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and what liam said when showed this ! >_<

Noel couldn’t believe that he had fallen for your trap. Fuck’s sake, he didn’t even know that you had set one in the first place. 

He knew girls like you. At least, he thought he did. He wasn’t new to the model types clinging around him ever since Oasis shot to fame, he figured you weren’t much different, either; vain, power-hungry, and well, literally hungry to the point of cattish behavior. And make no mistake, you were all of those things dialed up to eleven, it was just that you were smart that made Noel recalculate every decision he’s made regarding you. 

He doesn’t waste any time disposing of the framed centerfold photo of you in your skimpy lingerie. It doesn’t even last ten seconds in his house before he climbs up to the highest storey and boots it out. 

Noel takes pleasure in seeing it shattered into a million tiny pieces in his front lawn. And he particularly takes pleasure in seeing the headlines all about it, sparing each and every article a glance with a wry smile. 

Carmen, however …

“She’s riling you up to get to me, Noel. I told you before you went on that damn show how much of a bitch she is, but you didn’t listen.” She’s gone on the same rant at least five times since he’s been on your talk show, and each time, Noel masters the art of tuning her out. He watches Carmen saunter around his kitchen, making herself a glass of water, still decked out in the dress that he had bought for her as a consolation for pissing her off so much. Tonight’s dinner at the steak house she’s been dying to go to was supposed to mend the wound he had supposedly caused. But when a few paps surround the two of them on the way out and start asking him shite about you, well … Carmen made it known just how much she disliked that. 

Noel sighs, dragging a hand down his face as he trails after her and the whirlwind she’s causing as she disposes her heels where she pleases, drinks her water and places the glass at the nearest surface, sheds her diamond earrings and sets them on his dusty bookshelf. Noel follows after her, because what else was he supposed to do? “I didn’t listen because you were making it sound like just another one of your petty model feuds,” he says, to which Carmen’s frown deepens. “And what was I supposed to do, huh? Lie down and take it while she slags you off? Tells the world that you’re pregnant with my brother’s baby?” he shoots back as he opens the bedroom door and takes off his jacket just to toss it at a nearby armchair. 

She pushes past him and puts her hands on her hips. “You didn’t have to do anything. I can handle it, Noel,” she says emphatically. “I’ve been handling it. Besides, there isn’t anyone in this world that knows her the way I do,” she tells him, her eyes going dark with the hatred she only reserves for you and a million other models he can’t be arsed to name. “She’s bad fucking news and you’re better off staying away from that snake.”

Noel nods, conceding even though he knows that whatever thing you and him had started was far from over. And as he takes Carmen’s waist in his palm and shushes her with a deep kiss, he concocts an idea. Because he damn well wasn’t going to take your attitude lying down.

SEASON THREE, EPISODE SIXTEEN

MARCH 18th, 1996 

Five, four, three, two …

“Good evening, lads and ladies. Miss me? I’m your lovely host back again for another episode of sex, scandal, and secrets,” you smile into the camera lens, preening at the routine hoots and hollers in the audience that make the blood rush in your veine. “Now, we all know what’s next, yeah? Quick recap of the week; in a shocking turn of events, Take That has announced their split,” you say. And at that, the audience falls into a frenzy of groans and cries, even some wayward cheers. You roll your eyes, looking disapprovingly at your rowdy and reactive audience. “Yes, Yes, I know. Let’s all calm down. There’s no need to be in such hysteria for a band whose greatest contribution to Britain was clogging up the landfills with those godawful dolls of theirs.” Some gasps permeate the crowd, some chuckles break through. You forge on with an annoyed wave of your hand. “Really, I don’t know what all the fuss is for when we all know that a month from now, we’ll be hearing from them in the radio again. Albeit not together, thankfully. I wonder if it would be easier to finally swallow the dry pill that is their music when there’s only one member on the track,” you laugh, even as some people in the audience shake their heads disapprovingly at your apparent disdain for the boyband.

You continue, “Next up, this week has graced us with the news that our dearest Princess Diana has been getting the short stick in her marriage with Prince Charles as he seeks the company of none other than Camilla Parker Bowles.” This time, the crowd was unianimous with their booing and groaning, the raucous air of the studio making you break out into a self-satisfied smile. “Now this is the kind of news I expected outrage on! I mean, if you’re gonna cheat on your wife, you gotta make sure it’s with a smokeshow! You can’t waltz around and ruin your marriage for a woman who looks like she’s perpetually sucking on a sour candy,” you snort as your audience laughs along with you. “And poor Princess Di! Heavy is the head that wears the crown, and all that,” you say, shaking your head. 

You don’t wait for the hollers to dissipate as you continue, “Lastly, Patsy Kensit has finally gone through with her divorce with James Kerr of Simple Minds. And what a simple mind that man must have to let go of a woman like that!” you laugh. “Well, I say good riddance, really, and I toast a big glass of champagne to her and her freedom. Who’s up next on the chopping block, Patsy? Because I hear that a certain bushy-browed rockstar has been spotted leaving your Camden home. Is he a potential love interest or just a playdate for little James? Because let’s face it, Liam Gallagher would be the man to call if your toddler needs to play with someone on their level.”

The crowd eats it up, laughing amongst themselves, adding on to the chatter, making the studio echo with a messy kind of noise that makes you feel right at home. You gaze over your adoring crowd, taking in their reactions and the excitement written plainly on their faces. You see a girl leaning into her friend to explain exactly who Patsy Kensit and Liam Gallagher are, you see a guy in a Take That shirt sighing like the world has ended, you see a middle-aged woman who’s clearly had too much margaritas at the nearby bar, you see teenagers who are tittering near the front row with their cherubic cheeks, and near the back row you see …

You let your lips twist in an approximation of a smile, the curl of it menacing and hungry as you blink up at your special guest and put your mouth to the microphone to say, with all the false sweetness you could muster, “I’m getting reports of a special guest out in the audience today. Can I get a spotlight on him?” you say softly, eyes glinting with mirth as the guest in question stiffens up by the nosebleed seats, obviously trying to be unrecgnizable with his plain tracksuit ensemble. Still, you’d know that face anywhere — had practically been anticipating the next moment you’d see it again. When the spotlight lands on Noel Gallagher, his hood up and his sunglasses stuck to his face, you take the time to laugh in satisfaction. “Yes, that’s it. Hello, Noel. Back for more?”

He does nothing except for sticking up his middle finger high in the air and blowing a childish raspberry into the nearest camera lens. 

You snort and shake your head, “Charming as always,” you say wryly. “Well, it’s great that you’re here and everything because I think you’d appreciate today’s guests,” you tell him with a wink, to which his body straightens up and his brows knit together almost imperceptibly.

He’s got no fucking clue just what he walked into. 

You clear your throat, “Love and life are inescapable in a person’s existence on earth. You can’t have one without the other, and oftentimes, the downfall of love leads to the downfall of life. I’m sure we’ve all been in the kind of relationship that drags you down, the kind that shakes your worldview and makes you unsure of everything,” you say gently as the tech team behind their wall of wires starts to dim the lights to a more solemn mood. You look straight at Noel, still smiling as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth with your next words, “Well, tonight, our guest has experienced the kind of love that rots everything it touches, even her heart. Lads and ladies, would you mind giving an encouraging hand to Cathy Clarke Ex-girlfriend of famed Oasis rocker, Noel Gallagher.”

His response is immediate, a jerk of his body as if he doesn’t know whether to run or to sink down into his plush seat. Behind his glasses, you were almost certain that his eyes were skittering to the nearest exit, but your cameraman was quick to block him in, nearly shoving the camera in his face to immortalize his reaction on live television. 

Things couldn’t have gone more to plan than they have. 

Finding Noel’s ex was easy — you just had some people dig into old articles and interviews to figure out a name and an address. From there, contacting Cathy had been smooth sailing. You didn’t think she’d be too receptive of the idea of being on television, considering that she was a pretty off-grid person. But she had been a fan of your show for a while and had seen the episode where Noel had done nothing but get in your face to slag you off. 

Noel being here, live in the studio to witness it was just the cherry on top. 

The crowd greets Cathy with warmth as she steps out into the stage and greets you with a cordial hug before she sits down on one end of the couch, and you on the other. “Hello, Cathy. It’s nice to have you on the show,” you greet her kindly, reaching to pat her knee comfortingly.

She smiles back, leaning comfortably into the sofa. “It’s nice to be here, your crew are very nice people,” she tells you. 

You let yourself return the kind smile before letting your voice drop with false urgency as you lean in closer and say, “And I’m sorry, but are we going to have to call security about … I’m sorry, he’s being so rude right now,” you say, eyes shifting to Noel as if he were the biggest threat in the world and not a rockstar that you could eat for breakfast. “I couldn’t have predicted this. If he makes you uncomfortable, I’m going to have to kick him out, yeah?” Your mind’s eye produces the sight of Noel getting bodily kicked out by your security — your towering men hauling his tiny frame by the pits to throw him out. You resist a laugh at that. 

Cathy boldly looks up into the audience and clocks Noel with lightning precision. She takes a moment to answer, her eyes still on him, before telling you with a firmness you didn’t expect, “He can stay.”

You nod, still satisfied with the outcome as you chuckle, “He needs to hear what you have to say, eh?” you rib. “Cathy, tell me your story. When did you first meet Noel Gallagher?”

It was a pretty straightforward story; they had met in their late teens when Noel was working in construction and she had been a diner girl that often served him his lunches. He had been a quiet lad with a dream, and she had always mooned after him. In the end, it took three month of visits for romance to bloom, with Cathy being the poor soul to initiate, and Noel being the one to blink and accept an offer of a date. 

The two of them lasted years, only breaking up twice when Noel slept with another girl while he was a groupie for the Inspirals, and another time when Cathy had decided that she wanted to go into university. The third time was the final time.

You nodded patiently as she wove her tale, her voice getting wobbly with emotion and nostalgia at some points. “Was it hard, being with Noel?” you hum, trying not to give said man a cheeky glance as if to say are you hearing this?

Cathy shook her head, steadfastly not looking in Noel’s direction. You were shocked that either of them lasted so long in the studio, what with Noel being an avoidant son of a bitch and with Cathy being as skittish as a deer in hunting season. “It wasn’t hard to love him, It was just hard to live with the kind of man with such a big sense of self,” she said, eyes trained on you. You could see from the corner of your eye how some members of the audience were dabbing at tears. You resisted a scoff and tried for a sympathetic look instead. 

“Hm, and did the fame of it all help your relationship or contribute to its downfall?” you fished. 

This time, she took much more time to answer, frowning as she pondered. “It’s complicated, because I think that Noel and I were meant to fall apart from the beginning. He was sweet when he needed to be, and he’s a kind man, but fame didn’t change him. It just amplified the things that he already was.”

Finally, things were getting good. You just had to do more digging. “Such as?”

“He can’t communicate for shit,” Cathy laughs wryly. “When he got famous, he’d use it as an excuse; Sorry, I’m busy became his tagline.”

“But does he make up for it with his songs?” you prod. 

Cathy snorts and sinks into the couch, arms crossed petulantly. “You would think he does, but he doesn’t. It’s another one of Noel’s complicated quirks,” she tells you, as if you were some old friend she had met up with at the pub. “He’d write a song that’s definitely about you and then deny it. Or he’d admit to it once and change the meaning of it depending on his mood. Slide Away was about me, he said. Then a week later it was about a film he’d watched. Another week later it’s about his first girlfriend. Another week later it’s just a concept he ripped off from The Beatles,” she rants. 

You tilt your head, “So is he a liar or just a shit communicator?”

She huffs a laugh, one that had no hint of amusement. “Both,” she tells you decisively as the audience nearly falls off their seat in their haste to get nearer to the action. Noel, on the other hand, retreats back into his seat. “Noel’s the most closed off person I’ve ever met, no one knows exactly what he’s thinking, and he’s not really keen on letting people know, either. And me being his girlfriend, I thought that maybe he’d let some of those walls down,” she says, her mouth twisting with leftover bitterness. “But that’s the thing with Noel, he wants you to give your all to him, while he gives just a morsel. It was draining, especially when he got famous and started sauntering around like he was God’s gift to man. Everything seemed to be about him at the time.”

You shake your head and pat Cathy on the arm with sympathy. And this time, you don’t look away from Noel as you say, “It sounds exhausting, being with a person like that.” You were rewarded with the flare of his nostrils, the curl of his lip.

Cathy was quick to nod. “It was. But I’m over it now,” she says. And even though every instinct in your body is fighting a punched out laugh and the exclamation of Really? This is what a woman that’s over it looks like? you stay quiet and let her finish. “It’s been years since we broke up and I’m just here to hash it out one last time and get it all out of my chest.”

“Well, I appreciate you so much, Cathy.” And it was true; without her, you wouldn’t have seen Noel squirm like a centiped placed on a shallow puddle or aired a whole episode on Noel’s pitfalls as a boyfriend. “Your strength and bravery are very much appreciated in this show, right guys?” you prompt, and the audience cheers encouragingly as Cathy blushes bashfully at the warm reception. You continue, finally letting a shark like smile take over your face as you sau, “And you aren’t the only one that wants to hash things out with Noel on the show. A week ago, we contacted Paula Smith, Noel’s girlfriend at the time of recording What’s the Story (Morning Glory). And while she unfortunately couldn’t come in today due to scheduling conflicts, she sends us this video message.” You stare Noel down and ask, “Shall we watch?”

It wasn’t a question that he could object to. You knew that, he knew that, and you relished in it as the lights dimmed further and a projection of the video sent to your team flashed on the screen, Paula’s shining blonde hair and thin lips brightening the space and making Noel physically wince. 

You told production to key up the volume as high as it can go as her message starts; “Noel Gallagher is a lying, cheating piece of shit with a tiny cock!” she exclaims with veracity. “He could go rot in hell with that bitch of a model he slept with when he was telling me back home that he was just taking care of a sick Liam. I hope all his records tank and that he never gets a night of peaceful sleep, that jerk. Him and that Carmen bitch deserve each other, both shallow fucking morons who stare at their reflection all say and pretend that they’re some kind of saint! Noel, if you’re watching this, snort a bunch of coke and die!” she’s red by the time she’s finished, panting with exertion as she huffs one last time and goes to shut off the camcorder with unexpected lithe grace. 

The audience is left stunned, a few wayward claps in the audience as they make sense of how to react. A few heads even turn to Noel as they whisper amongst themselves, to your utter delight. 

You clap with a jovial smile, as if you had just watched the most entertaining film. “Well,” you break the odd silence. “That was surely something! Do you agree with some of the points Paula made, Cathy?” you ask the woman beside you who starts to stutter and nod. 

She takes her time answering before finally telling you what you’ve been wanting to hear. I agree with most of them,” she says hesitantly. “Just … not with the same energy, I suppose.”

Your smile stretches as you ask, as innocently as possible, “Even the one about his tiny cock?”

Cathy reddens, the poor girl. You saw how her and Noel were such an ill-fitting match. She was such a prude and meanwhile, he’s the world’s foulest mouth, only second to his brother. “I mean, there’s not much to remember, really,” she hedges before finally gaining the courage to tack on, “Especially not when Wonderwall lasts longer than he does,” she giggle shyly. 

You smile with genuine delight, giggling alongside her. “Hear that folks?” you egg on the cheering and whistling in the audience, letting them jeer at the man who was now sinking in his seat as one of your guards made sure that he didn’t leave until the show was well over. You up the ante, “And a lot of points were made about Noel’s current girlfriend, Carmen Beauvois, whom he met at a party in Ibiza while both of them were still in relationships. Paula mentions an affair, and well … that’s just not nice, is it?”

Noel finally snaps as he heckles, loud and clear from the furthest chair in the audience, “She was single then, you incompetent fucking journo!” he hollers, red in the face. 

You tilt your head, blinking at him owlishly as you hum, “Was she?” you test him before shaking it off and adding, “Well, are you not trying to deny that you were still with Paula at the time?”

He shakes his head, hard enough that his hood falls of his head and reveals his shaggy brown hair. “Nah,” he admits, to your surprise. “I did do her wrong and I’m sorry for it,” he says, in the most blase apology you’ve ever heard. 

You snort, leaning forward as you train your gaze on him, the audience ducking down and parting to get you a clear full view. “I find that hard to believe,” you smile at him, all teeth and menace. “It’s a shame that we couldn’t get in touch with any more of your past girlfriends, Noel. Did you really have to scare them off that bad that a talk show stint about you could scare them?”

“Don’t be daft,” he spits

You’re leaning closer on the couch now, all but forgetting about Cathy’s existence beside you. The air buzzes with static as Noel grits his teeth, making your blood pump loudly in your ears with anticipation. “And speaking of girlfriends, how’s dear old Carmen, hm?” you tease. “Are you here with your hood up and sunglasses on because the missus wanted to keep you inside? Told you not to cause trouble? And yet here you are,” you say, clicking your tongue in mock shame. “What a naughty boy you are,” you drawl. 

He crosses his arms on his chest and leans back, spreading his legs on the chair and making himself comfortable as he shoots back, “What, gonna bring her out next and let her tell the story of how much being in a relationship with me is killing her?”

You shake your head, “No, unfortunately we couldn’t get Carmen’s statement on the matter. But my team was glad to let her know that she’s welcome on the show anytime.”

He barks a dry laugh, “Yeah, right.”

You bite your lip in anticipation, your production team having dug up a few recent pictures of Carmen to display on the screen. And on your watch, none of them were going to be good.

The crowd snickers as a picture of Carmen, outside a burger shop in a plain tee and bootcut jeans, her hair matted by the wind and her eyes puffy from a lack of sleep. You smile at her harried expression, the complete frustration in her face as her bag spills its contents on the sidewalk, with her bending down at an unflattering angle to catch them all. 

You pout at Noel, pointing at the picture, “Look at her. How you’ve run her down!” you exclaim with a false sense of concern, nearly buzzing off the walls as you stand and begin to draw closer to him, the audience hushing in excitement. “She looks worn out and ragged, what have you been doing to her?” 

Noel’s jaw ticks, his composure slipping. “Knock it off, she looks gorgeous.”

“Gorgeous? That?” you laugh, heading through the audience and up the steps to get closer to him, leaving Cathy on the couch. You smelled a new story here, a better angle. And you were getting it. You grin, telling the audience as if you were the master presenter, “Please, let’s compare that photo to one that Vogue UK once called the epitome of beauty.”

Just then, a photo of you done up with the signature Victoria’s Secret wings, a full beat of makeup on your face, a lacy set that highlights all your curves, and your hair blown out in a bombshell cut appears next to the previous photo of Carmen. And the difference is laughable. So much so that the audience forgets all their reservations and openly laughs. You let yourself laugh along with them.

But Noel’s not amused, not even in the slightest as he spits, shifting in his seat with outrage, “Absolutely fuckin’ mental,” he scoffs, pointing at the screen.

You ignore him and address the audience, “See? First, let’s address the elephant in the room — she’s a lot heavier than I am, her body type’s a bit wonky compared to me,” you say as some of them nod in agreement. “Then, we have her face which fills out a bit more and leaves no room for sharp angles that emphasize a person’s face shape,” you continue. “Ugh! And those horrid clothes! What are they supposed to be? Maternity clothes?” you scoff as the audience laughs, just as you wanted. “For a model, she sure doesn’t know her clothes! I mean, look at her, her arse is absolutely monstrous in that!” you shake your head before turning to Noel, taking the last few steps to get on his row, smiling as you finally get face fo face with him. “And last but not the least, her tits — Let’s just say that naturals are always better than plastic, yeah?” you smirk.

Noel laughs in your face as you tilt your head to lookd down at him. “Get off yer fuckin’ high horse. She’s miles better than a slag like you, yeah?”

You hum sweetly, laying a hand on the back of his chair, nails digging into the plush cotton and your arm brushing against his head as he bristles at the contact. “You’ve called me every name in the book,” you tell him slowly, eyes not leaving his as you enumerate, A slag, a whore, a cunt, a bitch,” you let the words land slowly as the crowd boos and jeers at Noel. You continue with a smile, “Never called me ugly, though. Why’s that?”

He returns the favor, smiling back at you with no small amount of hatred, “There’s still time, la.”

“Hm, I just think it’s interesting, is all,” you shrug, dropping your voice to a smoother cadence, getting closer to Noel as your arse lands on the plastic armrest. Between that and your arm on his chair, he’s trapped between you and a hard place. “That you’ve settled for someone like Carmen; all plastic and implants —“

Noel’s eyes burn against yours as he grits, “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.”

You laugh, “Don’t I?”

“My missus doesn’t deal with any of that shite,” he says, sure of himself as always.

You cluck your tongue, moving to lay your other hand on his cheek as he moves away from it. “Poor, Noel. It must have been a while since you’ve gotten to hold a real pair of tits in your palms that you don’t even know what’s real from what’s fake anymore,” you say with mock sympathy, shaking your head. “What with all the groupies you’ve got vying for your attention with silicone stuffing their chests to the brim, and Carmen filling her D cups with the doctor’s special.”

“Nah, fuck off with that shit,” Noel says with a shake of his head. 

You continue, not letting up, “How long’s it been, Noel? You’ve been dating Carmen … what, two years?” He stays stock still. “Has it been that long? Or longer, still? I pity you, I really do.”

He scoffs at you. “Do ‘ya fuck?”

You let your smile stretch out as you lean in closer, “I do,” you say with a nod. “And I think I can make it better,” you grin. Noel’s bushy brows knit in confusion before flying in revulsion as you cage him in further and damn near blow your back out trying to get your tits in his face. The invite is clear as day, have a feel, it says. 

Noel recoils back as far as he could, trapped under you, “Fuck off right to hell, y’cunt.”

You giggle, wriggling your body to let your tits sway enticingly. “C’mon, don’t be shy!” you coo as Noel turns his head this way and that. “I don’t bite. But it’s alright, your missus might give you a wolloping when you go home. After all, everyone knows who wears the pants in your relationship. Right, guys?” you cajole the audiend, to which they laugh and heckle Noel, calling him all sorts of names for denying the chance to touch you. 

Noel looks up at you from his seat, blue eyes burning with disdain, and his teeth grit so hard that you think his jaw might just break. You laugh again, moving in closer, licking at your lips with the thrill of it all. Fucking pussy.

But Noel isn’t ever what you expect. Because right then, something changes in the way his eyes shine — a distinct sheen of determination taking him over as his lips curl into a scowl and his hand suddenly migrates from his lap to your waist. 

The audience hollers louder, seeing Noel’s wandering hand as it very slowly charts a course from your hip, to the smooth dip of your waist, up to the ladders of your ribs where you resist a sigh where his fingers tickle you. And all the while, his eyes don’t leave yours, as if daring you to break first before he does. You nearly laugh in his face, you weren’t going to lose this. 

Noel’s rough palm leaves a warm trail up your torso, swallowing roughly as he brushes the underside of your breast, making your breath shuddered at the unexpect sensation. Still, you don’t let your eyes flutter as his palm finally comes into contact with your tit, enclosing it with his whole hand as he gives it a squeeze rough enough to make your body buck towards him. 

He has the gall to chuckle, his hard expression melting as he realizes that you aren’t wearing a bra. Still, you don’t look away, so much so that you don’t even notice his other hand coming up to grope at your other tit, pawing at it so roughly that you let out a quiet moan. 

His hand doesn’t leave your tits as he snorts ruefully, staring up at you with unconcealed amusement. “Fuckin’ slag,” he says under his breath, your own heartbeat stuttering as his thumb brushes your nipple and your eyes flutter with the sensation. “Just gaggin’ for it.”

You swallow, composing yourself as you open your mouth to retort, “Like you don’t enjoy it,” you grit out, pointing your gaze downwards to where a tent was forming under the thick fabric of his jeans. “What, the stiffy’s from your ex calling you the most emotionally distant person on the planet, or…?”

He shakes his head, pinching your nipple as you squeak. “Don’t be fuckin’ cheeky.”

You smile at him, all grace and beauty as you lean down and duck into his ear to whisper, “Think of me tonight when you’re deep inside her cunt, Noel,” you singsong. He barely has time to sputter out an outraged respons as you compose yourself for the camera and give it the best reporter smile. “Stick around ‘til after the commercial break, folks! We’ve got plenty more surprises lined up for you — including our special musical guest, Supergrass!”

OFF CAMERA

MARCH 19th, 1996

The tabloids couldn’t get enough of you and the endless amount of shit you managed to stir, especially with a man so stony as Noel. Every headline had you grinning from ear to ear, like you were a diplomat who just made headline news for brokering peace at warring countries. In reality, you were just a supermodel turned talk show host running on coke and adrenaline, but still, you craved the thrill of it all. So much so that you send your team back into the archives to dig up a few pieces of information for you. 

Does Noel like footie? The sky is blue and the grass is green. What’s his team? While the sky is blue, he thinks Manchester is, too. Who’s his favorite player? Harrison Bell. Who’s his favorite current player that doesn’t look like their skin is about to fall off their bones? Marcus Hernandez. 

Bingo. 

It wasn’t hard to get your foot in the door, not when you looked like every straight man’s fantasy. All you really had to do was send flowers to Manchester City’s office with a note detailing just how big of a fan you were. Having your team contact Marcus Hernandez for some business wasn’t hard either, just one phone call, one schedule, and you had one night out for dinner. 

From there, you let your own talents shine — dinner was an affair with no bells and whistles, just some pasta, wine, and candles. Innocuous enough that you can deny any attempts at seduction, but blatant enough that he would know exactly what you were here for. You laugh when he tells a joke, you nod along as he details a match you have no interest in, you tell him about yourself when he politely asks you to, you let some crumbs of garlic bread get stuck to your glossy lips just so Marcus could reach over and play gentleman as he wipes it off. And when his hand lingers too long, you let your stilettos run up his calf, you let wine spill over your exposed decolletage, you look up at him through hooded lashes as the waiter tells you that closing time was near. 

And if you ended the night in his bed, screaming his name to stroke his ego as he pumped into you with an unexpected lack of precision and skill, well, you were doing it all for the love of the game. 

Because the invite to Manchester City’s party came in eventually, with your name under Marcus’ as his plus one. And if you made a few ripples by whispering Noel Gallagher’s name for potential invitees, well, that was between you and god. 

The terrible sex and Marcus’ cloying cologne were all worth it just to see Noel’s face as he walked into the party, eyes alight with joy only for it to die as he caught sight of you standing at the bar, toasting a martini at him before taking a sip. His exclamation of “Who let the bitch in?” caught a few players’ attention, a few of them tittering uneasily as they sensed the tension, with Noel coming in closer to the bar. 

You smiled and made a move to greet him with a hug he didn’t have time to dodge, going as far as to leave a sloppy gloss-filled kiss by the corner of his mouth. “Noel, nice to see you again!”

He shoved you off with lightning quickness. “Geroff,” he grumbles, brows knit in anger. “Fuckin’ what are you doin’ here?”

You let your smile grow, “Marcus invited me,” you state plainly. 

He blinks at that, nose scrunching as he asks, “Marcus … as in Marcus Hernandez?”

You giggle, biting your lip to restrain your mirth. “Yeah! Have you met him?” you ask, knowing full well that Noel hasn’t. You relish in the slow way that he shakes his head in denial. “No? Oh, d’you want me to introduce you?” you pout kindly. 

He thinks on it for a second too long before remembering just who he was talking to, “Fuck off.”

You laugh. “No need to play coy, Noel,” you say, not taking no for an answer as you set down your glass on the bar and reach for Noel’s arm, tugging him along like a ragdoll through the crowd as you find Marcus amongst the throng. “C’mon, let’s go.”

You take him for a spin around the venue, even when you know full well where Marcus was sat. You take him past the players as you greet each one of them with a cordial kiss on the cheek, and they greet you back with warmth and enthusiasm that they don’t share with Noel. You greet the manager as he walks past, and you relish in the hug he gives you and the way he fully ignores Noel at your back. You giggle to yourself, pulling Noel along by the booths to see Marcus alone, drinking a whiskey. 

You waste no time bounding over to your boyfriend with an exclamation of, “Marcus, baby! I missed your face already, hon.” You were the picture perfect snapshot of sweetness, sliding into his lap easily as you lay a kiss on his shoulder. 

Marcus laughs easily, arms already enclosing around your waist. “You were at the bar for just fifteen minutes.”

You hum, whining softly as you rub your head on his, “I know, and I missed you soooo much,” you say, letting your voice go sultry and silky as you continue, touching every part of him you mention, your hands wandering in a manner far too inappropriate for the setting, “I missed your face, and your arms, and your hands, and your lips, and your co—” Just then, Noel decides he’s had more than enough of being the unintentional voyeur as he coughs loudly. You turn and smile, wriggling in Marcus lap as you introduce, “Oh! Baby, I have someone I’d like you to meet!”

Noel surges forward to give Marcus a firm handshake, “Noel Gallagher.”

Marcus is warm but firm when he asks with genuine confusion, “Who?”

You giggle and nibble at Marcus’ ear, speaking in a stage whisper you knew full well that Noel could hear, “He’s Liam’s brother, baby.”

At that, Marcus’s eyes finally light up with recognition, “Ah, yeah! The Wonderwall guitarist!” he says, to Noel’s chagrin. 

“Yeah,” Noel coughs. 

Marcus smiles warmly as he greets, “‘S’good to see you, man. C’mon have a seat, let’s chat, yeah?” he says. And the way that Noel lights up was so pathetic that you couldn’t resist a laugh. You let yourself drift as you lay your head on Marcus chest, curling up against him as you tune out whatever stats and plays and shite they’re talking about. You sip on Marcus whiskey, you wriggle in his lap, you play with his hair, and when the time was right, you started to sigh. Small ones at first, barely anything. Then, louder — to the point that your attentive boyfriend couldn’t resist asking, “Y’alright, baby?”

You try for your best weak smile as you answer shiftily, “I’m fine, it’s just …” you frown, dodging Noel’s eyes as you go to whisper in Marcus’ ear, some story about Noel making you uncomfortable, half bullshit, all exaggeration. 

And Marcus, for all of his lack of skills in bed, was a good lad. The kind that was raised right by his mam and sister, who had a father that made sure he acted right, who was friends with women who he looked at without any amount of lust. It was a shame you had to play him like a pawn. He’d have made a good boyfriend in whatever alternate world where you weren’t such a bitch. “Man, I think I’m gonna have to ask you to leave, yeah?” he tells Noel seriously, considering your discomfort over his own amusement at the current conversation. 

Noel’s forehead creases at the sudden change. “What?”

Marcus’s expression grows stony, “You’re the guy that’s been slagging my girl off all this time? Calling her a slag and a bitch on her own show?” he grits.

Noel’s eyes widem, shifting to you. “Nah, nah, mate,” he tries to reason, to laugh it off. :You don’t get it.”

You whimper, a quiet little thing that was too meek to have come out of your lips. But Marcus catches it anyway. And that’s what seals the deal. “Don’t fuckin’ explain yourself. Security!” he hollers before dropping his voice, “If I ever see you again, Gallagher, yer fuckin’ dead.”

OFF CAMERA

MARCH 28th, 1996

The knock that comes to your door that morning wasn’t premonition enough. Truth be told, you had been having a good morning. Last night had been a calm night in, you had called Marcus and pretended to be sick just so he won’t come over and ruin your peace, you put on a face mask and got in your tub, some Steely Dan playing in the bathroom as you lay there in peace. You woke up refreshed, your skin glowing healthily as you stretched this way and that. 

You thought your mood couldn’t be ruined on a day like this. But you once again underestimated Noel. 

You open the door, clad in your leopard print robe and your hair done up lazily as it spills into curls atop your head. “Hi, ma’am — uh, madam? Miss?” a young lad stutters out, a folder clutched to his chest like a bulletproof vest. 

You raise a brow, not moving to let him in. “Can I help you?”

He nods eagerly and nearly spits out his words, “Yes, yes, sorry,” he says, shaking his had so vigorously that his fluffy hair starts to bob along with him. “I’m Jacob, the new intern on your team? And your producer, Jessica sent me here today to talk to you?” he says, his sentences lilting at the end like questions. 

Your brow doesn’t lower, your arm doesn’t move to let him in. “Is that a question or …?”

He swallows roughly, “No, ma’am?” he squeaks, a question again.

You sigh, rolling your eyes as you finally let go of your hold on the door and turn your back on him to lead him into your flat. “Come on in. D’ya want some tea? Biscuits? I’m making french toast, I could make you one real quick?” you say, only to turn and see him still wide-eyed in the hallway. Another sigh from you and he was scampering to your side and closing the door behind him. 

He smiles, a nervous edge to it. “That would be class, ma’am. Thank you.”

You get right on it, cooking yourself and the lad some breakfast. It’s when you’ve heated up the pan that you start speaking, not having all day to wonder what Jessica had sent a newbie over to your place for. “So, whaddya want, Jameson?”

“It’s Jacob,” he says. 

You don’t even turn to face him as you say, “Right.”

He continues as you begin cooking up a batch of French toast. “Jessica sent me here because of an emergency at the show. She wants you to know that she’s handling it right now, but things seem to be looking a bit bleak right now.”

Your brows furrow, the smell of butter and cinnamon making the place smell sweeter even with the sour words permeating the space. “How bleak?”

He waits a few seconds to respond, “Pretty bleak I would say.”

You sigh but make no move to ask any more questions, focusing instead on the breakfast you were cooking. It isn’t until you’ve plated the French toast up and sprinkled it with powdered sugar and maple syrup that you slide the plate over to the boy and urge, “Talk.”

You’ll give Jeremiah the credit, he was efficient in breaking the news. “Noel Gallagher bought out half of Starstruck Production, He bought a bunch of stock last week, and as of today, he’s officially on the board.”

You drop your fork and hiss, “Motherfucker.”

“Thats not all,” he says, pausing dramatically as he takes a bite of his breakfast. 

Your eye twitches as you fight the urge to slap the fork out of his mouth. “Fuck. Either eat your damn French Toast or spit it out!” you say. 

He bites his French toast quickly and nods. “He’s now officially a producer on your show.”

You huff. “Sweet Jesus.”

It wasn’t over, it never was with Noel. “And he has a few demands that just came in via his lawyers.” He slides over the manila envelope in his hands, you take the time to glare at him.

“Y’think I wanna read that shit this early in the morning, Jonah?” you snap, already feeling irritated with everything. 

He smiles bashfully and retracts the envelope, sliding it back to himself as he nods, “Jacob,” he corrects quietly to your chagrin. “And sorry, I’ll read it for you.”

Your heart races with every word, fists curling, and mouth twisting down with anger that makes Jamie eager to leave as soon as he’s cleaned out his plate. You swallow roughly as soon as the kid leaves, hurling a plate at the nearest wall where it shatters into tiny pieces. 

Airing time will be reduced to thirty minutes, including commercial breaks. Fifteen minutes of the time must be allotted into musical guest performances. No cursing is allowed. Budget cuts must be made, deducting the usual forty thousand pound monthly budget to twenty thousand pounds. No gossip or hearsay should be included in the show — allowed topics include; sports, politics, current worldwide affairs, and educational ventures. 

You stare at the document again and slap it out of the table, papers flying noisily to the ground. 

OFF CAMERA

APRIL 4th, 1996

You don’t waste any more time after the bomb that Noel dropped. The next meeting with Jessica had been one that sent interns scrambling, had the crew with their head in their hands, and had you absolutely fuming. 

Your show was sacred to you, the culmination of everything that you were. Having to do an episode that was half music and half politics was killing you and your ratings, and it was something Noel knew. 

So you went out to get at him for the next best thing.

You smile as he slithers into the building, his signature scowl deepening at the sudden sight of you, “Noel,” you greet with cloying sweetness as he draws near. 

He scoffs, taking the time to smirk as he remembers the hold he has over you, “That’s boss to you,” he says. “What, are you here to tell me to change my mind or summat? Because I’ve already signed on the dotted line, doll. Things aren’t changing unless you get your lawyers to speak to my lawyers. Y’ain’t need to vist me at the label — not unless you just wanted to see me.”

You laugh and shake him off, your handbag dangling this way and that at the action. You lower your sunglasses to look him in the eyes. “Oh, no. I’m not here for you.”

His forehead scrunches. “Yer not? Then why the fuck are you here then?”

You grin, acting coy, “Well, since my show’s been taken over by corporate sharks,” you say pointedly. “I’ve taken to different ventures in the entertainment industry.”

“Corporate sharks,” he scoffs before pointing a stubby finger at you. “Careful how you speak to your boss, sweetheart. I’m just makin’ an investment here.”

You shrug and motion to the lobby of his precious Creation Records, “And I’m here to make a strategic career move. Nothing to do with you.”

Like the universe was on your side, the door opens and one of the main partners of the company greets you with a warm hug. You return it with fervor and wink at Noel over the man’s shoulder. “Ah, there she is!” he exclaims. “Thank you for meeting with us, we’re ready for you, now.”

Noel steps in, frowning as usual. “Ey, what’s this all about, then?”

The man smiles, you smile with him. “Well, Noel, You’re looking at Creation Records’ brand new artist!”

Let Noel see just how big of a mistake he made venturing out into your work. You’d fucking show him just how much you could be better than him. Besides, singing was a piece of cake, it wasn’t like it was hard or anything.

Noel actually busts into peals of laughter, “You? A fuckin’ singer?” he says through his fit. “Hah! I’d like to see you try,” he dares, lip curling into a smug smirk, so self-satisfied that he was the best. Well, you’d show him soon enough. You’d be wiping the floor with Oasis. 

You smile and pat his cheek condescendingly, turning so quick that you knew he saw the flash of your bright pink lingerie under your miniskirt. “I bet you fuckin’ would, Noel,” you singsong as you leave him behind, your record deal awaiting you. “I bet you would.”

OFF CAMERA

APRIL 7th, 1996

The party was a bust, full of models just trying to network and D-List celebrities trying to play while the mouse was away. If it weren’t for the line you did in the bathroom five minutes ago, you would have already killed yourself in front of everyone for even daring to invite yo into this shitshow. 

The past few weeks have been exhausting, your body stretched thing as you tried working around the new limits of your show, made new scripts that didn’t openly defy Noel’s orders, meeting with the writers of your debut album to make sure they were getting things right, just screwing on your head correctly every morning you woke up. You were exhausted, this little game you were playing with Noel stretching far beyond what you initially wanted it to be. 

You just wanted to send Carmen a message, put her on edge for a hot minute and mess with the idiot she’s been toying around with. And considering the shit that you and her have been through, you deserved to fire back with the amount of vitriol you are now. 

It’s her fault, for picking a prick like Noel. If she had dated another one of her brainless idiots, then you would have thrown him around no problem. But the thing with Noel was that he wasn’t one for being disrespected. And that’s one of the things you’ve got in common. 

You’re about to call it a night and leave the club early, reminding yourself to leave your manager a voicemail asking her to screen party invitations for next time, not eager to be stuck in the world’s most boring convention of wannabes, when you see her. 

You’d know her anywhere. 

You let your grin stretch wide as you greet her, going in for a hug and the perfunctory peck on the cheek. To her credit, Carmen didn’t let her smile slip as she enclosed her arms around you and returned the favor, leaving a trail of her lipstick on your cheek. “Carmen, it’s nice to see you, hon.”

She hums, “Nice to see you too, babe,” she grits out. “How’s life, how’s the show? It’s been making waves lately,” she says. The message is simple — I’ve been seeing what you’re doing. And judging by her stare, you knew she didn’t like one bit of it. 

You laugh and swat at the air. “Hm, all thanks to that mouthy boyfriend of yours,” you tease before leaning in to whisper more quietly, the words eaten up by the club noise. “Say, Carmen, does that man ever do a thing he’s told or do you just let him walk freely doing whatever he wants?”

She glares, icy and stoic. “He’s his own person. He could do whatever he wants,” she lies.

You laugh and nod. “He could,” you agree, as good naturedly as you could. “But I doubt that you like the way he’s toting around London trying to get back at me.”

She concedes. “I don’t,” she says simply, tilting her head in determination. “And I don’t like the way that you’re obviously trying to use him to get to me.”

You sputter with amusement and echo her words. “To get to you? Christ, how do the two of you sleep in the same bed when your egos surely get in the middle!” you cry before wincing in faux sympathy, hissing through your teeth. “Fuck, sorry, I forgot. He probably spends his nights elsewhere.”

Her lips curls in that ugly way that only anger could do. “Yeah, fuck you.”

You giggle. “What? It was a joke!”

She rolls her eyes. “Comedy’s never been your strong suit,” she tells you drily. 

You hum and ask, “What has, then? Getting under people’s skin?” you say with a chuckle. “Because from my understanding, I’ve managed to make both you and Noel grit your teeth at the mere scent of my perfume.”

Carmen clenches her jaw as her nostrils flare in annoyance, you only smile in satsifaction at the face of her frutsration. “Your strong suit is just being a plain old fucking bitch who can’t come to terms with the fact that not everything is yours for the taking,” she spits, leaning forward so you could hear every nasty word she had to say about you.

“Well, that’s rich coming from you,” you drawl with a raised brow, referencing what the two of you both know — even when she likes to play the innocent angel. But it was no matter, she knows what she did, you could see it in the sheen of her eyes as she steps back carefully. 

Carmen’s guarded as she answers, clipped, “I did what I had to do.”

“Yeah, well that’s your strong suit — fucking people over,” you spit. 

Carmen laughs already moving to turn away, having had enough of the conversation, but not too much as to not have the last word. “You love to play the victim so much that you’re starting to believe it. Grow up and see that you were just as horrible as me.”

You smile. “I do see that, Carmen. But what I don’t see is you owning up to how much of a bitch you really are,” you tell her. “All the lies in the press, all the spun stories, all the fake eyewitness accounts. That’s the difference between the two of us — we’re both horrible people, but only one of us doesn’t hide behind fake sweetness.”

That’s Carmen’s last straw, she points a well-manicured nail in front of her face, her hand shaking with fury as she warns, “You’re fucking mad,” she says, dripping with venom. “Stay away from me, stay away from Noel. And if you ever come near us again, you’re dead.”

lainey’s delivery service: @strwbryluver @gxnyadavid @bigbluedoeyes @highflyingcami @invinsabel @bunnyhopella @anjalfc @akasheselectric @simoneeyy @ngmyfav @ghostinyourhome @alicehighflyingbirds @veruschkaaa @shesselectricc @youretheoutcast @connieloveslove @meggyboots @noelgallagherswifee @sonnyangel11 @babywewereborn @glaeiv @dirtyshirtgirll @charmlessgrrl @thegiriinthedirtyshirt @dilfliamgallagherishisbestera @oasisswag @d8isyann @letgotstyles @halftheworldawayy @celestialgallaghers @oliverwoodsravenclw (join thru the link / dm to be removed!) 💋

September 21st, the fortieth time

Liam hasn’t felt this alive in a depressingly long time. If he were anyone else, he would have been concerned at the thought. A voice comes into his mind, unbidden; yours, Noel’s, his mam’s, John Lennon’s for some odd fucking reason. Maybe you should talk to someone, the voice would say, Maybe you should take a break, focus on something else. But he waves the voice away, every single time, like waving away an annoying fly.

So Liam does what what he always has; he goes to the studio, becomes the rockstar he knows he is, buried deep in between sore muscles and cracking joints. He goes to his local pub for more pints than is recommended for his age, he yells at the telly whenever the footie is on, he calls his mam and plays the dutiful son, he texts his kids and plays the responsible father. He does this over and over and over and over and over. And he tells himself that he’s content with it, that he’s gad his fill of living large back in the day. 

And then, by some odd miracle, he falls into some cosmic time-bending loop shit that he can’t even begin to describe — with you, of all people. 

You were young, painfully so. The kind of young that makes Liam’s skin crawl whenever he notices himself staring at you for a particularly long amount of time. You did weird shit like pilates, you came into meetings with cute outfits an iced drink that makes Liam’s throat hurt just looking at it, you laughed about daft shit Liam doesn’t understand like memes and trends. Being near you made him feel like the old geezer he actually was, and it was just his luck that fate decided to throw the two of you together. 

To you, this loop was nothing more than an inconvenience, a major setback that throws your schedule all awry. But for Liam? This was everything he didn’t know he was waiting for. 

He’s a lucky fucking bastard. He knows that. And when he tries telling you that, you laugh like you don’t have a clue just how much you’ve saved him. And maybe you truly don’t. It wasn’t like Liam was bursting at the seams to tell you how fucking miserable he was before you came along. So he shows hus thanks in different ways — through impromptu rides on his private jet that take you everywhere and nowhere, through burnt pancakes that wait for you on the counter when you come and knock on his door, through buying you the god awful matcha that you insist on drinking, through days spent in his bed being lavished with his keen attention, through lazy rainy afternoons with his pets and yours, through going wit every single silly whim you had even when he was dead tired. 

The repetitive days didn’t faze him, not really. Not when he feels like he’s been stuck repeating the same day since … well maybe since 2009. But it’s only this afternoon that Liam begins to notice how much it fazes you.

It’s mad, the way you’ve got Liam acting like a lovesick teenager again. Of course, he still wakes up as he always does — with a painful groan and screaming bones. But his beat changes. Has changed since he got you. He goes on his run, comes back just in time to feed Buttos, takes a shower, faffas about with his phone, then he leaves the house, your flat the only destination in his mind. He checks his phone like a daft bastard, biting a smile at your cute little schedule birthday message from what feels like a million lifetimes ago, and he reaches your building, waiting patiently at your door until you let him in. 

He breathes a sigh of relief every time you open the door, the sight of your soothing him in a way he should be afraid of. 

“What?” you always say in greeting as you let him in, your brows furrowed in confusion as he resists the urge to let three precious words slip away from him too soon. “The fuck are you looking at me like that for?” you sleepily grumble as Liam sinks into your ridiculously tiny sofa, right next to Toast who cuddles up to him as if he remembers Liam. 

Liam feels the words twist in his tongue, has always felt like his brain and his mouth never properly cooperate with him. So instead, he says with a cocky shrug and a grin to match, “Lookin’ fit in your jammies, is all.”

It’s the same pink silk set as always. The perk of the loop, Liam has learned, was that what you wore to bed the night before would always be the sight that greets him early in the morning. He sends a prayer to whatever higher force looks upon him, thanking his lucky stars that you decided to go to bed wearing something that makes his mind feel like static. 

He sees the flying cushion before he feels it smash against his head, your mock-annoyance greeting him as he peels the pale pink thing away from his face. “Perv,” you scold, as if you weren’t the one who spent the past how many days convincing him that spending your days shagging would be the way to go. Not like he put much of a fight on that front, mind. It was just something he liked pointing out to see the flush of your cheeks and the cute twitch of your nose. He does it then, bringing it up just so he could see you stomp away from him in adorable fury, steps reverberating down the tiny hallway of your flat as you slam your bedroom door and leave Liam gazing after you like a puppy without its owner. 

He turns to Toast then and nods. “Alright there?” he asks. Toast meows obediently and butts his head against Liam’s large hand. He acquiesces, petting the greedy bastard as he spreads out on the couch and waits with bated breath for you to get ready. 

You take your sweet time with it. Always, no matter whenever you are in the loop. And like always, Liam grows bored and scoops Toast into his arms and pads into your room and bursts in like he can’t be away from you for another second. 

The glare you send him is more fond than anything, sat on the floor in front of your floor-length mirror with your makeup spread about you in a prayer circle of beauty and grace. “See, I still don’t understand why you gotta do allat on the floor,” he says in way of greeting as he closes the door of your bedroom and heaves himself onto your freshly made bed, mussing the sheets up again as he lounges idly on the mattress, depositing Toast on a pillow near his head. 

Mascara wand in hand, you reply, not even turning to look at him. “It’s therapeutic,” you say, focused on the task at hand. “Also, I can’t afford a vanity.”

“Add that to the list,” Liam says, throwing his head back on the mattress and stretching out with a groan. 

The list was what Liam called the increasing number of items he says he’d do, buy, or make for you if ever the two of you made it out the loop with your sanity intact. It kept growing, a mental tally that Liam was trying to grasp before it gets away from him. He was quite serious about it, but with the way you always laughed at the mention of the list, Liam was sure that you took it as just a running joke. 

“I can’t believe that I’m gonna come out of a cosmic time loop with an insane story that no one will believe and a sugar daddy that pays for my things,” you say, moving on to applying your fruity lip gloss, eyes shining with mirth as you took a peek at Liam. 

He kicks his leg out to jostle you lightly, “Aye,” he scolds, frowning. “What did I say about callin’ me that?”

“Never to do it,” you say, sounding wholly unconcerned as you pack your things back up in its proper place inside your pouch. Liam feels proper stupid as he fixes his gaze on your moving fingers, not even blinking as he tries to take a look at every single little thing you do. 

He feels so unbelievably fond of you that he fights it with a dry, “Yeah, and you still keep doin’ it,” he says, nudging your arm with his foot, to which you send him a cute little frown that makes his lips twitch upwards. “Put some respect on the name, babe.”

You roll your eyes and nudge him back, your elbow on his knee, the touch sending jolts of electricity through Liam. He really feels like a wanker, getting butterflies at his big age. “I always put respect on your name, Liam,” you say, grinning up at him from the floor like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. Your smile turns menacing as you tilt your head and quip, “My mom always taught me to respect my elders, after all.”

Liam whips into action at that, sitting up as fast as his body could allow him and reaching for you with his hands grabbing at any part he could reach. “Oi!” he scolds through your ringing giggles, his hands hefting you up by your armpits and setting you upright to stand between his spread knees on the edge of the bed. You’re still giggling up a storm as Liam pinches your hip in mock annoyance, his smile fighting its way through his mouth. “Cheeky fuckin’ bird. Mouthy little thing, aye? Never used to be so bold, you.”

You shrug at him, laying your elbows on his shoulder as you lean closer to him, a smile gracing your lips as you reply, “A time loop changes a person,” you say before tilting your head and grinning, “And so does mind bending shagging with the rock and roll star of your dreams.”

Liam’s brows raise and his mouth finally allows himself a smile of satisfaction. The cat that got the cream, he was. “Mind bendin’, aye?” He waggles his eyebrows, letting his hands wander as he peers up at you, the look in his eye familiar to you from the moments you spent in bed together. “I could thing of another thing to bend.”

You look at him flatly as his hand wanders south to your bum and gives it a rough squeeze, “Liam.”

“What?” he laughs, arms wrapping around your waist to bury his head on your stomach, letting the rubber-y cloth of your workout set tickle the stubble on his face. “Don’t want your mind bent today? What’s got you all shy?”

You push his head away to look him in the eye as you sternly say, “I’m gonna be late for pilates.”

He scoffs, kissing your navel, “Pilates can wait.” He kisses your hip, then the other, then a path up your ribs. “It’s literally not going anywhere, d’ya know what I mean?”

You push his head roughly off you again. “Still,” you whine, trying to pull away. 

“You stay still,” Liam grumbles, diving back into to press kisses to any part of you his lips can reach. “C’mon, sweetheart. Why do you even put yourself through that? It’s not like we ain’t still be here tomorrow,” he coaxes. 

This time, you don’t push. Instead, Liam feels a sharp and insistent tug on his hair, your grip on the roots leaving a familiar sting as you angle his head up to meet your eyes. He swallows roughly. “Why do you jog?” you ask plainly, as if you hadn’t just activated some juvenile response in Liam.

His answer comes automatically, the words tumbling out of his lips before he gets the chance to be cheeky about it. “I feel like a neurotic housewife otherwise. Like I’m gonna crawl outta my skin if I don’t do it.”

You smile satisfied and let go of your grip on his hair. Liam doesn’t know if he should be relieve to be rid of the pressure, or devastated not to have your hands in his hair. “Exactly,” you say before stepping away from him and grabbing a nearby blanket to hit him with as you punctuate your next sentence, “So get up from that bed, get your stiffy down, and let’s go. I’m gonna be late.”

Liam grumbles, watching you putter about the room and grab your stuff, already ready to go. “‘M’not even hard,” he mumbles, rolling his eyes. It was true, he wasn’t. But if your hands had stayed in his hair like that for a few seconds longer, then maybe … He shakes the thought off, rising from the bed to dust off his trousers and pat himself down for his essentials. “And we’re gonna be late because you decided to do your makeup when you know all that sweat is gonna wipe that off,” he argues, but you were already waltzing out the room, Toast following at your heels like an obedient little soldier.

You shoot back as you made sure all the lights were off, all the electrical plugs were bare, and all the appliances weren’t running. “They’re sweat proof.”

He argues back, ushering Toast to his feeder which he knew was about to dispense his precious breakfast in three … two … one … Toast meows to him in thanks before digging in. “You’ll take a shower at the studio. Like always.”

“I like doing my make up in the mornings,” you say, closing your curtains and petting Toast one last time before heading to the front door to unlock it.

As usual, you forget your damned umbrella. And as usual, Liam grabs it for you. “Weird girl,” he mumbles.

“Liam,” you scold from the hall, voice snapping at him in that business tone he loves and hates at the same measure. “Come on!”

Liam huffs, waving goodbye to Toast before heading out after you, locking your door behind him, your flowery umbrella gripped in his hand. “Chill out, mate.”

You turn to glare at him, eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that!” you scold. “Mate,” you scoff to yourself as Liam matches your pace as you begin to descend down the stairs. 

“Sorry,” he says, grinning as he elbows you. “I’ll buy ‘ya your matcha as an apology.”

“You buy me my matcha anyway,” you tell him, your steps reverberating down the echoey stairwell. “Buy something else.”

Liam snorts. “Greedy.” 

“You like it,” you smile at him, wiggling your brows as you land on the main floor and stride out into the fresh London air.

“Shut yer trap, sweetheart,” he says fondly, his arm coming to wrap around your waist as he syncs his steps with yours. “C’mon, let’s go.”

The path to your pilates studio is as familiar to Liam as his own neighborhood now. He knows the lady that walks her yippy chihuahua down the busy pedestrian, he knows the book store with a few titles that you’ve been gazing at longingly at your walks, he knows the car was nestled between a pub and a Jamaican restaurant, he knows the smelly alley that Liam holds his breath at everytime he passes it, he knows the community center with kiddies lining up to use the pool, and he knows the drunken lads that are just going home from their recent bender, singing football chants at the top of their lungs. 

Most of all, Liam knows the feel of your hand in his as you walk the street together, talking about nothing and everything as you let the world pass you by. By the time that Liam deposits you outside the studio with a kiss that lasts longer than it should have in such a public space, he’s left alone to his own devices.

This was another change in his routine, the patient waiting for you as Liam strolls down the street with no particular destination in mind. He’s done it all, been in to every shop, bought something from every storefront, tasted everything he liked on cafe menus. But it wasn’t like anyone but him remembered, though. Still, he doesn’t falter, content to know what’s going to happen before it happens, content to let today be wiped in a sea of no tomorrows. 

He buys a croissant from the cafe, already knowing the answers to the questions before the cashier asks them. “One of ‘em croissants, please. To go. No, I won’t have coffee with that, thanks. Yes, I’d like a napkin with it. No, you don’t have to wrap it in a paper bag. Sure, I’ll take a picture with ‘yer son.” So he takes the croissant, stands next to the kind lady’s son who’s staring at him incredulously, and signs a few autographs for the cafe that will disappear by morning. 

Liam leaves with crumbs in his mouth and pen marks staining his hands. 

He kills time at a tiny park close to the studio, staring at the trees and waving at babies in prams. Then when the sun hits him just right, he heaves himself up from the bench and comes to find you. 

He’s ambling outside of the studio when it happens. He always waits for you outside after the first time, too confounded to see the painful contortion of bodies and the intense pace of the workout. And it isn’t really new, the timing of your coach leaving the studio with her duffle bag over her shoulder. But today, Liam tries something different and he waves to her.

She stops in her tracks immediately, her red hair flaming against the deceitful sun as she blinks at the sight of him, clearly starstruck as she hauls her bag higher up her shoulder and squeaks. “Oh!” she exclaims. “You’re …” she can’t even finish the sentence. It was alright, Liam was used to such things.

“Hello,” he says simply, giving a small smile.

“Hi?” she says, her brows furrowed, her smile confused, and her hands twitching. “What are you …?” She doesn’t finish again, Liam picks it up where she left it, already beyond amused.

“‘M’just waitin’ for my girl.” His girl. The words come to him easily, like lyrics tto a song he’s performed a million times before. “She should be in there takin’ the longest shower known to man, following the longest make-up routine known to man, followed by the longest chat with her pilates mates.”

She laughs, more settled as the conversation takes on a familiar territory for her. “Anyone I know? I teach the morning class so I might be able to tell you what stage she’s in in her very long and winding process,” she jokes.

Liam says your name and he watches the puzzle pieces click. He sees the way her brow knits, sees her eyes widening, sees the slow scan of his wrinkles and his greying hair and his uncontrolled stubble. He knows she sees it, knows that that was the reason for the pause. And he knows that that’s why his heart sinks. 

It was another painful reminder of how far away you truly were from him that people pitied you for having someone like him by your side.

The woman’s kind, though. She shakes it off and makes no mention of robbed cradles or stolen youths. She merely huffs an awkward laugh and replies. Albeit, she inches away by the most unnoticeable margin. “She’s …” she trails of before shaking her head again and clearing her head before answering straight on, “Yeah, she’ll be at least fifteen more minutes in there.”

Liam hums and nods succinctly, “Thought so.”

“Yeah,” she laughs again, that breathy awkward chuckle that people only reserve for acquaintances and men like him who are dating women only a little over half his age. She doesn’t even ask for a picture or an autograph or a hug when she waves and begins to walk away with the parting phrase of, “Ok, well. It was nice meeting you, Mr. Gallagher.”

Liam waves, his smile perfunctory as well. “Yeah, you too.” And then she walks away. No confrontations, no weird look-back to send him a nasty glare, no invasive questions. But it lingers. Somewhere deep in Liam’s chest, something lodges.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it when you bound in from behind, putting your entire body weight on him as you swing up from the ground and wrap your arms around his neck. “Hey, you!” you greet, your smile giddy and glowing that Liam can’t help but peck it softly, not minding your scolding whine that has something to do with lip combos and freshly applied gloss. It was worth it, though. Your lips tasting of sweet peaches that he’s come to associate with you.

He drawls as you step away from him, wrapping an arm around his as you begin your stride once again. “Ah, the princess has arrived.”

“Shut up,” you laugh brightly, feet already taking you to a familiar destination. “I didn’t take that long.”

“I circled around the neighborhood ten times, sweetheart. By the third time, the guy hawking vegetables ‘round the block started lookin’ at me funny,” he says, embellishing his story more than just a little bit, just to see your toothy grin and flushed pink cheeks.

You look up to him with that same look and tease, “Well, maybe he was just jealous of your dashing good looks.”

“You’re good for my ego, you,” he says, shaking his head fondly as he drops a kiss to your still damp hair. “C’mon, matcha time.”

“Boyfriend of the year, over here!” you coo teasingly.

He raises a brow, heart beating abnormally fast for a man his age. “Boyfriend?”

He feels like a right bastard with the way your face drops, your expression going from pure joy to utter embarrassment in a matter of seconds. All because of him. “Oh,” you say, voice small in a way that Liam wants to kick himself for. “Forget I said anything. I just —“

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he stops you, pulling you in closer in case you got any silly ideas of running away. Lord he knows he wouldn’t be able to catch you then. “Easy, birdie. Was just jokin’, yeah? If you want to call a greying man your boyfriend, then I ain’t gonna stop ‘ya.”

It was your turn to raise a brow, “But do you want to be my boyfriend?” you say, asking possibly the silliest question Liam has ever heard. “And I love the grey!”

“‘Course you do,” he says casually, not deigning to look at you as he tacts on, “And yes, y’know. To the boyfriend thing.”

You bite a smile, matching his nonchalance. “Right.”

“Right,” he affirms. That was that then. And just because he wanted to throw you a bone, he adds. “Girlfriend.” This time, you really do let out a squeal, nearly jumping on him with joy as he laughs at your excitement. “Fuckin’ calm down, sweetheart. Don’t shake me around, I could get a heart attack and die.”

“Don’t say that!” you scold with a roll of your eyes. “God, you’re so bleak sometimes.”

He gets all up in your face as he asks, “Gonna break up with me over it? Hm?”

“No,” you say, resolute. “Not until you buy me my matcha.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, patting your hip fondly. “Might throw in a pastry or two since yer so cute.”

You were about to respond with something undoubtedly cheeky when a sound breaks the bubble the two of you occupy, a tiny wailing that Liam knows he’s heard before. It isn’t until he looks around and sees a familiar mouth of an alley that he stops to pause, your footsteps stopping with his as you undoubtedly recognize the sound. 

He can’t even remember how long ago it was that you stood in that alley, a tiny kitten in your arms as you look up at him helplessly. Five loops ago? Ten? Fuck, had it already been twenty? Liam had never even bothered to keep count of the days. But now, staring at him straight in the face was a reminder. 

Everything that he had built in this place was temporary.

And the illusion of perfection shatters.

He sees it in your eyes, like a fog clearing up and a haze bringing way to clarity. He sees you take a step towards the alley, and Liam follows you like a dog at your heel. The thudding in his ribcage feels like a marching drum, bringing him to what he knows in his heart of hearts is the beginning of the end. You’ve always wanted to get out, always wanted to find a way to get back to your old life save Rory, fix your relationship with your mam, properly cuss out your ex boyfriend — fuck, there was so much you wanted to do. And Rory’s pitiful wailing just reminds youe exactly of that. You say his name as you kneel to retrieve the kitten, and Liam knows that he’ll find the familiar steely resolve he’s come to admire in your eyes. 

He doesn’t look. Can’t. He’ll let himself have the last scraps of the life you built in this bubble, just for a few seconds more. Then, hell get down on his knees beside you and wrap poor Rory in his parka, then he’d call a cab to bring you to a vet, then he’d sit in the waiting room and listen to you plan out the life ahead. He lets the seconds tick by, just a few seconds, he tells himself.

He’s always been a selfish fucking bastard. 

September 21st, the forty-first time

The dream had to be shattered at one point. That’s what you tell yourself as you wake up that particular morning in the loop, running your hands through Toast’s fur as you blink away the deceptive morning sunshine. You’ve spent way too many days lethargically spread out on either Liam’s bed or yours, basking in the hedonism and pleasure that you would never allow yourself to feel if it weren’t for the loops. 

And if it weren’t for Liam. It always came back to Liam these days. Your boyfriend. You allow yourself a giddy and juvenile giggle as you relish in yesterday’s memory, the quiet domesticity that you’ve managed to build. You spare a thought for brighter days beyond the loop and you feel like anything’s possible. 

There’s a lot to be done, you concede to the fact. But it doesn’t seem all that impossible. On the other side, you had a lot of things waiting for you. You had your mom and Rory to think of, you had your job and your future with Liam. You had so much to look forward to, and that’s what drives you out of bed and on Liam’s doorstep that morning, Toast sitting prettily in his carrier as you knock on the familiar mahogany door. 

“Long time, no see,” he drawls as he opens the door, dropping a kiss on your hair as you pass him by and leave your shoes on his foyer. 

“I’m a sight for sore eyes, I know,” you quip back, kneeling on the cold tiles to let Toast wander out of his carrier and immediately place himself on the top step of Liam’s staircase. You roll your eyes. Typical of your flat raised cat to marvel at stairs. You raise yourself back up and turn to Liam, expectantly puckering your lips for a kiss which he grants you with much fervor. When his hand wanders down from your waist to have a greedy grab of your arse, you pull away to give him a flat look. “Down, boy,” you say, rolling your eyes as you walk away and seat yourself on the couch. 

Liam huffs from behind you and sinks down on the couch next to you. “Oh, so now you’re little miss prim and proper, aye? Too good for an old man? Hm?” he teases, squeezing you by the arm of the couch, annoyingly getting in your space to leave stray pecks against your cheek. 

You laugh and push him away. “Liam,” you say, prying him off you and valiantly fighting of the beginnings of a smile. “Shut up, you’re so annoying.”

His next words are said between kisses, “Still like me, though.”

You snort and push his head off you. “Liam,” you scold him as you would scold Toast. “C’mon we’re busy today. We gotta plan our exit strategy.”

Liam’s groan echoes in the living room as he dramatically throws his head back and protests, “We quite literally have all the time in the world to plan.”

You click your tongue and swat at him. “Yes, but I would prefer it if we get back sooner, yeah?”

“What are you even waiting for on the other side of this? Got a hot young boyfriend to get back to?” says Liam, waggling his brows. 

You frown. “You know I don’t,” you say, beginning to grow annoyed. “And what’s with the attitude?”

Liam barks a short laugh. “My attitude?” he says. “Babe, c’mon.”

Your brows knit as you pull the slightest bit away to survey him. “No, no, no,” you protest with a shake of your head. “Why are you fighting this?”

“Fighting what, exactly?” he asks, brow raised. 

“Getting back,” you say.

A sigh, “I’m not.”

You clench your jaw. “Oh, so it would be totally alright with you if we start planning now?”

A pause, way too long to be comfortable. “Dunno,” he mumbles.

You blink, bewildered. “Liam,” you saw with disbelief, unsure of what else to say at his blatant hesitation to get your lives back on track. “Tell me you’re joking.”

His shrug says it all. “It’s just ….” he trails off as you debate whether or not to lose your mind yet. “Do we have to get back?”

“Liam, you have five seconds to tell me that this is all just some horrible joke or else I swear I’ll start acting crazy.” You couldn’t believe your ears, your hands grew clammy from the casualness of his answer, the nonchalance in his tone as he says that maybe the two of you should just spend the rest of your lives stuck in a bubble. 

His face twists with defensiveness. “I ain’t jokin’, yeah?”

You make a sound that’s half sob and half laugh, legs growing restless as you stand. “What the fuck?” you mumble.

He clicks his tongue in irritation. “It ain’t a big deal,” he says, voice a bit sharper now. “It’s just a suggestion. We’re havin’ a great time here, right? No consequences, no mistakes, no losses? Just the same perfect day every day!”

He always had the way of making the situation you were in sound like a holiday. At first, it sounded like optimism, but now it sounded like defeat. “You seriously wanna stay here in this … this abomination of a time loop just to waste your life away staying in one place?”

His groan is ragged as he shoots back, “Well, when you make it sound like that, then it’s bound to sound awful!” he says before hunching forward, elbows on his knees to look up at you. “Look, when this day started however many loops ago, I was lost, yeah? I was fifty years old with nowhere else to go. I’ve fuckin’ done it all at this point and I wasn’t gonna do anythin’ more. But then the loops started and you and I got closer and I realized that I could still be happy. That you make me happy. And I ain’t tradin’ that for some real world bullshit.”

“This isn’t fucking Wonderwall, Liam,” you spit frustratedly, pacing as you try to get everything out of your chest lest you explode. ‘I’m not gonna be the one that saves you or whatever bullshit your brother wrote.”

Liam’s blue eyes turn steely. “Don’t even talk about ‘im.”

“And let’s not even get on the fact that you refuse to speak to him!” you laugh incredulously, the memory of Liam’s stinging rejection of your idea ringing in your head. “Not even when we’re in this nonsensical timeline, not even when that very thing of calling him could get us out of here.”

“And what about you, yeah?” Liam replies testily, standing up from the couch to face you head on. You don’t cower as he stares you down, you only lift your chin up defiantly. “What’s all that have to do with you, then? Why do you care so much about it when it doesn’t even affect you?”

“It affects me because it might just be the thing that gets you out!”

“You aren’t fuckin’ listenin’!” he snaps, the first time you’ve ever heard him raise his voice. You know the headlines, had seen the news growing up. Liam Gallagher was supposed to be the perpetually angry frontman that everybody feared. You never knew him as that kind of guy. He’s always just been Liam to you. But now, you get the side that the press always talks about. Now, you see the fire of indignation in his eyes. “I don’t wanna get out! There ain’t nothin’ there for me, and you know it.”

You exhale sharply, the breath leaving your lungs disbelievingly. “Nothing there for you?” you repeat, in utter confusion. “Liam, I don’t know if you’re forgetting, but you have three kids waiting for you back home. A fourth, that you’ve never even met.” That stings him like you knew it would, he winces like you’ve grazed him with a bullet. You keep going. “You’ve got a mother who adores you, a brother you refuse to make amends with but love fiercely all the same, you’ve got Buttons who relies on you, Sid and Nancy who pretend they don’t care about you but cuddle up to you anyway. You have the record label, you have your mates, you have your career, you have so much.” Had Liam really been thinking this way the entire time you’ve been stuck? Had he been thinking this since you’ve met him? You couldn’t believe it, the great and might Liam Gallagher that always made sure you were in one piece had always just carried this with him. 

Liam blinks, his gaze faraway as he looks somewhere over your shoulder, refusing to meet your eyes as he asks, “And you?” Are you there for me? You know that’s what he can’t bring himself to ask, you know that that’s something he doesn’t want to burden you with. And your heart aches. 

“Of course,” you say, the words tumbling out of you in a rush to reassure you. “Of course, Liam. I can’t believe you would even think I wasn’t.”

He looks at you then, eyes suddenly clear and resolute, lip curling in a plea. “Then why won’t you stay here with me?”

The question sits between you for longer than you would like. And you know Liam makes his assumptions. He makes his assumption through the numbers separating your age from his, he makes it through the memory of his creaking bones against your spry ones, he makes it through the unmarred set of your face that blinks up at him, asking him to just understand. 

You had a life ahead of you. And so did Liam. But the problem was that he only believed one of those things to be true. 

“I can’t,” is all you manage to say, and Liam sinks into the couch like all the strings that have been holding him up have been cut loose. It was your turn to look away from him as you train your gaze on the console table instead, voice shaking with a mixture of frustration, hurt, and anger in it. “You know I can’t.”

Liam nods, a sad little thing that makes your heart twist in your chest. “If we get out of here.” You wanted to cry with his words. If we get out of here. Not when. Has it always been that way? Had he always wanted to stay? Get lost in time forever? “A lot of things could happen. The press would find out about this. They’d tear us down.”

You laugh wetly. “Since when did you care about the press?” All that time spent training him to care about his image and this is the thing that gets him to shape up?

Liam shakes his head. “I don’t,” he says. “But you do. That’s your entire job, sweetheart. You’ve been wired to think about them from the moment you stepped into this fucked industry. And I know it’ll get to ‘ya. And it’ll break my heart when it does.”

You don’t respond. Can’t make yourself respond when your head is spinning like a top. 

“If we just … stay here, yeah?” he starts, trying to get a good look at your face as he pleads. “If we just stay here, we can’t lose anything.”

“Liam,” you breathe his name. Tired, hurt, confused.

“We have freedom,” he drives the point home, ducking down to try and meet your downcast face. 

You finally look at him, face twisted. “None of that is real, Liam,” you say, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “You’re so obsessed with this false freedom that we have here that you can’t see just how trapped we are. Don’t you care that you won’t get to see your kids grow old and have families of their own? Won’t get to see your lads for more than a few hours at a time, the pair of them never remembering anything past the twentieth of September? Won’t get to see Molly change the world with her wonderful brain? Won’t get to settle things with Noel, or meet his boys, or see Anais again? Or that you’ll spend the rest of eternity never having met your own daughter? This isn’t living, Liam. And I know you know that.”

“If we get out,” he says again, that awful word in his mouth again. “What? What happens? The world will turn, time will start again, yeah? I could lose me mam, I could see my kids make the same mistakes I did, I could get enough guts to call me brother up just for him to tell me to fuck off again, you’d come out of this loop only to realize what you’ve saddled yourself with me, I could call my youngest up only for her to tell me how much of a bastard I am. I don’t have to worry about that shite here. I’ve got everything I want, and it can’t slip away.”

“But what about me?” you asked, a stray tear falling down your cheek only for you to wipe it away harshly. “What life do I have here?” 

You know that he knows he’s lost the argument just then. He sighs, the sound so pained that it makes a shiver race up your spine. “I told you before we started this,” he says. “You’re young.”

You nod, remembering his words how many loops ago, your lip gloss staining his mouth as he gently pushes you away, urges you to think about things. “And you’re not,” you echo back to him, his own words even more painful in your mouth.

“So,” he starts, licking his lips as he smiles sadly up at you. “I stay. You go?”

You shake your head right as a sob leaves you. “Just come with me,” you say. “Just try, Liam.”

The sound of your muffled crying sends him standing straight up and off the sofa, closing the distance between the two of you as he wraps you in his warm arms and lets your head rest against his chest. He doesn’t say anything, and that’s what worries you the most. 

September 21st, the forty-second time

Your feet took you to Rory’s alley before you could talk yourself out of doing it. 

The thing was, it broke your heart, seeing the poor thing like that all scared and alone in the alley. And seeing it for a second time yesterday was a wake-up call that you knew you needed to shake you back into the dismal reality of your situation.

Plus, you needed a distraction. There was no way that you would allow anythoughts of a certain blue-eyed Mancunian and a certain time-loop conundrum to invade your memory for even one more second. 

You couldn’t even wrap your head around it, the concept of staying trapped. Sure, it had been a nice few days just lounging around and basking in each other’s presence. But the real world surely had to come into play sometime. You weren’t going to spend the rest of your life in a place where reality was warped and nothing was real. You wanted a future, and Liam just wanted today. 

You banished the thought from your mind as you trudged along London, your bag slung over your shoulder as you let your feet lead you to your destination. 

Questions just kept popping into your mind. You had spent the longest time trying to figure out solutions with Liam that you have barely even stopped to think if you could get back without him. And if you stop to think on that, you wondered what would happen if Liam never came back. Would he just cease to exist? You shuddered at the thought. This was why you needed a distraction so desperately. 

You found the alley with ease, Aurora’s pitiful whimpers loud and painful from where you stood as you went in and did the whole thing over again, but this time you came prepared. None of your shocked floundering, none of your wishful thinking that her owners would come for her, just pure ease as you wrapped her in the warmest blanket you could pack and called the next cab you saw. She was so tiny, only just a little bit bigger than your palms cupped together. Your heart broke at the fact that someone could just leave her like that.

From there, everything was quick; bringing her to the vet, the questionnaire the brought out to find out how you found her, bothering the attendants for news and updates until one of them lost their final thread of sanity and asked if you wanted to take a tour of the facility. 

You, seeking a distraction, obviously said yes. 

It wasn’t much, especially with the facility being the size that it was. Still, you could tell that a lot of love lives in the halls and makes it’s way to the animals that they house. You pass by dogs who sleep soundly, cats who have the energy to swat at each other through their cages, and even birds who coo at you as you pass. It’s silly, but you stop to say hello at the ones that look at you with their wide and imploring eyes.

That’s when you see the sign. Not a sign from god or the universe or whatever higher power there may be. A literal sign, with the words LOOKING FOR VOLUNTEERS stamped on it. You harassed the next attendant you saw about it, asking questions like What would I be doing? You would apparently be doing tasks like dog walking, kennel cleaning, helping during outreach programs, socializing with the rescues, and most relevant to your resume — content creation for the facility to gain more traction. Then you kept asking questions; What are the hours like? Could this be done with a full-time job? Does this come with some kind of stipend? Are there any limits for how long you could volunteer? and the most important of it all, Where can I sign up?

They give you a temporary ID badge and a vest that same day. 

And just before leaving, you bother them one more time, telling them that you’d like to start the adoption process on Aurora as soon as you could. 

September 21st, the forty-third time

Liam does something he should have done since the second loop. He packed his bags, got in a car, and went to his mam’s. Noel had always teased him relentlessly for being a fierce mummy’s boy. He’d snort at Liam’s clingy demeanor and call him a whinging baby, even as Liam was well into his thirties. 

But he didn’t give a toss. Liam loved his mam. And right now, he needed to be sat in her couch, in their house, with a warm cuppa, and her kiss on his cheek. He wanted his mam to tell him everything will be alright, he wanted his mam to tell him that she’ll always be there, he wanted his mam to sit beside him in the silence that’s eating him up.

He’s sat there on her floral couch now, teacup in hand, feeling less like a fool and more like a boy as his mam considers him with a tilted head. 

“Everything alright, Liam?” she asks. She worries too much, Liam thinks. And he hates that he’s made her worry so much, even when he was old and grey. “The kids doin’ well?”

Liam nods, taking a sip of his tea before settling it down on the console and sinking further into the couch. “Yeah, mam. Gene and Lennon are in Paris for fashion week. The two of them would be rockin’ the runway and allat. I’ll send you a picture once they remember,” he says. “And Molly’s fine. She’s with that boyfriend of hers in their new flat. I helped set up their curtain rods just last week. Nearly blew my back out.”

His mam nods, delighted at the mention of her grandkids. Still, she doesn’t continue, and Liam knows what she wants him to say. 

He suppresses a sigh. “‘I’ve no word on the kid from New York, still,” he says. “But I hear she’s doin’ well.”

His mam shakes her head but doesn’t comment further, knowing it would just upset the two of them and render their day gloomy. They’ve had the conversation before, they know how it ends. Instead, she pivots. “None of them wanted to spend your birthday with you?”

Oh. In the repetitive cycle of days, he’d already forgotten what day it still was. He shakes his head and laughs. “Nah,” he says. “Let the kids have lives of their own, right?”

His mam looks at him knowingly before taking a sip of her tea. “Well, fifty is a milestone, Liam,” she says in that lilting tone of hers. “And I’m proud of you for making it.”

Liam shrugs and curls forward to kiss his mam’s cheek. “I’m proud to be here,” he confirms. “And I’m proud to be spendin’ the day with you, eh?”

She rolls her eyes. “Could have told me you were comin’, at least,” she mutters. ‘Would have prepared summat for you to eat.”

Always worrying. “I already ordered summat on the apps, mam,” he tells her, feeling tech savvy for once in his life. He spares a mental thank you for Lennon who taught him how UberEats works. “We could just chill out ‘til it gets here.”

She smiles and pats his cheek. “Good,” she says. “Because I’m too old to be putterin’ about the kitchen, and you’re too much of a fire hazard to be cookin’.”

Liam laughs. “Aye, I’ve learned how to cook some proper meals now, mam,” he says confidently. “Could do a bit of fried rice now. Cooked some pancakes just recently, did some French toast. I fried some chicken as well.”

His mam’s eyes light up. “Oh, how wonderful. It only took you fifty years, love.”

Liam chuckles and shakes his head. “It was hard work, I’ll tell ‘ya that,” he says. “I can’t believe that that’s what you’ve been doin’ in the kitchen all this time while I was out being an ungrateful brat.’

“Now you know my pain, dear,” she jokes. “And what’s brought about this turn in lifestyle, hm? Is this one of them midlife crises?”

Unbidden, you and your smile come to mind, the breakfast you two would have after you’d drive over to his place and you’d spend your time lazing about or planning an escape. Even now, with the memory of you crying into his chest still fresh, Liam still feels his heart beat like mad. He doesn’t know what comes over him as he tells his mam. “Met a girl, me,” he says, as if what he had with you was that simple. “Actually met her years ago but now … dunno, now we’re trying summat.”

His mam’s brows fly up. And he knows what she must be thinking, he’s always caused strife in this area of his life. For sure, all her caution was raised. “Did ‘ya, now?” she asks, still trying to be as supportive as she could be. Bless her.

He hums and says your name, tasting it on his tongue as he smiles. “She’s the best, really whips me into shape. You’d like her.”

Mam shakes her head, the greying strands falling into her face. “Bring her ‘round then, aye?” she says sternly. “You’re too old to be doin’ any of these casual things you used to do. No messing about, Liam. If you’re serious, you’re serious.”

Liam nods succinctly. “I’m serious,” he confirms. And he knows this to be truer than anything in his world right now. 

His mam nods. “Well, if that’s the case, you better keep her, yeah? None of that nasty cheating business.”

Liam sighs. “That’s in the past,” he says firmly.

“Thank god,” his mam mumbles. “Turned me grey, you did. In fact, both you and Noel did.”

Liam chuckles. “How is the old bastard?”

A pointed glare. “You would do well with just asking him yourself, did ‘ya know?”

Liam shrugs, a flimsy excuse already on his tongue. “Don’t have his number.”

And like she was expecting the words to fall from Liam’s mouth, his mam pulled out a ratty notebook from the console, flipped to a page near the beginning of the book, and shoved it Liam’s way. “There it is,” she said. It was akin to handing him a knife and telling him to go crazy with it. Still, he took a picture of the number and shoved it back. Just to appease his mam, he told himself. 

His mam shakes her head at him, a bit fond and a bit tired. Liam feels like a right bastard for doing this to her, for separating her two boys. In an apology, he nestles himself near her on the couch and pouts. “I took a picture of his number, alright?”

She hums. “Alright,” she dismisses. “If you ain’t gonna do nowt about it, then let’s not talk about it and get my poor hopes up.”

He sighs. “Mam.”

“I’m just sayin’!” she argues. “Life is too short for the two of you to be spendin’ it apart. We don’t know what the future holds for us, so we best live our life with no regrets, aye?”

No regrets. It was easy to say that in this version of the universe. Here, he could do and say whatever he wanted with no consequence, and he’d live to have done everything he could. But back in the real world, things weren’t so simple. He used to pride himself for being a fearless person, for being a person that didn’t hesitate before jumping in. But age had done a number on him, just the thought of making it through the new day with no mistakes rattled him. It was an exhausting life to lead. 

But still, it just might be worth it. Just to see his mam smile again as him and Noel finally called a truce. 

He makes it a goal to have that happen before the bell rings and the food delivery arrives. And the two of them make quick work of their lunch. His mam worries again and asks more questions than she should (“This girl, Liam…” she begins as Liam sighs. “She’s really nice, mam. Though she is quite young.” Her eyebrows fly as Liam expected, “How young?” Liam sighs again and says through a forkful of spaghetti, “Just a little bit older than Molly.” He pretends not to notice her cross herself). But all in all, it’s a great afternoon, he gossips with her about the new neighbors that had just moved in, she tells him all about her aunts and uncles that have come to visit, and she coos at pictures of her grandchildren that Liam shows through his phone. 

All is well. 

When the plates are cleared and cleaned up, Liam tilts his head to look at his mam and leans against the counter to ask. “Mam?” he says. As always, his mam is already looking at him, ready for whatever he needs. “If you were stuck living the same day everyday, what would you do?”

She huffs a laugh and shakes her head. “You and your wild stories,” she laughs. Liam pretends not to notice the twinge of sadness he feels at that. “I guess I would go crazy for a few days before going back.”

Liam’s brow raises. “Go crazy?” he laughs. “Mam, how exactly do you plan on goin’ crazy?”

“Dunno yet,” she shrugs easily. “Haven’t really thought about it. I’ve really done everything that I could possibly do in this lifetime. You and Noel have given me enough to not want for anything else. I guess I would maybe just enjoy a good roast without fearing my blood pressure spiking. Or maybe eat a whole chocolate cake all to myself.”

Liam laughs gently. “Mam,” he says. “That’s your plan?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t get lippy with me, boy,” she scolds playfully. “I’m just sayin’ that there’s nowt else to do. It’d be quite boring I would say, living the same day over and over. Plus, I won’t get to see you or Noel or the grandkids. And I have friends as well, Liam. I have a life.”

Liam hums. “I get it.”

“And I hope you never get into such a situation because I know you’d cook up a lot of trouble, you scoundrel.” Liam laughs, loud and unabashed, glowing under his mam’s warm attention and the food filling his stomach. 

When he excuses himself for a cigarette in the backyard, Liam knows what he has to do as he pulls out his phone. He just has to try, for the sake of trying and for the sake of their mam. 

He dials the number with shaking hands, and he feels like a fool for it. He internally scolds himself, this was just Noel, his crazy big brother who used to sneak him out for pints when he was younger, who’d buy him ice cream when he asked, who cooked him his dinner whenever mam was held up at work. He was just Noel and Liam was just Liam. 

But he knew that it wasn’t that easy. Still, with his mam’s footsteps in the kitchen and your voice in his ear, he presses call and waits as the phone rings, and rings, and rings, and rings, and rings, and rings, and …

Click. “Hello?” That fucking voice, gone deeper and raspier with age but still undeniably Liam’s brother. Fuck, he’s getting choked up by the sound of it, absolutely pathetic. “Uhhh? Who is this?” Noel asks from the other line, still oblivious to the crisis that Liam’s been having. 

He should just rip the band-aid off already. Jesus Christ, why was this so hard? Still, he tries. “Alright, Noely?” he asks, as lightly as he could, though his voice shakes as he says it. 

A pause from the other line, and Liam’s so sure that he’d hear a beep or a curse or something that would tell him that this was a bad idea. But Noel says, “Liam?”

When Liam had been little, he’d been a godawful little crybaby gobshite. Anything that went wrong in his tiny world, he’d open his mouth and holler just to let everyone know how unhappy he was. His mam nearly lost her head with the amount of times Liam would come crawling, walking, running crying to her at different stages of his life. Then, she got busy with working to sustain all of them, so Liam cried to Noel instead. And everytime he did, Noel would tilt his head and sigh, saying his name in that woeful and exasperated way of his. 

Liam feels like that kid again as he hears Noel’s voice in his ear. But he ain’t five no more, he’s fifty, and he can deal with this with only a few shed tears. “Yeah,” he answers gruffly. “I’m at mam’s.”

“Liam,” Noel says with a click of his tongue, that same damned tone again. Liam wants nothing more for this call to end. He’d be glad of it when the loop ends and tomorrow brings a fresh start. “Why are you calling?” 

Liam sighs agitatedly and puffs on his cigarette. “Dunno,” he says in the way that he knows he shouldn’t because it was always a surefire way to get Noel riled up. So he tacks on, “Just missed ‘ya.” And there it was, so much truth disguised under so much casual conversation. 

Noel’s silent again on the other line. Twenty years ago, he would have told the man to hurry up and say something before Liam blows a fuse. Today, he knows he isn’t in a position to do that anymore, that he’s lost that privelege a long time ago. Noel snorts, a sound that makes Liam perk up. “Did mam put ‘ya up to this?”

Liam echoes Noel’s snort. “Nah,” he says, taking another drag of his cigarette. “‘S’it hard to believe that I’ve missed yer ugly mug? It’s been a minute, after all.”

“Yeah,” Noel says. “A minute.”

Liam bites the bullet before Noel could hang up and Liam would have to do this all over again. “Listen, yeah?” he starts, his leg beginning to bounce restlessly as he stood. “Just for a minute. I’m sober and I ain’t on nothin’ so you can’t go accusin’ me of drunk callin’. But I just miss my big brother and I’m sorry that this is how we ended up. I mean, what kind of fucked up brothers don’t see each other for more than a decade? It’s tearin’ mam apart, the kids are confused, and I just miss bein’ yer brother. This ain’t about the band anymore, like. Oasis could go to hell for all I fuckin’ care but we could at least try to just … be family.”

That damned fucking silence again. Liam seriously debates being the one to hang up. Instead, he hearsNoel’s thick voice saying, “Oasis can go to hell?” he repeats incredulously. “Christ, who are you and what have you done to my brother?”

His brother. Liam bites a wobbly smile. “Oh, shuddup,” he grumbles instead. “Was just try’na make a point, la.”

“Didn’t have to slag off the band,” Noel mutters, but Liam doesn’t feel any heat from it. “Christ, I wonder what mam fed you.”

Liam shakes his head and takes one last drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out on the bricks. “Told ‘ya,” Liam insisted. “Mam ain’t even know that I’m callin’ right now.”

“Hidin’ secrets from the poor woman now,” says Noel. 

“Yeah, yeah,” drawls Liam. “Listen, I gotta get back inside, yeah? The rain’s about to pour down and I know I love you, but not so much as to get soaked.”

Noel doesn’t say it back. Not the I love yous or I miss yous. Instead, he does what Liam knows Noel likes to do. “Yeah, get back to mam, don’t track any mud inside the carpet or she’ll kill ‘ya,” he says before pausing. “Hey, and your new album’s great, Liam. Your voice sounds amazing.” Then, he hangs up before Liam could even comprehend what he just said. 

Liam takes away the phone from his ear with a sigh of unburdened relief, his hand still embarassingly clammy as he wipes it on his coat. 

In the wider scope of things, the call wasn’t much of anything. No real apologies, no addressing of what happened for the two of them to drit apart, no plans to meet up and reconnect. To anyone else, it was probably a small feat. 

But to Liam, it was everything. It was the first time he’d talked to his brother in more than a decade, it was the first time he was able to admit that he missed Noel, it was the first time the two of them spoke without yelling. To Liam, he felt like there was finally a fresh start, like a weight had been lifted from his chest. 

There was still a lot of work to do, and he was sure he’d be working on it when he got back to the real world. But for now, he wipes his trainers on the mat, makes his way back inside the house, and calls out to his mam.

“Mam,” he calls to her as he enters again through the kitchen. He sees her, eyes alight as if she knows who he had just been talking to in the garden, but she doesn’t mention it. “Can I stay here with you for tonight?”

Her smile is like a warm hug when she responds, “Of course, love. Stay as long as you like.”

September 21st, the forty-fourth time

Liam wakes with a painful groan, eyes fluttering open as he beats his alarm by the barest margin and rolls over on his sheets. He goes through the motions of the morning, a splash of cold water on his face, take a quick piss, brush his teeth, grab a parka, put on some socks and his trainers, and head down the stairs. It was all painfully familiar. 

Yesterday had been a balm to soothe the ache in his chest, the wake-up call he needed to get his shit together, the blinding green light telling him that he needs to move. So, Liam goes through his routine and doesn’t plan his day around what food he wants to try, what show he wants to watch this time around, what position to put you in in bed this afternoon — he plans for tomorrow. 

His trainers make a soft noise as he padded down the stairs, greeting Buttons a god morning before reaching for a sack of her food and silently depositing it in her bowl. He does the same for his cats then heads out the door for a quick walk around the neighborhood. 

It’s the same people as always; the harried woman in a pantsuit in line for a cup of coffee, a man still in his pajamas that’s rubbing sleep out of his eyes as his dog takes a shit in the bushes, the same orange cat prowling the neighborhood with the rock and roll type glare aimed at everyone. 

The same bike misses Liam by a few paces and he shakes his head at that kid’s reckless driving. But he keeps going. Up the hill, into a copse of trees, beside the lake, near the kitschy souvenir shops, and past the Italian restaurant he took you to, early on in the loops when he was still convincing himself that you were too good for him. 

He thinks of the scheduled text you sent him burning a hole in his shorts pocket, and he wishes he hadn’t been such a fool. 

He wants a future with you, he wants to wake up to a new day and live to make an echo. He wants to see his kids grow old with bones as creaky as their dad’s, he wants to have you meet his mam in his childhood home, he wants to set things right with his daughter and take her to see the London sights, he wants to be brothers with Noel again, he wants to play Oasis tunes to a crowd of hundreds of thousands of people, he wants so much. And he can’t do that in a world of no tomorrows. 

So Liam runs and runs and runs, but this time he doesn’t run away. He runs toward the only thing that kept him sane during this whole thing. He runs towards you. 

He has the courtesy to buy you a coffee and a pastry before waking you up from your slumber, but Liam’s veins are still buzzing with apprehension as he knocks on your door. This isn’t like all the times he came to visit, with the anticipation of having your skin against his burning him through the inside out. No, this time, the beat of his heart was steady and his aim was true. He knew what he wanted, even as much as he feared it. 

You open the door, and he sees those goddamn silk pajamas that make his mouth water like mad, and your eyebrows fly up into your hairline. “Liam,” you say, a mix of shocked and knowing. 

“Hey,” he greets lamely. “Bought you a coffee. And a pastry.” He holds up the items like a peace offering and you roll your eyes as you let him in. Toast is still asleep on the tiny couch as Liam settles in beside him, and you settle yourself on the carpeted floor and eat your breakfast in peace, content not to say a word. Which means that Liam’s supposed to do all the talking. “Stopped ‘round at me mam’s yesterday,” he said carefully. “Talked to Noel over the phone as well.”

You blink at him, crumbs still on your mouth. God, does Liam want to kiss it away. “Liam, that’s amazing,” you breathe. “Really, that’s a lot.”

He snorted. “It was a lot,” he said. “Me hands were shakin’ as I dialled his number. But I did it. And I think I want to do it again. Proper, this time.”

You blink again. “You mean…?”

He nods, already knowing what you were trying to say. “I’m in,” he tells you. “Fully in.”

You make a sound of laughter and shock as you climb up from the carpet and wind your arms around him, burying your face in his shoulder as your legs place themselves on either side of his aching hips. “Fuck, I’m so relieved,” you breathed. “Jesus, you really scared me, Liam.”

His heart aches at the sincerity of it, at the thought of him worrying you like that. He cards his fingers through your hair and gives you a peck on the lips. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m here now, aren’t I?’

You nod and kiss his cheek fiercely. “You’re here now,” you say resolutely. “And I have a plan.”

***

You’ve spent all of yesterday volunteering at the shelter. You took Aurora to their vet as soon as light hit the horizon, then you were off. The thing was, Aurora was a fighter, that little thing. She would yell and yowl and bite weakly as if to tell the world that she was still kicking. And if all was to be alright, you’d be the one to nurture that in her. 

The shelter was very receptive with your desire to join the team right away. In fact, they were so short on volunteers that they didn’t even need to think twice before welcoming you on board. Of course, there were follow-ups to be done, but that could all be arranged tomorrow. And you were sure you were going to get one. 

You tell Liam all of this as you drive to his place, him in the passenger seat with Toast in his lap, and he listens attentively. The relief you felt when you opened the door to see him was palpable. You had suppressed the thought that Liam would stay stuck in this cycle forever, but it had been a fear that lingered in the back of your mind longer than you would like to admit. 

“So I drafted them some plans for publicity, some new outreach programs to be done, donation drives, the works,” you tell him as you pull up in front of his house and unbuckle his seatbelt. “I could even scrounge up a charity concert for them somewhere down the line. It could really help them boost awareness since the shelter’s running low on funds and volunteers.”

Liam hums. “Proud of ‘ya,” he says easily as he smiles.

You smile back at him and open your car door to get out, but not before saying. “Oh, but you’re not getting rid of me that easily, Liam. I’m still gonna be on your ass with your tweets.”

He snorts and follows you out, Toast hanging off his bicep. “Just how I like it,” he tells you as he unlocks the front door and lets the two of you in. “So, breakfast is done, the pets are fed, and the two of us are caught up. What’s the plan, sweetheart?”

The plan was half-cooked, half-baked, half-planned, and totally unlike you. “I want to break the plaque,” you tell him.

His brows furrow. “Plaque? What plaque?”

You sigh and roll your eyes. “Your plaque. Y’know, the one that’s gonna get delivered here in a few hours? The one you tweet about and get me in trouble for? The one for your historical contribution to music as a whole?” You knew he never even read that plaque. 

His brows raise. “And … why?” he asks. “What would that do? Is the thing cursed or …?”

You shrug. “I don’t know,” you say, for the first time. “I have no idea. And I don’t plan on having an idea. All I know is that I wanna break it.”

“And you’re sure that that could get us out of the loop.”

“No, not really,” you tell him honestly.

He nods. “Right,” he says. “Okay. Yeah, you’ve finally gone completely fuckin’ mad.”

You groan. “I’ve not gone mad, Liam!” you cry. “I’ve just had enough of … of … of playing by their rules! I’ve worked so hard to get where I am now and I still spend my Sundays getting yelled at by executives for things that are out of my control! There’s so much that I want to do, so much that I can do and I’m not getting the space to do it! And, you!” you explain, pointing to him. “Your historical contribution to the music industry? You’re not dead! You’re not some vague figure from the past. You’ve got so much more to do! Even before this goddamn loop, they’ve already got us trapped in these boxes with roles we’re meant to fulfill! It’s ridiculous!”

“Y’know, this is coming out of left field, right?” he says.

“Then, if it doesn’t work, we’ll try something in the next loop,” you tell him, rubbing at your forehead. “Because so far, we’ve tried every fuckin thing we could, and I just wanna see if this one thing works.”

Liam blinks, assessing you for a moment before nodding. “If this is what you want,” he tells you.

You nod. “It is,” you say. “That plaque represents everything that traps us, really. And even if we end up back here tomorrow, I’ll still be glad to see it go.”

He comes near to gather you in his arms and press a kiss to your forehead. “You really fuckin’ hated that plaque,” he says with a laugh. “But I think this is just to stop me from tweeting it out.”

You snort. “If tomorrow actually comes and that plaque is broken,” you begin, trying not to shudder. “I’m in for a world of hurt.”

He shrugs. “I know you can handle it,” he says. And you know this to be true.

So Liam spends the rest of the time answering text messages and calling his kids. You spend it making plans for the shelter and devising how to tell management about the destruction of the plaque. Toast and Sid skitter past you and your notepad, while Nancy and Buttons weave around Liam’s legs. 

When the doorbell finally rings, Liam answers it without fanfare, signs the paper, and sees the mailman off. 

“I can’t believe you never even read what it says,” you snort as you stare down at the vulnerable piece of glass and wood.

“If I did, I would have been offended,” he says. “Historical,” he grumbles under his breath. “Makes me seem like a fuckin’ … dinosaur or summat.”

You laugh and take a hammer that he had offered you, Liam holding a similar one in his hand. “I worked a month for the launch schedule of this thing. Useless,” you said. “I told management it was an awful idea. Told them that it was alright that you tweeted about it. It’s like they don’t trust that I can do my job.”

‘Historical” he mutters again. “D’ya want first whack?” he says as he turns to you, eyes expectant. 

You shrug, “It kinda feels right if we do it together,” you say, adjusting your grip on the hammer.

“On three?” he tells you, eyes now focused on the plaque shining up at the two of you. He counts down steadily to one, and your hamers go flying. The plaque shatters easily at your joint assault, crumpling into itself within seconds. 

And as much as things go, it was all pretty anticlimactic. The two of you stare down at the remnants of the plaque, Liam going so far as to take a picture of it before you bin it, and that’s the end of that. 

The two of you order in some lunch, watch more of the X-Files on Liam’s telly, and spend the day either kissing or being laser focused on the screen. By the time night falls, Liam finally caves and begs you to allow him to tweet the picture out. 

As the two of you get ready for bed, his phone explodes with notifications, as yours explode with calls from executives. You both shut your devices down and tuck in for the night. 

“If this works,” you tell him, both of you cloaked in the darkness of the night, the sheets drawn over both of you. “I hope you know that I’m not going anywhere.”

The kiss he places on your temple is confession enough. “I still choose you, sweetheart,” he tells you roughly. “Every damn day, I’ll choose you.”

And you fall back into bed with him, his arms wound tight around you as you drift off. And as much as loop days go, it was all pretty boring. But it was something that the both of you chose, something that you wanted for yourselves so badly. And maybe that was worth something, after all. Maybe choosing freedom was all you really needed. That and a couple of hammers.

September 22nd, the first time

You don’t feel the warm sun on your back as you wake up. Instead you have the awful blare of your alarm and a tight arm around your middle whose owner is groaning about you turning the damned thing off. 

“I will, I will,” you say blearily, rolling over to face Liam’s bedside before absently turning your alarm off and falling back into bed with him. You get comfortable on the sheets, letting it rustle against your skin as you settle back with your head on Liam’s chest and your eyes drooping closed once again. 

It hits you embarrassingly late, shooting up in bed with a gasp ripped out of you so dramatically that Liam has no choice but to sit up and rub at his eyes in a concerned manner. “Whassit?” he garbles, eyes still drooping as he tries to look alert, his neck popping as he looks to your left and to your right to look for any sign of danger. 

You face him, you shaking hands on his chest and tears in your eyes, “Liam,” your voice shakes as you say it through a smile. “We got out,” you say, laughter preventing the rest of the sentence. 

Liam’s smile finally breaks through, a beautiful thing that could substitute for any sunrise for the rest of your life. “We got out,” he echoes, his hands on your waits as he brings you closer to him and rests his head on your shoulder, smelling the faint traces of lotion on you. “Fuck, we got out.”

You scratch at his head, carding your fingers through your hair as you kiss his temple softly. “Christ,” you breathe, the relief feeling like a breath of fresh air in your lungs. You let yourself feel the moment; the buzz of his air conditioner, your pets downstairs and the click of their paws, the feel of his scruff on your skin, the cotton of his shirt and the way it sits on your frame. The smell of Liam, the feel of him warm and alive under your hands. “I can’t believe it.”

He hums, the sound reverberating between your joint bodies. “Finally,” he says, his body sagging into yours right there on the warm set of sheets. 

You laugh tearfully, pressing a kiss on his cheek just because you could. “Finally,” you echo before sighing. “I wonder what got us out in the end.”

Liam disentangles from you to send you a dry look. “We ain’t discussion’ that right now, are we?” he asks, thick brows raised. 

You smile at him, “Nah,” you say, your cheeks hurting from just how much joy it held. “It can wait.”

He hums against, grabbing at your waist to pull you down on the mattress as you shriek. With one swift motion, he’s got you spooned against his back, his chin hooked on your shoulder, the clean sheets back on you, his leg hooked clingily over yours, and his lashes fluttering with sleep. “Good,” he says, satisfied as he kisses your neck wetly. “‘Cause I need beauty rest.”

You laugh, wrestling against him to no avail, writhing in his hold as you protest, “Liam,” you whine, “It’s Monday.”

He groans, loud and unashamed and just burrows further into you. “So what?” he asks, voice already thick with sleep. 

You shake your head in fond exasperation. “So, I have work!” you say, smacking the arm that held you captive. “And so do you! You’ve got, like, an entire studio session blocked out for today.” You were glad to know that you still knew his schedule and yours by heart, the responsibilities of your job still coming to you easily after what seems like an eternity away. 

Liam only grips you tighter. “Yeah, well I’m the boss, yeah?” he grumbles, his hot breath tickling your neck as you stop fighting against him. “And I say that today is a rest day.”

You huff. “You’re still gonna have to call everyone in the office to tell them we’re not coming in.”

Liam pecks your bare shoulder reverently. “I will,” he promises. You believe him. “Just gotta stay here for awhile, yeah?”

You nod and let your eyes drift shut. A little nap never hurt anybody, right? And after the days you and Liam have had, you pretty much deserved it. “Yeah,” you echo. “Alright, boss.”

He squeezes you tenderly once before letting himself drift away. But before you could fully slip back into the comfortable realm of sleep, you hear Liam mumble, “We have all the time in the world, sweetheart.”

You fall back to sleep with a smile on your face and Liam wrapped tightly around you. Work could wait.

October 29th, the first time

Liam, as promised, gets you everything he said he would. The custom Repetto flats, the new vanity, a cat tree for Toast and Aurora — who he still calls Rory. Every single thing, he wastes no time in giving you. 

Everything except for a raise. 

“Just a tiny one!” he always argued as you shook your head stubbornly. You staunchly refused to be Liam Gallagher’s spoiled girlfriend. You knew you had to forge your own path, create your own future. And Liam wanted what’s best for you, truly, but sometimes he liked to overdo it. 

So you had asked him to repay you with other things. Such as performing for the shelter’s latest outreach drive. 

And well, if that particular concert drives you to be one of the fastest growing PR Directors in the London area, then you’ll take what you can get. It was better than Liam’s raise, really. Though, when you tell him that, he tackles you down onto the sofa to show you just how much he’s really worth.

November 18th, the first time

You go on a trip with your mum, something you hadn’t done for ages. But you spend most of it with a smile on your face and your mum finally back in your corner. Sure, it helps that she sees the plans for your new PR firm as a business that she’s always been harping on about, but it was worth it to see the pride on her face.

You fly to Paris and buy the two of you matching Repettos. The ones that could withstand the London weather.

December 20th, the first time

As much as you hate it when Liam pulls strings for you. You can’t begrudge him for this one thing; putting you on Macca’s payroll as one of his newest PR Directors. You give Liam the thanks of a lifetime for that one, laughing as he jokes that maybe he should get on with contacting Ringo Starr as well. 

September 21st, a year later

You take it more seriously than you should.

It was just a birthday party, after all. It wasn’t even a milestone birthday. Fifty-one wasn’t exactly the age to gather all the troops in one place, huddled behind a massive sofa as you hiss for everyone to be quiet for the nth time. “When the door opens, do not spring up to greet him just yet, okay?” you remind everyone, scattered all across various hiding spots in the living room, with a stern tone. “When the lights open, that’s when we jump up and shout happy birthday. Lennon, Gene, you lads are in charge of the confetti. Only pop it after we greet him or else it’ll drown us out. Molly —”

“Is she always this high-strung?” you hear someone mumble from the back, you make a mental note to figure it out later when the party’s in full swing. But for now, you shake it off.

Today had to be perfect. God knows that his birthday last year was … complicated, so to speak. Nevermind the headache of a year that preceded it.

Like expected, the press went crazy with news of Liam Gallagher’s newest mid-life crisis. In a PR move that you had talked about in great detail, he had made an announcement on his beloved Twitter account followed by a more formal statement from his management. Liam refused to let the paparazzi intrude on any moment with the two of you, whether iy be walking along your neighborhood after pilates or grabbing your matcha after work, Liam didn’t want them ruining any of that. And in a similar fashion, you didn’t want all your hard work in building his image to go to waste, and you would be damned if you were to do damage control on the defensive.

Reactions have been split, but it didn’t matter much to either you or Liam. What mattered the most was that you loved each other … and maybe also the fact that his records still sell. 

The fact that Liam’s mam adored you didn’t hurt either. It took a while for Peggy to adjust to the fact that her fifty year old son was dating someone that could be her granddaughter in age, but a few visits down to Burnage had her worrying after you in a way that Liam always assured you was standard fare for her affection. 

And though Liam staunchly makes no mention of it, you know that he gave his kids a stern talking to with regards to respecting you as their father’s girlfriend. You knew you had them hooked when they all followed you back on Instagram. And only a few months later, you try to explain to a bewildered Liam what a big deal it was that Lennon put you in his latest photo dump and even tagged you. “‘S’jus’ a bunch of photos,” he grumbled then, but you can tell that he was beyond pleased that all of you got along. 

And you knew that even through the lingering frustration of court dates and settlements, you could tell that Liam was more at ease as soon as he got to speak with his daughter. He doesn’t talk about it much, not even to you, but you could tell with the relaxed set of his shoulders that he’s began to bury that hatchet. 

As for Noel, the brothers have still refused to meet, but have been keeping up a steady stream of texts between them. They even managed to bridge the gap between the cousins, and you were even able to pull some strings to get them here today, waiting with a banner in their hands and an antsy expression on their faces as they crouched behind the cat tree. 

“Got it, everyone?” you called out sternly to the party guests as they grumbled their assent. “Should I repeat it again or —” To everyone’s joy, they finally heard the smattering of footsteps and the telltale clack of buttons’ lovely paws near the doorstep. You perked up. “Shhh! Everyone in position!” you hissed, ducking down low and glaring at anyone that didn’t cooperate. 

They all did, in the end. The doo opened with a little amount of fanfare, and there was your Liam, walking in with a focused expression and a call of “Baby, I’m home! Got ‘ya a danish from that place ‘ya like!” Your heart barely had the chance to squeeze in quiet adoration before Liam turned the lights on and everything fell into place.

“Surprise!” everyone cheered, popping out from every nook and cranny of the house in one deafening chorus. 

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ!” Liam cried just as the confetti popped and the music began. You bit a self satisfied smile. Who was high-strung now, huh?

Liam was still marvelling at the amount of loved ones you’ve managed to gather in his living room when his eyes finally met yours in the cacophony and you knew, without a shadow of a doubt what he was thinking. You smile, mouthing something you know would carry him through the day, “Love you.”

His smile grew tenfold, mouthing back the same phrase before he was pulled into a hugh by his children and his mam. The simple sight of his blatant joy was enough. 

You spend the entire day running Liam’s birthday party like the navy. You heralded gifts onto the console table, you helped his mam cook lunch, you set plates, put out the paper cups, fed the cats, fed Buttons, passed around some lager even though it was barely noon, and did everything you can just to make the day perfect. 

Because you knew that if you had the time to think, you’d end up spiralling down a hole of eternal wondering over whether or not last year’s events would come back to repeat itself. 

You were scrubbing out pasta sauce from a pan when Peggy came up to you with a motherly expression and sighed. ‘If you don’t put that pan down and pick up one of ‘em lagers being passed around, I swear to God, girl.”

You laugh, still continuing to scrub. “This is the last one! I promise.”

She gives you a flat look that you know is just her showing her concern, and she shakes her head before calling out from across the rowdy room, “Please tell your daughter to enjoy her fella’s birthday party!”

You smile now, a real one as your own mother excuses herself from the conversation she’s having with Molly and Liam’s nephews, making her way to you and Peggy with an amused expression. “I know that I raised you well, darling,” she started as she stood next to Peggy and the two women shared a look. “But I think me and your father also taught you to have fun.”

You groan, though the smile on your face tells a different story. “I will. But you both know I can’t enjoy this party with dirty pots and pans strewn around the kitchen.”

Peggy clucks. “Now, where’s that useless son of mine?” she grumbles jokingly. And before you could tell her to leave it alone, she’s already calling out to Liam with a sharp cry of his name.

You laugh as Liam quickly makes his way to your little congregation, eyes wide with an appeasing smile to his frowning mother. “Mam,” he coos as he gets closer, kissing her cheek wetly as she pretends to wince at the affection. Then he turns to face your mother and takes her hand in his to kiss the back of her hand. “So glad you could make it,” he tells her. You watch with amusement as his eyes turn to you and he waggles his brows. “My missus,” he says cheekily, pecking you sweetly on the lips to both your mam’s awe and delight. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Bought you a danish, yeah?”

You laugh jovially and place your hands on the expanse of his chest. “I heard. I’ll heat it up later Our mums cooked enough food to keep us fed for a year.”

He chuckles and winks at your mothers, the picturesque face of roguish charm. “And I’m eternally in their deby,” he said. “Stuffed myself full on that biblical roasted chicken. And that potato salad …” he said, whistling under his breath. 

His mam shook her head and reached to pinch his ear. Liam’s yelp fell on deaf ears. “You rmissus spent months plannin’ your special day and you repay her with havin ‘er wash the dirty dishes?”

“Ow!” he shrieks childishly, scampering away from her and hiding behind your laughing form as your own mam looked on in amusement. “Mam,” he whines. ‘I ain’t repaying her like this. She’s a bit barmy, yeah? Can’t really control ‘er and what she wants to do. And don’t even be fooled, like. She has me cleanin’ up after her, ‘round her gaff and mine.”

You take pity on him and nod. “It’s true, Peggy. Your son’s quite handy with tidying up after me.” You smile at her as Liam hooks his chin on your shoulder. “You raised him well, truly.”

She hums. “Still doesn’t mean you should be kept in the kitchen the entire afternoon.”

“I ain’t keepin’ her in here!” Liam protests. “Don’t even know why she’s in here instead of out there enjoyin’ my day with me.”

You turn your head slightly to meet his eyes. “You were talking with the lads.”

He huffs and kisses your shoulder. “Wanna talk with you.”

You roll your eyes as your mother snickers. “You talk to me everyday.”

“So why not talk to me today?” he snarks. “Did ‘ya know it’s my birthday? Hm? Why deprive a man the pleasure of your compmay on his special day?”

You stick your tingue out at him, he retaliates by doing the same. ‘I’m the one that’s been planning this for months,” you tell him.

He jostles you in his hold. “The come and enjoy the fruits of your labor. Have a lager, talk with the people, show your pretty little face.”

You peck him consolingly and raise a brow, “Show your mum the new renovations you made upstairs?” you offer. 

Liam obliges you, and with one last parting kiss, you’re left in the kitchen with your mother who’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher. “You’re happy,” she says simply.

You smile at her. “I am,” you tell her. Because you really were. 

She nods. “This isn’t the life that I pictured for you, you know,” she tells you. And your heart just about sinks before she continues on. “But I’m glad it’s the life you chose.”

That’s all you ever really wanted to hear from her. You surge forward with a bruising hug and let out a sigh of relief as she kisses your temple. “I am too,” you say thickly. 

She doesn’t respond for the longest time, only holding you in her arms like you were still a babe. At last, she responds, “Why couldn’t you move out of your tiny flat to live here, though, darling? I mean, the man has a pool and a garden!”

“Mum!” you sigh, but the feeling of annoyance wasn’t there, only the lightness of it all as you separate from her and give her a smile. 

You gte more into the party after that, figuring that if you enjoy your day, then maybe nothing could go wrong. You do shots with Molly, you talk with Liam’s mates about old stories they have of him, you let Anais take a few cute pictures of you on her film camera, you roll your eyes as Lennon and Gene jump into the pool fully clothed. You do it all with a smile on your face. And before you know it, time has passed and it keeps on passing as the afternoon falls under a blanket of darkness and the night falls as guests come in and out.

Liam finds you in one of the quiet moments of the night, with the clock steadily ticking down to the number you’ve silently been fearing all day long. 

“There’s my girl,” he tells you as he lands on the outdoor lounge couch next to you, everybody else too caught up in their own worlds to see just how his eyes shine as he looks at you. “Missed you like mad.”

You huff and kiss his stubbled cheek. “Just been here,” you shrug. “Great party, I hope.”

He chuckles and winds his arms around your waist. “The best party a fifty-one year old could have, sweetheart. Seriously, you’re an angel for doin’ this for me.”

You hum and card your hands through his greying hair. “Not an angel,” you tell him simply. “I just really love you.”

He kisses your neck once, twice, thrice, and tells you, “I just really love you too, y’know.”

You let the silence speak for the two of you as the party rages all around you, the warm glow of the bonfire that Noel’s boys have started burning brightly a few feet away. “Hey, Liam,” you ask, he turns attentively to you, his eyes so damning that you melt into him. “We’re gonna be alright, yeah?”

Without ever really having to ask, he nods. You knew he understood. After all, who else would get it better than he would? He was your partner in crime. “We’ll be alright,” he assures you as he holds you tightly in his arms. 

You peck his lips once again and tell him, “Happy birthday, Liam.”

He smiles dopily up at you. “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.”

The moment doesn’t really shatter when Gene calls the two of you out on your pladant PDA, it doesn’t shatter when Molly tells him to shut up and pushes him into the pool, it doesn’t shatter when Buttons comes running out the patio door to seek belly rubs from one of Liam’s mates, it doesn’t shatter when Toast, Aurora, Sid, and Nancy come barreling after him in the garden, it doesn’t shatter when Donovan announces that another round of pizza boxes has just landed in the kitchen, and it doesn’t shatter when Anais snaps a candid photo of you and Liam laughing jovially on the outdoor couch, just happy to see the world spin around you.

September 22nd, a year later

The clock strikes 12:01, then it keeps on ticking. But neither you or Liam pay much mind to it, too wrapped up in the world you built to give a single damn.

lainey’s delivery service: @strwbryluver @gxnyadavid @bigbluedoeyes @highflyingcami @invinsabel @bunnyhopella @anjalfc @akasheselectric @simoneeyy @ngmyfav @ghostinyourhome @alicehighflyingbirds @veruschkaaa @shesselectricc @noelmochi @connieloveslove @meggyboots @noelgallagherswifee @sonnyangel11 @babywewereborn @glaeiv @dirtyshirtgirll (join thru the link / dm to be removed!) 💋

You didn’t know how much things could spiral in the hands of one of England’s most renowned rock and roll stars. But then again, you really should have known. This was Liam you were talking about.

It was by pure chance that your paths had even crossed in the first place. You were just a fresh-faced and bright-eyed newbie in the marketing industry when you had been assigned for his debut solo album campaign, and he had been a jaded wreck recovering from the scandal of his divorce and the aftermath of the Oasis break-up. You were never even meant to cross paths, with you too low on the ranks to even get the chance to meet him. But your team leader had been gracious as well as a loyal member of Liam’s crew, rewarding everyone with tickets to his first gig since the Beady Eye days.

Ths story starts there.

It’s hard to believe that it’s been years since you bumped into Liam backstage, holding in your pee as you waited with your legs crossed outside the only clean toilet in the venue, only for Liam to sidle up next to you like his very presence didn’t make you stiffen up with awe.

“Alright?” he asked casually as he leaned on the concrete wall. You nearly laughed in his face at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

So you really should have known how much things can spiral in Liam’s hands.

You don’t blink when Liam asks you what setting spray you use, didn’t even question it. He was silly like that, your Liam, always asking random things when he was bored from you taking your sweet time with your make-up. So through bouts of sprays, you answer him without second thought, not knowing what was in store for you.

Liam conveniently forgets to mention this particular milestone, already wrapped up in the next thing before he gets the chance to tell you. But you find out soon enough through the ring of the doorbell and Liam’s ringing shout of your name that there’s a package waiting just for you.

You don’t know that in that moment, your ringing giggles and beaming smile convince Liam to do what he does best. Get what he wants.

Who is the elusive Mrs. LG?

Written by America Vivar

Liam Gallagher has had a turbulent dating history that would probably feel right at home in the current situationship climate of today’s day and age. First married in 1997 and first divorced in 2000 to actress, model, and singer Patsy Kensit, the mother of his first son Lennon Gallagher. But Lennon technically isn’t the first of Liam’s brood. In 1998, Liam’s on-and-off girlfriend, Lisa Moorish gives birth to Molly Moorish-Gallagher, whose paternity had remained a secret for a few years until an unfortunate information leak. It doesn’t take much math to figure out what caused the Kensit-Gallagher divorce.

Liam finds love soon after with All Saints singer Nicole Appleton who gives birth to his third child, Gene Gallagher in 2001. The pair wed in 2008 and divorce in 2014 following the information of Liam’s second extramarital child with reporter Liza Ghorbani. His fourth (and hopefully final) child is born in 2013.

All is quiet on his front after that, no reported flings, no reported marriages, no reported divorces, no reported accidental pregnancies. Nothing.

Then he bursts back into the music scene in 2017 with his debut solo album As You Were, and the world is set to rights again.

It is between this time that Liam reportedly met his current girlfriend. The first sighting of the pair had caused quite a stir in the media, the obvious age difference between the two stark. Many had put their bets down that Gallagher was going through a mid-life crisis following the loss of his band, brother, and wife in one fell swoop.

Pictured above: The first sighting of Liam Gallagher and Mrs. LG

“She’s a peach!” exclaims her former boss on the As You Were tour, Michael Pio. “She’s a hard worker that was essential to the team, even so early on in her career. I sound like I’m giving her a job recommendation but she’s a team-player, a quick thinker, and an adaptive worker. I liked working with her. I’m glad to see her happy!”

The pair have been together since 2018, celebrating their eighth anniversary this February 23rd, with Gallagher marking the day with a tweet.

Pictured above: Liam Gallagher on X (formerly Twitter) comemmorating their anniversary, featuring his famous banter with the fans.

Read more!

Liam was surprisingly into the shows you watched. It always started with him taking a peek at the telly, then standing by the couch and pretending he wasn’t watching, then by sitting by the arm of a chair while pretending to scroll idly on his phone. And then …

“She should break up with him,” he scoffs at a scene, shaking his head. “The cunt’s no good. That Conrad lad’s much better.”

You laugh. Hook, line, and sinker.

It’s only on a random Wednesday that Liam lets you know how much things have snowballed. Fans asking after you, articles being written about the sweet nature of your relationship, and him batting everyone on twitter off with a stick.

You get a text from Liam as you’re on the way to work, your ohone buzzing as you sigh with relief as soon as you sink down on the bus seat.

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

What do we think about laneige

They wanna send u a package

You

OMG

REALLY?

SAY YES !!!!!!!!

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

👍

You

damn

a smile would b nice …

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

😬👍

You

ur sooo lucky ur handsome

gimme a kiss when i get home?

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

Shoot me if i ever say no to that haha xx

On my way home whaddya want for dinner

You

WAIT

UR IN THE AREA OF THIS NEW PLACE I WANNA TRY

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

Whats the name

You

https://tiktok/carlylecore/virallondonres…

apparently they have bombbbbb burgers

pls babeeee

the quad cheese

with cheese chips

and strawb milkshake

u decide on the sides but i hear they hv great onion rings

ur the best mwa mwa MWA kissing u rn 💋💋💋

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

I asked for the name not a video

You

ugh

canterio’s

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

Ok

You

cold

brrrrr

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

Ok 🔥🔥🔥

Haha

You

be serious.

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

Wait how do we feel about dior lip oil

They wanna send their new line

Oh and skims wants to send sumat too

You

YES TO THE DIOR LIP OIL PLS

and SKIMS? what r they sending ??????

pls be their new drop OMG

Liam

Yeah

New line they said

You

say yes to that too

i have a feeling you’ll like it xx

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

???

You

ok get sassy with it king

search it up

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

Searched it

Gonna tell em to send more

You

ew perv

Liam 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨

At the restaurant now

I’ll be home soon

Love you

You

love you too! 💓

The next time that your phone buzzes, you’re closer to home, the bus rounding your neighborhood as you chance a look at the screen. You smile at the notification, your best friend’s name glowing on the device.

girl ur man is mad

Screenshot attached

Liam Gallagher

@/liamgallagher

SEND TWENTY MORE OF EM FOR THE MISSUS @/SkimsBrand CMON LG XX

lainey @dykwimean omg can u be normal abt your gf for once like …. get OFF of her 😭💔

Liam Gallagher @/liamgallagher NO.

B: Was your childhood in Manchester normal?

L: No. We're from a working class family and never had much money. Besides, my parents never stopped fighting. It never mattered to me much, but my brother Noel cried a lot as a kid. My father, all of a sudden, left when I was 15. He abandoned us and didn't leave us any money. But I don't even hate him anymore, he simply doesn't mean anything to me.

B: Do you have a girlfriend?

L: No, not anymore. There was a time when I would be with a different girl almost every night. Then I met Patsy Kensit (28). You know, Jim Kerr's woman, the lead in Simple Minds. I just met her and I lost my head for her. She told me she was separating from her husband and I believed her. But I was her toy, now she's back in her husband's arms. She's left me in the dust! I think I'll go back to my life from before. The one I think cute I'll invite her to my room and that's it! I'm 24 and I plan on enjoying life. I'm as free as a bird again and waiting for any kind of proposition, even if it's indecent.

B: What kind of woman do you like?

L: All of them. To me every girl has something fascinating. I don't care if she's blonde, brunette or redhead, with me every girl has a chance. I sometimes prefer the ones that aren't so cute because they work harder in bed (he smiles).

B: Have you always been a 'conquistador' ((okay, this means a guy who always gets girls))?

L: And how! At 14 I started into sex and I knew right away that that was for me.

B: You seem very different from your brother Noel. He's been living for two years with his girlfriend, Meg Mathews...

L: Noel leads a different life ((they use a phrase but this is basically what it means)). He is faithful to his girlfriend Meg. By the way, they don't live in Manchester, they live in London. Noel's more sensitive than me. I need action!

B: Where do you live?

L: When I'm in Manchester, my address is the hotel Holiday Inn. Living in a hotel has many advantages: I don't need furniture, I can call room service when I'm hungry and I don't have to wash the dishes afterwards.

B: Did you always dream about being a rock star?

L: Music has been the only way to escape the sadness and the misery. At 15 I was expelled from school and I was too lazy to learn a work habit. I knew that the only thing I had was my voice. That was it, because I don't play an instrument. In 1990 I went to a Stone Roses concert and I knew that I wanted to do the same as their lead singer, Ian Brown. That's why I gathered my friends: Bonehead, Guigsy and Tony. That's how Oasis started and I became a singer.

B: How did the name Oasis come out?

L: In the sixties there was a music club in Manchester called Oasis. Jimi Hendrix played there. I got the name of the group from there. It reminds me of that time.

B: Why was it that in the beginning you didn't count with Noel, who today is the head of the group?

L: At the time, Noel went on tours with the rave group Inspiral Carpets. Shortly after they lost their singer and Noel wanted the spot but the Carpets turned him down. That was good for us, because we hired him as guitarist.

B: And then?

L: It wasn't long before we realized that Noel was a genius musician. When he does something, he does it to perfection, not like me (he laughs). Noel started taking guitar lessons at 13 and today he is a sensational composer and lyricist. He does everything.

B: Why don't you write song of the lyrics of the songs?

L: First, Noel is much better than me, and second, because I don't want to show what I feel. My thoughts are mine only.

B: In the video, you sing Wonderwall, but in the concerts Noel sings it, why?

L: Noel wrote this love song for Meg. That's why he likes singing it live...he dedicates it to her.

B: What's true about the rumor that Robbie Williams (Take That) will form part of Oasis?

L (bursts out with laughter): That's a great joke! Robbie is a friend of ours, but nothing else. Besides, what's he supposed to do in Oasis? Play the flute?

B: What plans do you have now?

L: We're traveling to Spain at the end of April (attention, because in the concert at Manchester, Oasis sold out the 40,000 tickets in less than 70 minutes: they broke the record of the fastest selling show at venues). And besides, we put out the new single: 'Don't Look Back In Anger'.

B: What's that song about?

L (sticks his tongue out and laughs): No idea! Words don't interest me....

Original transcript (spanish) by Carlos Medina. Translated transcript by Jeannette Prats

SEASON THREE, EPISODE TWELVE

MARCH 21st, 1996

“Carmen Beavouis is a cunt,” you say it simply enough, so matter–of-factly that it takes a while for the gasps to ripple out into the packed audience, their eyes widening as the camera pans to them for their startled reaction. The mic doesn’t even falter as you arch your brow, as if daring the audience to contradict you, or worse — start to file out the studio in retaliation to your crude words. But no one does, that’s how it works; they come here to act all scandalised and shocked when you say your piece, they love to call you names and tell you how harsh you were being, when in reality, they’ve just been waiting for someone to actually say the words out loud. 

Most of the time, that person was you; in your fur-lined loveseat, gaudy LED screens, manicured nails around a bedazzled microphone, and lips coated in a daring shade of red. You weren’t averse to telling the truth how it is. You weren’t particularly shy with telling more than a few lies just to keep the people entertained, either. It was all in the name of fun, really. And maybe in the name of high viewership as well. 

You crossed your legs and waited for the commotion to die down, looking out at the crowd with a barely concealed smirk as you melted into your seat and chuckled. “C’mon now, let’s not act like we weren’t all thinking it,” you say through an amused eye roll, resisting a laugh at the new wave of outrage that that sparked among the audience. You decide to fan the flames, taking a peek at the remaining air time and deciding that it was worth it to say your piece, “Look at you guys, all up in arms muttering about feminism,” you snort ruefully, shaking your head. “Well, feminism doesn’t apply to washed-up cunts walking the runway in size two lingerie when she’s a size six at best.”

Your producer sighs from where she’s standing behind the camera, completely giving up on any form of censorship that she could have instilled. You wink subtly at her, you knew deep down that this is what she wanted — your big mouth and an even bigger audience to hear what it has to say. Who wouldn’t want it when it racks up all of England as its viewers every weekend? Everyone loves acting like buttoned-up prudes with tongues as clean as a baby’s bum, they love watching your show and writing articles about how much of a bitch you were. But when push comes to shove, the viewership never lies. Everyone’s got their eyes on you, they just get off on pretending that it isn’t.

You talk over the gasps this time, having had enough of everyone’s dramatics. “Oh, calm down,” you snap, eyes squinted at the crowd. “There’s nothing wrong with filling out a bit, yeah? So long as you own it. And quite frankly, our lovely Carmen does not. I mean, who does she think she’s fooling, giving out interviews and bragging about being a size two? You lot are all miffed about this feminism thing but fail to realize that what she’s doin’ ain’t feminist either, see. Lying about her size, giving out health advice on the telly like I haven’t seen her throw up an entire pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream right after eating it,” you snort inelegantly, uncrossing your legs to lean forward and face the camera head on. “That’s part of what makes her a cunt, see. This entire image of angelic grace and wispy golden hair is a fucking farce. You lot are just so far up your asses, too caught up in wanking to the sight of her in lacy lingerie that you don’t even see what’s in front of you! I mean, what kind of heaven-sent angel has five boyfriends in one year?” you laugh.

So you caught up with Carmen in the tabloids, sue you. It was part of your job to stay in touch with celebrities, to assess them for their flaws harder than any other tabloid could do. And really, it helped to keep an eye on your competitors. Every magazine, every newspaper, every article, you had an eye on it, only to turn around and blow it out of the water with a feature of your own; in skimpier clothes, in more flattering make-up, in a more extravagant backdrop. You’d be damned if anyone got ahead of you. 

You gave a sigh, not letting the muttering audience detract you from your spiel. “I mean, her poor fella,” you pouted mockingly, voice exaggeratedly dripping with faux sadness as you played it up for the camera. “Having to shag someone who’s probably already as loose as a worn-out tire!”

Your producer starts taking off her headset now, fully giving up on supervising you. She always does that, clenching her arse cheeks in worry for the first half of the show, then acting like she isn’t buzzing like a vibrator against a horny woman’s clit whenever you say something particularly nasty. 

You tap a finger on your chin and prepare to wrap the show up the way you usually did; with a bang. “Noel Gallagher, I think his name is,” you say, as if you haven’t carefully memorized everyone’s connections to each other. “Poor lad. I’m pretty sure that he’s Carmen’s second choice as well, considering the fact that I’m pretty sure no one in their right mind — not even Carmen would go for him when his brother’s right there. I get that guitarists are well handy, but my god, we have to consider their looks as well, people!”

You preen into the camera lens, ignoring the amused chuckle of the operator as you wave. “The state of our industry,” you sigh dramatically, as if you hadn’t spent the better part of an hour contributing to the ruin of said industry. You smile at the camera, careful and calculated, “‘Well, that’s all we have for you tonight, folks. Tune into next week’s episode for an insider look at the Brits red carpet!” you say. “Til next time, babes! Toodle-loo!” And with a blown kiss and a wave to the audience, the show’s over. 

Immediately, you are overtaken with yells of your name, members of the audience clamoring for your attention as they extend hands, magazine covers, and cute gifts that you know you’d end up binning anyway. You smile at them, sickly sweet as you stand from your chair and strut in the completely opposite direction, their yells reaching a crescendo the further you get away from them, before growing muffled through the thick door separating the studio from backstage.

As soon as you enter the room, the space quiets. You grin, all teeth, and clap your hands together, “What a show, huh!” It’s only then, at the sight of your shark-like grin that the crew breathes a sigh of relief, clapping each other on the back for another successful run. 

Your eyes are alight with energy as you make your way down the hall, assistants handing you a Merlot in one hand and a stack of invitations in another, and sneaking a baggie into the pocket of your miniskirt for an after-show treat. Your heels click decisively as you forge a path, the crew parting like the Red Sea as you passed with a diplomatic smile, not even remotely aware of the sudden ripple you’ve caused just then. And really, not even remotely caring. 

Meanwhile, across London, Noel Gallagher has his hands down some girl’s knickers while the telly casts a dull glow on the dark evening, making his movements seem more languid and dream-like. Some daft program with one of those wily models plays in the background, mostly just to cover up the sound of the girl’s desperate pants against his mouth and the sickening squelch of his fingers inside her cunt lest Liam on the other side of the wall catch wind of what’s happening and think itself wise to blab to Carmen about Noel’s extracurricular activities. Useless cunt. 

It wasn’t like Noel ever claimed to be the perfect boyfriend. And honestly, it was on Carmen if she thinks that he’d turn a new leaf just by virtue of dating her. Not when she’s honestly just as terrible as him, her drug habits surpassing his on nights out, her hand wandering a bit too low on some lad’s body when the moon was as high as she was. He lets her have her moments, which should mean that she should let him have his. 

“Noel,” the girl, Maya, he thinks her name is, moans against his open mouth, her hand snaking down to the prominent bulge in his jeans as his fingers work deftly inside her. “Wanna make you feel good,” she preened, pushing her chest out even as the lower half of her body bucked helplessly into his hand. 

Noel raises a thick brow, his lips parting on a groan as her palm squeezes against his cock, the pressure making his eyes roll back in its sockets as he melts into the couch cushions. “Yeah?” he mumbles lazily, widening his legs and taking his fingers out of the girl’s leaking pussy. She whines pitifully and rubs herself against him with a desolate sound, like Noel’s just ripped away a limb from her body. He tuts, shaking his head in disapproval as he brings his glistening fingers up to her face and smears the messy slick all over her chin. “C’mon now. Y’said you wanted to make me feel good, babe.”

Eyes blown out and face a hazy mess, she takes the hint, sinking down onto her knees on the plush carpet and working on Noel’s belt buckle with delicate fingers. Noel sighs, letting his entire weight sag on the couch as Myra spits on his dick with a cute noise and takes him in her mouth without preamble. 

Carmen was mad if she thinks that Noel would be giving this up for the sake of fidelity. Absolute bollocks. He loved the girl, he really did. He had met her at some party or another for an album launch of an up and coming band. The label had invited Noel, a friend of hers invited Carmen. From there, it was instantaneous. The tabloids had caught onto their relationship early on, and Noel let them. Suddenly, his name was in more people’s mouths, the band being played in wider circles than just the bollocks Britpop scene. He finds himself in the front row of catwalks more often than not these days, his bank balance growing more and more with each new person he shakes hands with. 

Him and Carmen were the perfect match. Noel was absolutely sure of it. 

And like he had somehow manifested her into being, her name was being called out on the clear speakers of the hotel telly, just above the sounds of Mylene gagging and sobbing on his cock. “Shh,” he spits at her, his hand coming down to reach for her head and keep her steady. “Don’t cry now, love. C’mon, I’m watchin’ the telly and you’re bein’ rude, yeah? Can barely hear what she’s sayin’.” He pays no mind to the tearful blink of May’s eyes and reaches forward to grab the remote off the console and turn the volume up, up, up, up. 

He had seen you before. It was hard not to, really, since you had the penchant for showing up with a crowd of people trailing after you like pigeons in Central Park waiting for pitiful crumbs. He takes stock of your crossed legs, the haughty push of your chest, the glossy sheen of your hair, the manicured nails on your ridiculously decorated microphone and thinks that you may just be another one of those daft birds that Carmen seems to be surrounded with on the runway. He shakes his head anyway, swallowing roughly as Maysilee gives a rough suck to his tip before taking him all the way down. 

That’s when he hears it. 

“Carmen Beavouis is a cunt,” said with so much confidence and arrogance that Noel startles a bit before regaining himself. A wave of gasps take over the audience, but you patiently sit back and wait for the carnage to die down, content to let your statement float around instead of just taking it back. Noel grits his teeth, his fingers involuntarily tightening on Mary’s hair at your self-satisfied smirk. 

“C’mon now, let’s not act like we weren’t all thinking it. Look at you guys, all up in arms muttering about feminism. Well, feminism doesn’t apply to washed-up cunts walking the runway in size two lingerie when she’s a size six at best.” Noel scoffs, his hand pushing down roughly on Mayla’s head as his gaze fixes itself on the telly with an angry scowl. Who did you fucking think you were? The fucking queen of England? Christ, with the way you were holding your microphone like a scepter and jutting your chin out like your crown could tip at any moment, Noel would endeavor to say that he wasn’t far off. 

His missus was fit. Fuck, he’s run his hands down the same body you were shaming on live telly and he could confidently say that you didn’t know a single thing about what you were talking about. You were nothing but a bitter nasty bitch with a microphone and a god complex. Carmen had talked about you before, about the stunts you would pull to get ahead, about the rumours you would leak to the press about her and your rivals. Noel shook his head, both hands now coming down to Maydee’s head to push her down, down, down, making her gag and scramble for air at Noel’s rough handling. He grunts. “The fuck’s the matter with you, aye?” he spits, his grip on her hair tight as he pulls her off his dick. “Thought you wanted to make me feel good.”

She nods dumbly. “Yeah,” she croaks, poor throat already worked up. Noel decides to be nice, leaning down to give her an open-mouthed kiss before guiding her head back down to his cock, her hand automatically clinging to his thighs. 

Meanwhile, your tinny voice still hasn’t shut up over on the telly. Noel’s eyes manage to focus away from the pleasure and back on your smug face just in time for you to continue, “You lot are all miffed about this feminism thing but fail to realize that what she’s doin’ ain’t feminist either, see. Lying about her size, giving out health advice on the telly like I haven’t seen her throw up an entire pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream right after eating it.” Oh, this woman was mad. Noel had heard horror stories of what women got up to behind the runway, what lengths they’d go to to stay young and invincible. But Christ, he’s never met anyone quite like you; so brutal, so honest, and so unabashed. Your smile doesn’t even falter as you continue, no doubt making new headlines with every word you spoke. “That’s part of what makes her a cunt, see. This entire image of angelic grace and wispy golden hair is a fucking farce. You lot are just so far up your asses, too caught up in wanking to the sight of her in lacy lingerie that you don’t even see what’s in front of you! I mean, what kind of heaven-sent angel has five boyfriends in one year?” 

Macy was having the fight of her life as Noel’s brows knit together in rage and his cock began fucking in and out of her mouth at a frenzied speed. God, everything you said was mad.

“I mean, her poor fella,” you mocked, your eyes blinking up into the camera and tugging straight at Noel. His hands push down on Marley’s head, in time with his thrust and the slick sound goes straight to his head. Fuck, now she had the balls to mention him. Did you honestly have no shame? “Having to shag someone who’s probably already as loose as a worn-out tire!”

His pace grows relentless as he works himself in and out of McKinley’s mouth, drool slipping past her lips and dripping at his feet as tears spring to her eyes. He has the wherewithal to wipe her tears away before ripping his attention back to you on the telly as you utter his name. 

“Noel Gallagher, I think his name is.” Noel shivers, overtaken with rage and his impending orgasm. The sound of his name on your lips makes him swallow a rough sound. “Poor lad. I’m pretty sure that he’s Carmen’s second choice as well, considering the fact that I’m pretty sure no one in their right mind — not even Carmen would go for him when his brother’s right there. I get that guitarists are well handy, but my god, we have to consider their looks as well, people!”

He grits his teeth. He should stop watching this bullshit, turn the telly off and turn his attention back to the girl gagging on him. Still, he watches, his veins roaring with heat licking up his entire body as you grin into the camera, entirely unapologetic over the names you just trampled over. Second choice, Noel groans, his head falling into the couch cushions as his hips buck wildly. You didn’t know nowt about anything you were talking about. Just another mouth with nothing better to do than lie. 

Noel swallows roughly. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he spits angrily, watching as you gazed over your adoring crowd and held the mic steadily in your hand. “Ugly fuckin’ slag,” he mutters, hips bucking up into Mercy’s mouth in an uneven rhythm. 

With a wink to the camera, you wave goodbye to your viewers, acting like a complete angel as you blew a kiss goodnight. 

Noel came right then and there, his groan more of a loud shout than anything, his mouth opened on an o shape as spurts of cum burst out of him in messy globs, tainting Mallory’s mouth, her tits, and her face. “Jesus Christ,” he heaved, the orgasm having ripped his soul clean from his body, his chest rising and falling rapidly as cum still steadily dripped out in the aftermath of it all, his hands coming to pet Marley’s hair reverently as she gazed up at him. He gave her an approximation of a smile, the best that he could do in his addled post-orgasm state, and said, “Great job, Melody,” he said, cupping her chin and hauling her up for a kiss. 

Only to be met with furrowed brows and her body pulling quickly away from him. “My name’s Penelope, you arsehole,” she snapped, crawling around the floor for her clothes as Noel muttered useless apologies. The door slammed quickly after, Penelope walking out half dressed and fully frazzled, while Noel looked out after her, not even bothering to get up and walk her to the door. 

He sighs, the buzz in his veins still coursing and electric path down his body, rendering him wide awake. Still, he finds it in himself to reach for the remote and shut the telly off, cutting off the rolling credits of your shitty show with an abrupt jerk. He cuts himself a line on the table, the sound of his Amex on the glass surface the only sound in his hotel room aside from his heavy breathing, and snorts the coke in one fluid motion, wiping at his nose as he sinks back onto his couch. 

SEASON THREE, EPISODE THIRTEEN

MARCH 28th, 1996

You could always spot which people acted like the red carpet was a runway. It was easy, really, having had walked both. Numerous times. 

There were the people that acted like models, dressed like them too. Most likely the artists that are gunning for sponsorships or were currently sporting sponsorships. They strut too stiffly, they angle their neck too high, they pose for way too many shots in front of the camera, and they always hold up the queue to the line. 

Then, with musicians, there were people that didn’t give a toss. The people that threw on a jacket and some sunnies and called it a day. They proudly wear the no-shower look on the carpet, hair ranging from mildly greasy to chip shop floor level greasy. You always had to stop and laugh at those kinds of people, projecting this image of nonchalance even when you could see the tremble in their hands as you held up a microphone to their mouth. They were just like everyone else here, they just got off on pretending that they weren’t. Because if they truly didn’t care, they wouldn’t even be seen anywhere near the carpet. 

There were also the ones that tried too hard but always looked a right mess. Hair swept to the wrong side, dress revealing unflattering angles, walking in heels they couldn’t even crawl in, wearing suits five sizes too big or three sizes too small. 

The red carpet, for those reasons was like a circus to you. You were too used to the polished glamour of a runway, the strict timings, the organized chaos, the sharp lines, and the graceful walks. These musicians couldn’t even pull off five second on the runway. Still, you tolerated them and their clumsiness, opting instead to focus on something deeper. 

Not the music, no. That was dead fuckin’ boring to talk about. 

No, about their lives, obviously. That’s what you were here for, to get your bedazzled microphone in their face and get something exciting. 

You were in the middle of all the chaos when you spotted a familiar face, one featured in giant billboards and sold out gigs. You perked up, back straightening as you primped your hair and dawdled over in your target’s direction, ambushing her with a hug and a coo. “Oh, darling! How are you? I see you’ve touched up your roots.”

You smiled, aiming the microphone at her as she blinked at your odd entrance. “Uh, yeah. It seemed like it was time to finally get it done.” She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, smiling reluctantly as you assessed her, your head tilting to get a good look at her.

You nodded, “And I’m loving the new shade! The old one made you look so washed-out, it was horrifying. Like something straight out of a horror film.” You didn’t say it to be particularly nasty, but it was true. She used to sport a garish bronze color that made her skin look paler than it was, and made her eyes pop. In a bad way — like she had just taken Meth.

Still, she bristled, smiling stiffly in the way that these celebrities usually did, too concerned with their image to say anything remotely rude. Even if it was to defend themselves. “Right.” She made a step in one direction, presumably to escape from your hovering camera crew, but you sidestepped with a smile, blocking her exit. She pivoted instead, giving you an even wider smile as she told you, “Nice to see your show’s still going.”

You could have laughed. There was no way that she was glad of that. Not when just last week you were talking about how she had adopted a cat just to stifle the loneliness of getting older. “Highest viewership of any talk show in England, love,” you said proudly, almost preening. “The numbers don’t lie.”

She nodded, a gesture that was almost a concession. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you.”

You could see that she had wanted to end the segment, already looking past your shoulder and valiantly pretending that there was someone waiting for her on the other side. Ha, she wishes, she’s become somewhat of a social pariah lately. But you digress, smiling at her one last time before deciding to end her segment, “I know,” you said, giving her a mock pout before planting the bomb. “It really must have been rough on you ever since your sex tape got leaked. Tell me, could I maybe have the number of your wax lady? I love the work she did on you.”

Like you predicted, a rally of suits and headsets came forward and blocked her from view. You snorted as one of the suits came up to you and sternly scolded, “Alright, that’s enough.” And just like that, they whisked her away in a flurry. 

You rolled your eyes, still smiling, an amused thing. “Ta, babe! I’ll be in touch for that number!” you called out, winking as heads turned to the sound of your voice.

You whirled back to face the camera, your hair whipping around you as you gave it a winning smile. The carpet kept on, the media circus still as noisy as ever, but you forged on, unbothered.

“Ugh, her sex tape was a modern marvel. Oscar worthy, if you ask me. Though the man she’s with was lacking in the downstairs department, if you know what I mean. She seemed to like it, though, with all the screaming and hollering she was doing,” you said. You had watched the tape a few weeks back, having had it circle around you for a while before deciding to check what all the fuss was about. “Anyway, her new single, Graveyard’s been swept under the rug after all that scandal. People have been calling for a boycott of her music.” That’s the problem with todays’ industry. There were always these puritans standing outside doors and demanding things that are just absolutely nonsensical. What did they want her to do? Abstain from sex? You’d honestly rather die than do that. “Ridiculous! Everyone has sex, it’s human nature. So for you people to pull out your placards and camp outside her record company is absolutely bollocks! God forbid a girl enjoys sex, and god forbid she wants to keep a little souvenir. She looked hot in that tape! I’m telling you folks, if this singing thing goes south — which I’m kind of thinking it will since the prudish boycotters aren’t the only one refusing to listen to her subpar shite, then she’s got a fall back in the porn industry.”

Your producer shot you a look, a flat one with a disappointed edge. You caught the message immediately and rolled your eyes. 

“What? I know a guy who knows a girl who can get her in. All she needs to do is ring my line.,” you said defensively. You were about to launch into a story of how you once got mail from a well known porn producer, asking you to be the star of one of their newest dirty films. You didn’t end up saying yes, mind. But before you could even open your mouth, screaming overtook the open hall and flashes went off like lightning. You knew your cue. “Well, well, well. What’s all this screaming about, yeah?”

You craned your neck, trying to get a better look at the commotion, squinting your eyes over the cacophony of lights and sounds just in time to see two bushy brows and a very familiar blond walking over. You grinned, seizing your chance, sneaking past clamoring photographers to get to the perfect spot to stop them. 

You smiled as you greeted them, one that was full of mischief rather than joy. “If it isn’t the mighty Oasis, see lads, I’m more of a Blur gal myself. But you lot seem to be toting around a good load of fun with you,” you said before making a deliberate show if turning a few inches to your left in time to see the girl on Noel’s arm. “Oh! Carmen, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you. Lovely dress, yeah? It really accentuates the bump.” You mimed a stomach bump, more prominently than was necessary. 

It was imperceptible to anyone else behind the camera, but you saw the way her jaw twitched, biting down her irritation with a confused smile instead. “What bump?”

You laughed. “The baby bump, silly!” you said, blinking at her with mock zealousness, going in for a hug that she returned tighter than she needed it to be. “Congratulations, by the way,” you say to her before turning to Liam, “And to you too.”

The man in front of you, taller than you by only a couple of inches waved a hand and shook his head, clearly unamused as he stared you down with the flat line of his lip. “Yeah, alright. You’ve had your fun.” Then, he turned to his brother and mumbled something too low for you or your microphone to catch, then he was gone. 

Well, there goes one brother. You blinked in confusion at Noel, tilting your head for a look of sincere confusion as you asked, “I’m sorry, you are?”

He, unlike his girlfriend, didn’t hide the way his teeth grit and the way his answer came straight out of the air of his nose. “Noel Gallagher.” Of fucking course you knew the guy. He was on the radio more often than not, he was on the telly like it was his second home, and the tabloids seemed to eat him up every chance they get. But most importantly to you, he was dating Carmen. And to you, any friend of the enemy is still an enemy. And you were determined to make one out of Noel. “Her boyfriend.”

You stick a hand out primly, palm facing him with the intention of him bestowing a kiss upon it. Like you predicted, he ignored it, blatantly staring at it like it would move itself. You roll your eyes internally and do the work yourself, lifting your hand up to his open mouth and pressing it against your hand. You wiggled your brows at the camera, sharing a sad pout with it at your guest’s rudeness before turning back into the conversation, “Nice to meet you.” 

Noel snorted wryly, “Wish I could say the same.” You didn’t miss the way his hand had wandered upward Carmen’s waist and had landed on the space just below her breast, the touch so pathetically possessive that you had to bite a laugh. “You’re the cunt that’s been talkin’ shit ‘bout my missus, yeah?”

His missus, by Christ you could throw up. “And you’re the rockstar that always gets upstaged by his brother, right? How does it feel being the second option? Girls can’t get to Liam, so they settle for you instead. Must suck, yeah?” you say, giving him a mocking scowl. In your periphery, you could see the way that Carmen’s hand tightened on his arm. “Say, Noel, it must be complicated, knowing that your brother and your missus are … y’know.”

“No, it isn’t. Because you’re just spoutin’ foul lies in an effort to get back at Carmen, here,” he snapped, pointing to Carmen who was doing what she does best — acting the victim.

“Well, she is gaining a bit,” you mumbled into your microphone, sharing a cheeky glance with the camera. “And get back at her for what? Has she done anything wrong?” At this, you sent Carmen a knowing look, both of you knowing full well what she had done. Still, you’ll keep that information close to your chest. For now. “Well, to the best of my memory, she hasn’t. And really, I’m just doing my job here, Liam.”

“Noel,” he hissed, properly fucking pissed now. “Me name’s fuckin’ Noel.”

“Sorry,” you said, wholly un-sorry. And with the way Noel’s frown deepened, he could tell. “Anyway, ahead of tonight’s award show, are there any other bands and artists you’d like to thank for their hard work and effort that you get to piggyback off of? How’s the lawsuit with Coca-Cola doing?”

Noel shook his head, his grip on Carmen tightening as he forged forward, only to be blocked by you. “Right, I don’t need a washed-up model proddin’ a microphone in my face.”

At that, your expression of mirth was wiped clean, an indignant expression taking it’s place instead as you shrieked. “Washed-up?” 

“Yeah, love. Washed-up. And really, I don’t blame ‘em. When’s the last time you walked the runway, eh? Two … three years? I could see why.” He made a sleazy scan over your figure as he said it, eyes slowly roving up your form; from the painted toenails peeking out of your heels to the perfectly done-up hair on your head. Drily, he lazily drawled, “You’ve really let yourself go.”

“Oh, you’re funny,” you laugh without any amusement, irritation getting the best of you as your face twists. Instead, you change gears, turning instead to the familiar blonde on his arm to fire, “Say, Carmen, how do you feel knowing that your boyfriend apparently keeps track of my career?”

And fuck, you almost forgot the way she could take such hits with grace. “Victoria’s Secret misses you,” she said gently, her eyes dripping with concern that you knew too well as fake. Her voice dropped down to a sympathetic whisper, an approximation of intimate concern that was all for show since the microphone picked up each and every word, “We’ll be happy to have you back once you get your … problem solved, sweetheart.” And if it wasn’t obvious enough, she took a step closer to you to wipe off the bottom of your nose. 

Cunt.

“Hm,” you hum, breathe growing heavier as she stepped back and onto Noel’s orbit once again. “Aren’t you a peach. Just putting the Angel in Victoria’s Secret Angel, aren’t you?” you say, almost spitting out the words.

She smiled at you, like she was the Virgin fucking Mary, “I hope you get better.”

Noel barked a laugh, short and decisive before shaking his head, glaring at you as he wound an arm back on Carmen. “Nah, devils like that don’t get no better.”

You narrow your eyes, “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Noel?” you say sweetly.

“Finally gettin’ my name right, sweetheart?” he drawled, brows flying in amusement. “‘S’alright. I know it must be tough to get it in your dumb little head. Too full of perfume and lace to absorb any information.”

“Quite easy, really,” you say flatly before getting ahold of yourself and letting your signature grin fall back into place. “You just need to … stand out.”

His head cocks. “And I’ve stood out?”

You snort, shaking your head. “Haven’t decided yet.”

“Not sure your brain could handle all that thinkin’ in one night,” he said, laughing as Carmen wound herself around him.

A lightbulb went off above your head. It was obvious with the way Noel spoke to you that he thought that he had you pegged. And why wouldn’t he think that? He was the big man. The boss. The chief. Anything he says goes, and anything he does is the law. But he’s never even met you. He doesn’t know just how much you could walk the talk. Let him think he’s won, he’d come to find out soon enough that you were in it to win it. 

Which is why you ask, in front of Carmen, the cameras, the crew, your producer, god and country, “So it’d probably be best to continue this conversation on my show. Next week? Settle the score?”

Noel had laughed as you proposed it. But you could tell with the way his eyes lit up that he’d agree soon enough. 

You told your manager to expect a call, and lo and behold, three days after the Brits, you got it. Men like Noel Gallagher think that they could make women like you make a fool of themselves. He thinks that because you’ve slandered his missus on national television that he deserves a crack at you. Well, you’ll fucking show him who’s the bimbo without a brain when you’ve got his tongue tied in knots on your talk show. 

Fucking prick.

SEASON THREE, EPISODE FOURTEEN

MARCH 4th, 1996

Upon your special request, you didn’t so much as catch a whiff of Noel Gallagher backstage. You didn’t see hide nor hair of that man, and you were glad for it. You were saving your energy up, getting ready for whatever the night may bring. He was a sly one, Noel — wasn’t afraid to play dirty or to pull the wool over your eyes. You needed to be prepared, you needed for him to walk out of the studio with a target on his back.

“Two minutes to airing!” some tech shouted as they all ran around like headless chickens doing … well, whatever it was that tech did. All you knew was that they did their job well, for you to be able to do your job well. That’s what you pay them for. 

You tilt your head up as the make-up artist reapplied your lipgloss with a shaky hand, clearly nervous at being so close to you and your possible ire. You bite a smile, feeling the power course through you as she touched you up, perfect and just how you liked it, before dismissing her with a thank you that sent her breath catching in her throat. 

You settled into the plush seat of the couch, your producer sporting that crazed look in her eyes that meant that the show was about to begin. “The intro is playing!” she cried out, which was your cue to settle in and get ready as the seconds ticked by, blood roaring in your veins. Then, your producer pulled out all five fingers from behind the camera. Five, four, three, two …

Show time. “Good evening, lads and ladies. Miss me? I’m your lovely host back again for another episode of sex, scandal, and secrets.” It was practiced, the way you spoke and how you preened to the camera, three years of experience coming handy. The applause was defeaning as you spoke, almost drowning your words out as you smiled at your ever-adoring crowd. You even spotted a couple of young girls with t-shirts of your face emblazoned on them and sent them a quick wave to which they nearly rendered the crowd deaf with their squeals. You turned back to the camera, unphased,“Quick recap of the week; to everyone’s surprise, Britpop royalty AKA Pulp’s Jarvis Cocker has been temporarily detained by the coppers during the last Brit Awards for invading the stage during Michael Jackson’s performance of Earth Song …” You left a pause, feeling the bated breath of the crowd even as you recounted a story that had been run to the fucking ground this past week. “By baring his arse to the common people.”

Laughter echoed in the studio, a wave of sound that sent your ego impossibly high. You grinned prettily at the camera, crossing your long legs together. 

You continued, “The coppers are quite boring for this, aren’t they? They put him under the arrest for suspicion of assault, but were any of us really assaulted by that sight? I personally found it quite enchanting. Jarvis,” you say, making an exaggerated wink to the camera before making a phone sign and mock-whispering, “Call me.”

Laughter again, your confidence boosting sky high at every reaction. 

“Meanwhile, on the fashion scene, Elizabeth Hurley can’t quite escape the shadow of her beloved boyfriend, Hugh Grant, and his lewd conduct all the way across the pond where he found … divine intervention,” you paused to giggle along with your own pun. “She recently walked the runway for Versace, where she was noticeably out of it. I mean, come on. She was practically waddling down the catwalk! I wonder what she must have been on, and if she could possibly hand me some the next time I see her.”

The lights bear down at you blindingly bright and you grit your teeth at it. Had it always been this bright? Did your lighting guy have some sort of stroke? You sent daggers in the direction of the lighting booth, and the response of dimmed lights was immediate. You plastered on a smile again, turning back to the crowd and camera. 

“The runway has seen better years, really. Now it’s all filled with girls and their wiry heroin-filled bodies and their lifeless eyes. It’s not enough to have the figure, ladies, it’s about having the talent as well. You can’t just amble into a casting call having eaten one meal in three days and expect to be casted. My god, the standards of the industry these days,” you lamented, noticing the current state of the runway now that you were essentially out of the business. 

You tilt your head, glancing at the cue card before continuing, “The UK charts have recently been topped by yankees — so much for boasting therecent rise of british music, am I right?” you laugh mirthlessly. “Mariah Carey has dominated the charts along with the Philadelphia-bred group, Boyz II Men. If I’m being honest, they’re both proper tunes. None of these recent British music can top them, what with all their whining and moaning about wanting to kill themselves, or drink lager at a pub, or snort cocaine between sets of a footie match; or all three at the same time.”

With a smile, you say straight to the camera, “And speaking of British music that makes you want to put a gun to your temple,” you pause, seeing a familiar figure scowling by the wings. “We have tonight’s guest. Please welcome, the one and only Noel Gallagher.”

Your second request was simpler, just a raised cue card in front of the audience, a simple instruction written in bold ink, and the audience delivered.

No applause greeted Noel as he walked into the studio, the entire space so deathly quiet that you could hear the squeak of his trainers as he walked, his brows furrowed as he glanced at the silent audience, jerking back when you stand to greet him with a sloppy kiss on the cheek. He wipes it away like it’s snot on the end of his nose. “Ta, love,” he says drily, sinking on the opposite end of the couch as you, his legs splayed wide open, his arms spread on the backrest. “Lovely introduction. Made me want to take a bazooka to my cock and shoot.”

You smile at him, settling as far away from him as possible on the couch. “Oh, how you flatter me, Noel,” you say, giggling as if it was just an inside joke. Noel’s frown deepens at your lack of cheek. “How was your week, then? Any exciting escapades? Try anything new in the bedroom?”

A roll of his eyes as he answers. “Saw Jarvis Cocker’s arse last week,” he said, blinking at you wryly. “That’s as kinky as it gets.”

“Really?” you ask, head tilted as you sniff around for some sort of story, some sort of narrative. “That’s kinky to you?”

Noel doesn’t take the bair, shifting the focus to you instead as he fires, “Well, let’s not act like you weren’t whorin’ yerself out for his number just ten minutes ago.”

You pout, secretly pleased that he wasn’t holding back. Good. It would be easier for you to sell a story where you were a victim to his mean ways. “Whoring myself,” you say, letting a tinge of sadness coat your disbelieving tone. “I was making a joke. I’m in entertainment, Noel. It’s what I do.”

“You lot find this shite entertainin’? Seriously?” Noel snorts, making himself comfortable as he rolls his neck like he’s gearing up for a fight, facing the audience with incredulity. “She’s just a walkin’, talkin’ tabloid! And you lot are sittin’ here, payin’ for this as if it’s high class entertainment.”

“Do you not respect the talk show industry, Noel?” you ask carefully, letting your expression show a morsel of pitying sadness. “Just a few months ago, you were gracing the likes of Good Morning America, The Tonight Show, and MTV. So, are you really just not that receptive to the British tsh counterparts of such talk shows? Or are you simply not fond of when a woman pursues that industry?”

Noel groans loudly, tilting his head back on the couch. “Oh, here we fuckin’ go, yeah?” he spits, training his eyes on you, his baby blues filled with so much irritation that it sends adrenaline coursing through your veins like a high. “Makin’ this about you bein’ a woman.”

You lick your lips, getting ready to make a point. “Just last week, you stated that my brain was simply too tiny too comprehend the nature of your craft,” you say, as journalistic as possible. “Am I meant to assume that that wasn’t at all a sexist dig?”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes with so much frustration that it makes you bite your lip to hold in your glee. You chance a glance at the audience to see them captivated. “It ain’t a dig at your entire sex. It was a dig at you.” He points harshly at you as he says it, as if it would get his point across.

You tilt your head as you ask, like you were a therapist talking to a patient gone off the rails. As if you were the reasonable one in the pair of you. “And why did you feel the need to have a dig at me?”

“Because you had a go at me missus!” he explodes “You went on air and called her names. And it ain’t the first time, mind. You’ve been spreadin’ nasty lies about her to the paps and on this show, tryin’ to get her career to fall off just like yours has!” 

“Just like mine has?” you repeat, eyes narrowed, the jab landing a bit too close than you were willing to admit.

“You don’t think England doesn’t know why you pivoted to this crazy fuckin’ show instead of walkin’ the runway?” he says, leaning forward to get closer to you, even with the whole couch still separating your bodies. “It was headline news for months, yeah? The catwalk-coke whore.”

The nickname cuts deep, headlines flashing in your mind before you swallow it down, looking to your producer who was frowning, before pivoting. You take a deep breath, feeling the tense air of the studio as you let it out and let your lip wobble. “It’s a sensitive topic,” you say, your voice smaller. Your producer grins as she notices the audience’s pitying staires. You had them all in the palm of your fucking hand. You just had to bring it on home. “I — Sorry, this is hard for me to talk about.” You shake your head, hiding your face beneath your curtain of hair as you let your face fall.

Noel frowns at you, not buying a word. Arse.

“Three years ago … Oh, gosh,” you breathe, laughing through fake choked tears as the audience coos. A stagehand rushes into the frame to hand you a box of tissues, right on cue, and you take one out and dab your eyes with it. “Three years ago, I had a moment of weakness. I was caught out with — with — with —” you stutter, breathing heavily as you try to produce some semblance of tears and letting the sheen of it catch on the spotlight. 

Noel mumbles under his breath, “Jesus fuck.”

“With drugs in my system,” you say through a false steely resolve, tissues gripped tightly in your hand as you let the tears fall down gently over the arc of your cheek. The crowd fully melts now. Bingo. “It had been a lapse in my judgment and I have paid my penance for it since. I’ve …” you pause, letting your chin jut out as you nod with a fake sense of pride. “I’ve since recovered. I’ve spent my time at a healing facility just outside of London.”

You turn back to face your LED screen, a picture of you on a bed in a hospital robe, a ratty teddy bear in hand and a smile of strength on your lips, being displayed as the audience claps for your recovery. 

Noel sighs, throwing his hands up as he sizes the picture up. “Oh, come on. That picture is so obviously fake!”

“Fake?” It was. You had that edited two days ago. But Noel didn’t need to know that.

Noel frowns at your audience, “What kind of a cult is this?”

You lean forward, training your eyes on Noel as you say with mock calmness, “I will only tell you once, Noel Gallagher. That my hardships have not and have never been fake. You can sit there, up on your high horse and act like god, but I’m the one here who’s been doing all the work.”

“Right,” he spits, getting properly riled up now. “The thing you ain’t tellin’ everyone is the fact that you obviously went on a crazy bender, slept with the creative head of Victoria’s Secret whose wife was supposedly your best friend, threw up right then and there on the runway, and physically assaulted your co-model and my girlfriend right where everyone could see.”

“Well, there’s no need to mention that.” There really wasn’t. Not when you knew why those headlines exist. Not when you knew whose hand was behind the fall of your career on the runway. Not when that someone’s boyfriend was just so close to getting ruined on national television. “Drugs do nasty things to people. Addiction is something that a lot of people in our country sadly struggle with. And I’ve been in the shoes of one of those people. The road to recovery is long but hopefully, with the launch of my new foundation, Angels for Addicts UK … ”

The roaring noise of proud clapping interrupted you as you smiled gracefully at the standing ovation in your studio. 

“Angels for Addicts?” Noel mumbles to himself. You could admit, the name needed a bit more work. But who could blame you when you just made up the foundation just four days ago?

You make a calming gesture to the audience, pretending to settle them down even as your eyes egged on more of their deafening applause. “We can get the numbers for addiction down and help as many people as we possibly could,” you say before wiping off more tears with your soaked tissue as you cry,  “Oh, thank you. You guys are so kind, there’s really no need for such applause. I’m just doing my civic duty as a citizen of this country!”

Noel’s eye roll could have been hard enough to make him see the back of his empty head. 

You continue, well and truly giddy for what you were about to say next, “And I am also proud to announce that my dear guest today has decided to pledge a whopping sum of two million pounds for the Angels for Addicts foundation. Give it up for Noel Gallagher, everybody!”

This time, you let the applause wash over Noel, doling out a few claps of your own as you smile at him, showing your teeth as he blinked in surprise. You waved over a couple of stagehands who obediently came over with a large prop cheque, putting one side of it on Noel’s hands and the other on yours. You smiled at the camera as it flashed, solidifying his donation to everyone. 

And if he backs out anytime soon, then he’d look like quite the asshole. 

He blinked at the cheque. “Two million pounds.”

“What a generous man,” you preen, meeting his eye and letting your mouth twist meanly before reverting your expression back. “And I know that this cause is near and dear to your heart as well considering that our mutual friend, let’s hide her with the alias Schmarmen,” you say, leaning to put a hand on his shoulder as you pout mockingly. “Struggles with fierce addiction as well. And with this donation, I know you are hoping that we get to fix more ruined lives like hers!”

Bitch.

Noel continued to stare down at the cheque in his hands, gaze shifting to you with an unreadable expression before you let yourself turn back to the camera. 

“What an emotional rollercoaster!” you whooped. “I think it’s time for a break, yeah? And what better break is there other than a music break! So, lads and ladies, please put your hands together for tonight’s musical gues, the one and only, Blur!”

Noel broke out of his state to cry, “Who?”

It was safe to say that Noel didn’t stick around for the two songs that had the audience hooting and hollering along with them. And if it was up to him, he would have exited out the side door and not looked back. But you were one step ahead, locking eyes with one of the guards and jolting your head in Noel’s direction. Keep an eye on him, the look said. 

And Noel very much needed to be kept an eye on. He paced around the set, giving autographs to fans who jumped him from the stands, drinking ice cold lager that he had requested from his runner, waving to idle cameras, and heckling Blur as they performed. 

He was a mess. Just the way you wanted him. 

As soon as the band was done, you were on them, ushering them onto the plush couch, Noel already obediently sat on his end where your producer had wrangled him seconds before. You rose up to your tiptoes, giving each member a kiss square on the mouth as you sat them down. “It’s so lovely to see you, lads!” you greet with genuine joy as Dave sat on the other end of the couch, Alex next to him, Graham beside him, and Damon squished between him and Noel. Which left no space for you. Just like you planned, still, you busied yourself as they settled on the couch, greeting them like the hostess you were. “I haven’t had decent company on this show for quite some time!”

“It’s lovely to be here,” said Damon, giving you his signature smile as he peered up at you.

You smile back before frowning dramatically, surveying the seating arrangement and crying, “Oh, dear. I guess production must have made an error,” you said. “There isn’t any room for me to sit!”

Dave nodded, already making space. “We can scooch over.”

“I know I’m quite slim, lads,” you laughed giddily, fully ignoring Noel and his scowl as you directed yourself fully to the Blur lads.  “But not that slim!”

Damon, bless him, fell right into your trap, patting his denim clad lap and then looking at you before saying, “You can sit here.”

You got him right where you wanted him. “Really?” you ask, wide eyed and with wonder. Noel grumbled something unintelligible from his seat beside Damon. “What a gentleman!” You say before settling down onto Damon’s warm lap, facing the rest of the band with your back firmly to Noel, his arm bumping into your back.

“Easy,” he mumbled into the back of your neck, before pulling away and settling himself halfway off the couch so that he wasn’t touching you.

You shake your head, smiling at the band before greeting, “Blur, it’s nice to see you! Smashing tune, by the way,” you say before turning to Graham with a condescending smile. “And Graham, I love the nerdy chic thing you’ve got going on. But please, babe, you’ve quite outgrown that phase, yeah? I say this with lots of love, but you’re too old to be dressing like a kindergartener.”

“It ain’t that bad,” Noel piped up from behind you, taking a carefree sip from his lager now. “He could just pop on one of those garish cardigans to hide the sweater vest.”

You bit a smile at the dig. It was a good one, youd’d give him that. Graham didn’t find the same amusement as you, though, eyes sharpening beneath his lenses as he groused, “I don’t own a cardigan, you bastard.”

“Boys, stop it,” you chide playfully, kicking your legs so that it rested just above Graham’s knee. “I was just teasing. I have an eye for fashion, you see.”

Damon grinned, leaning his head back to take a good look at your figure perched primly on his lap. “Ah, yes! This is a nice blouse you’ve got on.”

You preened, moving closer as you wound an arm around his neck and cooed, “It’s couture, darling.”

He raised a light brow. “Couture, aye?” He licked his lips, looking back down to your blouse, then back up to your eyes. “Don’t seem like it.”

You tilted your head in a way you knew made you look all the more appealing. “No?” you pouted before wriggling around in his lap, settling as you took his hand and ran it up your back. “Check the tag, hon.”

Alex and Dave shared a look and a laugh you didn’t comment on as Damon’s hand made a slow path up your spine and tugged the back of your blouse more than he should have to take a peek at the letters on the tiny tag sewn on the delicate fabric. “Nah, can’t see it,” he said cheekily, the whistle between words soothing you. 

You giggled, kicking your legs again and adjusting yourself on his lap before taking the leap and running your hand down the front of your body to reach for the hem of your blouse, before whipping it off in one smooth motion. “Well, maybe this could help you out,” you say slyly as you hand the blouse to Damon who was laughing in amusement along with the wolf whistles and cheers in the audience. You turn to the audience to playfully scold. “Oh, pipe down. The human body’s natural!”

Alex shook his head, smiling with mirth, “I love this show.”

You call out through the cacophony of the audience, “Calm down!” You say through a barely restrained smile of amusement, the cold air of the studio making your nipples pebble beneath the thin and sheer fabric of your bra. The hollers grew louder.

At your bare back, Noel grumbled. “How much do you pay this lot to react this way?”

You fully turned to him then, jutting your chest out just the tiniest bit to see him blush and falter before speaking haughtily, “I don’t pay them, Noel,” you sniff your nose up at him. “They pay me.”

He trained his gaze on you, blue eyes steely cold and unrelenting as he spoke, vitriol easily detectable, “Y’know, there’s a word for the kinds of girls that show their underwear to a payin’ audience.”

You raise a brow, hooking your arm across Damon’s back as he played with the fabric of your stripped blouse. “Are you calling me a stripper, Noel?”

He shakes his head and grins, “Nah, I’m callin’ you a slag.”

Someone pipes up behind you, maybe Dave, maybe Graham, “That’s not quite nice, is it?” 

“Thanks, Dave. I’ve got it from here, hon,” you say, waving him off even as you weren’t sure who exactly spoke. You looked at Noel, still perched comfortably on Damon’s lap as you leaned forward to ask Noel, voice careful and calculated, “If you think that I, a girl who strips to her bra in front of a live audience, am a slag. What do you think of your girlfriend that walks a runway with nothing but lace and silk scraps and some angel wings?”

Noel faltered a bit before scoffing, “She’s different.”

“Is she?” you snort, shaking your head and leaning back on Damon’s lap, his arm coming to support you at your bare waist. “Besides, I didn’t peg you for such a prude, Noel. Aren’t rockstars supposed to be open-minded? The human body is natural, it’s beautiful, it’s nothing to be ashamed of! We need to erase the stigma that we should hide our bodies away beneath layers and layers of clothing just to be considered pure and righteous.”

“That’s not what —” Noel began to protest.

“Protests are in nowadays, isn’t it? That’s what Jarvis was doing, yeah?” you cut him off, addressing the audience and the Blur lads now with a jovial smile. “Well, consider this a protest! Everyone, join me! C’mon, strip!”

“What —” Noel began again, bewildered beyond belief as the crowd followed obediently, slowly but surely, shedding away bits and pieces of their clothes.

“It’s lovely, isn’t it!” “you cried, seeing the flying fabric and the freeing cheers of the audience. Laughing condescendingly as some of the members of the crowd began egging Noel on to strip. He stayed steadfastly clothed even as you felt Damon unbuckling his belt and tugging his jeans down, saw Alex with his top off and his pants unbottoned, saw Graham shed his sweater vest and unbutton his polo, and Dave take off his shoes and socks to wiggle his toes. “Oh, and don’t be so hard on poor, old Noel. His Northern sensibilities just can’t comprehend the progressive nature of us Londoners, yeah?”

“Aye!” Noel barked.

“I bet you even thought that Jarvis Cocker’s protest at the BRITs was scandalous!” you giggled, the lads giggled with you, joining in on the teasing of Noel.

“It wasn’t,” he bit stiffly, clutching onto his drink. “I think Cocker’s a star.”

You hummed, assessing him. “You really do love to just pick and choose what to approve of, don’t you?”

“Just because I ain’t willin’ to strip down to me underwear in front of everyone and their mother, don’t mean that I’m a Norther fuckin’ prude,” he grit out, looking at you with barely restrained fury for putting him in such a ridiculous position.

“No?” you pout before sighing in mock understanding. “Well, I get it. We all have our insecurities. Especially concerning …” you pause to do a stage-whisper. “Size.”

The response was immediate. “The fuck did you just —”

“Shhh,” you say gently, putting a hand on his shoulder, to which he slapped away with lightning quickness. You frowned at the sting before turning to the band instead. “It’s alright, Noel. Right, lads?”

Graham decided that now was the time to get back at the Mancunian. “You can just cover it up with a cardigan, mate,” he said drily/

“How funny!” you giggle, laughing with Damon as you stuck yourself to him and his barely dressed form, bumping foreheads as you spokem “Ah, but we mustn’t make fun of Noel’s tiny willy, yeah?”

“I don’t have a tiny willy!” he cried in fury, lager spilling as he raised his cup in agitation. “And don’t call it that!” he growled.

Alex laughed lightly before shaking his head, “Mate, it’s alright. No need to be yellin’, yeah?”

“I’m not —” he bit off.

You nod with a pitying frown, head turned down. “It’s actually quite distressing, Noel. All this yelling.”

“Christ!” he yells even more.

“I heard that this is some kind of overcompensating, you know,” you muse, to no one in particular, to everyone listening. “Happens often with men with a teeny cock.”

Damon nods, arm winding around your body now. “Makes sense.”

“Teeny cock,” Noel grits out, red with anger now as he looks you in the eye and his face twists as he almost spits, “Choke on one, you bitch.”

“Mate,” Damon scolded, voice dropping down as he reached an arm across to put space between you and Noel. “Too far, yeah?”

“She started it!” Noel cried, so childishly that you let yourself guffaw. 

“Noel,” “you ask softly, though tears of laughter were still lining the corners of your eyes as you tilt your head in concern. “Are you on something?”

He bares his teeth. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Seriously,” you say, knowing how much you were getting to him. “It’s alright, Noel. You’re safe.”

“I ain’t on one, you cunt,” he explodes. “And if I was, what’s it to you, yeah? Havin’ a line is like gettin’ up and havin’ a cup of tea in the morning. Most people in Britain take drugs, and if you say you ain’t then you’re a big fat fuckin’ liar.”

The tabloids had a fucking frenzy at that. But you don’t reap the rewards until the next day, clad in your fluffy white bathrobe, sleep still lining your eyes as you see the spread of papers set out by your assistant on your kitchen table, all filled with Noel’s rageful face and booming headlines about his sexism, his drug addiction, his drag on Britain, and his foul behavior. 

As thanks, you sent him and the band a commemorative thank you gift — not a mug or a poster like your producer wanted you to in the initial draft of the show. Goodness no. No, it was something so uniquely you that people had to stop and look. 

You mailed a framed picture of a lingerie centerfold shoot you did once, clad in lacy baby pink awith fuzzy cuffs on your wrists as you lay on your stomach and preen at the camera, your signature fresh on the bottom and a kiss mark to go with it. All five of them received your gift. 

Noel made his statement by throwing your framed picture out his third-story window, the glass shattering on his front lawn right in front of a dozen waiting paps. 

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