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Bonehead: I could see Liam going behind one of the amps throughout the gig, man, he was just snorting lines of crystal meth on stage. That’s going to go tits up, innit, and it just went fucking chaotic.
Liam: I remember it being alright…I remember I might have had a line halfway through it, and then I think I went a bit fucking mad.
Bonehead: Liam was just fucking about singing whatever, you know, any old words will do.
Noel: Just making up stupid words to “Live Forever” and stuff like that and I could feel it was a bit of a catastrophe. I was in a fury. I was like, “What the fucking hell are you doing?”
Liam: Every now and again I’d fucking change the lyrics just for the crack and Noel’d do the same. I guess it’s got to be whatever day suits him. If he’s not in a fun mood, he was the one that would come and turn the vibe switch down.
Jason: I think there were a lot of tensions on stage, a lot of gesturing between Noel and Liam, well, more from Liam to Noel, then the tambourine came flying.
-Supersonic: The Complete, Authorised, and Uncut Interviews (pages 190 and 191)
i'm thinking about how is better for me to NOT have a one-night stand with Liam Gallagher because i would be chaining myself to that dick and never letting him go and that is not how one-night stand works
pairing: dilf!liam gallagher x younger!reader
cw: smut, age gap, discussion of contraception, condom use, withdrawal method, birth control pills, unprotected sex within an exclusive relationship, creampie, cum play, and brief pregnancy-risk discussion.
wc: 1,3k
author's note: This takes place during the first few months of their relationship, when neither of them is entirely sure whether they are officially exclusive yet. Then the condom conversation happens: are they ready to take that step, and is it really necessary to keep spending that much money on condoms? Reader definitely does not want to get pregnant (joke’s on her btw). Anyway, enjoy!
The condom conversation started because Liam could not find one. Again, for the third time in a week. He was kneeling between my legs, completely naked and painfully hard, emptying the bedside drawer onto the floor with increasing irritation. Receipts. A charger that belonged to neither of us. Two pens. An ancient packet of chewing gum.
“No condoms.”
“There were three last week.”
“Used them, didn’t we?”
“That sounds like poor planning.”
Liam looked at me over his shoulder. “Maybe we stop using the bloody things.”
I raised an eyebrow. “We’re not having a baby.”
“I know that.”
“And I’m not getting pregnant because condoms inconvenience you.”
“They don’t inconvenience me.”
“You’ve spent five minutes swearing at a drawer.”
“They interrupt the flow.”
“The flow?”
“Very important.” I laughed and reached for my underwear. Liam caught my ankle. “Where are you going?”
“To buy condoms.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then what’s your brilliant plan?”
He crawled back over me, settling between my thighs. “I’ll pull out.”
“That was an isolated incident caused by extreme circumstances.”
“I touched you over your trousers.”
“Exactly.”
I tried not to laugh. “You genuinely think you can pull out?”
“Course I can.” He kissed me, already smug about a victory he had not achieved yet. “Trust me.”
He managed it the first time. Barely. He pulled out with a strangled curse and came across my stomach, one hand gripping himself while the other pressed so hard into the mattress that his arm shook.
Afterward, he collapsed beside me. “That,” he said breathlessly, “was horrific.”
I looked down at the mess across my skin. “You survived.”
“Had to stop at the best part.”
“That is generally how pulling out works.”
“Primitive system.”
The second time, he left it so late that I panicked and shoved at his chest. He stumbled backward, swore loudly and finished against my thigh. Then he glared at me as though I had personally invented contraception.
“You nearly broke my cock.”
“You nearly got me pregnant.”
“I was getting out.”
“You were giving a farewell speech.”
“I had it under control.”
“You absolutely did not.”
The third time lasted longer. Liam remained inside me until his entire body tensed, then pulled out with visible anguish and came into his hand. He lay beside me afterward, staring at the ceiling.
I kissed his shoulder. “Alright?”
“No.”
“What happened to your excellent control?”
“Control’s fine. Quality of life’s suffering.”
I laughed. Liam turned his head toward me. “I’d rather bring the condoms back than keep doing this.”
“What about the flow?”
“Flow can wear a raincoat.”
I traced a finger down his chest. “I don’t want condoms now.”
His eyebrows rose. “You don’t?”
“I’ve got used to feeling you without one.”
That wiped the annoyance from his face. “Have you?”
“Yes.”
Liam shifted closer. “What exactly do you like about it?”
“The warmth.”
His hand moved onto my hip. “What else?”
“How much more I can feel.”
His fingers tightened. “And?”
“I like knowing there’s nothing between us.”
Liam kissed me before I could say anything else. When he pulled back, his eyes were dark. “So what are we doing?”
“I’ll speak to my doctor about the pill.”
He became serious immediately. “Only if you want to.”
“I do.”
“Not because I complained about condoms.”
“You complain about everything. I’d never make medical decisions based on that.”
“Good.”
“And we keep using them until the doctor says I’m protected.”
Liam sighed dramatically. “Back to the raincoats.”
The doctor explained the options, the possible side effects and when the pill would become effective.
I started taking it the following Monday. Liam became obsessed with whether I had remembered. Every evening, my alarm went off and he would look up from whatever he was doing.
“Take your pill.”
“I know.”
“Did you take it?”
“I’m holding it.”
“Swallow it.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Just being responsible.”
“You’re counting down the days.”
“That as well.”
When the doctor’s recommended waiting period finally passed, Liam checked the date twice. Then checked my pill packet.
I stared at him from the bed. “Do you need a written certificate?”
“Wouldn’t hurt.”
“You watched me take every single one.”
“Because you forget everything.”
“I forgot where I left my keys once.”
“Three times.”
“Are we having sex or conducting an audit?”
Liam dropped the packet onto the bedside table and climbed over me. “Sex.”
The first time he pushed inside me without a condom was not technically new. We had already done it while he was pulling out. But this felt different. There was no deadline waiting at the end. No moment when he would have to wrench himself away just as both of us stopped thinking clearly.
Liam seemed to realise it too. He stayed buried inside me, forehead pressed against mine. “Fuck.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve gone quiet.”
“Taking it in.”
I laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”
He pulled back slowly and pushed inside again. The movement felt impossibly smooth, every inch of him warm and bare against me. My body tightened around him.
Liam groaned. “That.”
“What?”
“Do that again.” I clenched deliberately. His hips jerked forward. “Careful.”
“You don’t have to pull out.”
The words changed him. Liam’s eyes locked onto mine. “Say it again.”
“You can come inside me.”
“Jesus Christ.”
His next thrust was harder. I wrapped my legs around his waist, keeping him close while his pace increased. He had always liked to talk, but now his voice became rough and broken, every sentence dissolving into curses.
“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
“It’s been three weeks.”
“Longest three weeks of my life.”
His hand slipped between us. I was already close, the uninterrupted rhythm building faster than I expected.
Liam watched my face. “You want it?”
“Yes.”
“Want me to fill you?”
The bluntness sent a sharp pulse through me. “Yes.”
His thumb moved faster. I came with my legs locked around him, my body clenching so tightly that Liam swore and lost whatever control he had left. He pushed deep and stayed there.
The first warm pulse inside me made me gasp. Then another. Liam groaned against my neck, holding me firmly against him while he came.
Neither of us moved afterward. I could feel him still inside me, softening slowly, and the warmth beginning to spread.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
Liam lifted his head. “Good?”
I nodded. “I didn’t know it would feel that different.”
His expression became unbearably smug. “Knew you’d like it.”
“You didn’t know either.”
“I had suspicions.”
When he finally pulled out, the sensation made me shiver. Liam sat back and looked between my legs. His release was already beginning to slip out of me. His eyebrows lifted.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That face is never nothing.” He dragged one finger slowly through the mess. “Liam.”
“What?”
I expected him to wipe it away. Instead, he pushed it back inside me. My breath caught.
Liam smiled. “Seems rude to waste it.”
“You are gross.”
“You liked that.”
“I didn’t say that.”
He repeated the movement, watching my face. My hips lifted toward his hand before I could stop them.
Liam laughed softly. “Thought so.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re already getting wet again.”
I caught his wrist, but did not move it away. Liam leaned over me and kissed my mouth. “No condoms,” he murmured. “No pulling out,” he kissed me between words. “Best medical advancement in human history.”
“It’s the contraceptive pill, not penicillin.”
“More useful to me.”
I laughed against his lips. Liam’s fingers moved again between my thighs. “So,” he said, looking far too pleased with himself, “when do you take the next one?”
pairing: noel gallagher x f!reader
cw: groupie dynamics, casual sex, cheating, emotional infidelity, unresolved romantic tension, nostalgia, miscommunication, toxic attachment, and bittersweet longing.
wc: 8,8k
author's note: This fic was loosely inspired by “Mi Caramelo” by Bersuit Vergarabat, an Argentinian rock band. It’s one of those songs that feels sweet, messy, nostalgic and a little uncomfortable all at once. I really wanted to borrow that kind of nostalgia for this story: not just missing a person, but missing who you were when you had them. The song has this ache of growing older, having a life, a family, responsibilities, and still finding yourself thinking about someone from the past as if they were a ghost with a heartbeat. I’ll leave the link here so you can read the lyrics in english and understand the kind of longing I was trying to capture in this fic.
The first time Liam said it, you didn’t think anything of it.
“Noel’s not here yet.”
He said it from the sofa in the corner of some dressing room you couldn’t remember the name of, one boot on the table, a cigarette between his fingers, a beer sweating against his knee. His hair was still damp from the show, his voice half gone, the room behind him busy with bodies and noise and people pretending they weren’t looking at anyone in particular.
You stopped by the doorway. “I didn’t ask.”
Liam looked at you over the rim of his bottle, mouth curling like he’d been waiting for that. “You never do.”
Someone laughed behind him. Bonehead, maybe. Or one of the crew. It was hard to tell in rooms like that, after shows like that, when everybody blurred into denim, smoke, sweat, bad decisions and too much lager. You rolled your eyes and stepped inside anyway.
By then, no one asked who you were anymore. That had stopped weeks ago. At first, there had been looks. The usual ones. A girl backstage meant something to everyone before she got the chance to mean anything to herself. Some assumed you were waiting for Liam. Some assumed you had been invited by someone from the label. Some looked at your boots, your lipstick, the hem of your skirt and decided they already had the whole story in their hands.
But then you came back. And back again. Not every night. Never enough to look desperate. Just enough to become familiar. You learned where the decent beer was kept and which doors led outside for a cigarette. You learned who to avoid when they were too drunk and who would lend you a lighter without making it an event. You learned that Liam was loudest when he was tired, that Guigsy disappeared quietly, that Bonehead could make an entire room feel less mean just by existing in it.
And you learned Noel. Not in the way girls said they knew him because he had looked at them once from a stage, eyes narrowed beneath the lights, guitar hanging from him like a weapon. You learned the smaller things. That he liked pretending not to notice you before noticing everything. That he hated being interrupted when he was writing, unless it was you doing it. That he called everyone a dickhead when he was in a good mood and went dangerously quiet when he wasn’t.
The first night you ended up in his hotel room, you had told yourself it was just one of those things that happened when the decade was young enough to forgive you. The second time, you blamed the beer. The third, you stopped blaming anything.
It became part of the rhythm. Show. Noise. Backstage. Cigarettes. Noel finding you or you finding him. A look across the room that pretended to be accidental. A hallway. A bathroom. A hotel lift. A door shutting behind you both while the rest of the world continued ruining itself outside.
And then, afterwards, the thing no one would have believed if you told them. The talking.
That night, the room still smelled like smoke, stale sheets and the sour remains of whatever had been spilled on the carpet before either of you got there. The curtains were half open, showing a piece of city you didn’t know. Yellow lights. Wet pavement. A bus stop. Two men arguing near a takeaway place.
Noel was lying on his back beside you, bare chest rising slowly, one arm bent behind his head. His hair was a mess. There was a mark near his collarbone that you didn’t remember leaving but decided not to apologise for. He had a cigarette between his lips, unlit, because neither of you could find the lighter.
You were wearing his shirt. Only because it had been closer than your own clothes.
“You nicked my shirt,” he said.
“You left it on the floor.”
“That’s not how ownership works.”
“It is tonight.”
He turned his head to look at you. His expression was flat, but his eyes gave him away. “You’re a thief.”
“You’re a rock star. Buy another one.”
He huffed a laugh and looked back at the ceiling.
That was the dangerous part, really. Not the sex. Everyone around him seemed to think sex was the dangerous part, the thing that made girls stupid and men powerful. But that was easy. Bodies were honest in a way people weren’t. Bodies wanted, took, gave, left.
The talking was where he got careless. “She’s pissed off with me again,” he said after a while.
You glanced at him. “Who?”
He gave you a look. “Who do you think?”
Right. Her. The girlfriend. You knew about her, obviously. Everyone knew about her in the way everyone knew about things that were none of their business. She existed around him like a fact he carried badly. Sometimes she called. Sometimes he came into a room already annoyed and wouldn’t say why. Sometimes he mentioned her as if daring you to react but you never did.
That was probably why he kept doing it.
“What did you do?” you asked.
“Why do you assume I did something?”
“Because you started the story with her being pissed off.”
He considered that. “Fair.”
You shifted onto your side, propping your head on your hand. “So?”
He took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it between two fingers. “She says I’m never there.”
“Are you?”
“I’m on tour.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
His eyes cut to yours. You smiled. He hated when you did that. Took his sentences apart. Made him hear himself. Most people around him either agreed too quickly or argued too loudly. You did neither. You just looked at him like he was clever enough to survive the truth.
“You always do that,” he said.
“What?”
“Make me sound like the bastard in me own story.”
You reached across him, searching blindly over the bedside table for the lighter. Your fingers found coins, a hotel pen, a bottle cap, something sticky you chose not to identify.
“Maybe stop giving me so much material.”
He laughed then. Properly. Not the stage laugh, not the cruel little snort he used when someone bored him. A real one, low and sudden, like it had escaped before he could decide whether you deserved it.
You found the lighter under a receipt and tossed it onto his chest. “There. Stop suffering.”
He caught it before it fell. “Cheers.”
He lit the cigarette, inhaled, then offered it to you without looking. You took it because this was another thing you did now. Shared smoke. Shared beer. Shared silence. Shared pieces of yourselves small enough to pretend they didn’t count.
“So what did you tell her?” you asked.
“Told her I’m busy.” You groaned. Noel turned his head sharply. “What?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re avoiding.”
“I’m in the biggest band in the country.”
“And yet somehow still emotionally unemployed.”
He stared at you. For a second, you thought you’d gone too far.
Then his mouth twitched. “You been saving that one?”
“Came to me naturally. You inspire things.”
“Mostly genius.”
“Mostly concern.”
He took the cigarette back from you, his fingers brushing yours. He didn’t move away straight after. Neither did you.
Outside the room, someone shouted down the hall. A door slammed. A burst of laughter rose, then faded. It was always like that around them, chaos pressed against the walls, fame spilling through the cracks. But inside the room, with the lamp throwing weak gold over the mess of sheets and your knees tucked under his shirt, it felt almost quiet.
Almost normal. That was the trick of it. You could forget, in those little pockets after the show, that he had a girlfriend somewhere waiting for him to become a better man by accident. You could forget that he belonged to stages and magazines and crowds that sang his words back at him like prayer. You could forget that you were not really a part of his life. You were just there. And being just there was easy, it asked nothing, it promised nothing.
Noel exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “She said I don’t talk to her.”
“You don’t talk to anyone.”
“I talk to you.” You looked at him.
He seemed to realise what he’d said a second after saying it. His face changed almost imperceptibly, something closing behind his eyes. The familiar retreat. The little door slamming shut.
“Unfortunately,” he added.
You smiled, letting him have the escape. “Tragic for you.”
“Devastating.”
“You’d be lost without my wisdom.”
“I’d be richer. You drink all my beer.”
“Cost of emotional support.”
“You’re charging now?”
“I’ve always been charging. You’re just bad with money.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling again.
There were nights when you wondered whether he knew how soft he looked when he forgot to perform himself. Not soft in the pretty sense. Noel was too sharp for that, too angular, too built out of old grudges and better instincts he didn’t trust. But there was something unguarded in him after midnight, after the noise had emptied out of his body. Something almost boyish, though you would never have said that to his face unless you wanted to be thrown out of a window.
He looked at you then.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Nosy.”
“You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You brought up your girlfriend while I’m half naked in your hotel room.”
He blinked, then laughed under his breath. “Yeah. Suppose that’s a bit mad.”
“A bit?”
He looked away first, that was new. “You’re good at this,” he said.
“At what?”
He shrugged, cigarette resting between his fingers. “This. Listening. Saying horrible things in a helpful way.”
“That’s what friends are for.”
He went still. You wished, later, that you hadn’t. Or maybe you wished you had understood it properly then. At the time, it was just a flicker, gone almost as soon as it appeared. A strange pause in the air. A wrong note in a song you thought you knew.
“Friends,” he repeated.
You nudged his thigh with your foot beneath the sheet. “With benefits, obviously. Don’t look so wounded.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not wounded.”
“No, course not. You’re famously well-adjusted.”
“Fuck off.” He pulled the sheet over your face.
You laughed, shoving it back down, and he was laughing too, quiet and tired and too close. For a few seconds, it was nothing. It was easy. It was exactly what you had decided it was allowed to be. A man with a girlfriend, a girl backstage, a room neither of you owned, a friendship with teeth.
After that, it became a joke. Not between you and Noel, because Noel didn’t like jokes when they got too close to the bone. But everyone else seemed to enjoy it.
Especially Liam.
“Your girl’s here,” he’d say whenever you walked into a room, too loud, too pleased with himself, usually with a cigarette hanging from his mouth and the expression of a man who had never once minded making something worse.
Noel never looked up straight away. That was his little performance. He’d keep tuning his guitar or reading whatever magazine he was pretending to care about, face arranged into boredom, shoulders loose, mouth already preparing the denial.
“She’s not my girl.”
You’d drop onto the nearest chair, steal someone’s drink, and raise an eyebrow. “Charming.”
Noel would glance at you then. “You want to be?”
“Not particularly.”
Liam would laugh like that was the funniest thing he’d heard all week. “You two are fucking exhausting.”
“Then stop watching,” Noel would say.
“Can’t. It’s telly.”
One night, in Manchester, Liam decided he was in love. This happened about three times a week, depending on the city and the availability of pretty women willing to mistake volume for charisma.
You were sitting on the arm of a sofa, drinking from a bottle you were fairly sure had belonged to Noel before he got distracted. He was across the room, arguing with someone from the label with that pinched expression he got when he thought everyone around him had been assembled specifically to waste his time.
Liam dropped down beside you with no warning.
You nearly spilled beer over your lap. “Fucking hell, Liam.”
“Need your help.”
“That sounds unlikely.”
He ignored that, leaning in with the grave seriousness of a man about to discuss international diplomacy. “See that girl?”
You followed his gaze across the room. There was a woman near the table of drinks, gorgeous in a calm sort of way, all dark hair and red lipstick, talking to someone from the crew. She didn’t look impressed by anything, which, you suspected, was exactly the problem.
“She’s not looking at you,” you said.
“That’s why I need your help.”
You turned back to him. “Why would I help you harass a woman who’s clearly having a nice evening?”
“I’m not harassing her. I’m admiring from afar.”
“You’re sulking from three metres away.”
“She thinks I’m a knobhead.”
“You are a knobhead.”
“A lovable one.” You gave him a slow look. He pressed a hand to his chest, wounded. “Come on. You know I’m a good lad.”
“You’re loud.”
“Same thing.”
“It really isn’t.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Just say something nice about me.”
“To her?”
“Yeah.”
“What, like a reference?”
“Exactly. Tell her I’m a top bloke.” You stared at him. Liam stared back, completely serious. Then you started laughing He shoved your shoulder. “Fuck off, I’m serious.”
“That’s what makes it funny.”
“I’ve helped you loads.”
“You have not.”
“I told you where Noel was that first time.”
“You pointed down a corridor.”
“Changed your life, that did.” You took a sip of beer to hide your smile, but Liam saw it anyway. “Please,” he said, dragging the word out like a child asking for a toy. “I’m dying here.”
“You’ll survive.”
“I won’t. I’m sensitive.”
“You’re something.”
He put his hands together. Actually put his hands together. You groaned. “God, fine. But if she tells me to piss off, I’m telling her it was your idea.”
“Fair.”
“And if she comes over here, don’t do that thing where you immediately become unbearable.”
“What thing?”
“The thing you’re doing now, only closer to her face.”
He frowned. “I’m naturally magnetic.”
“You’re naturally cocky. There’s a difference.”
Still, you got up. The woman turned when you approached her. “Hi,” you said, smiling in the least strange way you could manage. “This is going to sound ridiculous.”
She looked amused already. “That’s promising.”
“You see the loud one over there?”
Her eyes flicked behind you. Liam, naturally, looked away too late and pretended to be interested in a poster on the wall.
“The singer?” she asked.
“That’s one of his conditions, yes.”
She laughed. “He asked you to come over, didn’t he?”
“Begged, actually.”
“Did he?”
“Nearly wept.” Her smile widened. You glanced back at Liam. He had the expectant face of a dog waiting to see if someone had dropped food. “Look,” you said, leaning in slightly, “he is a lot.”
“I noticed.”
“But he’s not terrible. Bit of a hurricane in a parka, but he’s sweet when he stops shouting.”
“Does he stop shouting?”
“Not for long, no.” She laughed again, and this time it had a yes hidden inside it. You gave her a shrug. “He’s a good one, though. Under all that.”
The woman looked over at Liam properly now. He tried to look relaxed and somehow looked like he’d forgotten how his arms worked. “And why should I trust you?” she asked.
You smiled. “Because I’m not trying to sleep with him.”
That made her laugh hard enough that the crew guy beside her looked offended on behalf of nobody.
“Alright,” she said, picking up her drink. “I’ll go talk to him.”
“Godspeed.”
You led her back over like you were delivering evidence. Liam stood up so quickly his knee hit the table. Noel, from across the room, had stopped pretending not to watch.
“This is Liam,” you said. “He’s promised to behave like a civilised man for at least seven minutes.”
Liam beamed. “Longer, if inspired.”
The woman gave him a once-over. “I’m not easily inspired.”
“Good,” Liam said. “Neither am I.”
You winced. Then, somehow, impossibly, she smiled. Liam looked at you over her shoulder with a face full of frantic gratitude.
You pointed at him sharply and mouthed: "Behave." He nodded once, solemn as a priest.
Ten minutes later, they were gone.
You found Noel outside the dressing room, leaning against the corridor wall with a cigarette between his fingers. The hallway was quieter, though not by much. Somewhere nearby, Liam’s laugh bounced off the walls and disappeared around a corner.
Noel looked at you. “Matchmaking now, are we?”
You took the cigarette from his hand without asking and had a drag. “Only for lost causes.”
“He’s not a lost cause. He’s an entire lost continent.”
“You’re jealous I helped him.”
Noel scoffed. “Of Liam?”
“Of my charitable spirit.”
“You’re a menace.”
“You like it.”
He gave you that look again, the one he used when you said something true enough to be dangerous.
Then he plucked the cigarette back from your fingers. “You told her he was a top bloke?”
“I said he was sweet.”
Noel nearly choked. “You what?”
“He is.”
“He’s a fucking animal.”
“He contains multitudes.”
“He contains lager and shouting.”
You smiled. “And still. Sweet.”
Noel watched you for a second. “He’ll never let you forget it, you know.”
“I know.”
“He’ll be calling you his guardian angel by tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll push him down a flight of stairs.”
Noel laughed, short and fond despite himself. There it was again. That thing you liked too much. The laugh he didn’t hand out in public. The laugh that made you feel, briefly and stupidly, like you had unlocked a room inside him no one else had a key to.
“Come on,” he said, nodding down the corridor.
“Where?”
“Anywhere quieter than this.”
It was always like that. Never romantic, not that. Just come on, and you did. You followed him through the back of the venue and into a room that might have been an office once, before someone filled it with empty cases and a sofa with a broken spring. Noel shut the door behind you. The music and voices dulled to a throb through the walls.
He kissed you before you could make a joke. His hand at your waist. Your fingers in his hair. The two of you stumbling slightly because neither of you had ever cared much for grace. His mouth tasted like smoke and beer and something familiar you had stopped pretending not to want.
Later, you sat on the floor with your back against the sofa, his jacket around your shoulders, knees pulled up, his cigarette between your fingers.
Noel was beside you, one arm resting on his bent knee, shirt half-buttoned wrong. He looked calmer after. Annoyingly so. Like the world had become temporarily less offensive.
“You’re in a mood,” you said.
“I’m always in a mood.”
“No. More than usual.”
He looked at you from the corner of his eye. “You writing a medical paper on me?”
“Someone should.”
He took the cigarette when you offered it. “What would it say?”
“Subject is irritable, emotionally evasive, musically gifted, allergic to sincerity.”
“Sounds handsome.”
“Debatable.”
He smiled faintly, then looked at the floor. You watched him. There were times when he seemed to forget you were not just another mirror. That you could see him. Not the way fans saw him, not the way journalists wanted to, not even the way the band did, through old habits and shared history and daily irritation.
You saw him in fragments. After the show. Before the sleep. Between the jokes and the door shutting. That was where Noel lived most honestly. At least with you.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” you said.
He blew smoke toward the ceiling. “Pregnant?”
You hit his arm. “Idiot.”
“Married?”
“No.”
“Arrested?”
“Not yet.”
He looked at you properly then. The joke thinned between you. “What?”
You picked at a loose thread on the jacket sleeve. “I got a job.”
He stared. “A job.”
“Yes, Noel. People have those.”
“I have a job.”
“You play guitar and complain in hotels.”
“Exactly. Demanding.”
You smiled, but your stomach had gone tight. “It’s at a magazine. Assistant thing for now. Nothing glamorous. Mostly phones and coffee and being spoken to like I’m furniture.”
“Sounds shit.”
“It’s a start.”
He looked away. You wished he had said something else. Congratulations, maybe. Or good. Or anything that didn’t sound like he was already working out what it meant for him.
“When?”
“Monday.”
His eyes came back to yours. “This Monday?” You nodded. “So what, you’re not coming to the next shows?”
“I don’t think so.”
The room seemed to shrink around the answer. Noel tapped ash onto the floor even though there was a tray beside him. “You don’t think so.”
“I can’t turn up hungover to a new job because I was sitting in a dressing room until four in the morning.”
“People have done worse.”
“I’m trying not to.”
He laughed once, but there was no humour in it. “Very respectable.”
You looked at him. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Do that.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are.”
He shifted, annoyed now, or pretending to be. “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Maybe good luck?”
He looked at you as if you had asked him to take his skin off. Then he looked down again. “Good luck.” It came out flat. Petty. Too late.
You nodded anyway. “Thanks.”
Silence settled. Not comfortable this time. For once, the noise outside felt easier than the quiet in the room.
Noel rubbed at his mouth with the back of his hand. “You said you had something to tell me.”
“That was it.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
You hated that he knew. You hated it because, for all his evasions, he could be terrifyingly precise when the truth was not his own.
You took a breath. “I’m seeing someone.”
Nothing moved. Not his face, not his hands, not even the cigarette.
Then he said, “Right.” Just that.
You had expected a joke. Something cruel, something easy to bat away. This was worse. “He’s nice,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to do with the silence.
Noel’s mouth twitched. “Course he is.”
“He is.”
“Didn’t say he wasn’t.”
“You said it like an insult.”
“Nice usually is.”
You looked at him. “He calls when he says he will.”
“Heroic.”
“He asks about my day.”
“Tragic.”
“He doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
That landed. Noel looked at you then, all the softness gone from his face, replaced by something sharper and more defensive. “Is that what this is?”
“What?”
“You having a go?”
“No.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I’m not having a go, Noel.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
You stood up, suddenly too aware of the jacket around your shoulders, the room, the closed door, your lipstick probably still on his mouth.
“This isn’t about you being bad,” you said.
He laughed again, ugly this time. “Well, cheers.”
“It’s about me wanting something else.”
“Something nice.”
“Yes.”
“With phone calls.”
“Yes.”
“And days.”
You swallowed. “Yes.”
He looked away first. There was a part of you that wanted him to fight. Not fairly, not logically. Just somehow. You wanted him to say something that would make the room less empty. Something that would prove you hadn’t invented the closeness. That all those hours after shows, all those conversations, all those cigarettes passed back and forth between your mouths had counted for something beyond convenience.
But Noel had never been good at stepping forward without pretending he was only passing through. “So that’s it, then?” he said.
You folded your arms. “That’s what?”
“You’re retiring.”
You stared at him. “From what?”
His jaw tightened. The shape of the thing neither of you had named, sitting between you with its teeth out. He stood then, restless, angry because he was hurt and hurt because he had no right to be angry. “You make it sound like I’ve done something.”
“You haven’t.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m being dumped?”
Your throat tightened. You hated him a little for that, for finally saying something honest and making it your problem. “Because you liked having me without having to choose me.”
The words sat there, calm and brutal. Noel’s face changed. You took off his jacket and held it out to him.
He didn’t take it. “Keep it,” he said.
“No.”
“Keep the fucking jacket.”
“Noel.”
“For Christ’s sake, it’s a jacket.”
You looked at him, and for one second you saw it all too clearly. Not just the man in front of you, stubborn and proud and already building a wall out of whatever scraps of dignity he could find, but the boy underneath. The one who didn’t know how to ask without making it sound like an insult.
Stay. That was what the jacket meant. Stay, but not in words. Stay, but only if he could pretend he hadn’t asked.
Your fingers tightened around the worn leather. For a second, you almost placed it on the back of the sofa. Then you looked at him again. He was staring at the floor now, jaw tense, cigarette burning forgotten between his fingers, already acting like he had not offered you anything at all.
So you put the jacket back around your shoulders.
Noel’s eyes lifted. Neither of you said anything. You could have made a joke. You were good at that. You could have told him you were only keeping it because it was cold outside, or because it looked better on you, or because rock stars deserved to be robbed every now and then.
But for once, the joke didn’t come.
Then the door opened behind you. Liam stood there, hair wild, shirt untucked, eyes bright with drink and triumph. He froze when he saw your faces. “Oh,” he said, suddenly less loud. “Am I interrupting?”
“No,” Noel said.
“Yes,” you said at the same time.
Liam looked between you. Then, with rare and miraculous wisdom, he pointed behind him. “I’ll just…”
He stepped back, but before the door shut, he looked at you. “Thanks, by the way,” he said softly, almost sheepish. “For before.”
You managed a smile. “You’re welcome.”
He nodded, glanced once at Noel, then left. The door clicked shut. Noel was staring at the floor. You picked up your bag.
The room had gone too quiet now. At the door, you paused. “I did love this, you know.” Noel looked up. “Whatever this was.” His face did something you couldn’t read. For once, he didn’t have a joke ready. So you gave him one last mercy. “Tell Liam not to marry her by breakfast.”
Then you opened the door and stepped back into the noise. Liam was down the hall, leaning against the wall, watching you with a strange expression. He just moved aside to let you pass. And behind you, in that borrowed little room full of smoke and old cases and things no one knew how to keep, Noel stayed exactly where he was.
The first person to notice you had stopped coming around was Liam. He was leaning against a wall outside a dressing room in Sheffield, sunglasses on indoors, cigarette behind his ear, talking at a speed that suggested he had either had too much to drink or not nearly enough. Noel was sitting on a flight case nearby, tuning his guitar with more aggression than the instrument deserved.
“She coming tonight?” Liam asked.
Noel didn’t look up. “Who?”
Liam grinned. “You know who.”
“No.”
“No, she’s not coming, or no, you don’t know who?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
Liam’s grin shifted into something sharper, then softer, which was worse. “Alright,” he said, lifting both hands. “Don’t cry about it.”
“Piss off.”
“I’m just asking.”
“Ask someone else.”
“No one else gets all twitchy.”
Noel looked up then, murderous. Liam only smiled wider and walked away, because Liam had many faults, but lack of survival instinct had never stopped him from enjoying himself.
After that, no one mentioned you for a while. Or maybe they did and Noel simply learned not to hear it.
The shows kept happening. The rooms kept filling. The beer kept going warm on tabletops. Girls kept laughing in corners. Men kept offering things from the backs of their hands and calling it generosity. Liam kept shouting. Bonehead kept being Bonehead. The world did what the world always did around Oasis: got louder, stranger, bigger, uglier, more impossible to survive quietly.
You did not come back. At first, Noel told himself this was good. Great, even. One less complication. One less mouth calling him out on his own bullshit. One less pair of eyes watching him like he had a self hidden somewhere worth finding.
He had a girlfriend. A band. Songs to write. Crowds to conquer. A brother to argue with in every city God had been careless enough to put on a map.
He did not need you. That was what he decided.
Then one night, after a show in some city he forgot almost immediately, he reached for a second beer without looking and found himself about to say your name. Not loudly or dramatically. Just in that ordinary way habit ruins a man. There was only an empty chair and some girl he didn’t know sitting where you should have been, smiling at him as if he had just chosen her.
He got up and left. That was the beginning of it. Not grief. Just small, stupid absences. A lighter no one tossed back. A joke no one understood. A song he played once in a hotel room and abandoned halfway through because the chord change reminded him of the way you used to listen with your head tilted, like you were trying to catch him lying.
You cried over him, but not for long. That surprised you. For a few weeks, you carried him around like a bruise no one could see. You missed the noise before you missed him. Then you missed the cigarette after sex. Then the laugh. Then the way he looked at you when he forgot he wasn’t supposed to need anything.
You almost called once. Almost. You had his number written on the back of a receipt in a drawer, folded twice, hidden under old photographs and expired lipsticks. You took it out one night after work, still in your tights, feet aching, mascara smudged under one eye, and stared at it for so long the digits stopped looking real.
Then your boyfriend called just to say he had ordered too much Chinese and did you want to come over. So you did. And that was that.
Not immediately. Life was rarely that clean. You still thought about Noel in inconvenient moments. In taxis. In bars. When a song came on somewhere. When someone said something too clever and too cruel in the same breath. When you smelled cigarette smoke on a coat and felt, for half a second, twenty-three again and stupid in a hallway.
But the feeling loosened. Your new job became less new. You learned which editors shouted because they were cruel and which shouted because they were frightened. You got better at coffee, phones, deadlines, swallowing your own anger and using it later. You moved flats. You bought furniture that did not fold. You learned to sleep before dawn.
The boyfriend stayed. That was the strange miracle of him. He stayed without turning it into a performance. He became the man beside you in supermarket aisles, in rented kitchens, in the first flat with damp creeping up one wall, in the bathroom mirror while you brushed your teeth and he shaved half-awake behind you. He became the person who knew how you liked your tea, who noticed when you were pretending not to be tired, who did not make love feel like a room you had to sneak into.
You married him on a cold afternoon with rain threatening the windows and your mother crying before anything had even happened. You had a daughter first. Then a son. Then a life so full of ordinary noises that sometimes, standing in the middle of it, you felt dizzy with gratitude. Tiny shoes by the door. Plastic cups in the sink. School letters stuck to the fridge. Your husband’s hand on your lower back as he passed you in the kitchen. Someone always needing toast. Someone always losing a sock. Someone always calling for you from another room.
Noel kept living too. People always forgot that, when they told stories about longing. They acted as if one person leaving meant the other remained frozen, dramatic and beautiful beside a window.
He didn’t. He wrote songs. He got older. He had children. He watched them become real people with real faces and real voices that could cut him open with one word. He married. He bought houses. He sat at kitchen tables. He learned the geography of family life: the school run, the birthday, the holiday, the silence after an argument, the strange peace of a room where everyone had finally gone to bed.
He loved his children. That was not complicated. He loved them in ways that frightened him, because love that pure had nowhere for sarcasm to hide. It simply existed, enormous and inconvenient, rearranging his entire chest. He loved his wife too. Not always enough in the ways that mattered. But he loved her. Or something close enough to love that it deserved respect, even from the parts of him still built badly.
But there was the thing no one told you about getting older. It did not erase the past. It just taught the past manners. It stopped barging in drunk and screaming your name. It learned to knock. Sometimes, Noel would be having coffee alone and remember you sitting on a dressing room floor, wearing his jacket like it meant nothing. Sometimes, his wife would laugh at something on the telly and, for no reason he could defend, he would think of the way you used to laugh at Liam when Liam was trying very hard to be irresistible. Sometimes, one of his kids would ask about the nineties, about the band, about the mad years, and he would tell a story about a hotel or a fight or a gig. He never mentioned you. Not once. But in the middle of telling the story, there you were. A shadow in the doorway, a beer bottle in your hand, his jacket around your shoulders. Your voice saying, “You’re not the hero just because you wrote the song.”
And then Oasis ended.
Not quietly, because nothing between him and Liam had ever known how to die quietly. It ended with shouting and old wounds and a backstage somewhere in Paris, of all places, because of course the thing that had begun in noise had to collapse behind a festival stage with people outside waiting for music that would not come.
Afterwards, Noel thought about many things. His brother. The band. The years spent building something enormous only to watch it choke on the same old anger. His own part in it, which he could admit in private and deny in public with equal conviction.
And, strangely, you. Not because you had anything to do with it. Because loss had a way of calling its friends. When something huge disappeared, all the smaller disappearances came to sit beside it.
For a while, he hated that. Then he accepted it. Then he wrote and between al that the years passed again.
By 2015, Noel had become the sort of man people called legendary to his face, which he found mostly annoying and occasionally useful. He had learned how to stand alone on a stage without the old machine behind him. He had learned how to answer questions about Oasis without giving away too much blood. He had learned, or thought he had learned, how to live with ghosts without feeding them.
Then he saw you in a café.
A quiet place in London with small tables, expensive coffee and rain making silver lines down the window. He had gone in because he was early for a meeting and because the idea of sitting in a car for twenty minutes listening to someone talk at him had felt unbearable.
You were at a table near the back. Reading something. Glasses on. Hair different. Face older, obviously, but not in the way people meant when they wanted to be cruel. You looked lived in. Real. Like time had touched you and you had touched it back.
For a second, he did not move. Then you looked up. Recognition passed through your face slowly.
“Noel,” you said.
His name sounded different in your mouth now. Less secret and more human.
He walked over before he could talk himself out of it. “Alright?”
You smiled. “Alright.”
There was a pause. A lifetime could have fit inside it, if either of you had been dramatic enough to let it.
Instead, you closed the book in front of you. “How are you?”
He almost laughed. Such a normal question. “How am I?”
“Yes.”
He pulled out the chair opposite you. “Can I?”
“You already are.”
He sat. That made you smile properly. Older. Softer. Still yours, in some awful locked-away part of him that had no right to use that word.
“I’m good,” he said.
“Are you?”
He looked at you. You held his gaze without effort. “Yeah,” he said. “Mostly.”
“Mostly is honest.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m proud of you.”
He looked down at the table. “Don’t be.”
“Too late.”
A waitress came. He ordered coffee. You ordered nothing because you already had tea cooling near your hand. There was a wedding ring on your finger. He noticed immediately.
Your hand moved slightly, not away, just enough to acknowledge the fact of it. “I got married,” you said.
“I gathered.”
“Two kids.”
He nodded. “Yeah?”
“A girl and a boy.”
“Poor things.”
You laughed. “They’re alright.”
“Take after their dad, then?”
“They’re unbearable, so no.”
He smiled despite himself. You asked about his children, and he told you. More than he expected to. Their ages. Their jokes. The impossible terror of loving people who had your face and none of your defences. He spoke carefully, but not coldly. You listened the way you used to, chin tilted slightly, eyes steady, as if every word mattered enough to be caught.
Then you asked about his wife. The grown-up world entering the room politely and sitting between you. “She’s good,” he said.
“I’m glad.”
“She puts up with me.”
“That’s heroic.”
“Yeah, well. She’s got poor judgement.”
You smiled. “Do you love her?”
He looked at his coffee. For years afterwards, he would hate that you had asked so simply. Just the question, placed gently between the cups.
“Yes,” he said. Then, because he had never known when to leave a wound alone, he added, “In my way.”
You made a face. “Noel.”
“What?”
“That phrase should be illegal.”
He laughed quietly. “It’s true.”
“It usually means badly.”
“Probably.”
The rain moved down the glass behind you. Around you, people spoke in low voices, spoons clicked against cups, milk steamed behind the counter. A baby cried once near the door and was soothed almost immediately. The whole world had become domestic without asking either of you for permission.
He looked at you then, really looked. “I’ve got a wife,” he said, as if confessing to something. “Kids. A house. All that.”
“I know.”
“Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we’re good. Sometimes we’re just in the same room.” You said nothing. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
“I do.” You looked down at your tea, then back at him. “You always talked to me when you didn’t know what you were trying to say.”
He smiled faintly. “That your professional diagnosis?”
“Years of unpaid experience.”
“Thought you were charging.”
“I was underpaid.”
He laughed, but it vanished quickly. Then the silence came. He could feel the old room inside it. The broken sofa. Your knees under his shirt. The jacket you had taken with you when you left. Liam opening the door at exactly the wrong time and, for once, knowing to be quiet.
“You kept it?” he asked suddenly.
You blinked. “What?”
“My jacket.”
The question came out before he could dress it up as something harmless. He hated that. Hated how naked it sounded. Hated even more that you understood exactly which one he meant.
Your expression changed, softening at the edges. “Yes,” you said.
Noel stared at you. “You still have it?”
You looked down, smiling faintly into your tea. “Somewhere.”
“Somewhere?”
“In a box. Top of my wardrobe, I think.”
“You think?”
“I have two children, Noel. Half my life is in boxes I pretend I’m going to sort through.”
He huffed a laugh, but it didn’t last.
For years, he had imagined that jacket in ridiculous places. In a bin outside your flat. On another man’s shoulders. Sold, lost, forgotten, ruined by rain. For years, when he thought of it at all, he told himself it was only a jacket. Leather, lining, pockets, cigarettes once crushed inside them. Nothing sacred.
And yet there it was. Still existing. Still with you.
“Why did you keep it?” he asked.
You looked at him then. “I don’t know.” He nodded, though he didn’t believe you. Neither did you. After a moment, you sighed. “Maybe because I knew what it meant.” His face went still. You gave him a small, sad smile. “I didn’t know what to do with it. Or with you. But I knew.”
Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, Noel felt something old and stupid in him twist awake. “I thought you didn’t,” he said.
“I was young. Not blind.”
He looked down at his hands. “You never said.”
“Neither did you.”
That was fair. He swallowed. “I thought about you,” he said.
Your expression changed. “Noel.”
“I’m not trying to start anything.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.” He said it too quickly. You looked at him with the same impossible patience. He leaned back, exhaling. “All right. I don’t know. Maybe. Not start. Just…”
He gestured vaguely, irritated by language, by age, by the fact that every good song he had ever written had failed to prepare him for saying one honest thing across a café table.
“Just what?”
“Sit here,” he said finally. “For a minute. Pretend.”
Your face softened in a way that made him wish it hadn’t. “Pretend what?”
“That we didn’t get old when I wasn’t looking.” You swallowed. There it was. Closer than he had meant to get. He looked toward the window. “Feels like someone nicked the years off me,” he said. “One minute you’re in some dressing room telling me I’m emotionally unemployed, next minute I’m sitting in cafés talking about school runs and marriage like I know what I’m doing.”
“You do know what you’re doing.”
“No, I don’t.”
“No one does.”
“You did.”
You laughed softly. “God, no.”
“You made it look like you did.”
“That’s different.”
He looked back at you. “You were happy, then?”
“With my life?”
“With him.”
“With him, yes.”
The answer was clean. Too clean to argue with. “And now?”
“I’m still happy.”
Of course you were. He nodded, because what else was there to do with the truth when it behaved itself? “I’m glad,” he said.
“You don’t sound glad.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
That almost undid him. Even when he was at his worst, even when he mistook cruelty for cover and silence for dignity, you had known where the feeling was buried. You had simply stopped digging for it when it became clear he would rather let you bleed your hands than hand you a shovel.
“I would’ve made a mess of you,” he said.
You smiled sadly. “You did, a little.” He looked at you. You shrugged. “At first.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words came out strange. You looked away for a second. “I know.”
“No, I mean it.”
“I know that too.”
He nodded, jaw tight. There were so many things he could say then. That he had missed you. That he had wanted you. That for years he had remembered you in fragments so ordinary they felt cruel. Your laugh. Your lipstick on a glass. The way you said his name when you were annoyed. Your hand stealing cigarettes from his packet. Your voice telling a girl in Manchester that Liam was sweet under all that noise.
That there had been nights, even after the children, even after the marriage, even after building an entire life with furniture and bills and love in it, when some mad little part of him would have traded the whole respectable structure of himself for one impossible second in that old room with you.
Not because he didn’t love what he had. Because desire did not care about ethics. Because memory was a thief. Because youth, once lost, had a way of wearing the faces of people who had survived it with you.
He said none of that. Or maybe he said all of it badly. “If I saw you back then now,” he murmured, “I’d probably drink the whole bar dry and make a complete arse of myself just to get you to look at me.”
You laughed, but your eyes were bright. “You did that anyway.”
“Yeah, but I’d know why this time.”
The smile faded from your mouth. He knew he had gone too far. He knew before you said anything.
“Noel.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“You have a wife.”
“I know.”
“I have a husband.”
“I know.”
“We have children.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t a song.”
That silenced him. You let the words settle with the coffee steam and the rain and the horrible gentleness of being adults who had learned too late how much damage could be done by things left unnamed.
Then you reached across the table. Just enough to touch two fingers to the back of his hand. It lasted one second. It was not an invitation, and it was not forgiveness exactly, and it was not the beginning of anything.
It was only proof. You had been there. He had mattered. So had you. Then you took your hand back. “I did care about you,” you said.
He looked down. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.” A small smile touched your mouth. “I loved you, maybe. In the way you love a burning building when you’re young enough to think fire means warmth.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “Poetic.”
“Shut up.”
He laughed softly. You did too. And for a moment, there you were again. Across from him. Older. Kinder. Unavailable.
The door to the café opened, letting in a gust of cold air and city noise. You glanced at your phone. “I have to go.”
“Course.”
You gathered your things. Book. Scarf. Bag. Real life, item by item. Noel stood because some instincts arrived late but arrived anyway. At the door, you turned back. “It was good to see you.”
He nodded. “You too.”
For one second, he thought you might say something kind and final. Something adult. Something that would close the whole thing gently and leave him standing there with his cold coffee and the knowledge that he had survived seeing you again.
Instead, you looked toward the table where you had both been sitting. Then back at him. “Same time next week in this café?”
Noel went still. Outside, rain slid down the windows. Behind the counter, someone laughed. A spoon clicked against porcelain. The world, rude and ordinary, kept moving.
He stared at you as if you had just handed him a lit match in a room full of petrol.
You smiled, but there was caution in it now. A warning tucked under the softness. “Just coffee,” you said.
Noel’s mouth twitched. “Just coffee.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
“I’m trying something new.”
“What?”
“Not lying to you.”
Your smile faded slightly. “That might be dangerous.”
“Probably.”
“Noel.”
“I know.”
You looked at him for a long moment, and he could see it happening in your face: the measuring, the remembering, the grown woman weighing the ghost against the life she had built with both hands.
Then you nodded once. “Next week,” you said.
He nodded too. “Next week.”
You stepped out into the rain. He watched you through the window as you opened an umbrella, tucked your scarf closer to your throat and disappeared into a crowd that swallowed you with no respect for history.
Noel sat back down. His coffee had gone cold. He stayed there longer than he needed to. Just sitting in a café, dreaming a little, because some songs were too embarrassing to write and some ghosts were too loved to kill.
And for the first time in years, the ghost had made plans.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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what do we think about a few little nsfw blurbs for dilf!Liam x reader????
because i keep thinking about how, when this universe first started, reader was basically a walking threat in bed.
that was one of the things that drove Liam completely insane about her, beyond everything else. she was younger, fearless, slightly unhinged, and constantly making this experienced older man realise he might not actually be able to keep up with her. and somewhere along the way, i think i drifted away from that dynamic a little.
so now i kind of want to bring it back????
maybe let things get properly freaky between them again. reader being a little wild, taking control when he least expects it, constantly testing how far she can push him, and Liam being absolutely determined to keep up even when she’s very clearly trying to kill him.
because yes, they’re soft and domestic and building a family now… but she was still a menace before all of that. and he was obsessed with it.
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pairing: innocent!liam gallagher x innocent!reader
cw: virginity loss, first-time sex, oral sex, protected penetration, awkward sexual exploration, brief discomfort, orgasm, bodily fluids, and mild crude language.
wc: ~3k
author's note: Just two inexperienced idiots trying to figure each other out. Awkward, curious and very much learning as they go.
You and Liam had been together for a few months, long enough to know exactly how to leave each other desperate and not nearly long enough to know what to do once things went any further. You were both virgins, though neither of you liked saying the word out loud.
So far, you had only managed bruising kisses, wandering hands and clumsy grinding through too many layers of clothing. Every time, you ended up balanced right at the edge of doing something more, flushed and breathless, only to stop because neither of you knew what came next or how to handle wanting it so badly.
That night Liam was already on top of you when his elbow slipped. He caught himself before crushing you, swore under his breath and immediately returned to kissing you as though nothing had happened.
You smiled against his mouth.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
His hand landed somewhere near your waist, then moved upward beneath your shirt with very little subtlety. His palm caught against the fabric, dragging it with him until your top was bunched beneath your arms.
Liam pulled back, breathing hard. “Take this off.”
“You take yours off.”
“Fine.”
You both sat up at once and bumped foreheads. “Fuck’s sake,” Liam muttered, rubbing the spot.
“You did that.”
“You moved.”
“So did you.”
He dragged his shirt over his head, nearly getting stuck inside it, while you removed yours. By the time Liam could see again, you were lying back in your bra. He stopped.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothin’.”
“You’re staring.”
“Course I am.”
His confidence lasted until he tried to undo your bra. Liam pulled at the clasp once, then again.
“I think you squeeze it,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“You’re pulling it apart.”
“I’m figuring it out.” You reached behind yourself and opened it for him. Liam frowned. “I nearly had it.”
“You didn’t.”
He threw the bra aside and looked down at you. The argument disappeared from his face. His hand moved over your breast, almost too firmly.
“Careful.”
“Sorry.”
He softened his touch immediately. “Like this?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“I’ve never had anyone else do it.”
“Right.”
That seemed to please him.
Liam bent to kiss you again, his mouth clumsy and eager. You moved beneath him, trying to pull him closer, and his hips pressed roughly between your legs. Both of you froze. Then he did it again.
“Oh,” you breathed.
“Yeah.”
Liam sounded absurdly proud for someone who was still wearing his jeans. His hand travelled down your stomach and stopped at the waistband of your skirt.
“I think I’m meant to touch you here.”
“You already are.”
“No, I mean…” His face reddened. “Properly.”
You lifted your hips so he could pull the skirt down. It caught around your thighs, and Liam tugged harder until you nearly slid off the mattress.
“Slow down!”
“It’s stuck.”
“You’re pulling my underwear too.”
“That’s the point, innit?”
You kicked both pieces of clothing away and lay back, suddenly aware of how naked you were under him. Liam stared between your legs.
“Don’t look like that.”
“Like what?”
“Terrified.”
“I’m not terrified.”
He placed his hand over your cunt. His fingers moved experimentally, nowhere near where you needed them.
“I think it’s more…” You guided his hand lower. “There.”
Liam rubbed cautiously. “Like that?”
“A little softer.”
He changed the pressure. Your breath caught. His eyes widened. “Was that good?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Knew it.”
“You absolutely didn’t.” He kissed you to silence you, continuing the movement with more confidence now.
Your own hand went to the front of his jeans. Liam stopped kissing you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve gone stiff.”
“I was already stiff.”
You covered your face, mortified. Liam began laughing into your neck. “You know what I meant.”
“Couldn’t resist.”
You pushed at his shoulder, but he caught your hand and placed it over the bulge in his jeans. Your embarrassment vanished beneath curiosity.
“I should do this, shouldn’t I?”
“Probably.”
Neither of you sounded certain. You undid his belt and zipper, then slipped your hand into his underwear. Liam jerked so suddenly that his forehead struck your shoulder.
“Jesus.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
You wrapped your fingers around him carefully. “Like this?”
Liam’s face had turned completely red. “Yeah.” but then his face tightened.
“What?” you asked, immediately stopping.
“Nothin’. It just feels a bit… weird.”
“Weird bad?”
“No. Just dry, I think.”
You stared at him. “What am I supposed to do about that?”
Liam frowned in concentration, then held out his hand. “Give us your hand.”
“Why?”
“Just give it.”
You placed your hand in his. Liam brought it to his mouth and slowly sucked your fingers and the palm of your hand, wetting them with his tongue before releasing you.
You stared at him. “That’s disgusting.”
“Try it now.”
Still looking horrified, you wrapped your damp hand around him again and stroked upward.
Liam’s head fell against your neck. “Oh, yeah.” His hand tightened around your wrist, encouraging the movement. “Yeah, that’s much better.”
“You could’ve warned me before putting my hand in your mouth.”
“Had to lubricate it, didn’t I?”
“You’re gross.”
But you did it again, and Liam’s eyes closed. “Keep going,” he murmured. “You can complain after.”
The fact that you could make Liam, usually so loud and smug, lose every intelligent thought made you bolder. You stroked him again while his fingers continued between your legs, each of you watching the other for signs that you were doing something right.
“Do you want to use your tongue?” you asked.
Liam stopped moving. “What?”
You glanced down between your legs. “There.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Oh. I dunno. What do I even do?”
“I don’t know either.”
“Helpful.”
You hesitated, then looked down at him. “Can I use my tongue on you?”
Liam stared at you as though you had suggested something completely insane. “What?”
“I’ve seen people do it.”
“In films!”
“Well, yes.”
“That doesn’t mean…” His voice trailed off when you shifted lower on the bed.
“I could try.”
“You’re serious?”
You nodded, although you were already beginning to regret suggesting it.
Liam helped push his jeans and underwear down, suddenly far quieter than he had been a moment before. You settled awkwardly between his legs, looking at him and then at the part of him you were apparently supposed to put in your mouth.
“This is weird,” you whispered.
“Don’t have to.”
“I know.”
You leaned down anyway. There was no technique to it. You licked him cautiously, pulled back, then tried again from a slightly different angle. Liam’s entire body went rigid.
“Is that bad?”
“No.” His hand landed on the top of your head, fingers trembling as they moved gently through your hair. “No, that’s… fuck. That’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Encouraged, you tried again, taking more of him before immediately pulling away when you nearly gagged.
Liam sat up slightly. “You alright?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to fit all of it.”
“I gathered that.”
He laughed breathlessly, still stroking your hair while you experimented with your mouth and hand until his hips began moving without permission. You pulled away before either of you could lose control completely. Liam stared at you, dazed.
“So,” you said, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “That’s how you do it. Understand?”
He blinked. “Not really.”
“You weren’t paying attention?”
“I was a bit distracted.”
You climbed back up beside him. “You’re supposed to check that I’m wet before we try anything. Otherwise it won’t go in.”
Liam’s expression changed from confused to deeply interested. “Right.”
“So you should probably…”
“Let me see what I can do.”
You lay back, suddenly shy again as Liam moved between your legs. He hesitated before lowering himself, glancing up at you as if waiting for permission. You nodded.
His first attempt was little more than a clumsy kiss against the inside of your thigh.
“Not there,” you whispered.
“I know. I’m getting there.”
“You don’t have to work your way up.”
“Stop bossing me about.” But his face was red when he finally leaned closer.
Liam tried with the same complete lack of skill you had shown him, touching his tongue to you cautiously and then pulling back.
“Like that?”
“A little higher.” He adjusted. “No, lower.”
“For fuck’s sake, make up your mind.” You laughed, then gasped when he tried again and found the right place by accident. Liam looked up immediately. “There?”
“Yes.”
His expression brightened with triumph. He returned to it before you could tease him further. He was still imprecise, sometimes too rough and sometimes barely touching you at all, but he listened whenever you guided him. His hands held your thighs apart while his tongue explored, learning from every sound and movement you gave him.
The embarrassment slowly melted into warmth. By the time you tugged gently at his hair, Liam was breathing nearly as hard as you were.
“I think I’m ready,” you whispered.
He lifted his head, mouth wet and hair falling into his eyes. “You sure?” You nodded. Liam wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and reached for his jeans. “Right, then.” His fingers shook as he searched the pockets. “Now we just have to figure out the bloody condom.”
Liam found the condom crushed inside his wallet. You stared at it. “How long have you had that?”
“Not long.”
“Liam.”
“A few weeks.”
“You’ve been carrying it around?”
“Had to be prepared, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t even know what to do with your tongue.”
“That’s unrelated.” He tore the packet open with his teeth.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.”
“It opened.”
Liam took the condom out and frowned at it. You waited. He turned it over. “I think it goes the other way,” you said.
“I know.”
“You were putting it on backwards.”
“I was checking.”
“Checking what?”
“That you knew.”
You laughed and reached for him. “Give it here.”
Between the two of you, you managed to roll it down, your fingers bumping awkwardly against his. Liam watched with such intense concentration that you almost laughed again.
“There,” you whispered.
“Easy.”
“It took both of us.”
“Still easy.”
He moved back between your legs, and the humour faded. Liam positioned himself, missed completely and pressed against your thigh.
“Wrong place,” you murmured.
“I know that.”
“You clearly don’t.”
“Stop talkin’ and help me.”
You reached between your bodies, grabbed his cock and tease all your slit until you found your wiping hole and guided him.
Liam’s breath caught. “Ready?”
“I think so.”
“That doesn’t sound very sure.”
“I’m sure.”
He pushed forward too quickly. Pain tightened through you, sharp enough that you immediately grabbed his arm. “Wait.”
Liam froze. “Did I hurt you?”
“A little.”
He started to pull away. “No, don’t. Just stay there.”
His face had lost all its arrogance. “We can stop.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Just go slower.”
Liam nodded, lowering his forehead against yours. “Alright.”
He moved forward again, carefully this time, stopping whenever your body tightened around him. It still hurt, but less sharply. Beneath the discomfort was the strange, overwhelming feeling of having him closer than he had ever been before.
Liam’s breathing turned uneven. “You alright?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He pushed the rest of the way in and went completely still. “Fuck,” Liam whispered. His eyes dropped between your bodies, his expression almost bewildered. “You’re so wet.”
“Liam!”
“What?” His face burned, but he still looked stunned. “I didn’t know it’d feel like this. You’re all warm and… fuck.”
You covered your face with one hand. “Stop describing it.”
“I can’t help it. I’m inside you.”
“Yes, I noticed.”
Liam let out a breathless laugh and lowered his forehead against yours, still refusing to move as though the slightest motion might overwhelm him completely. A ridiculous, stunned smile appeared on his face.
You wrapped your arms around his neck. “Don’t look so proud.”
“I’ve just done something incredible.”
“You haven’t moved yet.”
His smile faltered. “Right. Forgot about that.”
He pulled back clumsily, then pushed forward again with more force than necessary. You winced. “Slower.”
“Sorry.”
Liam tried again, gentler this time. The rhythm was awkward. His knees kept slipping against the sheets, and neither of you knew what to do with your arms. Once, his nose bumped yours hard enough to make you laugh.
“Stop laughing,” he muttered.
“I can’t help it.”
“I’m trying to concentrate.”
“You look very serious.”
“Important work, this.”
He kissed you, still moving carefully between your legs. Gradually, the discomfort eased. Your body softened beneath him, and when you lifted your hips to meet his next thrust, Liam made a startled sound against your mouth.
“That good?”
“Yes.”
“For you or me?”
“Both, I think.”
“Brilliant.”
He moved again, trying to repeat the angle. There was no grace to it, no perfect rhythm. Only warm skin, breathless kisses and Liam asking if you were all right every few movements while pretending he was not worried.
But when you pulled him closer and whispered his name, his entire face changed. For once, he did not make a joke. He only kissed you and held on tighter.
Liam’s movements became less careful. Not painful, but quicker and rougher, as though his body had decided on a rhythm without consulting him. His fingers tightened against your hip, pulling you into every thrust.
“Liam,” you breathed.
He made a sound against your neck but did not answer. Something was building inside you too. A pressure you recognised only vaguely from touching yourself, except this felt larger, scattered through your entire body rather than contained beneath your hand. Your legs tightened around him.
“Wait,” Liam said suddenly. He lifted his head, his face tense and almost frightened.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
His hips kept moving despite the words. “I feel…” He stopped talking and shut his eyes.
You touched his cheek. “Does it feel good?”
“Too good.”
Liam turned his face into your palm, almost hiding there. His jaw was clenched, his breathing coming in short, uneven bursts.
“I think I’m gonna…”
He could not finish. His next thrust was hard enough to push you farther up the mattress. The friction caught exactly where you needed it, sending a sharp pulse through your stomach.
“Oh.”
Liam opened his eyes. “What?”
“Don’t stop.”
That seemed to be all the permission his body needed. He moved faster, losing whatever rhythm he had managed to find. The bed creaked beneath you, his knee slipped against the sheet and his mouth landed somewhere near your jaw instead of your lips.
None of it mattered. The pressure inside you tightened until your whole body felt suspended around it. “Liam, I think I’m…”
“Yeah,” he gasped. “Me too.”
He buried his face against your shoulder. His hips jerked forward once, then again, almost desperately. His entire body went rigid above yours, and he made a broken sound into your skin as he came.
The feeling of him losing control pushed you over with him. Your back lifted from the mattress. Your legs tightened around his waist, and warmth rushed through you so suddenly that you forgot how to breathe.
For several seconds, neither of you knew what to do. Liam remained frozen above you, trembling slightly, while your body kept pulsing around him.
“Liam.”
“I know.”
“You know what?”
“I don’t know.”
You laughed breathlessly, though you were still trying to understand what had just happened. Liam finally lifted his head. His cheeks were bright red, and he refused to look directly at you.
“Was that…”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“I think so.”
He glanced at you then. “You think?”
“My legs are shaking.”
Liam looked down between your bodies as though he might find an explanation there. “Mine too.”
He lowered himself carefully, resting his forehead against yours. For once, there was no smug comment waiting behind his smile. He only looked dazed, embarrassed and impossibly young.
“That was mental,” he whispered.
You ran your fingers through his damp hair. “Good mental?”
Liam nodded, then hid his face against your neck again. “The best.”
He stayed on top of you until his arms began to shake. “You’re heavy,” you whispered.
“Give us a minute.”
“You’re crushing me.”
“I’ve just had a life-changing experience.”
“So have I, and I still need to breathe.”
Liam held the base carefully and pulled out of you, both of you wincing at the strange sensation. He rolled onto his side with a groan, then immediately looked down between his legs. “Wait. What do I do with this?”
“You take it off.”
“I know that.”
He removed the condom with intense concentration, pinching the end as if it might explode. Then he stared at it. “Jesus Christ.”
You lifted your head. “What?”
“There’s loads.”
“Liam!”
“What? There is.”
“You don’t have to announce it.”
He looked absurdly pleased with himself. “Didn’t know I had all that in me.”
“That might be the least romantic thing anyone’s ever said.”
Liam tied a clumsy knot in the condom, climbed out of bed and dropped it into the bin. It missed. You watched it land on the floor. “Very graceful.”
“Shut up.”
He picked it up, threw it away properly and returned with a damp flannel from the bathroom. “What’s that for?”
“You.”
He sat beside you and tried to clean between your legs with all the delicacy of someone scrubbing mud from a shoe. “Ow. Liam, softer.”
“Sorry.” His touch gentled immediately. “Are you hurt?”
“A little sore.”
His expression tightened. “I told you we could’ve stopped.”
“I didn’t want to stop.”
“Still.”
You took the flannel from him and finished cleaning yourself while Liam hovered beside you, watching anxiously.
“I’m all right,” you said.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He pulled the blanket over you both and lay down, stiff at first, clearly uncertain what was supposed to happen now. Then you moved closer. Liam wrapped an arm around you and tucked your head beneath his chin.
For a while, neither of you spoke. “Was it good?” he finally asked.
“You already asked.”
“Answer again.”
“Yes. Was it good for you?”
Liam snorted. “Did you not see the condom?” You slapped his chest. He laughed, caught your hand and kissed your fingers. Then his voice softened. “It was better than good.” You rested your cheek against him, listening to his heart gradually slow beneath your ear. Liam pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “We can do better next time.”
“Next time.”
“Yeah.” His arm tightened around you. “Got loads to practise, haven’t we?”
okay, i have a few things ready to come out of the oven and i need you to tell me what you want first 👀
• liam x chaotic reader
very depressing. like genuinely, deeply depressing.
• innocent liam x innocent reader
soft, awkward, tender, neither of them really knows what they’re doing.
• noel x reader
also depressing because apparently i don’t believe that man deserves happiness.
• baby gallagher
the problem here is that i don’t know whether to post a few little blurbs i already have saved first or just go straight to the main event.
so honestly, i think the fairest thing is to let you decide.
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i feel like Selena Gomez deleting and reactivating her Instagram account lmao !!!!!!!
but the truth is, i escaped to my family’s house in the countryside, disconnected from most social media, and finally managed to sit down in peace and work on the thing i love most: the Gallaghers.
and when i logged back in here, all i found were messages full of love, support and kindness. it genuinely filled my heart with so much joy. this community may have its moments, but when it matters, it never fails to remind me why i love being part of it.
for those who don’t know, i work in the music industry here in Argentina, and winter is the quietest season of the year for us. so between having almost no work, disappearing from social media, and locking myself away on my own, i managed to write A LOT.
and i hope you’re prepared, because most of it has my signature little dose of emotional devastation sitting right in the middle.
i’ll post a poll very soon so you can decide what you want to read first 👀
and yes, baby Gallagher is included. i did not forget about them 🖤
