Your youngest finally getting his first girlfriend was not on your plan anytime soon but there’s no stopping time.
2.1k words
dilf!NG x wife!reader, ft. Sonny
a/n: locked tf in for this one tonight. also, anyone catch the subtle 67 joke i included when I started a draft for this a month ago? good night xx
You’ve always loved the quiet hours. The late ones, when the house hums with its own kind of peace — the radiators sighing, the distant ticking of the kitchen clock, the faint echo of Noel’s guitar from his little studio at the back. It’s been eighteen years of this, and still, sometimes you’ll catch yourself standing in a doorway, watching him as if for the first time.
Noel’s at his desk, reading glasses sliding down his nose, pencil tapping rhythmically against an open notebook. He’s half in another world — that place he goes when a melody is teasing at the edges of his brain.
Tonight, it’s gentle. Thoughtful.
A pencil rests between his fingers, tapping against the paper in rhythm with a tune only he can hear. You’ve come to recognize the difference between thinking silence and frustrated silence, between when to speak and when to leave him be.
The golden lamplight spills over him, softening the silver in his hair, tracing the lines that have deepened over time — laugh lines, mostly, though there’s a crease or two that belongs to worry. You still find them beautiful. He’d roll his eyes if you said it out loud though, so you rarely do.
You cross the room and hug him from behind, chin coming to rest on his shoulder. He doesn’t startle, just glances up with a soft exhale.
“Didn’t hear you come in,” he murmurs.
“I know,” you hum with a small smile. “You were miles away.”
He pushes the glasses up and leans back, head coming to rest against your temple. “Writing’s slower these days.”
“Maybe that’s because you’ve already written everything worth writing,” you tease, rubbing his shoulder gently.
He snorts. “You’re biased.”
“Obviously.”
His fingers find yours. Even after all these years, his hands still feel warm, familiar, a little rough, the way they always were after long recording sessions. The two of you fall into a comfortable quiet that only the comfort of many years together can bring about.
Then, from upstairs: a thud, a laugh, footsteps rushing down the hallway. Sonny again. Lately he’s been a whirlwind of weirdly good moods — humming, grinning at his phone, doing chores without being asked…
Noel looks toward the ceiling. “What’s got into him?”
You shrug, but there’s amusement in your smile. “I’ve got a theory.”
“Eh?”
“He’s fifteen,” you say simply.
He blinks. “So?”
“So there’s probably a girl.”
Noel groans. “Christ.”
You laugh softly, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “You survived the older two. You’ll survive this one.”
“Barely,” he mutters into your neck, pulling you gently onto his lap. The motion is effortless, like muscle memory. His arms circle your waist, his chin rests on your shoulder. The scent of him; a trace of aftershave, studio dust, and something warm, always brings you home. “My baby isn’t allowed to have a girlfriend.”
“He’s not a baby anymore.”
“He is to me,” he says, and though he’s joking, there’s truth tucked inside. “Feels like yesterday he was climbing into our bed at six in the morning.”
“He’s still that boy,” you whisper, brushing your thumb over his hand. “Just a bit taller.”
The next morning, you’re in the kitchen when Sonny comes down, hair a tousled mess, wearing his school uniform with one untucked shirt corner and a grin too big for the hour.
“Morning!” he says brightly, reaching for the cereal.
“Morning,” you reply, eyeing him with a smile. “You’re cheerful. And tuck your shirt in, love.”
He shrugs, unbuckling his belt to redo his shirt tuck. “Just a good day, I guess.”
Noel enters a moment later, still half-asleep, his tea steaming in hand. “What’s he so happy about? You win the lottery, son?”
Sonny just grins, cheeks pink. “Something like that.”
Noel narrows his eyes. “Hmm.”
You shoot your husband a look: *don’t embarrass him yet.*
He responds with a silent: *no promises.*
But for the next few days, no one pushes. You watch instead. The smiles at his phone. The sudden interest in showers. The way he disappears to his room after school with a mixture of nerves and excitement like he’s holding a secret too big for him.
It’s late afternoon that Thursday when Noel wanders upstairs to grab a jumper. Sonny’s door is half-open, and inside, the boy is pacing — pacing like Noel used to before going onstage, like words are jammed in his throat.
So he knocks. “Oi. You alright?”
Sonny startles. “Yeah! Yeah, just– just thinking.”
“You’ve been doing a lot of that this week.”
Your youngest tries for nonchalance and fails. “You know. School stuff.”
Noel leans against the doorway, crossing his arms. “Come off it. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
There’s a beat; Sonny chewing on his lip, weighing the choice.
And then, quietly:
“D'you… Can you come in and talk?”
That alone is enough to soften Noel instantly.
He steps in, shutting the door. “I’m listening.”
Sonny sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees. Trying to look casual. Failing spectacularly.
“So, uh… I’ve been texting someone.”
Noel waits.
“She’s– well, she’s a girl. Obviously. I mean, not obviously, but– God, never mind.”
Noel bites back a smile. “You like her?”
Sonny exhales, shoulders dropping. “Yeah. Loads.”
“That’s good,” your husband says gently.
“Really?”
“’Course it is.”
Another pause. Sonny stares at his trainers. “I don’t know what I’m doing. She’s so… confident. And pretty. And when she talks to me I forget every word I’ve ever known. How did you– I mean, with Mum… how did you know what to say?”
Now it’s Noel’s turn to be still.
He sits beside his son, hand clasped loosely between his knees.
“Well,” he says, voice softer than usual, “when I met your mum, I wasn’t exactly smooth either.”
Sonny laughs. “Really?”
“Really. I said something stupid, she laughed in my face, and I knew I was done for.”
“You still get nervous around her?”
“Sometimes, yeah. She's bloody amazing your mum,” Noel admits. “But mostly back then. Wanted her to think I was someone worth choosing.”
Sonny absorbs this quietly.
“So what do I do?” he murmurs.
“You be yourself,” Noel says simply. “You listen. You’re kind. And if you really like this girl… you let her see who you are when nobody else is looking.”
Sonny nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
“And if you need advice… you come to me. Alright?”
There’s something almost small in Sonny’s smile that reminds Noel a dangerous lot about him as a shy toddler. “Yeah. Thanks, Dad.”
Noel ruffles his hair, and Sonny doesn’t even pretend to mind.
When he leaves the room, Noel stands in the hallway for a moment, staring at the wall in front of him like the air just punched him with twenty years of memories.
You find him later in your bedroom, sitting at the edge of the bed with that faraway look again.
“Hey,” you hum softly, approaching. “Everything okay?”
He looks up, eyes warm, a little glassy. “He told me.”
“Told you what?”
“About the girl.”
Your face softens. “Oh.”
“Came to me when I caught him pacing like a lunatic. Wanted advice.”
Your heart squeezes. “That’s good though, no? He trusts you.”
“Yeah,” he replies thickly. “I just… Christ, I remember when he couldn’t even hold his own head up.”
You sit beside him, brushing his hair back from his forehead tenderly. His voice goes low, almost reverent.
“I remember those nights… when he was tiny. You’d fall asleep sitting up, holding him against your chest. I’d wake to his cries, and I’d go get him before you stirred. I’d walk around this room with him pressed under my chin, his little fists grabbing my shirt.” He swallows. “He used to fall asleep with his hand around my finger. All of them did. Donovan used to drool on me. Anaïs would scream if I put her down too soon. And Sonny… Sonny always curled into me like he knew it was the safest place on earth.”
Your throat tightens.
He continues, voice trembling just slightly:
“And maybe for him, I was the safest place. I remember lying there with the three of ‘em on my chest while the sun came up. I’d listen to them breathe. Think, ‘How the hell did I get this lucky?’ And now…”
He shakes his head, laughing softly. “Now he’s asking me how to talk to girls.”
You rest your head on his shoulder. “Because you taught him how to be care. He’s a good boy because of you.”
“Because of *us*,” he corrects, kissing your hair.
You slide your fingers into his, feeling the weight and warmth of eighteen years pressed between your palms.
By the time Sonny officially announces it a few days later — still shy, but trying to look unfazed — no one is surprised anymore. The pieces have all been slowly clicking into place. But the way he looks at you and Noel when he says:
“Her name’s Lila… and I really like her,”
you can tell he feels safe.
You and Noel exchange that familiar glance — the one you’ve been sharing since the early days, before babies, before houses, before life got big. A whole conversation in a look.
You reach across the table, squeezing Sonny’s hand. “That’s wonderful, love. You know her from school?”
“Yeah, she’s in my class. She’s… she’s really nice.”
“I bet she is,” you say warmly. “You should bring her round sometime. We'll stay out of the way, I promise.”
“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “I’ll ask her.”
Two nights later, Sonny invites Lila over for a short visit — just the garden, just an hour, “just to chill, Mum.” You and Noel pretend not to watch through the kitchen window.
“She looks sweet,” you whisper, absent-mindedly stirring your tea.
“She looks fifteen,” Noel mutters, horrified.
“Because she is.”
“Too young.”
“You dated girls at fifteen!”
“Yeah, well,” he grumbles, “that was different.”
You laugh and nudge his elbow with yours, letting him grump in peace.
When the evening winds down and Lila leaves, Sonny walks her to the gate. You and Noel watch from the window, unseen, as the two of them stand in the soft glow of the porch light. There’s that awkward teenage shuffle, the half-smile, the shy wave goodbye.
And then Sonny comes back in, practically floating, pink-cheeked and smiling like sunrise, Noel doesn’t tease him. Not once. Just ruffles his hair and says, “Proud of you, son.”
Sonny beams. “Night, Mum. Night, Dad.”
“Night, love,” you say, gently squeezing his shoulder in passing.
“Night, Romeo,” Noel teases, not being able to resist, though his tone is gentle.
When the door closes behind him, you turn to your husband. He’s looking at the empty space where his boy just stood, his jaw set in that way he does when he’s feeling too much to say it out loud.
You touch his arm. “Hey.”
He exhales slowly. “Just… miss when they were little, you know?”
“I know.”
“Feels like I blinked.”
You rest your head against his shoulder, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his sleeve. “Maybe that’s what makes it all so precious — that time never stops."
He nods, silent. Then, after a moment, he murmurs, “I’m proud of him, though. Of all of them. Must’ve done something right.”
You smile. “We did.”
He turns to face you fully then, eyes soft. “Still can’t believe it’s been eighteen years since we said ‘I do.’”
You cup his cheek gently, thumb brushing along the faint stubble. “Worth every second.”
He leans in and kisses you — not urgent, not new, but steady. The kind of kiss that says *I know you, I love you, I still choose you.*
When you pull apart, the house is still. The only sound is the hum of the fridge and the faint heartbeat of the city outside.
“Come on,” you whisper. “Let’s go to bed.”
Later, when the house is finally quiet and you’ve slipped into bed, Noel pulls you close, his nose brushing your hair.
“Do you ever think,” he murmurs, “that we’ve lived about five lifetimes together?”
“Six, maybe seven,” you whisper.
He laughs softly. “And still not tired of me?”
“Not even close.”
His arm tightens. “Good. ’Cause I’m not going anywhere.”
You nestle into him, breathing in the familiar warmth. Outside, the rain begins — soft, soothing, the same rhythm you heard in your first flat together all those years ago.
“You know,” Noel whispers, “I still lie awake sometimes. Thinking about those nights with the babies. Thinking about us. Thinking how bloody lucky I am.”
You smile against his chest. “Me too.”
And in those quiet hours you’ve always loved, you drift off together into sleep, wrapped in years of love, memory, and the gentle ache of time passing exactly as it should.
I know I'm mainly a blur fan and probably will remain that way, but I love oasis dearly and have them plastered on my blog so I have to say this. fuck them gallaghers for going to that ufc fight and supporting conor mcgregor. I truly do hope that noel just hasn't heard about it (because it's pretty possible as he is a offline and busy man) but still, we have to hold them somewhat accountable for this.
For those who don't know, Noel and his two sons, Donovan and Sonny, attended the UFC Welterweight game yesterday, which was Conor McGregor vs. Max Holloway. They were filmed with Noel shouting his support "the great McGregor" and calling him legend, even joking that he would sing "Wonderwall" for the lads later.
Conor McGregor is a convicted rapist, has multiple physical assault and public fighting charges, and committed sexual assault in Dublin and Miami, Florida. He has also been noted for saying racist comments to black fighters in earlier fights.
The fact that many men who are AWARE of all these atrocities and continue to support this disgusting man "as a fighter" is beyond basic human comprehension. However, I'm not immediately accusing Noel or his two sons for being pro-rape as it is possible that he never heard of his case because we as outsiders should be at least a bit nuanced. Despite that, I, and many Oasis fans, are still upset that Noel would choose to support Conor out of all people so outspokenly.
sigh. what is it with men and having a lack of empathy. 💔
