pairing: dilf!liam gallagher x younger reader
cw: pregnancy, childbirth, hospital setting, postpartum recovery, body image struggles, insecurity around weight and physical changes, exhaustion, sleep deprivation, emotional overwhelm, and the general chaos of caring for a newborn.
wc: ~9k
author's note: the baby is finally here!!!!!!!!! I’m not revealing the sex in this note because I need you to read the whole chapter and allow me a tiny bit of suspense. this is only the beginning. there are so many new adventures coming, so many stories still waiting to be told, and a whole new little universe opening up for this family. welcome, baby gallagher.
By the time I was six months pregnant, hiding it had started to feel less like privacy and more like an unpaid acting job. Everyone close to us knew of course. But the world didn’t. Not officially.
To the world, I was still Liam Gallagher’s younger fiancée, which already came with enough opinions to fill a landfill. The age gap, the engagement, the fact that I was always near him but never giving anyone enough to turn into a full story.
They had pieces. A blurry photo outside a restaurant. My hand in his. His jacket on my shoulders. Me disappearing into cars before anyone could get a proper angle. But they didn’t have the baby. For six months, the baby had belonged to quiet rooms. To ultrasound pictures tucked into drawers. To Liam’s hand finding my stomach in the middle of the night. To Molly smiling with tears in her eyes, Gene making one joke too many times because feelings scared him, and Lennon going very still before saying, “That’s big.”
That afternoon, we had gone to the clinic hoping the baby might finally let us know whether they were a boy or a girl. They did not.
The baby had spent the entire scan curled in the exact wrong position, deeply committed to privacy, legs crossed like they had signed an NDA before being born. The doctor had tried. I had shifted. Liam had leaned forward like staring harder might help but nothing helped us.
“Stubborn,” Liam said once we were back in the hallway.
“They’re shy.” I laughed, one hand moving over the bump without thinking. “So we wait,” I said.
“Till the birth?”
“Looks like it.”
He nodded, pretending that didn’t make him emotional. “Dramatic entrance. Respect.”
I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling when we stepped outside. That was what the first photo caught. Me smiling. Liam beside me, sunglasses on, one hand at my back, the other holding the folded scan pictures. A normal couple leaving a medical appointment, if one ignored the fact that he was Liam Gallagher and normal had never survived long around him.
The second photo caught the bump. I was wearing a loose black dress under a long coat, but six months pregnant had its own architecture. The wind moved the coat open just enough, and there it was. Clear and round. Impossible to deny.
A photographer called Liam’s name from somewhere near the cars. His body changed before his face did. He moved closer to me, not aggressively, not loud enough to make a scene, but enough to put himself between me and the camera.
“Keep walkin’,” he said, low.
By the time we got home, my phone had already started buzzing.
julia: BABE
clara: don’t open anything yet
julia: too late she needs to see it before someone else sends it
clara: i hate the internet
I stood in the kitchen, still holding the scan pictures, and opened the link Julia sent in the group chat. There we were. Outside the clinic. His hand on my back. My coat open. The bump no longer ours alone.
The headline was exactly as delicate as expected.
LIAM GALLAGHER, 53, EXPECTING BABY WITH YOUNGER FIANCÉE
Liam took the phone from my hand before I could scroll. “Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were.”
I looked up at him. He wasn’t angry yet. Not properly. He was somewhere worse than angry, quiet and tight and too still. “They know,” I said.
His jaw moved once. “Yeah.”
“They got us coming out of the clinic.”
“I saw.”
“With the scan pictures.”
“I know.”
That was the part that hurt more than the headline. Not just my body. The little folded proof in his hand. Something private caught in public light.
His phone started ringing. His manager, obviously. Mine kept vibrating on the counter with Clara and Julia threatening legal and digital violence in equal measure.
For a few seconds, neither of us answered anyone. Liam placed the scan pictures on the kitchen table with more care than he usually gave anything made of paper.
Then he looked at me. “You alright?” I gave him a look. He exhaled. “Yeah. Stupid question.”
“It was going to happen eventually.”
“Doesn’t mean it had to happen like that.”
“No.”
He moved closer, one hand settling on my waist first, then on the bump like he needed to remind himself the baby was still under his hand and not inside the phone. “They don’t get this,” he said.
My throat tightened. “They kind of do now.”
“No.” His voice was rougher. “They get a picture. That’s it.”
The baby moved then. Small. Barely there. Liam felt it under his palm and went completely quiet. The internet could have been burning outside the windows and I don’t think he would have noticed.
“Kid’s got timing,” he murmured.
I laughed once, even though my eyes had started to burn. “Obviously yours.”
“Excuse you.”
He looked down at the bump. “Tell ’em,” he said softly.
The doorbell rang before I could cry properly. Then someone knocked like the police.
“OPEN UP,” Julia shouted from outside.
Clara’s voice followed. “WE BROUGHT FOOD AND ANGER.”
Liam looked toward the hall. “Your friends are insane.”
“They love me.”
“Fair.”
When Clara and Julia came in, the kitchen filled with the kind of noise that made bad news feel less powerful. Julia hugged me first and said nothing, which somehow made me want to cry more. Clara put three bags on the counter and immediately took charge like she had been waiting her whole life to manage a crisis involving pastries.
“No one reads comments alone,” she said.
Liam, who was already holding his phone, looked personally attacked. “I’m not alone.”
“You’re emotionally unsupervised,” Clara replied.
Julia leaned over my shoulder. “How are you?”
“Weird.”
Liam lasted five minutes before muttering something about parasites. I took his phone. He let me, which was how I knew he was worse than he looked.
By evening, his manager had called six times, the photos were everywhere, and the internet had split itself into the usual tribes: people being cruel, people being protective, people pretending concern was not just gossip wearing a clean shirt.
Some said I was too young, others said Liam was too old, one of them said the baby was a publicity stunt, which was so stupid I almost respected the confidence. Fans sent blue hearts. Someone wrote that Liam looked happy. Someone else said they hoped we were being left alone.
Three days later, he broke.
clara: HE TWEETED
I looked across the kitchen table. Liam was wearing sunglasses indoors and trying to look innocent.
I opened Twitter. “Oh my God.”
“Had to come back eventually.”
@ liamgallagher: yes we’re having a baby and yes we’re very happy about it now leave my missus alone you vultures LG x
I stared at the screen. The replies exploded immediately. Congratulations. Questions. Opinions. Strangers asking how long we had planned to hide it, as if the inside of my body had been a delayed press release.
@ liamgallagher: as long as we fucking wanted it’s a baby not an album campaign
Another very rude commented that people were going to find out anyway. Liam snorted.
@ liamgallagher: yeah and people are going to die one day doesn’t mean you chase them down the street with a gun
“Liam.”
“What?”
He put the phone down, but only after one more tweet.
@ liamgallagher: baby’s healthy she’s healthy that’s all that matters cheers for the love to the nice ones LG x
I should have been annoyed. I was, a little. But under that, annoyingly, was relief. They could have the headline, the clinic photo, the ugly little sentence that tried to make a life sound like a scandal. They did not get the rest.
The week after the photos came out, Clara and Julia arrived with a notebook, more snacks, and the dangerous expression of women who had decided sadness had overstayed its welcome.
“No,” I said immediately.
Julia blinked. “We haven’t said anything.”
“You look organised.”
“We are,” Clara said.
Liam looked up from the sofa. “That’s worse.”
Julia ignored him and sat beside me. “The world got its ugly moment,” she said. “Fine. Now we get ours.”
I looked between them. “What does that mean?”
“Baby shower,” Clara said.
“Something small,” Julia added.
Liam snorted. “You two don’t do small.”
Julia smiled sweetly. “Watch us.”
“And before anyone starts,” Clara continued, pointing at me, then at Liam, “no gender reveal.”
“Good,” I said.
“Excellent,” Liam added.
“First, because we don’t know.”
“Because the kid’s dramatic,” he muttered.
“Second,” Clara said, louder, “because if the baby doesn’t want to tell us yet, we can wait until the birth like civilised people.”
Julia nodded. “No coloured smoke. No balloons exploding in someone’s face. No cake with a secret interior.”
I looked down at my stomach, one hand resting over the place where the baby had kicked days before, right in the middle of the storm. For the first time since the photos, I felt something loosen.
Clara squeezed my hand. “So,” she said. “Cream, green, gold?”
Julia nodded seriously. “Elegant. Soft. Expensive-looking.”
Liam frowned. “Expensive-looking or expensive?”
Julia smiled at him. “For your unborn child? Both.”
He stared at her. I laughed. And just like that, ugly headline or not, we started planning something beautiful.
The baby shower happened three weeks later. Which, in Clara and Julia language, meant they spent twenty-one days saying it was going to be small while behaving like they were organising a royal christening with emotional damage.
I was not allowed to help. That had been made very clear. Every time I asked a question, Clara told me to rest. Every time I tried to suggest something practical, Julia told me my only job was to “grow the guest of honour and look pretty.”
Liam found that hilarious until they gave him tasks. Then suddenly it was a dictatorship.
“They’ve sent me a spreadsheet,” he said one morning, standing in the kitchen with his phone in his hand and betrayal written all over his face.
I was sitting at the table with toast I didn’t want and strawberries I very much did. “For the baby shower?”
“For me.”
I smiled. “What does it say?”
He scrolled, offended. “Pick up cake. Confirm chairs. Don’t tweet. Don’t wear black if it looks like you’re going to a funeral.”
“That last one is fair.”
“I wear black for luck.”
“You also look like you’re going to a funeral.”
He ignored me and kept reading. “Why do they need me to confirm chairs?”
“Because you have money and a phone.”
“Dangerous combination.”
“Historically, yes.”
The truth was, I was grateful they had taken over. Clara and Julia showed up more often. Molly texted every few days. Gene sent stupid baby videos with no context. Lennon, quietly, sent me a link to a pram he had researched because he said the reviews were “less annoying than most.”
The day arrived warm and bright, which immediately made Liam suspicious.
“Too nice out,” he said, looking through the window.
“You’re complaining about good weather?”
“Feels staged.”
“It is a baby shower, not a murder plot.”
“With your friends? Could be both.”
I was seven months pregnant by then, which meant moving around the bedroom had become an extreme sport. I had tried on three dresses before crying over the fourth because it actually fit, and Liam, who had been smart enough to stay quiet through most of it, finally stepped behind me and rested his chin near my shoulder.
“That one,” he said.
“You don’t even know what the other ones looked like.”
“I know what you looked like when you put this one on.”
I looked at him in the mirror. He looked tired. A little nervous, though he would have denied it in court. His hair was still damp from the shower, his shirt half buttoned, sunglasses already hanging from the collar like a threat.
“You like it?”
“I like you.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
“It’s the answer.” My throat tightened before I could stop it. He saw it and immediately frowned. “No crying. We haven’t even left yet.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You are.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Then stop making me emotional.”
“I said I liked you.”
“You said it nicely.”
“Disgusting behaviour from me.”
I laughed, and he looked pleased with himself. Then his hands slid to my stomach, careful and familiar now. “Ready, little trouble?” he murmured.
By the time we arrived, I knew immediately that Clara and Julia had lied about every single thing. Small, apparently, meant half the people we loved. Tasteful meant flowers everywhere, long tables dressed in cream linen, green and gold ribbons tied around chairs, soft lights, candles no one was allowed to light because Julia said she had “thought about liability,” and a cake that said: baby gallagher loading...
Liam stopped beside me. “Small?”
Clara appeared from nowhere. “It is small.”
“There are more flowers here than at a royal funeral.”
“Do not compare my work to a funeral.”
Julia walked over with a clipboard. A clipboard.
I stared at her. “You have a clipboard?”
“It’s decorative.”
“It has tabs.”
“Decoratively organised.”
Liam leaned toward me. “Terrifying women.”
“You love them.”
“I fear them.”
“Same thing with you.”
Before he could answer, Molly crossed the room and hugged me carefully. “You look beautiful,” she said.
My eyes filled immediately.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Liam muttered, but his hand found my back.
Molly smiled at him. “Be nice.”
“I am nice.”
Lennon arrived with a gift bag and kissed my cheek, quiet and sweet enough that I nearly cried again.
“No,” Liam said immediately.
“I didn’t do anything,” Lennon said.
“She’s unstable.”
Molly laughed and took my hand, guiding me further inside before Liam could keep listing my crimes.
That was the thing about the baby shower. It should have overwhelmed me. There were people everywhere. My parents. Liam’s kids. His mum. Clara’s family. Julia’s boyfriend, already hiding near the food. A few people from Liam’s team. Friends from my side who had somehow learned to treat Liam like someone’s annoying uncle instead of a rockstar. Old industry faces who kissed Liam on the cheek and then immediately softened when they saw my bump.
It should have felt like too much. But it didn’t. Not exactly. Maybe because Clara and Julia had built the whole room like a shield. No press. No cameras we hadn’t approved. No one there because of curiosity. No one there to take something from us.
The shower moved around me in pieces. Peggy sat beside me for a while and asked how I was before asking how the baby was, which made me understand instantly why Liam loved her the way he did, even when he pretended she drove him mad.
Liam hovered. Every time someone touched my bump without asking, he materialised beside me with a look so flat the person usually remembered their manners halfway through. At one point, I found him at the gift table with Gene, both of them staring into a bag full of newborn clothes.
Liam held up a tiny cream hat. “What is this?”
“A hat,” Gene said.
“It’s too small.”
“The baby will be small.”
“Not that small.”
I walked over. Liam turned it in his hands, genuinely troubled. “Their head’s gonna fit in this?”
Gene looked at me. “He’s been like this for five minutes.”
Liam looked down at my stomach. “You hear that? Tiny head.”
“Don’t bully the baby’s head.”
Later, Clara announced a game. Liam immediately tried to leave. I caught his wrist. “No.”
“Love.”
“You’re playing.”
“I don’t do games.”
Julia handed him a card and a pen. “Predictions.”
“I’m not predictin’ the baby.”
“You’re guessing date, time, weight, hair, and who they’ll look like.”
Liam frowned at the card. “That’s weird.”
Molly leaned over his shoulder. “Hair: Dad. Attitude: Dad. Volume: Dad.”
Lennon added, “Eyebrows: hopefully not Dad.”
Liam looked betrayed by his entire bloodline. “You’re all ungrateful.”
The afternoon blurred after that. Presents. Food. People laughing. Clara crying over a knitted blanket like she had personally invented softness. Julia arguing with Gene about whether a toy rabbit was cute or terrifying. My mother thanking Liam for making sure I had eaten, which made him stand a little straighter even though he pretended not to notice.
For a while, I sat on the sofa with tissue paper around my feet and a tiny pair of socks in my lap. There were too many gifts. Too many cards. Too many tiny things waiting for someone we still hadn’t met. Someone who had no name yet. No revealed sex. No face except the blurry, stubborn little profile from the scan. Still, the room was full of them. Full of proof that they were coming into a world that could be ugly and loud and invasive, yes, but also this. People who showed up, who remembered what I liked to eat, who asked if I needed to sit, who already loved every unknown piece of them.
It hit me all at once. Liam noticed from across the room. He left a conversation with someone from his team and came straight over. “What’s that face?”
I looked down at the socks. “This is a lot.”
“Bad lot?”
“No.”
“Good lot?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Good lot.”
He sat beside me, close enough that our knees touched. For a moment, neither of us said anything. The room was loud around us, but softer now. Familiar chaos. My friends bossing people around. His kids teasing each other. Our families mixing in that slightly awkward, slightly lovely way people do when they know they are about to be tied together by someone very small.
Liam looked at the gifts, then at the room, then at my stomach. “Kid’s spoiled already.”
“Very.”
“Good.”
I turned my head. “Good?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged, uncomfortable with his own tenderness before it had even fully arrived. “Better know people are mad for them.” His hand found mine under the tissue paper.
Then Julia’s voice cut through the room. “Cake time!”
Liam looked relieved. “Finally. A normal activity.”
Clara appeared with a knife. “You’re cutting it together.”
He stared at her. “Why?”
“Because it’s cute.”
“I don’t do cute.”
I stood carefully, still holding his hand. “You do now.”
He looked at me. Then he sighed like the universe had personally defeated him. “Pregnant dictatorship.”
“Correct.”
Everyone gathered around while we cut the cake. Clara took photos. Julia told us to smile. Liam said he was smiling. He was not. But when the knife went through the icing and everyone cheered, his hand settled at my back again.
That night, when we got home, Liam carried the gifts inside even though I told him to leave most of them in the car until morning. He ignored me. By the time he was done, the living room looked like the baby had already moved in and brought luggage.
I sat on the sofa, barefoot, exhausted, one hand resting on the bump while he stood in the middle of the room holding the tiny cream hat again.
“Still too small,” he said.
I smiled. “You’re going to say that until they’re born.”
“Probably after.”
“Come here.”
He did. Carefully, like I was the one who might disappear if he moved too fast. He sat beside me, placed the hat on the coffee table, and leaned down to kiss my stomach through the dress.
“Your party was mad,” he murmured to the baby.
I brushed my fingers through his hair. “You loved it.”
“Maybe.”
Which meant yes. The baby kicked once, right under his mouth. Liam froze. Then smiled against my stomach. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You too.”
I leaned back against the sofa and closed my eyes, letting the quiet settle over us. For one whole afternoon, no one had taken anything. And that, more than the flowers, the cake, the soft green ribbon tied around gift bags, felt like the thing I wanted to remember.
After the baby shower, time started moving strangely. Some days disappeared without leaving anything behind except swollen ankles, half-folded baby clothes, and Liam asking if I needed anything every twelve minutes. Other days stretched so long I became convinced I had always been pregnant. That there had never been a version of me without a bump, without heartburn, without a tiny foot pressing somewhere rude while Liam looked at my stomach like it had personally invented life.
By week forty, I was done. Emotionally, spiritually, physically done. The baby, however, was not. The baby seemed very comfortable. Too comfortable. The kind of comfortable that felt insulting.
Every morning, Liam would look at my stomach and say, “Still in there?” And every morning I would look at him like I was considering violence.
At the last appointment, the doctor said everything looked good. The baby was healthy. I was healthy. We could wait a little longer, or talk about induction soon if nothing happened. Then, very casually, very medically, she mentioned that sex could sometimes help things along but of course, Liam heard one word. Sex.
After that, he became a man with a mission. “So technically,” he said on the way home, far too pleased with himself, “this is doctor’s orders.”
“I hate that you heard it like that.”
“Health is important.”
“You are disgusting.”
“I’m supportive.”
And because I was forty weeks pregnant, hormonal, uncomfortable, and desperate to get the baby out of me by any means available, I let him be supportive. Very supportive.
For almost a week, he treated it like training. He was smug about it, obviously. He kept saying things like, “Just doin’ me bit for the family,” while kissing my neck like he deserved a public service award.
By the sixth day, even he looked a little destroyed. Not that it stopped him.
That night, we were in bed, or at least trying to stay in bed. My shirt was pushed up over my stomach, his mouth was on mine, his hand careful at my waist, and I was laughing into his kiss because maneuvering around a full-term bump had become less romantic and more like trying to move a sofa through a narrow hallway.
“Stop laughing,” he muttered against my mouth.
“I can’t.”
“You’re ruining the mood.”
“You’re breathing like you ran a marathon.”
“I’m fifty-three.”
“You weren’t fifty-three five minutes ago.”
He lifted his head and looked at me, offended in a way that did absolutely nothing to hide how much he was enjoying himself. “You’re lucky I love you.”
I smiled. He kissed me again, harder this time, and for about ten seconds I forgot that I was enormous, exhausted, and one mild inconvenience away from crying over the shape of a spoon.
Then I felt it. A strange pop. And suddenly the bed was wet. Warm. Spreading fast beneath me. I froze. Liam froze too, sensing the change in my body before either of us had named it.
He pulled back. “What’s that?”
I blinked at him. Then looked down. “I think it happened.”
His face went completely blank. “What happened?”
I stared. “Liam.”
His eyes dropped. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
For one second, neither of us moved. Then he sat up so fast he nearly fell out of bed. “Right. Hospital. Bag. Keys. Shoes.”
“The baby is still inside me.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
He was already halfway across the room, shirt inside out, hair wild, looking like a man who had spent the last week enthusiastically trying to cause a problem and had suddenly discovered consequences.
“Don’t move,” he said.
“I’m leaking.”
“Exactly. Stay there.”
“That makes no sense.”
He grabbed the hospital bag from the chair, then turned around with panic in his eyes. “Where are the keys?”
“By the door.”
“Right.”
He walked toward the dresser. “Liam.”
“What?”
“The door.”
He stopped. Looked at the dresser. “Fuck.”
I laughed. Then immediately had to breathe through a contraction. His face changed at once. All the chaos quieted. “Love?”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
That got him moving.
The next hours came in pieces. The car. The hospital lights. Clara calling three times. Julia sending voice notes that started supportive and ended with her threatening to haunt Liam if he fainted. Nurses coming in and out. Liam standing beside me with his sleeves pushed up, trying very hard to be useful and mostly succeeding by shutting up whenever I told him to.
At one point, during a contraction that made me see the edge of God’s shoe, he leaned close and said, “You’re doing amazin’, proper biblical.”
I turned my head slowly. “Say biblical one more time and I’m naming the baby Noel.”
He went silent immediately. Liam looked wounded. “Cruel,” he whispered.
“Deserved,” I said.
After that, he stopped trying to be funny. Which was how I knew he was scared. He held my hand through everything. Let me crush his fingers. Wiped my face. Put water to my lips. Told me I could do it when I said I couldn’t. Told me I was doing it when I said I wasn’t.
I hated him for being right. Loved him for being there. There was a moment, somewhere near the end, when the room narrowed to almost nothing. Just Liam’s hand in mine, his face close to mine. His eyes wide and terrified and determined not to make any of it about himself.
“I can’t,” I said.
He shook his head. “Yes baby, come on one more.”
Then, after pain and noise and hours that felt endless and too fast to understand, the room shifted. A cry so small, sharp and alive that the whole world stopped. Someone said something, but I didn’t catch it at first because the baby was crying and I was crying and Liam wasn’t moving at all.
Then I heard it. “It’s a girl.”
A baby girl, our daughter.
They placed her on my chest, warm and furious and impossibly real, and all I could do was stare. She was tiny, and for some reason so angry. Perfect. Her little face was scrunched with absolute disgust at being born, and despite everything, despite the exhaustion and the tears and the fact that my whole body felt like it had been split open and remade, I laughed.
“Oh,” I whispered. “Hi.”
Liam stood beside the bed, one hand still around mine, his face utterly wrecked in the quietest way.
“Liam,” I said softly. He looked at me like he had forgotten where he was. “Touch her.”
“I am.”
“You’re hovering.”
“She’s tiny.”
“She’s your baby girl.”
His throat moved once. “Yeah,” he said, barely there. “That’s the problem.”
Later, after everything had softened, after they had checked us and cleaned us and the room no longer felt like a storm had passed through it, someone handed her to him. For a man who had been a father before, Liam looked terrified. Not because he didn’t know how to hold a baby. That was the thing. He knew exactly how small they were. How quickly time moved. How easily years could slip out of your hands while you were busy being somewhere else.
He held her like she was made of glass. Careful. Completely overwhelmed. She was wrapped in a blanket, face pressed slightly to one side, mouth making tiny angry movements like she had already inherited his opinion of being disturbed.
“She looks annoyed,” I said, exhausted.
“Knows the world already.”
Then it happened. Her little hand moved out from the blanket and closed around his finger. Liam stopped breathing. Properly stopped. His eyes dropped to where she held him, and for once there was no joke ready. No defence. No noise. Just him, staring at this tiny hand wrapped around one of his fingers like she had claimed him before he had any chance to prepare.
I watched his face change. And then, quietly, almost like he didn’t notice it himself, a couple of tears slipped down his cheeks. It was the only time I had ever seen him cry.
“Oh,” he said.
That was all. He didn’t say anything else, not because there wasn’t more, but because he didn’t trust his own words not to break or come out wrong. But it was enough.
I looked at our daughter, then at him, and something settled in me with a strange, quiet certainty.
“Ivy Gallagher,” I whispered.
His eyes lifted to mine. For a second, I thought he was going to argue. Out of habit, mostly. Because he had spent half the pregnancy pretending to hate every name I liked if it had even the faintest smell of Taylor Swift near it.
But then the baby tightened her grip around his finger. Liam looked back down at her. “Ivy,” he repeated, rough and low, like he was testing how it felt in his mouth. She made a tiny noise against the blanket. His face softened so badly it almost hurt to look at him. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Ivy Gallagher.”
I smiled, exhausted and wrecked and happier than I knew what to do with. “You’re not going to complain?”
He didn’t look away from her. “She’s already won.”
And just like that, she had a name: Ivy Gallagher.
The baby who had hidden from scans, kicked through bad headlines, ruined Liam’s dignity before she was even born, and arrived angry enough to make him fall in love with her on sight.
He sat beside me with her in his arms for a long time after that. The room moved around us. Nurses came in and out. Someone checked something. Someone said we should rest, which felt like a very ambitious suggestion. Liam barely heard any of it. He only looked at Ivy. Then at me. Then back at Ivy. Like he was trying to understand how a life could be so small and still rearrange everything.
Eventually, he leaned closer and kissed my forehead. “You alright?” I gave him a tired look. He corrected himself immediately. “Yeah. Stupid question. You just did something insane.”
I laughed, barely. He smiled. Then Ivy made one tiny sound, and both of us looked down at her like she had spoken in full sentences.
Liam’s hand covered her little back. “Alright, boss,” he whispered.
I closed my eyes. Boss. Of course. She had been alive for less than an hour and already outranked both of us.
By the time we were discharged from the hospital, I had slept for approximately forty minutes in three days. Ivy had slept more than both of us combined and still somehow looked offended by life.
Liam carried her into the house like he had been entrusted with a state secret. One hand supported her head, the other held the car seat, and his eyes moved over every doorway as though our home had developed hidden dangers while we were gone.
I followed behind him slowly, sore, exhausted and desperate for my own bed. Then I saw the people in the living room. Two members of Liam’s PR team were sitting on the sofa with laptops open. Someone had brought coffee. Someone else had printed several possible statements.
I stopped in the hallway. “No.”
Liam turned. “What?”
“No people.”
“They’re here for the announcement.”
“I have just pushed a person out of my body.”
“I know.”
“I am wearing hospital underwear.”
“No one can see your underwear.”
“That is not the point.”
One of the women stood immediately. “We can leave and handle everything remotely.”
I looked toward the stairs. Then at the tiny bundle sleeping against Liam’s chest. Then at the phones already appearing on the table.
I sighed. “No. Let’s just finish it.”
Liam’s expression softened. “You sure?”
“I want people to know she’s here before somebody posts a blurry photograph of us leaving the hospital and names her Olivia.”
“Olivia’s alright.”
“Her name is Ivy.”
I lowered myself carefully onto the sofa while Liam remained standing, still unwilling to put the baby down.
The PR team had already prepared several options. A formal photograph. A statement confirming her name, weight and date of birth. A picture of the three of us together. One suggestion involved a professional photographer coming the following morning.
“Absolutely not,” I said. Liam looked at the paper. I looked down at myself. My hair had been tied into the same knot since labour. My face was swollen from crying, medication and exhaustion. Everything beneath my clothes felt unfamiliar. “I don’t want my face online today.” Nobody argued. That helped. “I want people to know she’s safe,” I continued. “But I don’t want them having everything. Not her whole face. Not the hospital. Not every detail.”
Liam nodded immediately. “Then they don’t.”
The certainty in his voice settled something in me. One of the PR women closed the document on her laptop. “We can keep it very simple. Two photographs. No medical information beyond the date, unless you want to include it.”
“What photographs?” Liam asked.
I looked at Ivy. Only her feet were visible beneath the blanket. “Her toes.”
Liam looked down too. “She has good feet.”
He adjusted the blanket carefully until both tiny feet appeared. I took the photograph on my phone. Two pink soles. Ten impossibly small toes. Liam’s thumb visible at the edge of the frame, keeping the blanket from slipping.
The second photograph took longer. I still did not want to pose. Liam did not want to hand Ivy to anyone. Eventually, we ended up on the sofa with him sitting back against the cushions and the baby stretched across his chest. Her cheek rested beneath his collarbone. One of his hands covered nearly her entire back.
I sat beside him, tucked beneath his other arm. “Don’t look at the camera,” I said.
“Wasn’t planning to.”
The photograph was taken from across the room. The focus stayed on Ivy, asleep against him. Liam’s face was turned down toward her. Mine was hidden against his shoulder, little more than the outline of my hair and the shape of my hand resting beside his over her back.
I looked at it for several seconds. “That one.”
Liam glanced at me. “Yeah?”
“You can’t really see me.”
“I can see you.”
“You know what I mean.”
His hand moved slowly along my arm. “Yeah. That one.”
Then came the caption. The PR team offered several polished versions. Liam rejected all of them.
“Sounds like a royal announcement.”
“You are announcing a birth,” I said.
“Not launching a satellite.”
He took the phone. For Instagram, he wrote:
ivy gallagher has entered the building. mum and baby are perfect. dad is obviously biblical. welcome to the family, little one. we love you forever LG x
I read it twice. “You called yourself biblical in our daughter’s birth announcement.”
“Accuracy matters.”
I was too tired to argue.
He posted the two photographs together. For a moment, nothing happened. Then his phone began vibrating continuously. Messages. Comments. News alerts. Family group chats. Friends sending hearts and congratulations before the post had been live for a full minute.
Liam watched the numbers rise. “People like her.”
I leaned back against the sofa and closed my eyes. “I thought we were done.”
“We are.”
His phone vibrated again. I opened one eye. He was already on Twitter.
“Liam.”
“Just sayin’ hello.”
“You already said hello.”
“Different crowd.”
@ liamgallagher our beautiful little girl ivy is here safe and sound. her mum is a superhero and i am never arguing with a woman again LG x
I laughed despite myself. “That promise won’t survive the afternoon.”
“Probably not.”
A fan replied asking whether he had cried.
@ liamgallagher NO COMMENT
Someone else asked who Ivy looked like.
@ liamgallagher me obviously she’s got star quality
Then:
@ liamgallagher she has her mums nose thank god
Another person asked whether the baby had already heard Oasis.
@ liamgallagher she heard oasis for 9 months whether she liked it or not
Then, without anybody asking:
@ liamgallagher she likes songbird best takes after her mum
I looked at him. He avoided my eyes. “That’s very sweet.”
“Statement of fact.”
“She cannot express musical preferences.”
“She settled when it came on.”
He locked the phone and placed it face down on the table. The room became quiet again. The PR team gathered their things and left with barely a sound. The front door closed. The coffee went untouched.
For the first time since arriving home, it was only us. Liam looked down at Ivy, still sleeping against his chest, completely unaware that thousands of people now knew her name.
“You alright?” he asked me.
I nodded and moved closer. “She’s public now.”
“Her feet are public.”
I rested my head against his shoulder. His arm tightened around me carefully.
Outside, the announcement was becoming news. Inside, Ivy made a tiny noise and pressed her face deeper into Liam’s shirt.
He looked down at her immediately. “Alright, little one. Dad’s here.”
By the time Ivy was two months old, Liam and I had become experts at almost. Almost eating dinner while it was still warm. Almost finishing a film. Almost having a conversation without one of us stopping halfway through because the baby monitor had made a noise that sounded suspiciously like judgment. Almost touching. That was the strangest one. We touched all the time, technically. His hand on my back when I passed him in the kitchen. My fingers in his hair when he sat on the floor with Ivy on his chest. His mouth on my forehead when I was feeding her at three in the morning and trying not to cry from exhaustion. My leg against his in bed while both of us stared at the ceiling like sleep was a rumour invented by people without children.
But it was not the same. It was practical touching. Beautiful, sometimes, in a way that made my chest hurt. But not ours. Not like before.
The doctor had cleared me, which felt hilarious in a cruel way. As if my body were a road after construction and someone had decided traffic could resume. As if desire had been waiting politely behind a barrier with its indicator on. In reality, every time we got close, something happened. Ivy cried. I leaked milk. Liam fell asleep sitting up. I fell asleep mid-sentence.
Once, he kissed me against the kitchen counter and I started laughing because there was a muslin cloth over his shoulder and a pacifier in his pocket.
“What?” he had said, mouth still close to mine.
“You look like a dad.”
“I am a dad.”
“I know.”
“Still fit though.”
“Very.”
He had smiled into my neck, smug for exactly four seconds before Ivy screamed from the next room like she had sensed joy.
There was finally one night where the house went quiet before midnight. It felt suspicious. Ivy had fed, fussed, been changed, argued with sleep, lost the argument, and gone down in her crib with both fists near her face, looking furious even unconscious.
Liam came back into our bedroom slowly, closing the door with the kind of care only terrified parents understood.
He stood there in the dark, listening. “She’s down,” he whispered.
I was sitting against the pillows in one of his shirts, too tired to move and somehow too awake to sleep.
“Can we have a quickie?”
He stopped. “What?”
“A quickie.”
“At three in the mornin’?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve just survived bedtime round four.”
“I know.”
“And you want sex?”
“I’m asking very politely.”
He crossed the room and climbed onto the bed, careful at first, like part of him still expected me to wince. That made my throat tighten, but then he kissed me and the feeling turned into something else.
His hand found my waist under the shirt, not rushing, not asking too much, just there. My body answered before my head had time to list all the reasons I should feel strange inside it.
“Missed you,” he murmured against my mouth.
“I’m right here.”
“Not like this.” That almost did me in.
I pulled him closer, fingers curling into the back of his shirt. He let out a quiet sound, half laugh and half surrender, and kissed me harder. For a few minutes, we forgot to be tired. For a few minutes, there was no schedule, no feeding, no tiny person in the next room who had somehow taken over the government of the house. There was just him. His weight careful over mine. My hand at his neck. His mouth moving down my jaw. The absurd, beautiful relief of wanting and being wanted at the same time.
Then the monitor crackled. A tiny whimper came through.
Liam lifted his head slowly. “No.”
Another whimper. Then the full cry, sharp, furious, personal.
I stared at the ceiling. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He dropped his forehead to my shoulder and laughed. Not because it was funny. Because there was nowhere else for the frustration to go.
“She knows,” he said into my skin.
“She’s a baby.”
“She knows.”
I pushed at his chest, still breathless, still warm, already annoyed enough to consider screaming into a pillow. “If you had let me feed her properly before, we might have had three hours.”
“I did let you feed her.”
“You distracted me.”
“I kissed your shoulder.”
“You know what your mouth does.”
His head lifted, offended and pleased. “Good to know I’m still useful.”
The baby cried louder. I closed my eyes. “She wants me.”
“So do I.”
“Liam.”
“What? I do.”
I laughed despite myself, and that made him soften immediately. I started to sit up. “I’ll get her.”
“I can go.”
“She wants feeding.”
He sighed, wounded by biology. “Course she does.”
At the door, I looked back. He was flat on his back, one arm over his eyes, sweatpants low on his hips, looking like a man who had lost a war he had been seconds away from winning.
“You coming?” I asked.
He lifted his arm and stared at me. “Apparently not.”
I laughed quietly. “Come on.”
He groaned, dragged himself out of bed, and followed me down the hall like a martyr.
In the nursery, Ivy was red-faced and furious, waving one tiny fist like she had personally caught us betraying her.
The second I picked her up, she rooted against me. “See?” I said, sitting in the chair. “Told you.”
I wanted to roll my eyes. Instead, I smiled. Because he sat in the chair across from us, arms crossed, trying to look annoyed, and then Ivy started feeding and his face went soft. Completely soft. Destroyed, really. He watched us for a while, quiet for once. Then, somewhere between one blink and the next, he fell asleep sitting up. Mouth slightly open. Head tipped back. Still wearing the expression of a man who had been deeply wronged.
And that was it. My heart gave up. All the heat, the frustration, the interrupted kisses, all of it softened into something quieter.
When Ivy finished, I held her a little longer, listening to her small sleepy breaths. Then I placed her back in the crib, careful and slow, waiting until she settled.
I crossed the room and touched Liam’s shoulder. “Baby.”
He startled awake immediately. “What? She alright?”
“She’s fine.”
His eyes found the crib first. “She asleep?”
“For now.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m awake.”
“You were snoring.”
“Resting loudly.”
“Come to bed.”
He stood without arguing, which told me everything I needed to know.
Back in our room, he collapsed under the covers like his body had finally remembered it was mortal. I slipped in beside him, and he reached for me immediately, pulling me into his chest. No heat this time. Just his arm around my waist, his mouth pressing once into my hair.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“For what?”
“Ruinin’ it.”
“You tried.” I tucked myself closer to him. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll get lucky,” I whispered.
His hand moved lazily over my back. “With sleep or sex?”
“Yes.”
He laughed, low and tired against my hair. “Biblical.”
Ivy let us have the rest of the night. Not for sex. Just sleep. Which, at that point, felt almost filthier.
The next morning, while Liam had Ivy downstairs and the house was quiet in that temporary way that never lasted, I stood in front of the wardrobe and looked at the clothes I had not touched in months.
Most of them belonged to someone else. Not literally but that was how it felt. Dresses from before Ivy. Jeans from before Ivy. Tops I used to wear without thinking about whether they would make breastfeeding impossible or whether they would sit strangely over the softness that still lived around my stomach.
I found the black dress at the back. It was not special. Just a dress I used to throw on without drama. A dress Liam had once pulled me out of very slowly after dinner, back when our nights belonged entirely to us and my body felt like a place I knew how to live in. I should not have tried it on. I knew that before I did it but I did it anyway. It went up, mostly. But it did not sit the same. The fabric pulled in places it used to skim, caught on softness I still was not used to seeing, and when I looked in the mirror, I did not see myself. I saw someone tired. Marked. Leaking. Someone with a body that had carried our daughter, fed her, rocked her, survived her, loved her.
And still, all I could think was: He is going to miss the girl from before.
The bedroom door opened. Liam came in with Ivy’s monitor in one hand and a muslin over his shoulder, because that had become his uniform now. Rockstar, father, exhausted domestic ghost.
He stopped when he saw me. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes moved over my face, then the dress, then back to my face. “Don’t lie to me while cryin’. Makes it too easy.”
I wiped under my eye. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
I pulled at the fabric around my waist, embarrassed and angry at myself for being embarrassed. “It doesn’t fit.”
He frowned. “So take it off.” That made me cry harder. His face changed immediately. “Right. Bad answer.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and covered my face. “I look awful.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You didn’t even look properly.”
“I looked.”
“You looked scared.”
“I was scared because you were cryin’ near a zip.”
A broken laugh left me before I could stop it. He came closer but did not touch me yet. That was worse, somehow. The gentleness, the waiting, the way he had learned not to assume my body was available just because he loved it.
“I don’t feel like me,” I said. He stayed quiet. So I kept going. “I don’t feel sexy. I don’t feel fun. I’m tired all the time. I forget things. I cry over nothing. I can’t even put on a dress without having a full collapse.” I looked up at him then, and it came out before I could make it less ugly. “If you want to leave me, just do it.”
Liam blinked, once. “What?”
“I mean it.” My voice cracked, and I hated that too. “Don’t stay because of Ivy. Or because you feel bad. Or because everyone would talk.”
He stared at me like I had started speaking another language. “Are you mad?”
“Probably.”
“No, I’m askin’.”
“Don’t.”
“You think I’m here because of bad press?”
“I think you are you and I know the needs men have.”
That one did something to his face. A terrible pause. “The needs men have?”
“Don’t repeat it.”
“No, I’m gonna repeat it, because what the fuck does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
“I absolutely don’t.”
“We barely have sex. When we try, Ivy cries. When she sleeps, I sleep. When I don’t sleep, I’m horrible. I’m not the girl you started dating anymore.” His face softened. I hated it. “I’m not,” I insisted. “I used to have energy. I used to look good. I used to touch you all the time. Now I’m just... this.” I gestured at myself, at the dress, at the bed, at the whole disaster of the room.
Liam put the monitor down. “You done?”
I looked away. “No.”
“Go on then.”
I laughed wetly. “You’re meant to say something nice.”
“I will. After you finish talkin’ bollocks.”
“Liam.”
“I’m listenin’.”
That ruined me a little. Because he was. He was not fixing. Not joking over it. Not trying to kiss it away before I had said the worst part. So I said it. “I’m scared you’ll miss who I was.”
He did not answer right away. Then his hands came to my knees, warm through the stupid dress.
“I do miss her sometimes.” My chest dropped. He saw it and squeezed my knees. “Not like that. Listen.” I swallowed. He looked up at me, tired eyes serious. “I miss sleepin’ in with you. I miss takin’ you out without packin’ half the house. I miss touchin’ you without the baby monitor threatenin’ me from the table.” Despite myself, I looked at the monitor. He did too. “Little terrorist,” he muttered. I almost smiled. “But I don’t miss her instead of wantin’ you now,” he said, lower. “That’s not how it works.”
My eyes filled again. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” His thumb moved over my knee. “You think you’re less than you were because you’re tired and soft and covered in whatever Ivy’s done to you that day.”
“Milk, usually.”
“Exactly. Glamorous.” His mouth twitched, then settled. “But I look at you and I see the woman who gave me her whole body and somehow still worries she’s not enough.”
“I am a mess,” I whispered.
“Yeah.” I blinked. He shrugged. “So am I.”
“You’re not helping.”
“I am. We’re both a mess. Difference is I’m not tryin’ to leave because of it.” I looked at him. He leaned closer, resting his forehead briefly against my thigh. “You’re not just Ivy’s mum to me.” That made my chest ache. “You’re you,” he said. “My girl. My pain in the arse. The woman I’m meant to marry if she ever stops havin’ wardrobe wars long enough to plan it.” I laughed, properly this time, even with tears on my face. “There she is,” he murmured.
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Be pleased with yourself.”
“Too late.”
He stood then and held out a hand. “Come here.”
“I look horrible.”
“You look tired.”
“That’s worse.”
“No. Horrible’s a choice. Tired’s evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“That you love our daughter like a maniac.”
I took his hand. He pulled me up and turned me gently toward the mirror, standing behind me. His arms came around my waist, careful but not distant, chin resting near my shoulder.
“Look,” he said.
“No.”
“Look.”
So I did. Me in a dress that did not fit right. Him behind me, wrecked and warm, eyes on my reflection like he was seeing something I couldn’t.
“This is still you,” he said.
I shook my head. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“I know.” His hand slid over my stomach, not hiding it, not avoiding it. Just holding me there. “And I still want you.”
My breath caught. “Liam.”
“Not because you owe me. Not because of whatever needs you think men have.” His mouth brushed my temple. “Because it’s you.”
The monitor crackled then. We both looked at it. A tiny sigh, then silence. Ivy settled.
Liam looked back at me in the mirror. “Even she agrees.”
“She sighed.”
“Supportively.”
I laughed again, and this time it didn’t break. He unzipped the dress slowly, not to start anything, not to make a point, just to help me out of something that had hurt me. Then he handed me one of his shirts from the chair.
“Wear this.”
“Very sexy.”
“On you? Yeah.”
I rolled my eyes, but my face warmed.
“Still got it,” he said.
“You’re impossible.”
“And still here.”
The words landed softly. Exactly where I needed them. So I put on his shirt, let him pull me into bed, and for once, when he wrapped himself around me, I did not try to be the girl from before. I just let myself be held as the woman I was now. And Liam, stubborn idiot that he was, held on like he had no interest in anything else.
also still sick to my stomach and can’t be normal over the idea of dilf liam doing cute things w his younger gf. still on the photo booth video bullshit but doing a cutesy vid bc ur bored like “heyyy guys welcome to my youtube channel (bby there’s no yt channel in sight) today im doing skincare on my boyfriend liam so today —“ and him kissing up ur arms and jokingly nibbling at your knuckles as u speak. and holding ur hand maybe. him taking hits of ur blueberry whatever the fuck vape. which is why he had it at that football game bc he stole it from u. okay whatever.
hi guys i'm sorry for not posting any fics in a while life has just gotten busy AGAIN and my writer's block has really lasted so much longer than i thought BUT!!! i have three fics in the works that i have so many good ideas for that i'm going to push myself to try and put out in the next few weeks 🙏 i miss writing and being on here but it feels like i never have time or that my writing is not good enough but ANYWAYS! we will be back in action soon
pairing: innocent!liam gallagher x innocent!reader
cw: virginity loss, first-time sex, oral sex, protected penetration, awkward sexual exploration, brief discomfort, orgasm, bodily fluids, and mild crude language.
wc: ~3k
author's note: Just two inexperienced idiots trying to figure each other out. Awkward, curious and very much learning as they go.
You and Liam had been together for a few months, long enough to know exactly how to leave each other desperate and not nearly long enough to know what to do once things went any further. You were both virgins, though neither of you liked saying the word out loud.
So far, you had only managed bruising kisses, wandering hands and clumsy grinding through too many layers of clothing. Every time, you ended up balanced right at the edge of doing something more, flushed and breathless, only to stop because neither of you knew what came next or how to handle wanting it so badly.
That night Liam was already on top of you when his elbow slipped. He caught himself before crushing you, swore under his breath and immediately returned to kissing you as though nothing had happened.
You smiled against his mouth.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
His hand landed somewhere near your waist, then moved upward beneath your shirt with very little subtlety. His palm caught against the fabric, dragging it with him until your top was bunched beneath your arms.
Liam pulled back, breathing hard. “Take this off.”
“You take yours off.”
“Fine.”
You both sat up at once and bumped foreheads. “Fuck’s sake,” Liam muttered, rubbing the spot.
“You did that.”
“You moved.”
“So did you.”
He dragged his shirt over his head, nearly getting stuck inside it, while you removed yours. By the time Liam could see again, you were lying back in your bra. He stopped.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothin’.”
“You’re staring.”
“Course I am.”
His confidence lasted until he tried to undo your bra. Liam pulled at the clasp once, then again.
“I think you squeeze it,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“You’re pulling it apart.”
“I’m figuring it out.” You reached behind yourself and opened it for him. Liam frowned. “I nearly had it.”
“You didn’t.”
He threw the bra aside and looked down at you. The argument disappeared from his face. His hand moved over your breast, almost too firmly.
“Careful.”
“Sorry.”
He softened his touch immediately. “Like this?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“I’ve never had anyone else do it.”
“Right.”
That seemed to please him.
Liam bent to kiss you again, his mouth clumsy and eager. You moved beneath him, trying to pull him closer, and his hips pressed roughly between your legs. Both of you froze. Then he did it again.
“Oh,” you breathed.
“Yeah.”
Liam sounded absurdly proud for someone who was still wearing his jeans. His hand travelled down your stomach and stopped at the waistband of your skirt.
“I think I’m meant to touch you here.”
“You already are.”
“No, I mean…” His face reddened. “Properly.”
You lifted your hips so he could pull the skirt down. It caught around your thighs, and Liam tugged harder until you nearly slid off the mattress.
“Slow down!”
“It’s stuck.”
“You’re pulling my underwear too.”
“That’s the point, innit?”
You kicked both pieces of clothing away and lay back, suddenly aware of how naked you were under him. Liam stared between your legs.
“Don’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Terrified.”
“I’m not terrified.”
He placed his hand over your cunt. His fingers moved experimentally, nowhere near where you needed them.
“I think it’s more…” You guided his hand lower. “There.”
Liam rubbed cautiously. “Like that?”
“A little softer.”
He changed the pressure. Your breath caught. His eyes widened. “Was that good?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Knew it.”
“You absolutely didn’t.” He kissed you to silence you, continuing the movement with more confidence now.
Your own hand went to the front of his jeans. Liam stopped kissing you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve gone stiff.”
“I was already stiff.”
You covered your face, mortified. Liam began laughing into your neck. “You know what I meant.”
“Couldn’t resist.”
You pushed at his shoulder, but he caught your hand and placed it over the bulge in his jeans. Your embarrassment vanished beneath curiosity.
“I should do this, shouldn’t I?”
“Probably.”
Neither of you sounded certain. You undid his belt and zipper, then slipped your hand into his underwear. Liam jerked so suddenly that his forehead struck your shoulder.
“Jesus.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
You wrapped your fingers around him carefully. “Like this?”
Liam’s face had turned completely red. “Yeah.” but then his face tightened.
“What?” you asked, immediately stopping.
“Nothin’. It just feels a bit… weird.”
“Weird bad?”
“No. Just dry, I think.”
You stared at him. “What am I supposed to do about that?”
Liam frowned in concentration, then held out his hand. “Give us your hand.”
“Why?”
“Just give it.”
You placed your hand in his. Liam brought it to his mouth and slowly sucked your fingers and the palm of your hand, wetting them with his tongue before releasing you.
You stared at him. “That’s disgusting.”
“Try it now.”
Still looking horrified, you wrapped your damp hand around him again and stroked upward.
Liam’s head fell against your neck. “Oh, yeah.” His hand tightened around your wrist, encouraging the movement. “Yeah, that’s much better.”
“You could’ve warned me before putting my hand in your mouth.”
“Had to lubricate it, didn’t I?”
“You’re gross.”
But you did it again, and Liam’s eyes closed. “Keep going,” he murmured. “You can complain after.”
The fact that you could make Liam, usually so loud and smug, lose every intelligent thought made you bolder. You stroked him again while his fingers continued between your legs, each of you watching the other for signs that you were doing something right.
“Do you want to use your tongue?” you asked.
Liam stopped moving. “What?”
You glanced down between your legs. “There.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Oh. I dunno. What do I even do?”
“I don’t know either.”
“Helpful.”
You hesitated, then looked down at him. “Can I use my tongue on you?”
Liam stared at you as though you had suggested something completely insane. “What?”
“I’ve seen people do it.”
“In films!”
“Well, yes.”
“That doesn’t mean…” His voice trailed off when you shifted lower on the bed.
“I could try.”
“You’re serious?”
You nodded, although you were already beginning to regret suggesting it.
Liam helped push his jeans and underwear down, suddenly far quieter than he had been a moment before. You settled awkwardly between his legs, looking at him and then at the part of him you were apparently supposed to put in your mouth.
“This is weird,” you whispered.
“Don’t have to.”
“I know.”
You leaned down anyway. There was no technique to it. You licked him cautiously, pulled back, then tried again from a slightly different angle. Liam’s entire body went rigid.
“Is that bad?”
“No.” His hand landed on the top of your head, fingers trembling as they moved gently through your hair. “No, that’s… fuck. That’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Encouraged, you tried again, taking more of him before immediately pulling away when you nearly gagged.
Liam sat up slightly. “You alright?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to fit all of it.”
“I gathered that.”
He laughed breathlessly, still stroking your hair while you experimented with your mouth and hand until his hips began moving without permission. You pulled away before either of you could lose control completely. Liam stared at you, dazed.
“So,” you said, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “That’s how you do it. Understand?”
He blinked. “Not really.”
“You weren’t paying attention?”
“I was a bit distracted.”
You climbed back up beside him. “You’re supposed to check that I’m wet before we try anything. Otherwise it won’t go in.”
Liam’s expression changed from confused to deeply interested. “Right.”
“So you should probably…”
“Let me see what I can do.”
You lay back, suddenly shy again as Liam moved between your legs. He hesitated before lowering himself, glancing up at you as if waiting for permission. You nodded.
His first attempt was little more than a clumsy kiss against the inside of your thigh.
“Not there,” you whispered.
“I know. I’m getting there.”
“You don’t have to work your way up.”
“Stop bossing me about.” But his face was red when he finally leaned closer.
Liam tried with the same complete lack of skill you had shown him, touching his tongue to you cautiously and then pulling back.
“Like that?”
“A little higher.” He adjusted. “No, lower.”
“For fuck’s sake, make up your mind.” You laughed, then gasped when he tried again and found the right place by accident. Liam looked up immediately. “There?”
“Yes.”
His expression brightened with triumph. He returned to it before you could tease him further. He was still imprecise, sometimes too rough and sometimes barely touching you at all, but he listened whenever you guided him. His hands held your thighs apart while his tongue explored, learning from every sound and movement you gave him.
The embarrassment slowly melted into warmth. By the time you tugged gently at his hair, Liam was breathing nearly as hard as you were.
“I think I’m ready,” you whispered.
He lifted his head, mouth wet and hair falling into his eyes. “You sure?” You nodded. Liam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and reached for his jeans. “Right, then.” His fingers shook as he searched the pockets. “Now we just have to figure out the bloody condom.”
Liam found the condom crushed inside his wallet. You stared at it. “How long have you had that?”
“Not long.”
“Liam.”
“A few weeks.”
“You’ve been carrying it around?”
“Had to be prepared, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t even know what to do with your tongue.”
“That’s unrelated.” He tore the packet open with his teeth.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.”
“It opened.”
Liam took the condom out and frowned at it. You waited. He turned it over. “I think it goes the other way,” you said.
“I know.”
“You were putting it on backwards.”
“I was checking.”
“Checking what?”
“That you knew.”
You laughed and reached for him. “Give it here.”
Between the two of you, you managed to roll it down, your fingers bumping awkwardly against his. Liam watched with such intense concentration that you almost laughed again.
“There,” you whispered.
“Easy.”
“It took both of us.”
“Still easy.”
He moved back between your legs, and the humour faded. Liam positioned himself, missed completely and pressed against your thigh.
“Wrong place,” you murmured.
“I know that.”
“You clearly don’t.”
“Stop talkin’ and help me.”
You reached between your bodies, grabbed his cock and tease all your slit until you found your wiping hole and guided him.
Liam’s breath caught. “Ready?”
“I think so.”
“That doesn’t sound very sure.”
“I’m sure.”
He pushed forward too quickly. Pain tightened through you, sharp enough that you immediately grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
Liam froze. “Did I hurt you?”
“A little.”
He started to pull away. “No, don’t. Just stay there.”
His face had lost all its arrogance. “We can stop.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Just go slower.”
Liam nodded, lowering his forehead against yours. “Alright.”
He moved forward again, carefully this time, stopping whenever your body tightened around him. It still hurt, but less sharply. Beneath the discomfort was the strange, overwhelming feeling of having him closer than he had ever been before.
Liam’s breathing turned uneven. “You alright?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He pushed the rest of the way in and went completely still. “Fuck,” Liam whispered. His eyes dropped between your bodies, his expression almost bewildered. “You’re so wet.”
“Liam!”
“What?” His face burned, but he still looked stunned. “I didn’t know it’d feel like this. You’re all warm and… fuck.”
You covered your face with one hand. “Stop describing it.”
“I can’t help it. I’m inside you.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
Liam let out a breathless laugh and lowered his forehead against yours, still refusing to move as though the slightest motion might overwhelm him completely. A ridiculous, stunned smile appeared on his face.
You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Don’t look so proud.”
“I’ve just done something incredible.”
“You haven’t moved yet.”
His smile faltered. “Right. Forgot about that.”
He pulled back clumsily, then pushed forward again with more force than necessary. You winced. “Slower.”
“Sorry.”
Liam tried again, gentler this time. The rhythm was awkward. His knees kept slipping against the sheets, and neither of you knew what to do with your arms. Once, his nose bumped yours hard enough to make you laugh.
“Stop laughing,” he muttered.
“I can’t help it.”
“I’m trying to concentrate.”
“You look very serious.”
“Important work, this.”
He kissed you, still moving carefully between your legs. Gradually, the discomfort eased. Your body softened beneath him, and when you lifted your hips to meet his next thrust, Liam made a startled sound against your mouth.
“That good?”
“Yes.”
“For you or me?”
“Both, I think.”
“Brilliant.”
He moved again, trying to repeat the angle. There was no grace to it, no perfect rhythm. Only warm skin, breathless kisses and Liam asking if you were all right every few movements while pretending he was not worried.
But when you pulled him closer and whispered his name, his entire face changed. For once, he did not make a joke. He only kissed you and held on tighter.
Liam’s movements became less careful. Not painful, but quicker and rougher, as though his body had decided on a rhythm without consulting him. His fingers tightened against your hip, pulling you into every thrust.
“Liam,” you breathed.
He made a sound against your neck but did not answer. Something was building inside you too. A pressure you recognised only vaguely from touching yourself, except this felt larger, scattered through your entire body rather than contained beneath your hand. Your legs tightened around him.
“Wait,” Liam said suddenly. He lifted his head, his face tense and almost frightened.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
His hips kept moving despite the words. “I feel…” He stopped talking and shut his eyes.
You touched his cheek. “Does it feel good?”
“Too good.”
Liam turned his face into your palm, almost hiding there. His jaw was clenched, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts.
“I think I’m gonna…”
He could not finish. His next thrust was hard enough to push you farther up the mattress. The friction caught exactly where you needed it, sending a sharp pulse through your stomach.
“Oh.”
Liam opened his eyes. “What?”
“Don’t stop.”
That seemed to be all the permission his body needed. He moved faster, losing whatever rhythm he had managed to find. The bed creaked beneath you, his knee slipped against the sheet and his mouth landed somewhere near your jaw instead of your lips.
None of it mattered. The pressure inside you tightened until your whole body felt suspended around it. “Liam, I think I’m…”
“Yeah,” he gasped. “Me too.”
He buried his face against your shoulder. His hips jerked forward once, then again, almost desperately. His entire body went rigid above yours, and he made a broken sound into your skin as he came.
The feeling of him losing control pushed you over with him. Your back lifted from the mattress. Your legs tightened around his waist, and warmth rushed through you so suddenly that you forgot how to breathe.
For several seconds, neither of you knew what to do. Liam remained frozen above you, trembling slightly, while your body kept pulsing around him.
“Liam.”
“I know.”
“You know what?”
“I don’t know.”
You laughed breathlessly, though you were still trying to understand what had just happened. Liam finally lifted his head. His cheeks were bright red, and he refused to look directly at you.
“Was that…”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“I think so.”
He glanced at you then. “You think?”
“My legs are shaking.”
Liam looked down between your bodies as though he might find an explanation there. “Mine too.”
He lowered himself carefully, resting his forehead against yours. For once, there was no smug comment waiting behind his smile. He only looked dazed, embarrassed and impossibly young.
“That was mental,” he whispered.
You ran your fingers through his damp hair. “Good mental?”
Liam nodded, then hid his face against your neck again. “The best.”
He stayed on top of you until his arms began to shake. “You’re heavy,” you whispered.
“Give us a minute.”
“You’re crushing me.”
“I’ve just had a life-changing experience.”
“So have I, and I still need to breathe.”
Liam held the base carefully and pulled out of you, both of you wincing at the strange sensation. He rolled onto his side with a groan, then immediately looked down between his legs. “Wait. What do I do with this?”
“You take it off.”
“I know that.”
He removed the condom with intense concentration, pinching the end as if it might explode. Then he stared at it. “Jesus Christ.”
You lifted your head. “What?”
“There’s loads.”
“Liam!”
“What? There is.”
“You don’t have to announce it.”
He looked absurdly pleased with himself. “Didn’t know I had all that in me.”
“That might be the least romantic thing anyone’s ever said.”
Liam tied a clumsy knot in the condom, climbed out of bed and dropped it into the bin. It missed. You watched it land on the floor. “Very graceful.”
“Shut up.”
He picked it up, threw it away properly and returned with a damp flannel from the bathroom. “What’s that for?”
“You.”
He sat beside you and tried to clean between your legs with all the delicacy of someone scrubbing mud from a shoe. “Ow. Liam, softer.”
“Sorry.” His touch gentled immediately. “Are you hurt?”
“A little sore.”
His expression tightened. “I told you we could’ve stopped.”
“I didn’t want to stop.”
“Still.”
You took the flannel from him and finished cleaning yourself while Liam hovered beside you, watching anxiously.
“I’m all right,” you said.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He pulled the blanket over you both and lay down, stiff at first, clearly uncertain what was supposed to happen now. Then you moved closer. Liam wrapped an arm around you and tucked your head beneath his chin.
For a while, neither of you spoke. “Was it good?” he finally asked.
“You already asked.”
“Answer again.”
“Yes. Was it good for you?”
Liam snorted. “Did you not see the condom?” You slapped his chest. He laughed, caught your hand and kissed your fingers. Then his voice softened. “It was better than good.” You rested your cheek against him, listening to his heart gradually slow beneath your ear. Liam pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “We can do better next time.”
“Next time.”
“Yeah.” His arm tightened around you. “Got loads to practise, haven’t we?”
hello ladies tonight im thinking perverse thought about liam gallagher with a mummy kink ... we all talk about daddy this daddy that in smut but ... imagine getting high w/ 90s liam when he was peak sub and he gets soooo lost in it poor baby :/ and hes fucking you and ur both whining and panting and hes got ur legs pushed back into a mating press because it feels so good when he fucks you that deep and he moans as hes kissing u "that feel good mummy? m'i making you feel good?" and he sounds so desperate and he has to pull out when u say, "y-yeah, such a good boy for mummy baby" nd hes basically slobbering awl over ur mouth because he just cant control himself but he pushes himself back into u and fucks u harder, "gonna cum m-mummy, d'ya need it? tell me" cos he just wants to hear your voice euughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
anyway hi everybody ily ty for reading this little slight bit of filth ... im seriously into sub liam recently
Hi 👋 can I request a story based on dilf Noel and his kids being at an awards ceremony and he's proud to have them there, but then he overhears them all arguing and sticking up for him so he watches for a while, but then he steps in because he sees Sunny and Anais getting upset and he has to stop Donovan lose his temper because he is very much daddy's boy and no-one can say anything bad about his dad.
okay so, this is a fun idea but i personally don’t like writing anything that involves the gallagher kids. so if anyone would like to try to use this idea, go for it!
BREAKING THE GOOD BOY (l.g.)
sub!liam gallagher x reader — NSFW [18+] (req)
Liam would never admit to anyone that he was a virgin. He had girls falling at his feet, ready to risk it all, and yet, he hadn't been with any of them.
Now he was going on a tour, one that he never imagined doing. On one of the last days before he would leave, you two were talking and getting high.
The relationship between you and him was a bit complicated. You were more than friends, but never really lovers either. Whatever it was, he trusted you enough to ask for a "favor."
"I can't go on this tour a virgin for Christ's sake," He tried to explain himself quickly. "These birds are gonna have a laugh at me."
To him, this was a dire emergency. The cool and good-looking Liam Gallagher couldn't be a rock n' roll star if he never had sex. This was a dire emergency.
So after thinking it over, you decided to give in. "Okay, fine, but on one condition: You do not catch any feelings after, got it?"
Liam nodded, and from there, you took him inside your house, leading him up to your bedroom.
At first, he wasn't sure what to do, so he just stood there awkwardly. But you stepped forward, kissing him, ready to guide him through the entire process.
It wasn't the first time you two had kissed. There had been plenty of makeout sessions before this. Still, Liam was stupidly out of his element and letting you take the lead.
With time, he managed to relax, continue to kiss him as clothes awkwardly fell to the floor. He eventually lay back on the bed, watching as you straddled him.
He looked up at you with those big blue eyes, the most vulnerable you had ever seen him. It was almost adorable, knowing he was giving you all the power at this moment.
His eyes went wide when he saw you remove the last of your clothing, your breasts being presented to him, and your knickers fell to the floor.
"Ready?" You say as you run your hand along the outline in his boxers, listening to the way he gasps at the light touch.
"Yeah," He breathed, unable to keep his eyes off of you. Your hand slipped beneath the fabric, and you swore you could hear him whine at the contact of your hand on his cock.
You would be lying if you said this wasn't turning you on right now, he sounded so pathetic and needy. You were going to have so much fun with him.
You kept your eyes on him as you gave him a few experimental strokes, trying to make sure it felt good for him and wouldn't finish right there.
It was so unlike Liam to be lying there whining and writhing, but he was, extremely sensitive to your touch and bucking his hips slightly in hopes of more.
That's when you decided to sink onto his cock slowly, both of you moaning in unison at the feeling.
"Fuck, that's— mmm," He was already panting desperately. "So warm and wet." He gasped.
The way he was practically at your mercy turned you on even more. You bit your bottom lip to hide the smirk of satisfaction, beginning to ride him slowly.
Liam was originally watching you while leaned back on his elbows, almost drooling at the sight of you taking him. When you teasingly clenched around him, you swore his entire body jolted.
"That feel good?" You ask, gently moving him onto his back and guiding his hands to your hips.
"Yeah," He licks his lips, eyes meeting yours this time. His hands were shaky as you moved, unsure of what he was doing. "Don't stop."
You started to move faster at that, and he almost came on the spot. His hands tried to keep up, and he couldn't help the whimpers that came from him as you moved.
It was a beautiful sight watching him become wrecked, letting you ride him until he cried. You leaned forward to kiss him once more, slipping your tongue inside his mouth to elicit a pathetic whine from him.
"Oh god," He gasped once you pulled away. "I'm not gonna last long, you're—" He cut himself off with a choked moan, the pleasure already becoming too much.
You took him right to the edge before pulling off of him, listening to him whimper at the loss of your cunt. "Come fuck me proper then."
You moved onto your back, switching places with him and making him get on top. With gentle guidance, he pushed himself back into your cunt, and it felt like he was in heaven again.
He instantly became a mess the second he was on top. He thrusted awkwardly, not sure what the right rhythm would be, only knowing that he was going to come.
"You're doing so well, Liam," You cooed, holding onto his shoulders as he rocked his hips against yours. "Such a good boy."
His hips bucked wildly at that name. That was the last thing he was expecting to hear, but god, did it only make him more desperate to come.
"Don't say that," Liam said with a broken moan, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. "Can't— Please—"
His cock twitched inside you as he thrusted erratically, dangerously close to the edge. He couldn't even hold himself much longer, body trembling with his release.
Not being able to hold back much longer, he quickly pulled himself out, stroking himself rapidly before spilling all over your stomach, a tear slipping from how good it felt.
He became limp as he lay on top of you once it was over, to your surprise. You tried to move him, but he wouldn't budge, too tired to make the effort.
You rolled your eyes and accepted your fate. "Your groupies are gonna hate this part."
