fri’s mind

[gallagherish99]

fanfics · music · mancunian propaganda

⋆. ˚ frida | 🇦🇷 | 24 | liam girlie ⋆. ˚ production managment masterlist | req closed gcest dni

If you’re here, grab a drink, sit close, and let’s spiral together over fictional dynamics involving real men who would 100% ruin our lives irl.

[gallagherish99]

telling everyone

pairing: dilf!liam gallagher x younger reader cw: nothing really :P wc: 2k author's note: another little piece of their world — the moment of truth for the whole family.

The house was too loud for a secret.

There were too many voices overlapping, too many plates being passed around, too many people moving through Liam’s kitchen like they had known the place longer than I had. Peggy was talking to Paul near the counter, Noel was leaning back in his chair with that look of permanent judgment, Anaïs was laughing at something Sonny had said, Donovan and Gene were arguing over something that sounded important to absolutely no one else. Lennon was quieter, watching the room the way he did when he already knew too much. Molly sat with her partner beside her, the baby being passed from one pair of arms to another like the most precious and exhausting parcel in the world. Gene’s girlfriend was there too, folded naturally into the noise, smiling at him every time he tried too hard to look casual.

My parents were there. Clara and Julia too, which somehow made me both calmer and worse. They kept looking at me like they knew something was coming, even though they didn’t. Or maybe they just knew me too well.

The only people in that room who already knew were Liam’s children and Noel.

Lennon, Gene, and Molly had been carrying the secret carefully for weeks. Noel had known since the night Liam had called him in panic, which he kept pretending made him noble and not simply unbearable.

Everyone else was just eating, laughing, talking. Existing around the thing that had been living quietly between Liam and me for three months.

I watched them for a moment too long. It was strange, how a secret could feel small when it was only yours, and enormous the second you imagined placing it in someone else’s hands.

Liam noticed before anyone else did. He was sitting beside me, close enough that his knee brushed mine under the table. He hadn’t been saying much. Not because he was calm, but because he was absolutely not calm and had decided silence was the safest option. His hand found mine under the table, warm and firm.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

I looked at him. Then around the room. At Peggy. At Noel. At Paul. At his children trying not to look like they were waiting for a bomb to go off. At my parents. At my friends. At the people who were about to be pulled into something that had been just ours until now.

I nodded because I knew I wouldn’t feel any more ready if I waited.

So, without standing up, without tapping a glass or making some pretty little speech, I lifted my voice just enough to cut through the noise.

“Sorry— we need to tell you something.”

It took a second for the room to understand. The conversations didn’t stop at once. They faded badly, in pieces. Clara turned first. Then Julia. Peggy’s eyes went straight to Liam, which was unfair but also completely predictable. Noel lowered his drink and looked at his brother with the faintest hint of a smirk, already enjoying the disaster he knew was coming.

Liam squeezed my hand once and I took a breath. “We’re having a baby.”

For one second, no one moved. Then the room exploded. Clara gasped so loudly it nearly became a scream. Julia grabbed her arm and said, “I knew it,” even though she absolutely did not. Anaïs covered her mouth, smiling already. Sonny said something like, “Wait, seriously?” Donovan started laughing in disbelief. Gene’s girlfriend looked at Gene, caught him grinning, and slapped his arm because he had clearly known. Molly’s eyes filled immediately. Lennon looked down for a second, smiling to himself like he was relieved he didn’t have to pretend anymore.

And Peggy— she stared at Liam.

“Liam.”

He sat up straighter. “What?”

Her eyes widened with that very specific motherly horror that made him look about twelve years old. “Are you serious?”

The room went louder. Gene choked on a laugh. Paul looked down into his drink to hide his smile. Noel muttered, “There she is,” under his breath.

Liam looked genuinely offended. “Why’s it always me?”

Peggy pointed at him. “At your age?”

“Here we go.”

“You’re already a grandad.”

“I know that.”

“So you understand why I’m asking questions.”

“I’m fifty-two, Mam, not dead.”

“That is not as reassuring as you think.”

I felt him tense beside me, not angry, just bracing himself. And because I knew Peggy wasn’t being cruel, only shocked, I leaned forward slightly.

“Peggy,” I said, gently. Her eyes moved to me. The room softened a little. “I’m okay,” I said. “We’re okay.”

That changed something in her face. Not all at once. She was still Peggy. She still looked like she wanted to smack Liam round the back of the head on principle. But her panic shifted, loosening into something more fragile.

“You’re sure, love?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Properly?”

I smiled a little. “Properly.”

She let out a breath, long and heavy, then pressed a hand to her chest. “Jesus Christ.”

Liam muttered, “That means happy, by the way.”

Peggy shot him a look. “I’m getting there.”

Paul laughed then, soft and warm. “Well, congratulations,” he said, looking at both of us. “That’s lovely news.”

Noel finally decided to contribute. “Well,” he said. “At least it’ll keep you busy.”

Liam looked at him. “You already knew.”

The whole table shifted toward Noel.

Peggy’s head snapped around. “You knew?”

Noel lifted one shoulder. “He rang me in the middle of the night having a breakdown.”

“I did not.”

“You were spiralling.”

I bit my lip to stop myself smiling.

Peggy stared at Noel for another second, then sighed. “Of course he rang you first.”

Noel’s expression barely changed, but his voice softened just enough. “Wasn’t mine to tell.”

That sat there, quietly. A small act of brotherhood, hidden under all that dryness.

Then my mother spoke. “You’re pregnant.”

I turned. She was looking at me like the words had only just become real. My dad sat beside her, quiet and stunned, his eyes already a little shiny in a way he would probably deny later.

“Yeah,” I said.

My mum’s face did something complicated. She looked at my stomach, then at Liam, then back at me. For a second, I saw every old argument pass behind her eyes. Every difference between us. Every version of my life she had expected and the one I had stubbornly built instead.

Then she said, almost helplessly, “God, you’ve always been so weird.”

Julia made a tiny noise beside Clara, Liam blinked and I almost laughed.

“Mum.”

“I don’t mean it badly,” she said quickly, though she absolutely could have chosen better words. “I just mean… you always did things your own way.”

“That’s a nicer version.”

She sighed, but her eyes were softer now. “And are you happy?” That was the question, underneath all of it.

I looked at Liam before answering. Not because I needed permission. Because he was part of the answer. His thumb brushed once over my hand.

“I am,” I said.

My mum held my gaze a second longer, then nodded. “Alright.”

Not emotional in the way films make mothers emotional, but it was something.

My dad stood up then, abruptly. Like his body had decided before his brain did.

“Oh,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to do.

He came around the table and pulled me into a hug, careful but firm, one hand at the back of my head like I was suddenly small again.

“My girl,” he murmured.

That nearly got me. It was just him, overwhelmed and trying not to make a mess of it.

My dad looked at Liam then, still processing the whole impossible shape of it.

“You’ll look after her?”

Liam didn’t answer fast.

He looked at me, then back at my dad. “She doesn’t need lookin’ after,” he said. “But yeah. I will.”

My dad blinked, then nodded slowly. “Good answer.”

Liam shrugged once. “Only had one.”

And after that, the room found itself again.

Clara reached me first, already crying before she even touched me. “I’m going to be an aunt,” she said, grabbing both my hands.

Julia appeared behind her, just as emotional and slightly offended. “We’re going to be aunts.”

“You’re not technically—” Liam started. Both of them turned to look at him. He stopped immediately. “Right. Aunts.”

“Smart,” Noel muttered from somewhere behind him.

Julia hugged me so tightly I had to laugh into her shoulder, and Clara kept saying, “I knew it,” even though she absolutely hadn’t. They were already talking over each other, making plans, arguing about who would buy the first tiny outfit, deciding things no one had asked them to decide.

Molly came next, softer, eyes bright. She didn’t say much. She just held me for a second longer than usual, one hand careful at my back.

Then Gene’s voice cut through the room. “So I’m officially a big brother again?”

Liam looked at him. “Yeah.”

Gene leaned back, processing it with the dramatic weight of a man who had just been personally betrayed by biology. “At my age?”

Lennon laughed. “You’re making this about you already?”

“I’m allowed,” Gene said. “I’m being replaced.”

“You were never that important,” Lennon replied.

Gene pointed at him. “That’s exactly what a jealous older brother would say.”

“You’re the jealous older brother now.”

That made Gene pause, then his whole expression shifted. “Oh, shit. I am.”

Everyone laughed, and even Liam smiled then, though he tried to hide it badly.

Peggy was still half emotional, half furious with him, which felt about right. She hugged me carefully and then smacked Liam lightly on the arm when he got close.

“What was that for?”

“For making me a grandmother again without warning.”

Liam blinked, offended. “What, did you want me to warn you while we were makin’ the baby?”

The room went dead silent.

“LIAM.” Peggy smacked him again, harder this time, while Gene nearly choked on his drink and Noel closed his eyes like he was physically in pain.

“What?” Liam said, rubbing his arm. “She wanted a warning.”

Paul laughed quietly into his drink. Anaïs came over with a smile, warm and easy, and Sonny asked if this made the baby their cousin or “some weird Gallagher maths thing.”

Noel, without missing a beat, said, “Don’t ask Liam for maths.”

Liam pointed at him. “You’re on thin ice.”

“I’ve been on thin ice since you were born.”

The room kept moving around us. Noisy. Messy. Full of hands reaching for me, questions being thrown across the table, people laughing before anyone had finished speaking. My dad was still a little teary. My mum kept looking at me with that strange softened expression, like she was trying to understand this version of me without correcting it first.

And Liam stood in the middle of it all, overwhelmed and pretending he wasn’t. At some point, I caught him watching Gene and Lennon argue over who would be the cooler older brother. Molly was already telling Clara and Julia what baby things were actually useful and which ones were a waste of money. Peggy was asking if I was eating properly. Noel was pretending not to listen while clearly listening to everything.

He leaned closer and tilted his head toward the hallway. “Come here a sec.”

I followed him a few steps away from the noise while everyone else kept talking over each other in the kitchen.

“You alright?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… a lot.”

“Yeah,” he said with a small laugh. “Family’s terrifying.”

I smiled at that.

He looked at me for a second longer, softer now. “We’re alright though.”

“We are.”

Liam wrapped an arm around me and pulled me against him, kissing my forehead first before I tilted my head up and kissed him properly.

Behind us, someone yelled my name from the kitchen.

“Oi,” Liam muttered against my mouth. “Can’t even have her for thirty seconds now.”

taglist: @evasmlp @misswhiddless @zulema222 @shesselectricc @mybigmouthera @gxnyadavid @dykwimean @angstynasty

[boldgallagher]

never changes.

[gallagherish99]

yearning for him like he’s my husband who went to war and never came back

[gallagherish99]

seven was the best fic i’ve ever read now i have to binge everything you’ve ever written

omg anon you’re making me cry 😭 i don’t know why but i was so moved by that fic that reading this is making me cry a little. thank you for reading 😭🫶🏻

[gallagherish99]

seven

pairing: pre!fame noel x f!reader cw: childhood trauma, implied domestic violence, abusive household, emotional neglect, and references to physical abuse. nothing graphic, but please take care while reading. wc: 6,3k author’s note: i cried a lot while writing this, like thats my baby !!! (sigh) anyways... once again, my number one muse did what she does best. this time, it was seven’s turn. if you can, please listen to it while reading this fic. it truly has one of the most moving melodies and lyrics i’ve ever heard, and it shaped so much of what i wanted this story to feel like. this one is written a little differently from what i usually do, so i really hope you enjoy it and appreciate it for what it is.

happy birthday, noel.

1974

Today I meet a boy at school called Noel.

At first, I thought he hated me. He sits two desks away from me and looks at everyone like they are stupid, even Mrs. Kelly, and Mrs. Kelly is not stupid because she knows all the times tables without looking. He has brown hair and a face like he is always thinking something mean. When I ask him if he wants one of my biscuits at break, he says no, but then looks at it for so long that I leave it on the wall beside him.

He eats it when he thinks I am not looking.

After that, he tries to pull my hair two times. The first time, I tell him he is horrible. The second time, I kick his shoe and he says, “Ow,” but he is laughing, so I know he is not really mad.

I decide he is my friend. He does not decide anything because Noel does not like deciding nice things out loud.

Mum says some boys are strange when they like you. Dad says that is not an excuse to pull girls’ hair. I agree with Dad, but I still sit next to Noel the next day because he lets me copy his drawing of a spaceship and he does the best explosions with red pencil.

The first time he comes over, Mum makes fish and chips, and Noel eats so fast that Dad tells him, “Slow down, son, nobody’s taking it off you.” Noel looks at him funny and then he eats slower.

I show him my room after tea. He says it is too pink, even though it is not that pink, only the curtains and the blanket and my little lamp. I tell him his face is too miserable. He says my doll looks possessed. I tell him he is not allowed to insult Susan because Susan has been through a lot.

He asks, “What’s she been through?”

I say, “You.”

And he laughs so hard he has to sit on the floor.

After that, he comes over all the time. Sometimes after school. Sometimes on Saturdays. Sometimes when it is raining and his coat is wet and his hair sticks to his forehead. Mum always makes him take his shoes off by the door. Dad always pretends to be annoyed when Noel and I are too loud, but he never really is.

Noel likes our kitchen best. He says it is because Mum has better biscuits than his mum, but I do not think that is true because Peggy is lovely and she buys us ice cream when we see her near the shops. She always says, “You two behave yourselves,” and Noel says, “We always do,” even if we absolutely do not.

Peggy takes us to the park sometimes too. She lets us run ahead, but not too far, and one time she brings Noel’s baby brother, Liam, who is only little and has big eyes and cheeks like bread rolls. I think I might die because he is so cute. Noel says babies are boring and loud, but when Liam drops his little toy on the ground, Noel picks it up before anyone else can.

I tell him he loves his baby brother.

Noel says, “Shut up.” That means yes.

Peggy is nice, and Paul is nice too when I see him, but I never go inside Noel’s house. Not once.

He comes to mine. I go to the park with his mum. We buy sweets from the corner shop. We sit on the kerb and make up stories about the people walking past. But I never go in.

When I ask Noel why, he just shrugs. “Nothing to see,” he says.

After a while, I stop asking.

One night, he sleeps over because Mum says it is too late for him to walk back, even though his house is not that far. She says it in her serious voice, the one that means I am not supposed to argue.

We make a tent in my bedroom with two chairs, my blanket and Dad’s torch. Noel says it is a rubbish tent because it keeps falling down on his head. I say it only falls because his head is too big.

He says, “Your head’s bigger.”

I say, “No, it isn’t.”

He says, “Yeah, it is. Full of nonsense.”

I shine the torch under my chin and make a ghost face at him. He does not laugh that time. He is lying on his back, looking at the blanket above us like it is the sky. The torch makes little yellow shapes on his face. For a bit, he does not say anything.

Then he says, very quiet, “I don’t like my house.”

I wait because I think maybe he is going to say more but he doesn't.

So I say the first thing that makes sense. “I think your house is haunted.” Noel looks at me. I whisper, “Your dad is always mad.”

He looks away again. “Yeah,” he says after a bit. “Maybe.”

I ask, “Are you scared of ghosts?”

“No.”

“You can be. I won’t tell.”

“I’m not scared of ghosts.”

“What are you scared of then?”

He pulls a thread from the blanket and twists it around his finger. “Nothing.” But he says it like he is lying.

So I move my pillow closer to his and tell him he can sleep in the tent if he wants, because ghosts cannot get inside tents. Everyone knows that. Noel says that is stupid. Then he stays in the tent anyway.

In the morning, everyone is already awake except for him. Dad is in the kitchen with the paper, Mum is putting plates on the table, and I am standing there in my pyjamas, thinking about Noel still sleeping in my bed like the morning forgot to take him home.

“Why is Noel still asleep?” I ask.

Mum glances toward the hallway before she answers. “He’s very tired, love.”

“Tired from what?”

“Just tired.”

I frown because that is not a real answer. “He sleeps loads here.”

Mum puts a plate of toast on the table and smooths my hair back from my face. “Then let him sleep,” she says softly. “Sometimes people are very tired and need a bit more rest.”

“But it’s morning.”

“I know.”

I look toward my bedroom. “Should I wake him up?”

“No.” Mum smiles a little. “Let him rest.”

So I do.

By the time he wakes up, Dad was reading the paper at the table and reaches out to ruffle Noel’s hair when he walks in. Noel flinches so fast it is almost invisible. His shoulders jump, his head ducks down, one arm comes up halfway like he is trying to protect himself before he even knows he is doing it. Then he realises it is only Dad, only a hand in his hair. Nobody says anything about it.

That is how it starts happening more.

Not every night, not even every week, but sometimes Noel stays. Sometimes Mum makes up reasons before anyone asks, sometimes Dad says, “Sofa’s free if you’re tired, lad.” Sometimes I find extra blankets folded at the end of my bed even though Mum says they are just there because it gets cold.

Noel never says thank you properly. He says things like, “Your dad snores,” or “Your mum burns toast,” or “Your house smells like washing powder.” But he keeps coming back and I know that means thank you.

Months go by, then more months and Noel and I become the sort of friends people stop asking about because we are always together. At school, if someone sees me, they look for him. If someone sees him, they ask where I am. Mrs. Kelly says we are like two peas in a pod, but Noel says that is stupid because peas are disgusting.

We fight all the time. We fight about who gets the last biscuit. We fight about whether dogs are better than cats. We fight because he says my handwriting is too neat and I say his looks like a spider fell in ink and died. We fight because he cheats at games and then says cheating only counts if you get caught.

But if anyone else is mean to me, Noel gets meaner. And if anyone says anything about Noel, I get louder.

Mum says we are like brother and sister. I say no, because Noel is too annoying to be my brother.

Noel says, “You’d be lucky.”

I throw a cushion at his face. He throws it back harder.

But sometimes, when he is asleep on our sofa with one arm hanging off the side, or when he stands in our kitchen eating toast with jam on his cheek, or when he follows me around the park even though he says he is not following me, I think maybe Mum is right. Maybe Noel is not just my friend, maybe he is something that got left at our house by accident, something we are allowed to keep.

1976

Noel is nine now and I am nine too, which means we are nearly grown-ups. That is what I tell Mum when she says we are too little to go to the shops alone.

She says, “Nearly grown-ups still need to hold hands when they cross the road.”

Noel says he is not holding my hand because that is for babies. Then he holds my sleeve the whole way there.

He is taller than before, but not by much. His hair is messier and his face is sharper, like someone has rubbed out the soft bits. He still looks cross most of the time, but I know better now.

Noel is cross when he is hungry or when he is tired or when he is embarrassed. And sometimes Noel is cross when he is sad, because being sad is worse and he does not like people knowing.

I know lots of things about him now. I know he hates carrots but eats them at my house because Mum looks pleased when he does and I know he likes sitting closest to the heater, but pretends he does not care where he sits also I know he says Liam is annoying, but lets him climb all over him when Peggy brings him to the park. I know he likes stories with ships and treasure best, even though he says stories are stupid if they have too much talking.

I also know there are days when Noel does not come to school. And when he comes back, he does not tell me why.

“Were you ill?” I ask once.

“No.”

“Then where were you?”

“Nowhere.”

“You can’t be nowhere. Everyone is somewhere.”

Noel kicks a stone across the pavement. “Maybe I was nowhere.”

I think about that all afternoon. I do not like the idea of Noel being nowhere.

One Friday, he comes to my house after tea.

He is not supposed to because he did not come to school that day, and Mum always says if you are too poorly for school, you are too poorly for playing. But when she opens the door and sees him standing there, she does not say that.

She just says, “Come in, love.”

Noel’s lip is split. Not a lot, just a little bit, right in the corner, like when the cold makes your mouth crack in winter. But it is not winter. It is May.

I stare at it. Noel glares at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop looking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m looking at your stupid face because it is in front of me.” He snorts, but it hurts him because he touches his mouth after, very quick, like he does not want me to see.

Mum sees, Dad sees too. Nobody says anything. That is worse sometimes, when the grown-ups do not say anything, because it means there is something so big they are stepping around it.

After tea, Noel and I go upstairs. We are pirates now. We have been pirates for three weeks because Noel found a stick shaped like a sword near the park and said it was too good for me, so obviously I stole it. We make a ship out of my bed and the chair from my desk. The floor is the sea. My blanket is the sail. Susan, my doll, is a prisoner, but only because Noel says she has “shifty eyes.”

I tell him captains do not sit on the floor looking miserable.

He says, “Good thing you’re not captain then.”

“I am captain.”

“You’re rubbish.”

“You’re rubbish.”

“I’m first mate.”

“You can’t be first mate if you’re horrible.”

“Yes, I can. Pirates are horrible.” This is true, so I let him win that one.

We sail to India because I like the name and because it sounds far enough that ghosts cannot follow us. Noel says pirates do not go to India just because I like the name. I say these pirates do. He says I am bossy. I say he is lucky because otherwise he would be a boring pirate with no treasure.

He laughs, but only a little. Then he lies down on the bed-ship and looks at the ceiling. I sit beside him with the torch in my hand. His mouth is still red in the corner.

I ask, “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He does not answer.

I poke his shoulder. “Noel.”

“What?”

“You can tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

I look at the ceiling too because sometimes it is easier to talk when you are not looking at someone. “Did your house get haunted again?”

He goes very still. That is how I know. He does not cry. Not really. Noel almost never cries in the proper way, with noise and snot and all that. His eyes just get shiny and angry, like they are doing something without asking him first.

“I hate it there,” he says.

It is so quiet I nearly miss it. But I do not, I hear it. And something in my chest feels funny, like when you are running too fast and the air gets stuck.

So I say, “Then come live with me.”

Noel turns his head. “What?”

“You can live here.”

“That’s stupid.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, because we can be pirates.”

His eyebrows move closer together. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“If you live here, we can be pirates every day. And you won’t have to go back to the haunted house. And you won’t have to cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

“Fine. You won’t have to not cry.”

He looks away fast. I keep talking because I think if I stop, he will say no properly and then I will have to think of another plan.

“You can have the sofa, or we can ask Mum if you can have the little room with the boxes. We can move the boxes. I’ll help. And you can have toast whenever you want, and Dad won’t make you eat carrots if you tell him they make you sick.”

“They don’t make me sick.”

“They could.”

“That’s lying.”

“Pirates lie all the time.”

Noel makes a sound that is nearly a laugh.

I sit up on my knees. “And if the ghosts come, we’ll fight them. I’ll have the sword because I’m captain, but you can have the torch.”

“I don’t want the torch.”

“You can’t have the sword.”

“I’m better with the sword.”

“You are not. You hit the lamp yesterday.”

“It was in the way.”

“It was on the table.”

This time he does laugh. Only for a second. Then his face changes again and he looks nine and not nine at all. I do not know what to do with that face. So I take my blanket and put it over both our heads like a tent, even though we are too big for it now and our knees push up the sides.

“There,” I say. “Closet.”

“It’s not a closet.”

“It is now.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Fine. It’s a pirate closet.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is if I say it is.”

Noel is quiet. Under the blanket, everything is warm and dark and yellow from the torch. I can hear him breathing next to me. I can hear Mum downstairs washing plates. I can hear Dad laughing at something on the telly.

I whisper, “You can hide here if you want.”

He does not say anything for so long that I think maybe he has fallen asleep. Then his shoulder touches mine. Just barely.

“I’m not hiding,” he says.

I nod, even though he cannot see me very well. “Okay.”

“I’m just sitting.”

“Okay.”

“With you.”

I smile in the dark. “That’s allowed.”

He wipes his face with his sleeve, quick and angry.

Then he says, “If I lived here, I’d be captain sometimes.”

“No.”

“Then I’m not living here.”

I think about it. “Fine. Tuesdays.”

“Tuesdays and Fridays.”

“One Friday a month.”

“Every Friday.”

“Noel.”

“What?”

“You are very difficult to rescue.”

He goes quiet again. Then, in the smallest voice, he says, “Yeah.”

I do not know why that makes me sad. So I give him the sword. Only because pirates need rescuing too sometimes.

1981

Noel and I are fourteen now, school still starts at nine. Buses still splash dirty water on your tights. Teachers still care about homework. Boys still push each other in corridors and act like idiots because apparently that is what boys are made for.

Noel is still my best friend.

He is taller now. Not properly tall, just taller than he was, and thin in a way that makes all his clothes look like they are waiting for him to grow into them. His hair is darker and always falling into his eyes. He has started walking with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders up, like he is bored of every person on earth.

He still looks miserable. Only now, unfortunately, he also looks nice and this is a terrible problem.

I do not tell anyone because I would rather be hit by a bus than say I fancy Noel Gallagher. Especially because he is Noel, and he would never let me live it down. He would probably make a face and say something awful like, “Course you do,” and then I would have to move countries.

Also, he knows everything about me. He knows I cried when my rabbit died even though it was actually my cousin’s rabbit and I had only met it twice. He knows I cannot whistle no matter how many times I try. He knows I still sleep with one foot out of the blanket because I get too hot. He knows I am scared of deep water, but only if I cannot see the bottom.

Sometimes, when he stays over, we do not build tents anymore because we are too old and because if anyone from school found out we were under a blanket together, we would both have to throw ourselves into the canal. Now he sleeps on the sofa. Or sometimes on the floor of my room if my parents are too tired to make rules and we are watching telly too late. Nothing happens. Obviously. We are not like that. We are normal.

Except sometimes his foot touches mine or sometimes we lie there in the dark and neither of us moves away and sometimes I can feel him looking at me and I pretend I do not, sometimes I look at him and he pretends he does not know.

So, normal.

One Thursday, he does not come to school. This is not new, but it still makes my stomach feel wrong.

By the last bell, I have chewed the skin beside my thumb until it hurts. I walk home slowly, looking for him even though I tell myself I am not looking for him. I look near the corner shop, by the park, at the bus stop. I look down every street like he might appear by magic, with his stupid coat and his stupid face and some stupid thing to say about how I walk too slowly.

He is not there.

Then, when I am almost home, I hear someone shout my name, I turn around and Noel is running down the street. Actually running.

Noel never runs unless Liam is chasing him with something sticky or someone has threatened to take the last chip. His coat is open, his hair is all over the place, and he looks like he has forgotten he is supposed to be too cool for everything.

For one horrible second, I think something bad has happened. Then I see his face, he is smiling, properly. It makes him look younger and older at the same time.

I stop in the middle of the pavement. “What happened?”

He reaches me out of breath, one hand on the wall beside us, laughing a little even though he is trying not to.

“She’s doing it,” he says.

“Who?”

“Our mam.” I stare at him. He looks at me like I am being thick on purpose. “She’s leaving him.”

Everything goes quiet. “She is?”

“Yeah.”

“Noel.”

“She is.” His voice cracks a bit, and he hates it, so he looks away fast. “She’s actually doing it. She’s taking us.”

I do not know what to do first. Maybe I laugh or cry or throw myself at him. I only know that suddenly my arms are around his neck and he is hugging me back so tightly it hurts. His face presses into my shoulder for one second, just one, and I feel him breathe like he has been holding it for years.

Then he says, against my shoulder, “We’re leaving Burnage.”

And my heart drops so hard I almost let go.

I pull back slowly. “What?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “We’re going somewhere else. Don’t know exactly. Somewhere away from him.”

“Away,” I repeat.

“Yeah.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of us says anything. His smile has gone smaller now, like he knew this part was coming and hated it before I even heard it.

I look at his face. The one I know better than any face in the world. The one I used to see across a blanket tent when we were little. The one I used to check for bruises before I knew that was what I was doing. The one that has annoyed me every single day for seven years.

“You have to go,” I say. He blinks. I hate that he looks surprised. “Obviously you have to go.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Stop saying good.”

“I’m saying it because it is.”

“I know it is.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to tell you not to.”

He looks away. That is enough of an answer. I feel something split open inside me. Because I do want to tell him not to.

I want to say you can live with me, remember? We can still be pirates, even if we are too old and stupid now. I want to say you can have the sofa, my room, the little room with the boxes, anything, just do not disappear from the only place I know how to find you.

But I am fourteen, not seven. I know things now. So I swallow all of it, for him.

I say, “Noel, you have to leave.”

His jaw moves, he nods once. “I know.”

“And don’t be stupid about it.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“You are sometimes.”

“You’re always stupid.”

“You’re the one who thought pirates couldn't go to India.”

“That was years ago.”

“You were wrong then and you’re wrong now.”

“About what?”

“About thinking you should feel bad for going.”

He looks at me properly then. I wish he would not. There are some things that are easier when he is not looking at me.

“You’re allowed to be happy,” I say, and my voice sounds strange. “You know that, right?”

His face does something I cannot name. For a second, he looks like the little boy under the blanket again. The one who said he hated his house. The one who said he was not hiding. Then he looks fourteen again, and mean, and embarrassed, and close to crying in that awful Noel way where his eyes get bright and his mouth goes sharp.

He catches my wrist, not hard. Just enough. For one second, neither of us moves. His hand is warm around my wrist. His thumb is right where my pulse is, and I wonder if he can feel how fast my heart is going. I wonder if his is doing the same thing. I wonder if he knows. I wonder if he has always known.

Then he lets go like he has burned himself.

I put my hand in my coat pocket and pretend it is nothing. “When?” I ask.

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

“In a couple of days maybe.”

“That’s very soon.”

“Yeah.”

“Will you write?”

He makes a face. “I’m not writing letters like some old woman.”

“Noel.”

“What?”

“Will you write?”

He looks at the pavement. “Maybe.”

That means yes. Or maybe it means no and he is too much of a coward to say it. I cannot tell this time, and I hate that.

We start walking to my house like we always do. Even now. Even when everything has changed, our feet still know where to go.

Mum is in the kitchen when we arrive. She sees Noel’s face before I say anything. Peggy must have told her already, because Mum’s eyes go soft and sad.

“Oh, love,” she says.

Noel rolls his eyes. “Don’t.”

But he lets her hug him. That is how I know he is really happy.

Dad claps him on the shoulder, careful like always, and says, “Best news I’ve heard all year, lad.”

Noel stares at the floor. “Yeah.”

Mum makes tea. Dad makes toast even though it is not tea time. Noel eats three slices and says our butter is rubbish. Mum tells him he has been eating our rubbish butter for seven years. He says that is how he knows. Everyone laughs. I do too. But it feels like laughing with a stone in my chest.

Later, we sit on the back step while the sky goes grey and the air smells like rain. We are shoulder to shoulder, but not touching.

Neither of us says much. There is too much to say, so we say almost nothing.

“You’ll be alright,” I tell him.

He picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“How?”

I look at him. “Because you won’t be there.”

He goes quiet. The rain starts very softly, little dots on the concrete. He does not move. I do not either.

After a while, he says, “What if it’s worse?”

“It won’t be.”

“What if it is?”

“Then you come back.”

“And do what?”

“Live with me.” He looks at me. I try to smile. “We’ll be pirates.”

For a second, he almost smiles too. Almost. Then his face falls apart in the smallest way. Not enough for anyone else to see. Enough for me.

“You’re mental,” he says.

“I know.”

“That was a stupid plan then.”

“It was a brilliant plan.”

“You wanted me to sleep in a pirate closet.”

“It was safer than your house.”

The words come out before I can stop them. We both freeze. The rain gets a little harder.

Noel looks away first. “Yeah,” he says.

It is barely a sound. I wish I could take the sentence back. Not because it is not true, but because it is too true. It sits between us, ugly and honest.

I put my hand on the step between us. Not touching him. Just there. After a moment, his little finger hooks around mine. It is such a tiny thing. So stupid, childish. So us.

I stare straight ahead because if I look at him, I will cry, and if I cry, he will either be horrible or he will be kind, and I do not know which one would hurt worse.

“I’m glad,” I say.

His finger tightens around mine. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You look like someone’s died.”

“Maybe someone has.” He turns his head. I do not mean to say it. I really do not. But it is already there. I shrug, like it is nothing. “Not you. Just… us.”

Noel does not make a joke. He just looks at our hands, at his little finger around mine, like he is trying to memorise something without anyone noticing.

Then he says, “There’ll still be us.”

I want to believe him. I do. I want it so badly it hurts. But I know how grown-ups say things they cannot promise. I know how people leave even when they do not want to. I know letters get forgotten. I know buses go different ways. I know life is bigger than two fourteen-year-olds on a back step pretending their hands are not touching.

So I say, “Okay.”

Noel hears everything I do not say. He always does. He leans his shoulder into mine. This time, he does not move away. We sit there until Mum calls us in because we are getting soaked. And when Noel stands up, he lets go of my finger first. I try not to hate him for that. I try to be happy. I am happy. I am. He is leaving that house. He is leaving the shouting and the doors and the flinching and the terrible quiet after terrible noise. He is leaving the place that made him look older than he was. He is leaving the place that taught him to turn soft things sharp before anyone else could touch them.

That is the best thing that has ever happened. So why does it feel like someone is taking him from me too?

That night, after he goes home, I lie in bed and look at the ceiling. I am too old to make a tent. Too old for pirate closets. Too old to believe you can save someone by moving boxes out of the spare room. But I still think about it: he could have lived here, I would have let him be captain on Fridays.

And also I hope he goes but I hope he stays too, and I hate myself for the second one.

1991

I am twenty-four when I see Noel Gallagher again.

It happens in a pub so small and miserable it looks like it has been forgotten on purpose.

The floor is sticky. The beer is warm. The lights are bad. There is a band playing in the corner, or trying to, but the sound is mostly feedback and someone’s amp giving up on life. People talk over them anyway. Nobody here looks like they are going anywhere.

Then I see him. At first, it is just the back of his head. Dark hair. Shoulders slightly hunched. Cigarette between his fingers. A pint in front of him. One elbow on the bar like he owns the place and also hates it.

I know him instantly. That is the stupidest part. Ten years go by. People grow up. Faces change. Voices drop. Lives happen. You forget the exact shape of someone’s hands, the way they looked in a school jumper, the sound of their laugh before it got heavy with smoke and adulthood.

But I know him. Before he turns around. Before I see his face. Before anyone says his name. I know him.

My feet move before I decide anything. “Noel?”

He turns. And for one second, all the noise in the pub goes somewhere else. He is older, obviously. Sharper. His face has lost the last of the boy I knew, except it has not, not really. It is still there in the eyes, in the way he looks at me like he is trying to be unimpressed and failing so badly it almost hurts.

His mouth opens. Nothing comes out. That is how I know it is really him. Noel Gallagher, speechless.

I should enjoy it more. Instead, my chest feels too tight.

“Hi,” I say, because apparently after ten years that is all I have.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then he says my name. Just my name. Like he has had it somewhere in his mouth all this time and is surprised it still fits.

I smile, even though I feel like I might shake apart. “You remember me, then.”

He stares at me. “Are you joking?”

I shrug. “A bit.”

“You look…” He stops. He looks annoyed with himself. “Different,” he says finally.

“That’s insulting.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It is if you say it like that.”

“I mean you don’t look twelve anymore.”

“I was fourteen.”

“Yeah, well. You looked twelve.”

“And you looked miserable.”

“I still do.”

I laugh. And there it is. His face changes. For a second, he looks exactly like the boy on my back step in the rain, little finger hooked around mine, pretending leaving did not hurt because staying would have killed him.

He looks away first. Of course he does. “You want a drink?” he asks.

“I’ve got one.”

He glances at the glass in my hand. “That’s not a drink. That’s coloured water.”

“It’s a lager.”

“It’s tragic.”

“You’ve been back in my life for twenty seconds and you’re already annoying.”

“Good to know I’ve still got it.”

He buys me a beer anyway. A proper one, according to him, which tastes almost exactly the same but I do not say that because he looks pleased with himself.

We sit in a corner where the table wobbles every time one of us moves. Ten years sit down with us. At first, we talk around them. He tells me he has been working, doing bits here and there, roadie work, music, bands, nothing glamorous. He says it like he does not care, but his fingers tap against the glass every time he mentions music. I tell him about my life. Not all of it. Just enough. Where I moved. What I studied. Jobs I hated. People he does not know. Places that meant nothing because he was not there.

He asks about my parents. “They’re good,” I say. “Mum still burns toast.”

“She always did.”

“You always ate it.”

“I was being polite.”

“You once told her her butter was rubbish.”

“Yeah, but I ate the toast, didn’t I?”

I smile down at my drink. “She asks about you sometimes.”

His face does something careful. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He nods like that is nothing. It is not nothing. I know him.

“And Peggy?” I ask.

“She’s alright.”

“Paul?”

“Alright.”

“Liam?”

Noel snorts. “Loud.”

“So, alright.”

“Depends who you ask.”

I laugh again, and this time he does too. Properly. Quiet, but real. For a moment, it is easy. Then it is not. Because his knee brushes mine under the table and neither of us moves. Because I notice his hands. Because he looks at me too long and then looks away like he has been caught stealing. Because ten years is a very long time until suddenly it is nothing.

“You disappeared,” I say.

Noel looks into his pint. “Yeah.”

“I wrote twice.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t write back.”

“I know.”

“That was horrible of you.”

“Yeah.”

I expect a joke. I expect him to go sharp. I expect him to make it easier by making me angry but he does not. He just sits there, older and not older, with his thumb rubbing at the wet ring his glass has left on the table.

“I didn’t know what to say,” he says.

I hate how much I believe him. “You could’ve said anything.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

He looks at me then. And suddenly he is fourteen again, and I am fourteen again, and the rain is on the concrete, and his little finger is around mine, and everything we were too young to say is sitting between us again.

“Because if I started,” he says, “I wouldn’t have stopped.”

My throat tightens. The band in the corner starts another song. Someone cheers ironically. Someone drops a glass near the bar. The pub keeps living around us like it has no idea.

I look at him.

Noel says, “You still look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know things.”

“I do know things.”

“Yeah,” he says. “You always did.”

I should say something clever. I should ask him about the band, or his life, or where he lives now, or whether he is happy, or whether he ever thinks about the pirate closet, or whether he remembers promising there would still be us.

Instead, I say, “I missed you.”

His face breaks. Then he leans forward and kisses me. It is ten years of not writing back. Ten years of almost forgetting and never managing it. Ten years of every house after his not being mine. Ten years of my name still fitting in his mouth.

Then it slows. His hand comes up to my face like he is checking I am real. I kiss him back before I can think better of it. Maybe I do not want to think better of it.

When we pull apart, he stays close. Too close. His forehead nearly touches mine. For once, Noel does not look like he has something mean to say. He looks scared.

I whisper, “Noel.”

He closes his eyes for half a second. Then he says, very quietly, “I still got love for you.”

I look at him, at the boy I lost and the man sitting in front of me, and I realise some things do not disappear just because nobody says them for ten years. Some things wait. Like songs. Like ghosts. Like love.

I touch his wrist under the table and this time, he does not let go.

taglist: @evasmlp @misswhiddless @zulema222 @shesselectricc @mybigmouthera @gxnyadavid @dykwimean @angstynasty

[gallagherish99]

good morning, good morning 🫶🏻

today is the chief’s birthday and i’m getting a little surprise ready — something i’ve been working on for the past few days.

but i just need you to know that WHILE writing it and then rereading it for the fifth time, i started crying for like 10 minutes like an absolute lunatic 😭

so… prepare yourselves!!!!!!

happy birthday, chief 🖤

[gallagherish99]

hi girlsss 🫶🏻 how are we doing?

i have two little things ready to post soon, but i wanted to ask what you’re more in the mood for:

angsty Liam or a little piece of the baby universe?

you decide 🖤

what do you prefer?

agstttt

baby gallagher universe

Voting ended onMay 29

[gallagherish99]

baby gallagher masterpost 🍼

okay, so… this is officially where i’ll be collecting everything related to the new baby multiverse.

here you’ll find all the fics, blurbs, imagines, text aus, twitter aus and little side moments connected to this era — from the first hints of baby fever, to the pregnancy chaos, family reactions, domestic moments with the bump, liam being painfully overprotective, and everything that comes with these two trying to build a life around a tiny new gallagher.

basically: all the emotional damage, soft domestic chaos, hormonal reader moments and liam panicking/being obsessed in one place.

blurbs: tiny people propaganda morning light coming home to him the baby name debate

fics: baby baby telling everyone

[gallagherish99]

the baby name debate: swiftie mother vs. liam gallagher’s last remaining nerve.

We weren’t seriously choosing names. At least, that was what Liam kept saying every time I opened the notes app on my phone and started reading options out loud while he lay beside me, one hand resting lazily over my stomach like it had been assigned there permanently.

“We need a list,” I said.

“We need peace.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

I looked at him, he looked very pleased with himself.

“Fine,” I said, looking back at my phone. “Betty.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“Didn’t have to. Next.”

“Dorothea.”

He turned his head slowly. “Dorothea?”

“Yes.”

“What is she, eighty?”

I laughed. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s a name for someone who owns too many lamps.”

“Willow.”

“That’s a tree.”

“It’s poetic.”

“You’re naming me kid after garden furniture.”

I looked at him over my phone. “Why do you assume it’s your kid when you’re disagreeing with me, but our kid when you’re being sweet?”

“Because I’m smart.”

“You’re something.”

He looked down at my stomach, then back at the phone. “Hang on. Why are they all girl names?”

“Because it’s a girl.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“Mother’s instinct.”

“You cried yesterday because a sock looked lonely. Your instincts are compromised.”

I gasped. “That sock was alone.”

“It was laundry.” He sighed, long and dramatic. “Right. We need two names. One for a girl, one for a boy.”

“Okay.”

“And if it’s a boy, I’m choosing.”

I laughed immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes. You’ve got the girl list covered with your sad blonde cult.”

“Taylor is not a cult.”

“Feels like one from where I’m sittin’.”

I smiled and scrolled a little further.

“Fine. August.”

He paused. For one dangerous second, I thought I had him. “That’s alright.”

“For a boy?”

“For a boy.”

I smiled too quickly but he noticed immediately. His eyes narrowed. “Wait.”

“What?”

“That’s one of hers too, innit?”

“It’s a month, Liam.”

“It’s never just a month with you.”

I pressed my lips together, trying not to laugh.

He pointed at me. “The blonde strikes again.”

“She has a name.”

“So does me baby. It’s not gonna be Track Five.”

I burst out laughing. “August is not Track Five.”

“Don’t care. She’s brainwashed you.”

“It’s cultural education.”

“It’s brainwashin’.”

He looked down at my stomach, suddenly serious in the most unserious way. “And you,” he muttered to the bump, “don’t listen to her when I’m out.”

I placed my hand over his.

“Our child is going to have emotional literacy.”

“Our child is going to come out askin’ for a parka, as God intended.”

“And a cardigan.”

“No.”

“And maybe named Betty.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Dorothea?”

“I’m leavin’.”

“You can’t leave. I’m carrying your child.”

He sighed like this was a major inconvenience, but didn’t move an inch. His hand stayed warm over my stomach. “One,” he said.

I lifted my head. “One what?”

“One Taylor name.”

I stared at him. “Really?”

“One,” he repeated. “And it better not sound like he’s about to haunt a hallway.”

I grinned. “August?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe.”

“That’s basically yes.”

“That’s not yes.”

“With you, it is.”

He looked down at the bump again, thumb moving once, softer than his voice had been the whole time. “Poor kid,” he muttered. “Not even born and already losin’ arguments to your mum.”

I smiled and rested my head against his shoulder. “She’s learning from the best.”

“He.”

“She.”

He sighed.

“Here we go.”

[gallagherish99]

public relations

pairing: dilf!noel gallagher x younger reader wc: 3k cw: fluff and smut an: and with this, i officially welcome you to the dilf noel x younger reader multiverse. just like i did with liam, this space will be dedicated to different scenes from the married-ish domestic life of a couple with a considerable age gap — and, honestly, an even more interesting dynamic because we’re adding noel gallagher in his almost-60s to the mix. i hope you enjoy this new little universe as much as i’m already enjoying building it. the lore starts here.

I found the interview by accident. Well... no, that’s not actually true.

I found it because three different people had sent it to me, two gossip accounts had clipped it, and someone on Twitter had written, in all caps, NOEL GALLAGHER JUST BASICALLY SAID HE’S HOT NOW BECAUSE HE’S GETTING LAID.

So, naturally, I watched it. Twice. The third time, Noel walked into the room.

He had that look on his face already — the one he wore whenever he knew he was guilty but had decided, preemptively, that apologising was beneath him. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, his shirt half-buttoned, his expression caught somewhere between boredom and self-defence.

“What are you watching?” he asked.

I looked up from my phone. “You.”

He stopped. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Oh, it’s brilliant, actually.”

“No,” he said, pointing at my phone. “Don’t go reading that rubbish.”

“I’m not reading it.”

“Good.”

“I’m watching it.”

His face dropped. “For fuck’s sake.”

I turned the volume up. On the screen, the interviewer was smiling too much, leaning forward like he knew he was about to get something useful out of him.

"People have been saying you look different lately," the man said. "Happier. Healthier. Younger, even."

Noel, on the tiny screen, looked deeply offended. "Younger? Fucking hell. That’s bleak."

Real Noel, standing in front of me, sighed. “Turn it off.”

“Absolutely not.”

The interviewer laughed. "Come on, you must’ve seen the comments. Everyone wants to know the secret."

And there it was. Noel on screen, leaning back, dry as anything, like he was commenting on the weather.

"Yeah, well. That’s what happens when you’re getting properly shagged, mate."

I paused it. Then I looked at him.

Noel looked at the ceiling. “I was joking.”

I stared. “Were you?”

He shrugged. “I was being asked stupid questions.”

“So your solution was to tell the British press you’re glowing because you’re getting fucked properly?”

He winced. “I didn’t say glowing.”

“No, they did.” I looked down at my phone and scrolled. “Repeatedly, actually.”

“Don’t read the comments.”

“Oh, now you’re shy?”

“I’m not shy. I just think civilisation took a wrong turn when people started having opinions under videos.”

I ignored him and clicked into the first thread.

The first comment made me laugh before I could stop myself. “Oh my God.”

“What?”

I turned the phone slightly away from him. “No, you’ll get unbearable.”

“I’m already unbearable.”

“Good point.”

I cleared my throat and read, “‘Whoever she is, thank you for your service.’”

Noel blinked.

I kept going. “‘Noel Gallagher discovering moisturiser and shagging in the same year was not on my bingo card.’”

He came closer. “Give me that.”

“No.” I turned away, laughing, holding the phone against my chest. “Wait, this one says, ‘She fixed his posture, his wardrobe and his will to live.’”

“That’s defamatory.”

“That’s accurate.”

“My posture’s fine.”

“Your posture is Victorian orphan.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. Tiny. There and gone too quickly.

I scrolled again, and the smile slipped off my own face before I could prepare for it.

There was a picture attached to the next post. Him, outside some restaurant a few weeks ago, looking down at me like I had just said something stupid enough to make him laugh. My face was half-hidden, blurred by movement and bad lighting, but his wasn’t. He looked… Happy. Not smiling-for-a-camera happy, just happy.

“What?” he said, softer this time.

I didn’t answer straight away. I read the caption instead. “‘This is the woman behind the Noel Gallagher glow up and honestly we should all be sending flowers.’”

The room shifted around us, suddenly too quiet.

“I suppose,” I said, trying to sound casual and failing badly, “we’re doing this, then.”

Noel watched me. “Doing what?”

“Making it public?.”

His face didn’t change much, but his eyes did. Just a little. I hated when he did that. When he made barely any movement at all and somehow said too much.

“I didn’t exactly make a statement outside Buckingham Palace,” he said.

“You told a journalist you’re having good sex.”

“I said properly shagged.”

“Noel.”

He sighed, but not like he was annoyed. More like he had been caught somewhere he couldn’t joke his way out of fast enough.

I looked back down at the phone. “They’re going to keep digging now.”

“They already were.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. Because the point was suddenly everywhere. The point was in the comments. In the photos. In the fact that people had seen him change before either of us had admitted what we were. In the fact that I had spent months slipping out of restaurants separately, waiting in cars, ducking my head when cameras appeared, telling myself privacy was easier than wanting too much.

The point was that he had said it like a joke. But it didn’t feel like a joke.

“You were the one who said people didn’t need to know everything,” I said.

“They don’t.”

“Then what was that?”

He was quiet for a second. Then he said, “That was me getting tired of pretending you’re not the reason I don’t look like I’ve been dug up.”

And, stupidly, horribly, my heart squeezed. Actually squeezed. Like he had reached into my chest and closed his hand around it without even trying.

I looked down quickly, because I didn’t want him to see my face do whatever it was about to do. But Noel stepped closer anyway. He didn’t ask if I was alright. That would’ve been too direct. Too kind in a way he didn’t like being caught at. Instead, he slid one arm around my waist from behind and pulled me back against him, resting his chin near my shoulder like he had any right to be that soft after causing this much emotional damage.

I kept staring at my phone. “You can’t just say things like that,” I muttered.

“Clearly I can.”

“You know what I mean.”

His mouth brushed against the side of my neck. “I usually do.”

I tried to keep reading.

“Here’s another one,” I said, my voice a little less steady than before. “‘Noel Gallagher getting a hot young girlfriend and immediately becoming less miserable is proof women are carrying society.’”

He huffed a laugh against my skin. “Hot, are you?”

“That’s the part you heard?”

“I heard young as well.”

I elbowed him lightly. He kissed just below my ear. “Noel.”

“What?”

“I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“You’re doing a poor job.”

His hand spread over my stomach, lazy and warm, holding me there while I kept scrolling through strangers dissecting our life like it was a new album cycle.

“‘Thanks to whoever gave Noel the glow up,’” I read. “‘The nation owes you.’”

His lips touched my neck again.

“Very patriotic of you.”

I snorted despite myself. “Stop.”

“Stopping.” He did not stop.

He kissed the spot under my jaw, then my cheek, then the corner of my mouth when I turned my head to complain. I tried to angle the phone away from him, still pretending I cared about the comments, but his other hand came up and gently pushed it down.

“No more reading.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“I’m older. Wiser.”

“You told the press you’re hot because of sex.”

“And look how well it’s gone.”

I turned in his arms, phone trapped uselessly between us. His face was close. Too close for someone who had just made my entire bloodstream inconvenient.

“You’re impossible,” I said.

“I’ve heard.”

“You’re smug.”

“Also heard.”

“You’re going to make my life hell.”

His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth. “Probably.”

I should’ve made him suffer a little longer. Honestly, I had every intention of doing that. I wanted to lecture him about boundaries and tabloids and the difference between privacy and secrecy. I wanted to tell him he couldn’t just decide, in the middle of an interview, that we were done hiding.

But he kissed me before I could organise the argument properly. And that was unfair. Because Noel kissed like he argued. Like he already knew where the weak spot was and had no moral issue using it. Slow at first, almost irritatingly controlled, one hand at my waist, the other sliding up my back, keeping me close enough that I forgot I was supposed to be proving a point.

I gave in with a small, annoyed sound against his mouth. Maybe it was the absurdity of it. The comments. The headline. The way he’d said girlfriend without saying girlfriend, public without saying public, mine without saying mine. Maybe it was the way his hands tightened on me every time I tried to pull back. Maybe it was the fact that I didn’t really want to pull back.

I looked at him, breathless enough to be embarrassing. “Well,” I said.

His brow lifted. “Well?”

“I suppose I’ll have to live up to the reputation you’ve given me.”

He frowned slightly. “What reputation?”

I slid my hands up his chest, slow enough to make his expression change. “The indecently young girlfriend who wants to fuck all day.”

For once, he had absolutely nothing clever to say. Then his mouth twitched, his hands found my hips, and his voice dropped into something rougher.

“Yeah?”

I leaned in, brushing my mouth against his without quite kissing him. “Apparently.”

His grip tightened. “Then stop reading the bloody comments.”

I smiled into his chest, and for a moment, I let myself stay there—warm, lazy, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns on my skin.

I shifted, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat. His hand stilled on my arm.

"That's nice," he said, his voice a low murmur.

I didn't answer. I kissed lower, over his collarbone, the spot where his pulse beat steady and slow. His breath caught just a little.

"I know," I said against his skin.

His hand slid into my hair, not pulling, just resting there. "You're a menace."

"A menace?" I lifted my head, raising an eyebrow. "You're the one who did all the work. I'm just giving you your daily-glow-up routine."

He made a sound and tugged my hair gently. "Cheeky mare."

I grinned and kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then the spot just below his ear that made his breath hitch. I let my hand wander down his chest, over his stomach, stopping at the waistband of his jeans.

"Can I?" I asked, my voice softer now.

He looked at me. His eyes were dark, his mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You don't have to ask."

"Good."

I moved, straddling him properly, my knees sinking into the cushion on either side of his hips. His hands found my waist automatically, steadying me, and I felt him harden against my thigh through the denim.

His gaze flickered down to where I was pressed against him, then back up to my face. "You're in charge now?"

"I thought I'd give it a go." I rocked my hips, just a little, just enough to make him draw a sharp breath. "See if you're as good at following orders as you are at giving them."

His jaw tightened. "I'm not good at following orders."

"Then it'll be a challenge." I leaned in, my mouth brushing his. "I like challenges."

I kissed him, slow and deep, and while he was distracted I worked at his belt buckle. His hands tightened on my hips, guiding the rhythm as I moved against him. The denim was rough, the friction building through both layers.

"Off," he said against my mouth, tugging at the hem of my top. "This, off."

I sat back just enough to pull it over my head, then reached behind to unhook my bra. His eyes tracked the movement, and when I dropped it to the floor, his hands came up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until I bit my lip.

"Still the indecently young girlfriend?" I asked, breathless.

"Decidedly indecent now," he said, and pulled me down for another kiss.

We worked each other's clothes off in a tangle of hands and breathless laughter. His jeans were harder to get off than mine—he had to lift his hips, and I had to tug, and at one point his belt buckle caught on the sofa cushion and he swore under his breath. By the time he was naked beneath me, we were both laughing, and the tension was still there—hot and urgent—but wrapped in something lighter.

I reached down, wrapping my hand around his cock. He was hard, the skin hot and smooth, and he let his head fall back against the sofa cushion as I stroked him slowly.

"You're going to be the death of me," he said, his voice rough.

"Probably." I lined myself up, my hips hovering over his. "But you'll die happy."

He opened his mouth to say something—probably something dry, something to deflect—but I sank down onto him before he could speak, and whatever he was going to say turned into a low, broken groan.

I stilled, letting myself adjust to the stretch of him inside me. His hands gripped my thighs, his knuckles white, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

"Christ," he muttered.

I smiled, slow and satisfied. "Good?"

"You know it's good." His eyes were dark, half-lidded. "You're just fishing for compliments."

"And?"

He laughed—a breathless, reluctant laugh. "You ride me like you've been practicing."

"I have been, with this boyfriend of mine."

That made him blink. Genuine surprise flickered across his face before he masked it with a smirk. "Fuck me."

"That's the idea."

I started to move, slow at first, finding a rhythm that made his breath catch and his hands tighten. He tried to take control—his hips thrusting up to meet mine, his fingers pressing into my skin—but I held his wrists, pushing them down against the cushion.

"Ah, ah," I said, my voice breathless but firm. "I said I was in charge."

He made a sound and let his head fall back. But his eyes never left me. They tracked every movement, every shift of my hips, every tremble of my breath.

I rode him slow, then faster, then slow again, drawing it out until his hands were fisted in the cushion and his breathing was ragged. I leaned forward, my breasts brushing his chest, and kissed him while I moved—sloppy, open-mouthed kisses that tasted like salt and want.

"You feel that?" I whispered against his mouth. "That's what I do to you."

"Fucking hell," he gasped. "You're going to—don't stop—"

I didn't. I kept the pace, steady and relentless, and when I felt his body tense, when his hands flew to my hips to hold me still, I didn't let up. I rode him through it, watching his face twist with pleasure, listening to the sounds he couldn't hold back.

He came with a groan that was almost a growl, his body shuddering beneath me, his grip bruising.

I slowed, then stopped, my own body humming with the leftover tension. I hadn't come—not yet—but I was close, wound tight and waiting.

He didn't let me wait long. Before I could move, his hands were on me, flipping us so suddenly that I landed on my back with a startled laugh. He was above me, his hair a mess, his skin flushed, his eyes dark and determined.

"Can I be in charge now?" he said.

He didn't wait for permission. His mouth found my neck, my collarbone, my breasts, and his hand slid between my thighs, finding me slick and ready. He pushed two fingers inside me, curling them just right, and I arched into his touch.

"Don't you dare come yet," he murmured against my skin.

"You can't—tell me—when to—"

"I can." His thumb found my clit, circling slowly. "I'm in charge now."

I wanted to argue. I opened my mouth to say something clever, something sharp. But then his mouth closed over my nipple, and his fingers kept moving, and every thought scattered.

He worked me slowly, deliberately, bringing me to the edge and backing off, then bringing me back. I was a mess by the time he finally let me come—gripping his shoulders, gasping his name, my body trembling with the force of it.

He watched me the whole time. That smug, dark gaze, drinking it in.

When I finally stilled, he kissed my forehead and lay down beside me, pulling me against his chest with a satisfied hum.

We lay there, tangled and sticky, until my breathing evened out and his hand resumed its lazy tracing on my arm.

"So," I said eventually. "The internet was right. You are glowing."

He scoffed. "I told you. I'm sweaty."

"That's post-coital radiance."

"It's post-coital sweat."

I lifted my head to look at him. "And whose fault is that?"

He met my eyes, that wry half-smile playing on his lips. "Yours.”

I stared at him. He held my gaze, unblinking.

"I mean it," he said, and his voice was quieter now, less defensive. "I know I don't say things like that, but I don’t think it’s just the sex that got me radiant."

I felt my chest tighten. "Noel."

"Don't make it weird." He pulled me closer, pressing his lips to my hair. "Just—take the compliment."

I did. I took it, and I held it, and I let the warmth of it settle into my bones.

"Okay," I said softly. "I'll take it."

He was quiet for a long moment. Then his hand found mine, threading our fingers together.

"Good," he said. "Because I'm not saying it again."

taglist: @evasmlp @misswhiddless @zulema222 @shesselectricc @mybigmouthera @gxnyadavid

[gallagherish99]

i think this just became canon… and i don’t know how to feel about it 🫩🙏🏻

[gallagherish99]

wow...their relationship sounds messy af

when you say there is a lot of control do you mean it's like an abusive form of control or like control in that liam is like a child and kinda relies on debbie to make decisions for him?

i don’t think it’s abusive, at least i wouldn’t feel comfortable calling it that. but i do think she seems very controlling — not only over what he does, but especially over what he doesn’t do.

like, he barely goes anywhere. he’s almost never seen out in public, and when he is, she and her twin sister always seem to be around him, making sure everything goes exactly the way they want it to.

there’s this video from Rome where some fans find them inside the hotel and ask her for a picture, and Liam is like “yeah, i’ll take it for you,” and she reacts in such an exaggerated way, pulls herself away from the girls and just sits back down. maybe it was nothing, but it felt so odd to watch.

and then there are other things that might be more gossip, sure, but they kind of line up with other stuff we’ve seen — like people saying she doesn’t let him get close to women, or that if they’re at a pub he’s not really allowed to be in the common area in case girls approach him.

again, everyone can do whatever works for them in their own relationship. but lately, like we were saying the other day, it feels like this kind of “closed off” life is making him go a bit insane online 😭

and another thing i find strange is that his private circle seems to be mostly people connected to her and her sister — their friends, their family, their people. not really many people from his side. even when they go on holidays, it seems like he’s paying for her, her family and her friends.

so yeah… i don’t know. i’m not saying i know the truth or that everything is evil, but from the outside it all feels very, very strange.

[gallagherish99]

MORE dilf!liam x younger reader universe pleaseee

they're on their way !!!!! specially the ones with the baby lore in the middle

[gallagherish99]

Reg. your last ask

i honestly picture them in a dom♡sub dynamic, like liam looks like he is exactly where he wants to be 😭🤞

yes, if we’re looking at it from a #sexual point of view then sure, i get it 😭 she’s our goth queen and i understand the dom/sub reading there.

but i think what i was talking about goes a bit beyond that dynamic. like, i don’t think a man like Liam needs to be “sub” to anything in real life, especially not when it comes to how his whole life is managed.

one thing is a private relationship dynamic, another thing is someone’s day-to-day life, decisions and freedom feeling overly controlled from the outside. those are very different conversations imo.

[gallagherish99]

what do you think of debbie…

i’ll be completely honest, but please remember i’m not claiming to know the absolute truth about people i don’t personally know.

i only started getting deeper into Oasis lore around late 2025. i’ve always loved their music, and that’s why i went to see them when they played in my country, but i wasn’t that familiar with all the scandals and private-life lore before.

so at first, my impression of Debbie was very much the usual one: the woman who helped Liam get stable, supported his solo career, helped him through everything, etc. basically the “saviour” narrative.

but the more i’ve read, watched, and heard here and there, the more complicated it all seems.

i work in the music industry, so sometimes you end up hearing little things through friends of friends / people who know people, and obviously i take all of that with a grain of salt. but i’ve heard more than once that the dynamic around Liam is very controlled, not just professionally but personally too.

and one thing that really stuck with me is that apparently some people who’ve worked around them jokingly call her “the witch” because they feel like she has him under some kind of spell 😭 again, i’m not saying that as a fact or to be cruel, it’s just one of those things you hear and go… okay, that’s interesting.

i also find it strange how involved she seems to be in certain family decisions, especially when those are things that should probably be between Liam and the mothers of his kids. i get that she’s his manager and probably handles things better than him, but still… it feels like a lot.

so yeah, i don’t think everything is as simple as “Debbie saved Liam and that’s it.” maybe she did help him a lot, and i respect that. but there are definitely layers to that relationship that feel odd from the outside.

from how they got together, to the 2018 incident, to the way things seem to work now… the whole thing has always felt a bit strange to me. not necessarily evil, not necessarily scandalous, just… strange.

and it’s not even comparable to someone like Nicole, who always came across as very sweet and natural with him.

so yeah. i respect her, i’m not here to hate on her, but i don’t fully buy the perfect saviour narrative anymore. things are usually messier than that.

[shesgotawayy]

sometimes I think of something liam has done/said and get like .... something more volatile than the ick

exhibit a:

his tweets after gene had to go to court for racially aggravated assault and he was so fuckin obnoxious saying this typa shit like ..... bro ur rich son and his rich friends harassed a minimum wage employee .... wonder where he got it from

so just a reminder that we should not idolize these guys LOL

sorry for the rant, I just find him .... insufferable sometimes

I'll be back to casual love for him later

[dykwimean]

exactly! and exhibit b for me is when he started calling the mother of his child a gold digger just last year for asking for a bigger amount in child support like … you haven’t even met the kid and you’re fucking loaded. the least you could do is pay whatever she’s asking bro

[gallagherish99]

i just want to jump into this conversation for a second because i mentioned something similar the other day with all the twitter lore, and i think some people got a bit offended but…

Liam is not a saint. Noel isn’t either.

They both have a million behaviours that are very much 1) average man behaviour and 2) very questionable/sexist at times. They’re emotionally messy, they’ve said and done weird things, and pointing that out doesn’t mean we’re hating them or jumping on a hate train.

BUT it also doesn’t mean we have to forget it completely.

They’re not poor helpless little men who need to be rescued from anything, and most importantly… they’re both almost 60 years old 😭

Like the other day Liam accidentally leaking his own phone number??? that’s just another example of the irrational little rants/moments he keeps having live in front of everyone on that app. Twitter has become this insane place where we’re basically watching him spiral in real time.

And between that, still hanging around with their very questionable brother, and some not-so-old news that people love to ignore… sometimes I do think the image clean-up Liam has had over the years is actually insane.

And since we’re already here, I’ll just say this carefully: I’ve also been hearing/reading little things here and there that make me think the people around him are not exactly flawless either. Which is fine, no one is. But sometimes the “saviour” narrative feels a bit too simple for what is probably a much messier reality.

That’s all. I still love them, I still write my delusional little fics, but I refuse to pretend these men are angels lol.

BTW i got so much to say about this if anyone wants to yap about it my DMS ARE OPEN

[gallagherish99]

GIRL i love u and i love dilf!liam x younger reader universe 🫂 thank u for your fics

omg thank you anon you are so sweetttttt, i love them too, they are just too cute 🥹

[gallagherish99]

hi my loves 🖤

i’ve been feeling a bit uninspired when it comes to creating new things lately, but i will apparently never run out of inspiration for my little dilf!Liam x younger reader love universe

so i’m sorry to all the requests i still have pending, but until further notice my brain is fully living inside this world… with maybe a few Noel thoughts sneaking in here and there.

i’ve realised that when i try to force myself to write something just because it’s a request, or because i feel like i should, my creativity kind of dies a little. so during this writer’s block era, i think i’m just going to focus on whatever feels the most natural and exciting to write.

thank you for being patient with me. i love you all 🫶🏻🖤