Who I’m currently writing for are listed below, prompts are above :)
*=smut
Van McCann
Waste my days
*Bed Chem *Part Two
Back to the fields again
*Head over heels
Three minutes (dad!van)
Day One (dad!van)
Perfect Conversation (dad!van)
Baby Girl (dad!van)
Panic (dad!van)
Velvet (dad!van)
Everything I Do (dad!van)
Liam Gallagher
*You can have it all, but how much do you want it? Part Two *Part Three (Tour manager reader)
Pale Yellow
Matty Healy
This must be my dream (dad!matty)
Romance isn’t dead
In an instant
When I like you best
Mason Mount
*Not so secret rendezvous
Flowers
Summer Showers
The best surprise
Stay here tonight
Almost yours
My shirt
You talk to your mum about me?
My Girl
Just One Kiss
Ruben Dias
My only exception
It suits you, my shirt
John Stones
Redamancy
Sam Fender
Ditto
TAG LISTS
If you want to be added to a tag list, then let me know which tag list/lists you want adding to. Also if you don’t want me to tag you in any smut, then let me know!!! ❤️🔥❤️🔥
What about a pregnancy scare with Liam? Maybe you two are just casual, hooking up after shows but then you miss a period - you expect Liam to be scared off but he surprises you. I just need soft Liam pleeeeeeease!
Pale Yellow
Liam Gallagher x Reader
A/n just realised that you asked for a pregnancy scare and I gave you a whole baby? Anyway soft Liam incoming!!!! I write this so impulsively but I’m so in love with it sooooo… I hope you love it to!!🤞🏼
Masterlist
You stand at the sink. Hands shaking. The small strip of plastic that has just blown your world apart lays on the counter in front of you. Positive. The two lines blurred as a tear slips down your cheek. You can taste the salt on your lips when his were once pressed. Legs twisted in sweat soaked sheets, fingers in knotted hair. The creak of the bottom step as he snook out was the last sound you heard from him all those weeks ago. Right now, he’s on the other side of the world, high on whatever drugs he could get his hands on and in whichever girls bed he can manage, oblivious that his world had also just been shattered from a tiny little bathroom in Manchester.
That’s the deal. He goes away. You distract yourself with work, the office by day, the bar by night, pulling pints for boys who look just like him but not quite. They don’t have that edge or the sparkle in thier eye. They own the same clothes but they don’t wear them the way he does. You think of his hands when thier fingers brush yours, exchanging sweaty cash for drinks. Then he comes home. He sneaks in through your window or down the hall past your housemates, swearing at the bottom step that creaks every time. You wait at the top of the stairs, smothering a laugh, silhouetted in your bedroom doorway by the streetlights that cut through your curtains. You drink in smokey pubs with your mates at the weekends, each at other ends of the bar, only to slink away with each other at the end of the night. Always together.
It’s good. It works. You tell yourself it’s fun. You tell yourself you’re not guessing which plane is his when you watch them take off from Manchester airport from your bedroom window.
A bang on the door snaps you from your daze as your eyes snaps to the mirror, vision blurred but the look of panic clear on your face. You do all you can think of, you run. Barging past whichever housemate is waiting outside, lips parted in heavy breaths and no apology. You swear you catch a smell of him on your sheets as you pass your bed, but you’ve washed them twenty times since he last left in the desperation to get it out.
Feet shoved into boots. Pyjama shorts swapped for the smallest skirt you can find. Your top unwashed but you call it rock and roll. You’re out the door before you can think twice.
You walk and walk until you hit the northern quarter, slipping into the busiest bar you can find. There are a few friends and faces you recognize and you lie about being on your own. “My mate found a lad to go home with” you shout over the bass of some shitty new pop song. There’s also new faces. Exactly what you’re searching for. People who don’t know your name and don’t know who you secretly pine over. The ones who only know Liam as the local lad who’s on his way up, not the boy you grew up side by side with, not the boy who used to push you over on the school playground but still picked you up when you cried, and not the boy who’s the father of the baby inside you. You flirt and you laugh and you touch their arms at all the right moments. You drink the drinks they buy you as if you haven’t just had a positive pregnancy test. When the guilt creeps in, you picture him in another continent, in another bar, in another girls bed.
You only manage to get tipsy before someone invites you home. You stumble the streets and act drunker than you are, veins flooded with fear and anger rather than alcohol. You tumble into their bed and picture his face. His hands. His body. You lay there and scrunch your eyes tightly, moving in all the right ways and making all the right sounds. But when the bile rises in your throat, you’re not sure if it’s from the baby inside you, or even the alcohol. It’s dread and regret and the wish that things were different. You force him off of you. ‘Him’ who doesn’t have a name, or not one that you can remember anyway. You scramble for your skirt and straighten your top that he didn’t even bother to take off and as your hand grasps the door handle, he calls you a bitch. It makes you think of that time you asked Liam to stop, too tired or too hungry or too wound up from a shit day at work. You can’t remember the reason. It didn’t matter. He didn’t call you a bitch. He held you tight and rocked you slowly, didn’t force you to explain, just whispered about things he’d been doing in the studio or about gossip he’d heard from his brother and kissed your face as you drifted off.
Your boots crunch on the pavement as you trace your way back home. Down all of the roads you’ve tumbled down before. With him. Through the park you used to play in as kids, where you’d go home with scraped knees and grass stained jeans. Up the curb he tripped up once and it took you ten minutes to get him up. Past the bus shelter where he got a bit too handsy and you let him, where at his big age of 21, he pinky promised not to tell anyone. The bus shelter that he still points out every time you pass, silent but smug, always making you blush.
-
When you wake up the next morning, the countdown has already started. Four days until he’s home. Four days until you ruin his life as well as your own. 96 hours until he creeps up your stairs with that same smile you can never refuse, probably with pockets full of sweets from foreign lands that he shares with you like your kids again.
The paperwork is piled high on your desk when you get to work and your hands smell of ink by the time you get to the bar nine hours later. The realization that you have to work two jobs just to get by punches you in the gut. You remember the nights spent with the babysitter whilst your own Mother worked overtime, practically falling through the door when she was done scrubbing the floors of high school corridors. But you also remember the hot dinners always on the table. The mornings where she walked you to school, letting your little legs carry you slowly even though it’d make her late. You think of the bedtime stories and the rare but always happy holidays by the sea. The presents that were always under the tree at Christmas.
You cycle through your days in meetings and pulling pints, interrupted by visions of Liam on stage, flirting with girls from afar and touching the girls who get close enough. Sharing his bed with the ones that make enough of an impression, and you dig your knuckles into your eyes when the thoughts get too loud. You laugh politely with regulars and let people flirt when the mood takes them, but you never accept the drinks that they offer to buy you, making up a rule about not drinking on the job. But the flutter in your stomach isn’t always fear these days, it’s flashes of hope.
-
On day four, you wake early after yet another night of restless sleep. Fear brewing alongside your coffee and hands shaking as you stir, rain pattering against the windows like a bad omen. The day is spent thumbing pages of a book you can’t bring yourself to read and almost but never quite making a run for the door before he comes knocking.
What you don’t see is the way his knee bobs all the way home. The way he bites his nails raw on the plane journey and the way he rushes off through the rain for a taxi when they land before the boys can follow him, his bags left for Noel to deal with.
You don’t hear the conversations that always come back to you when he’s on the other side of the world, ‘she likes that song too’, he tells strangers. His stomach drops when he sees the flash of a girl who looks a little too much like you in the corner of a bar, but never alike enough to go home with. He compares the pints he drinks to the ones you pour, ‘she pours them better’ he thinks to himself. You don’t see how he sits in his hotel room alone every night, flicking through the telly, only stopping when he comes across your favorite film, it’s halfway through but he watches it anyway. He realizes that he left the old Beatles t-shirt he bought for you in the bag that he dumped at Noel feet and he kicks himself for it as the taxi pulls up outside of your house.
By the time his fist falls against the wood, you’re sat at the top of the stairs, waiting. Dreading. You croak out a “come in” that he won’t be able to hear but he turns the handle anyway, lets himself in like always. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, a smile tugging at his lips as he spots you, expecting his search to last longer than it does. Expecting you to be tucked away in the corner of your room, flicking through a book or your records or an old copy of NME.
He hums a “hello, love” as he climbs the stairs. You hear the creek as he eyes you suspiciously when you don’t match his grin. He slows when he reaches you, crouched dangerously on the second step down, hands on your knees as he reads the fear on your face. When he whispered a soft “what’s wrong?”, eyes so full of concern and skin drained in panic, you crack. You’re scooped up into his arms that you’ve been craving all week and there, at the top of the stairs that he climbs so often, you picture him with your little girl in his arms, crying over her first heartbreak or drama with her friends at school. You picture him picking a little boy up off the pavement, brushing his knees having tripped up in excitement rather than a drunken stumble home from the pub.
Through your sobs, and his worried whispers, you mutter the two words you’d been dreading.
His face falls and your stomach churns.
“Your-“ he stops. Doesn’t breathe.
A string of apologies rush through your lips before he could finish, pleas and regrets and all the thoughts you’ve been bottling up over the past few days. You scramble to your feet with a sob, pushing him away from you and he has to hold tight onto the banister as he wobbles on the stairs, watching you as you panic.
“Fuck I’m so sorry” you rasp, “I’ll sort it, I promise” pacing still. “I’ll go to the doctors, I’ll fix this”. You’re heaving the words up like they’re being forced from your lungs when he swoops you up. You fight him for half a second before you collapse into him, your body drained of all energy. The exhaustion of pulling yourself through survival for the past week hitting you all at once. You wonder how this feeling compares to the exhaustion of being a single Mum, dumped here in a run down shared flat in Manchester, fighting to pay the bills as Liam jets off around the world to sing to thousands of screaming fans, forgetting all about the two people he left behind. A piercing scream echos around your skull as he clings onto you, the echo of your own heartbeat blends with the pang of his as he holds you against his chest. Through the shrill and the gut wrenching fear, his words trickle through the racket like a prayer. Grounding you slowly just as you thought you’d never come down.
“It’s ok. It’s ok” he breathed, voice shaking. “I’ve got you. It’s ok”. The weight of him rocking you side to side slows your heart rate, the alarm in your ears dulling and the adrenaline through your veins begins to dissipate. “There’s nothing to fix, I promise.”
He stands there, on the landing of a shitty house in Manchester, holding you for as long as it takes to convince you that you’re safe, that he’s here with you in this. Rain pours outside as he eventually bundles you into your room, sitting you on the worn sheets like you’re the most precious thing in the world. He’s on his knees in front of you, bones pressed into the wooden boards that lay under the thinning carpet as he wraps himself around you, head in your laps and hands drifting to your stomach. Instinctively, your fingers twist through his hair when his shoulders begin to shake. Unlike him, you’re not sure what to say. You’re still gripped in terror like you have been for the past four days, but you touch him like your fingertips can talk for you. Touches that say “I know you’re scared too” and asks “how will this work?”.
You both sit there in your room as if the darkness can swallow your fear and you have to peel him from around you and up from the floor when you think about the pain that must be growing in his knees. He curls up beside you and holds you tighter than he ever has. There’s dread and fear but glimmers of joy too. Through the cracks of “what if” and “why”, there’s promises of a house on the outskirts of the city, where it’s greener and quieter and more space to think. Liam talks about the tour, and confesses how much space you held in his mind the whole time. You learn that they’re already working on the next album and you believe him when he tells you this is it.
-
Hours pass and the panic settles for a while. Days pass and you start to believe that he’s here for the long haul. Weeks go by and he sneaks off to view houses when you’re out at work. Months later, you stand back and watch him and Noel carry boxes of baby clothes and furniture into a room painted pale yellow. Bright and happy and ‘like that top you always wear’ as Liam pointed out when you picked the paint.
These days, you forget what the begining felt like. You hold your baby girl as you watch her Dad captivate an audience just like he captivated you all those years ago. Your family fly across the world together as if there was never any option of being forgotten back at home. Home is on the road and in that pale yellow room just on the outskirts of Manchester.
pairing: dilf!liam gallagher x younger reader
cw: to be honest this is pure fluff, you might find some very deep conversations, and mentions of abortions and stuff... but nothing in a bad way.
wc: 7,9k
author's note: here it is! another part of the dilf!liam x younger reader universe, this one is specially long because i tought it might need a little more of development, i mean it's not easy. enjoy it!
We had started seeing Molly and the baby almost every week.
Sometimes at her place, sometimes at ours, sometimes wherever life allowed a pram, a tired mother, and Liam pretending he wasn’t completely fascinated by something tiny that could barely hold its own head up.
That afternoon, we were sitting outside a small café, the four of us squeezed around a table that was definitely too small for the amount of things a baby apparently needed. Molly looked tired in that specific new-mum way, soft around the edges but still herself. Liam had gone inside to order because, according to him, no one in London knew how to make a proper coffee and he had to “supervise.”
Which left me with the baby.
He was tucked against my chest, warm and heavy in that boneless way babies have when they trust the whole world to hold them up. One of his little hands had curled around my finger, impossibly small, and every now and then he made a sleepy noise against me like he was annoyed by dreams I couldn’t see.
I looked down at him for a little too long. Molly noticed. She tilted her head slightly, watching me with that quiet smile people get when they’ve already understood something before you have.
“Do you ever want one?”
I looked up. The question didn’t shock me, exactly. Maybe because it had already been sitting somewhere in the room between us, even before she said it.
“A baby?”
“No, a yacht,” she said, deadpan.
I laughed softly, careful not to move too much with him asleep against me. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “It’s not something I’d rule out.”
Molly’s expression softened. “But?”
I looked down again, at the baby’s cheek pressed against my shirt, at the tiny rise and fall of his breathing. “But I don’t know if my life is exactly asking for that right now.”
She followed my gaze for a second. “Because of him?”
Liam was visible through the café window, arguing with the poor barista about something that probably did not deserve that much passion.
I smiled before I could help it. “Partly.”
Molly leaned back in her chair. “Is it difficult? Being with him?”
She didn’t ask it like an accusation. There was no judgement in it. Just curiosity. Concern, maybe. The kind that came from knowing Liam too well and loving him anyway.
I thought about it. “The difficult part is that it isn’t difficult.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That makes no sense.”
“I know.” I smiled a little. “I thought it would be harder. The age difference. The family. The history. All of it. I thought I’d spend half my time trying to prove I belonged somewhere I didn’t.”
“And?”
“And no one made me feel like that.” I shrugged, still looking at the baby. “Not you. Not the boys. Not him.”
Molly was quiet for a moment. “So thinking about it isn’t completely insane, then.”
I let out a breath, almost a laugh “I think Liam already has a lot on his plate.”
“He does,” she said. “But he always has.”
That sat between us for a second. Before I could answer, the baby shifted against me, his little face scrunching like he was debating whether or not to wake up and ruin the peace. I rocked him without thinking, one hand steady against his back.
A few seconds later, Liam came back out balancing drinks with the concentration of a man carrying priceless art.
“Right,” he said, placing them down. “If that’s shite, it’s not my fault.”
“It usually is,” Molly said.
“Watch it.”
He looked at me then, and his face changed slightly when he saw the baby still asleep against my chest. “You alright there?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He’s fine.”
“Didn’t ask him.”
Molly glanced down at her cup to hide her smile. I rolled my eyes, but something in my chest had already gone warm. Liam sat beside me, close enough that his knee brushed mine under the table. He looked at the baby again, then at me.
“Suits you,” he said.
It was casual. Like the words hadn’t landed exactly where Molly’s question had left a mark.
I looked at him. “Yeah?”
He shrugged, reaching for his coffee. “Yeah.”
And then, because he was Liam, because softness could only survive in him for a limited amount of time before needing disguise, he nodded toward the baby and added, “Little freeloader looks comfortable.”
Molly laughed. I looked back down at the sleeping baby in my arms and smiled.
The conversation moved on after that. But the idea had shifted into something that had a shape now. Something I could feel the weight of.
That night, when we got home, Liam was taking off his boots by the door when I said, almost without thinking, “I loved today.”
He looked up. “Yeah?”
I leaned against the wall, watching him. “You’re good with him.”
Liam’s expression twitched, like he wasn’t sure whether to accept it or dodge it.
“With who?”
“The baby.”
He scoffed lightly, looking back down at his boots. “He’s easy. Doesn’t talk back yet.”
I smiled. “He is just too cute.”
That made him pause for half a second. Then he shook his head, amused, and stood up. “Careful,” he said, walking past me. “Sounds like baby fever.”
I rolled my eyes. “It was one afternoon.”
“Yeah,” he said, glancing back at me. “That’s how they get you.”
I looked at him for a second. “Doesn’t it make you think?”
He frowned. “Think about what?”
I shrugged. “Having one like that. For us.”
He let out a short laugh. “Been there. Done that.”
“Yeah. And you were good at it.” I watched him with a small smile.
He held my gaze for a second longer than necessary, then shook his head, amused.
“You’d have to ask Lennon, Gene or Molly about that.” He laughed again.
We went back to our routine. A month passed, maybe two. The conversation never became deeper than that. It just stayed there, floating. One of those ideas that appear and get mentioned lightly. It was more like a small vibration in the middle of everyday life, something that could rise to the surface again at any moment.
It came back on a Friday night, although neither of us knew it at first.
We had been planning to go out all week. The original idea was to start at a pub and then let London decide the rest for us.
We drank more than we could count. We laughed. We wandered through streets we knew by heart but that always looked different at that hour. We went into a club full of people too young even for me and got bored after ten minutes. We kept drinking. We kissed in a half-dead alleyway. We stopped at a McDonald’s and ate sitting on a bench, laughing at absolutely nothing.
Like any couple in love.
When we finally got home, Liam insisted on carrying me from the door to the kitchen, despite the fact that we were both far too drunk to be trusted with balance.
“You’re gonna drop me.”
“Not a chance.”
He sat me on the kitchen counter and took my shoes off with adorable clumsiness before leaning in to kiss me. And then we were back to what we always were. Kissing like two reckless teenagers. Between laughter, stupid comments, messy kisses and hands that didn’t know how to stay still.
At one point, Liam pulled back just enough to look at me. My hair was a disaster, my cheeks hurt from laughing, and I was still giggling at something he had said like it was the funniest thing I had ever heard.
He looked at me in that particular way he did when I was too happy, like he was trying to memorise the moment.
Then he said, almost casually, “A kid would ruin this, you know.”
The comment threw me off a little, even though the smile didn’t leave my face. “Ruin what?”
He made a wide gesture with his hand. “This- no more 3 a.m. tequila. No more sex in random rooms. No more disappearing for a weekend.”
And then I understood. It wasn’t a random drunk comment. It wasn’t just a joke. He had been thinking about it. The idea was still planted somewhere in his head, turning itself over in some corner he wasn’t ready to show me yet.
I knew better than to chase the thought out of him. Liam only ran further when he felt cornered. So I gave him something else to hold onto. I grabbed him by both sides of his shirt and pulled him against me, locking my legs around his waist while I kissed his neck slowly.
“You say that like it’s a tragedy.”
He let out a short laugh against my skin. “A tragedy would be you stoppin’ kissin’ me like that.”
I laughed, kept torturing him a little more, partly for fun, partly because I wanted him to stop thinking so much.
The idea was already there. One more conversation wasn’t going to make it disappear.
A few weeks later, we were shopping for an event. Liam had decided he wanted something new, and honestly, so did I. I won’t deny it. I love wearing something for the first time, especially when I know there are going to be cameras, flashes and that strange electric energy of an important night.
We walked into a shop because Liam saw something in the window that apparently interested him. I left him alone for a moment to look through his things while I wandered toward the women’s section.
I was looking at a couple of dresses when, in a corner of the shop, I noticed a small children’s section.
It wasn’t big, just a little promotional capsule with a sign that said something like for little rockers. That was what made me walk over. There were tiny jackets, ridiculously small trainers, and among all of it, carefully folded, a miniature onesie with the Oasis logo on it.
I picked it up almost without thinking. It was absurdly small. The size of something that could fit between my two hands. Holding it gave me that strange internal twist tenderness sometimes causes.
“This is illegal.”
Liam’s voice made me turn slightly. I hadn’t heard him come up behind me.
He was looking at the onesie in my hands with an expression that was half amusement, half something much harder to read.
“Imagine that,” he murmured.
I looked at him, still a little melted by the image. “Imagine what?”
“You know.” He started the sentence like he didn’t know how to finish it. “That.”
I frowned a little. “A baby?”
I lifted the little thing slightly.
“Yeah,” he said.
Then he touched the fabric with the tips of his fingers. “A mini me in one of these.”
The smile that came over his face was immediate, the one that narrowed his eyes and wrinkled his nose just slightly. There was something else there. Something he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to look at too closely yet.
So I let it be. I folded the onesie carefully and put it back. We kept walking around the shop like nothing had happened. I didn’t bring it up again. It was obvious he still had it in his head, but curiously, he was the one who kept bringing it back into conversation every time.
I still couldn’t figure out exactly what scared him so much. Or why he couldn’t say it out loud, but there was one thing I did know, liam didn’t work under pressure. He never had. Ideas had to mature by themselves inside his head, circling for weeks or months, until one day he was finally ready to say them out loud.
One quiet night, the kind that didn’t need alcohol or distraction, I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling. The house was silent, except for the distant sound of a car passing outside.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You just did.”
I turned my head to look at him. “Don’t be annoying.”
“Go on.”
I took a deep breath. I had been wondering for days whether to ask or not, but the thought kept circling in my head, and I couldn’t keep ignoring it.
“Why do you keep bringing up the baby thing every now and then?”
Liam put his phone aside and sat up a little. “Don’t know.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I just… think things.” He paused. “Think about you.”
I nodded quietly. I let the stillness stretch between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt more like we were both thinking the same thing at the same time.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He ran a hand over his face, tired. “Then I start doin’ the math.”
I frowned. “The math?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “I’ll be ancient when the kid’s in uni.”
“You’re not ancient.”
“I’ll be older than most dads at school.”
“So?”
“So people talk.”
I let out a small laugh. “People always talk.”
He looked at me properly. “You’re young.” He didn’t say it like criticism, it was more like fear.
“I know.”
“You might want that life.”
“What life?”
“A normal one.”
He leaned back against the headboard. “Kid. Dad your age. PTA meetings.”
I stared at him. “You think I want PTA meetings?”
There was no sarcasm on his face this time. Just an uncomfortable seriousness, he had been chewing on the idea for much longer than he wanted to admit.
“If this is something you need, I won’t stand in your way.”
That was when something changed in the air. The conversation became heavier than I had imagined it would.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I’m not gonna be the reason you don’t have something you want.”
I swallowed. Liam’s sincerity always had that effect. It was so direct it almost made me dizzy.
“I don’t want a baby in general.”
He lifted his head. “No?”
I shook my head softly. “If I ever do…” I paused. “It would be with you.”
Silence. That disarmed him. I saw it in the way he blinked, like he hadn’t prepared himself for that answer.
“That’s not fair.”
“Why?”
“Because now it’s about me.”
I shook my head. “It’s about us.”
After that conversation, I understood Liam was going through something like a small crisis.
He never said it that clearly, but I could see it. The age difference, the expectations he imagined I might have because of my age, the kind of life he thought I might eventually want, all of it had tangled itself around the remote idea of having a baby. And everything that would mean, it had moved him more than he wanted to admit.
So I wasn’t going to let that idea become a shadow between us. I couldn’t stand seeing him sad or restless over something like that. Even less if he thought, even for a second, that this could become a breaking point for me. A possible excuse to leave.
If Liam was afraid of not being enough for whatever future I might want, then I was going to have to show him otherwise.
And so the months passed.
Staying when he was in a bad mood without making it personal. Going with him to events I knew he hated, just so I could stand beside him when the press started asking uncomfortable questions. Laughing when someone implied I was the young wife, without getting defensive. Learning how to inhabit the space without trying to replace anything. Only adding myself to it. Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t a negotiation. It was much simpler than that, I loved him and I wanted to stay.
There was one night in particular.
We were lying in bed, not talking. I was resting against his chest in that warm quiet that comes after making love, drawing distracted circles over his skin with my fingers.
“You still scared?” I asked.
“Of what?”
“Of me leaving.”
He didn’t answer straight away.
I lifted my head to look at him. “I chose you.” Present tense.
He held my gaze for longer than usual, as if he were trying to measure the weight of those words.
Then he exhaled. “You’re insane.”
I smiled. “Probably.”
And I rested my head back on his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing. The baby thing wasn’t an urgent conversation anymore. It had become something else. A future possibility.
For a while, the idea stayed exactly where it had been: somewhere between us, not urgent enough to become a decision, but too present to disappear completely. Liam still made the occasional comment, sometimes joking about how exhausted we would be, sometimes staring at the house like he was already imagining something smaller, louder, and entirely new inside it.
Then we had a strange week.
At first, it was nothing dramatic. Just little things that didn’t quite feel like anything on their own. I started sleeping more. Not in a lazy, indulgent way, but in a heavy, impossible-to-fight way that felt like my whole body had decided to shut down without asking me first. I had never been someone who slept late. I could stay up all night, sure, but I always got up eventually with that stupid amount of energy Liam liked to complain about.
Then, one morning, he came out of the bathroom with wet hair and found me still buried under the duvet like I had no intention of ever rejoining society.
“You dead?” he asked from the doorway.
I pulled the blanket higher over my face. “Go away.”
He frowned, but he didn’t say anything.
After the sleeping came the coffee. I didn’t notice it at first either. I just pushed the mug away one morning, wrinkling my nose before I even understood why.
“Since when do you hate coffee?” Liam asked, watching me from across the kitchen.
“I don’t hate coffee.”
“You just looked at it like it insulted you.”
“It smells weird.”
He stared at me for a second longer than usual, that particular look crossing his face, the one that meant he was filing something away without telling me. I ignored it because I didn’t have the energy to entertain whatever theory was forming in his head.
Then there was the dizziness. Three days later, I stood up too quickly in the kitchen and had to grab the counter, breathing through it until the room stopped tilting.
“You okay?” he asked immediately, putting his phone down.
“Yeah. Just dizzy.”
“Dizzy how?”
I glanced at him. “Normal dizzy. I stood up too fast.”
“You’ve been standin’ up too fast a lot lately.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re paranoid.”
But he didn’t look like he was joking.
The thing that made him truly unbearable happened the next night. We were in bed, half tangled in each other, and I was different. Not in a way I could have explained. Just more sensitive, more restless, more intense. Liam noticed, because of course he did. He always noticed the things I hoped he wouldn’t and missed the ones I practically handed to him in neon lights.
He looked at me between kisses, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re hormonal.”
I pulled back. “Excuse me?”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
I laughed against his neck, but he didn’t laugh with me. That was what made me pause. Liam could turn almost anything into a joke if he wanted to. The fact that he didn’t meant something had clicked inside his head before it had clicked inside mine.
The next morning, while I was getting dressed in front of the mirror, I tugged at my jeans and frowned. “Why do these feel tight?”
He lifted his eyes from the bed. “They don’t.”
“They do.” I turned slightly, then looked at my own reflection with a deeper frown. “And this is new.” I said looking at my boobs in the mirror.
His gaze dropped for half a second, then came back to my face.
By the time he finally said something, he had clearly been thinking about it for hours. We were in the kitchen, me with a half-eaten piece of toast in my hand, him leaning against the counter with that stiff, too-casual posture he got when he was pretending not to be nervous.
“You’re late.”
I looked up. “What?”
“You’re period. You're late.”
I blinked at him, then processed what he meant, and the laugh that came out of me was immediate. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You think I’m pregnant?”
He didn’t smile. “Do you know you’re not?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because I would know.”
He raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how that works.”
“You’re insane.”
“Am I?”
I crossed my arms. “You’re projecting.”
“Projecting what?”
“Your old dad trauma.”
That pulled a short laugh out of him, but it didn’t loosen the tension in his shoulders. “You’ve been tired. You hate coffee. You nearly threw up at the smell of food yesterday.”
“I did not nearly throw up.”
“You went pale.”
“It was too early for that smell.”
“And you’re different.”
I stepped closer and placed my hand on his chest, trying to soften him before he disappeared completely into his own head. “You’ve been a father too many times. Now you see ghosts.”
His expression didn’t change. “Just take a test.”
“For what? So you can spiral for no reason?”
“For peace of mind.”
I shook my head. “Liam. I’m not pregnant.”
I said it with conviction. And somehow, that was the thing that seemed to unsettle him most. Because I wasn’t avoiding the possibility. I wasn’t scared of it, not yet. I simply didn’t see it.
He didn’t push again that night, but he watched me differently after that. More carefully. Like he was waiting for the universe to prove him right. And three days later, when I came out of the bathroom looking pale and muttered, “I feel weird,” he didn’t even hesitate.
“Buy the test.”
I glared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
But I went. Mostly to prove him wrong. When I came back with the supermarket bag, I dropped it onto the table like I was presenting evidence in the most ridiculous trial of my life.
“Happy?”
I went into the bathroom rolling my eyes. “You are dramatic.”
“Just pee on it.”
“Oh my God, stop saying it like that.”
He was leaning against the doorframe, far too close.
I pointed at him. “Do you want privacy?”
“Do I?”
“I meant me.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, Liam. I want privacy.”
I shut the door in his face.
There was silence after that, the tiny sound of plastic wrapping, my own breath, the ridiculous intimacy of knowing he was just outside the door pretending not to listen. I did what the instructions said and stared at the little stick in my hand like it personally owed me an explanation.
“It’s negative,” I called from inside.
“You don’t know that yet.”
“I know.”
“You literally just did it.”
“Shut up.”
When I opened the door, I was holding the test like it was a joke I was about to prove him wrong with. “See? Now we wait fifteen minutes and you calm down.”
“It’s three.”
I stopped. “What?”
“Three minutes. Not fifteen.”
I stared at him. “You googled it.”
“Obviously.”
We sat on the edge of the bed with the test face down on the bedside table. Liam kept looking at the clock, then at me, then back at the clock.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“Normal.”
“You don’t look normal.”
“What does pregnant look like, Liam?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Different.”
I let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You’re unbearable.”
But there was something in the way he looked at me that wasn’t pressure. It was anticipation, fear, hope, all tangled together so tightly that I couldn’t separate one from the other.
When the time was up, I reached for the test first. I turned it over casually, already prepared to be smug.
Then I stopped. For a second, I didn’t understand what I was seeing.
“Oh.” That was all I said.
Liam leaned forward immediately. “What?”
I held the test out to him. Two lines. The room went very quiet. There was no screaming. No jumping. No cinematic glow. Just the two of us sitting there, staring at something small enough to fit in my hand and big enough to rearrange the whole world.
Liam let out a breath he didn’t seem to know he had been holding. “Right.”
I looked at him. “Right?”
“Yeah.” He ran a hand over his face. “Right.”
A laugh escaped me then. Not from happiness exactly. From disbelief, and the absurdity of him being right.
“You were right.”
“Don’t say that like that.”
“You were.”
“I know.” But his voice trembled just slightly.
I put the test down on the table and looked at my hands. “Okay.”
We didn’t tell anyone. Not at first. We didn’t talk about names, or rooms, or tiny clothes, or any of the things people are supposed to talk about when a test turns positive. We talked about reality. We sat in the kitchen with cold tea between us and tried to understand that this wasn’t an idea anymore. It wasn’t something Liam could joke about and tuck away. It wasn’t something I could answer with a shrug.
“We need to decide,” I said.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
There was no avoiding the word underneath that sentence.
“If you don’t want this, we don’t do this,” he said.
I lifted my eyes to him. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s only my call.”
He held my gaze. “It is.”
“No.”
“It’s your body.”
“It’s our life.”
That made him look down. “I won’t resent you either way,” he said quietly.
That was the sentence that hurt.
“Would you resent me if I didn’t?” I asked.
He took a moment to answer. “No.”
I knew he wasn’t lying. I also knew it wasn’t simple. “Are you scared?” I asked.
He let out a dry laugh. “Of course I’m scared.”
“Because of me?”
“Because of everything.”
He dragged both hands over his face. “I’m already a grandad. I’m older. What if I can’t keep up? What if I—” He stopped himself.
I leaned closer. “What if what?”
He looked at me then, and all the noise dropped away from his face. “What if I don’t get to see enough of it?”
There it was, the real fear. Not the press or the age difference or what people would say.
Time.
I rested my forehead against his. “I don’t want to do this alone.”
“You wouldn’t be alone.”
“I don’t want to do it without you.”
That changed the whole shape of the conversation. It wasn’t I want a baby. It was I want this with you.
He breathed in deeply, like the words had found somewhere to land inside him. “If we do this,” he said, “we do it together.”
“Together.”
There was no promise that we would be brave. No promise that we would know what we were doing. Only that. And somehow, that was enough to carry us into the next step.
We booked the appointment. The doctor explained the basics: that it was still early, that there were options, that an ultrasound would confirm exactly how far along I was. We left the consultation in silence and walked a few blocks without speaking. Liam took my hand first, not tightly, just firmly, like he needed the contact to remind himself we were still moving through it together.
At home, life continued, but everything felt tinted. I looked at my body differently. He looked at me differently. He didn’t touch me less, but he touched me more carefully.
One night, while we were lying in bed with the lights off, I asked, “If we decide not to, you won’t think less of me?” I already asked him that, but I just wanted to make sure.
He turned toward me immediately. “Don’t ever think that.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah.”
I stayed quiet for a second, then asked, “And if we decide yes?”
He took longer with that one. “Then we start again.”
The ultrasound was scheduled for Thursday. Three more days. Three days in which we were neither parents nor not-parents. We were a decision paused in the middle of the air, and somehow that weighed more than any result.
The consulting room was too white, too clean, too quiet. I sat on the examination bed with that thin paper crinkling beneath me, while Liam stood beside me with his hands in his pockets and his jaw tense, like he was waiting for a sentence to be passed.
The doctor spoke in a neutral, professional voice, explaining estimated weeks and possible dates and terms neither of us were fully processing.
“We’ll just confirm how far along you are.”
I nodded. Liam nodded too, even though no one had asked him to.
The cold gel made me inhale sharply. “Sorry,” the doctor said. “It’s always cold.”
I let out a tiny laugh. “Figures.”
Liam leaned forward slightly when the screen came on.
At first, it was just noise. Grey. Shadows. Nothing that looked like what people imagine when they think of a baby. The doctor moved the transducer carefully, and for a few seconds there was only the soft sound of machines and everyone trying not to breathe too loudly.
Then she pointed at a tiny spot. “There.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That?”
“Yes.”
Liam didn’t say anything. He was too still.
“And that flicker you see there…” The doctor adjusted something, and there was a second of interference before the room filled with a sound.
A rhythm. Fast, small, constant. It was barely more than an amplified little knock. But it filled the whole room.
I stopped breathing for a second. So did Liam.
The doctor kept speaking, something about the heartbeat being normal for the gestational age, but I couldn’t take the words in. I reached for Liam’s hand without looking, and the moment I found it, he squeezed.
The heartbeat continued for a few more seconds. Then the doctor lowered the volume.
“Everything looks good so far.” The doctor smiled gently and looked back at the screen, checking a few measurements before typing something into the computer. “And judging by the size, I’d say you’re about six weeks along.”
Liam went very still beside me. Thinking. Which was dangerous.
I slowly turned my head toward him. “No.”
He looked at me, already fighting a smile. “What?”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anythin’.”
“You’re doing math.”
The doctor glanced between us, amused but trying to stay professional.
Liam looked back at the screen, then at me. “Six weeks…”
“Liam.”
“That was the weekend we went out, wasn’t it?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
He tilted his head slightly, way too pleased with himself. “Is that when we tried that new thing? With you on top of me-”
My hand flew to his arm so fast the doctor actually laughed. “Liam!”
“What? I’m just rememberin’.”
“You are not allowed to remember out loud.”
The doctor looked down at the machine, smiling despite herself. “I don’t need the exact timeline, don’t worry.”
I covered my face with one hand. “I’m so sorry.”
Liam, of course, looked delighted. “What? It’s relevant.”
“It is absolutely not relevant.”
“It might be.”
“I will leave you here.” The doctor handed me a tissue to wipe the gel off my stomach, still clearly trying not to laugh.
He smiled, still looking at the screen like the whole thing had become slightly less terrifying now that he had managed to make it inappropriate.
“Everything looks normal,” she said again, softer this time. “That’s what matters.”
And somehow, even through the embarrassment, the word landed all over again.
The doctor stepped out for a few minutes to print something, and the room went quiet again. I stayed lying down, staring at the ceiling. Liam stayed standing, staring at the now-dark screen.
“That’s… fast,” he murmured.
I let out the breath I had been holding. “Yeah.”
“You okay?” he asked.
I turned my head toward him. “I don’t know.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
For the first time, he sat on the edge of the bed and ran both hands over his face, exhaling slowly. “That’s a heartbeat.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not hypothetical anymore.”
“No.”
The silence that followed was heavy, but different from the days before. This was reality.
He lowered his eyes to my stomach, still small, almost the same as always, but not the same at all.
“We can still…” He stopped himself. I looked at him, not accusing him, just waiting. “We can still decide,” he finished.
The word abortion didn’t need to be said. It was there between us, honest and unhidden.
I held his gaze. “What do you want?”
He took a while, because this time he couldn’t hide behind it’s your body. “If I’m honest?”
“Always.”
“When I heard that, I didn’t think about my age. Didn’t think about the press. Didn’t even think about how tired I’d be.” He looked at me then. “All I thought was… that’s ours.”
That was the first thing that sounded like a decision. Not fully formed yet. But leaning. Something moved inside my chest, like a soft kind of conviction.
“If we do this,” I said, “we do it because we both want to. Not because we feel guilty. Not because it’s there.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
The silence came back, but it felt lighter now. I looked down at my stomach, still flat, still abstract, and said, “I don’t want to make this decision out of fear.”
“Neither do I.”
We looked at each other, and we didn’t need a final dramatic sentence. We didn’t need to say, we’re going to be parents, like a declaration. The answer was already leaning toward yes.
When the doctor came back, she gave us the printed images and explained dates, vitamins, next steps, things to avoid, things to expect. We listened and nodded like people who were pretending not to have just had their lives rearranged by a tiny sound.
We left the office with the ultrasound photo folded inside my bag. Outside, the noise of the city hit us all at once. I stopped on the pavement, and Liam looked at me.
“We don’t have to decide this second.”
I shook my head softly. “I think we just did.”
He looked at me for a long moment, and for the first time in days, he didn’t look like he was mentally running through a hundred possible disasters. He was just there.
“Alright,” he said.
And when we crossed the street, he slipped his arm around my shoulders like he was already protecting something no one else could see yet.
That night, I fell asleep before finishing the show we had put on. I was exhausted, emotionally drained in a way that felt physical. Liam watched me sleep for a while before quietly getting up and going downstairs.
The house was quiet when Liam went downstairs.
He didn’t turn all the lights on. Just the one above the stove. The kitchen stayed half in shadow while he stood there, ultrasound photo in hand, staring at it like it might rearrange itself into something he could understand if he looked long enough.
That blurry little thing. That tiny impossible point. He placed it on the table, rubbed both hands over his face, then picked up his phone.
Noel answered on the third ring. “What.”
“Nice to hear from you too.”
“It’s late.”
“Yeah, cheers, mate. Didn’t notice.”
There was a pause. Noel’s voice shifted slightly, already suspicious. “What happened?”
Liam looked back at the photo. “She’s pregnant.”
The silence on the other end lasted long enough to become annoying.
Then Noel said, very flatly, “Right.”
“Don’t say right like that.”
“How am I supposed to say it?”
“I dunno. Normal?”
“That was normal.”
“It wasn’t.”
Another pause. Then Noel exhaled through his nose. “Well, I mean… if you two are shagging every chance you get, it was bound to happen eventually.”
Liam closed his eyes. “Not helpful.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Don’t just say.”
“You rang me.”
“Yeah, clearly a mistake.”
Noel gave a small laugh, but it didn’t last. His voice softened just enough to become dangerous. “You alright?”
Liam leaned back against the counter, staring at the table instead of the photo now. “No idea.”
That came out before he could dress it up as anything else.
Noel didn’t mock him for that. “What d’you mean, no idea?”
“I mean I don’t know what the fuck I’m doin’.” Liam dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m already a grandad. I’m older. She’s young. This is mad.”
“You’ve always been mad.”
“Yeah, well, this is different.”
“Is it?”
Liam looked at the ultrasound again. “Yeah.”
“She alright?” Noel asked.
“Yeah.”
“And she wants it?”
Liam swallowed. “We both do. I think.”
“You think?”
“I know,” Liam corrected himself, quieter now. “That’s the problem.”
“How’s that a problem?”
“Because wanting it doesn’t make me any less terrified, does it?”
Noel didn’t answer straight away.
Liam lowered his voice before he could stop himself. “What if I don’t get to see enough of it?”
Noel was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “You don’t get guarantees either way.” Liam said nothing. “With anything,” Noel continued. “You know that better than most.”
“That supposed to make me feel better?”
“No. It’s supposed to stop you being thick.”
Despite himself, Liam huffed out a small laugh.
Noel let the silence settle for another second before speaking again. “You love her?”
“Yeah.”
“You want this with her?”
Liam looked down at the photo. The fear was still there, but the answer was easier. “Yeah.”
“Then stop trying to solve the next twenty years tonight.”
Liam rubbed at his face again. “Easy for you to say.”
“No, it’s not. I’m just saying it anyway.”
That almost made him smile. Then Noel added, quieter, “And if you’re asking me…” Liam waited. “I’d quite like having a little niece or nephew around.”
That hit him differently. Liam looked back at the ultrasound photo, at the blur that suddenly felt less abstract than it had a minute ago. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Noel said. “Don’t make me say it twice.”
Liam let out a breath. For the first time since he had walked into the kitchen, it didn’t feel like it got stuck halfway. “Alright.”
“And Liam?”
“What?”
“You’re still going to be absolutely knackered.”
Liam laughed properly this time, low and tired. “Yeah. Figured.”
“Good.” A pause. “You’ll be alright.”
Liam stared at the photo one last time. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Alright.”
They didn’t say anything else for a second. Two brothers on opposite ends of the line, both allergic to making tenderness easy.
Then Noel cleared his throat. “Go sleep.”
“Bossy prick.”
“Future old dad prick.”
“Fuck off.”
Noel laughed.
There had been no emotional embrace, no perfect brotherly speech, no sudden cure for fear. But there had been an anchor, and for Liam, that was enough.
A few days later, the decision had settled between us. We still hadn’t told anyone, but the house felt different, as if the secret had already started taking up space. It was in the way Liam looked at me when I walked into a room. In the way his eyes dropped, just for half a second, to my stomach before finding my face again. In the way he kept pretending to be normal and failing spectacularly.
That night, we were lying on the sofa, pretending to watch a film neither of us had followed past the first ten minutes. I was tucked against him, one leg thrown over his, his arm wrapped lazily around me.
At some point, his hand found my stomach. I let it stay there for a while before looking down.
“You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“That.”
He glanced at his own hand like he had no idea how it got there. “Nothin’.”
I smiled. “It’s the size of a blueberry, Liam.”
“Still counts.”
His thumb moved slowly over the fabric of my shirt, once, then twice, careful in a way that made my chest tighten. “You can’t even feel anything yet.”
“Don’t care.”
That shut me up.
A few seconds passed. The film kept playing, throwing pale light across the room. Liam looked down at where his hand was resting, quiet for once, like his own thoughts had finally stopped running long enough to let him feel something.
Then he shifted. Before I could ask what he was doing, he slid a little lower on the sofa and lifted the hem of my shirt just enough to expose the skin beneath.
I went still. “Liam…”
“Relax.” His voice was low.
He looked at my stomach for a second, almost suspiciously, like he still couldn’t fully understand how something so enormous could be hidden in something that looked exactly the same.
Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss there. Barely there. It was so unlike the version of him the world thought it knew that I almost didn’t know what to do with it.
My hand moved to his hair without thinking.
He stayed there for a moment, cheek close to my skin, his hand still resting carefully at my side.
“You’re being very sweet,” I whispered.
“Don’t tell anyone.”
I laughed softly. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
He lifted his eyes to me, mouth brushing my skin as he spoke. “Better be.”
Then he looked back down, as if remembering something important.
“Oi,” he murmured, addressing my stomach with complete seriousness. “Don’t give your mum a hard time, yeah? She’s dramatic enough.”
I gasped. “Liam.”
“And if you’re takin’ after her, maybe tone it down a bit.”
“You’re already bullying our blueberry.”
“Our blueberry’s already causing trouble.”
I hit his shoulder lightly, but I was smiling too much for it to mean anything. He kissed my stomach once more, quicker this time, almost embarrassed by his own tenderness, then pulled my shirt back down with surprising care.
We didn’t make telling his children dramatic.
It was dinner at home, Lennon, Gene and Molly around the table, everything normal enough that Liam trying to act casual made him look immediately suspicious.
Molly noticed first. “Why are you weird?”
“I’m not weird.”
“You’re weird.”
I looked at him. He exhaled, realising there was no graceful way into it.
“Right. Before anyone starts.”
Everyone turned to him. Liam shifted in his chair once, then looked at me for half a second before saying it. “We’re havin’ a kid.”
The room went silent. Gene blinked. Lennon took half a second longer to process it. Molly was the first to react.
“Shut up.”
“Not jokin’.”
Gene started laughing, but not because it was funny. More because his brain didn’t know what else to do with the information. “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not.”
Lennon looked at him, then at me. “You okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
That seemed to matter to him more than anything else. Gene leaned back in his chair, still staring at his father like he was trying to solve him.
“So I’m gonna be a big brother again?”
“Yeah,” Liam said.
Gene pointed at him. “At your big age?”
“Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely starting.”
Molly covered her mouth, already smiling, tears shining in her eyes despite herself. “You’re going to be exhausted.”
“Thanks,” Liam muttered.
Gene shook his head slowly, still processing. “This is mad. I’m getting replaced by a baby.”
“You were never that important,” Liam said.
“Wow.”
Lennon leaned back in his chair, grin starting to form. “Well, at least now we know who’s getting written out of the will.”
Gene turned to him. “Me?”
“All of us, probably.”
Liam pointed at both of them. “You were never in it.”
Gene’s mouth fell open in fake offence. “I wasn’t in the will?”
“No.”
“Then what am I being written out of?”
“Whatever’s left.”
Molly laughed, wiping under her eye. “That poor baby. Already causing inheritance drama.”
“Exactly,” Gene said. “Not even born and already stealing my money.”
“You don’t have money,” Lennon said.
“That’s not the point.”
Liam rubbed a hand over his face, but he was smiling now. Trying not to, but failing. “Can everyone stop actin’ like I’ve never had a child before?”
Gene looked at him. “You’ve never had one while being eligible for a senior discount.”
Liam stared at Gene. “You’re out of whatever will you were never in.”
“Again,” Gene said, lifting a finger. “Rude.”
For a second, the room felt lighter, warmer. Like everyone had found their footing again through the safest possible language in that family: harassment.
Then Gene spoke, “Right, important question.” He did a face, “Who gets to annoy it first?”
“Me,” Lennon said.
“Why you?”
“Because I’m the oldest.”
“That’s not a qualification.”
“It absolutely is.”
Molly shook her head. “You’re both already being terrible.”
Gene leaned forward, suddenly invested. “No, seriously. First gig. Who takes the baby to its first gig?”
Liam pointed at him. “No one is takin’ a baby to a gig.”
Gene looked offended. “It’s a Gallagher.”
“Still a baby.”
Lennon shrugged. “Noise-cancelling headphones. Sorted.”
“I do,” she said, unashamed. “I’d buy her everything. Little dresses, little boots…”
Gene groaned. “Oh no.”
“And when she’s older, I’ll do her makeup.”
Liam’s face changed immediately. “No.”
Molly laughed. “Yes.”
“No makeup.”
“She’s not even born yet and you’re already being weird.”
“I’m not bein’ weird.”
“You are,” Lennon said.
Gene nodded. “Very weird.”
I watched them from my seat, one hand resting unconsciously near my stomach, feeling something in my chest loosen.
Molly turned to me then, her smile softer. “Imagine a little girl with his eyebrows.”
I looked at Liam. He looked horrified. “Why would you say that?”
Gene pointed at him. “She’d come out judging everyone.”
“Like dad,” Lennon added.
“I don’t judge everyone,” Liam said.
Everyone at the table looked at him. He rolled his eyes. “Alright, fuck off.”
Molly stood up first, still smiling, and came around the table to hug me. “Are you happy?” she asked quietly.
I nodded against her. “Yeah.”
She squeezed me a little tighter. “Then I’m happy.”
When she pulled away, she hugged Liam next, and for once he didn’t make a joke immediately. He just held her for a second, his face soft in a way he probably didn’t realise everyone could see.
Lennon came closer after that. “You alright?” he asked Liam.
Liam looked at him. “Yeah.”
Firmer this time. Gene leaned back in his chair again, still grinning, unwilling to let the moment stay too emotional.
“So what happens now? Do I have to be responsible?”
Liam looked at him. “You?”
“Yeah.”
“No chance.”
Gene nodded, satisfied. “Good. Had me worried for a second.”
Everyone laughed, and just like that, the tension broke, because the room had made space for it. For the baby. For the fear. For the jokes. For Liam being terrified and pretending he wasn’t. For his children teasing him because that was how they loved him without making him run for the hills.
And somehow, against all logic, it already felt like family.
no pressure at all but will there be more of your writing? I love all of your stories ❤️
Thank you!! I seriously appreciate all of your love!! I actually wrote a little bit the other night for the first time in months so the creative juices miiiight just be coming back🤞🏼 I know I’ve got two fandoms who I’m writing for currently but I’ll put a poll below and you guys can vote for who I focus on next!!!! And as always, requests are always open, they really help me get started with a story so they’re always appreciated❤️🔥
“You alright?” Noel asks before you’ve even properly reappeared in his bedroom, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. Two doors down, you’d been brushing your teeth in the same place he’d once taken bubble baths as a child, and in your short absence, he’d been twiddling his thumbs and fluffing up his pillows like you’d been gone for hours, watching the sliver of light creep in from under the door, and listening to the floorboards creak.
“Yeah.” Shutting the door, which has always made an annoying squeak on its hinges, you assure him gently. Under the yellow glow of his bedside lamp, he can see the pink in your cheeks from washing your face, looking like you’ve just come back from a cold winter’s walk without a scarf; he can practically taste what it’d be like to kiss you, with your minty salvia in his mouth and your freshly-brushed hair between his fingers, and the tiny bit of toothpaste by your chin which he’d brush away with the pad of his thumb.
“You cold?” Propping himself up on his elbows, he gestures towards the extra blanket folded on the end of his twin bed; an addition which must’ve been added after he’d moved out, like the new lick of paint he’d noticed on the walls. In the car on the way to the train station, as he swore at the traffic and helped you punch at the radio buttons to find a station playing a decent song, you’d declared you were nervous, and he’d been cautiously squeezing your hand and giving you reassuring smiles ever since. “D’ya want this blanket?”
“You’re just like your mum.” His concerned question goes in one ear and out the other, shaking your head like you’ve had the thought from the moment she’d opened the door to greet you both and had scolded Noel for not helping you with your bags. In the comfortable lull of silence, there’s the chatter of the television, the groan of the stairs and the whir of the taps and all the other little noises he’d forgotten about now that he lives alone, which were once embedded into the white noise of his mind.
“How?” Murmuring the words into the material of his pillowcase, so he can get a long whiff of the fabric conditioner that reminds him of his childhood, Noel’s face furrows with confusion. There had been times when he’d been compared to other family members, or when American journalists hadn’t done their basic research before an interview, and would comment on him and Liam's rather striking resemblance and similar mannerisms, but he’d barely ever been compared to his mum.
“Always fussing.” You explain, fiddling with a button on your cotton pyjamas. All afternoon and well into the evening, he’d watched his mother fall further and further into adoration for you; the laughter filtering in from the kitchen as you helped make cups of tea, and the glances she’d given him from across the dinner table as if to silently convey that he’d done well and got very lucky.
“It’s hardly ‘always’ if it’s just with you.” Despite his reputation for being perpetually grumpy and pessimistic, he’d do anything without so much as a second thought if he knew it would make you happy; during one of your surprise birthday parties, he’d uncharactiscally insisted on buying more glittery decorations, donned your birthday tiara when you’d got a headache from wearing it, and had even cut your pink cake into perfect little squares despite being paralytically drunk.
“Still.” Sitting down and tucking your legs up to your chest, chin against the gingham fabric of your pyjamas, Noel looks at you, and for a second, wholeheartedly believes that every soppy lyric he’d scribbled down in this very room as a teenager had somehow been a subconscious manifestation for you. Though his heart had always swung back and forth between believing in fate and the universe, he’s sure that if he had proof it helped him find you, it would push the pendulum right into the lifelong worship territory.
“You can come over here, y’know?” Teetering on the very edge of his mattress, as if it’ll somehow bridge the gap between the two beds and his body will melt into yours, he whines. If it wouldn’t cause him to fall face-first into the carpet, he’d lean closer to kiss the back of your outstretched hand; one on each knuckle, and then one against the middle of your wrist just to top it all off. “She won’t have a clue.”
“I know, but it’s still her house.” You shrug, tucking some hair behind your ears and unknowingly revealing that spot he loves to nibble at by your earlobe. Although her son was twenty-eight and already seemingly planning his extravagant thirtieth birthday party, she’d still implemented the rule of not sharing a bed with the opposite sex while under her roof, just as her parents had done for her, and just as Noel will probably eventually do for his own kids. “She asked.”
“Don’t want you in ar’ kids bed, though.” Though he was logical enough as a teenager to realise that, eventually, having a girl in his room would perhaps not pan out exactly how he’d envisioned it, the thought of the woman he loved finally appearing and instead having to stay in Liam’s bed never even crossed his mind; especially if you add the fact that it’s so neatly made, and a far cry from the mess of pillows and blankets that Noel used to refer to solely as ‘the dogbed’ when in conversation.
“Why?” From the very moment he had introduced you to his brother and his friends under the shade of a pub umbrella on a sunny afternoon, he had watched them constantly bombard you with stories, trying to fill you in on the last two decades of his life, and now you’re seemingly worried that the very bed you’re sitting on is involved in a tale you haven’t had the disadvantage of hearing yet. “Don't put me off it.”
“It’s just cause mine's better.” Truthfully, he wasn’t sure how he was going to sleep without his nose buried into your shoulder; it already takes him almost a week and a half and copious amounts of hotel coffee to get used to having an empty bed on tour, and now that seems like plain sailing compared to you just being a few feet away with your cheek squished against the pillow while he’s stuck to confindes of his mattress. “Look so cute in your pyjamas, it’s fuckin’ torture.”
“Really?” Pulling at the hem of your top like you’d forgotten what they look like, your head tilts to the side with your question. In the depths of his wallet, folded so much that it’s now more creases than photo, is a picture of you in the same pair that he’d taken of you eating cereal on his garden patio; sometimes, when you’re far away, he unfolds it and props it up on his bedside table like he’s a wife waiting for her husband to return from war. “These have a hole in them, I think.”
“Even better.” Noel grins, biting on the inside of his cheek. There had been times when you’d got all dressed up, and he’d sincerely thought he wouldn’t survive the night without turning dizzy and falling into a big heap whenever you addressed him, though he’d still trade it all just to see you half-awake with your hair messy from sleep, and your spot cream still on your face as you’d tried to wake up in the morning. “Come here for a bit before bed, yeah?”
“Noel.” You warn, voice hushed like you’re in a room full of people rather than just in the company of his old bedroom furniture and the pile of his clothes he’d left after getting undressed for bed. It’s the same tone you use when you scold him for raiding your cupboard and eating all the crisps when he stays over, or when he pushes his hand too far up your skirt and fiddles with the elastic of your knickers while you’re out in public.
“We’re not gonna start fucking shagging.” Though he’d like to christen this bed for the sake of his younger self, he’s no idiot and still respects his mum's wishes just as he had done when he was four and got told off for scribbling on the walls. All he needs is just one kiss, or to feel his heart pressed up against yours, and then he’ll be able to tuck the covers up to his chin and fall asleep. “It’s just for a minute.”
“One minute?” Serious with your face stoic, like you’re negotiating a case in court, you try to hear him out, fair and square. Though he can already see the cogs turning in your brain, weighing out the options of being able to cuddle into his side for the warmth, or being a good possible future daughter-in-law and sticking to the bed his mother kindly made look so comfy for you.
“One minute.” He confirms with a nod of his ruffled hair, peeling the covers back and scooting closer to the wall to make room for you. Before he can even form another persuasive sentence to entice from across the room, he hears the duvet rustling, then the warmth of your lips against his, and, finally, Noel can taste both your minty toothpaste and your laughter in his mouth.
the first time you met noel he’d barged in on your recording session. and yes, maybe you’d run over your slot. but only by ten minutes. and in your defense, who would ever expect noel gallagher to be on time?
you were on your final sessions of the day, frustration mounting after hours and hours. so when you saw someone barge in behind your producer through the glass of the studio, you finally snapped.
“oh for fuck’s sake,” you swore, bringing a hand to your head.
you heard the muffled voices of your manager and this mystery intruder exchanging words as you swung through the doors, an exasperated laugh leaving your throat.
“mate, there’s a fifteen-minute grace period,” your producer argued.
you didn’t even cast your guest a second glance, instead snatching up your bag and snapping at your producer, “i‘m over it today anyways. let’s go,”
a scoff from your left had your head snapping over. you might have apologized upon recognizing noel gallagher had you not been in such a foul mood.
a wry grin unfurled across your mouth. if your publicist were here, she would have quickly ushered you out of the room before your mouth tarnished the image she so carefully cultivated. your producer, sensing the tension, bolts from the room.
“sorry, you must be planning to record another iteration of the same song you’ve been putting out for 30 years now,”
noel’s mouth dropped open. before he could say something, you butted back in.
“would hate to delay the pleasure of that to your ever-starving fans.” your voice is sweet. too sweet to be trusted.
noel’s silent for a moment. you’re about to take back your words when noel does something that actually surprises you.
he laughs. full-bellied, head thrown back. he laughs like he hadn’t done so in months. years, maybe.
and now it’s you standing there, slack-jawed. humiliation reddens your face. you turn, finish packing up your bag, and head for the door.
“hang on a minute,” noel’s voice calls from behind you. lazy and smug.
you still. turn to face him. his eyes draw up from your toes to your head quickly. you nearly open your mouth to lay into him again before he beats you to it.
“that song there,” he says, finger pointing inside the studio, “think i know what it’s missing,”
your first instinct is to tell him to piss off, but something in his eyes is earnest and easing. you loosen.
noel must gauge that because he continues. “the end bit. layer and some reverb throws would suit it,”
you glance toward the door, your producer long gone. your shoulders sag but you make a note to mention noel’s advice.
“thanks,” you murmur, fidgeting with a loose hem on your worn-out shirt. your nose wrinkles in frustration, “could tell something was flat, but i just couldn’t pinpoint it, and then it was just looping over and over and over,” your voice trails off, exasperated.
noel nods like he knows the feeling. he probably does. he’d been in recording studios before you were even born.
“s’cause your voice is quite breathy and a studio like this one can dead it,” noel offers.
you lips twitch in a smile. “bit nerdy,”
“comes with age i s’pose,” noel answers, smiling. “can run it back and i’ll show you?”
“no! no. ‘m sorry i was such a dick, and you’ve been great actually,” your words are rushed.
“nah, your producer was right,” noel’s voice is somehow sheepish and smug, “there is a fifteen-minute grace period,”
your eyes narrow on him before you bark out a laugh and toss your bag back down.
"right, we'll call it even then," you stick out your hand and introduce yourself properly.
and that’s how you end up in the studio with noel gallagher for the first time.
♬.ᐟ
the session is seamless – productive even. with noel’s help, you layer, throw in some reverb, pan, equalize, and compress about fifteen different ways before you’re both satisfied with the sound. to your absolute surprise, noel has an ear even for pop music. you’re both lounging on the studio couch, sharing a celebratory drink when you tell him as much. he laughs.
“helps when the pop singer’s actually got talent,”
the light praise sends a shiver crawling up your spine, only eased by the rush of blood to your cheeks.
for the next few weeks you see him at the studio, usually as your session ends and his begins. you strike up an unlikely friendship, and develop a very predictable crush on the older man. noel’s clever and personable. and yes, arrogant and brash, but only to protect himself from what you imagine is a few decades of invasion from the world. most of all, he never makes you feel untalented or unworthy of sharing a space.
sometimes, he shows up early to catch some of your sessions, admits he’s more a fan of pop music than he ever thought possible. and sometimes, when you’re lucky, he sits next to your producer, works alongside him, comes over the speaker to have you try out something new. those are your favorite days. with noel’s gaze on the other side of the glass, the quirk of his brow and grin when he hears something he likes, the furrow in his brow when he hears something he doesn’t. it’s no mistake that you’ve taken to wearing more perfume now. or that the songs you choose to record are unabashedly horny.
and they’re noel’s favorite days too. with your hair wild and unbound after hours of running your fingers through it. the way your eyes flutter closed when you sing, the soft sway of your hips during instrumentals. your smile when something just clicks.
and it’s innocent enough for him. he prides himself on maintaining a healthy and professional working relationship with a young, sex forward, 21st-century girl. he thinks he’s out of the woods until he wakes up one morning, a sheen of sweat on his torso, a tent in his boxers, and vague memories of you in his dream. that’s when noel knows he’s gone and fucked it.
the next weeks at the studio are tension-laced. noel knows he’s not imagining the way your fingers graze his waist when you squeeze by him on the way out. or the way your heavy-lidded eyes narrow and linger on him whilst you sing. he can hardly get through his own sessions now, distracted by your wafting scent in the room, your songs stuck in his head. it’s a small mercy when you’re finished recording. noel allows himself to finally focus on his own work which had gone neglected in recent weeks. your album was soon to come out, and you two kept in touch in the upcoming weeks, albeit sporadically. you exchanged instagrams, he dropped likes on your photos teasing a new album. you commented heart eyes emoji’s on the rare post from noel. it was all very tongue-in-cheek and, arguably, friendly.
when your first single comes out, noel gets his first pop music production credit, which might have gone largely unnoticed had it not topped the charts immediately.
the internet went wild. noel gallagher producing a woman-led sex-forward pop anthem? nobody had that on their bingo card.
it was the subject of much media speculation and nearly every radio show you did would inevitably bring up noel. and noel had to admit, you fielded the questions like a proper fucking professional.
you were coy about your Instagram exchanges, joked about your unexpected chemistry with the old rock ‘n’ roller, teased the idea of having a thing for older men, and admitted you were a big fan of his. noel didn’t know how serious you were about it all— his experience with younger girls was admittedly limited, and he’d been out of the game for a while now.
but he didn’t have to wonder when he attended a gig of yours in london.
he’d gotten a letter in the mail, one that he might’ve discarded had it not been for the ribbon tied around the pink envelope and the pretty swirlings of cursive on the front. noel couldn't explain it but he had a feeling it might be from you. and he couldn’t help the quirk of his lips and small laugh that escaped him when he opened the letter and found it was.
an invitation to an upcoming gig of yours— an intimate performance of your full album on its release day, all attendees hand-selected by you. the invite came complete with a spritz of your perfume that noel recognized immediately and a kiss pressed next to his name. the same shade of pink you seemed to always wear. the color of freshly kissed lips.
noel’s cock pressed uncomfortably against the seams of his levi’s, a flush of warmth flooding his senses. he opened his text thread with you.
Everyone else lucky enough to receive a kiss in their invite?
only u
Cheeky. Look forward to hearing the record.
i think you’ll like it
noel grinned like an idiot down at his phone, felt like a right fuckin’ perv texting you with half a stiffy. he may be out of practice but noel wasn’t a complete idiot. he knew you were coming on to him. nothing new. he’d long grown used to women throwing themselves at him. even now. but he was surprised at how much his own want consumed him. that was new. disorienting, even.
♬.ᐟ
noel showed up to your gig with flowers in hand. cheesy, yes. but what woman didn’t like flowers? and who else deserved them more than you in this moment? he thought he’d surprise you.
but noel was in for another surprise when he was promptly ushered towards your dressing room despite insisting he didn’t wanna impose or give you bad mojo or something else ridiculous. before he knew it, your manager tossed noel in your room, shutting the door behind him and leaving you two alone and face-to-face. noel kept his head down, worried you may be in some state of undress that would surely undo him.
“fuck, told her i could wait ‘til after. i didn’t mean to–”
your pretty laugh cut noel off, and he raised his head to look at you for the first time, clad in some sparkled two-piece dress that spiked noel’s heart rate immediately.
“s’alright old man, calm down,” you laughed, taking the flowers out of noel’s hands, “i asked her to bring you back when you got here,”
noel’s grin was a mixture of shock and smug. “‘when’, huh? you were so sure i’d be ‘ere?”
your gaze didn’t falter. neither did your smile, sweet and soft and pink.
“didn’t doubt it for a second, noel.” your voice is soft and earnest.
the sound of his name in your mouth sent a shiver down noel’s spine that he didn’t have time to address right now.
"thank you for the flowers,"
he clears his throat, dips his chin to you. “why’d you want me to come back ‘ere then?”
a blush rises on your cheeks; some of your bravado dissipates.
“just wanted to say thank you for helping me on the record, y’know?,” your fingers fiddle with a loose hem on your dress, “and i’ve got a surprise tonight during the show,”
noel’s a little confused, still more than a little flustered at the sight of you before him. “oh yeah?” his voice is breathless, eyes carefully trained on your face.
you nod, “so just keep an ear out, i guess.”
noel laughs, “was planning on it anyway,” he turns to the door now, “right. good luck then,”
and he leaves, leaving you to let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding in. all that’s left in this room is you and the woody scent that seems to cling to noel.
noel found his way to the crowd’s vip section then. the venue was small, dim, and intimate. most of the people in the tent were other collaborators, many of whom he knew. he was in good, comfortable company. some others had to be your personal friends. they seemed to eye noel conspiratorially. the rest of the venue was packed with fans, young girls who brought a buzz to the room that reminded noel of his earliest days with oasis.
no more than twenty minutes later, you came on stage to the thrall of screams, the spotlight shining on you, casting a million different reflections from your dress. noel couldn’t fight the smile on his cheeks if he tried, even though he was aware of the many cameras and phones in the room, some surely trained on the vip tent.
but what started as an innocent smile soon turned to flushed cheeks and a dry throat as noel watched you prance around the stage, thigh-high boots that added height to your frame, skin tanned and glistening with exertion, voice clear and beautiful in his ears. this was the first time he’d heard some of the songs in their completion, and though noel knew your lyrics were cheeky, he still reveled in the shock around the room, laughter at the clever innuendos you threaded amongst delicate lyricism. noel was seeing it happen in real time now: you were becoming a popstar. his cock pushed against the seams of his pants with each song.
then, you spoke to the crowd, voice husky and smooth.
“these songs have all been from my new album but there is one more that i’ve added as a little surprise,” your eyes flicker to the vip tent, lingering on noel.
this must be what you were talking about earlier. the surprise. you’ve got noel’s full attention now, and you know it. you smirk, turn, and walk to the other side of the stage, hips swaying. the pressure in noel’s pants growing with each second.
“this song is about when you meet someone and you just know the sex would be great,” you laugh, seeing people in the audience whistle, nod, snap their fingers. you purposefully avoid looking at the vip tent.
“like you know when you fancy someone and just immediately start fantasizing…” you bring a finger to your mouth, bite playfully as you pretend you’re daydreaming. this time, you spare a glance at noel.
he’s standing with one hand under his chin, a wicked smile on his face.
“you know what i mean, don’t you?” your voice is sweet, playfully flustered.
noel huffs a laugh, trying to cover it behind his hand. his eyes don’t leave yours as he dips his chin in a slow nod.
butterflies erupt in your stomach. warmth floods your body so strongly you’re almost dizzy.
you smile, turn back and head toward the center of the stage.
“this song’s called 'bed chem',”
♬.ᐟ
you’re still catching your breath, towel around your neck in your dressing room, when there’s a knock at your dressing room door.
there’s only one person you’re hoping it is. only one person it should be.
you swing the door open with bated breath, breathe a sigh of relief when it’s him.
a smile unfurls across your face as the scent of noel fills your nose, woody and familiar. his eyes are hooded as he looks down at you, a cocky grin tugging the corner of his mouth.
he steps in and shuts the door behind him. you don’t move, let noel come nearly chest to chest with you. with your shoes kicked off, noel’s reminded of how short you are. how small.
your breath falters at his nearness. you take the chance to study him unadorned – the crinkles at the corner of his eyes, the gray that peppers his hair, the hook in his nose, the rise and fall of his chest.
his voice breaks you out of your trance, “some gig, aye,” a wry grin on his face.
“yeah? the chief approves?” your eyes flick between his eyes and lips.
noel laughs, “fuck me, who told you ‘bout that?”
you hum, turn around, and throw the damp towel around your neck into the laundry bin.
your eyes catch noel’s in your vanity mirror, his gaze clearly on your ass, snapping up when he knows he’s been caught. you smirk, take off your earrings and rings.
you bring your hair over one shoulder, meet noel’s watching eyes in the mirror, “help me with my necklace, will you?”
noel huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he comes forward, his fingers tickle the tendrils of hair on the back of your neck. goosebumps coat your arms as a shiver runs up your spine. noel notices, lets out a soft chuckle that fans across the nape of your neck.
the necklace comes loose around your neck, you tug it off and place it on your vanity. “thanks, chief,” you tease, smiling when noel laughs again behind you.
“and my dress? can you undo the zip?” your voice is low, a little breathless.
noel lets out a shaky chuckle, his hands falling from your shoulders to the zip on your dress. you swear you feel his hands shake as he tugs down the zip, your back exposed to him now.
your hands keep the top flush to your skin. noel’s hands settle low on your waist, his fingers squeezing just barely. your eyes flutter closed, reveling in his touch.
suddenly, noel’s hands drop from your waist, and he takes a step back. your eyes fly open, find him shaking his head in the mirror.
“i’ll uh–” noel takes some steps back, “i’ll let you get changed. was a great show,”
you turn to face him, hands still clutching your top to your chest. “stay,”
noel stops in his tracks, expression imperceptible. “yeah?”
you nod, a shy smile on your face as you lower your arms, let your top fall down.
noel swears, his eyes dropping down to your tits instinctively. then they flutter shut, a groan leaving his mouth. “fuck, love. what’re you gettin’ at?”
his eyes open again, find you bare cheated before him, a wicked grin on your face.
“jus’ wanna test my theory is all,” your voice is coy, teasing.
noel lets out a pained laugh. “fuck me, love. ‘m an old fuckin’ geezer and you’re–”
“i’m what?”
noel sputters a scoff. “you’re young! and innocent an–”
“do i look innocent right now?”
his eyes fall back to your breasts, nipples pebbled and pink.
noel huffs a laugh, shakes his head wordlessly.
you smile, unzip your skirt and let it fall down your legs, leaving you in just a lacy thong.
noel’s eyes follow down your body, fluttering closed as he lets out a swear.
you smirk, noticing the bulge in his pants and the flush on his cheeks.
when he speaks, his voice is rough, “ya really want this?”
you nod your head, bite your lip.
noel takes a step forward, forcing your chin up to meet his eyes. sporting a grin of disbelief, noel brings one hand to cup your cheek and lowers his mouth to yours.
you sigh against his lips, pull him flush against your naked body, shuddering at the feeling of his hard cock against your lower belly.
your hands find their way under noel’s t-shirt, palms flush against the warmth of his belly, dragging up over his chest and raising his shirt over his head.
you smile at one layer being shed, pull him back against you, and let him raise you to sit on your vanity as his mouth crushes against yours. noel’s hands fall to your breasts, kneading them and pinching your nipples.
you whine against his lips, head falling back as you feel noel smile against your skin, dropping his head to litter your neck in a mixture of kisses and love bites. one hand threads behind his head, encouraging noel’s mouth lower. he huffs a laugh against you and bows his head lower, taking one of your nipples into his mouth.
“oh my god,” you breathe, one hand behind you steadying yourself as you arch your body further into noel. he releases your nipple with a pop, eyes heavy-lidded as they look up at you and move to your other breast.
you smile wantonly, let your head fall back as your chest heaves beneath noel.
noel lifts his head, chuckling at your whine and connects his lips back to yours, smiling into your mouth.
wrapping his arms around your waist, noel lifts you and carries you to the couch in the room, sitting back and letting you straddle his lap.
“your pants,” you say, breathless, “take ‘em off,”
noel laughs, sits back, and laces his hands behind his head. he’s smug as he admires your flustered state.
you huff a laugh, press a quick sloppy kiss against his lips, and fall to your knees before him. noel kicks off his trainers, settles back into the couch, and raises his hips for you as you slide off his trousers. you look up at noel, see him nod and pull down the final layer of clothing he has. his cock slaps against his belly, impossibly pink at the tip and leaking drops of white cum. squeezing your legs together, you take his cock in your hand, moaning at the heat emanating from him, and wrap your lips around his tip.
noel lets out a shaky moan, his head lolling back against the couch as you take him further into your mouth. his cock hits the back of your throat, causing you to gag around him. you look up at noel through wet lashes, see his lazy grin.
you pop off him, spit dripping down your chin, and stand before him, clad in your thong. noel sits up, presses an open-mouth kiss to your lower belly, and pulls down your soaked panties, smiling when he sees the slick sticking between your legs.
“all f’me huh?” he says, dragging his fingers through your slit.
you nod, legs faltering as you come to straddle him again, his cock nudging your clit. noel reaches down, positions himself at your entrance, and lets you sink down on him.
your foreheads come together, mouths agape as your warmth adjusts around noel’s size.
you move your hips experimentally, moan at the way your nipples drag across his chest hair. noel smiles against your mouth, holds up your hips, and fucks up into you.
with your eyes screwed shut, you’re unable to silence the loud whine that comes out of your lips.
“fuck!” your head falls to the crook of noel’s neck, your arms wrapping around his shoulders to hold you flush against his body.
noel swears, his thrusts frantic and erratic as you press sloppy kisses to his neck, tasting salt.
“where should i–” noel’s voice is gruff.
“inside,” you say into his neck. “inside me, please,”
noel let’s out a pained laugh of disbelief, slamming your hips down to meet his. white heat builds in your lower belly, your body is slack, only held up by noel as your orgasm wracks through your body, flushing out your finger tips, toes curling. noel’s orgasm follows soon after, the warmth of his cum filling you up as you whisper words of encouragement in his ear.
you’re both fucked out, panting, sticky messes when there’s a knock at your door that has you both stiffening. you rack your brain trying to remember if either of you had locked the door.
“car’s heading out in twenty!” your manager’s voice comes from the other side of the door.
“just getting dressed and i’ll come out!”
she reminds you to hang your dress before her shoes click back down the hall.
you and noel are quiet, still catching your breath before he begins to laugh beneath you.
“what’s so funny?” you say, laughing along with him.
noel shakes his head, tucks some of your hair away from your face.
you’re still coming back to yourself as you process what’s happened. you’ve slept with noel gallagher. something twinkles deep in your body, your pulse fluttering in your throat.
“well?” noel’s grin is smug, he wipes away some rogue lipstick from your chin. you do the same to him, noting the swell of his pupils.
your brain takes a moment to catch up with his question. you laugh, sit up straight with him still inside you. noel’s breath catches at the sudden movement.
“well,” you say, slinging your arms around his neck loosely, pretending to think on it. “think i can confidently say that i was right,”
noel huffs a laugh, “oh yeah?”
you nod. “and you?”
“well, ‘m still inside you,”
you laugh, roll your eyes. “and?”
noel laughs, pinches your sides. “mmmm, think i’d say we do have good bed chem,”
pairing: 2000s!Noel x YoungerFem!Reader
wc: 3.9k
summary: For months you've been deflecting, redirecting, turning the attention back to him. Anyone would say you're just more of a giver than a taker. He's not so sure, and tonight he's determined to find out.
cw: smut, barely any plot, oral sex (fem receiving), multiple orgasms, fingering, p in v, established relationship, age gap.
An: This has been drastically influenced by Miranda!'s song ‘743’. Does anyone here know that song…?
The music he'd put on was too obvious, he knew that. He'd changed it three times before telling himself to stop being stupid and just put on what he actually wanted — something quiet, unpretentious, something that would fill the silence without swallowing it whole. He'd turned the lights down too, though he'd nudged the dimmer back up a bit because he didn't want it to look like he'd built a stage set. Which he had, to some extent. But there was no need for it to be quite so obvious.
When you ring the doorbell it's twenty past nine, which is exactly when you said you'd be there, and that doesn't surprise him anymore. You're punctual in a way he's always found quietly endearing, as if being late would be a kind of rudeness you'd never even consider. He opens the door and there you are, smiling, your eyes going briefly into the flat before they come back to him, and you lean in to say hello with a kiss.
"Hey," you say.
"Hey, how was your day?" he says, and steps back to let you in.
He watches you take in the room. The candles he'd ended up lighting after all, the glass already poured on the kitchen island, the lights lower than usual. He sees the exact moment you register it, the fraction of a second where something crosses your face. Not discomfort, exactly, but something more like the awareness that tonight has a different shape to it than other nights. You don't say anything about it. You pick up the glass, take a sip, tell him about your day, he tells you about his, and you're just the two of you in his flat on a wednesday night like any other.
Except it isn't. And you both know it, even if only one of you knows exactly why.
He'd been thinking about you in this specific way for weeks.
It wasn't that things were going badly — quite the opposite. You were exactly what he hadn't expected to find: attentive, funny in that way of yours that never asked for attention, with a way of looking at him that still caught him off guard after all these months. The sex was good. Better than good, most of the time. But there was something he'd been noticing gradually, almost without meaning to.
You always took care of him.
You did it so naturally that at first it had just seemed generous —which it was— but over time he'd started to see it differently. How every time he tried to redirect his attention, you'd bring it back. How every time his mouth drifted too far down, you'd find a way to steer him. A shift of your hips, a hand at his neck pulling him up, your mouth finding his with an urgency he'd taken a while to recognise as tactical. Not consciously, he knew that. You weren't doing it with any intent. It was something more ingrained, a way of managing things you probably weren't even aware you had.
And he'd let it go. Because he didn't want to push. Because he understood that bodies had their own languages and their own reservations, and because what you had wasn't exactly something to complain about.
But he thought about it. More than he'd have admitted.
What finally made it click was a night a couple of weeks back, a conversation that had seemed unremarkable but had drifted somewhere neither of you had planned. You'd been talking about something, he couldn't remember what now, and somehow you'd ended up admitting, with a mixture of honesty and mild embarrassment, that you'd never received oral sex. Never.
You were younger than him. He forgot that sometimes, but it wasn't hard to remember when he thought about the gaps that still existed in your experience. Gaps he found both tender and, tonight in particular, tremendously relevant.
That you didn't really know what it would be like, you'd said. That it seemed very —and here you'd searched for the word— exposed. And then you'd changed the subject with a dexterity that was clearly meant to close the matter.
He hadn't closed it. He'd let it settle, which was different.
Because what had stayed with him wasn't just the fact itself —though the fact alone was enough to make something in him settle with a kind of quiet resolve— but the word you'd chosen. Exposed. Not uncomfortable, not weird. Exposed, as if letting someone look at you was the problem, as if being seen properly, up close, with nothing you could do about it, was what frightened you.
Something in him had caught on that. Turned it over.
Never.
It wasn't possession, or not exactly. It was something more like the quiet indignation you feel when you realise someone you care about has been going without something they deserve. And underneath that, yes, there was something else too: the simple, instinctive desire to be the one. To be what you remembered.
And that was precisely why he knew tonight had to go differently.
The conversation in the kitchen has no particular subject, which is the best kind. He's topped up your glass and leaned back against the worktop with his, and you're talking about something —a show you've started, something that happened this week, he's already lost track— while he looks at you in that way you've been noticing for a while but haven't wanted to name yet.
Because he's being strange.
Not strange-bad. Strange like when a cat suddenly decides it wants attention and can't understand why that should be up for debate.
It started with a hand on your waist, apparently casual, but at some point that hand began to move, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip distractedly, up your side a little, back down. Like he was thinking about something else and his hands were just doing what they wanted.
Then he moved closer, his chest against your shoulder, his nose brushing your hair, his lips a moment at your temple without a word, as if he'd simply decided that being nearby wasn't enough and being pressed against you was the logical conclusion. And he'd stayed like that for a while, just against you while you kept talking, as if it were nothing, as if he weren't bringing his mouth within two centimetres of your neck, making you lose the thread of what you were saying.
You laugh.
"What's with you tonight?"
He doesn't change his expression. He looks at you for a moment, unhurried, like he's deciding how much to give you.
"Nothing," he says. "I just fancy you."
You're about to laugh. You've already got the smile forming, the comment lined up, something about how soppy he's gotten all of a sudden, but then he sets down his glass on the worktop and kisses you, and the comment doesn't go anywhere.
His mouth moving over yours with a calm that's almost more unsettling than if he'd just gone for it. His thumbs trace a slow arc over your waist through the fabric, and you have one moment of still-coherent thought before he parts your lips with his tongue and coherence goes wherever it came from.
One hand moves up your back, pressing flat between your shoulder blades, pulling you in, until there's no space left between you. The other goes down, slipping underneath the hem of your top, palm warm against your skin, moving upward with a slowness that tightens something in your stomach.
He moves you without you noticing. Your back against the worktop, his body against yours, the weight of him anchoring you there while the kiss slows further, becomes more deliberate, like he's enjoying each part separately.
When he pulls back, your lips are numb, your head's gone slightly, and you spend a second not entirely sure where you are. You look at his mouth. Then his eyes. And he's looking back at you with a calm that throws you more than anything else could.
Then he takes your hand.
"Come on," he says.
The bedroom is dim when you walk in, just the warm light from the hall cutting against the moonlight coming through the window. He kisses your neck from behind as he closes the door, and you tilt your head without thinking, giving him room, your hands reaching for something to hold on to and finding his hip behind you.
His mouth is slow and deliberate against your skin, teeth barely grazing. And by the time you turn toward him the haze of the kitchen kiss becomes something else —more active, more yours too—. You're not just receiving anymore, your hands move up his chest, his shoulders, pulling him toward you, because you want him, want his mouth. And he gives it to you without making you wait.
You move toward the bed with that inevitable awkwardness of two people who don't want to fully separate just to walk. He sits on the edge, you go with him, and for a while it's exactly what it always is: his hands in your hair, yours on his shoulders, the heat building between you in a way that makes sense given the circumstances.
And then your hands go down.
It's a completely natural gesture. You've done it before, plenty of times. Your fingers find his belt, the button of his trousers—
But he takes your hand.
Not hard. Just firm, his thumb over your pulse, stopping you without any drama. You look up.
You search his face for an explanation and he holds your gaze.
"Not tonight," he says.
A small silence.
"What?" you say, genuinely confused.
"That's not what I want to do tonight." He releases your wrists slowly, but doesn't move back. "I want to do other things first."
The tone isn't negotiating, it's just him telling you something he's decided, with the same ease he'd decide anything else, and there's something about that that ties your stomach in a knot you can't quite categorise.
He lays you down slowly, one hand at your back guiding you, and stays a moment looking at you from above with that calm you've learned isn't distance, but the exact opposite.
"Tonight," he says, and his voice is low, almost conversational, "I want you to focus on what you're feeling. Just that."
It's not quite a request. Not quite an order either. Something in between, said so naturally it takes a second to fully land.
"Noel—"
"I know what you're going to say." His lips find your temple, then your cheekbone, then the corner of your mouth. "You don't need to say it."
He starts at your neck. At the places he already knows work, but slower than usual, with more attention, as if tonight he has all the time in the world and has decided to spend all of it on you. His hands move over your sides, your back, and at some point your top disappears and you can't remember exactly when you decided to lift your arms to help him.
Moonlight falls through the window in long, oblique strips that shift across the bed as he moves downward, lips following the line of your collarbone, your sternum, your stomach. You feel every centimetre. The attention is almost too much —so specific, so without hurry— and you notice something in you wanting to do what you always do, to deflect, to redirect things back to him. But his hand is flat on your hip and it has a weight that's hard to ignore.
"You've been keeping me away for too long," he murmurs against your skin, and there's no reproach in it, just a kind of affectionate exasperation. "D'you know how much I've been wanting this?"
You don't answer. You can't.
His fingers find the waistband of your underwear and stop there, not pulling it down yet, just looking at you. And that sight —him between your legs, his cheek resting lightly against your thigh, his eyes on yours, waiting, watching for your reaction— makes you feel the heat building between your legs.
You swallow. And you don't say anything. But you don't look away either.
And he understands.
He pulls your underwear down slowly, eyes on yours until the last moment. He lets it drop to the floor and takes a second, just a second, before he goes down.
He doesn't go straight for it. His lips trace the inside of your thigh with a patience that borders on unbearable, moving slowly. You feel the warmth of his breath before his mouth touches you, and when it does, the air leaves you all at once.
It's slow. Almost too slow, with a patience that seems designed specifically to leave you no choice but to feel all of it. His tongue flat and unhurried, not searching for anything yet, just learning, adjusting the pressure to how you're breathing, to how your thighs tense, and easing them back open each time you close them by instinct — not forcing, just reminding you that he can, that he wants to, that tonight he has all the time in the world.
He finds your clit with his tongue and settles into a rhythm from the very first moment —circular, steady, not rushing— and the wet sound of it makes you bite your lip. His fingers travel up your stomach, your side, and at some point your hand finds his hair without you having decided to. You pull. He groans against you and the vibration moves through your whole body.
You look at him. And it's worse. It's so much worse to see him there, completely absorbed in this, completely at ease, as if there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be.
"Noel," you say, and you don't know if it's a warning or the opposite.
He doesn't stop.
His tongue keeps the rhythm while his fingers travel up the inside of your thigh and stop at your entrance, pressing first, exploring, not pushing in yet. And the combination of his mouth up there and his fingers down there, the waiting, makes you throw your head back with a sound you don't quite recognise as yours.
Then he slides them in, curling them forward carefully, searching. You arch toward him before you can stop yourself, your hips moving on their own, reaching for more, and he holds them with his free hand, keeping the rhythm, keeping control.
The pleasure builds differently from how you know it. Deeper, harder to control, like something rising from very far inside and not asking permission. You try to hold back —out of habit, out of the instinct not to give yourself over completely— but his mouth doesn't give and his fingers don't stop and at some point you can't choose anymore.
His eyes flick up to you from below, dark and focused. You look at him, that image, him there, looking at you like that, and something in you lets go entirely.
You moan his name as the orgasm undoes you from the inside, a tension you suddenly can't hold anymore, and then waves spreading outward. Your hand gripping his hair, your hips against his mouth, a sound that breaks in your throat while he doesn't pull away, staying with you until the end, until you have to pull him up because you can't take any more.
He comes up slowly. His chin wet against your stomach, your chest, your neck. When he reaches you, his eyes are bright and there's something on his face that isn't quite pride, but it's close enough.
He doesn't say anything. Just looks at you.
And you look at him, and something in you that's still trembling decides it can't manage that ten-centimetre gap between your mouth and his any longer, so you push yourself up, take his face in both hands, and kiss him.
Not gently. With everything.
He makes a surprised sound against your mouth, his hands finding your waist by instinct, and you hold onto him like there's something to lose if you let go — fingers in his hair, at his neck, pulling. You taste yourself on his mouth and that, which should throw you, does exactly the opposite.
"That good?" he murmurs against your lips, and there's a smile in his voice he makes no effort to hide.
You don't answer. You kiss him again instead of answering, and again, and again, because you don't have words for what's happening inside your head right now — that excess of something that doesn't fit in your chest and that your body has decided can only go one way, which is into him, his mouth, his hands, more.
He laughs a little against your lips. Low, satisfied. The most irritating and most wonderful sound you've ever heard.
You run your hands over his chest, his shoulders, and then you feel it —against your hip, unmistakable— how hard he is, the tension held in every muscle, how much it's cost him to stay back while you came apart under his mouth.
You start to move your hand down and he inhales sharply when you brush against him through the fabric.
"Oi," he says, and grabs your wrist, though not quite firmly enough.
"Noel..."
"Tonight was meant to be for you."
"I know." You look at him. Your voice is still a bit wrecked and your head's still a bit elsewhere, but you mean what you say. "And right now what I need is you." A pause. You let him work it out. "Inside."
It doesn't take even a heartbeat — all the blood rushing to one place. All the effort he's put in tonight to stay in control, all that calculated patience and that composure that had kept him in the driver's seat since he opened the door, gone the moment he heard you say you needed him. You feel it in how his jaw tightens, in how the grip on your wrist changes its nature without letting go entirely.
"Fuck," he says, very quietly, almost to himself.
He kisses you, and you can finally touch him the way you want.
Hands on his belt, the button, the zip, and this time he lets you, his mouth at your jaw while you work, his breathing less even than usual against your skin. His trousers and boxers disappear and then you have him in your hand — hard, warm, and more desperate than you'd expected after all that composure of his, and there's something extraordinary about it, that all that patience had come at a price, and he was paying it now against your palm.
He settles between your legs. And he doesn't enter yet.
You feel him moving slowly against you, up and down, getting wet, grazing your still-swollen clit with a precision that can't be accidental, and the air leaves you in a sigh you don't control.
"Noel." Your voice comes out broken. "Please."
"I know," he says, and it sounds like it costs him something to say it that calmly. "I know."
And he pushes in. Slowly, all the way, and you have to bite the pillow because you feel everything — every centimetre, every millimetre of friction against walls that are still trembling from the orgasm before, everything amplified, everything too much and exactly enough at the same time.
When he starts to move, the rhythm he establishes from the start has an urgency that hasn't been there all night, as if he's spent all his patience and this is what's left underneath — him, without calculation, without strategy, just moving inside you because he's been waiting too long and there's nothing left in him that can hold back.
You try not to be loud and fail completely, a sound escaping with every thrust. He notices. He notices and does nothing to hide that he notices, moving with the single intention of hearing you more, getting more from you, as if he's been collecting something all night and is only now cashing it in.
Then he takes your leg —a small adjustment, his hand in the back of your knee, the angle shifting barely— and the next movement wipes out all thought. He hits exactly that spot, with a precision that shouldn't be possible, and it takes your sense of where you are entirely.
"There," you say, and don't recognise your own voice.
"Yeah?" And something in how he asks it, that half-recovered smirk, makes you want to kill him and never let him go. "Here?"
You try to answer and what comes out is nearly nothing, a breath split in two.
"Yeah." A pause where more words should fit and none do. "Please."
He doesn't stop. Of course he doesn't.
And you can tell he's close — in the tension of his muscles under your hands, in how his breathing has abandoned any pretence of control and each thrust is a little deeper than the one before.
Then his hand drops between you. His fingers find your clit with a steady, minimal pressure —almost nothing, almost too much— and between that and him filling you with a rhythm that's no longer calculated at all, the pleasure becomes something without edges, leaving you with nothing to hold onto.
"Noel," you say, and it's almost a warning. "I can't—"
"Yeah you can," he murmurs against your temple. "Want to feel you."
And he does. Your walls clench around him in a contraction that grips and won't let go, and the sound he makes —guttural, broken, completely involuntary— is the last thing you process before the orgasm undoes you a second time, deeper than the first, spreading through your whole body while you feel him reach the edge inside you, filling you, and that sensation carries you through one final wave that leaves you entirely without words.
Afterwards there's a stretch of time that doesn't exist. Or it exists, but not for you — just the weight of him on top of you, his uneven breathing against your neck, both of you not moving because moving would require a capacity for decision that neither of you has right now.
At some point he rolls to your side and brings you with him, or you go on your own, you don't know, and you end up lying there with your head on his chest and his hand moving slowly up and down your back without any apparent purpose.
You don't know how long it's been. Long enough for your breathing to return to something recognisable, for the ceiling to stop moving, for you to start getting a sense of where your legs end.
Your eyes are closed, your head on his chest, and you are, broadly speaking, on a different plane of existence.
"I cannot believe I spent this long not knowing what I was missing," you say, after several minutes of reflection.
He laughs, his arm pulling you in a little tighter, and you decide this is probably the best place in the world.
"Glad I could help."
There's so much satisfaction in his voice that in any other moment it would bother you. But right now nothing bothers you.
"We're gonna have to do that again," you murmur, already half asleep. "Frequently."
His hand stills for a moment on your back. Then carries on, slower still.
"Whenever you want, love" he says, very quietly, like it's the simplest thing in the world.
wn: this is lowkey a part two of amsterdamage!!! i love that one and this is a very short continuation based on this request! i dedicate this to our no.1 roadie noel’s stan @noelsbambii 💋 hope you guys like this! not proofread oops
the pool was chaos in the best way. not like you can expect any less from a the band and the roadies that have worked their arses off the past months and finally can get some time to relax.
you’re not sure whose idea it was, but everyone was immediately game for staying at a country house for a couple of days. and you thanked god that people were really focused on really relishing the opportunity to have fun. doing as many drugs and drinking as much alcohol they could before reality crept back in.
because it kept them distracted. oblivious to what’s been happening since amsterdam.
not like it’s a top secret or that people would loose their minds over it. it was just something you two agreed on keeping it just to yourselves. made things less complicated and, quite frankly, much more exciting.
you and noel were half-submerged at the far end, arms resting on the edge, shoulders just breaking the surface. the water was cool and the side of his body was touching yours. deliberate but casual enough to look accidental. he leaned closer to your ear, his voice low, almost lost under the noise. “everyone’s pissed”
you hummed in agreement, eyes closing while your chin rested on your arms over the pool’s edge. lips curling up and body already buzzing from just feeling his eyes on you. could’ve been the weed, too.
his laugh was quiet, breath warm against your ear and your neck. “dunno how you do it”
you turned your head just slightly, meeting his eyes and yours darting down to his lips because you simply couldn’t help it. “do what?”
he couldn’t help but smirk at the look on your face, licking his lips and leaning closer to your ear again: “stand there like that” he said, voice dropped further. “getting hard just looking at you”
a smile grew on your lips, slow and undeniably turned on. “you’re just easy, noel”
that earned you a soft laugh from him, shaking his head. “fuck off”. you rested your head on the pool, just so you could look at him: eyes red from the chlorine or the weed, hair wet, his nose slightly sunburnt already. watching the way he kept looking at you, too. and his eyes dipped again, slow and shameless. “smug little shit, aren’t you? that look on your face. like you don’t even have to try”
you laughed quietly and raised a brow. “oh yeah?”
“yeah” he said. “prettiest one here by a mile. drives me fucking mad”, his knee nudging your leg under the water, staying there. you could feel the tension in him, the way he was holding himself too still.
you licked your lips, smiling as you got closer to his ear and whispering: “that’s because you don’t know what i’m thinking right now”
he groaned instantly, dropping his face into his crossed arms on the pool edge and swearing under his breath. his shoulders tight. “don’t” he said, muffled.
you smiled, not letting his reaction stop you: “been thinking about it all day”
he inhaled sharply, turning and resting his cheek on his arms, facing you. “yeah?” he whispered back. and you nodded, slowly. eyes darting to his lips again.
“mhm… fucking desperate for you”, you confessed.
he exhaled sharply, a sound halfway between a laugh and something else. “got it yesterday, you fucking nympho”
you laughed and bit down a smile. “so? can’t help it…”, you said lightly. then, glanced over your shoulder at everyone else. turning back to him at the realization they didn’t give a fuck regarding anything else other than a very heated and drunk discussion over joy division. so, you whispered to him again: “want your cock again, noel… inside me. in my mouth… anywhere”
he lifted his eyebrows slowly, mouth tugging into that familiar crooked grin. teasing:
“anywhere?”
you laughed quietly, splashing a bit of water at him with your hand, not enough to draw attention, just enough to make a point. “bastard”
he hummed, smug and soft. “you like it, you minx”. you laughed, shrugging and closing your eyes. because he’s not wrong. and he smiled back, nudging his ching towards you and saying quietly: “say the word and i’m gone, yeah?”
you let out a soft huff, tipping your head back and letting out a long soft exhale.
he watched, smirking because he knew what was about to come. curious to see what was going to be the excuse this time.
then you stretched, slow and lazy. “gonna take a shower” you said lightly, loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. “chlorine’s starting to make my arms itch”
a few people groaned. someone splashed water your way. and you just laughed, climbing out and bending over just a bit more than necessary to grab your towel. making sure to give him one last look just to see the look on his face: fighting back a smirk and lightly shaking his head at your cheekiness.
a couple minutes later – enough to not raise suspicions and let the bulge in his pants return to something closer to normal –noel sighed loudly, rolling his shoulders. “i’m knackered” he announced, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “might lie down for a bit”
── .✦
the bathroom door clicked shut behind you, but you didn’t lock it. you peeled your bikini off already inside the shower, water streaming down and hitting your skin that has been warmed up by the sun the whole day.
the door creaked open a minute later when you were about to grab the shampoo.
then it locked.
“starting without me, hm?”
you smiled, turned your head slightly so you could look at him. smiling wider when you watched him fumble with his wet trousers, licking your lips and shrugging like the sight of his already hard cock wasn’t what you wanted to see since the moment you woke up. “wasn’t gonna wait around” you teased.
he let out a soft huff, a quiet and taunting “yeah?” coming out of him the same time his hands found your hips, making you smile even wider when he pressed your front against the wall. hands grabbing your sides and dragging down to your ass before giving it a hard squeeze. he leaned down in your ear, his hand finding his cock and guiding it to your folds the moment you arched towards him. unspoken, already familiar. and whispered: “look fucking unreal like this”
you bit down a smile and tilted your head back, eyes looking for his. humming as your hips moved against him, tipping your toes and doing an effort to make him cut off the teasing. gasping softly just like him when his tip slid in your entrance, almost sucking him right in.
he swore under his breath, smiling despite himself, pushing in and pulling back just to taunt you. his hand sliding up your back and his fingers tangling inside your hair, pulling your head back and whispering in your ear: “cheeky”. then, leaving a sharp slap on your ass that got a startled and unexpected laugh out of you.
“noel! people could hear”, you whispered-yelled, scolding him – even though you were not bothered at all. he smirked, eyebrows raising softly while his hand that was in your hair slid towards your mouth, covering it while his other one lined himself up with you again. this time, pushing himself all the way in with a low groan coming out of him and a moan out of you that was muffled by his hand.
“then you better stay quiet, hm?”
your eyes fluttered shut, head tipping back allowing him to look down at your face as he started moving his hips. deep, steady thrusts. his palm still firm against your mouth allowing you not to hold back as much as you probably needed to with the moaning. he didn’t exactly hold back either, leaning down to your ear and letting out quiet and raspy moans just for you as his cock dragged out and slammed back in. his other hand steady on your hip and keeping you arched to him – fingers twitching on the grip the moment he looked down at where you two were connected.
his mouth fell agape at the sight of his hips hitting your ass over and over. the way your body moved as a result of his cock sliding in and out, the sight of the water drops glistening on your skin making the faint tan lines look even sexier getting him to speed up.
his hand twitched on your face, pressing in even harder and somehow adding even more to the feeling. you moaned his name against his palm, muffled but going straight to his cock. he brought his lips closer to your cheek, leaving a sloppy kiss there before he slurred out while not letting up on the thrusts, perfectly paced and perfectly deep: “best fucking pussy i’ve ever had, love. god. so tight. always so fucking tight, so fucking wet”
your eyes find his. both still slightly red and droopy, your eyebrows furrowing and your hand searching for his wrist and wrapping around it, making his palm move away just a bit so you could get it out. “y-yeah?…” – still struggling to keep your moans in. but it wasn’t that big of a problem with the water streaming down to disguise it.
he hummed and leaned in, kissing your lips and immediately sliding his tongue inside. you kissed him back, moaning inside his mouth and tongues relaxed, lazy and sloppy in the most delicious way. you murmured against his lips, “f-for you…”
he let out a low moan, hips speeding up just slightly while his hand slid to your torso, sliding over your lower belly and trailing down slowly, almost unplanned. “yeah? lucky me then, hm? could spend hours fucking you like this. watching you take me”
you moaned, lips parting and panting softly while keeping the eye contact. he kissed you again, not minding you broke it when his fingers found your clit, rubbing sloppy circles on it that absolutely got the job done. his thrusts getting deeper, just a bit sloppier from overwhelment and faster simply because he couldn’t help it. “watchin’ you squirm around it, fuckin’ moaning f’me. look so pretty. so fucking good when you’re cumming ‘round it, love”
you head tipped back, your grip on his wrist tightening as you whispered in between moans, “g-gonna… fuck, noel… d-don’t stop…”
he wouldn’t dare to stop, keeping up with the pace of his thrusts and his fingers rubbing you and whispering right back, trying to keep quiet – even though the wet skin slapping sounds weren’t exactly discreet. “yeah? want it? go on, cum on it. squeeze me fucking tight. yeah, just like that”
you felt it wash through you, the tension snapping all at once. you desperately grabbed his wrist and guided his hand back to your mouth again, his palm pressing in and muffling your moans while your fingers dug into him, a broken moan leaving you and teeth catching his skin to stay quiet.
and he followed right after, letting out a low groan pressed into your hair and pulling out, stroking his cock and spilling hot spurs of his cum all over your lower back and your ass. his vision was hazy but he still pulled away just a bit so he could watch the pretty mess being made over your skin.
your head rested on the cold tile wall as you panted, arching yourself to him like it was second nature. you felt his free hand wrap around your waist, his hands sliding up your wet skin until they found your tits, giving them a soft squeeze – more out of comfort than anything. grounding himself as he panted against your hair.
“alright?”, he asked softly, his hand going up to the side of your face and caressing it while making you face him. you let out a soft huff of a laughter at the gentleness, and nodded. he smiled back, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss on your cheek. “right, then”
“is it too messy?”, you asked, already laughing. and only then he pulled his gaze away from your face, looking at the traces of him he left behind over your wet skin, and he let out a short snort and nodded.
“a bit, but…” – he guided his fingers there, picking up some of his cum and smearing on his fingers before guiding it towards your mouth – “s’okay, hm?”
your lips curled up, biting down a tiny smirk before slowly darting your tongue out while looking at him. his fingers slid inside your mouth, a smirk growing on his lips as he watched you suck them softly. “good girl”, he said quietly, leaning in and replacing his fingers with his tongue inside your mouth.
summery: set during a fragile moment for Oasis, it’s a soft, slow-burn story about choosing to stay, letting things unfold gently, and finding comfort in the present.
cw: substance use (alcohol, cigarettes, brief references to drug use), emotional tension / confrontational dialogue (hostile interview exchange), gendered power dynamics in the workplace, parental financial stress (non-graphic, contextual), industry pressure and reputation anxiety, verbal hostility / sarcasm / sexual interaction, minors DNI
wn: this is the final chapter 🥹💛 thanks for the support xx
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
he wakes you with soft kisses along your shoulder, his arm wrapped around your waist as he pulls you tighter against him, your naked hips pressing back into the hardness of his length.
“morning,” you mutter with your eyes still closed.
he huffs softly against your shoulder and you can feel the smile in it.
“not mornin’ yet, love,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep as a wandering hand travels from your stomach down to your thighs.
you hum in response, shifting slightly so your back rests against the mattress, giving him easier access. when you open your eyes, his blue ones are still striking even in the dim light of the hotel room. messy hair, sleepy eyes — the sight makes you smile.
your hands move slowly to his face, cupping his cheeks, your fingers brushing the rough stubble along his jaw.
“what are we doing?” you ask quietly, though you make no effort to stop his hand as he gently opens your legs.
he tilts his head to press a kiss into your open palm, two fingers already tracing softly at your entrance.
“just livin’, love,” he says before leaning down and catching your lips in an open-mouthed kiss.
you sigh into it, your tongue sliding against his in a messy, sleepy kiss that quickly grows deeper. a soft moan escapes you as he slides one finger inside you, then another.
he groans low against your mouth.
“so wet already,” he mutters teasingly, leaving a slow trail of kisses along your jaw and down your neck.
you hum again, your hips moving instinctively against his hand. when he catches one of your breasts with his mouth, a helpless whine slips from you. the warm stroke of his tongue over your nipple sends a sharp shiver down your spine.
“fuck— noel…” you whisper, your fingers tangling into his hair as your body clenches around his fingers.
his free hand moves to your other breast, pinching your nipple softly until your back arches beneath him. your eyes fall closed, overwhelmed by the steady rhythm of his fingers inside you and the heat of his mouth on your skin.
you tug lightly at his hair, guiding him back up to you. he follows easily and you kiss him fiercely, need and desire mixing together as he meets you with the same urgency. when he pulls his hand from between your legs to steady you by the waist, a soft whine escapes you at the loss.
he huffs a quiet laugh, leaning back just enough to look at you.
“what’s wrong, love?” he asks, knowing perfectly well. “just need to ask.” his grin turns slightly crooked.
“stop teasin’,” you mutter before pulling him back into another kiss.
your tongue moves against his in a slow, dizzying rhythm — the kind that would make your knees give out if you were standing. he kisses you like he could lose himself in it, like he has nowhere else to be.
you shift your weight without breaking the kiss, tangling your legs around him as you move to straddle his hips. your knees settle at either side of him, your chest pressing flush against his. a groan slips from him when his hardened cock brushes against the curve of your arse.
when you finally pull away, his eyes open slowly. his hands tighten on your waist as you begin to lower yourself over him, teasing your entrance along his length without letting him inside.
“ye gonna ride me?” he asks with a crooked grin, gripping your hips just firmly enough to send goosebumps across your body.
you pause for a moment, letting your eyes take him in — parted lips, those stupidly blue eyes that always make your stomach flip.
“what a fuckin’ sight you are,” he murmurs.
his hands slide up from your waist to your breasts.
you bite your bottom lip, smiling slightly as one of your hands reaches down to wrap around his cock. you begin to stroke him slowly — painfully slowly — until his head tips back against the pillow and a low moan leaves his open mouth.
you keep the pace deliberate, feeling the slick warmth of his pre-cum against your fingers with every stroke. his hips shift restlessly beneath you, silently asking for more friction while his hands continue roaming over your waist and chest.
“open your eyes,” you say softly.
he does.
and you guide him to your entrance, dragging the head of his cock slowly between your folds before finally lowering yourself down onto him.
you both groan at the same time — you at the stretch, him at the tight grip around him.
his eyes fall half-lidded as his hands grip your hips while you begin to move slowly over him.
“fuckin’ hell…” he breathes.
you close your eyes as the rhythm builds, rocking your hips back and forth. when you lean down toward him he meets you halfway, kissing you deeply while gripping your hair just enough to steady you, his hips beginning to move beneath yours.
his mouth drifts from your lips to your jaw, down to your neck, then lower as he takes one of your breasts again, sucking hard enough to make you moan and tighten around him.
the room fills with the wet, obscene sound of your bodies moving together.
you brace your palms against his chest when you feel the familiar heat beginning to build low in your stomach, your movements growing faster, more desperate.
“so good, fuck’s sake,” he grunts, his hands tightening around your hips as you moan his name.
your breath shudders out of you as the orgasm hits, your mouth falling open in a quiet cry while your body trembles around him.
he doesn’t stop moving, thrusting up into you through the waves of it until he follows not long after with a low groan.
“fuck.”
you let out a breathless laugh as you collapse forward, resting your head beneath his jaw.
he’s still inside you, one hand sliding gently through your hair while his other arm wraps around your waist to keep you close.
your breathing slowly begins to steady. beneath your cheek you can feel the rapid beat of his heart against his chest.
he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, murmuring something under his breath you don’t quite catch as your eyes drift closed again.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
it’s almost seven when you step out of the bathroom, hair still damp, yesterday’s clothes pulled back on with quiet care, trying not to wake noel up. for a moment you simply stand there, one hand resting against the edge of the dresser, letting the quiet settle around you.
you had woken up around six still wrapped in noel’s arms, his leg thrown loosely over yours, his breathing warm and steady against the back of your neck. for a long while you hadn’t moved at all. you had just stayed there, listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest against your back.
you had stayed there longer than you meant to, long enough that the reality of it began creeping back in.
the call from your father. the fight. the way everything seemed to collapse around you outside of that restaurant. and then, somehow, the way the night had ended here — in his room, in his bed, with his hands steady and warm around you like the world outside the door couldn’t touch either of you.
the memory makes your chest tighten now as you glance toward the bed again.
it still feels strange, almost unreal, how everything between you seemed to collapse into something inevitable last night.
it had felt so right and impossibly wrong at the same time. the truth sits quietly in the back of your mind now, impossible to ignore: you are leaving.
in a few days the article will be finished. the tour will move on. the small, strange bubble you’ve been living inside with them will disappear, and both of you will go back to the lives you had before any of this began.
his life is chaos, music, endless movement. yours is deadlines, cities, stories that always end with you leaving.
the thought sits heavy in your chest as you move quietly toward the bed. you lean down carefully, resting a hand on his shoulder as you give him a small shake.
“noel…”
he reacts slowly, brow pulling together before his eyes open halfway with a low, displeased grunt.
“hey,” you murmur softly. “i’m gonna go to maggie’s room to get my keys.”
he blinks a few times, still half asleep, trying to make sense of what you’re saying. “what time is it?” he mutters hoarsely.
“seven.” you wince slightly at the time yourself. “sorry. i just wanted to let you know before i left.”
you lean down to press a gentle kiss to his forehead.
he exhales through his nose, still squinting up at you as the last bits of sleep slowly fade from his expression.
“why are you goin’ again, love…?” the question comes out lazy, his voice still thick with sleep.
you smile a little despite yourself, brushing your thumb lightly along his temple before leaning down to give him a quick kiss.
“i need to get back to my room,” you explain softly. “i’ve got to gather my things for the day. go back to sleep, yeah?”
he blinks again, clearly still waking up, his cheek pressing deeper into the pillow as he nods faintly.
“see you later?” the words are simple, casual, but something in the way he says them makes your chest tighten again.
you force a small smile as you step back toward the door.
“yeah,” you say softly. “see you in a bit.”
later, after a slightly embarrassing meeting with maggie to gather your things, you reach the lobby. the hotel is fully awake at this time. a few guests sit scattered across the lounge chairs with coffee cups in hand, luggage carts moving slowly toward the doors.
you’ve claimed a quiet corner table near the wall, notebook open in front of you, pen tapping lightly against the page while you review the notes you scribbled yesterday.
you’re so focused on the page that you almost miss the first arrival.
“mornin’.” alan’s voice pulls your attention up as he walks into the lobby, already holding a coffee in one hand.
“morning,” you reply with a small smile. he gestures vaguely toward your notebook.
“already at it?”
“just getting the last details,” you say smiling and he chuckles softly before dropping into one of the chairs nearby.
gem arrives next, pushing through the door with a jacket slung over his shoulder. he offers you a quiet nod and a tired smile, clearly still somewhere between asleep and awake. andy follows a minute later, rubbing one hand over his face while he looks around the room.
“coffee?” he asks no one in particular.
“please,” gem answers immediately.
the atmosphere stays loose, half sleepy. you’re just returning to your notes when the lift doors opens.
liam’s laugh arrives first echoing briefly off the high ceiling as he walks in beside noel. the two of them are already mid-conversation, trading insults back and forth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“i’m tellin’ you, it sounded shite.”
“that’s because you don’t know what you’re listenin’ to.”
“i know when somethin’ sounds shite.”
“fuck off.” liam scoffs loudly.
they’re still laughing when noel’s eyes drift across the room and land on you, the change in his expression is almost immediate.
his grin widens and for a second it feels like the entire lobby fades into the background. there’s something in the look he gives you that makes heat rush unexpectedly to your cheeks. not obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but unmistakable to you.
like he’s remembering something and he doesn’t particularly care if anyone guesses.
your eyes drop back to your notebook a moment later, though the faint smile tugging at your lips refuses to disappear.
liam continues toward the chairs with the others, still talking, but noel slows slightly as he reaches your table.
“mornin’,” he says casually.
“morning,” you reply, hoping your voice sounds steadier than you feel.
he doesn’t linger, only moving past you to join the others, but you can feel the faint shift in his mood even from where you sit.
maggie appears not long after, schedule folder already in hand.
“right,” she announces. “we’re heading out.”
everyone begins standing, collecting jackets and coffee cups while you quickly close your notebook and slide it back into your bag.
outside, the van is already waiting.
you step up first, climbing inside and sliding toward the middle row. before you can settle properly, noel appears behind you.
“after you,” he says lightly, gesturing towards the seat.
you huff a laugh as you move in, and he follows, dropping down beside you as if it’s the most natural decision in the world. his arm comes up to rest along the back of the seat behind you, casual enough that it almost looks accidental.
with the van moving through the city streets, conversation fills the space quickly again. noel joins in now and then, throwing the occasional comment over his shoulder while his knee presses lightly against yours with the closeness of the seat.
you try really hard to focus on your work.
pulling your notebook back out, you flip to the pages you were reviewing earlier and begin marking them again. the van rocks gently with traffic while the others talk around you.
“look at you,” noel says quietly. “workin’ so hard.” his breath brushes lightly against your skin.
you can’t stop the small laugh that escapes you, nor the heat that spreads through you as you glance sideways at him.
“you are such a fucking tease.”
his grin returns immediately.
despite the weight of the approaching goodbye sitting quietly in the back of your mind, the warmth in your chest feels simple and dangerously easy.
when you get to the radio station, it’s already buzzing by the time the van pulls up outside.
inside, the atmosphere feels warmer than the hotel lobby — music drifting faintly from somewhere down the corridor, producers moving between rooms with headphones around their necks, assistants juggling coffee cups and clipboards while schedules shift by the minute.
you follow the band through the hallway toward the studio booth, notebook already in hand again.
the interview itself turns out surprisingly easy. the host is lively, quick with jokes, clearly a fan, which helps keep the tone light. liam takes over most of the talking, leaning comfortably toward the microphone while he answers questions with his usual mixture of exaggeration and sarcasm, making everyone laugh.
when the segment finally ends, the room loosens again immediately. noel stretches slightly as he stands, running a hand through his hair before glancing toward you across the room.
“fancy a cig?” he asks casually.
you close your notebook and nod.
outside the building the morning air feels cooler than you expected, a faint breeze moving through the narrow street beside the station. the city is fully awake now — traffic rolling past, people moving quickly along the pavements with coffee cups in hand.
noel lights the cigarette first before passing it to you. you take a slow drag, the smoke warming your chest before you hand it back to him, your fingers brushing lightly against his when he takes it.
he watches you for a moment. then he leans a little closer, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair gently behind your ear.
the gesture is so natural it catches you slightly off guard. he studies your face for another moment before speaking again.
“your dad try ringin’ today?” there’s something softer in his voice this time. concern, maybe.
you shake your head, looking down briefly at the pavement before continuing.
“he usually disappears after a fight like that.”
noel listens without interrupting.
“it’s always the same pattern,” you explain quietly. “he shows up again when something’s gone wrong in his life. money, trouble — whatever it is this time.” you shrug faintly. “and somehow i’m supposed to fix it.”
noel’s expression tightens slightly.
“that’s why the work matters so much,” you add. “i need to build something that’s actually mine. something he can’t pull apart every time he decides to show up again.”
the words hang between you for a moment. noel watches you carefully, and then he steps forward. the movement is sudden enough that you barely register it before he’s kissing you.
when he pulls back, your eyes are still wide with surprise.
for a second you feel strangely exposed — like he’s seen straight through the armour you’ve spent a lifetime building.
his hand lifts gently to the back of your neck before he leans down and presses a softer kiss against your forehead.
“stay with me this couple of days, yeah?” he murmurs.
you look up at him again.
“we’ll keep the noise outside,” he says softly. “just you and me.”
you nod almost immediately, because the truth is simple: that’s exactly what you want too.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
the rest of the nights and days pass in a blurry haze. noel makes sure to clear his schedule as much as possible during the last days of your stay. when you’re not by his side at every commitment, you’re in his bed, making him yours for as long as you can.
your last day doesn’t start with alarms or rushing footsteps in hotel corridors, but with the quiet light that slips carefully through the curtains and spreads across the room like it’s trying not to wake anyone.
for a moment you don’t move at all, just lying there on your side while you watch the soft rise and fall of noel’s chest beside you. his arm is still loosely draped over your waist, the warmth of his hand resting just above your hip.
it feels strangely peaceful.
like the entire world has paused long enough to give the two of you a small pocket of time that belongs to no one else.
you don’t know how long you stay like that. eventually his eyes open.
he blinks once, adjusting to the light, and when he realises you’re already awake the corner of his mouth lifts in a sleepy half-smile.
“you starin’ at me?”
“maybe,” you say, your lips pressing together as you try to hide your own smile.
“bit creepy, that.” his voice is still thick with sleep when he answers.
you roll your eyes softly, but the moment dissolves into quiet laughter between you before he kisses you deeply, a soft moan escaping your lips when his mouth drifts to your neck.
later, after coffee and showers, you step outside the hotel together. the air is cool, carrying the faint smell of morning rain on the pavement.
no schedules today.
just the city stretching out around you.
noel walks beside you with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders relaxed in a way you haven’t seen much during the chaos of the past weeks.
every now and then someone passing on the street looks twice. recognition flickers across their face, but he doesn’t seem to care.
you end up in a small café a few streets away. sunlight filters through the window beside your table, warming the space between you while the quiet hum of conversation drifts around the room.
he tells you about the first terrible songs he ever tried to write, laughing at himself when he remembers how serious he used to take it all. you tell him about the first article you ever published, how terrified you were someone would realise you had no idea what you were doing.
“still don’t,” you admit.
he smirks. “nah. you do.”
the way he says it makes warmth spread quietly through your chest. when you leave the café the afternoon has already begun settling over the streets.
you walk without much direction past shop windows and narrow alleyways and quiet parks where people sit on benches with newspapers folded beside them.
“so… what’s next?” he asks quietly.
you shrug without stopping walking. “dunno. maybe they’ll send me to new york,” you say softly, suddenly shy about it. “it’s not confirmed yet,” you add quickly.
he stops walking and you don’t have much choice but stop too. when you look at him, his eyes are soft, a small smile tugging his lips.
“new york, eh? that sounds big” he says and you can’t help the laugh that leaves your mouth
“well… i think they’re impressed that i actually spent the whole month with oasis,” you grin. “all the writers and journos are terrified of you lot.”
“as they should,” he laughs. then he keeps staring at you, the smile never leaving his lips. “i’m happy for you.”
you bite your lip, trying to contain the happiness in your chest. you shake your head slightly while beginning to walk again. “thank you,” you whisper.
your shoulders brush lightly as you walk too close together, neither of you moves away.
at one point he reaches for your hand without looking at you. like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
your fingers lace together easily without hesitation.
a couple walking past glances at the two of you with brief curiosity, but noel doesn’t let go. he keeps walking like nothing about the moment needs hiding.
later you sit together on a low stone wall near a small park while the late afternoon light softens around the trees.
you talk about music, about writing. about the strange way creative work sometimes feels like chasing something you can never quite catch.
“you ever get scared it’ll just… stop?” you ask.
he considers that for a moment. “sometimes,” he admits, then shrugs slightly. “but it hasn’t yet.”
the conversation drifts again into moments where one of you starts saying something only to lose the thread halfway through because the other has started laughing.
by the time you and noel reach the hotel again, the sky has already deepened into evening.
the lobby lights glow warmly against the marble floor, the quiet murmur of late guests drifting around the room. for a moment you assume the day is finally over — that the two of you will simply disappear upstairs and let the last hours of it fade quietly away.
but noel pauses beside the lift. he glances at you, something faintly amused in his expression.
“go change,” he says.
“what?”
“somethin’ a bit nicer,” he adds with a small shrug. “we’re goin’ out.”
“where?” you narrow your eyes slightly.
his smile widens just enough to make it clear he’s not planning to explain.
“you’ll see.”
twenty minutes later you’re back downstairs.
the same driver who’s been shuttling the band around all week is waiting outside the hotel entrance, leaning casually against the van as you step through the doors.
noel is already there, and when he sees you his gaze lingers for half a second longer than necessary. then he opens the van door as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.
the ride through the city is short, just long enough for the quiet anticipation to build slightly in your chest as the van turns onto a busier street lined with warm restaurant lights and evening crowds.
when the driver pulls up outside a narrow brick building on the corner, noel gestures toward the door.
“go on.”
you step inside first and immediately stop. the long table near the back of the restaurant erupts into noise the moment they see you.
“there she is!”
liam’s voice rings out first, already half-standing from his chair with a wide grin on his face.
gem lifts his glass, alan whistles loudly. andy claps his hands together in exaggerated applause while maggie smiles warmly from the end of the table.
for a second you just stand there staring at them.
“you—” your laugh cuts off the rest of the sentence as the realisation settles in.
“surprise,” noel says quietly behind you.
warmth spreads through your chest as you walk toward the table shaking your head in disbelief while everyone begins talking at once.
chairs scrape across the floor as they make space for you. liam pushes a drink into your hand almost immediately.
“you’re not allowed to be sober at your own send-off,” liam declares.
“alright then,” you reply, laughing as you take the glass.
the evening unfolds easily after that. plates of food appear, more drinks follow. conversation flows in overlapping waves around the table, stories and jokes bouncing between them in a kind of loud, chaotic rhythm.
you find yourself laughing more than you expected, your cheeks aching and your shoulders shaking as liam launches into a dramatic retelling of some disaster from the early days of the band, while alan interrupts every few seconds to correct the details.
noel stays beside you the entire evening.
sometimes his arm rests casually along the back of your chair. sometimes his hand drifts briefly to your shoulder while he leans closer to say something under the noise of the table.
the touches are small but constant. like he has no interest in pretending the closeness between you isn’t there.
halfway through dinner, maggie mentions the article and suddenly the attention of the entire table turns toward you.
“read somethin’,” andy insists.
“absolutely not,” you say, mortified, your cheeks already flushed.
“go on!” liam bangs his hand lightly against the table.
“just a bit,” gem adds with a grin.
you groan, reaching for your bag anyway. “this is a terrible idea,” you mutter, smiling.
your notebook appears a moment later, pages already softened at the corners from weeks of use. you flip through them for a second before finding a paragraph near the middle.
“alright,” you warn. “just a bit, yeah?”
they fall quiet — or at least as quiet as they’re capable of. you can’t help the nervous laugh that leaves your lips.
you read just a short section.
“watching them up close for the past weeks, you begin to understand that oasis doesn’t function like a tidy machine the way most bands pretend to. they are louder than that — messier, constantly pulling against each other like gravity in different directions. but somewhere inside that friction is the thing that keeps them moving forward. the arguments, the jokes, the endless noise — it all folds into the same strange loyalty. and when they step onto a stage together, that chaos becomes something unmistakably alive.”
it’s a moment you wrote about earlier during the album’s promotional launch — the way the band moves through the world together, loud and impossible to ignore, yet somehow still grounded by the strange loyalty that exists beneath all the chaos.
when you finish, the table explodes. cheers, whistles. alan pounds the table. liam lets out an exaggerated shout like someone just scored a goal in a stadium.
it’s so loud and ridiculous for a place as calm as this restaurant that a couple of nearby diners glance over in alarm.
you drop your face into your hands laughing.
“oh my god.”
“brilliant!” liam announces loudly.
“bloody brilliant.” gem lifts his glass. “to the writer.”
everyone follows.
the noise continues for another few minutes before settling back into conversation again. noel leans into you then, whispering in your ear how sure he is this is going to be the greatest piece written about them. you laugh, shaking your head.
by the end of the evening the restaurant has grown quieter, most of the other guests already leaving while your table lingers over the last drinks.
you’re leaning slightly into noel without even realising it. his arm has slipped around your shoulders now, pulling you comfortably against his side. his thumb moves absently along your arm while he listens to something andy is saying across the table.
every so often his head tilts slightly towards yours. at one point he presses a soft kiss against your forehead, the gesture is so gentle it almost makes your chest ache. you melt into him without thinking.
across the table liam notices and he raises his beer toward you in a silent toast.
then he winks.
you laugh again, warmth spreading through you while the evening lingers just a little longer.
the city is quieter by the time you return to the hotel. you barely remember the ride back.
someone joked about ordering another round somewhere else. liam argued that the night was still young. maggie laughed and told everyone to call it a day.
eventually the group scatters in the lobby, full of goodnights and shoulder pats. one last exaggerated whistle from liam makes you hide your face in your hands while everyone laughs.
then inevitably it’s just you and noel again.
the lift ride upstairs feels strangely suspended, as if the building itself knows the night is running out and has slowed the seconds down.
neither of you speaks at first.
your shoulders brush lightly when the lift moves. his hand finds yours without hesitation, and your fingers lace together automatically.
when the doors open, neither of you lets go.
inside the room, the quiet settles around you again. for a moment you both just stand there, still close enough to feel the warmth between you.
then he reaches for you. his hands slide gently to your waist as he pulls you closer, his forehead resting briefly against yours.
“c’mere,” he murmurs softly.
the first kiss is slow, deliberate. his lips moving against yours with a tenderness that unravels you completely. a small, broken sound escapes your throat, and he swallows it, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.
“shhh,” he murmurs against your mouth, though he’s the one who sounds shattered.
you don’t remember getting rid of your clothes or his. you just know that when he closes the small distance between you, his skin is hot against yours as he pulls you into another deep, searching kiss. his hands slide down your back, over the curve of your arse, pulling you flush against him. you can feel his heart hammering against your chest, a frantic rhythm that matches your own.
he guides you backwards until your knees hit the edge of the bed. you sink down onto the cool duvet, and he follows, covering your body with his. the kissing deepens, grows hungrier, yet remains laced with that heartbreaking sweetness. his mouth travels from your lips to your jaw, down the column of your throat, worshipping every inch.
he mouths at the lace of your bra before unhooking it with a deft flick, his palms smoothing over your bare breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples until they peak into tight, aching points.
“so beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick.
he kisses from your chest over your quivering stomach, his fingers hooking into the sides of your knickers. he looks up at you, a question in his eyes, and you nod, lifting your hips to help him slide them off. he tosses them aside and settles between your thighs, his hands spreading you open for him.
when his mouth finds your core, you let out a choked groan. it’s not just the feeling of his tongue, circling and teasing your clit before delving deep. it’s the utter devotion of it. the pleasure builds, a sweet, relentless pressure that coils tighter and tighter in your belly. you fist your hands in his messy hair, not to guide him, but to anchor yourself as you fall apart.
your climax crashes over you in a warm, pulsing wave, leaving you gasping and tearful.
he moves back up your body, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your collarbone, finally capturing your lips again, letting you taste the salt and sweetness of yourself on him. he’s trembling with restraint. you can feel his hard length pressing against your thigh, urgent and insistent.
“noel,” you whisper, your voice barely there. “i need you. now.”
he obeys, positioning himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against your slick heat. he pushes in slowly, so slowly, letting your body stretch and accommodate him inch by inch.
you don’t know why, but a tear escapes the corner of your eye. he kisses it away.
“look at me,” he says, and you do as he begins to move. it’s not a frantic pace, but something deep and measured, each thrust hitting a spot that makes you see stars. your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. the room fills with the sound of skin on skin, your ragged breaths, his low groans whispered into the curve of your neck.
“you feel… incredible,” he grits out, his rhythm faltering. “so tight. so perfect for me.”
the pleasure builds again, deeper this time, a mounting wave from your very core. you can feel his thrusts becoming more urgent, less controlled.
with a broken groan that sounds like your name, he drives into you one last, deep time and he reaches his orgasm. the feel of it, the sheer intimacy, triggers your own climax again, a rolling, powerful wave that wracks your body, clenching around him through every last pulse. you cling to each other as you crash together, a tangle of limbs and shared breath.
for a long time, there is only the sound of your hearts slowing. he rolls to the side, taking you with him. his arms are tight around you, his face buried in your hair.
then his voice breaks the quiet.
“you know,” he murmurs.
“hmm?” you tilt your head slightly towards him.
his hand stills for a moment against your arm.
“i’m a phone call away.”
your chest tightens in that quiet way happiness sometimes does. you lift your head just enough to look at him in the dim light.
then you lean in and kiss him again, soft and lingering, sealing the moment in place before sleep finally catches up with both of you.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
morning comes too quickly. the room is quiet again, traces of the previous evening scattered in small details — your clothes and your bag on the floor.
you wake him with a small kiss, telling him you need to go. you shower in his room and when you tell him you need to go back to get your luggage, he’s still half asleep when he promises to meet you in the lobby in a minute.
by the time you finish getting everything ready and bring your suitcase downstairs, the lobby is already alive with familiar faces.
the lads are gathered near the entrance.
maggie is speaking with the driver while gem and alan lean against the reception desk, coffee cups in hand, talking to liam.
when they see you approach, the conversation shifts.
“there she is,” andy says with a grin.
you laugh softly, suddenly aware of the weight in your chest. goodbyes are always strange things. they feel casual until the moment they actually happen.
maggie steps forward first.
she pulls you into a warm hug, squeezing your shoulders before stepping back.
“thank you,” she says sincerely. “for everything.”
“thank you for trusting me,” you reply.
alan shakes your hand next, then pulls you into a quick one-armed hug anyway.
“can’t wait to read it,” he says.
“yeah, no pressure or anything.” gem grins in agreement, and you can’t help but laugh.
“now i’m scared everything turns shite.”
“none of that,” andy says, clapping you lightly on the shoulder. “make us sound brilliant.”
you laugh again, “i’ll do my best.”
then liam steps forward. his hug is immediate and enthusiastic, his arms wrapping around you so tightly your feet almost lift slightly from the floor.
“oi,” he says into your hair.
“liam—”
“yeah, yeah, yeah,” he continues, pulling back just enough to look at you properly. “i know it won’t be the last time we see you.”
there’s a certainty in his voice that makes your heart flutter. you nod.
“i hope not.”
he squeezes your shoulders once more before stepping back. the driver approaches then, reaching for your suitcase.
“ready when you are.”
you glance instinctively toward the entrance. the glass doors slide open and closed as guests move in and out.
but the person you’re waiting for isn’t there and your heart beats a little faster.
he told you he’d meet you here.
the driver loads your suitcase into the back of the van and another minute passes with nothing happening. a small knot tightens in your chest as you climb into the seat near the door, glancing once more toward the hotel entrance.
liam watches you from the pavement, his expression softer now.
the driver gets into the front seat.
the engine starts and your heart rises slowly into your throat. you stare at the doors again, willing them to open.
wait.
the word hovers right there, ready to leave your mouth — ready to ask the driver to give you just a moment more so you can run back inside and find him.
then suddenly the hotel doors burst open. noel comes running out.
“cheers, mate,” he says quickly to the driver, slightly out of breath.
then he looks at you, you’re completely frozen. your brain takes a second to catch up with what’s happening.
he slides into the seat beside you as the van begins moving again.
“what?” he says with a small laugh when he sees your expression.
“what are you doing?” your voice barely comes out.
“did you seriously think i wasn’t gonna come with you?”
for a second you just stare at him, and then he smiles softly and pulls you into his arms. the familiar warmth of his embrace melts the last of the tension still coiled in your chest.
he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.
outside the window, the hotel disappears behind you as the van merges into the morning traffic. and this time, when the city begins to move around you again, it feels like the story isn’t ending after all.
his hand rests loosely over yours on the seat between you, fingers occasionally brushing your knuckles like he’s reminding himself you’re still there.
the airport eventually rises ahead of you, glass and steel catching the pale sunlight. the van slows into the drop-off lane, cars lining up in a slow procession of departures and hurried goodbyes.
your chest tightens a little as the driver pulls to the curb.
this is it.
noel steps out first, grabbing your suitcase from the back before the driver even reaches it. you thank the driver softly while stepping onto the pavement, the cool air wrapping around you for a moment.
for a second neither of you moves.
you stand there facing each other beside the van, the world continuing around you as if nothing important is happening. then he pulls you into a hug.
his arms wrap around you tightly, one hand pressing gently against the back of your head as he holds you close.
you bury your face against his shoulder, breathing him in like you’re trying to keep the memory somewhere permanent.
“it’ll be alright,” he murmurs softly. his voice is calm, steady.
“i know.” you nod slightly against him.
he pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting lightly on your arms. “remember what i told you.”
you tilt your head slightly. “which part?”
“i’m a phone call away.” the corner of his mouth lifts faintly and the words settle warmly in your chest again, just like they had the night before.
“i will.”
his hand lifts to your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your skin before he leans in and kisses you deeper and slower. like both of you are trying to hold onto the moment before the world starts moving again.
when you finally pull back, the reality of the airport rushes in around you again. another announcement echoing through the terminal.
you let out a small breath.
“thank you,” you say quietly and something soft flickers across his face.
“just call me when you get home,” he says.
you nod as you pick up your suitcase. you take a few steps toward the sliding doors and turn once more.
he’s still standing there, hands in his jacket pockets now, watching you with that same quiet expression.
you lift your hand in a small wave and he nods once in return. then you turn again and walk inside.
by the time you find your seat on the plane, the adrenaline of the morning has started to fade.
you lean back in your seat, staring out at the tarmac while the engines begin their low, steady vibration and suddenly your chest feels tight again.
the tears come unexpectedly. quiet and warm against your skin as you wipe them away quickly with the sleeve of your sweater.
it’s strange, because the feeling sitting inside you isn’t sadness exactly. it’s something softer, happiness tangled with longing.
the quiet ache of leaving something beautiful behind while still feeling grateful that it happened at all.
as the plane begins to move toward the runway, you close your eyes for a moment.
and somewhere inside you, the memory of his voice echoes gently.
i’m a phone call away.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
when you get home, the quiet inside is immediate. you drop your bag near the wall and kick your shoes off somewhere near the entrance before crossing the living room and letting yourself fall onto the couch with a long exhale.
your body sinks into the cushions. for a moment you just lie there staring up at the ceiling, and then your eyes drift toward the small answering machine sitting beside the phone.
the red light is blinking. you groan quietly but push yourself up enough to press the button.
the first message clicks on and your father’s voice fills the room.
“hey, i know we aren’t in the best place right now. but call me when you get this. we need to talk, alright? stop this nonsense.”
your stomach tightens immediately. you stare up at the ceiling again, one hand pressing lightly over your eyes.
the words echo around your tired brain for a moment.
we need to talk.
that phrase has never meant anything good. suddenly you feel even more exhausted than before.
you exhale slowly, forcing the tension out of your shoulders as the machine clicks to the next message.
your editor’s voice bursts into the room like sunlight.
“you better be back already. call me the second you walk through that door.”
a pause and then softer, warm with affection.
“i can’t wait to hear everything.”
the message ends.
you laugh quietly into the empty apartment, shaking your head slightly. you lean back against the couch cushions and the last message begins.
there’s a second of silence at the beginning and then noel’s voice fills the room.
“hey… don’t forget to call when you get home.”
the message ends with the soft click of the machine.
your heart immediately begins beating faster. it happens so quickly you almost laugh at yourself. you stare at the phone sitting beside the answering machine and your fingers move before your brain has fully caught up with the decision.
you lean forward, reaching for the receiver, dialing the number from memory. each ring stretches slightly longer than the last.
and then —
“hello?” his voice is rough and familiar. you need to close your eyes for a moment just to not cry right there.
“hi,” you say softly “i’m home”
there’s a brief pause, like he’s wrapping his head around something.
“hello, love,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “how was your flight?”
you press your hand over your eyes, suddenly smiling so wide it almost hurts. a quiet sigh escapes you before you can stop it.
and for the first time since the plane touched the ground, the distance between you doesn’t feel quite so large anymore.
Gonna go wild and say I want to write some Dilf Noel fics….. they but be awful but could be fun hahah. If anyone has any request, send them my way!!!!🤞🏼
