#NGHFB | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nglgfics · 17 days ago

Text

Some assembly required

Masterlist

Noel Gallagher didn’t believe in moments anymore.

He believed in schedules. In handlers. In sitting where you’re told and saying something just cheeky enough to get quoted in the morning headlines. He believed in shrugging through interviews with a practiced smirk and dodging personal questions with sarcasm sharp enough to leave a mark.

What he didn’t believe in was people surprising him.

Especially not women.

Not anymore.

Divorce had left its fingerprints all over him—smudges, cracks, pressure points. It wasn’t just the failure of it that left the sting. It was what it stripped away. The intimacy. The safety. The illusion that someone knew him and stayed anyway. What came after felt like performance—dating, flirting, being looked at like an artefact instead of a person. Women flirted with the man on stage, the man in old magazine covers. Not with him.

So he adapted. Got sharper. Closed off. Funny in that way only the bitter get to be—dry, surgical, too clever for his own good. Easier to be unbothered than disappointed.

By now, he could drift through a TV studio like a ghost. Say the lines. Wear the face. Go home.

That was the plan.

Until he walked into the makeup room.

She was already there, standing at the counter, back to him—arms moving in quiet, careful rhythm as she sorted through a tray of brushes. He almost didn’t notice her at first. She was dressed plainly—rolled-up sleeves, trainers, a hairpin slipping loose. Nothing dramatic. No affect.

And yet something about her… stopped him.

She wasn’t posing. Wasn’t performing. She just existed there, entirely in her own space. Comfortable in it.

Then she turned.

And looked right at him.

Not a double-take. Not fan recognition. Just a calm, unflinching gaze that said: I see you. I’m not impressed. And I don’t need to be.

Her mouth curled into the smallest, most maddening smile.

“You’re Noel, yeah?”

Her voice was low and unforced. Something steady in it. Something that didn’t chase approval.

He nodded once. “That’s the rumour.”

“Brilliant.” She gestured to the chair. “Have a seat—I’ll make you look like someone who slept.”

He smirked, just barely, and sat. “That’s asking a lot.”

“I didn’t say I was a miracle worker.”

She stepped in close. Too close for someone who didn’t trust easily.

Her hands came up to adjust the angle of his face—light, practiced, efficient. She smelled like something clean and warm, no cloying perfume, just skin and shampoo and something faintly herbal. He tried not to inhale too deeply.

“Look straight at me,” she said.

He did. Reluctantly. But her eyes held his without blinking.

And for one beat too long, he forgot how to deflect.

“Wow,” she said, almost under her breath. “Your eye colour’s ridiculous.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You calling me ridiculous five seconds in? That’s a new record.”

She smiled without flinching. “I meant the colour. It’s sharp. Like smoke trapped under ice.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Right. Brooding and emotionally unavailable. Very on brand.”

“That your type?”

“No,” he said. “That’s me.”

That earned him the smallest chuckle. Not mocking. Just honest.

She began working—brush strokes, dabs of something cold under his eyes. Her fingers brushed his jaw as she blended, and something unfamiliar stirred in his chest. Not lust. Not attraction, not really. Something quieter. Something like being noticed.

She didn’t fawn. Didn’t flirt. She worked.

But she saw him.

“You’ve got a face that doesn’t give much away,” she said, more to herself than to him.

He shrugged. “What’s there to give?”

She paused for just a fraction of a second. Then, quietly: “More than most, I’d bet.”

That caught him off guard.

He looked at her. Really looked. Noticing the way her brow creased ever so slightly when she concentrated. The way she didn’t talk just to fill silence. The way her hands moved with confidence, not performance.

She moved to the other side, smoothing his hair into something vaguely TV-worthy.

“I bet you’re a nightmare to interview,” she said.

He smirked. “That what you’ve heard?”

She tilted her head, half-grinning. “Not exactly. You’re good at it. Funny, sharp. You’ve got the rhythm down.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And yet…?”

She shrugged. “Feels like you’ve told the same five stories in twenty different ways.”

That stopped him for half a beat.

Then he laughed, but it was quieter this time. More honest.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s all variations on a theme. I know what works. What people want.”

“And that’s not you.”

“It’s part of me,” he said, lifting his glass. “The part that gets booked again.”

She studied him. “So what happens to the rest of you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just met her eyes, something unreadable flickering there.

Then, with a ghost of a smile:

“He shows up when no one’s asking questions.”

Something cracked then—not a full break, but a fracture. The kind of warmth he hadn’t let in for a long time pushed at the edges of his chest. And it scared him a little.

When she finished, she stepped back just a little. Tilted her head.

“There,” she said, stepping back a little. “You look like someone who’s good at hiding in plain sight.”

He stood, brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve. “If the ratings jump, I’ll know who to blame.”

She leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Make sure I get a day off and a raise.”

He started for the door. Then paused.

Looked back.

“What’s your name?”

She told him.

He repeated it under his breath. Just once. Quiet. Like it was already echoing inside him.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

Then he left. And something in the way he walked down the corridor had shifted.

Not unguarded. Not transformed.

But maybe—for the first time in a long time—he wasn’t carrying all of it.

The interview went exactly how it always did.

Surface-level questions, curated nostalgia, a host trying to be clever without getting too close.

Noel sat on the couch like he’d done a hundred times before—relaxed posture, dry grin, every answer delivered with the right rhythm to get a laugh or a headline. He told a story he’d told before—this time with a different setting, a different punchline. It always played.

The audience laughed. The host laughed louder. Everyone got what they came for.

It was theatre. And he was good at it.

But God, was it exhausting.

Not because of the questions. Or the lights. Or the cameras.

Because none of it was real.

He knew how to be charming. Disarming. Funny, if the mood was right. But he could feel himself slipping further into autopilot the longer it went on—reaching for familiar lines, anecdotes with just enough vulnerability to sound honest without giving anything away.

And tonight, for the first time in a long while, it felt like a waste.

Because his head wasn’t in it. Not really.

It was still in the makeup room.

With her.

He hadn’t expected her to stick, but she did. The shape of her. The tone of her voice. The way she didn’t give a shit who he was—not in a defiant way, but in a human way. She’d spoken to him like he was just a man in a chair, not a myth to manage or an ego to flatter.

And that look—steady, unflinching, like she was reading him instead of just looking—that stuck with him.

She hadn’t studied him like he was famous. She’d studied him like he was real.

Like there was something underneath all the stories he kept repeating.

And for one terrifying second, he’d believed she might’ve seen it.

Back in the dressing room, he peeled off his jacket and stared at his own reflection. The powder she’d brushed onto his skin still softened the angles of his face. His eyes looked less tired. A small mercy.

He caught himself wondering what her hands would feel like without the brush in them.

He swore under his breath and ran a hand through his hair.

Pathetic.

He was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt when a knock came at the door. Light. A little hesitant.

He tensed. “Yeah?”

The door cracked open, and there she was—again.

“Sorry,” she said, stepping in. “You left this.”

She held up his phone.

He hadn’t even noticed it was missing.

He reached for it. “Thanks. Could’ve sworn I had it.”

“You did. Then you got distracted being grumpy and mysterious.”

He gave a dry chuckle. “It’s my brand.”

She handed it over. Their fingers brushed. That spark again—ridiculous, inconvenient, real. It shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did.

“You ever think about stealing it?” he asked. “Could’ve sold it. ‘Noel Gallagher’s private selfies leak.’ Probably just a load of blurry guitars and curry, but still.”

She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. “Tempting. But then I’d have to listen to your fans yell at me for violating your artistic privacy.”

He smirked. “They do love a moral panic.”

There was a beat of silence.

She didn’t leave.

And he didn’t want her to.

“You survived the interview,” she said.

“Physically.”

“Emotionally?”

“That’s asking a lot,” he muttered, then added, “You done for the day?”

She nodded. “Just finished packing up.”

He hesitated. For a man who made a living being blunt, this shouldn’t have felt like pulling teeth. But it did. Because he didn’t do this. Not anymore.

But something in him moved.

“Fancy a drink?” he asked, like he didn’t care. Like it didn’t matter.

But it did.

She tilted her head. No surprise. No giggle. Just a steady, thoughtful look.

Then: “Yeah. Alright.”

He nodded, grabbing his jacket, not bothering to smooth the sleeves. She stepped aside as he opened the door. Her shoulder brushed his as she passed. He felt it. Like a lit match grazing skin.

They walked side by side down the corridor. Neither of them said much. But the air felt different. Tighter. Warmer. Her arm brushed his once, then again. The third time, he didn’t move. And she didn’t either.

They stepped out into the early evening air, the city in that in-between state—lights flickering on, sky dimming to blue-grey, traffic thinning. The wind tugged at his jacket as they walked side by side, not touching, not talking much.

Noel kept his hands in his pockets.

Silence used to be his favourite thing. It still was, when he was alone. But now it felt… heavier. Not uncomfortable, but weighted. Like something was trying to bloom between them, and he didn’t know whether to water it or kill it.

She walked like she wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere. Easy steps. Relaxed shoulders. It annoyed him slightly—how calm she was. How unaffected. It made him want to ask questions he didn’t have the stomach to ask.

He looked over at her. “You always this quiet after work?”

She glanced at him, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You always this broody after a TV hit?”

“Takes it out of me,” he muttered. “Performing charm on demand.”

“You make it look easy.”

“That’s ‘cause I keep the good stuff to myself.”

She snorted. “Ah. Strategic emotional rationing.”

He shrugged. “Call it what you like.”

They passed a bakery closing up for the night. The smell of warm bread drifted out into the street. A few people walked by, none of them paying him much attention. For once, he didn’t care.

She looked over. “You always walk like the world owes you money?”

He laughed. Not politely. Not performatively.

A real one. Low, reluctant, like it snuck out before he could catch it.

And it surprised him—how good it felt. How much he’d missed it.

The pub was nothing special. Just tucked off a side street, low-lit, slightly crooked floorboards, the smell of old wood and beer and whatever the kitchen had burned that day. Perfect.

They slid into a corner booth—him first, coat still on, her across from him, already relaxing into the worn leather seat like she’d been there before.

Noel ordered whisky. She asked for gin. The bartender didn’t blink.

“So,” she said, swirling her glass when it came, “what’s your deal?”

He raised a brow. “We’re doing that already?”

“I feel like I’ve earned the right to be nosy. I’ve seen your face up close.”

“You and half the country.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t asking for an autograph while I did it.”

He smirked, sipped his drink. “My deal’s simple. I write songs. I complain about things. I avoid people. And occasionally, I say yes to interviews I don’t want to do because someone on my team thinks I should stay relevant.”

She rested her chin in her hand. “That’s not a deal. That’s a Wikipedia summary with emotional detachment.”

“Right. And that’s by design.”

She watched him for a second. Quiet. Measured.

Then:

“You don’t have to perform the version they expect right now.”

He looked up, brows drawn. “What?”

“I’m not here to be impressed.”

He stared at her. Glass halfway to his mouth. That sentence landed like a stone in a lake—no splash, just deep ripples.

“I don’t do the whole open-book thing,” he muttered.

“I noticed.”

“I’m not trying to be mysterious. I’m just… tired of holding it all in.”

She softened at that. Not visibly. Not dramatically. But something shifted in her expression. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice quieter now. “You ever get tired of being tired?”

Noel didn’t answer right away.

He looked down at his glass, then at her hands resting on the table. Small, still. Steady.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

There it was.

Something he hadn’t said out loud in a long time.

She nodded like she understood. Didn’t push.

He liked that about her. That she didn’t fill silence for the sake of it. She let things sit.

He looked at her again, really looked—eyes catching in the dim light. There was warmth there, and mischief, and something steadier underneath. Something he didn’t know how to name.

“You’re dangerous like this,” he said, voice low, not quite a joke.

She raised a brow. “Because I let you talk?”

“Because you make me want to.”

The silence between them thickened. This time, charged.

She didn’t smile. Not quite. Just held his gaze, steady.

“So do it.”

He reached across the table then. Not dramatically. Just laid his fingers against hers—lightly, like he was testing the weight of a possibility.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

She just turned her hand slightly under his and closed her fingers around his.

It was small. Simple. But to him, it felt massive.

Like someone had just reached through all that armour and touched skin he didn’t know was still alive.

The moment stretched between them—his hand on hers, fingers threaded lightly, her eyes locked on his like she wasn’t planning on looking anywhere else.

Noel hated this kind of silence. The kind where things could happen. Things you couldn’t take back.

So he broke it.

“You know,” he said, voice low, “I don’t usually do this.”

She tilted her head. “Hold hands in pubs?”

“Talk. Stay.”

She said nothing. Just rubbed her thumb slowly over the back of his hand, the gesture maddening in its calmness.

He exhaled. “It’s not you. It’s… well. It’s always me.”

“That supposed to scare me off?”

“No,” he said. “It’s just the warning label. I come with damage. Warranty expired. Some assembly required.”

Her lips quirked. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

“I doubt that.”

“I don’t.”

He looked at her then—properly. No smile. No shield.

And she didn’t blink.

“I got really good,” he said slowly, “at not needing anyone. Not letting anyone in. It’s… efficient.”

“But lonely,” she said.

“Efficient,” he repeated, flatly.

She studied him for a beat. Then reached for her drink, took a slow sip, and set it back down with a quiet clink. “You think that makes you hard to love?”

The question cut through him like a string pulled tight.

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Not with a joke. Not with a sidestep.

So she leaned in, just slightly. Eyes steady. No challenge in them. Just… truth.

“I don’t think you are,” she said. “Hard to love. I think you just got used to people loving the wrong version of you.”

He sat back like she’d knocked the wind out of him. Not violently. Just enough to make the room tilt a little.

“No one’s ever said that before,” he muttered.

She shrugged. “Maybe they weren’t looking at you properly.”

A long silence settled then—not awkward, not tense. But full. Like something had just shifted into place.

He looked down at their joined hands.

She hadn’t let go.

And he didn’t want her to.

For the first time in a long while, he felt something that didn’t immediately come with a warning sign.

Not lust. Not ego. Just… real. And that was harder to ignore than he liked.

She looked at him again and smiled, soft, quiet. “Come here.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Come here.”

She patted the empty space beside her.

He hesitated.

Then he got up, walked around the table, and slid into the booth next to her. Shoulder to shoulder. Knee to knee. Close enough to feel her warmth, her breath, her presence.

She turned to face him, chin slightly raised. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Too good.”

He looked at her mouth. Then her eyes.

Then back to her mouth.

And when she leaned in this time—slow, sure—he didn’t pull away.

She leaned in like it was inevitable.

Like she’d already decided. Not in a rush. Not uncertain. Just close, like she was waiting for him to meet her halfway.

Noel didn’t move right away.

He looked at her—really looked. The soft curve of her mouth, the steady breath she was holding, the way her eyes didn’t waver. Like she knew he’d kiss her. Like she’d already felt it.

He could feel his pulse in his throat.

He wasn’t a teenager. He wasn’t starved for attention. He’d kissed hundreds of women, most of them with much less build-up than this. But this? This wasn’t performance. This wasn’t conquest.

This was something he could ruin.

Which is why, for half a second, he almost pulled back.

But then she leaned just a little closer, like gravity was doing the work for him—and suddenly, there was no more distance.

Their mouths met—slow, unhurried, barely there at first. Just the press of lips. A question.

And then a sigh—hers, soft against him—and he answered it.

He deepened the kiss, hand sliding to her jaw without thinking, thumb brushing her cheekbone. Her lips parted slightly, just enough, and he felt the heat rise under his skin, under hers, everything moving quiet and sure. Her fingers curled lightly into the front of his jacket.

There was no chaos. No heat-for-the-sake-of-it. Just connection.

Like something long locked away inside him had been waiting for this exact shape, these exact lips, this exact moment.

When they finally pulled apart, it wasn’t with urgency—it was with weight.

Eyes still close. Breathing changed.

And then she smiled.

Not smug. Not teasing. Just soft. Like she knew.

Noel stared at her for a long second, unsure what the hell to say. His hand was still on her cheek. Her hand still resting lightly on his chest.

“You alright?” she asked quietly, as if she could feel the hesitation curled just beneath his skin.

He huffed a laugh, almost to himself. “I haven’t kissed someone like that in… years.”

She tilted her head. “Like what?”

He looked at her, eyes a little darker now. “Like I’ll remember it.”

Something flickered in her expression—something warm. Unafraid.

She kissed him again then—just once, brief, like a seal on a promise.

And then they both sat back, the booth suddenly too small for how charged the air had become. Their fingers stayed tangled. Drinks forgotten. Noise around them blurred, irrelevant.

Noel leaned his head back against the wood-panelled wall, eyes closed for a second, lips parted like he’d just come up for air.

And in the quiet, she reached over, ran her fingers lightly over the side of his hand.

Not a question. Not a move.

Just… something solid. And it threw him more than he wanted it to.

#fanfic #noel gallagher #fanfiction #oasis #noel gallagher fanfiction #noel gallagher fic #noel gallagher x f!reader #noel gallagher x reader #nghfb

48 notes · View notes