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storiesabouteli · 1 month ago

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Misconnection. // Noel Gallagher X Reader.

prompt: (contains smut in a succinct form, it is not a predominant attraction) in which two people find comfort in each other after dysfunctional relationships and realize together what is best for them individually. it was heavily inspired by lost in translation.

words: 5.6K

Noel noticed you quickly.

His room was across the hallway, and over the past few weeks, he had assumed you were alone in the city. Every time he made noise with his guitar or tried to work through something, you would either crack your door open slightly or casually stand in the corridor. You didn’t seem to be hiding, but you also didn’t make yourself too easy to see.

One night, he considered stepping out to talk to you, but the moment he opened his door, you had already disappeared into the elevator.

You exchanged polite smiles in the lobby. It wasn’t flirting—it was more of a silent acknowledgment that you both saw each other. You knew that he knew you listened to him sing and that you liked it. But maybe you weren’t quite aligned enough to join in just yet.

"Everythin' alrigh' there?" Noel asked, forcing a smile—one that, unbeknownst to him, wasn’t exactly natural.

He had noticed the ring on your finger before, but now, up close, as you hugged a box of macarons, it seemed to hold more weight. It reminded him of when he was younger, in his first marriage, believing that decision was for life. Though he had no regrets and had managed to keep things amicable, he appreciated how, over the years, it had become just another detail in the long stretch of his life. It also made him think that, even now, with a ring still on his own finger, things would be alright soon enough.

"I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to stay here—I really am sorry."

Your rushed apology made him laugh, this time far more genuinely than before. You were wrapped in a large sweater and loose-fitting pants, looking completely at ease. Your face carried a hint of exhaustion, the darkness beneath your eyes more pronounced. Standing there in front of him, studying him with quiet curiosity, you looked undeniably endearing. He couldn’t deny he had thought that from the very first time he saw you.

"Did y’come t’listen t’me?"

Scratching the back of his neck, he realized how odd that sounded. His cheeks were certainly tinged with color, but you only gave him a shy smile and nodded.

There was something about the moment that was hard to put into words, yet it all felt so natural. The way you stepped into the spacious room, took a seat at one end of the couch and made it easy for him to grab one of the macarons and take a bite. You stuffed your hands into your pockets to keep them warm. You were fun to watch.

He didn’t play for you, but the two of you ended up listening to random albums together, discovering a shared taste in music. The conversation stayed light, shifting from the weather to how the city felt during tourist season, to how the newspaper vendor beside the hotel was surprisingly friendly. (Your fiancé would have never given importance to that detail, and you made a mental note of it.)

"Does yer ring go on t’other hand?"

His fingers brushed against yours, sending a pulse of electricity through your body like a reflex. His skin was rough yet delicate as he turned the pearl between his fingertips for a few seconds. You wished his curiosity was about you and not just the correct placement of an engagement ring. Maybe you had wanted to be noticed by him from the start, back when you first saw him play at that crowded pub nearby.

"I’m not married yet. It’s a tradition for some—an engagement ring goes on the right hand, and only on the wedding day does it move to the left."

He listened intently, and you couldn't remember the last time you shared that without feeling ridiculous.

"So… is this a dream o' yours?"

Your eyebrows lifted slightly, and he found it endearing how you handled words, as if everything he said carried a weight of its own.

"Getting married?"

He laughed.

"I mean, yeah, but… everythin’ ‘bout it seems special t’you. The tradition, the way ya smile while talkin’ ‘bout it. Feels like ya planned this, thought ‘bout it for ages."

You swallowed hard. Something so simple, and yet he figured it out just by exchanging a few sentences with you. You ran your fingers around the ring, turning it slowly.

"Yeah, I guess so. I like the idea of being in love, but I wouldn’t even know about the ring placement if it weren’t for this newlywed woman who once came into the café where I worked. She was so happy—it made me want that for myself, even while being happy for her."

He smiled, a small, knowing expression that softened the lines on his face. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His presence alone made you feel heard.

"The ring ‘e chose is proper beautiful. Hope you’ll be dead happy."

You slipped your hands back into your pockets, not wanting him to see it anymore. The ring had been your choice, and honestly, if you hadn’t had that conversation with your fiancé about your years together and what the future held, you weren’t sure if it would even be on your finger right now. But there was nothing to complain about—wasn’t this what you wanted?

Noel noticed the flicker in your eyes and cut in.

"Well, Ah’m gettin’ divorced."

He held up his own ring, relieved when your gaze met his again.

"Why?"

Your voice was quiet, but there was a certain ease in the way you asked, making it clear the question wasn’t intrusive.

"Feel like… if it weren’t for ‘er, I’d still be with ‘er, y’know?"

It was a force of habit, and Noel reminded himself that, given your age, you probably hadn’t even lived half of what he had.

"She got tired, li'ul by li'ul. Ah-I was around, but it weren’t enough."

You nodded. His expression was tired, but not necessarily sad.

"Did you try to win her back? You didn’t do anything wrong, did you?"

He chuckled at your tone before continuing.

"I tried. She 'ad someone else in mind. I don’t miss 'er, but I miss the life 'round 'er. We were together for over twenty years."

You looked at him with warmth, and he accepted it.

You couldn’t quite grasp what it meant to be with someone for that long—an amount of time that was, in some ways, close to your own lifetime. You didn’t know what to say, but you understood why he still wore the ring.

"I’m sorry."

He simply gave you the same gentle smile as before.

Your arms brushed, something comfortable, and you let it happen. Neither of you knew where the line between safe and dangerous was, but this moment was cautious, measured.

"Are you always at the hotel? Never go out?"

His laugh was slightly nasal, soothing in its own way.

"Ah-I came t’record some tunes. Use me time ‘ere t’relax, rehearse a bit, an’ make some tweaks before headin’ off somewhere."

Your hands slipped back out of your pockets, and he took that as a sign that you were at ease.

"Did you write about her?"

He nodded.

"Loads. Don’t think ‘bout ‘er the same way no more, but she were, uh, was, a big part o’ me life. There’s loads o’ ‘er in the tunes."

"Do you regret it?"

He studied your eyes, trying to decipher what the question meant to you, but he couldn’t quite tell.

"Nah. It were a good part o’ me life, even if we ain’t together no more."

You licked your lips absentmindedly.

"I wish someone wrote songs 'bout me. It seems very romantic."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, realizing he hadn’t felt this kind of nervousness—the kind that made you hold your breath before speaking—in a long time.

"What’s the most romantic thing he’s done for you?"

Your gaze dropped to the floor. A brief silence, but noticeable. Your hands returned to your pockets.

"We planned this trip about nine months ago. He was supposed to come with me, but there was a work emergency—it happens a lot."

Your voice was calm, free of bitterness, but there was something tired in it—something that sounded like an ending.

…

The silence lingered, broken only by the sound of breathing and the room’s ventilation. You felt good, even with the weight in your chest. It was the lightest you had felt since the proposal.

After a while, Noel rested his cheek on your shoulder, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. He looked peaceful, but you didn’t know that he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. That was a reaction to you. That feeling of warmth and being seen—it was mutual.

Your fingers traced the bridge of his nose, then moved to his hair, almost more gray than dark now. You found him beautiful, but there was a distance to that feeling, something that kept it from fully taking shape.

His scent had already settled into your clothes, and you knew that if you stayed, you’d finally get the kind of sleep you hadn’t had in a long time. But recognizing this moment as a dangerous threshold, you chose to leave.

…

Daylight had already started to seep in, and Noel felt the emptiness in his chest, knowing you were no longer there. Maybe you’d come back the next time he played.

He thought about going downstairs for breakfast, but instead, let the weight of exhaustion dissolve him bit by bit. If not for the soft knocking at his door, he might have spent the entire day in the same position.

Annoyance flared at being pulled from bed, but it faded the second he saw you standing there. His fingers curled into a tense fist—he recognized that feeling. He had liked you enough for your pain to drain any energy from him.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Your eyes didn’t meet his. They were distant, lost somewhere in the room, drowned in tears. You were still wearing the same clothes, except now just a tank top. It was clear you had been crying and restless for hours, and he hated that you hadn’t come to him sooner—as if he could’ve made it all go away.

"Come 'ere, love," he murmured, opening his arms. You folded into him instantly.

That familiar scent wrapped around you again, his fingers pressing into your back as he pulled you inside. He thought he knew what it was about, even if not entirely.

You left a small damp spot on his shirt, but he kept holding you close. It wasn’t a desperate kind of crying, which somehow made it worse.

The bed was low, and when he set you down and knelt in front of you, it left you at just the right height to hide your face against him. His hands moved along your back, his chin resting on top of your head, while your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt. The small gestures grounded you, bringing you back to reality.

“I called him,” you sniffled, pulling back just enough to see him.

His hand rested lightly at your waist, keeping you close in a way that didn’t feel improper, especially with your fingers still playing with the buttons of his shirt. He waited patiently for you to continue, and that was something you liked about him—he didn’t ask out of curiosity, he just wanted you to speak if you wanted to.

“He’s not coming back here. He’s too busy. Said he can see me when I get home,” you paused, swallowing a bit.

Noel watched you carefully, not with pity but with an understanding you weren’t used to anymore. His eyes calmed you. He was wearing a long-sleeved button-up, the collar open enough that a hint of chest hair peeked out. He wiped your face with the edge of the fabric, showing you, without words, that he was here.

“I didn’t enjoy any of this trip 'cause I kept waitin' for him to be here, y’see? I thought things would be different. I don’t want it to always be like this. I don’t want this for myself.”

Your shoulders loosened, and to him, your face looked lighter, like speaking was helping you make sense of it all.

"Y’ve talked t’ ‘im ‘bout this loads, ain’t ya?" He asked, remembering you saying it was a recurring problem.

You nodded. “Yeah. My whole last year has been about this.”

Your eyes dropped, hesitant to admit you had let yourself get into this situation. He brushed your hair away, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.

"Ah’m not gonna judge ya. But ‘e don’t seem like someone t’take serious, if I can say that. Why’d he wanna marry someone ‘e don’t even listen to?"

Hearing it out loud, from someone else, made it sound so simple.

“Do you think he’s marrying me out of convenience?” you asked, your voice quiet as your hand slipped from his shirt.

You were exhausted. As you looked at him, Noel gave a small, sweet smile. You settled into the bed beside him, the scent of his sheets huggable. When you moved to get up, he simply touched your arm and told you it was okay. You already knew the answer to your question.

"D’ya think ‘e loves ya?" his voice was low, steady. “D'ya love him?”

All you could hear was his breathing.

“When did you realize you didn’t love your ex-wife anymore?” you asked.

He lay down too, just an arm’s length away. When he turned onto his side, he was all that filled your vision.

“Dunno,” he admitted. “I think it faded lil' by little as I realized she didn’t feel the same no more—and didn’t care to show interest. But every situation is different.”

Noel found himself hoping you’d see that maybe this wasn’t the man for you. But he also had to remember he was not, and would never be, someone in your life.

He touched your face, more for himself than for you, and you closed your eyes, letting it happen. His fingers traced along your cheek, then moved to massage your shoulders.

“I don’t know if I love him,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I believe his words, either. He always says he’ll try harder, but it always ends up the same way I’ve come to hate. His indifference makes me want to be alone, and I don’t think he would’ve proposed if I hadn’t confronted him about it. Maybe marrying me never even crossed his mind. I don’t want to be someone’s uncertainty.”

The words came easily, revealing that you had thought about this more than you wanted to admit.

Noel squeezed you, a bit content that you could see things for what they were. You were still young, and you had time. You still had your chances.

“Don’t let your kids grow up to be bad people to others,” you whispered, pressing your cheek to his shoulder.

He didn’t mind. He liked having you close.

“I won’t,” he murmured, and for a moment, you were struck by the weight of the fact that he was more than old enough to have kids. That was something you didn’t want to think about.

…

Your back didn’t feel as heavy as before. Your face was pressed into the sheets, arms wrapped around one of his pillows. His scent—woody, warm—filled the entire room. It was nice.

Your body still carried the lazy memory of being close to his, of drifting off in the middle of the night with his lips pressing against your forehead and his arm firm around your waist, like he was afraid he’d leave you behind if he let go.

"Ow’re ya, li’ul one?"

His voice was smooth. He had changed clothes—still wearing buttons, still a pleasant sight. His hair was damp, and he was jotting something down in a small notebook.

“Good,” you murmured sleepily.

He laughed, glancing at you, and whatever he was writing became secondary now that your voice had settled into the room. It was intimate—bearable, even.

“Wot d'you do?” Noel asked, cautious. He was sure knowing too much about you wouldn’t do him any good, but it was impossible to resist. “You mentioned the café, but said you’re no longer there...”

“I work at a bookstore,” you said, staring at the ceiling.

You could hear the sound of his fingers skimming across the pages, and even without looking, you could picture the shape of his hands perfectly—the wedding band, the red-stoned ring.

When you rubbed a hand over your face and looked back at him, he was watching you, his gaze soft. He had noticed—your engagement ring was no longer there. It hadn’t been since the moment you decided to come to him.

“I’m a pianist,” you said, voice steady. “I’m trying to get a spot at a theater in London. I’m really excited about it. Anxious, but waiting on the results.”

He smiled, genuinely. “I’d love to 'ear you play. I bet you’re dead good. I’ll save a seat next time I'm in London.”

He took a moment before saying it, wanting to be honest without making you uncomfortable.

You smiled back, a mirror of his own expression.

Noel briefly considered suggesting you work on something together but held back. He also couldn’t remember the last time he had felt truly drawn to a woman.

You kept watching him—the roundness of his cheeks, the way his fingers moved as he worked.

He was a stranger. He shouldn’t have this much of an effect on you.

…

You had put on one of your new dresses—fitted at the waist, flowing just enough. You liked how it looked on you, how it made you feel confident. It was one of the pieces you had carefully chosen for this trip, for the dates you were supposed to have with your fiancé, who, theoretically, should have been with you.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you stared at the hotel phone. Your fingers were cold. You had been ready for a while now, wanting to visit a café you’d spotted nearby. You were determined to go home and at least be able to say you had experienced something of this place.

But suddenly, your fear wasn’t about missing out on seeing the neighborhood anymore—it was about missing him, about not getting to be with him in the short time left before you had to leave.

"Ah can ‘ear ya breathin’, but we can stay quiet if y’ prefer."

His voice came through the receiver, confident, amused.

You twisted the cord between your fingers, unsurprised that he recognized you without you having said a single word. Somehow, you knew you would have recognized him, too.

His breathing filled the silence between you, steady and calm, making your thoughts settle. He understood this—the simple need to be close.

“I’m going to visit a café nearby. Want to come?”

You probably sounded like a stalker, but Noel had to admit to himself that he had considered asking someone at the hotel for your number. The thought of you having to craft a story convincing enough for them to connect you to his room amused him.

"Alright, Ah’ll grab a jacket an’ meet ya downstairs, li’ul one."

You straightened up as soon as you saw him, a smile tugging at your lips. He looked relaxed, his usual furrowed brow still faintly marked, eyes focused ahead—until they found you. Your heart warmed a little when his expression softened, when his lips curled into a small smile that smoothed out the lines on his face.

You wished you could take him home with you. Maybe no one would even notice.

His gaze traveled over you—not in a way that made you self-conscious, but in a way that felt good.

"Is this wot takin' off a ring does?" he murmured, and you felt your cheeks burn.

He took your hand in his, and you noticed his wedding band was gone too. Then, with an easy motion, he made you twirl in front of him. When you stopped, his eyes hadn’t drifted far—they remained on your smile.

And so, the first steps were taken with the careful distance of two people still pretending they weren’t walking towards something. He kept his hands behind his back, and you found yourself a little too nervous to speak or gesture much. But it didn’t take long before your arms brushed, and his hand found a comfortable place on your back, guiding you along with him.

"Isn’t pumpkin supposed to be a vegetable?" he frowned at the orange hue of your drink, his voice laced with quiet skepticism.

He had ordered nothing but black coffee, refusing even a small cake.

"It is," you shrugged, taking a sip. "But it works in drinks. And desserts."

You nudged the cup toward him, inviting him to try.

He was dressed in black as usual, his hair a little longer, giving it a soft volume at the top. He was attractive—undeniably so. And knowing he had spent over twenty years with someone by his side made you believe he must be a good person to have around.

Sitting across from him, avoiding him was impossible.

He took a hesitant sip, pretending to deliberate.

"You liked it," you teased. "Not as much of a grumpy old man as you wish you were."

He let out a low, unguarded laugh, and you liked being the reason for it.

"It tastes like dessert. Too sweet," he admitted.

You nodded in understanding, and he pushed his own cup toward you—black coffee.

You had never been fond of it, but you hesitated, curiosity getting the better of you.

The bitterness hit instantly. You had taken too big a sip, and your eyes watered in protest.

Noel regretted it immediately, which only made you laugh as he rushed to pour you a glass of water and snatched his cup away from you.

"No wonder you only wear black and walk around looking permanently annoyed," you teased, watching as amusement flickered in his eyes.

He liked everything about you—how effortlessly you spoke to him, how you weren’t trying to make him think you were someone good.

"Ya look proper stunnin'," he murmured, brushing a napkin against your chin to wipe away brownie crumbs.

It felt right to say it, though he should have said it earlier.

Your eyes flickered away, unable to meet his directly. Instead, you cut the brownie in half, offering him a piece.

"Eat. We’re trying more of these."

He nodded, knowing he had endured worse things in life than indulging in a few sweets for a girl.

…

You were wrapped in one of his button-up shirts, loose and comfortable around you. There had been no need for words—just a quiet, mutual agreement that you would stay. Your hair was tied back, still damp from a shower, and he found you just as endearing as ever.

There was no hesitation when he sat beside you, close enough that the small couch felt even smaller. His hand ran over your arms, then down your back, and soon your head rested against his chest, as if it had always belonged there. He pressed a kiss to your hairline, his body unwinding as your arms curled around him.

A few days ago, Noel had been uneasy about what was ahead—unsure, directionless. But now, all he could think about was tomorrow, and the fact that he would get to talk to you again. You made him see past all of it. Two divorces weren’t the end of the world, though they had left him exhausted just thinking about them.

Your fingers trailed up his chest, finding the collar of his shirt and twisting the fabric idly. Your scent was starting to settle into him, a quiet imprint. Your palm found warmth against his skin, fingers playing absently with the fine hairs there.

He brushed your hair back, taking in the peaceful way your eyes remained closed. And for the first time in a while, he felt the same.

"Y'alright?" he murmured.

Your gaze lifted to his, wide and searching, and you nodded. He kissed your cheek, and when you sighed in quiet satisfaction, he did it again—dragging his nose along your skin, leaving lingering kisses along the path.

The faint stubble on his jaw scraped against you in a way that was more pleasant than not. And when he finally pulled back, you were still smiling at him, calm and close.

Too close.

He realized it at the same time you did, and he started to move away. But your fingers found the back of his neck, keeping him with you. The furrow in his brow deepened, and you pressed soft kisses there until it smoothed out again.

"You’re probably never going to see me again."

You had thought about saying more but left it at that. There was nothing else that needed to be said. You both understood this wasn’t something that could work. He had a life, a country, children, a career that had nothing to do with the world you lived in. He might even go back to his ex-wife. And you—maybe you weren’t ready to give up on marriage as an idea.

It was complicated. You both knew that.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, and before you could say anything else, he pulled you in for a kiss.

His nose brushed your cheek, his lips soft, the warmth of him seeping into your lungs. His hand cradled the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, holding you there—not in urgency, but in something slower, something indulgent.

Something that felt like exactly what you both needed.

His fist closed in your hair, pulling firmly to give him more space to go deeper. Your chest felt heavier, your breathing more desperate, your hands gripped his arms, between fabric and flesh, hoping that this would be enough of a sign for him not to stop. The kisses went down to your neck, spreading to your collarbone. He was so gentle, his fingers traced over your skin as if pressing too hard might shatter you, as if the wrong touch could make you slip right through his hands.

You held on tighter to him, and his nimble hands on your waist guided you closer. His thigh between your legs, your body pressed against his, he trailed his lips down your shoulder, your arms, every visible point of skin. Your thighs flexed against his in response, and soon your face grew hot, even though you could feel his jeans against your skin and your body was melting into him with no much shame.

Noticing you pausing, he pulled back slightly, his tongue wetting his lips as he let his back rest against the couch. His thumb traced slow circles on your waist, his gaze darker as it settled on you–this was good.

He squeezed your waist a little tighter, and you saw encouragement in it.

He tensed the muscle in his thigh, adding more to it. Your fingers tightened around him, tighter than before, and you wrapped your legs around him, letting out a pleasant sigh. He bit his lip, his gray hair falling a bit over his forehead, sweaty. In a slightly more abrupt movement, you could feel your raw skin brushing against his jeans, making your sigh louder and your head fall onto his shoulder.

"Ah've got ya, princess." He comforted you, his rough, thick hands running up your thighs, rising ever so slightly, until he held the hem of your shirt and pulled it up over your hips. His lips were at your ear, he whispered how good of a girl you were. He moved the fabric out of the way, digging it into his fingers along with the strength with which he held your waist and made the movement for you.

Your knees ached from the friction, but you were so wet that the contact with his jeans still allowed a muffled, wet sound through the silent room. You could hear his gasps, with each time your body moved forward and slowly back, as he controlled it. Sometimes the rhythm allowed you to feel how hard he was getting, and you had to admit it looked painful. He went back to kissing your shoulder, while you bit his, leaving his shirt damp, every now and then he pressed his fingers tightly into you and you wished you had his marks on your skin later.

Your body was starting to tremble, the spasms in your hips were no longer as controlled, your face and chest completely immersed in his body as he held you steady. Everything was slow, calculated by him, so that every second would take longer and he would have more time with you. He stood up, your arms and legs joining him like a puzzle piece, and delicately he placed your back on the bed.

You held him close, his weight on you was moderate—comforting. He looked at you with desire, but also as if he appreciated you being there, as if you weren’t going anywhere and had more to give. You thought of him as more than just this moment, so it felt mutual. His gaze made you feel attractive, even like this—messy hair, wearing clothes that weren’t even yours.

"I wish you were my age."

The melancholy in your voice made him shake his head immediately.

"Ya would’ve 'ated me at your age. Ah was annoyin', drank too much, 'nd took my worries out on other people."

You shifted him, considering how this—whatever it was—was all you had. There were no "what ifs." He kept his leg between yours, the closeness a quiet reminder that he was here.

He moved briefly, and you traced a line from his chest to the mark you had left on his jeans with your eyes. His thick thighs made you imagine other things too. He opened his shirt wider, you bit your lip and he chuckled lightly. You could feel the elastic of your panties a bit out of its place and that was a good reminder of minutes ago.

He lifted your shirt again, kissing your knees and thighs, taking his caresses to your belly. Your eyes closed with the texture of his mature skin brushing where you were sensitive and then his nose lightly tapping the spot. He kissed you cautiously over the fabric and his eyes went up to you, his expression relaxed, as if he thought about being between your legs often and he whispered, "Is it alrigh’ if Ah-I carry on??" and all you felt was your heart bursting and your wetness like never before.

…

He didn’t hesitate to take you to the airport. Things were heavy, though there was an air of hope between you—not because there was any chance of being together, but because you saw things differently now.

You couldn’t bring yourself to touch him. You were too close, close enough to hold his gaze, but if you reached for him, it would break you.

"Y'know, I’ll come see ya when ya play at the London Theatre."

He touched your arms, pulling you into him. Your vision blurred slightly.

"I don’t even know when that’ll be, and you’ve never seen me play, so you can’t say that." You joked, unsure how to take it.

"Ya saw summat was off, like with your relationship, an’ handled it right. Yer workin’ outside yer field ‘cos ya believe in it. Yer determined—don’t seem the type t’ hesitate. If not now, then one day, you’ll get there. Ah believe in ya."

You inhaled sharply, the tears never making it down your cheeks because he wiped them away first. His eyes were watery too. It made you realize how little you had accepted in past relationships.

Your fiancé once mentioned how important a stable job was—you had seen it as a valid concern, but he had always seemed to hate having an old piano taking up space in the living room.

"You won’t remember me," you murmured.

He shook his head, making that small sound with his mouth that told you to be quiet.

"Ah-I will. I feel relieved that I got to talk to ya these past few days."

He wiped your face, watching as you tried to steady yourself, though your hands were trembling.

"'nd I need to see ya play."

You laughed.

He told you he’d be in Tokyo for a while, dealing with record label matters. You told him you’d be going back to North America. He lived in England—far from you. Your mind tried to map out the distance as something manageable, but the truth was neither of you would fit into each other’s lives. He wasn’t going to get married again, and you couldn’t handle the fact that he already had a family.

It was hard, but there wasn’t much to discuss. There was no space for bitterness.

"Ah brought ya summat." his voice echoed in your mind as he kissed you right there, in front of everyone. It was slow, your fingers tangled in his hair, grazing through the gray strands. You needed a moment before facing his flushed lips and reddened nose. Your lungs felt empty.

You couldn’t look at him when you said goodbye.

All you had was the plastic bag he had given you, filled with the same macarons from when you first spoke to him, with revived dreams, and a cassette tape with your name on it—signed by him, with the words "For the good memories."

It was cliché, but it was him, you felt loved.

#noel gallagher x reader #noel gallagher smut #noel gallagher fanfic #noel gallagher x you #noel gallagher #oasis noel gallagher

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storiesabouteli · 2 months ago

Text

Pulse. / Noel Gallagher X f!Reader (Smut)

request: can u write a noel fic of the reader giving him head for the first time and he guides her through it

words: 2k

His thick hair fell subtly across his forehead, not too long, just the perfect length. A hint of gray peeked through, and the so-called "triangle of sadness" wasn’t sad at all; the crease softened as he looked at you. His gaze was lowered since you were beneath him, his eyebrows free of any trace of seriousness. He was there for you.

"Y'alraht, li'ul one?” His voice was rough, though the drawn-out “a” carried a hint of caution. You nodded, your long lashes fluttering slowly, chin dipping in agreement as your lips parted and you wet them lightly. In his mind, it all played out in slow motion, like a lullaby-worthy scene—if not for the painful situation you both found yourselves in.

The rug beneath your knees was soft, and the light bathed him perfectly, highlighting the deep blue of his eyes locked on you. His relaxed expression spoke volumes—there was no other place he needed or wanted to be.

He ran his thumb along your cheek, letting his hand trail to the nape of your neck. Your response was to nuzzle into his warm palm, much like a pup seeking comfort from its owner. Gradually, your focus shifted back to him as his firm fingers tangled in your hair, gently pulling to guide your gaze upward. It worked effortlessly—your eyes met his without hesitation.

It wasn't hard to understand his nuances, he pressed his fingertips to your lips, waiting patiently in his own pain, and then pushed them further into your tongue and along with the air entering your lungs, you drew them into your warth with a heavy sigh. He smiled proudly, forcing a little more until your head tilted back better. He was going slow, this being like a practice, and just with that your breath failed. Before your throat could feel him deeper, he loosened his fingers, making your eyes water as your weak moan made him feel tight in his jeans as you swallow him once again.

He tightened his fingers again, but you learned quickly. Your delicate hands held around his wrist, your fingertips calmly strumming the hairs that remained there. You liked that, you liked the way he looked at you. Your breath hitched sometimes, not in the same way, but that wasn't his length yet. Still, he nodded to indicate a 'good job' just so he could pull out his fingers, drenched in saliva that also dripped down the edges of your lips.

It wasn’t hard for him to get distracted by you. You tossed your hair back, tucking it behind your ears. Your eager hands reached for him, fingers brushing over the denim until they hesitated at his belt, fumbling awkwardly. He chuckled, his hand resting on your shoulder, easing the tension there—a silent reassurance that there was nothing to be shy about.

There was a stark contrast between his touch and yours—he was measured, deliberate, while everything about you screamed urgency. "It’s alright," his rough timbre broke through the haze, grounding you. His calloused fingers replaced yours, unbuckling the belt with ease and sliding the leather from his hips. The simple motion slowed your racing thoughts, bringing you back to a steadier pace. There was no need to rush.

Your gaze traced over him like an audience captivated by a performance—lingering on his relaxed features, the partially unbuttoned shirt that revealed a hint of chest hair, and the fabric riding up just enough to expose his stomach, teasing every part of your interest. He wasn’t any different, mesmerized by how you leaned against his bare thighs, your curious eyes contrasting with the quiet tension beneath his red sweater, which framed you so perfectly, leaving only your hands to peek out from its edges.

"Jus' be nice f'me, alrigh'?” The letters blurred and faded as your breath brushed closer against his skin. That was his way of shushing your unsteady breathing, and it worked.

It was clear how sensitive he was, how his veins were tingling and his hips were wobbling a little as his fingers tangled in your hair. Your hand supported his base, the fabric of sweater kissing his fresh and your tongue wrapping around the tip, sucking only there with a simple laugh.

He hardened in your lips as the other muscles relaxed. He adjusted himself on the sheets, sinking deeper into them as his head tilted to the side, eyes closed. The crease between his brows deepened, but it held a softness, almost sweet. In different circumstances, you’d kiss that spot just to soothe him.

Comfortable, he rested his hand in your hair, fingers combing the strands back, almost like a brush. The ring caught on the strands, and the soft tremor in your breath as you let out a quiet sound in response to the pull made him inhale sharply in his seat. Your eyes opened with the firm tug at your nape, drawing your gaze up to meet his. You weren’t used to this, let alone to Noel. You needed to listen to him—it was part of the deal—but he was starting to turn it into a tease. The furrow in your brows betrayed the discomfort he seemed to pick up on all too easily.

“I know what's good for ya, y'know that, don’t ya?” The tip of your nose brushed against his skin as he guided you. Still tasting him, you wetted your lips and let them graze the sensitive, flushed part. “Stay calm, no rush, li'ul one.” His voice came out deeper, his grip on you loosening. He was right—you were rushing, barely able to hold onto the moment because you were so focused on seeing him okay. And truly, there was no need to hurry.

“I’m sorry,” your voice pleaded, though it wasn’t necessary, yet he found himself pleased to have heard those silent words from your dilated eyes.

Little by little, your eyes fluttered shut from the sensation, your face sinking into him with a soft sigh. It wasn't abrupt, but it was precise–it worked well. Your mind hovered over how he would show you how much he enjoyed having his fingers in your throat until it made you want to cry, and then there you were, with your mouth filled with him and feeling that pleasant burning in your nose from the stimulation. Soon, he ran his thumb along your cheekbone, wiping away the lingering tears amidst deep sighs and the weight of his body.

You threatened to open your eyes, briefly managing to do so. You saw his furrowed brows and Adam's apple rising and falling with your gentle movements, but it didn't last long. You closed your eyes again and simply let yourself get lost in his taste. It was quite unique to you and your mouth watered as the voice in your head punctuated the slightly salty and thick feeling.

Noel liked looking at your angelic features, even though you were subtly drooling and your nails dug into his thighs, causing a nice burning sensation. This even added to your performance. You didn't need to say it, but it was clear how much you were enjoying it, it wasn't just about him, and he felt himself getting harder with every nuance of yours that made him realize it.

Noting your inability, and brief eagerness to cover his entire length in your mouth, he pulled your hair back, helping with the rhythm. That encouraged you, he smiled with a hoarse moan watching you move your knees apart and relax your shoulders as you were certain that he would guide you. He loved seeing you need him. Still, you were brilliant, your eyelashes were fluttering and he could see your senses.

Even with nausea and your eyes full of tears, you managed to fit him all into your mouth. Your nose brushed his belly hair and suddenly he was right at the start of your throat. Your tears ran down and then within a few seconds he would lightly pull your face up, leaving him covered in drool, just so you could repeat the same movement–sucking him completely into your lips, messing up all his thickness and then focusing on giving attention to his angry tip until his next command.

He was restless, the throbbing in your mouth made the fabric of your panties stick tightly to your flesh. You had been wet several times before, even with Noel, even minutes ago when he put you on his lap and filled your neck and chest with kisses, but this was something different. Your knees weakened, and not harshly, he held the back of your neck closer to him, your breath hitched and your saliva came back in a brief choke. Your distraction was in feeling him on your tongue, as well as how you were getting sore from being so soaked, if it weren't for him, your rhythm would be much more impressive than that–but there was nothing to complain about.

He wiped your cheek, his gaze scanning over you, the blue in his eyes more intense than you remembered. Your lungs burned, and although you tried to hide it, a small cough escaped. "Yer fine, jus' try t'breathe through yer nose, uh?" His fingers touched your jaw, steadying you, and with a slight nod, he reassured you. You mirrored the gesture.

You moistened your lips, touching him once more. This time, he didn't intervene, his fingers touched your hair and caressed it, but lightly, he was letting you have control. He didn't tell you to slow down, he just let your mind guide you as his back became comfortable on the sheets. Your sweet laugh and the vibration on his skin, knowing that seeing him like this made you naughty was something that made him want to repeat it. You were firm, copying the way you took his fingers in your mouth but now with his length in the most angelic way possible. Your nails on his thighs burned and little by little the well-known tingling in his stomach appeared.

"Tha's me girl.” The heavy accent made you pay closer attention to him. To his flushed face, the color spreading to his chest in sighs that made his skin glisten with sweat. "Yer doin' so well.” That made your eyes sparkle, and Noel made a mental note to use such words to his advantage more often.

Your mouth was getting warm, the liquid comforting in its own way. He pulled your face away, not wanting to make you feel obligated, but you kept your body still. Your attention wouldn't leave him; his cheeks were flushed, the crease between his eyebrows was as defined as a tattoo, and his stomach contracted with every breath as your tongue was getting filled with his cum. You swore you could get there on your own, without him touching you, and just by letting yourself relax and watch that scene–but that could be a future attempt.

It felt like everything was etched into your very cells—the way his muscles relaxed into the couch and that undeniable sensation that it was you who had brought him to this state. He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, tilting his head back against the pillow, running a relieved hand through his hair. His soft grunts filled the room, and he mumbled something inaudible, though the honeyed tone of his voice suggested more praise. Then, his chest warmed at the sound of your satisfied smile, a sound that seemed to echo in his very core.

He pulled himself together as best as he could, his eyes falling back to you on the floor. Running his fingers over his lips, he wetted them, brushing the corner of his mouth as if mimicking a kiss, wiping away the remnants still persisting there. You eagerly ran your tongue over your own lips, savoring what little was left. Sitting with your legs to the side, your marked knees were exposed, you caught his eye, and he smiled at that. Your reaction was immediate–you tugged him in for a kiss he welcomed fully, wrapping his arms around you and nestling you closer against him.

“"Alrigh', me girl, Ah’ll pay ya for this. Yer deserve it.” You were content with doing it for him, you didn't feel like more was needed, even though you were sore down there and you weren't going to deny it.

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