General info: Hi!! I'm Maggie or Mags, whatever u want to call me. I'm 19 and from Croatia but Ive lived in Sweden my whole life! älskar mitt svenska folk!! and i love to write fics. and I love my pet cat Hershey
Main: Feel free to request or text me anything, but I will not write for anything gory, inhumane or about incest. Tysm! <3
wait can you actually do battle of britpop oasis tumblr edition
omg this is the funniest thing ever ive been sitting thinking on this ask for agesss like full on mindmapping hold on (sorry again for the mass tagging guys)
im gonna expand from the battle to just britpop/music in general and like. dont take offence to this if ive mentioned you ily and im drunk lmao
also yall like feel free to make your own or add id be interested to see what you all think
main battle
i feel like noel would be like @anjalfc and @celestialgallaghers and @hueysamo
liam is obvs @onlygirlaliveinnyc and like im kinda getting @biblical-chronicles and @ddlydevotion
damon is @multifandomsoftness and @furlinedlove and @today-tomorrow-sometime-never
other band members
bonehead @vincrichc
andy @kitkat711
gem @bugsys-posts
guigsy @lovelymorningglory
alex @leaawrites
dave @wtchzmbie
partners
melissa i feel like @noelsbambii and @maggieluvsoasis and @nglgfics
patsy im sensing @gallagherloml and @dustyp1nk and @evilsailorsenshi
meg is @whatsthestry and @qatarsprint2023 and @shakermakerbabe
justine is ME xx
other britpop
brett anderson + neil codling has to be @realdrowners
jarvis cocker im sensing @beherenowl like i remember you saying summat about pulp like i swear it
louise from sleeper is again ME XX
other music
grian is @ironically-w0ke and @gigilovesmovies
carlos is @sskintyfiaa
like everyone from the stone roses is obvs @20thcenturyb0y obvs like who else
alex is like @recklesserenade
julian is @chasedbyunclewalt
okay each beatle hmm
john @soleilizana
paul @hernamewasavaline
ringo @supersonictrains
george @almosthumongousfunsblog
gorillaz @sku1l-fac3 (ill come back to this one in greater detail)
im gonna add more to this later like i have sosososo many people i could put for each person and like i feel like a lotta us would be groupies (me included) so maybe ill do that if yall cool w it
i could make this so detailed like people in every period of the battle roadie noel coke noel whatevs im so invested now
omg you're back, i didn't see! i'm really glad you didn't quit because of some stupid people just trying to stir up drama.
i loved you noel fic btw! 🫶
THANK YOU SM BB. I know the atuff was so crazy like pls let’s just all hold hands or something and be nice. Thank you for the support though it means so much <3
A = Aftercare
He’s smug as hell but not careless. Cleans you up with a flannel, lights a fag, pulls you into his chest. Kisses your hair and mutters, “Still breathin’, pet? Good. You’ll live.”
B = Body part
His: His mouth. Sharp tongue, cutting words, filthy smirks — but also wicked between your thighs.
Yours: Your throat. Loves his hand there, loves watching it work when you swallow for him, loves marking it up.
C = Cum
Controlling about it. Makes you hold it, makes you beg. Loves painting your skin with it, sneering, “Look at the fuckin’ mess I’ve made of you.”
D = Dirty secret
Keeps a mental catalogue of every noise you make, every twitch, every weak spot — and uses it against you later. He’s a collector of your undoing.
E = Experience
Experienced as hell, but deliberate. He’s not frantic like Liam — Noel is slow corruption, patient destruction.
F = Favourite position
Cockwarming on his lap, your face buried in his neck, him whispering filth in your ear while you beg to move.
G = Goofy
Cocky, not goofy. Drops sarcastic comments mid-fuck, grinning at your blush. “Shy now? After all that noise?”
H = Hair
Neat but natural. Loves when you tug on it, but doesn’t let you mess it up too much.
I = Intimacy
Not soft. His version of intimacy is possession — holding your face, murmuring “Mine. Always mine.” while you shake in his arms.
J = Jack off
Not often, but if he does, he’s picturing you falling apart, has dirty polaroids tucked in his wallet. Might even edge himself, smug at the thought of denying his own release until he’s got you under him.
K = Kink
Praise kink, overstimulation, orgasm control, voyeurism, breath play, mirrors, cockwarming, edging, possessive dirty talk. He’s about control and watching you squirm.
L = Location
Hotel suites, backstage couches, anywhere with mirrors so he can force you to watch.
M = Motivation
Power. The way you give in, the way you beg, the way he drags every sound out of you. He gets off on owning it.
N = No
Mindless chaos. He likes control — if you try to take it, he’ll shut you down fast.
O = Oral
Giving: Obsessed. Holds you open, tongue lazy but relentless, smirking into your cunt.
Receiving: Loves it but makes you work. “On your knees, birdie. Show me how grateful you are.”
P = Pace
Calculated. Slow when he wants to torment you, brutal when he finally snaps.
Q = Quickie
Rare — he prefers to drag it out, savour it, ruin you properly. But if he does, it’ll be filthy, like pinning you against a wall with his hand over your mouth.
R = Risk
Not as reckless as Liam, but he’s not above an open-curtains show. Loves the idea of someone hearing you beg for him.
S = Stamina
Controlled. He paces himself, always has more in him. He’ll outlast you deliberately just to prove he can.
T = Toys
Enjoys using them to overwhelm you. Vibrator against your clit while he fucks you slow, smirking, “Another one, pet. Don’t fight it.” Dildos while you beg him for the real thing "Nah, love - don't deserve it yet, be good f'me."
U = Unfair
King of teasing. Pulls away when you’re right there, murmurs “Not yet. Didn’t earn it.” Makes you cry for it.
V = Volume
Not loud — sharp. Mutters filth in your ear, groans low in his throat, smug little chuckles when you whimper.
W = Wild card
Has a voyeur streak. Could happily sit back, arms crossed, and make you touch yourself while he just watches.
X = X-ray
Fuckers big, long and thick. Smug bastard about how perfectly he fills you, too.
Y = Yearning
Controlled hunger. He doesn’t need it constantly, but when he does, it’s consuming — he’ll wring you out for hours.
Z = ZZZ
Keeps you curled against him, cock still buried in you sometimes. Smokes half a cig before nodding off, muttering “Mine, always fuckin’ mine.”
maggie you need to tell me ur last name so I can finish the marriage papers because after such a beautiful and extremely fun fic I want to have you by my side forever thank you very much it was such an specific request yet you delivered something from above and beyond like for a second I thought you might secretly know me personally anyways where do you wanna go for our honeymoon??
OH MY GOD THANK YOU AND I LOVE YOUUUUU pls if you request more I’ll do more. I adore ur ideas and ur my #1 fan. and I’ll take ur last name dw about it. Pls this makes me want to cry, we can go anywhere for our honeymoon 😢🫶🏻
Notes: The bitch is back guys. Sorry for disappearing bbs, i just could not handle the amount of hate and death threats i was getting for something so silly. I mean, i was defending a lovely friend that did nothing wrong and i would do it again. Hate is terrible! a huge thanks and arms open for @londoncallingalondongirl that is my girl right there and i adore her to death for checking up on me and defending me. ur my fav forever bb. Anyways, here is my first noel fic! it was a request by the lovely @multifandomsoftness i loved this request so much and i'm so nervous, it is so hard for me to write with little detail. hope u enjoy!
Genre: Fluff!
Who: Noel Gallagher x Girlfriend!Reader, liam making an appearance and being a little shit
Summary: How is Noel going to react when you finally ask to do his make up? He could never say no to you. (req)
"Let me be the one who shines with you, In the morning we don't know what to do"
The afterparty hummed with low chatter and the muffled thump of mellow music — nothing like the chaos of the gig they’d just played. The air still smelled faintly of sweat, beer, and cigarettes, even though the crowd here wasn’t nearly as rowdy. Lads from the industry, a few hangers-on, some band girlfriends with champagne flutes in hand. It was calmer, but Noel Gallagher still sat with the sharpness of someone who’d been running on adrenaline for hours.
He nursed a pint of bitter, thumb idly tapping the glass. His jaw was set, shoulders square, like he could still hear the ringing echoes of guitars in his head. He wasn’t ever the type to loosen up easily, even when the music died down.
You were perched right beside him, legs crossed neatly, your arm looped through his and you leaned in close — close enough that Noel could smell the faint sweetness of your perfume you chose to wear tonight, cutting through with the unmistakable tang of the gin you had been downing. cheeks flushed and eyes bright in a way that only came with drink.
“You’re brooding again,” You murmured, nudging him with your shoulder.
“I’m not brooding,” Noel said flatly, his Mancunian drawl roughened from smoke and booze. “I’m just sittin’, love. Can’t a bloke sit without gettin’ accused of havin’ a bloody thundercloud over his head?”
You grinned, your fingers sliding down his arm, catching his hand.
“You always look like you’ve got some storm brewin’. Even when you’re drinkin’. Even when you’ve just played to thousands of people screamin’ your songs back at you. Most blokes would be smilin’ their heads off.”
“Yeah, well,” Noel muttered, taking another sip, “I’m not most blokes, am I?”
You leaned against him, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You’re mine. That’s different.”
That cracked the corner of his mouth into a reluctant smirk. Noel wasn’t one for public displays, but you had a way of cutting through his armour, bit by bit. He tightened his arm around your waist without thinking, pulling you in closer.
You, drunker than him, tilted your head up. “D’you know what I want right now?”
“No. But I’m guessin’ it’s summat daft.”
Your pout deepened, playful. “I want to do your makeup.”
Noel nearly choked on his pint. He shot you a look — sharp, disbelieving, eyebrows raised high. “Makeup? Christ, woman, what’ve you been drinkin’? That’s somethin’ a bloody pansy would do. You think I’m sittin’ here lettin’ you paint me up like some—”
“—Like some rockstar?” you interrupted, eyes glinting.
“I am a rockstar,” Noel countered, blunt as ever. “Don’t need eyeliner to prove it.”
“But you’d look fit,” you said quickly, squeezing his hand, leaning so close your lips brushed his ear. “Imagine it — a bit of smudged kohl round your eyes, bit of dark round the lashes. You’d look like trouble.”
“I already look like trouble,” he said dryly. “Ask me mam.”
You laughed, that unrestrained laugh that made a few heads turn from across the room. Noel felt a pang of something warm in his chest — he never admitted it, but he liked the way you laughed loud enough for everyone to hear, like you weren't afraid of taking up space.
“Noel,” you pressed, tugging on his sleeve. “Please? Just a little. I’ve got eyeliner in my bag. It won’t kill you. You might even like it.”
He gave you a long, patient look, the kind of look that usually made people shrink away. You didn’t flinch, never did.
“You’re relentless,” he muttered.
“Only with you,” you teased.
He shook his head, exhaling through his nose, staring down into the amber swirl of his pint. For a moment, he thought about just shutting it down with a flat no, but something in him softened. You stuck by him for two years — through the fights with Liam, through the arguments that left holes in doors, through the silence that followed him like a ghost. You were still here, clinging to his arm in some smoky afterparty, looking at him like he wasn’t the miserable sod he often felt like.
“I’ll think about it,” Noel said finally, almost begrudgingly.
Your face lit up like he’d just promised you the world. “That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes either,” he shot back quickly.
“But it’s a maybe,” you sang, tilting your head, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw before he could move away. “And maybe is better than no.”
Noel sighed, shaking his head again, but the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him. He wasn’t going to admit it aloud, but the truth was — for you, he probably would let it happen. Maybe not here, in front of everyone. But later, when it was just them, he could imagine giving in, if only to see the way you grin when he did.
“God help me,” Noel muttered under his breath, taking another swig of his pint.
You heard him anyway, leaning in again to kiss his cheek, whispering, “You love me.”
And he did. God help him, he really did.
—
Noel had already known, deep down, the moment you had asked a few minutes ago. He’d known it in the smirk tugging at your lips, in the stubborn tilt of your chin. He could talk circles, brush you off, call it daft — but at the end of the day, he was always going to give in. He always did with you.
And so here he was, twenty minutes later, sitting on the closed lid of the bog seat in some rented-out backroom bathroom, pint swapped for a half-finished bottle of water he’d nicked off the counter. The music from the party thumped faintly through the door, muffled chatter bleeding in with it.
You stood in front of him, already sober enough, digging through your little black bag with intensity. “I know I brought it,” you muttered, strands of your hair falling in your face as you searched.
Noel leaned back against the tiled wall, one leg stretched out, the other bent, watching you with that dry, catlike expression he always wore. He flicked the cap of the water bottle with his thumb, bored but amused.
“You look like you’re about to rob a bank,” he drawled.
“Shut it,” you shot back without looking up. “You’ll thank me later.”
“Doubt it.”
Finally, with a triumphant sound, you pulled out a slim black pencil, holding it aloft like a prize. “Got it!”
Noel rolled his eyes, muttering, “Bloody hell.”
You stepped closer, grinning wide. “Right. Sit still.”
“I am sittin’ still,” Noel said. He tapped the toilet seat with his knuckles. “Ain’t exactly goin’ anywhere, am I?”
“Don’t be an arse,” you scolded lightly, moving between his knees. You tried leaning down a little to reach his face, but the angle was all wrong, and you huffed. “This is awkward.”
“Maybe ‘cause it’s a shite idea to begin with,” Noel offered, smirk firmly in place.
Instead of answering, You did something that knocked the breath right out of him — you swung a leg over and perched herself on his lap, straddling him without hesitation.
For a moment, Noel froze, then that unmistakable dirty smirk slid across his mouth. He dropped the water bottle to the floor and set his hands on your hips, thumbs pressing slow circles against your thighs. “Well now,” he murmured, voice low, “this I can get used to.”
You gave him a pointed look, though your cheeks were flushed. “Don’t start.”
“What? I’m not startin’ anything. You’re the one climbin’ all over me, love. What am I supposed to think?”
“That you’re here so I can do your eyeliner, not so you can cop a feel.” you poked his chest with the end of the pencil, your eyes narrowing playfully.
Noel chuckled, a rough, throaty sound. “Bossy, aren’t you?”
“Always,” you said firmly.
He raised his hands in surrender, though the smirk didn’t fade. “Alright, alright. Do your worst then.”
You leaned in, focusing hard now, your fingers light against his cheek as you steadied his face. The pencil dragged carefully along his lash line, and Noel forced himself to keep still, though his instinct was to squirm away.
“This feels weird,” he muttered, blinking.
“Stop movin’.”
“I’m not movin’. You’re pokin’ me eye out.”
“You’re bein’ dramatic. Hold still.”
He huffed but obeyed, eyes half-lidded as you worked. The smell of your perfume was stronger now, sweet and warm, wrapping around him like a blanket. Your hair brushed against his forehead when you leaned closer, and Noel found himself watching you more than focusing on the eyeliner.
You were so serious about it — tongue poking out slightly in concentration, brow furrowed like you were solving some massive equation.
“You’re enjoyin’ this too much,” he said quietly.
“I am,” you admitted, not missing a beat. “You’ll look gorgeous.”
“I already look gorgeous.”
You laughed softly, pressing your thumb under his eye to smudge the line just a little. “Bastard.”
“Truthful bastard,” Noel corrected, grinning.
You shifted on his lap to reach his other eye, and his grip on your hips tightened instinctively. The movement drew a small gasp out of you, and his grin widened.
“Noel,” you warned.
“Didn’t do nothin’,” he said innocently, though his eyes gleamed with mischief.
“You’re impossible.”
“Yet you love me.”
“I do,” you said simply, brushing the pencil gently along his lower lash line.
The words hit harder than he expected — even though you have said them before, even though he knew it. Something in the way you said it, so casually, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, made his chest ache.
So he kept still, for you. Let you finish the little ritual you were so set on.
—
You sat back at last, eyeliner pencil tucked safely in your bag, a proud grin spreading across your face as you shifted off Noel’s lap, smoothing your clothes off.
“There,” you declared. “Done. You look so bloody fit, you don’t even know.”
Noel groaned, running a hand over his face. “Fit? Christ. I look like a right twat, don’t I? Bet I look like Johnny Rotten if he’d had a kip in the gutter.”
You ignored the complaint, reaching for his hands and tugging him up. “C’mon. Look at yourself.”
He resisted at first, dragging his heels with all the enthusiasm he no longer had left. “I don’t wanna look.”
“You are lookin’.” you yanked until he stumbled forward, muttering curses under his breath, and planted him in front of the bathroom mirror.
Noel lifted his gaze reluctantly. The harsh light above showed the smudged black circling his eyes — not neat, not polished, just a messy kohl shadow clinging to his lashes. It gave him a rough, sleepless edge. He groaned again, leaning a hand on the sink.
“Bloody hell, I look like I’ve been punched.”
You laughed softly, slipping your arms around his waist from behind and resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Nah. You look Like every girl in that party’d lose her head if you walked in right now."
He turned his head toward you, the mirror forgotten, and eyes met. Yours were still bright from drinking, but steady, warm. The corners of Noel’s mouth softened without him even realising it.
"Not that i want that..." you mutter, rolling your eyes playfully.
“You’re mad, y’know that?” he murmured.
“Yeah. Mad for you,” you said simply.
That cracked through the last of his complaints. He bent down, catching your mouth with his, the kiss slow and unhurried. You melted into him, your lips tasting faintly of gin and cherries. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world, his hands sliding up your back and yours curling into his shirt.
The bathroom disappeared for a moment — no tiles, no mirror, no afterparty humming behind the door. Just you two.
Then a voice cut through, loud and unmistakable, echoing in the hallway outside.
“Oi! Noel! You in there, ya miserable bastard?”
You jerked back, eyes wide, lips still inches from his. Noel’s hands tightened on your waist, unwilling to let you go.
“Don’t,” he muttered, trying to pull you back in. “Ignore ‘im.”
You shook her head, giggling nervously. “That’s your brother.”
“Exactly. Means he’s used to bein’ ignored.”
Before Noel could lean in again, there was a thud on the bathroom door, followed by Liam’s laugh. “You havin’ a wank in there, our kid? Hurry it up, some of us need a piss!”
You broke into helpless laughter, covering your mouth with a hand. Noel, on the other hand, looked like he’d like the floor to swallow him whole.
“Fuck off, Liam!” he barked toward the door. “Go piss in a plant pot, you tosser!”
The handle rattled, and then the door creaked open a few inches. Liam’s head popped round the frame, his grin wide and wolfish. The second his eyes landed on Noel — smudged eyeliner, you pressed against him — his grin split into a cackle.
“Oh, look at this! Noel Gallagher playin’ dress-up! What’d you let her do to you, eh?”
Noel’s face burned hotter than the lights overhead. “Shut it, you daft cunt,” he snapped, grabbing for the paper towels on the counter.
But Liam was already doubled over laughing, clutching his stomach. “Christ, you look like Siouxsie bloody Sioux! Wait ‘til the lads see this—”
“You’ll say fuck all, or I’ll break your nose,” Noel threatened, snatching a wad of towels and wetting them under the tap.
You, half-mortified and half-amused, watched noel carefully. “Don’t, babe. He’s just takin’ the piss.”
“Yeah, well, he’ll be pissin’ blood if he carries on,” Noel muttered darkly, scrubbing at his eyes with rough swipes. Black streaks smeared across the paper and his skin.
Liam leaned lazily against the door frame, arms crossed, clearly enjoying himself. “Never thought I’d see the day. Our kid, eyeliner on, snoggin’ his missus on a bog seat. Proper romantic, eh?”
“Fuck off,” Noel repeated, glaring at him in the mirror.
You tried to hide your smile, resting a hand on Noel’s arm. “I liked it,” you whispered, soft enough that only he could hear.
And despite the embarrassment clawing at him, Noel froze at that. Because you meant it. You hadn’t just been playin’ — you liked the way he looked, the way it changed him, even for a moment.
Liam, oblivious, chuckled his way back into the hall. “Don’t worry, lad. I won’t tell… much.” The sound of his laughter faded into the music and chatter outside.
Noel sighed heavily, balling up the ruined paper towels and tossing them into the bin. He caught his own reflection again — smeared black round his eyes, his hair a mess, his lips swollen from your kisses.
hey maggie!!! i just strolled down here from jackie and ive loved ur fics, they are absolutely gorge!!!!! are you taking requests by any chance babes? <3
Hi!!! Thank u sm, ur the sweetest and yes I am I’m open to writing anything I just need ideas I’m quite literally having a brain block
1.7 k. late 90s NG x reader. based on this request.
After Noel left you alone in the hallway, nothing had felt real. Everything was a hologram of something you once knew to be real; life, played out like a simulation over the lenses of your eyes.
The first day was the worst. You didn't want to think about anything, thus you went to bed right after he left, dozing off to a light and disturbed sleep after many blackberry flavoured melatonin gummies. You dreamt many strange, almost morbid dreams that sent you spiralling through your own mind, falling down through a dreamscape to wake up still wrapped in familiar blankets.
When you woke up early the next morning, you spent an hour just staring up at the ceiling. You replayed last night restlessly, studying his expression and the deepest intentions behind every word. You felt lost beyond words, a whirlwind of questions marks in a foggy, half-dead forest.
You felt ridiculously melodramatic, continuously telling yourself to just make the decision, however every time you shook yourself by the collar and sat down to pick one or the other, everything inside your head turned back into a mess. It should've been easy to at least give him a chance, but when you finally thought you might go through with it, you freeze in the doorframe, looking down at the floor where you had been, and remember how you had gotten at the mere sight of him with another woman.
You were one of the girls he kept close—could you trust he would throw away all the others if you were to get into a relationship with him? After a day of drinking and drugs and loud fans, surrounded by young models and groupies, would you really be the woman on his mind?
On the flipside, you really wanted him. Not just physically, you wanted the lazy mornings and late nights, his cologne on the pillows and his toothbrush next to yours. The thought of a normal, quiet life with Noel sent warmth through your veins and a soothing calm through the chaos in your mind, though it was killed as soon as your thoughts drifted back to the reality of a rockstar's life. Could you sacrifice your dignity for the occasional close, warm night?
At the end of the day, he was just another guy that passed through a fragment of your life and will continue on, eventually leaving your mind for peace. While he might leave scars that break open every once in a while, it will surely be less painful than what might be waiting if you proceed further down the road with him. You couldn't get the image of him leaving you at a dead end he knew was coming, lost and unable to find your way back to the light out of your mind.
You spent the day locked inside your home, afraid of bumping into Noel on the street below—or maybe you were anticipating his knock at the door. You couldn't tell what you wanted anymore. The weather was no good anyway—dark and moody, threatening a rainfall that never came—so you turned on the television only to stare blankly at it while not understanding a single word said. You moved to sit at the dining table to listen to the radio and read a book, but the pages went by agonisingly slow as your mind kept drifting, and you had to get up three times to flick through frequencies on the radio until you ended up on a station that only played classical music where you figured you were safe.
The next day was the opposite. You woke up early and immediately began cleaning like a madman. You hadn't decided it exactly, it was more so a subconscious reflex to keep your mind busy. You dusted places you hadn't touched since moving in, bleached stains from the previous residents, and rearranged the living room, all before three pm. When there was nothing else to do, you went on a walk to the park and peope-watched—fighting with the sharp breeze, carrying the first signs of winter, until your skin went numb beneath the coat—before you realised you were starving. It was eight pm and you hadn't had anything since lunch. You picked up some Chinese food on the way home and ate it while the television played some nonsensical documentary, promptly falling asleep on the couch cushions.
When you woke up with the sun in your eyes, you felt strangely calm. The air was still with small, golden specks of dust shining in the sunlight, whirling into a waltz in time with your slow breath. Your skin was comfortably sun-warmed and the radiator buzzed somewhere distant, trying to keep up with the chill morning air. You didn't feel a rush to do anything, nor did you feel a paralysing need to sit still and think. It was like there was an energy brought on by the sun, a smooth and rich serenity that flowed effortlessly through the walls and stilled the chaotic vibrations inside you. In seasons as gloomy and cool as this, you could understand why ancient people worshipped the few cracks of sunlight they were granted.
It was midday when a knock fell on your door. Strangely enough, you wondered who it might be as you opened the door.
"Oh. Hello," you said.
"Hi," Noel greeted. He looked tired but calm, like he'd done nothing but sleep like a bear in hybernation but was still cursed with drowsiness, with cheeks flushed pink from the biting cold outside. "Do you... wanna talk?"
You stepped aside and opened the door wider. "Come inside."
He stepped over the treshold with caution and followed you to the living room. Well inside, he stood in the middle of the room and looked around as if he hadn't seen it before. In the soft daylight, he looked like an entirely different person from the one that stood in your doorway three nights earlier.
He shed his jacket on the backrest of a chair and suddenly he melted into the room like a permanent figure, like he knew the cracks in the walls and how to navigate the makeshift electric work and, strangely enough, you didn't mind it. There was no feeling of impending doom or anxious pit of worry in your stomach.
You sat down on the couch and he followed slightly after. You turned your body to him, your back against the armrest, and your knees grazed though not necessarily on purpose on the small couch.
"Sorry if I've come too early," he said suddenly. The warm light from the window carved out his silhouette in a sharp outline, highlighting every hair like golden threads. "I didn't know exactly how much time you needed but... I can go if you'd like-"
"No, it's alright," you cut him off. "I... I think I'm ready."
He looked at you then, eyes searching your face, or maybe studying. "I'm sorry for being such a dick. I've thought about it, about you, and... I don't know, I don't want to continue on like we've been doing. I… I want more. I want you. I've been havin' all these half-arsed relationships that never work out... and I'm getting older, and I realise I wanna have someone there. Someone I can trust and feel comfortable with.
"And I understand that you probably don't want to be with some alcoholic drug addict that can't keep his shit together—but I'm gonna straighten up, really. I'm gonna quit doin' drugs and cut back on the alcohol and—fuck, I dunno, it sounds stupid, but I thought, if you still want me by then..."
"Oh, Noel," you said, halfway to a sigh. "I just... you're a rockstar. I don't know if I can be with someone like that."
It seemed to take a moment for him to understand what you were trying to say. "C'mon, have some faith in me. I don't want anyone else. When I'm around you... I feel comfortable, like there's nothin' I need to hide. Like," his voice trailed off into something quiet. "like I'm worth seeing."
Everything you'd been thinking about the last days came back like a heavy wave, washing over your heart and sifting through the vessels. He seemed sincere, almost desperate, but it doesn't guarantee anything. It might be a phase that'll wear off in a couple years, and when you think you have it all with a large diamond gleaming on your ring finger he might come home with a sorrow expression on his face and shame dripping off his shoes. But then, would those years of blinding high be enough to outshine the dejection that follows when you would look back on the two of you? To be or not to be, all over again.
You didn't know how to put it palatable enough, so you opened your mouth with no idea what you words would end your sentence. "Noel... I wanna be with you, I really do. But I don't know if I could handle the end of us..."
His head tilted and he sunk into himself like his muscles lost a little strength. His voice came out carefully, seeping through the space between you without disturbing the air. "There doesn't need to be an end."
Your eyes met his like a reflex. Deep and blue but impossibly warm; you had never understood the expression "eyes you could drown in" until you saw his. Somewhere in the distance, his hand moved from the backrest of the couch to your shoulder—a touch so light it prickled your skin. Over your collarbone and neck and jawline, his hand was soon at your cheekbone and you were leaning in like his body heat had melted your brain to a buttery slosh. He wasn't pulling you in, not physically, but the warmth of his skin against yours was enough to lure you in for the familiar heat of his lips.
Your lips met his with a care forgein to the pair of you. Warm and tender, Noel pushed back like it was his first time kissing you, which, in a way, it was. No drugs, no alcohol, no impatient fire burning in the gut—this was real. Two souls in embrace with no reason, no intention, no purpose, just simply because they could.
Contact like the Titanic against the iceberg or the first block of the pyramids—it was impossible to know whether the kiss was initiating your doom or a flourishing, neverending life. But right now, the future was a philosophical and unimportant concept because all that mattered was that today, you were alive; and you were alive with Noel.
LAST PART OF HAPPINESS IS A BUTTERFLY how is everyone feeling? satisfactory end??? yes no??? tell me. if you're quick enough i might change it a little.
ok guys i have to confess i have been procrastinating like a MOTHERFUCKER excuse the language. i wrote half of this a couple days ago, picked up my phone for a quick tiktok break and boom suddenly it's been multiple days. what??!!?!?!? sorry.
also what are the thoughts on the GIF at the top? yes i made it myself thank you for asking. yes it took way longer than i'd like to admit. yes i am utterly obsessed with the clip and his smile slowly fading like he's seeing something he doesn't like. i think i'm gonna start adding a new GIF at the top of every fic from now on ok thanks girls
who are your favorite writers or inspirations in the community?
There are A LOT, but a main person that is amazing with helping and advice is @londoncallingalondongirl trust me, the nicest person you will EVER meet and so friendly. Such a sweetheart, go check her blog out
Wil there be hangman pt. 4 ?( a glimpse of just pure fluff of them finally happy again) 🥹🙏🏼
there is a chance, I don’t know for sure because I’m scared people might get fed up with it but who knows. I have a lot to write regarding Noel Gallagher fluff + smut, but I’ll let u know!!
summary : where you’re his, but only for the nights.
warnings : its sad. again. but theyres sex this time so!! breathplay, humiliation ya know that kinda stuff, liam being a cunt-no happy ending :((
word count : 3.9k
a/n : i guess these fics are my legacy now lmao (editing this through crying omfg why am i so sensitive it is not that deep nobody gaf 💀) if y’all ever have a threesome remember me DEDICATE IT TO ME okay enjoy my little cherubs!!
Liam draped across the sofa like he owned the place, even though he’d barely been around all week. Trainers kicked off by the door, one socked foot propped on the coffee table, lager in hand — comfortable, like he could plant himself there forever if he fancied.
And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He could. He could stay. But he never really did.
You sat at the other end of the sofa, legs curled up beneath you, pretending to watch whatever programme was on. Really, you were watching him. His profile, sharp under the glow of the TV, the set of his jaw, the way he half-smirked at some throwaway line.
“You’ll be off again tomorrow, then?” you asked finally, breaking the silence.
Liam didn’t even look at you. Just raised the glass to his lips, took a long drink, swallowed. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” you pressed.
“Yeah. Dunno yet.”
It was always something like that. Like he was allergic to certainty, to anything that pinned him down.
You shifted, frustration tugging at your chest. “Do you ever think about…” You trailed, then forced it out. “About us? What we are?”
That got his attention. His head turned sharply, eyes narrowing like you’d asked him for too much.
“What d’you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Liam.” You held his gaze, pulse quickening. “We’ve been doing this for months. Nights in, nights out, you here when you feel like it—”
He cut you off with a scoff, leaning back. “Here we fuckin’ go.”
You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means you’re startin’ with all that talk again,” he said, voice low, annoyed. “Why d’you have to ruin a good thing? Can’t you just let it be?”
“Let it be?” The words stung. “You’re the one who’s never here half the time, Liam. I don’t even know if you’re mine, or if you’re just—”
“Christ,” he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I can’t deal with this, alright? I’ve got too much goin’ on. Band’s a mess, press on me every second, Noel’s shit—”
“I’m not asking you to fix your whole life,” you shot back, heat rising in your voice. “I’m just asking if you even want this. If you want me.”
For a moment, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes. Something raw, unguarded. But just as quickly, he looked away, jaw tightening.
“Don’t do this,” he muttered, reaching for his pint again. “Don’t make me say somethin’ I can’t promise.”
The words landed like a stone in your chest. He didn’t say no. He didn’t say yes either. He just pushed it away, same as always.
Silence fell heavy between you, the telly still buzzing with laugh-track noise that felt a million miles away.
And in that silence, you realised something that made your stomach twist
He might never give you more than maybe.
–
You didn’t cry that night. You thought maybe you would, lying in bed while he sprawled out beside you, arm flung over his eyes like he could block out the whole world — including you. But the tears never came. Instead, you just stared at the ceiling, heart beating slow and heavy, realising this was it.
This was all he was ever going to give you.
And it wasn’t enough.
When morning came, he was up before you, moving around the flat with all the subtlety of a storm. Drawers slammed, keys jingled, leather jacket tossed on without a second thought.
“You’re off, then?” you asked, sitting up, voice sharper than you intended.
He paused, looking at you with that unreadable expression he wore too often. “Yeah. Got things to do.”
“Right,” you said, nodding once, your throat tight.
No kiss goodbye. No promise of when he’d be back. Just the door shutting behind him, leaving the place echoing with the emptiness he always seemed to trail behind.
You sat there a long time after, staring at the dent he’d left in the mattress. And that’s when it hit you: you were waiting. Always waiting. For his calls, his visits, his half-answers and his maybes. Waiting for Liam to finally wake up and choose you.
And you were bloody sick of it.
So, you stopped.
Stopped picking up on the first ring when he called. Stopped lingering by the window when you knew he might show up. Stopped holding space in your life for a man who couldn’t decide if you were worth it.
When your mates invited you out, you went. Pub days, late nights, even a few parties where you laughed too loud and drank too much. And maybe — just maybe — you flirted a little.
Not out of malice. At first.
But the more you leaned into it, the easier it became. The more you realised how freeing it felt to have attention that didn’t come laced with uncertainty. To feel wanted without the constant push and pull of his moods.
Of course, word got back to him. It always did. He wasn’t the type to miss much, especially when it came to you. The sideways glances from his brother, the muttered comments from mates — he heard it all. And you knew, deep down, that he was stewing.
But if he wanted to stew, let him. You weren’t going to put your life on hold for a man who couldn’t even say if he wanted you.
So you kept going out. Kept laughing, kept talking to men who leaned in close and bought you drinks and told you things he never seemed capable of. And every time you caught sight of him watching from across a room — jaw tight, eyes sharp — a part of you felt something dangerously close to satisfaction.
If he wanted to regret it, he’d have to feel it first.
–
The pub was already humming by the time you walked in, pint glasses clinking, chatter spilling over the low thrum of a jukebox in the corner. You hadn’t even planned to go out tonight, but your mates had insisted, dragging you along until the idea of staying home felt more pathetic than you could stomach.
You weren’t expecting him to be there. Of course, he was. Leaning against the bar like he’d done it a favour, pint in hand, laughing at something Bonehead had said. The moment his eyes found yours, his grin dropped, and you felt the weight of his gaze sweep over you like a spotlight.
You didn’t falter. Not this time.
You slid into a booth with your friends, back straight, head held high. If he wanted to watch, you’d let him watch.
It didn’t take long before someone slid in beside you. Tall, broad shoulders, not half bad looking. He leaned close to say something over the dim, and you laughed — maybe louder than you should have, opened your eyes to wide and let your fingers linger too long. Maybe on purpose.
Across the room, he stiffened. His hand clenched around his glass, jaw working as he tried to look anywhere but at you. Tried, and failed. Because every time you tossed your hair back, every time you let your hand linger on the bloke’s arm just a little too long, Liam’s blood burned hotter.
He told himself he didn’t care. He’d told himself that same lie for weeks now. Too many responsibilities, too much going on, couldn’t risk dragging you further into the mess of his life. Better to keep you at arm’s length. Better to let you think he didn’t need more.
But watching you smile like that, with someone else — it tore through every flimsy excuse he’d built like paper.
By the time you excused yourself to the bar, Liam was already moving.
He intercepted you halfway, his hand catching your wrist, grip firm but not painful. “What d’you think you’re doin’?” His voice was low, dangerous.
You blinked at him, feigning innocence. “Getting another drink. Why?”
“Don’t play stupid with me,” he snapped, eyes flashing. “Sittin’ there laughin’ at every word that tosser says—”
“Oh, so now you care?” you cut in, yanking your wrist free. “Funny, considering you’ve made it very clear you don’t.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, chest heaving, like he couldn’t quite find the words. Then, in a voice tight with something close to desperation, he said, “Don’t do this to me.”
The air between you crackled, thick with the kind of tension that had nowhere to go but somewhere dangerous.
And when you tilted your head, lips curling into a smirk you didn’t entirely feel, Liam’s control snapped. He didn’t shout, didn’t make a scene—just stormed like a man possessed. Before you could blink, his hand was clamped around your waist, hot and unyielding, tugging you off your feet.
“Liam—”
“Shut it,” he snapped, voice low but lethal, and dragged you through the crowd. No explanation, no goodbye, nothing. He bulldozed past the bodies, dragging you along like he didn’t care if you stumbled.
The pub’s noise faded the higher you climbed the stairs, your wrist aching in his grip, until finally he shoved you through a half-open door. It slammed shut behind you, the lock clicking in a single furious twist.
Then he was on you.
Your back hit the door hard as his chest pressed into yours, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss so rough it bordered on violent. His teeth caught your bottom lip, tugging until you gasped, and his hand slid up—fingers wrapping tight around your throat.
“You think you’re funny, do ya?” he growled against your mouth, the heat of his breath mixing with yours. “Prancin’ about, lettin’ those wankers drool over you? D’you fuckin’ like it?”
Your pulse thumped beneath his palm, but you couldn’t resist smirking, even as his grip tightened. “Maybe I do.”
The look in his eyes was pure fury, a storm barely contained. His free hand slammed against the door beside your head, making the frame rattle. “Course you fuckin’ do. Windin’ me up, gettin’ yourself all wet lettin’ ‘em look at ya.”
You laughed, just to spite him, just to watch that vein in his jaw twitch. “Jealous, Gallagher?”
The answer came in another brutal kiss, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, claiming every inch like it was his right. He bit again, harder this time, until you gasped and shoved at his chest. But that only made him clamp down tighter, hand squeezing your throat until your laugh broke into a stuttered breath.
“You’re mine,” he snarled, dragging his lips down to your neck. His teeth scraped over your skin, leaving sharp little bites in their wake. “No one else gets to fuckin’ touch you. No one.”
Your head tilted back against the door, a helpless sound slipping out before you caught it. That smug gleam lit his eyes instantly.
“There it is,” he muttered, pressing his thigh between your legs, grinding up hard enough to make you gasp. “You love it, don’t ya? Bein’ treated like the little slut you are. Flauntin’ yourself for the crowd, but comin’ back beggin’ for me.”
“Who says I’m beggin’?”
He chuckled darkly, the sound cruel. “You will. By the time I’m done, you’ll be on your knees, plead’n for it. Bet you’re already soaked, aren’t ya? Drippin’ from just me lookin’ at you.”
When you refused to answer, his hand slid down, fingers teasing the waistband of your skirt before retreating again, deliberately slow.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Tell me you’re wet for me. Right now.”
You pressed your lips together, stubborn.
His hand tightened on your throat again, not enough to hurt, but enough to steal a breath.
His lips brushed your ear, his voice a snarl. “Say it, or I’ll leave you standin’ here, desperate, knowin’ you’ll never get touched like this by anyone else.”
Your knees trembled, heat flooding you despite every ounce of pride screaming not to give in.
He smirked at the silence, eyes glinting with mean satisfaction. “That’s what I thought. You’re mine. And I’ll fuckin’ ruin you to prove it.”
–
Your back thudded against the door as Liam pressed closer, his chest rising hard and fast against yours, that hand still curled around your throat. His thumb brushed along the edge of your jaw, deceptively soft, before tightening again — just enough to remind you he was the one in control.
“Say it again,” he hissed, eyes burning into you. “Go on, tell me you fuckin’ like it. That you want their eyes on you. Make me hear it.”
You swallowed, throat shifting beneath his grip. “Maybe I do.”
That did it. His mouth twisted into a sharp, humourless grin, but the anger behind it didn’t soften. “Yeah? Well you’ve fucked it now, darlin’. ‘Cause if they want a show, I’ll give ‘em one — every filthy fuckin’ noise dragged outta you, they’ll hear it through these walls.”
Your pulse kicked. He shifted his weight, his thigh shoving between yours, forcing you open. The pressure made your hips jerk without permission, and the smug, guttural laugh that left him stung worse than a slap.
“Pathetic,” he sneered, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in close. “Wind me up all night, then melt the second I’ve got my hands on you. D’you even hear yourself beg, or are you too busy battin’ your lashes at the next one?”
Heat rose sharp to your cheeks, a mix of humiliation and heat twisting in your gut. You tried to push against his chest, but he caught your wrist mid-move and slammed it back above your head, pinning it there with brutal ease.
“Don’t even try it,” he spat, his breath hot on your lips. “You’re mine. Always have been. And you’ll fuckin’ remember it.”
His free hand slid down, rough fingers tracing the curve of your hip before squeezing hard enough to bruise. You gasped, but the sound only seemed to feed him.
“Y’hear that?” he taunted, grinding his thigh higher between yours until you bit your lip to stifle another moan. “Even your body’s got more sense than you do. Knows who it belongs to.”
You forced a glare, voice trembling as you shot back, “You don’t own me, Liam.”
The smirk that curved his mouth was pure danger. “Don’t I?”
He dragged his teeth along your jaw, a nip sharp enough to sting. His words followed, low and venomous in your ear. “I’ve had you writhin’ on me more times than I can count. Screamin’ my name ‘til your voice breaks. And you think some daft prick down there could ever touch that? Pathetic.”
Your breath hitched, the memory of every time he’d undone you flashing hot in your mind — his pace, his voice, his hands.
You hated how much truth bled into his cruelty, hated that your body betrayed you with every shiver, every push of your hips against his thigh.
He laughed again, low and dangerous. “There she is. That’s my girl.”
–
Your back hit the bedframe as he shoved you down, his weight pressing you into the mattress. He loomed above, eyes black with fury and want, chest heaving like he’d sprinted a mile.
“You think you’re clever, don’t ya?” he spat against your skin, tugging fabric down past your shoulders until it tangled at your elbows. “Swannin’ round in front of me, lettin’ every bastard stare. Bet you loved it.”
“You’re mine,” he growled, leaning down so his nose brushed yours. “Say it. Now.”
The stubbornness in you flared, even as your body throbbed with need. “No.”
For a beat, silence. Then his lips twisted into something wicked, and before you could blink, his hand shoved between your thighs, forcing them apart. His palm pressed hard against the heat of you, through your clothes, making you gasp.
“Sounds like yes to me,” he taunted, rocking his hand just enough to have you arching against it. “Drippin’ already, and I’ve barely touched you. Pathetic little whore.”
You bit back a moan, trying to twist away, but he caught your chin in a bruising grip, forcing your gaze to lock with his.
“Don’t fuckin’ look away,” he hissed. “You wanted my attention, now you’ve got it. Every inch of it.”
With a rough yank, he dragged your trousers down, tossing them aside carelessly before spreading you open with his knee. The sight of you — already slick, trembling beneath him — pulled a dark, guttural laugh from his chest.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice dripping with scorn. “And you thought you’d walk out of here with anyone else? Look at you. Fuckin’ begging without sayin’ a word.”
He shoved two fingers against you, sliding them through your wetness but refusing to give you what you wanted. Each stroke was torturous, dragging deliberately slow, smearing you open without relief.
“Please,” you whispered, the word torn out of you before you could stop it.
His smirk widened like he’d been waiting for it. “That’s more like it. My dirty little slag, finally rememberin’ who she belongs to.”
And then, without warning, he thrust his fingers inside, knuckles deep. The stretch was sudden, brutal, and you cried out, clutching at the sheets. His pace was merciless, each pump designed to leave you breathless, ruined.
“Louder,” he barked, curling his fingers until you gasped. “Don’t hold back. Want the whole fuckin’ pub downstairs to hear who makes you scream like that.”
You writhed under him, torn between shame and desperate pleasure, your body betraying you with every arch, every broken moan. His free hand gripped your throat again, pressing just enough to keep you dizzy, his eyes locked on your face like he was memorising every flicker of submission.
“That’s it,” he snarled, grinding his palm against your clit while his fingers fucked into you faster. “My greedy little cunt. Takes me better than anyone ever could. And you fuckin’ know it.”
Your body tightened, the edge rushing up quicker than you’d admit, and he felt it — he always did.
“Oh, don’t tell me,” he sneered, slowing his thrusts to a taunting crawl. “Gonna cum already? Haven’t even had my cock in you yet.”
Liam pulled his fingers out suddenly, leaving you gasping at the emptiness. Before you could even whimper, he had his hands on your hips, dragging you over like you weighed nothing.
“On your stomach,” he barked. “Now. Don’t make me say it twice.”
Your body obeyed before your brain caught up, and you found yourself face-down on the mattress, chest pressed to the sheets, ass raised by his rough grip. He kicked your legs wider until you were spread open for him, completely exposed.
“Christ almighty,” he muttered, staring down at you like a man possessed. “Could fuckin’ frame this. My perfect little cunt, all wet and ready just for me.”
He unzipped his jeans with one hand, the sound sharp in the air, before yanking himself free. You barely had time to brace before he lined up and shoved inside in one brutal thrust.
You cried out, muffled by the sheets, as he bottomed out, stretching you to the edge of pain.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Liam groaned, head dropping back. “Tight as ever. Like you’re tryin’ to strangle my cock.” His hands clamped down hard on your hips, holding you in place as he pulled out nearly all the way and slammed back in, the crack of skin meeting skin echoing in the room.
His rhythm was punishing, each thrust deep enough to drive the breath out of you. He bent low, chest against your back, voice a growl in your ear.
“You think those lads downstairs could fuck you like this? Hm?” His thrusts got rougher, sharper, until the bedframe rattled against the wall. “Think they’d know how to make you scream? Pathetic fuckin’ idea. You’re mine. Always have been.”
You whimpered, clutching the sheets, every drag of him inside you pulling you closer to the edge.
“That’s it,” he sneered, yanking your hair so your head jerked back. “Cry for me. Let everyone hear you. Show ‘em who ruins you.”
He fucked you harder, hips slamming into you with brutal precision, his free hand slipping under your body to rub your clit in rough, merciless circles.
“Dirty little slag,” he spat, though his voice shook with pleasure. “Look at you, takin’ it like you were made for me. Nothin’ but my cock and my name in your head, yeah?”
You sobbed out his name, and that pushed him over the edge — his thrusts became frantic, desperate, as your body clenched around him. He snarled, biting into your shoulder as your orgasm ripped through you, loud and messy, your whole body trembling under the force of it.
“That’s it, that’s it,” he groaned against your skin, fucking you through it. “Cum for me. Cum on me like the little whore you are.”
His release followed quickly, a guttural growl as he emptied inside you, holding you down firmly, buried to the hilt. He stayed like that for a long moment, panting, sweat dripping down his temple onto your back.
When he finally pulled out, he collapsed beside you, dragging you roughly into his chest. His voice was quieter now, hoarse but still edged with defiance.
“Don’t you ever fuckin’ forget,” he murmured, pressing his lips hard against your temple. “You’re mine— you’re fuckin’ mine.”
–
The room was quiet again after, only the faint hum of traffic outside and the shallow pull of Liam’s breath against your shoulder. His arm was heavy around your waist, his leg tangled with yours, like he still couldn’t let go even in sleep.
His voice had been jagged and angry, poured into you through clenched teeth and bruising kisses. And yet here he was, clinging to you as if you were the only thing keeping him steady.
You pressed your face into the warm crook of his neck, inhaling cigarette smoke and sweat, that unmistakable him that was already sinking into your bones. For once, he was still. No grumbling, no restless shifting. Just heavy-limbed exhaustion and the smallest, unconscious sighs against your skin.
You let yourself believe, just for a moment, that maybe this was it. That maybe he’d stay.
Sleep took you slowly, wrapped up in him, lulled by the weight of his heartbeat against your back.
–
When you woke, the sun was bleeding through the blinds, and the space beside you was cold.
Your hand reached out instinctively, grasping for him, but found only rumpled sheets. The pillow still smelled faintly of him — that mix of sweat and stale aftershave — but he was gone.
You sat up, the ache between your thighs blooming, low–insistent. A shiver ran through you from the ghost of his touch, the memory of how tightly he’d held you like he’d never let go.
And now, he had.
There was no note. No sound from the flat. Just silence, heavy and hollow.
You pulled your knees to your chest, staring at the imprint of his body on the sheets beside you. It was almost laughable — the way he’d clung to you hours before, snarling in your ear that no one else could have you. And now? Now you had nothing but echoes to prove he’d been there at all, and bruises to prove you were his.
The bitter taste in your mouth spread down to your chest, a heaviness you couldn’t shake. He loved you — in his own twisted way, he loved you. But love wasn’t the same as staying. And he had never been good at staying.
The city carried on outside, indifferent, as you sat there in the wreckage of the night. You traced the faint crescent on your shoulder, not his but yours now.
Notes: Hi! sorry for the long wait everyone, it's finally here and not angst! I hope you guys enjoy and this will be the last and final part. I chose this type of ending because more people requested a happy reunited one instead of a sad one where you never see him again. I'm sorry guys, i'm a sucker for Liam. More Noel fics are coming since i finally finished this up. Feel free to put requests into my inbox! I am open to writing anything. I hope I didn't disappoint with this one, i kind of rushed.
Genre: Angst for a second, fluff! (finally lol ik)
Who: Liam Gallagher x F!reader, Noely making another appearance
Summary: It's been too long but your heart still beats the same, all thanks to Noel for that last push, you and Liam finally come face to face.
Lovely's who were wanting part 3: @missdirtyshirt @londoncallingalondongirl @urmommal @20thcenturyb0y
"Please tell me not to go, We've been here long before, I live under your eyelids, I'll always be yours."
Seven months was a long time, yet not nearly enough after you left him at that airport.
Your life had reshaped itself into something quieter, something smaller, something you could almost pretend was yours again. You had thrown yourself into routines—work, dinners with your girlfriends, the occasional weekend walk through Hyde Park when the weather was decent. You had learned to linger in coffee shops with a book, or sometimes just sit and people-watch, sipping slowly, letting the bitterness of espresso ground you when your thoughts wanted to run away.
You even tried, half-heartedly, to meet other men. A friend of a friend had dragged you to a pub one Friday night, insisting you “get back out there.” And you had tried. Smiled when you were meant to smile, laughed when someone bought you a pint, even leaned in close enough to hear over the music. But every face blurred into one you already knew. Every dark head of hair, every rough laugh, every swagger that wasn’t nearly as real as his. All of them were shadows of Liam. And you hated that.
He haunted you.
Not just in your head, but in the city itself.
Walking past a magazine stand was impossible without him ambushing you. His face. Sometimes sneering, sometimes smirking, sometimes dazed with a cigarette in hand—was always there, plastered on the covers. Headlines screamed from the racks:
“Oasis Conquer The World Again.”
“Liam Gallagher Out With Models, Drunk As Ever.”
“Noel Calls New Record Their Best Yet.”
You’d quicken your step, pretend not to notice. Pretend it didn’t cut. But it always did.
Because behind the noise, behind the fame and the swagger, you still remembered the boy who held your hand in the middle of chaos, who tucked your hair behind your ear when no one was looking. He had been your everything. Until he destroyed it.
The cheating. That cruel, stupid betrayal—was the kind of wound that wouldn’t close. You told yourself you would never forgive it. And yet, every time you lay awake at night, your heart argued with your head.
The phone calls had been the worst.
Three in the morning, your landline rang until you finally picked up. His voice, rough and frantic on the other end, begging. Saying your name over and over like it might undo what he’d done. Sometimes drunk, sometimes heartbreakingly sober.
“Love, please… just talk to me. I fucked up, yeh? I fucked it. But I can’t—” His words trailed into silence and heavy breathing, and you would hang up, chest heaving, tears burning your eyes.
It went on until you got a new number entirely.
That hadn’t stopped him either. He sent flowers, called your friends, even got the manager to try on his behalf. You’d opened the door one afternoon to find a bewildered Noel standing there, awkward and guilty as hell, muttering that Liam wouldn’t stop pestering him until he came. You didn’t even let him past the step.
And yet, four days ago—the flowers had arrived again.
Bright red roses, too perfect to ignore. You almost threw them out. Almost. But now they sat on your kitchen counter, their stems trimmed, their vase filled with clean water. You hated yourself for keeping them, but every time you thought of tipping them into the bin, something in your chest tugged your hand back.
That tug was there again tonight when you returned from work, your coat damp from a drizzle that had followed you home. You dropped your bag, slipped off your shoes, and your eyes flicked automatically to the counter. The roses stood proudly, as if they knew they didn’t belong but refused to wilt.
Your heart gave that familiar ache.
Turning away quickly, you brushed it off, reminding yourself you promised to ring up that lad you met last week—the one who worked in finance, neat hair, polite smile. The one who didn’t remind you too much of Liam, if someone were to squint.
But as you rifled through your mail, casual plans derailed.
Bills. Rent notice. A flyer for a takeaway down the street. And then—
Your fingers froze.
An envelope. Addressed by hand. The handwriting was messy, but clear. Not unlike Liam’s. Your chest tightened.
“Not again,” you muttered, already bracing for some plea, some desperate scrawl.
You slid your finger under the seal and pulled out the contents. A small, glossy card slipped free first, landing softly in your palm.
It wasn’t a letter.
It was a VIP pass.
After Party — Oasis.
Your stomach turned.
Inside the envelope, a folded scrap of paper. You unfolded it with shaky hands, expecting drunken apologies or another round of I miss you.
But the note was short. Careful.
“Come by. Just once. — Noel.”
That was it.
No explanation. No begging. Just Noel’s quiet, blunt handwriting beneath the words.
You stared at it for a long time, sitting down slowly at the edge of your small sofa, the card still between your fingers.
A sharp pain tugged in your chest, one that pulled you back toward the roses on your counter.
You set the card down on your lap, staring at it like it might answer the questions you’ve been dying to understand.
For seven months you had sworn you were done. You had built walls, changed your number, started to stitch your heart back together. And yet here it was again—his world colliding with yours.
You thought of Liam’s voice at 3am.
You thought of Noel’s stiff apology at the door.
And then you thought of walking into that room, seeing him again.
Your hands trembled.
Would you go? Would you even dare to?
Because even now, after everything, you weren't sure you had ever stopped loving him.
—
The bass from the main room rattled the walls, a heavy pulse of 'Be Here Now' still surging through the speakers as you turned into the quieter back corridor, your heels clicking against the polished floor. It was dimly lit, only a few overhead bulbs flickering in a tired yellow glow. The music faded just enough for you to hear your own shallow breath, steady but too quick. You clutched Noel’s note in your hand like it was burning your palm, the crumpled card damp from the sweat of your grip.
You knew, just knew—he was going to notice you. Months of silence broken by drunken voicemails, bouquets of roses turning your kitchen into a shrine, and desperate late-night calls where his voice cracked through the receiver… it wasn’t nothing. Liam Gallagher never begged, not for anyone. And yet he begged for you to come back, even if it was small sliver of anything.
And then he was there.
The shadow first, long and jagged against the wall. Then the sound of boots dragging slightly, uneven, like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. And then—his figure. Taller than you remembered, or maybe just sharper. His hair was cropped short now, no longer the wild mess you used to run your fingers through at night. A faint stubble lined his jaw. His shirt was wrinkled, halfway unbuttoned, revealing a pale chest. A model had been draped over him moments ago in the crowd, but here, here it was just him, standing still in that hallway like the world had narrowed down to only the two of you.
“You…?,” he breathed but cut himself off, his accent still as thick, still as unmistakably Mancunian as the first night you met him. His voice was scratchy, rough. Maybe from singing. Maybe from shouting. Maybe from crying when no one was looking.
You steeled yourself, pulling your shoulders back, tightening your jaw. You had rehearsed this in your head countless times. If you ever saw him again, you would be strong. You would tell him exactly what you needed to.
“Stop,” you said bluntly, your voice low, breaking slightly before you corrected it. “Stop sending me flowers. Stop with the emails. The calls at three in the morning. I don’t want any of it, Liam. I don’t care anymore.”
But the lie was in your eyes. You couldn’t bring your own eyes to look directly at him, your gaze dropping to the floor, to the scuffed edge of your heel. You were dressed in his favorite color—a soft shade he once told you made you look like you stepped straight out of a dream, his dream. And you knew it. You had chosen it deliberately, though you would never admit it aloud.
Liam tilted his head, his mouth twitching at the corners like he was going to give a humorless smirk. He looked at you like he could see straight through the armor you have been trying so hard to wear.
“Y’don’t care?” he echoed, his tone slow, almost taunting but not cruel. His voice was lower now, quieter, as though the hallway walls themselves demanded honesty. “Right. So why you here then?”
The words hung heavy between you two.
You froze. Your fingers tightened around the crumpled note Noel had sent, the paper threatening to tear beneath your grip. Why were you here? You wanted to say it was curiosity, or closure, or even to tell Noel to piss off once and for all. But the truth clawed at your chest, the same truth that had haunted you every time you passed a magazine stand, every time his name flashed across a tabloid, every time some poor lad at a pub looked at you with Liam’s same cocky grin and you had to swallow down the lump in your throat.
He was your ghost. And you hadn’t been able to outrun him.
Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You hated him for asking that, for knowing the answer you couldn’t bring yourself to say. You hated him for still looking at you like you were the only person in the room when you had spent months wondering why it was her, and not you.
“Love..” he said again, softer this time, and you caught it—the faint tremor in his voice. Like the name itself was fragile in his mouth, like if he spoke it too loud you might shatter right there.
Your chest rose and fell, shallow breaths betraying the storm inside you. You shook your head, almost violently, trying to get rid of the weight of it all.
“I shouldn’t have come,” you whispered.
And for the first time in months, you stood face to face again, the silence between you two louder than the music pounding inside this small club, your heart battling every reason you told yourself to stay away.
Your heels made a faint sound as you instinctively stepped back, Liam replied by advancing closer. The hallway felt narrower, the flickering light above buzzing faintly, but your pulse was louder than any of it. You threw your hand out, palm flat and facing him like a warning, as if that alone could hold him back.
“Don’t,” you said, your voice strained. “Liam—don’t.”
But he didn’t stop. He didn’t shove past your hand either, he caught it instead. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and familiar, sending a jolt through your chest you hated for feeling. His grip wasn’t tight, wasn’t forceful. Just enough to remind you what it used to feel like. And then his thumb brushed over your skin, slow, gentle, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You wanted to pull away. God, you wanted to. But your hand stayed right against his.
“Listen..” he started, his words uneven, that lazy slur of his thickened by whatever he’d smoked before. His pupils were wide, his movements a little off-kilter, but his tone—his tone was steady.
“I ain’t good at this… at lovin’, yeah? Never have been. Dunno what to do with it half the time.”
Your jaw clenched, and you let out a long sigh through your nose, cutting him off. “Don’t. Don’t do this. You’re stoned and you don’t mean it—”
“I do mean it,” he shot back, a sudden sharpness in his voice. His grip on your hand tightened just slightly, enough to stop you from escaping. “I do, More than anythin’. I jus’—I had a hard time… acceptin’ it, y’know? Acceptin’ someone could actually love me. Not jus’ Liam Gallagher on fuckin' stage or in the papers, not the lad everyone wants a piece of. Me.”
Your throat burned. You wanted to laugh at him, to call him out, to tell him he was only saying this because he missed the chase. But then he leaned closer, his eyes, clear despite the haze—locked on yours.
“And I did love ya,” he whispered. “Fuckin' still do. Don’t say I didn’t, ‘cause I did. I do. Every other bird? They’re nothin’. Nothin’ compared to you. They don’t mean fuck all.”
Your lips parted, trembling, a protest ready but weak. “You’re lying—”
“I ain’t lyin’,” he cut you off again, almost desperate now. He pulled you closer, just a step, but it felt like miles closing between you. His free hand hovered like he wanted to touch your cheek but didn’t dare, not yet. “You think I’d spend months writin’ fuckin’ emails, sendin’ flowers, ringin’ you up like some sad bastard at three in the mornin’ if I didn’t mean it? You think I’d still be stood here, beggin’ you like a fool? I ain’t got the patience for pretendin’. Never did. Only one I’m serious about is you.”
Your heart twisted violently. He had always been too blunt, too raw, never sugarcoating things. And you could hear it—the sincerity bleeding through the mess of his words.
“Give us another chance,” he said, softer this time, the plea cracking at the edges. “I’ll do better. I swear it. Just… let me. I don’t want anyone else. Jus’ you.”
You felt your resolve wobble like glass about to shatter. You tried to steady your breath, tried to summon the anger you have been carrying for months, but then his next words knocked the air from your chest.
“Even Mum asks ‘bout you still,” he murmured, almost shy. “Peggy. Every time I see her. ‘How’s the missus?’ she says. Think she misses ya more than I do—if that’s even possible.” He let out a dry, shaky laugh, but his eyes never left your face. “Noel too, though he won’t admit it. They all still think of ya like family.”
Something inside you cracked. A breath tore from your lips, long and weary, like it carried every sleepless night you spent without him. You tried to shake your head, but it wasn’t firm anymore—it was fragile, a gesture collapsing under the weight of memory.
And then Liam tugged your hand gently once again, pulling you into him, and you didn’t resist this time. Your body leaned, betrayed by your heart, until your cheek rested against his chest. His arms wrapped around you in that old familiar way—one snug at your back, the other curling protectively around your shoulders.
He smelled like smoke, beer, and faintly of the cologne you used to buy him.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping it tight, as if letting go might kill you. And for the first time in months, you allowed herself to fall into him, into the warmth that had once been home. This being the first time he has actually opened up about his emotions.
The bass from the club thumped faintly through the walls, but here, in this dim hallway, it was just the both of you. Just you and Liam. The chaos of the world shut out for a fleeting moment as you stood in the arms of the boy who had broken you once before, the boy you still—against all reason—loved.
—
The cab ride was quiet. Not cold or tense, but filled with the kind of silence that seemed fragile, as if words would ruin it. You sat with your arms folded in your lap, staring out at the blur of London lights against the glass. Liam leaned back, legs sprawled in that careless way of his, but his hand rested palm-up on the seat in between. Not reaching for you—just waiting, like an unspoken offering. You didn’t take it, but you didn’t move away either.
When the cab pulled up outside, you blinked at the building. Not the old flat you both used to share, cramped and chaotic, the one that always smelled faintly of smoke and takeaway wrappers. This place was bigger, grander. A wide staircase with ornate banisters led up to tall windows glowing against the night. For a moment, you almost laughed—it didn’t feel like him.
Inside, though, it did. The walls weren’t bare but scattered with posters, framed vinyls, an old guitar leaning against the sofa like Noel threw it there after a drunken strum. The faint smell of weed hung in the air. Shoes were kicked haphazardly by the door. Still Liam, just with more space for the mess to spread.
He led you down the hall toward his room, glancing back at you every few steps as if afraid you might bolt. The bedroom door opened to reveal exactly what you expected—messy, but with an effort behind it. The bed half-made, laundry shoved into a basket but not hidden, curtains drawn but not quite even.
And then your eyes caught on the dresser.
There, lined neatly in mismatched frames, were photographs. You and Liam in some festival crowd, both sunburnt and laughing, his arm slung around your neck. Another of them in the kitchen of his old flat, flour smeared across your cheek when you attempted to bake him a cake for his birthday, while he grinned like a fool. You at Christmas with Peggy, holding a mug of mulled wine, Liam’s hand visible on your shoulder though he wasn’t even in the frame.
They hadn’t been taken down. Not even pushed aside. They were there like a shrine, quiet but steadfast, reminders he hadn’t been able to let go.
You didn’t ask. And Liam didn’t explain.
The silence thickened, but it wasn’t empty—it was heavy with memory, with all the things they weren’t saying. He finally broke it, his voice low, almost unsure.
“Can I…. hold ya?”
You turned to look at him. He wasn’t smirking or posturing, no cocky grin plastered across his face. Just raw, open, almost boyish in his hope.
You nodded once.
You sank down onto the bed slowly, fully dressed. Him still in his clothes, the faint smell of smoke clinging to his jacket. He shifted behind you, spooning you carefully, his arm draped lightly around your waist, as though afraid he’d crush you if he held on too tight. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest at your back, steady but uneven enough to betray how nervous he really was.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. The room was dim, lit only by the orange glow from the streetlamp outside slipping through the curtains. You let your eyes close, breathing him in, hating how natural it felt to be back here.
Then his voice broke the silence.
“I love you,” he whispered, soft as a confession. His lips brushed against the curve of your soft hair as he spoke. “Swear on me life. I won’t hurt ya again. I can’t. Not after this.”
Your chest tightened, tears threatening at the corners of your eyes though you didn’t let them fall. You didn’t answer, not with words. You just shifted slightly, letting your body sink more into his, your hand brushing against his arm as if to say you heard him clearly. And maybe, just maybe, you believed him.
—
Meanwhile, back at the party, Noel stood with a pint in hand, eyes scanning the room. The music was louder now, people laughing and shouting over it, but your laugh nor Liam’s wasn’t among them. He frowned.
“Seen Liam?” he asked, leaning toward Bonehead, who was half-listening to someone telling a story.
Bonehead shrugged, casual as ever. “Think I saw 'im leave. With the missus like old times.” He smirked into his drink. “Looked a bit different though, didn’t she? Not in a bad way. Just… y’know. Softer. Happier, maybe.”
Noel froze for a beat, then huffed a laugh through his nose. He didn’t say anything else, just raised the pint to his lips. And as he drank, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t need to ask where you two have gone. He already knew.
