a preview of....nineties!liam gallagher x fem!reader!
summary: liam gallagher being the biggest frontman of your generation was inconvenient during oasis and blur's britpop rivalry. especially inconvenient because you're dating damon albarn. when liam publicly admits 'he fancies you', things get messy with damon and the press; and you make the best and worst decision of your life: falling into liam's trap.
preview the first portion of this fic below:
───
1995.
you wake up to the maddening sound of the telephone. you roll over in bed like a dead body, a deep groan escaping your lips. you rub your eyes and flip off the covers from your body.
you pad across the wooden floors of your flat barefoot, only in your lacy panties and a white tank top. you run a steady hand through your messy hair, sweeping it out of your face so you can guide yourself towards the telephone.
"what?" you groan, slamming the telephone against your ear.
"have you seen the news?!" someone asks over the phone. you winced at the sound, practically yelling against your ear.
you squint your eyes. "sam? that you?" you ask with a yawn.
your manager never calls this early on a saturday. "yes, now turn on your fuckin' telly!" she yells again.
"mkay," you yawn, almost tripping over your lazy feet as you scurry to the sofa and grab the remote resting on the glass coffee table. the second you press the 'ON' button, your telly comes to life and your name is plastered on the screen in bolded black letters.
"what the fuck," you mutter under your breath, rubbing your un-adjusted eyes until they could see clearly. on the screen, a video of liam gallagher's face is playing, a reporter asking him questions about you.
again.
a few years ago, a video just like this haunted you. liam talking to reporters drunk out of his mind, rambling about God knows what, and your name seemed to spill from his lips. you remember all of it, all of the anger that boiled inside of you.
"do you really fancy her, then?" the reporter places the light to shine on liam's face.
"yeah." liam responds, taking a drag from his cig.
"are you gonna go for her?" the reporter asks.
"nah. she's gonna go for me." he blows the cigarette smoke out past his lips, a cocky expression on his face.
Hi, I recommend reading the drabble (from Baelor's POV) first, and then watching the edit (from Aemma's POV).
I don't know if it's because I love them so much, but I literally got a lump in my throat while writing and editing them lol
As I always say if you like it, don't hesitate to like, comment, and reblog. Comments really motivate me and make me happy 🥰🥰💖
Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.
I wish you all a good read!
“Baelor!” Aemma called out, frightened and horrified, as she approached him, extending her hand.
Baelor felt confused; he couldn't remember if she had ever called him by his name before. He was sure she hadn't; she always addressed him as “my prince” or “your Grace.” It was a shame that this was the first and last time he heard her say his name, especially with that scared tone instead of her sweet voice.
Perhaps if he had been a braver man, he could have listened sooner if he hadn't struggled so long to accept his feelings for Aemma. He should have told her how he felt before, how seeing her, even for a moment, instantly brightened his day, how making her laugh or smile gave him the same pride as winning a joust, how her company provided a warmth he hadn't known he needed. He was going to die, and she would never know how he felt. Because Baelor wasn't a selfish man who would tell his sweet girl he loved her before he died. He didn't want her to be haunted for the rest of her life with what could have been.
Should he try to reach out, try to touch Aemma one last time? A part of him longed to, just as he longed to see Valarr and Matarys one last time, longed for Maekar to be here just to make it clear that he didn't blame him for anything, but he only had Aemma. And yet he wasn't going to take her hand. He didn't want to leave Aemma shaken, for her to remember the last time they touched as something sad, to remember his cold hand. No, Baelor preferred that she remember his warm touch, when their hands met during dances, when they strolled arm in arm through the gardens in the sun, or when he placed his cloak over her shoulders after noticing she was cold during a hunt. Gods, he hoped Daeron would mature, that he would pay attention, that he would be able to warm Aemma when she was cold, that he would be there to care for her, that he would become the man Aemma needed.
Baelor couldn't help but grieve because he wanted to be that man, he wanted to take care of Aemma. He never had the chance to show Aemma she was wrong, that love isn't overrated, that marriage isn't just a duty. But now he will never be able to do it.
"Baelor!"
It hurts that the last thing he sees is her with tears about to overflow from her beautiful brown eyes. And the last thing he hears before collapsing is the broken scream of the woman who captivated him without her even trying.
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Endless Reverences Illuminating Nights by @intrepidjourneys
The first year, he'd made the nervous mistake of watching until Bradley reached the beach, afraid of leaving the light too soon. Jake had stumbled down the stairs and run until they'd met in a tackle on the rough sand. They'd been wild, grasping at each other in disbelief.
