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Staying in my cousin's teenage bedroom here, and it's denim season.

𓏢.☘︎ ݁˖ Galway girl .☘︎ ݁˖𓏢

pairing: 1995 noel gallagher x female reader

genre: fluff, bit of Irish dialogue

word count: 1666

synopsis: noel finally has a day off and you've been dying to go home, so off you go home... (sort of)

a/n: this is inspired by galway girl by ed sheeran. and cause i miss home SO MUCH, i literally am a galway girl. #upthera. and please don't hesitate to ask for translation on some parts!

Manchester never really slept; it only rolled onto its other side.

Even when the hour crawled toward evening and sensible people were thinking about winding down, the street outside the flat still rattled with taxis and distant shouting, doors slamming somewhere down the road, music leaking from upstairs windows through curtains that never quite closed properly. The whole city felt permanently switched on, like a radio you could never find the off button for.

Usually Noel liked that.

It matched the constant buzz in his own head.

Tonight though, he wasn’t paying attention to the city.

He was watching you.

You were perched on the edge of the bed with your jewellery box open, earrings scattered across the duvet like you’d already rejected half of them. Every few seconds you’d pick up a pair, hold them to your ears, pull a face, swap them for another. Your reflection in the mirror looked both excited and anxious, a tiny crease between your eyebrows giving you away.

You’d changed your top twice already.

Noel lay back against the pillows, arms folded behind his head, one ankle hooked over the other, studying you with quiet amusement. He’d clocked the nerves the moment you’d suggested the night out earlier in the week.

“You know,” he said at last, voice lazy, “we’re only goin’ for pints. You’re not meetin’ the Queen.”

You shot him a look in the mirror. “Shut up.”

He grinned wider. “Just sayin’. If you keep fussin’ we’ll miss half of it.”

You hesitated, fingers still around one silver hoop.

“It’s not just pints,” you said more softly. “It’s… different.”

He didn’t interrupt.

“It’s the closest thing I’ve got to home round here,” you added, shrugging like you wished it didn’t matter so much. “People talk like me. The music’s the same. I don’t have to explain myself.”

Something in his chest shifted at that.

You were brave in Manchester. You handled the press, the crowds, the chaos of his life with humour and stubborn grace. But you were always translating yourself a little, smoothing the edges, making it easier for everyone else.

Here, you wouldn’t have to.

“Then get your shoes on,” he said, pushing upright. “Before I decide I can’t be arsed and order Chinese instead.”

Your relief came in fast and bright, like sunrise breaking through cloud.

“Alright,” you laughed. “Alright.”

God, he loved being the reason for that look.

The pub windows were fogged from the heat inside, yellow light glowing against the damp pavement. Even before you opened the door, Noel could hear it — the lift of voices, the rhythm of clapping, someone already halfway through a story they’d probably been telling for years.

Your hand tightened in the sleeve of his coat.

He glanced down.

You were suddenly shy.

He understood straight away — this was you bringing two worlds together and hoping they wouldn’t fight.

He nudged you gently with his shoulder.

“Go on,” he said. “Let’s have it.”

The warmth hit first.

Then the sound.

Then the smell — beer, wood polish, something fried, something sweet. It wrapped around him, dense and alive, and by the time he’d blinked it all into focus, you were already gone.

Well — not gone.

But transformed.

Your back straightened, your accent thickened, and when you reached the bar the words that came out of you weren’t English anymore.

“Dhá phionta, le do thoil,” you said easily.

The barman’s face broke open in recognition. He answered you just as fast, Irish bouncing between you both like it had been waiting.

Noel stood half a step behind, watching.

You were laughing, explaining who you were, where from.

“Is as Gaillimh mé,” you said proudly, thumb jerking toward yourself.

From Galway.

You glanced back at Noel then, remembering him, catching his hand so he wasn’t left floating.

“This is him, scruffy English man I told you about” you told the barman in English, and Noel gave a little nod, half-smirk in place.

When you turned back to him with the pints, your cheeks were already flushed with happiness.

“Sorted,” you announced.

“In another language,” he observed.

You beamed. “Isn’t it brilliant?”

He took you in — the brightness, the certainty — and felt something warm and heavy settle in his ribs.

Yeah.

It was.

The music kicked off sharp and fast from the corner — fiddle sawing, drum thumping, whistle cutting clean through the noise.

You didn’t even hesitate.

Your pint landed with a thud and your fingers locked around his wrist.

“Up,” you ordered.

“No,” he said automatically.

But he was smiling, so you dragged him anyway.

The dance floor was barely a floor, more a suggestion, but people made room. They always did. Someone whooped encouragement. Someone else shouted something in Irish that you fired right back at them, laughing.

A pint sloshed. A man’s voice barked something sharp and rapid in Irish, all consonants and heat.

Noel blinked. “What?”

You spun immediately, already apologising, words tumbling from you quick as sparks.

“Tá brón orm, tá brón orm!” you said, palms lifted in peace. “Níl sé cleachta leis!”

The man squinted at Noel for half a second longer, then broke into a grin, clapped him hard on the arm, and vanished back into the crowd.

Noel looked down at you.

“Well?” he asked. “Am I about to get glassed or what?”

You burst out laughing, gripping the front of his shirt.

“He told you to watch where you’re swingin’ your elbows,” you explained, still giggling, “and I told him you’re not used to it.”

Noel scoffed. “I’m perfectly used to it.”

“Sure you are,” you teased, tugging him closer again before he could argue, your forehead nearly knocking his chin.

Noel had no idea what either of you said.

Didn’t matter.

You were flying.

Your feet knew what to do without you thinking, skirts and hair and laughter all moving at once, and he tried to follow, boots heavier, timing worse, but you kept circling back to him, grabbing his hands, pulling him in again.

At one point you leaned close enough that he could hear you over the din.

“Rince liom!” you shouted.

“What’s that?”

“Dance with me!”

He barked a laugh. “I am, aren’t I?”

But he held on tighter.

Because he was.

By the time you staggered back to the table, breathless, you were apologising between giggles.

“I get carried away.”

“Good,” he said, too quick, and you paused.

He shrugged, suddenly self-conscious about how honest he sounded.

“You’re somethin’ else when you’re like that.”

Your smile softened, turning fond.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said, lifting his pint. “Terrifyin’. But impressive.”

You laughed and clinked your glass to his.

The night unfolded from there.

People drifted over once they realised who he was, but they never stayed long — not really. They wanted you. Wanted to know your family, your street, who you went to school with. You slipped into Irish again and again, quick and musical.

“An bhfuil tú anseo le fada?” someone asked.

“Cúpla bliain,” you answered, easy, relaxed.

A few years.

Every now and then you’d translate for Noel, hand warm on his arm, thumb rubbing there like reassurance.

But mostly he watched.

He watched the way you threw your head back when you laughed.

The way the language changed the rhythm of you.

The way you belonged.

He kept a hand at the small of your back, protective and proud, like he was afraid you might float away if he didn’t anchor you.

At the bar again, you argued cheerfully with the barman about whose round it was.

“Is liomsa é!” you insisted.

He fired back something teasing and the pair of you grinned like conspirators.

Noel leaned close to your ear.

“You showin’ off?”

You gasped. “I am not!”

“You are,” he murmured. “But I don’t mind. Makes me look like I’ve pulled someone important.”

You laughed so loud a couple of heads turned.

Later, when the pace slowed and people started leaning into their drinks, you found a quiet patch of wall and rested there, warm from dancing.

“Thank you,” you said.

“For what?”

“For comin’. For lettin’ me have this.”

He frowned.

“You don’t need permission to be yourself,” he said.

Your eyes went shiny at that, and he pretended not to notice, brushing hair back from your face instead.

“I like you loud,” he added. “Means you’re happy.”

Outside, the night had cooled.

Your steps were slower now, tired in the nicest way, your hand tucked into his pocket for warmth as you talked about songs you remembered from being small, about neighbours, about summers that felt like they’d lasted forever.

Noel listened to every word.

Because this was where you were from.

And he loved anywhere that made you.

Inside the flat, you both dropped onto the sofa in a heap, shoes kicked away, coats half off.

Your head found his shoulder automatically.

He pressed a kiss into your hair.

“I’ll take you back,” he said.

“Back where?”

“Anywhere you light up like that.”

You smiled, eyes closing.

“Deal.”

"Ach thit mise, cailín as Gaillimh, i ngrá le fear Sasanach" You whispered quietly to yourself.

He held you there, listening to your breathing even out, thinking that fame was loud and messy and exhausting — but nights like this, with you warm against him, were the quiet bits that made it worth it.

And he’d follow you into every one of them.

#fanfic #oasis #noel gallagher #noel gallagher x reader #noel gallagher x you #ireland #noel gallagher fanfiction #noel gallagher fic #noel gallagher fluff #noely g #galway #irish language #irish pub #up the ra