEEE read it and everything else they offer its life changing
And of course I cant do one of these without mentioning my hg @blogbustersii - tread carefully, you'll find some strange things on her blog but youre into it okay? Its fine
thanks for writing my requests 😀 😊 last request promise 😂 based on y/n getting a photography award and Noel is so proud of her and makes sure she's the star of the show.
The muses, muse.
Let me fly you to the moon... oneshot '12!Noel Gallagher x younger!female reader based off this... Part 17
Warnings: 18+ readers only, swearing, fingering, body worship, nipple play, unprotected sex, nude photo - photos not mine, credit to owners
Oct 2nd 2012
You’d been a nervous wreck all day as you slowly got ready for the awards ceremony where your work was being nominated. It felt completely different to when you attended with Noel as his plus one, he'd take the lead and all eyes would be on him, but tonight was about you- you couldn’t hide behind Noel.
In the car, Noel held your hand the whole way, raising it to press a kiss to your knuckles every now and then.
“Don’t be nervous, love. You’re gonna smash it.” He winked at you as you took a shaky breath.
“What if I don’t win? What does that say about me?”
“It says the judges need their head checkin’.” He joked making you huff. “Y/n, bein’ nominated alone is fuckin’ brilliant… whether you win one, two or none at all, you’ll always have the fact that you were chosen out of God knows how many others for three different categories. That’s mad, that is.” Noel kissed your hand again. “Just enjoy yourself and try not to say cunt when you do win.” He winked at you making you grin.
The transition from the quiet of the black town car to the chaotic brilliance of the Abbey Road entrance is like a physical blow. The moment the door clicks open, the air is shredded by the rhythmic, metallic clack-clack-clack of high-end shutters and the blinding, strobing pulse of a hundred flashes.
You step out first, the stiletto heels of your boots hitting the pavement with a sharp, defiant snap. You aren't wearing a floor-length gown or sequins; instead, you’ve opted for the high-low armour of a true rock photographer. Your vintage, faded black The Cure tee is tucked into skin-tight dark denim, topped with a worn-in leather biker jacket that has seen more stage-side beer spills than a pub floor. With your hair slightly tousled and your kohl-rimmed eyes shielded by dark lenses, you look less like a nominee and more like the person the band follows to the after-party.
Noel climbs out behind you, adjusting his jacket and instantly sliding into his "public" persona - half-smirk, half-swagger. He places a hand on the small of your back, guiding you toward the press line where a gauntlet of microphones awaits.
A journalist from a major music mag lunged forward, her digital recorder practically touching your chin. "Over here! The woman behind the lens! You’re up for three tonight. How does it feel to be the one in the frame for once?"
You lean into the mic, your voice cool and steady despite the fluttering in your chest. "It’s a bit… weird, honestly. I’m used to being the invisible person in the pit or lurking in the shadows.” You joked making the people around you laugh. Noel squeezed your hand reassuringly with a soft smile.
"And the outfit!" another reporter shouts from the left. "Very 'Disintegration' era. Is Robert Smith the secret to your aesthetic?"
"He’s the patron saint of moody lighting," you shot back, earning a chuckle from the crowd. "If it’s not dark, atmospheric, and slightly dramatic, I’m probably not interested in shooting it."
Noel, who has been uncharacteristically quiet while letting you take the lead, can’t help but jump in when a reporter asks him if he’s worried about his "muse" becoming more famous than the musician.
He leans over your shoulder, grinning directly into a TV camera. "Look at her," he says, gesturing to your leather-clad silhouette with a flourish of his thumb. "She’s got more rock star DNA in her little finger than half the blokes in the charts right now. I’m just here to carry the equipment if she wins, aren't I? I’m the trophy boyfriend tonight, and I’m perfectly fine with the demotion." Noel winked at you as he placed a possessive hand on your waist pulling you closer to his front sending the photographers and press wild.
The flashbulbs reached a fever pitch at Noel’s "trophy boyfriend" comment, the light turning the world into a flickering, black-and-white reel. You felt the warmth of his chest against your back, his jacket pressing against yours, and for a split second, the nerves vanished. He wasn't just standing by you; he was acting as your human shield, absorbing the frantic energy of the press so you could breathe.
As you moved away from the main press line and toward the heavy oak doors of Abbey Road, the noise faded into a dull roar. The interior smelled of old wood, expensive perfume, and the faint, lingering scent of valve amps, a smell that always felt like home.
"Trophy boyfriend? That’ll be the day," you teased, tilting your head back to catch his smirk.
"Don't get used to it," he hissed playfully into your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "Tomorrow I’m back to being the Chief and you’re back to complaining that I don't sit still for portraits."
You laughed and gave him a playful nudge.
"Alright, Y/N?" A familiar voice called out. You turned to see Paul Weller leaning against a pillar, a glass of scotch in hand. He gave your outfit a slow, approving nod. "Proper. None of that penguin suit bollocks. You look like you’re here to actually do something."
"I’m here to try not to trip over my own feet, Paul," you admitted, finally letting a genuine laugh escape.
"She’s terrified," Noel chimed in, snatching a champagne flute from a passing waiter and handing it to you. "Thinks if she wins, the world’s gonna end because she has to talk into a microphone for thirty seconds."
You took a restorative gulp of the champagne, the bubbles stinging your throat in the best way possible. Paul Weller let out a dry, gravelly chuckle, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Don't listen to him, Y/N," Paul said, nodding toward Noel. "He just likes the sound of his own voice so much he can't imagine someone else not wanting a go. Just get up there, say 'ta,' and get back to the bar. That’s the secret to a good awards speech."
"See? The Modfather has spoken," Noel added, sliding an arm around your waist.
You gave a wave over your shoulder to Paul as Noel pulled you into the flow of the crowd.
You and Noel sit at a small, candle-lit table near the front with the rest of the band that was there to show their support for you. They helped settle your nerves and were great at consoling you when you lost out on the first two of your categories – but after Noel’s little pep talk in the car, you weren’t really that fused about losing and the more you drunk the more you were hoping you didn’t win because you felt like you might actually let a drunken “cunt” slip out just to make Noel laugh.
As the presenter for ‘Emerging Photographer of the Year’ took to the stage, a legendary music journalist and adjusted the mic as they cleared their throat, you felt your stomach twist and your palms become sweaty once more. "The winner for Emerging Photographer of the Year... for a body of work that captures the raw, gritty intimacy of the road and the sheer power of a live performance..."
Noel leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "This is you, darling. Watch," he murmurs, his voice full of a smug certainty that only he could possess in a room full of icons.
"...the award goes to... Y/n Y/l/n!"
For a split second, your brain refuses to process the syllables. It’s like a camera shutter clicking shut, a moment of total darkness and silence before the world rushes back in.
The screen behind the podium flashes your black-and-white shot of Noel. On the giant display, the dust motes look like falling stars, and the curve of his guitar neck looks like a piece of sculpture.
The table erupts. You feel the physical vibration of the applause.
Noel doesn't just clap; he jumps up, pulling you with him into a crushing hug. He smells like expensive cologne and the beer he’d been drinking. He pulls back just enough to frame your face in his hands, his grin so wide it crinkles the corners of his eyes. "Go on," he shouts over the noise, "Go get your glass, you genius!"
The walk to the stage felt like navigating through a dream where the floor was made of clouds and the air was thick with the scent of old wood and success. Your boots, those “defiant” stilettos, clicked against the floor of Abbey Road, a sound usually reserved for rock royalty and for the first time, the rhythm belonged entirely to you.
You caught sight of the rest of the band out of the corner of your eye; they were whistling and hollering like they’d just seen a last-minute goal at Maine Road. But it was Noel’s face that stayed burned into your mind as you climbed the small steps to the podium: a look of pure, unadulterated “I told you so” smugness mixed with a rare, quiet pride.
As the legendary journalist handed you the heavy, polished award, the weight of it grounded you. You looked out at the sea of faces, icons, peers, and the man who’d spent the last hour whispering confidence into your ear.
You adjusted the microphone, the feedback a sharp reminder that this was real. You took a breath, the kohl-rimmed intensity of your eyes softening as you looked down at the trophy.
“I, uh… usually uh, usually hiding in the shadows whilst some gobshite of a front man is centre of attention,” You pause, and the room ripples with a sudden, knowing laughter. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Noel throw his head back, a bark of a laugh escaping him as he points a finger at you from the table, clearly loving the "gobshite" label.
Gripping the cold metal of the award, you lean back into the mic, a small, lopsided smirk playing on your lips.
“I want to thank the band who’ve let me into their private moments, who let me see the exhaustion and the adrenaline and the dirt...” You paused, a mischievous glint hitting your eyes as you remembered the car ride.
You lock eyes with Noel. He’s leaning forward now, his chin resting on his hand, looking at you with an expression that’s dangerously close to soft.
"I want to thank the ‘subject’ of these photos - the man who told me tonight that he was happy to be my 'trophy boyfriend.' Though, let's be honest, he’s far too loud to ever be a silent ornament." You say with a small smirk. “Thank you, Noel, for letting me into your space, for trusting my eye, and for being the most difficult, stubborn, and brilliant muse a photographer could ask for. You make it easy to find the magic, even when you’re just trying to find your guitar pick... and for promising to carry my equipment home if I won. Get your coat, Gallagher. You’re on roadie duty tonight.”
The room roared. Noel threw his head back, laughing and pointing at you, his “trophy boyfriend” status officially cemented in music history.
As you stepped off the stage, the adrenaline began to mellow into a warm, buzzing glow. Before you could even get back to the table, Noel met you halfway in the shadows of the side-stage. He didn’t care about the cameras now; he looped an arm around your waist and pulled you flush against him.
“Genius,” he muttered against your temple, his voice thick with genuine emotion. “Absolutely smashed it. And not a single ‘cunt’ in sight. I’m almost disappointed.”
“The night is young, Noel,” you whispered back, clutching the award to your chest. “There’s still the after-party.”
“That’s my girl,” he grinned, kissing you deeply as the flashes started up again, capturing the photographer finally becoming the masterpiece.
The air in Abbey Road Studios is thick with history and the expensive scent of champagne, but all you can feel is the weight of the heavy glass trophy in your hand and Noel’s hand on you.
He hasn't let go of your waist once as he paraded you around like you’ve just won a Nobel Prize, his chest puffed out under his sharp jacket.
He eventually drags you over to where your work was displayed on the studio walls. The "Emerging Photographer of the Year" plaque sits next to your black-and-white shot of him. Up close, the "dust motes" you captured look like a halo of static electricity around his guitar.
"I told you," he whispers, leaning in so his shoulder brushes yours. "The lighting, the mood... it’s better than the actual gig was, and I was the one playing it."
Before you can tease him about his ego, a familiar, melodic voice cuts through the chatter of the room.
"There she is! The woman of the hour."
You turn to see Sir Paul McCartney weaving through the crowd with a wide, genuine grin. He gives Noel a quick clap on the shoulder before turning his full attention to you and pulls you into a hug that you quickly reciprocate.
“How do you feel?” He asked.
“Sick.” You joked making both Paul and Noel laugh.
“You’ll get used to it, trust me.” He said as he put his arm around your shoulders, "That shot from the back of the venue, the one with the 'NGHFB' lettering? That’s 'The Big One', that," Paul says, gesturing to your third nomination. "It captures the scale of it all. You’ve got a real eye for the soul of a room, love. Congratulations. It’s well-deserved."
“Thank you.” You smiled as he pulled you into another hug before saying goodbye to you and Noel.
Noel nudged you beaming, looking like he might actually burst as Paul wondered off to charm someone else, "See? Even Macca knows. I’ve been saying she’s the only one who makes me look like I’ve actually got a soul." He reached out and took your hand in his, once more pressing a kiss to the back of it. “C’mon, you,” Noel lead you toward the wall where your three nominated photos were mounted.
For a second, the roar of the party fades into the background and you just stare at the photographs. You’re standing in the world’s most famous studio, looking at your own art.
“Wow.” You smile.
"Stay right there," Noel commands, pulling his phone out.
"Noel, don't-" You felt yourself blushing as Noel aimed his phone at you.
"Hush. I’m the talent, I give the orders," he quips, though his eyes are soft. "Move the trophy a bit to the left. Yeah, right next to the one where I’m aiming the guitar at the camera. Perfect."
He snaps the photo; you, glowing and slightly embarrassed, framed by your own professional triumphs.
"Going straight on the 'gram," he declares, tapping away at his screen.
Noel doesn't even look up from his screen, his thumbs flying across the glass with a focused intensity usually reserved for perfecting a bridge in a new song. You watch him, the "Chief" of rock and roll, currently hunched over like a teenager trying to find the perfect filter.
"Right, that’s it," he says, finally locking the phone and sliding it back into his pocket with a satisfied tap. "The world has been informed. The GOAT has spoken."
You feel your phone buzz in your clutch bag. Pulling it out, you see the notification pop up immediately: themightyi liked your photo and themightyi tagged you in a post.
@themightyi
![Image Description: A candid, slightly grainy photo of you standing in front of your winning exhibition at Abbey Road. You’re holding the heavy glass award to your chest, laughing mid-sentence, looking effortlessly cool in your leather jacket and The Cure tee. Behind you, the iconic black-and-white shot of Noel performing looms large.]
themightyi: Told her she’d smash it. The best photographer in the business and now she’s got the hardware to prove it. Award winner, heartbreaker, and currently my boss for the night.
I’m officially on roadie duty. If you see me carrying a tripod and looking miserable later, mind your own business.
"Noel," you breathe, feeling a fresh wave of heat hit your cheeks as you read the caption. "‘Heartbreaker’? Really?"
"Absolute facts, darling," he says, snagging two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing tray and handing one to you. He clinks his glass against your trophy with a sharp ping. "Look at the comments already. Half of Twitter is melting down because I used an emoji, and the other half is wondering where they can buy that jacket."
He hooks his arm firmly around your waist, pulling you into his side so he can speak directly into your ear, his tone dropping into that gravelly, private register. "You’ve spent years making sure everyone else looks legendary through a lens, Y/N. Tonight, the legend is you. I’m just the lucky sod who gets to take you home."
He pauses, a wicked glit returning to his eyes.
"Now, since I'm officially the roadie... do I get a union-mandated break at the after-party, or are you going to make me earn my keep?"
The heavy oak doors of Studio One seem to hum with the ghosts of a thousand legendary sessions, but tonight, the only history that matters is the weight of that glass trophy in your hand. You feel a sudden, sharp release of all the tension you’d been carrying since that morning, the shaky breaths in the car, the fear of the “invisible person” remaining invisible, the imposter syndrome that usually dogs your heels in the pit.
“You alright, love? You’ve gone a bit quiet,” Noel murmurs, his hand sliding from your waist to rest supportively on the nape of your neck, his thumb stroking your jawline.
“Just... taking it in,” you admit, leaning your head against his shoulder for a brief second. “Paul McCartney just told me I have an eye for the soul of a room, Noel. I might actually retire now. It’s not getting better than that.”
“Retire? Not a chance,” he scoffed, his eyes flashing with that familiar spark. “You’ve got a tour to shoot, and I’ve got a ‘trophy boyfriend’ reputation to uphold. Besides, you still haven’t used that ‘cunt’ you were saving up. Can’t waste a good swear word.”
You laugh, the sound bright and clear over the hum of the party. “I’m saving it for the after-party. Or for when you inevitably refuse to carry my equipment bag like you promised.”
Noel holds up his hands in mock surrender, though he looks entirely too pleased with himself. “I keep my word. I’m a roadie for hire now. Pay’s terrible, but the perks are world-class.”
He pauses, his expression turning uncharacteristically sincere for a fleeting moment. He looks at your work on the wall, then back at you, the “rock star DNA” he mentioned earlier plain for everyone to see in the way you carry yourself now, shoulders back, leather jacket slightly askew, eyes bright with the realization that you belong here.
“You really did it, Y/n,” he whispers, so low only you can hear. “Nobody’s looking at me tonight. And I’ve never liked a view more.”
He reaches for two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing tray, handing one to you with a wink. “To the Emerging Photographer of the Year. Let’s go find the rest of the lads and see how much of the label’s money we can drink before they kick us out of Abbey Road.”
The after-party is a subterranean blur of velvet, cigarette smoke, and the heavy, expensive bass of a playlist curated by someone with impeccable taste and a likely grudge against the Top 40. The venue, a dimly lit, exclusive basement club in Soho was packed with the DNA of the British music scene. You’re tucked into a corner booth with Noel and the band, the ‘Emerging Photographer’ trophy sitting on the table like a centrepiece between a bucket of ice and a half-empty bottle of expensive tequila.
You’ve just managed to catch your breath when a sleek, sharp-eyed woman with a microphone bearing the logo of a global fashion-and-culture powerhouse weaves through the crowd. She looks at Noel, then at you, and her eyes lock onto the trophy.
“Y/n! A moment for The Face? We’ve been dying to talk to the woman who finally made the Gallagher scowl look like fine art.”
Noel snorts into his drink, leaning back and throwing an arm over the top of the leather booth. “Careful, she’s expensive now. Rates have gone up since about ten o’clock tonight.”
The interviewer laughs, sliding onto the edge of the seat opposite you. “I can imagine. Y/n, let’s talk about the aesthetic. You’re wearing a vintage Cure tee to Abbey Road, you’re shooting on film in a digital age, and you’ve just beaten out photographers who’ve been in the game a decade longer than you. What’s the secret? Is it the technical skill, or is it just knowing when Noel is about to do something iconic?”
You lean forward, the adrenaline of the win still buzzing in your veins. You don't feel like the "nervous wreck" from the car anymore; the weight of the award has grounded you, replaced the tremors with a cool, sharp clarity.
“It’s about the friction,” you say, your voice cutting through the thrum of the music. “I don’t want a clean shot. If I wanted a perfect, airbrushed portrait, I’d work in a studio with a ring light. I want the sweat, the spit, the way a guitar string looks when it’s about to snap. I shoot the moments where things are falling apart a little bit, because that’s where the energy is. Technically? Sure, I know my way around an f-stop, but you can’t teach someone how to feel the drop in a song and hit the shutter at the exact millisecond the lights go strobing.”
“And being the ‘subject’?” The interviewer turns to Noel. “How does it feel to be seen through her lens versus everyone else’s?”
Noel looks at you, his smirk softening into something more private, more appreciative. “Most photographers want me to ‘be Noel Gallagher.’ They want the pose, the glasses, the whole bit. Y/n doesn’t give a toss about that. She waits until I’ve forgotten she’s there. She catches the bits where I’m just... a bloke with a guitar, trying to get it right. It’s annoying, actually,” he adds with a wink. “Hard to maintain a reputation as a miserable bastard when she’s capturing me looking like I’m actually enjoying myself.”
“One last question,” the journalist says, leaning in closer. “You’re the first woman to win this specific category in five years. For the girls sitting in the photo pits tonight with their heavy gear and their elbows out, what’s the message?”
You look directly into the camera lens, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. You think of the beer-soaked floors, the ringing ears, and the countless times you were told you were ‘too small’ to handle the front-row surge.
“Don’t ask for permission to be there,” you say firmly. “The pit is a battlefield, and your camera is your weapon. If they don’t give you a seat at the table, take a photo of the table, make it look legendary, and then sell it back to them. And,” you glance at Noel, whose eyes are bright with pride, “find yourself a muse who knows when to shut up and let you do your job.”
The interviewer beams, thanking you both before disappearing back into the sea of sequins and leather.
Noel leans into your ear, his hand finding yours under the table. “’Find a muse who knows when to shut up’? I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me in public, love.”
“Don’t get used to it,” you tease, lifting your glass of tequila. “I’ve still got the equipment bag for you to carry.”
“Right. Roadie duty,” he sighs happily. “Whatever the Boss says.”
The high-octane roar of Soho feels like a lifetime ago as the heavy front door of the house clicks shut, sealing out the damp London air and the distant hum of traffic. The silence of the hallway is almost ringing in your ears after the sheer volume of Abbey Road and the bass-heavy after-party.
Noel tosses his keys onto the console table with a sharp clack, but he doesn’t move to take off his jacket yet. Instead, he just stands there for a second, watching you as you kick off those “defiant” stilettos with a sigh of pure relief. You’re still holding the trophy, the glass cool against your skin.
“Right then,” he says, his voice dropping an octave, losing the ‘public’ swagger and replacing it with something much more concentrated. “The ‘trophy boyfriend’ is officially off-duty. But I think the photographer needs one last session.”
He follows you into the bedroom, where the only light comes from the streetlamps filtering through the sheer curtains, casting long, cinematic shadows across the bed, exactly the kind of moody lighting you’d usually kill for in a shoot.
You set the award down on the dresser, but Noel steps up behind you, his hands sliding over your shoulders to unbutton the vintage leather jacket. “I’ve been watching people look at you all night,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear, his breath warm. “And I’ve been watching you look at that award. But I want a version of this moment that isn’t for The Face or the ‘gram.”
He peels the leather away, letting it hit the floor with a heavy thud. Then, his fingers hook into the hem of your Cure tee. He doesn’t rush; he’s taking his time, appreciating the frame he’s building.
“Everything off,” he commands softly, a playful but intense glint in his eyes. “No kohl, no denim, no ‘rock star’ armour. Just you and the hardware. My own private ‘Emerging Photographer’ spread.”
There’s something incredibly grounding about the shift. In the pit, you’re covered in gear and grit, hidden behind a viewfinder. On the red carpet, you’re shielded by fashion. Here, under his steady gaze, you’re completely exposed.
Once you’ve shed the last of the denim, you feel the cool air hit your skin. You pick up the heavy glass trophy, holding it against your chest. The weight of it is a physical reminder of the night’s triumph, but the way Noel is looking at you makes the award feel secondary.
He grabs his phone and moves back a few paces. He doesn’t ask you to pose. He knows you hate that.
“Just stand there,” he whispers, his thumb hovering over the shutter.
The moonlight catches the curve of your hip and the peak of your nipple, reflecting of the sharp, polished edges of the award leaving white shapes glittering across your skin. You look raw, exhausted, and utterly victorious.
Click.
He captures the shot: the winner in her truest form, stripped of the industry’s expectations. He looks at the screen for a long beat, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face.
“Now that, is award winning,” he says, setting his phone down and closing the gap between you. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your bare skin against his shirt. “But I think I prefer the live view.” He pressed his face against the curve of your neck, his lips trailing softly kisses along your skin. “Am so fuckin’ proud of you, love.”
The trophy is forgotten, abandoned on the velvet armchair as Noel’s hands find the small of your back, his touch warm and rough-palmed against your skin. He doesn’t rush. The manic energy of the paparazzi and the loud, echoing praise of Abbey Road has bled away, replaced by a heavy, magnetic pull that is entirely private.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and focused. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the car,” he mumbles, his voice raspy and stripped of its usual stage-managed bravado. He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray smudge of kohl under your eye and dragging it softly across your cheekbone. “Just you. No cameras. No ‘Genius’ labels. Just my girl.”
He manoeuvres you toward the bed, the cool linen a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off him. As you sink into the mattress, Noel follows, hovering over you. He finally sheds his own clothes, his movements deliberate. When he settles between your thighs, the friction of skin on skin feels like the only real thing in a night full of smoke and mirrors, making you moan softly.
He kisses you then, not the quick peck for the cameras, but a deep, territorial hum of a kiss that tastes like the expensive tequila and the sheer relief of being home. His hands roam, mapping out the curves, but this time, he’s touching the art instead of just framing it.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers against your lips, his fingers intertwining with yours and pinning them gently to the pillow.
“Adrenaline,” you breathe out, your heart hammering against your ribs. “And you.”
He gives you a slow, wicked smirk, the kind that usually precedes a hit record, but it’s softened by a rare tenderness. “Good. Stay right there. I’m gonna take my time with this one.”
Everything slows down. The world outside the bedroom window, the reviews, the industry gossip, the fame - it all feels miles away. There’s a rhythmic, melodic cadence to the way he moves against you, a steady build-up that reminds you of a long, distorted guitar solo that finally finds its resolution. It’s raw and unhurried, a quiet conversation held in the dark.
The bedroom is silent save for the heavy, rhythmic sound of your breathing and the rustle of the sheets. Noel is a man who thrives on noise, on the roar of a crowd and the feedback of an amp, but in this moment, he is entirely focused on the quiet, visceral reactions of your body.
He starts at your jaw, his lips grazing the skin with a feather-light touch before moving down the sensitive column of your throat. He finds that one spot right above your collarbone, sucking the skin into his mouth until you let out a sharp, hitching breath that vibrates through his chest.
"See?" he murmurs against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "Told you. The best view in London."
His mouth travels lower, tracing the line of your chest until he reaches your breasts. He circles one nipple with his tongue, teasing the peak until it's aching and hard, before drawing it deep into his mouth. The tugging heat of his mouth combined with the rough scrape of his slight stubble sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. You arch your back, your fingers digging into his hair, pulling him closer as a low moan escapes you. He moves to the other side, his hands sliding down to grip your waist, his thumbs digging into the soft dip of your hips as he licks and nips at you with a slow, agonizing deliberation.
He’s a man who knows how to build a crescendo, and he’s doing exactly that with you.
He doesn't stop there. He kisses his way down the centre of your stomach, his tongue tracing the line of your navel, making your muscles quiver and retract under his touch.
“Fuck, Noel.” You gasped.
His hands follow the curve of your hips, his palms warm and possessive, as he pushes your knees further apart. He lingers at the crease where your thigh meets your hip, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses there, his breath hot against your sensitized skin.
You’re writhing now, your head tossing back against the pillow as the anticipation becomes almost unbearable. "Noel... please," you gasp, your voice thin and desperate.
He looks up at you, his eyes dark with a mix of worship and mischief. He knows exactly what you want, but he isn't ready to give it to you yet. He slides his hand between your thighs, not to enter you, but to let his fingers dance over your wetness. He strokes the length of your folds, spreading the slick heat of you with a slow, agonizingly steady rhythm. Every time his fingertip brushes your clitoris, your hips jerk upward, seeking the pressure he’s teasingly withholding.
"You're making a right mess of these sheets, darling," he chuckles darkly, his voice thick with his own desire. He continues the torture, his fingers slick and nimble, working you until you’re sobbing his name into the quiet room.
Finally, he can’t hold back any longer. He moves back up, his body a heavy, solid weight over yours. He braces himself on his forearms, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels more intimate than any photograph you’ve ever taken of him.
"Look at me," he commands softly.
As you meet his gaze, he shifts, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses for a heartbeat, savouring the friction, before sinking into you in one long, smooth thrust.
The air leaves your lungs in a rush, a sound that is half-gasp, half-sob. He fills you completely, the stretch and the heat of him finally anchoring you after a night of floating on adrenaline. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.
"There you are," he whispers.
Then he begins to move. It’s not the frantic, fast-paced rhythm of a rock song; it’s a slow, deep, and deliberate grind. Every thrust is a statement, a way of reclaiming the private version of you that the world doesn't get to see. He watches your face as he moves, his expression softening every time your eyes flutter shut or your lips part in a silent plea.
The friction builds, the heat between you rising until it feels like the air in the room is glowing. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your internal muscles clenching around him with every rhythmic pulse. He groans, a raw, unedited sound of surrender, and increases the pace. The bedframe knocks rhythmically against the wall, a steady beat to the symphony of your joined breaths.
As the moonlight shifts across the room, illuminating the discarded trophy in the corner, Noel’s pace quickens.
You’re right on the edge, the world narrowing down to the point where his skin meets yours, and when the climax finally hits, it’s like a flashbulb going off behind your eyelids; blinding, white, and all-consuming.
“That’s it, baby… cum for me.” Noel moaned against your throat as he delivered a final harsh snap of his hips.
You cry out, your body shuddering underneath him, and a second later, Noel stiffens, his head burying in the crook of your neck as he follows you over the edge, his body trembling with the force of his own release.
As the quiet returns to the room, he doesn't pull away. He collapses onto you, his heart hammering against yours, his skin slick with sweat. He rolls to the side, taking you with him so you’re tucked firmly against his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head.
“Best night of my life,” he mutters, his voice thick with sleep and satisfaction. “And I didn’t even have to play a note.”
Series based on these oneshots I've All I Need / And More
Part 4 - A Better Class of Madness
Working hair and make-up at one of the biggest festivals in the world wasn't the big dream you had thought it would be. Hell on Earth more like. Then you met Liam Gallagher and everything changed...
10173k words
dilf!Laim Gallagher x younger!female!reader
Read Parts 1 - 3 HERE
Warnings: 18+ readers only, smut, unprotected sex, fingering, hand job, doggy, kissing, swearing, protective Liam, name calling (use of whore, slut shaming, being called worthless), cute Liam, age gap, (reader in late 20's not spoke about) - photos not mine
The only sounds that could be heard in the Winnebago was the soft hum of the AC and your heavy breathing that was gradually slowing as the two of you laid together.
After a couple of minutes, Liam muttered cheekily, "Best haircut I've ever had," his voice thick with affection and exhaustion as he pulled you closer to his side.
"It was just a trim, Liam," you giggled, tracing a circle on his chest.
"Nah, love. It was more than that." he insisted, squeezing you tightly.
You closed your eyes, feeling the last traces of stress and tiredness finally ebb away.
"You should stay," he said suddenly, his voice clearer now. "Stay tonight. And tomorrow. We'll go and see who's playing. Get some proper food."
“I’m working, Liam.”
“Fuck workin’ Glasto, man and have fuckin’ fun with me.”
You sighed softly, "Barry’s my boss outside of Glastonbury too. He’ll sack me.”
The mention of Barry seemed to pull the oxygen out of the room for a split second. Liam stiffened beside you, his arm tightening around your shoulder not in a romantic way, but with a sudden, protective rigidity. He propped himself up on one elbow, the duvet slipping down to his waist, his blue eyes narrowing in the dim light of the master suite.
“Barry?” he repeated, the name sounding like a bad taste in his mouth. “The spit-shouting prick from earlier? That’s your full-time boss?”
You nodded against the pillow, feeling the weight of reality crashing back into the luxury of the Winnebago. “I’m one of his lead hair and make-up artists. It’s a good gig on paper. High profile, consistent work. But yeah, he’s… difficult. If I don't show up for the morning shift to prep for the headliners’ and that, I’m done. He doesn't do 'excused absences' for rock star flings.”
Liam let out a disgruntled hum, “Listen to me,” he said, his voice dropping into that serious, authoritative tone he used when he wasn't playing the clown. “Life’s too short to work for cunts. Especially cunts who spit when they talk. You’ve got talent, yeah? You’ve got 'the eye.' I saw you backstage - you weren't just working; you were managing the madness.” He leaned over, brushing a stray hair from your forehead with surprising tenderness. “Tell Barry to go suck a lemon. You’re with me now. My team always needs people who actually know what they’re doing and don't collapse under a bit of pressure.”
You looked up at him, caught between the thrill of his offer and the terrifying pragmatism of your career. “Liam, I can’t just quit my life because of one incredible night in a Winnebago.”
“Why not?” he countered, a wicked, defiant grin spreading across his face. “That’s exactly how the best stories start. Besides,” he added, pulling you back down so your head rested on his chest, “I’ve already decided you’re my lucky charm. And I always get what I want.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. After a pause Liam spoke again, “So, you staying?”
You smiled against his chest. “Your mad.You don’t know anything about me, Liam?”
Liam rolled his eyes despite you not being able to see him, “Fine then…” Liam untangled his arm from you and turned over onto his side to face you, resting his head on his bent arm. “Where’s home for you?”
You smiled as you shook your head at him, “Really?”
“Deadly serious,” Liam countered, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. The cheeky rock star persona had softened into something genuine, though the intensity in his eyes remained. “I’m an open book, aren't I? Everything I do is in the tabs or on the telly. You’re the mystery here. And mam always told us not to talk to strangers.”
You began laughing at him making Liam grin. “But you knew enough for us to shag?”
Liam let out a bark of laughter, the sound echoing off the wood-panelled walls of the Winnebago. He didn't look even remotely embarrassed; if anything, he looked incredibly proud of himself.
"Listen, darlin', that’s just basic chemistry. You don't need a CV to know when the sparks are flyin' enough to burn the stage down," he said, his thumb continuing that slow, distracting rhythm against your jaw. "But now I've had the main course, I’m interested in the footnotes. The stuff the cameras don't see."
He shifted, getting comfortable, clearly not planning on letting you go anywhere, to Barry or otherwise, anytime soon.
"So, c'mon. Start from the beginning," he prodded, his eyes bright with genuine curiosity. "Where’s the accent from? Where’d you learn to cut hair without takin' someone's ear off? And most importantly... how many times did you have to talk yourself out of punchin' Barry in the throat before today?"
You took a breath, the cool air of the Winnebago feeling a little more like home and a little less like a dream. "London, mostly," you said as you rolled on your side to face him. "I’ve got a tiny flat in Camden. It’s basically a wardrobe with a hot plate, but it’s close to the studios."
Liam made a face, a classic Gallagher scowl. "Camden? Full of students and blokes in skinny jeans trying to look like they’ve had a hard life. You sound like you’ve got a bit of the North in you, though. That ‘bite’ didn't come from North London."
You smiled up at him. "Sharp ears. I’m from just outside Manchester, right on the edge of the Yorkshire border."
Liam’s eyebrows shot up, a genuine grin breaking through. "A Northerner! I knew there was a reason you didn't crumble the second I started shouting. Why the move south, then? Did you get tired of the decent chippies and people who actually speak English?"
Your smile faded just a fraction, replaced by a shrug that you tried to keep casual. "The usual story. Parents split when I was eleven. Dad moved to Spain to ‘find himself,’ and my mum… well, she wasn't really the nurturing type. She decided boarding school was the best place for me. Sent me off to a place down south where they tried to teach me how to sit up straight and keep my mouth shut." You rolled your eyes defiantly.
Liam rested his hand on your hip. His eyes narrowed, "Boarding school? Fuckin' hell. So, they basically shipped you off because you were an inconvenience?"
"That’s one way of putting it," you laughed, though it sounded a bit hollow. "I think the headmistress was thrilled when I left. I spent most of my art classes practicing special effects makeup on the younger girls, making them look like they had black eyes or throwing paint cans around like am John Squire.” You giggled. “It didn't go down well at parents' evening."
The mention of John Squire made Liam’s eyes light up.
"I bet it didn't," Liam chuckled, but his voice stayed low. "John Squire? That mean you like ‘The Stone Roses'?”
You nodded grinning, “Bloody too right I do.”
The mention of The Stone Roses seems to be the final piece of the puzzle for Liam.
He let out a triumphant “HA!” that bounces off the mahogany walls of the bedroom, his eyes shining with a sudden, renewed energy. “See? I knew it! I knew you were proper!” he exclaims, shifting so his chest is pressed firmly against yours. “John’s a good lad. The Stone Roses... that’s the blueprint. If you’re throwing paint like Squire and listening to Reni’s drums while some posh headmistress is yelling at you, then you’re a legend in my book.” He traces the line of your collarbone, his touch lingering. The atmosphere had shifted from the high-octane heat of the sex to a cosy, conspiratorial warmth. “So, you’re a rebel from the North, shipped off to the posh south, and now you’re making up pop stars and dealing with pricks like Barry,” he muses, his voice softening. “That’s a lot of weight for a girl with glitter on her face. No wonder you’ve got a bit of a mouth on you.”
You rolled your eyes playfully at him. “What’s your excuse then?”
Liam’s grin turned slow and wicked, a flash of that trademark rock-and-roll arrogance flickering in his eyes, but it was tempered by the way he was currently tangled up in the duvet with you. "Me? I don't need an excuse, darlin'. I was born this way," he quipped, popping an imaginary collar. "God gave me this voice and this face, and then realized I was too perfect, so He gave me a temper and a brother from hell just to keep things interesting."
You let out a dry snort as his thumb tracing the curve of your hip now.
He paused, his expression softening as he looked at you. "So, we've both got a bit of that 'fuck you' energy from the North, then. Except you've been using yours to put up with spit-talking bosses in Camden wardrobes, and I've been using mine to... well, to get exactly where I am right now." He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. "Which brings us back to the point. You’re from the right side of the tracks, you like the Roses, and you’ve got more backbone than my entire security detail. Why the hell are you going back to a man who doesn't appreciate you? Stay. Tell Barry you've found a better class of madness."
He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression turning stubborn, the look of a man who had already decided the future and was just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.
"I’ve got a load of other festivals after this. Then a load of arena gigs. My hair's a mess, my skin's trashed from the road, and my crew is a bunch of lads who think a wet wipe is a spa treatment. I need someone to look after me who isn't afraid of biting back. I'm not asking you to be a groupie. I'm telling you to come be the boss of my backstage. Better pay, better tunes, and I promise no one spits when they talk to you." He paused, his fingers tangling in your hair. "And if you miss the North, we'll go get a proper chippy in Burnage. My treat."
You looked at him, the luxury of the Winnebago suddenly feeling less like a temporary escape and more like a crossroads. The career you’d fought for was back in the mud with Barry, but the life you’d actually wanted was lying right here, smelling of leather and rock 'n' roll.
You chewed your bottom lip as you “thought” about his offer. Of course you were going to say yes, you were just going to let Liam sweat a bit first. You didn’t want to seem desperate. “I’m not sure.”
Liam’s eyes widened, his thumb stuttering on your jawline. For a second, the legendary Gallagher confidence faltered, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated disbelief. He propped himself up further, the duvet sliding dangerously low, though he didn't seem to notice or care.
"You're not sure?" he repeated, his voice cracking upward in a way that was almost comedic. "I’m offering you the keys to the kingdom! No more Barry, no more Camden cupboards, and you get to look at this every morning." He gestured vaguely to his face with a self-deprecating but still arrogant flourish. He let out a huff, falling back onto the pillows with a dramatic thud, staring up at the ceiling of the Winnebago. "Unbelievable," he muttered, though you could see the corner of his mouth twitching. He was trying to play it cool, but the way his fingers were restlessly drumming against your hip told a different story. "I’ve got thousands of people screaming my name out there, and I’m getting 'I'm not sure' from a girl who makes fake black eyes for a hobby."
You found his pouty over dramatic act adorable and a small giggle bubbled out of your mouth before you could stop it. You quickly covered your mouth.
He turned his head back to you, his blue eyes narrowed in a playful, suspicious squint. “You’re having me on, aren’t you?” He shook his head with a chuckle as you grinned at him. “Cruel. Just cruel.”
“Sorry,” You giggled, “Couldn’t help myself.” You grinned at him.
He let out a breathy chuckle, his thumb lightly stroking your arm. "That boarding school really did a number on you…” He joked as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder making you smile, “Now give us a couple of minutes, then we’ll start round two, yeah?" He said cheekily as he pulled you to lay on his chest once more.
You raised your eyebrow at him, “Can you manage a second round?” You teased.
Liam’s eyes snapped open, a mock-offended glint sparking in those sharp blue depths. He let out a dry, raspy chuckle that vibrated through his chest against yours, his hands sliding down to give your hips a firm, possessive squeeze.
"Can I manage?" he repeated, his voice dropping into that classic, cocky Manchester drawl. "Listen yeah. You’re talking to a man who’s played Knebworth twice, love. I don’t do 'managing.' I do legendary."
He shifted, the movement lithe and hungry, rolling you back into the plush mattress until he was hovering over you once more. The sweat on his skin shimmered in the amber light, and the cocky smirk on his face softened into something far more intense as he looked down at you.
"I’ve got more stamina in my little finger than most of those posers out there have in their whole bodies," he murmured, his nose brushing against yours. "And besides... I’ve got to make sure you’re properly looked after, haven't I? Can't have you going back to reality thinking I’m just a loudmouth and a pretty face." He leaned down, his lips ghosting over yours, as his hand slid between your thighs.
Your breath caught as he easily found your clit. He grinned against your lips, feeling the involuntary quiver of your body.
"See?" he rasped. "You're already tuning up. Now, shut up and let the professional take it from the top."
Liam leaned down again, this time closing the small gap between your lips with a fierce, hungry kiss. It became something deeper, more urgent than the soft kiss before. Liam groaned into your mouth, a rough, appreciative sound that made your core clench.
The heat of the moment was shattered by the persistent, muffled familiar buzzing ringtone of your phone. At first, Liam tried to ignore it, his mouth moving hungrily along your jawline pulling breathy moans from you, but the vibrating was relentless.
You let out a frustrated huff, “Liam.”
"Ignore it," Liam muttered against your skin, his fingers pressing firmer against your sensitive bud making your fingers dig into his shoulders. "Whoever it is can wait until Monday. Or next year."
But then the ringing started again. And again. The silence of the Winnebago only amplified the sound of your phone vibrating against the floorboards in the other room. Liam let out a sharp, frustrated groan, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder.
"Fucking hell," he growled, his voice thick with irritation. "I’m gonna kill 'em.” He rolled off you with a disgruntled huff, “I’m actually gonna end 'em."
“It’s fine,” You patted his chest with a small giggle, “I’ll just turn my phone off.” you said as you slipped out of the bed.
“Cover up with that.” He pointed to the bathrobe hung up on the back of the door, “Don’t want the lads getting an eyeful.” He winked at you as he put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, smiling to himself as you grabbed the bathrobe and slipped it on.
You stepped into the small hallway, the thick carpet soft beneath your bare feet as you fumbled with the belt of the oversized bathrobe. The phone was still buzzing on the floorboards, its screen illuminating the dark space with a harsh, clinical glow. You picked it up, expecting a frantic query from a coworker or a confused text from a friend.
Instead, the screen was a wall of red notifications. 14 Missed Calls. 22 Unread Messages. All from Barry.
Your stomach did a slow, sickening somersault. You swiped open the messages, and the vitriol hit you like a physical blow.
Barry: Where the fuck are you? The headliner’s bassist is sitting in my chair and you’re nowhere to be found.
Barry: I saw you trailing after that Gallagher prick. You’re a fucking joke.
Barry: Don’t bother coming back. You’re a talentless little whore. Nothing but a groupie with a brush.
Barry: You’re sacked. You’re worthless. I’ve already thrown your kit bag into the mud behind the tent. Good luck finding work in this town again!
The phone trembled in your hand. The word ‘worthless’ seemed to hum in your ears, louder than the AC. Your kit bag everything you’d collected over years. It was your livelihood. Your entire career, everything you’d built since leaving that boarding school, felt like it was dissolving into the Glastonbury mud.
“You alright, love? You’ve gone quiet,” Liam’s voice drifted from the bedroom, sounding drowsy but attentive.
You didn't even realize you were shaking until Liam sat bolt upright, his eyes instantly sharpening as they landed on you.
“What’s happened?” Liam asked as you walked back into the suite.
“He sacked me,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Barry. He… he called me a whore, Liam. He said I’m worthless. He threw my kit in the mud. My clothes… everything’s in the backstage tent. If I don't go now, someone will nick it or it’ll be ruined.” A wave of panic crested over you. The reality of being jobless, stranded at a festival, and losing your equipment hit all at once. “I have to go. I have to find my stuff. Oh god, I’m so stupid, I shouldn't have-”
Before you could spiral further, Liam was off the bed. He didn't care that he was stark bollock naked; he moved with a sudden, predatory grace, crossing the room in two strides and grabbing your shoulders.
“Hey... look at me, Y/N,” he commanded, his voice a low, vibrating growl that cut through your hysteria. You blinked, focusing on his piercing blue eyes. “First of all, that prick is a dead man walking. Nobody talks to you like that. Not while I’m breathing.”
“But my kit, Liam. It’s my life-”
“Listen to me,” he interrupted, his grip firm and grounding. “It’s just stuff. You’ve got the talent in your hands, not in a fucking plastic box. You think I care about a bag of brushes? When we get back to London, we’ll go to one of them fancy shops. Whatever the fuck you need. I’ll buy you the best kit money can buy. Ten of ‘em. Better than whatever that spit-shouting twat threw away.” He saw you were about to protest and shook his head firmly. “No. Don’t even start. You’re with me now. My lucky charm, remember? And I don't let my people worry about small-time pricks like Barry.” He moved over to where his discarded pants were on the floor and grabbed his own phone from the pocket, his thumbs flying across the screen with aggressive intent. “Where’s your bag of clothes?” he asked, not looking up. “Exactly where? Which tent?”
“It’s… it’s a duffel with a giant lemon keychain on the handle... you can’t miss it. It’s in the production crew tent, behind the Pyramid Stage,” you stammered.
“Right.” He tapped out a final message. “Sent. One of my people will sort it. They’ll have your bag here in twenty minutes. If Barry so much as looks at them funny, they’ll bury him under the John Peel stage.”
He tossed his phone aside and pulled you into a hug, the heat of his skin and the steady, heavy beat of his heart acting like a balm to your frayed nerves. He tucked your head under his chin, his hand stroking your hair with surprising gentleness.
“See? Problem solved,” he muttered into your hair.
“Thank you, Liam.” You mumbled into his chest.
He pulled back just enough to smirk at you, the familiar, defiant glint returning to his eyes. “Now, about that encore... I think you need something to take your mind off the drama, don’t ya?” He guided you back toward the bed, the weight of the world suddenly feeling a lot lighter than it had five minutes ago as Liam untied the belt of the bathrobe. “And don’t worry about the kit, love,” he added with a wink. “I’ve got a feeling you’re gonna be much too busy for the next few days to worry about blending foundation anyway.”
The panic that had been clawing at your throat began to recede, replaced by the sheer, grounding force of Liam’s presence. He didn’t just suggest a solution; he dictated a new reality where Barry didn’t exist and your worries were beneath him.
As the bathrobe pooled around your ankles, Liam’s eyes darkened, the protective anger shifting back into that raw, magnetic hunger. He didn’t waste time with words. He guided you toward the edge of the large, plush bed, his hands steady and warm against your skin.
“Forget the kit, forget the prick, and forget the mud,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, commanding vibration. “Just focus on this.”
He didn’t pull you under him this time. Instead, he directed you to turn around, his palms flat against the small of your back as he urged you to kneel on the mattress. You felt the cool air of the AC for only a second before the heat of him pressed up against your rear. Reaching forward, you gripped the padded leather headboard, your knuckles turning white as you braced yourself.
Liam let out a low, appreciative whistle, his gaze raking over you from behind. “Absolutely biblical,” he muttered.
Suddenly, he reached over to the nightstand, grabbing his phone. You heard the distinct click of the camera shutter. You looked back over your shoulder, startled, only to see him smirking at the screen, a look of pure, devilish triumph on his face.
“Liam!” you gasped, though a frantic thrill raced through you.
“Capturing a masterpiece, darlin’,” he chuckled, tossing the phone onto the pillows just out of reach. “Something to remind me why I’m never letting you go back to Camden.”
Then, he moved. He gripped your hips with his large hands, his fingers digging into your flesh with a possessive strength that made you arch your back. He didn’t ease in; he drove forward with a sharp, heavy thrust that forced a loud, jagged moan from your lips.
The rhythm was relentless, rock ‘n’ roll at its most primal. Every time he hit home, the headboard rattled against the wall of the Winnebago, a steady percussion to the sound of his heavy, rhythmic breathing and the slick friction of skin on skin. He leaned over you, his chest pressing into your back, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of your shoulder to leave a Mark that would definitely last longer than the festival.
“You’re mine now, yeah?” he growled into your ear, his voice ragged. “Not Barry’s. Not the studios’. Mine.”
He reached around, one hand tangling in your hair to pull your head back against his shoulder while the other found your front, his thumb working with devastating precision. The dual sensation sent you over the edge, your vision blurring as a white-hot wave of pleasure crashed through you. You cried out his name, the sound muffled by the duvet as you collapsed forward.
Liam let out a final, guttural shout, his body tensing behind yours as he followed you into the fray. He held you tightly for a long moment, his forehead resting against the back of your neck, both of you gasping for air in the dim, amber light.
Eventually, he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him until you were draped across his chest, your heartbeats syncing up. He reached for his phone again, scrolling back to the photo he’d taken. He showed it to you, a blur of skin, golden light, and raw intimacy.
“See? Much more relaxed now.” he whispered, kissing your temple.
The Winnebago was a cocoon of amber light and the scent of expensive tobacco and salt. You and Liam were a tangled mess of limbs and protective energy fir the rest of the afternoon. His hands never leaving your body. One moment he was kissing you with a hunger that felt like he was trying to swallow your very soul, and the next, his fingers were trailing low, finding that familiar, slick heat again just to hear the hitch in your breath.
And of course, you were returning the favour, your hand wrapped firmly around him, moving in a slow, rhythmic slide that had him groaning into the crook of your neck. He felt like a young lad again, he couldn’t get enough of you.
"You're gonna be the death of me, North," he wheezed, his teeth grazing your collarbone. "Forget the gigs. I’ll just stay here and let you finish me off.”
“Oh, you poor little rock star.” You giggled making him huff and double down his efforts to make you cum again.
The bubble burst with the sudden, violent thwack of the Winnebago’s heavy door swinging open.
"Oi! Is it safe to enter the lions' den or are we gonna need therapy?" Gene’s voice boomed through the small hallway, followed by the heavy thud of boots.
You scrambled for the duvet, pulling it up to your chin with a squeak of alarm, while Liam didn't even flinch. He just leaned back against the headboard, pulling the duvet to cover the important parts and looking entirely too pleased with himself, as his sons rounded the corner into the suite.
“Look at the fucking state of it in here.” Lennon was leading the way, looking bored but carrying your duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He stopped dead, his eyes flicking from his dad’s smug face to your flushed one, then down to the discarded bathrobe on the floor. "Jesus, Dad," Lennon muttered, tossing your bag onto the foot of the bed with a heavy thump. "The security lads said you sent them to 'confiscate' this. What’s going on?"
Liam’s expression hardened instantly, the playfulness vanishing. "Had to save Y/n’s stuff from her ex-boss," Liam spat, his arm snaking around your waist under the covers to pull you firmly against his side. "He sacked her. Called her names I’m not repeating in front of you lot. Threw her kit in the dirt."
Gene’s eyebrows shot up. "The spit-shouter? Proper coward, that. You want us to go back and find him?”
"Already handled," Liam grunted, though he looked proud of Gene’s offer. "She’s with us now. Working for me. No more Camden cupboards."
“Working for you how exactly?” Gene asked with a playful smile that made heat crawl up your neck.
Liam rolled his eyes, “As my hair and wardrobe bird obviously.”
You huffed. “Don’t make my job sound too glamorous, Liam.”
Liam let out a sharp, barking laugh and squeezed your hip under the duvet. “Listen, darlin’, being the person who keeps me looking like a legend is the most important job in the country. It’s a matter of national security, innit?”
Gene shook his head, leaning against the doorframe of the master suite. “So, let me get this straight. You’ve known him for, what, four hours? And you’ve managed to get yourself sacked, hired by the most difficult man in music, and done god knows what in a Winnebago with him.” He looked at you with a mixture of pity and genuine impressed amusement. “Good luck. You’re gonna need it.”
“When you say it like that, it makes me sound like some cliché groupie,” you muttered, the heat in your cheeks intensifying. You pulled the duvet tighter, suddenly acutely aware of your messy hair and the general state of the room. “I’m a professional. I just happened to... have a very intense career consultation.”
Gene let out a snort, and Lennon’s lips quirked into a dry, knowing smirk. The “groupie” label hung in the air for a fraction of a second too long, making your stomach do that nervous little flip again.
But Liam wasn’t having it. The protective rigidity you’d felt earlier returned tenfold. He shifted, sitting up straighter against the headboard, his arm tightening around you like a vice. The smug, post-coital glow vanished, replaced by a sharp, dangerous edge in his eyes.
“Oi,” Liam snapped, his voice dropping into a low, warning rumble that silenced his sons instantly. “Pack that in. Right now.”
He looked at Gene, then at Lennon, his gaze hard enough to crack stone. “She’s not a groupie. She’s got more talent in her little finger than half the posers we’ve seen today. She was the only one in that fuckin’ tent who knew how to handle the chaos while Barry was busy being a total cunt.”
He turned his head slightly to look at you, his expression softening just enough for you to see the sincerity behind the bravado.
“I’m hiring her because she’s the best. She’s a Northerner with a spine of steel who’s been dealt a shit hand by a prick of a boss. I’m not ‘hiring’ her out of some favour,” he lied effortlessly, though you both knew the chemistry was the catalyst. “She’s the only one capable of getting things backstage in order. Understood?”
“Got it.”
“Crystal.” Lennon leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms and looking at you with a lopsided, genuine smile. "So, you’re the new boss, then? Good luck. He’s a nightmare to manage when he hasn't had his tea." He paused, glancing around the messy suite. "So, what’s the plan? Are you actually gonna let her out into the festival, or are you just gonna keep her locked away in here like a trophy?"
Gene chimed in, grinning. "Yeah, Dad. Don't be a hermit. It’s Glastonbury. The sun’s down, the lights are up, and there’s a decent DJ over at Arcadia."
Liam looked down at you, his thumb tracing a slow circle on your hip beneath the duvet. He seemed to weigh the idea of staying in bed forever against the urge to mark his territory in front of the world. The rock star won out.
"Nah," Liam said, his voice regaining that sharp, electric edge. "We’re going out. She’s had a shit day thanks to that twat, so we’re gonna have a biblical night. I’m gonna show her off, get her a proper drink, and let everyone know that if they so much as breath near her, they’re dealing with me.” He looked at you, his eyes dancing with mischief. "C'mon then. Get your gear out of that bag. Put on your best 'fuck you' outfit. We’re going to celebrate your new job in style."
Lennon rolled his eyes, heading back toward the kitchenette. "I'll get the drinks started. Try to be decent in five minutes, yeah?"
A few minutes later once the boys had left the Winnebago so you could get ready, Liam sat on the edge of the bed, a lukewarm beer in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, watching you with the intensity of a man observing a high-stakes art restoration. Every time you pulled something out of that duffel bag, his eyes tracked the movement, a slow, appreciative smirk growing on his face.
“See?” he muttered, gesturing with his cigarette toward the pile of makeup you’d had in your duffle. “Told you. Boss energy.”
As you started to transform, the atmosphere in the Winnebago shifted from post-coital haze to high-voltage anticipation. You stepped into the fishnets first, the black diamonds hugging your curves, followed by the heavy, battered Docs that gave you that extra bit of “don’t mess with me” height. When you pulled on the checked mini skirt and tied the front of your top, leaving just enough skin and cleavage to make a man lose his train of thought (Liam actually stopped mid-sip). His gaze travelled slowly from your boots up to the delicate, intentional chaos of the ties over your chest.
“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, the cocky rock star momentarily replaced by a man who looked like he’d just won the lottery. “Barry’s a bigger idiot than I thought. Letting a goddess like you walk around his tent while he’s shouting about foundation? Criminal.”
You turned to the mirror, your fingers moving with professional speed as you twisted your hair into two sharp, defiant buns on the top of your head. You added a flick of eyeliner, sharp enough to draw blood and a touch of shimmer that caught the dim overhead lights.
Liam stood up, crossing the small space until he was towering behind you in the mirror. He looked like the king of the festival in his parka, but beside you, he looked like a man who’d found his match. He wrapped his arms around your waist, his large, rough hands splaying over the skin revealed by your top. He leaned down, his chin resting on your shoulder as he caught your gaze in the glass.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his voice thick with pride. “You look incredible, love. Proper legend.” He reached out and grabbed his tinted shades from the counter, sliding them onto his face, but not before giving you a wink that made your stomach flip. “The boys are gonna lose their heads,” he chuckled, straightening his jacket. “And Barry? If he sees you tonight, he’s gonna realize he didn’t just sack a makeup artist, he sacked the best thing that ever happened to his boring-ass career.” He held out his hand, his fingers beckoning. “Ready to go make some noise? I want every person on this farm to know exactly who you’re with.”
You took his hand, feeling the solid, grounding heat of it. As you headed toward the door, Liam paused, grabbing his phone and sliding it into his pocket with a wicked grin, no doubt thinking about that photo from earlier and the night still ahead.
The heavy door of the Winnebago hissed open, and the transition from the climate-controlled luxury to the raw, electric hum of Glastonbury at night was instantaneous. The air was thick with the scent of wood smoke, distant chips, and the vibration of bass coming from the valley below.
Gene and Lennon were leaning against a blacked-out Range Rover, sharing a laugh until they saw you step down the stairs.
Gene let out a low whistle, pushing off the car. "Fucking hell, Y/N. You look like you’re about to headline the Other Stage yourself." He turned to Liam, who was still holding your hand like it was a prize trophy. "Dad, seriously. How’d you manage this? You’ve got the charisma of a damp parka most days, and she’s out here looking like that."
Lennon shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips as he pushed his hair out of his eyes. "He’s right, you know. You’re punching way above your weight class tonight, old man. She’s too cool for you. One look at those Docs and the buns, and people are gonna think you’re her security detail, not the other way around."
"Pipe down, you lot," Liam barked, though the grin on his face was wider than the Mersey. He pulled you flush against his side, his arm heavy and protective over your shoulders. "She’s got taste, hasn't she? That's why she’s with me. Now move your arse, Gene, I’m starving and she needs a drink that didn't come out of a lukewarm can."
The walk through the backstage area felt like a victory lap. Liam didn't just walk; he strutted, his fingers interlaced with yours, his eyes darting around behind his shades, daring anyone to even blink in your direction.
When you reached the VIP hospitality area, the atmosphere was chaotic, glitter-covered influencers, tired legends, and a sea of expensive mud. Liam ignored the queues, leading your little quartet straight to a vendor serving gourmet burgers and loaded fries.
"Four of everything," Liam commanded, tossing a wad of crumpled notes onto the counter. "And make 'em quick. The lady’s had a run-in with a prick today, she needs feeding."
You eventually found a battered wooden bench on the edge of the clearing, overlooking the glow of the Arcadia spider in the distance. Liam sat down sideways on the bench, and pulled you in between his legs. His arms wrapping around your waist as you and the boys tucked into the food that sat on the table.
"See?" Liam murmured in your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he stole a fry from your tray. "Better than a Camden cupboard, innit?"
Gene and Lennon were sat opposite you, the two of them still ribbing their dad, but there was a new warmth in the way they looked at you, a silent acceptance that you weren't just a fleeting face in the trailer.
"So," Gene said, pointing a chip at you. "If you’re the boss of his backstage now, does that mean you can finally tell him his hair looks like a medieval peasant’s when he wakes up? Because he won't listen to us."
Liam let out a raspy laugh, his chin resting on your shoulder as he watched you eat. "She can tell me whatever she wants. She’s the only one with the shears, isn't she? She holds my life in her hands." He pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your cheek, his stubble grazing you. "You okay, love? You’re not thinking about that kit bag, are you?"
You shook your head, the bass of the festival thumping in your chest, feeling the solid weight of the three Gallagher men surrounding you like a fortress. "Not even a little bit."
Liam grinned, his hand sliding down to squeeze your hip. "Good.”
The table was a chaotic spread of grease-stained cardboard and open drinks, the steam from the loaded fries rising into the cool night air. Liam didn’t let go of you for a second; even as he tore into a burger with one hand, his other arm remained draped across your lap, his fingers occasionally tapping a rhythmic beat against your thigh as if he were already playing a set in his head.
“Try this,” Liam muttered, nudging a forkful of truffle-oiled fries toward your mouth. He didn’t wait for an answer, essentially feeding you with a look of intense concentration. “Need your strength up. We’ve got a long walk to the Stone Circle later, and I’m not carrying you through the mud. Well, I might, but I’ll moan about it the whole way.”
“You’d love it,” Gene chimed in, leaning over his own food. “Gives you an excuse to show off those ‘legendary’ biceps you’re always going on about.”
Lennon laughed, reaching over to steal a burger from the middle of the table. “He’d probably drop you halfway just to see if your buns stay in place, Y/N. Don’t trust him.”
You felt a genuine sense of belonging wash over you. The terror of Barry’s messages and the loss of your old life felt miles away, buried under the roar of the crowd and the smell of salt and vinegar. You leaned back against Liam’s chest, feeling the vibration of his voice through his parka as he barked back a retort at his sons.
“Right, enough talk,” Liam said, standing up abruptly once the trays were mostly cleared. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and adjusted his shades, despite the darkness. He hauled you up with him, his grip firm. “Food’s done. Drinks are finished. The vibe is calling.”
He turned to his sons, his expression shifting into that of a commander. “You two go find out where the ‘after’ after-party is. The one without the wannabe lot. We’re gonna catch the end of whatever’s happening at the Park Stage.”
As the boys headed off with a wave, Liam turned you toward him so your legs were hooked over his, pulling you closer to him with his hands resting on your waist. The neon lights from a nearby bar reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses.
“You ready to really see this place?” he asked, his voice dropping to that low, intimate rasp. “Just the music and me.”
You nodded, “Sounds like the perfect night.”
Liam grinned before kissing you, “C’mon then. Let’s go get noisy.”
He hooked his arm around your neck and pulled you into his side. As you moved through the VIP gates and out toward the main festival site, the sheer scale of the lights and the people hit you, but with Liam’s hand in yours, it didn’t feel overwhelming. It felt like an invitation.
The Park Stage was glowing like a jewel against the dark Glastonbury hillside, the music drifting up the slope in waves of hazy, melodic reverb. Up here, away from the frantic crush of the Pyramid, the air felt thinner and cooler, but you barely felt the nip of the night.
Liam had unzipped his oversized parka, pulling you flush against his front and wrapping the heavy, fur-trimmed fabric around you like a cocoon. You were tucked under his chin, your back to his chest, feeling the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heart. His hands were clasped over your stomach, squeezing you every time the bass dropped, his nose buried in the crook of your neck.
"Fucking tune, this," he mumble-growled against your skin, his breath a warm, tingling contrast to the breeze. He started to nip at the sensitive cord of your neck, his teeth grazing you just enough to make your toes curl inside your Docs. Each small bite was followed by a lingering, wet kiss that sent sparks straight to your core.
You leaned your head back against his shoulder, closing your eyes and letting the music wash over you. The lights from the stage blurred into a kaleidoscope of gold and blue. In this moment, you weren't a girl who’d just lost her job; you were a girl being held by a man who seemed ready to burn the world down just to keep you warm.
"You're shivering, love," he whispered, his voice vibrating through your spine. He tightened the parka around you, his arms acting as a human vice.
"I'm okay," you breathed, turning your head slightly to look at him. "Just happy."
Liam’s eyes were dark, reflecting the stage lights, but the usual restless fire in them had softened into something incredibly focused. He didn't say anything at first; he just looked at you with a raw, unshielded intensity that made your breath hitch.
Then, he leaned down, his mouth catching yours in a kiss that tasted of salt, beer, and pure, unadulterated want. It wasn't a gentle kiss, it was a Gallagher kiss; deep and demanding. You turned fully in his arms, your hands sliding up his chest to bunch the material of his t-shirt, pulling him closer.
The thousands of people, the glowing ribbons of the Ribbon Tower, the distant roar of the crowds, simply ceased to exist. You were lost in the slide of his tongue against yours and the way his hands moved down to grip your hips, pulling you firmly against him. To anyone passing by, you were just another couple lost in the Glastonbury haze, but to Liam, you were the only headline act that mattered.
He eventually pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing heavily.
"Yeah," he rasped, a wicked, triumphant smirk playing on his lips. "Redundancy suits you, darlin'. Best career move you ever made."
He kept his arm draped heavily over your shoulders as the set ended, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "C'mon then. Let's go find the boys before they manage to get themselves kicked out of Arcadia. I want to see you dance under that big fuckin' spider."
The walk from The Park to the Arcadia field was like descending into a beautiful, neon-lit madness. The giant metal spider loomed in the distance, spitting massive plumes of fire into the sky that illuminated the entire valley in a rhythmic, orange strobe.
Liam didn't let go of you for a second. He kept you tucked under his arm, guiding you through the crowds like a man on a mission. Every time the spider hissed fire, the heat hit your face, and Liam would look down at you, his eyes wide and wild with the thrill of it.
"There they are! The terrible two!" Liam shouted over the pounding techno beat, spotting Gene and Lennon perched on a metal railing near a bar.
They both had fresh drinks in hand and looked like they were having the time of their lives. When they saw you and Liam approaching wrapped in each other’s arms, Gene broke into a massive, knowing grin.
"Took your time, didn't you?" Gene yelled over the bass, handing a cold drink to you and a beer to his dad. "We thought you’d decided to elope to the Stone Circle and leave us to pay the bar tab."
"In your dreams, you little prick," Liam quilled, taking a long swig of his beer before pulling you back against his chest.
The next couple of hours were a blur of high-energy chaos. You were right in the thick of it. You met Liam’s tour manager, a gruff but kind man named Steve.
He took one look at you in your fishnets and Docs, saw the way Liam was looking at you, and just nodded. "Welcome to the circus, love. Hope you've got thick skin, you're gonna need it with this lot."
You danced under the fire, the bass vibrating so hard in your chest that you could barely feel your own heartbeat. Liam wasn't much of a "shuffler," but he stayed right behind you, his hands on your waist, swaying with that heavy, rhythmic swagger of his, leaning in every few minutes to shout something cheeky in your ear or steal another deep, breathless kiss.
Gene wrapped his arm around his dad’s neck and shouted something you couldn’t quite hear making Liam frown.
“The Rabbit Hole?” Liam repeated, squinting through the neon haze as Gene and Lennon started gesturing wildly toward the hidden entrance. “Fucking hell, lads, really?”
“Don’t be a pensioner, Dad!” Gene laughed, already starting to back away toward the secret tunnel. “It’s the best vibe in the place. Alice in Wonderland on acid, innit? You can’t come to Glasto and not go down the hole.”
Lennon nodded, looking at you with a challenge in his eyes. “C’mon, Y/N. Don’t let him pull the ‘old man’ card. If you’re joining the crew, you’ve got to see the weird stuff. It’s a rite of passage.”
Liam looked down at you, his eyebrows raised.
“I wouldn’t mind.” You smiled.
He was clearly exhausted, but the moment he saw the spark of curiosity in your eyes, he let out a dramatic, suffering sigh.
“See that?” he muttered, gesturing to his sons. “Manipulative little shits. Just like their old man.” He tightened his grip on your waist, a wicked grin finally breaking through the fatigue. “Right then. Down the Rabbit Hole we go. But if I see a bloke in a bunny suit, I’m punching him in the carrot.”
Liam didn’t let go of you for a second. Even as he stopped to take a couple of blurry selfies with fans who looked like they’d seen God when they spotted him, his hand stayed firmly anchored on your waist or shoulder.
"The Rabbit Hole, then?" Liam shouted over the increasing volume as you approached the hidden gem of the Park area. "Hope you’re ready, darlin’. It gets a bit... psychedelic in there."
The entrance to the Rabbit Hole was true to its name; a tunnel-like walkway that forced you to duck down. You giggled as Liam followed closely behind you, grumbling about his parker getting muddy and something messing with his hair. The “warren” opened up into a space that felt less like a music venue and more like a fever dream. The decor was Alice in Wonderland on a steady diet of illicit substances: oversized mushrooms, flickering fairy lights, and performers dressed in surrealist costumes darting through the crowd. You felt like you were really tripping as you looked around the space.
"Look at this place," Gene laughed, immediately spotting a group of girls in neon face paint and disappearing toward them. "See ya at the bar!"
"Don't lose your shoes!" Lennon yelled after him before turning to Liam. "I'm going to find the secret stage. Meet you by the 'Eat Me' sign in an hour?"
Liam waved him off with a flick of his hand, his focus already narrowing back down to you. The lighting in the Rabbit Hole was low and saturated in deep purples and oranges, making your black outfit look even sharper and Liam’s blue eyes look almost obsidian.
He leaned in and kissed you again, his hands falling to hold firmly onto your waist. He pulled back with a grin, “Right,” he said, his voice regaining its trademark swagger. “Let’s find the bar in this hole.”
The bar at The Rabbit Hole was less of a service counter and more of a psychedelic stage prop. It was carved out of what looked like a giant, gnarled tree root, glowing with internal LED pulses that changed from deep violet to a sickly, electric lime.
Liam didn’t wait in line. He simply leaned over the wood, his presence acting like a magnet. The bartender, a girl wearing a top hat and glittery whiskers did a double take, dropped her shaker, and immediately scrambled over.
“Two double gins, heavy on the lime,” Liam barked back, then looked at you, his eyes darting to your lips.
As the drinks were slid across the glowing wood, Liam handed you your gin, but he didn’t move away. He stayed anchored to the bar, using his body to create a small, private pocket for you amidst the crush of costumed revellers and sweating dancers.
“Cheers,” he said, clinking his glass against yours. He took a massive swig, then leaned in so close his lips brushed your ear. “Look at ‘em all. Half of ‘em don’t know if they’re in Somerset or on Mars. But you? You’re sharp. You’re right here.”
He pulled you toward a small alcove draped in heavy, moth-eaten tapestry, shielding you from a passing troupe of acrobats. He boxed you in, his hands resting on the wall on either side of your head.
"You're taking it all in, aren't you?" he murmured, his face inches from yours. "The madness. Most people look a bit overwhelmed by now, but you... you look like you’re finally home."
"It's better than a 'wardrobe with a hot plate,'" you teased, reaching out to fiddle with the zipper of his parka.
Liam’s expression shifted, the cocky smirk softening into something more intense. "I meant what I said back there. About the tour. About London. I don't just want you around because you’re good with a makeup brush or because you can hold your own against pricks. I want you around because... well, because I've felt more like myself in the last five hours than I have in five years."
He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. The smell of the festival, damp grass, wood smoke, and cider was heavy in the air, but all you could focus on was the heat of him.
"You're a proper firecracker, Y/n," he whispered. "And I've always been a bit of a pyromaniac."
You reached out and turned him back to face you. You didn’t say anything you just reached up and pulled his face down to meet yours, crashing your lips against his as you wound your arms around his neck. He let out a deep moan into your mouth as you slipped your tongue past his lips and licked against his. Liam’s arms protective wrapped around your waist and held you close as the two of you got lost in what was becoming a heavy make-out.
Once again, your bubble was burst making Liam pull back from you with loud huff as Lennon and Gene appeared by your sides making you giggle. Gene was holding an inflatable banana and Lennon had a neon pink boa around his neck, pair of them covered in neon paint and glitter, both looking equally hammered and bussing to be there.
"Right, enough of the brooding!" Gene shouts, grabbing one of your hands while Lennon snags the other. "Dad’s being a bore, Y/n. Come on, the lobster-priest didn't train us to stand against a wall!"
You let out a yelp of laughter as they drag you toward the centre of the checkerboard floor. Liam lets you go with a mock grumble, but he doesn't follow. Instead, he leans back against the wall, one foot hooked behind him, watching you with a look of intense, quiet pride.
Out in the middle of the madness, you lose yourself for a few minutes. Between Gene swinging the inflatable banana like a weapon and Lennon trying to do a coordinated indie-stomp, you’re spinning, laughing, and throwing your head.
From the sidelines, Liam pulls his phone out. He usually hates people filming him, but for you, he makes an exception.
He holds the phone steady, a smirk playing on his lips as he captures a video of you spinning between his sons. He zooms in on your face, the genuine, unbridled joy there and then snaps a few candid photos. One of you biting your lip as you try to keep your balance, and another of you laughing at something Gene said, looking radiant under the flickering strobe lights.
He scrolls through the shots for a second, his thumb lingering on a picture where you look particularly "lethal."
“Fucking hell,” he mutters to himself, shaking his head.
Eventually, the song peaks, and you’re breathless, your skin glowing with a light sheen of sweat and the leftover tequila buzz. You break away from the boys and head straight back to the one person who hasn't taken his eyes off you once.
You stumbled into his space, your chest heaving, and leaned your full weight against his solid chest. The air in the Rabbit Hole was thick and humid, a stark contrast to the cool night outside, and you could feel the dampness of your skin against the fabric of his parka.
“I’d forgotten...” you panted, a wide, breathless grin stretching across your face as you looked up at him. “I’d forgotten what it was like to actually dance. To just... let go and not worry about who’s looking or if I’m supposed to be somewhere else.”
Liam caught you easily, his arms wrapping around you like a protective shell, steadying you. He tucked your head under his chin for a second. “See?” he murmured, his voice a low vibration in his chest. “That’s the point, innit? That’s what this place is for. Not for fetching water for bassists or getting spat at by middle-management wankers. It’s for this.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his thumb reaching out to smudge a bit of stray glitter from your cheek. His eyes were soft, devoid of the usual rock-star posturing.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, flicking through the screen before turning it toward you. “Look at that,” he said, showing you the video he’d just taken. You saw yourself in a blur of neon and movement, sandwiched between Gene’s inflatable banana and Lennon’s pink boa, looking happier than you had in years. “That’s a girl who’s finished with Camden cupboards. That’s the new boss of the Gallagher tour.”
You let out a soft laugh, resting your forehead against his collarbone. “I’m going to have so much work to do, aren’t I? Keeping you lot in line.”
“Don’t even worry about that now,” Liam chuckled, pocketing the phone and pressing a firm, salty kiss to the top of your head. “Tonight, we’re just two Northerners lost in a hole. Tomorrow... well, tomorrow we’ll tell the world to fuck off and get you some proper breakfast.”
He looked over your shoulder at Gene and Lennon, who were now engaged in a very serious-looking dance-off with a man dressed as a giant playing card.
“Right,” Liam said, his eyes glinting with a fresh spark of energy. “I think the ‘Eat Me’ sign is calling. And after that, I’m taking you to the Stone Circle. I want to watch the sun come up over this mad farm with you, before we go back to the Winnebago and I show you exactly how much I appreciate your ‘career consultation.’” He grabbed your hand, his fingers interlacing with yours, the grip tight and certain.
You grabbed the boys before they could get into any more trouble with the inflatable banana and feather boa, then began making your way out of The Rabbit Hole.
As you stepped out into the night air, Liam tightened his grip on your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours so firmly it felt like he was never going to let go. “Stay close, love. The walk up there is a trek, but once we’re at the top, you’ll see. It’s the only place on this farm where you can actually hear the earth breathing.”
The trek up the hill toward the Stone Circle was a slow, stumbling pilgrimage through the pre-dawn mist. The air was turning a misty, pale grey, the stars beginning to fade as the first hint of morning light threatened the horizon. Thousands of people were scattered across the grass, some huddled in blankets, others still drumming on bins or singing at the top of their lungs.
As you reached the summit, the massive stones loomed out of the haze like ancient sentinels. The boys immediately found a spot near a fire pit, falling into easy conversation with a group of festival goers similar age to them. Liam led you a little further away, toward the edge of the hill where the entire valley of Glastonbury lay spread out below you.
The thousands of lights from the tents and stages twinkled like a fallen galaxy in the mud. Liam sat down on an abandoned blanket, pulling you down right between his legs. He unzipped his parka again, wrapping the heavy fabric around both of you until you were tucked against his chest, shielded from the biting morning chill.
“Look at that,” he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp in the quiet of the morning. He pointed toward the horizon where a thin line of gold was starting to bleed into the purple sky. “All those people down there... they’re all looking for something. Magic, music, a way out of their boring lives.” He squeezed you tighter, his chin resting on your shoulder. “But we found it, didn’t we? Without even trying.”
You leaned back, the steady throb of his heart against your spine acting as a grounding force. “I think the magic found us, Liam. Probably helped that I had a pair of scissors in my hand.” You smiled.
Liam let out a soft, breathy chuckle, his lips finding the sensitive skin behind your ear. “Best haircut in history, darlin’. I’m telling ya.” He went quiet for a moment, just watching the sun start to peek over the hills, turning the mist into a sea of glowing amber. “I mean it, you know. When we get on that tour bus next week... it’s gonna be mad. But if you’re in the back with me, I think I might actually behave myself... well, mostly.” He smirked making your smile widen.
“Mostly?” you teased, turning your head to catch his eye. “That’s a lie.”
“Don’t push it,” he smirked, leaning in to capture your lips in a slow, soft kiss that tasted of the end of a long night and the beginning of something much bigger.
As the sun finally broke over the horizon, a massive cheer erupted from the hundreds of people around the Stone Circle. Gene and Lennon appeared through the mist, looking like two bedraggled but happy ghosts.
“Sun’s up!” Gene cheered, dropping down beside you. “We made it.”
Liam looked at his sons, then down at you, the golden light catching the sharp lines of his face and making him look younger, softer. “Yeah,” he muttered, pulling his shades down from his head to cover his eyes against the new day.
i might have a dilf!liam request in mind 👀 fem!reader who's on sound tech and is around for Liam's touring. the two bump into one another and liam ends up growing quite fond of the woman, he's a little defensive at first but yeah
age gap ofc (OF AGE THO), feel free to add smut but you don't have to 💜💜
OMG OMG OMG OMGGGGGGG
Rhia i was hoping you'd send me a request
I love you never go bald☝️😔
Anyways, I can totally write this!
I'll make it fluff for now, but if this does well I could make a mini series of of this!
This is also slightly inspired by @daddy-issues-galore 's Dilf!Liam series
Just slightly☝️😅
I got the Midas touch
(Dilf!Liam x reader)
A warning isnt necessary but there is an age gap(the reader is 24)
<----♡----♡----♡-----♡----♡----♡----♡---->
And it's a long way down
When you're the wrong way 'round
And now it's all too much
I got the Midas touch
They're taking me for gold
Well, if the truth be told
He got you kiss and tell
I hope you go to hell
I'm going ropey dope
You think I'm giving up
I gotta run or hide
I don't give a fuck, alright?
You're getting told, you greedy soul
You've been telling lies, the slippery kind
<----♡----♡----♡-----♡----♡----♡----♡---->
<----♡----♡----♡-----♡----♡----♡----♡---->
Liam was finally getting his life back on track
He had released his first solo album, As You Were, and it was doing really well. So well, in fact, that now he was going on tour. He didn't want to admit it, but he felt off going on tour without Gem or Andy or even Bonehead. He didnt show it, obviously. He wanted everyone to see him as the same Liam Gallagher from the 90s, but older. He had landed his first solo gig, and was making his way to soundcheck.
Thats when he ran into you
Literally
You were so distracted and nervous today, your nerves completely shot as you were terrified of fucking up. You mind was somewhere else when you ran into Liam, you didn't MEAN to run into him: it just happened. "Oof!" You wobbled before getting your balance, grabbing Liam's arm and preventing him from falling backwards. You both stared at each other, and you could feel your face getting red as you helped him stand up straight. "I-Im so sorry mr Gallagher! I wasn't thinking a-and I didn't mean to bump into you!" You couldnt even stop yourself as you babbled apologies, which made Liam chuckle. You stopped talking instantly, swallowing nervously as you stared. "There's no need to apologize, yeah? Accidents happen or whatever, no need to piss yerself over it." You slightly relaxed, still feeling tense but relieved that he wasnt mad at you.
