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WALK THE TALK: PART FIVE [18+]

Noel Gallagher x f!Reader

SUMMARY: The game continuous on, and on, and on, and on. You and Noel feature headlines spanning from 1996 to 2006, reigning as the most turbulent pair anyone has ever seen.

WORD COUNT: 22, 624

WARNINGS: Drug use, mentions of eating disorders, weight shaming, misogynistic language, slut-shaming, piv sex, rough sex, name-calling during sex, spitting, slapping, sexualised sapphic relationship, implied homophobia, fingering, oral m! receiving, choking during sex, cockwarming, no mentioned condom use, cunnilingus, semi-public sex, female masturbation, leaked sextapes, cheating

This is it! We’ve reached the end. I’d like to thank all of you for loving this series, I’d like to thank anon for requesting this juicy fic, and I’d like to thank every soap opera i’ve ever watched for making me write insane plots as i go. this is a long one and i think it’s the best shit i’ve written so PLEASE LET ME KNOW EVERY SINGLE THOUGHT AND REACTION YOU HAVE … THIS SHIT IS GAGGY … live react if u can omg puh-lease babes … pleak

Series Masterlist

1996

You meet Carmen on an overcast morning at some model agency casting in 1988. That’s how it all starts, with both of you having nothing to your name but cheap headshots, tight clothes, and stars in your eyes. The hallway they put all the girls in smelled of cigarette smoke, mothballs, and disinfectant, with the cloying perfume of what seemed to be over fifty girls desperate to get their big break.

“D’ya have a fag?” you asked her then, totally unaware of where it could all lead years down the line. You don’t even know if you would go back and stop it all from happening. All you knew was that that’s where it all began, with two young girls smoking a cigarette out of a sketchy warehouse casting, dreaming of bigger things.

“Good luck in there,” she tells you as soon as you stub your cigarette out with your heel, crunching it down on the gravel. Back then, you weren’t so sure about her sincerity. It was commonplace for models to have petty catfights and jealous fits during castings. Nowadays, you still aren’t sure if that glint in her eye was kindness or hunger. Still, you smiled and told her you didn’t need luck.

You see her again at another casting, weeks later. Then another one, then another, then another, and another. Each time with a laugh and a shared cigarette as every girl around you wrinkled their nose and clomped away from the smell and the obnoxious sound of your laughs mixing together. Because even then, the two of you had been mean, doling out insults like they cost nothing to your souls. I thought the casting was for a size two, not for maternity clothes. How hard is it to match your foundation to your skin tone? Oh, her blush is making her look like she’s about to fit herself into a tiny car with a bunch of other clowns.

Carmen was mean, everyone knew it, and you knew it. But what did it matter to you when you were just as wretched?

By your luck, the two of you get hired at the same time. You at some small start-up agency with only five other girls, her at a sketchy lingerie-only deal. You work your way up from there, no-name brands who can’t afford higher-rate models, adverts for shoes and watches that don’t even show your face, billboards with questionable taglines that you always felt embarrassed by. And still, you and Carmen stick together like glue; phone calls, brunches, and the benders the two of you would go on that would leave both of you with pounding headaches.

Carmen had been dating a dealer back then, one of the good ones that could score premium class anything as long as you had the money to pay for it. You couldn’t even remember the bloke’s name; Baker, or something stupid like that. All that you knew was that whenever you were with Carmen, ditzy and dumb off liquour, you were always guaranteed to score a good few grams of coke.

And fuck, were they good. So good that it sends your head spinning and your smile stretching widely over your face, the club lights blinding and the music blaring so loudly that you could feel the bass of it at your feet. It was a buzz like no other, snorting those lines in the bathroom with Carmen, getting so high off her boyfriend’s supply that you don’t even notice your faces moving closer together until your mouths are melding under the harsh bathroom lights and she’s pushing you into the bathroom stalls with her lips latched to your neck.

And really, what’s a few kisses between friends? With sloppy mouths, mussed up hair, and smudged lipstick, the two of you laugh and laugh and laugh and surrender to the feeling of it, there in a nameless bar bathroom.

It continues on like that for what seems like ages — two friends climbing up the ranks of the modelling world, living the glamorous life under the party lights, killing boredom by snogging in dodgy alleyways, the back of cabs, and pub bathrooms.

“Kisses don’t count,” Carmen mumbles against you lips one time, pressed up against the rough brick wall of whatever party the two of you had managed to weasel your way into that night. You hum and press your lips to her neck, suckling at the skin to hear her squeal and try to push you away. “‘S’not cheating if it’s with ‘yer best mate,” she reasons.

You laugh, caging her in with both hands on her hips and her hands on your arse. “And I’m sure he won’t mind sharing you with another bird,” you say, nipping teasingly at her bottom lip as she gives your arse a rough squeeze. “He seems like the type of fella to enjoy that kind of thing.”

Carmen rolls her eyes, pupils dilated from the coke she had snorted off the tops of your tits just a few minutes ago, the crowd roaring in amusement at the sight. “Just shut up and kiss me.” And you do.

The two of you fall into that rhythm for what seems like ages. Lazy snogs and wandering hands could only go so far before a line gets crossed. And it happens on the night that you get the call from Victoria’s Secret, being dubbed as one of their official models alongside Carmen.

Obviously, it called for a celebration; one with too many drinks, too many models, too much coke, too loud music, and adrenaline buzzing in your veins. One shot turns into two, then two into three, three into four, then you’re going to the bathroom for a line, then two, then three, then suddenly you’re off your box and Carmen’s pushing you into a mildewed storage closet with a whine and her fingers already at the seam of your knickers.

It was frantic and frenzied, with just a dim lightbulb leading the way. But still, the memory of it was seared in your veins. The way that she had ripped off her own knickers in her haste, the way she had got down on her knees and suckled tentatively at your clit before diving fully in, the way that her keens seemed to echo so loudly within the small space as your fingers worked her open, the orgasm that washed through you at the feeling of her freshly manicured fingers working at your clit with precision.

Neither of you even notice how far you’ve crossed the line, laughing as you pick up stray pieces of clothes, kissing each other’s glossy mouths shut, and walking out the storage closet just to run straight out of the party and take a cab back to Carmen’s flat.

The line becomes less of a warning and more of a suggestion after that. Neither of you speak about it, but you’re over at her place more often than not, Friday nights were reserved for dinners at your favorite Chinese take-out spot, you went into Victoria’s Secret fittings together and left the same way, the lingerie that the brand would have you take home always ended up on the floor after an impromptu ‘practice’ session, and Baker or whatever the fuck her boyfriend’s name was faded into the background until there was no one left but you.

“He was just starting to annoy me,” Carmen sniffed one night, her feet on your lap as you watched some silly soap opera on the telly. “And the coke isn’t even that good anymore.”

You hum and let her lie. You let her prance around parties like she doesn’t beg to eat out your cunt, you let her hang off the arm of nameless men, you forgive her when she goes to fuck a man in the bed that the two of you sleep in, you tell her that it’s alright. After all, it’s what you do too. You lie, and you sneak, and you jump through hoops only to end back up in bed with Carmen’s wet cunt calling back to you every time.

But somewhere along the line, the lies start to get heavier. She starts rolling her eyes whenever you bring up Friday dinners, she stops looking for you in rooms she knows you’d be in, you start leaving with other people and spending the night with them instead, you drink too much and start to say shit about Carmen — the pudge of her stomach, the way the lingerie she modeled made her hips look monstrously wide, the way that her tits weren’t even real and were just silicone things she had gotten a few years back when the two of you were just starting out.

And Carmen isn’t one for backing down, choosing to fire back with nastier insults through whispers in the hallways and suggestions made in that snarky way of hers.

It all comes to a head when you get named the muse for the newest Victoria’s Secret collection, becoming the envy of every woman in your circle as they congratulated you with their sharp teeth and insincere eyes.

It isn’t a coincidence that Carmen starts getting less projects after your rise to fame. It isn’t a coincidence that rumours of you and her begin swirling around. It isn’t a coincidence that girls begin to complain about having you in the dressing room, in case you perved out on them. It isn’t a coincidence that Carmen insists she was just drunk and stupid when it happened and that you were the one chasing her all the while. And it isn’t a coincidence that the whispers go high up enough for you to get a notice of termination.

Everything after that is a blur. One well documented by the press, but a blur nonetheless. You remember taking a few pills, snorting a few lines, drinking more than you should on the night of what was supposed to be the highlight of your career. You had been asked not to come, not to make a scene, to stay quiet. But that was never your forte.

It happened quick; finding the brand director and her husband and getting in their faces, spitting at their feet. Getting up on the runway, still not stumbling after all those substances, walking the catwalk as you shed your own clothes and showed people how it was really done. Finding Carmen amidst the sea of models and jetting straight to her, pulling her hair by the ends and dragging her down to the floor just to humiliate her in front of an audience of hundreds.

And if you end up leaving the party with a police escort and the brand director’s husband’s number in your pocket, then it was all understandable.

Years after that meeting, you stare at Carmen now, at her pathetic scowl and the cigarette she idly smokes as she listens to a conversation you know she’s not making any effort to listen to.

It’s been months of the constant media circus of you and Noel splashed on the front pages, people debating the morality of your affair, boycotting his music, calling you a nasty slag for going after your best mate’s fella. You snort, remembering all the headlines, even going as far as to mail your favorites to Noel who sent them straight back, the papers wrapped in his trash.

Noel isn’t at this party. Shamefully, you feel a tug of disappointment.

He wasn’t one for parties these days, keeping a low profile as he works on the new Oasis album, staying away from the eyes of the press after the stunt that you and him just pulled.

It was boring, not having Noel around. No heads to fuck with, no one to get on your level and spit at your feet, no one to fuck you good and rough in a way that only he ever did. You shake your head, ridding yourself of the thought of him before catching Carmen’s eye across the crowded room.

You laugh as her frown grows deeper at the sight of you, then you wave calmly, as if you hadn’t just blown up her life a mere few months ago. Her face morphs into one of pure anger, whole body animated as she stands up from her place between two nondescript men and marches straight to you.

You recognize a camera flash as she heads straight for you, and you smile, satisfied at the thought of seeing tomorrow’s papers. Maybe you could send another headline to Noel, it might fuck with him seeing his ex-girlfriend with you.

“Can you stop?” Carmen hisses as soon as she stands next to you, mouth pressed into a grim line as her eyes burn through you. “Haven’t you fucking done enough?”

You hum, considering it for a moment before responding. “Still bored, though,” you drawl.

She laughs incredulously, the sound piercing through the heavy bassline of the club’s music. “You’re always bored, aren’t you?” she sneers. “So bored that you’d stoop low enough as you did.”

You roll your eyes and get in her space, making her jump back. “And how about how low you stooped, hm?” you challenge. “We gonna talk about that?”

Carmen scoffs. “So, this is revenge?” she asks, voice heavy with contempt. “Is that it? You’re mad that I told a bunch of people that you fucked me and you just couldn’t handle the consequences?”

“Couldn’t handle the consequences?” you echo with disbelief. “Do you hear yourself? You got me fucking fired from my job. You got me blacklisted out of the modelling industry!” you shriek.

She shrugs, like it meant nothing. “You always knew what you were getting into,” she tells you, eyes heavy and set on yours as she remains steely with her resolve.

The thing is, you did. You really did know what kind of person she was, what kind of person you are. It was always going to end with an explosion big enough that neither of you could come back from. Still, you remain stoic as you face her head on and say, “Well, the next time that I see our good friend Noel, I’ll tell him hi for you, yeah?”

Carmen sucks in her teeth like she’s bitten into something sour. “You can have that halfwit,” she spits. “Enjoy my seconds, you fucking copycat.”

You shake your head and smile, as graciously as you could with annoyance still buzzing in your veins, then, you lean over and plant a peck on her cheek, one so close to her mouth that your gloss leaves a mark that overlaps her own.

You leave before she could say anything else, still burning with fury as the cameras take a quick snap. When the paper arrives at your door in the morning, you grin widely and immediately mail it out to Noel before heading out to the studio.

In the midst of all the chaos, you and Noel had to work out a somewhat custody agreement with Liam in the studio. Oasis needed Liam at the studio on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays while you got him on Tuesdays and Thursdays until he finished all his sessions for the tracks he was in.

That its, that would be the case if only Noel would stop hogging his brother and halting your recording process. Months have gone by and Liam hasn’t set a single Adidas clad foot in your studio, Noel and his management sending you their apologies as Liam is currently occupied with matters related to the band.

Walking in this morning, still no sign of Liam Gallagher, you knew what you had to do, stomping to the nearest phone and dialing a number you know that Noel would answer to. You let it ring, tapping your foot impatiently against the linoleum, your coat still on as you scowled at the receiver. Then, the line clicks and a chirpy voice greets you, “Good Morning, Creation Records speaking. May I ask to whom this call is —”

You huff, having heard enough, arms crossed in front of your chest as you spit, “Get me Noel Gallagher now,” you demand, not an inch of a plead in your voice.

The poor girl on the other end begins to stutter, “I’m sorry. I don’t —”

You cut her off with a roll of your eyes and bored click of your tingue. “No, I’m sorry,” you say, voice dripping with annoyance. “Did I fucking stutter when I spoke? Get me Noel Gallagher on this fucking phone right now or I swear I will come over there and cause a scandal.”

The girl holds her own for one moment, two, three, before finally relenting, “Hold on,” she says shakily before the irritating sound of the hold music invades your ears and you lean against the wall of the studio’s halls, watching people pass and give you questioning looks as they go. You don’t mind any of it, though. Not as long as they’re looking.

Then, the line clicks once more and you straighten up without meaning to, Noel’s drawling and smug voice crooning in your ear, “Hi, honey. How are you?” he teases. And by fuck, you could almost see the smile he’s sporting with the way he spoke, the tilt of his lips as he leans into the telephone.

But you’re not falling for it. “Cut the bullshit, Noel,” you spit. “Where’s Liam?”

“Here,” he says, in that way that sends your nerves into an aggravated flurry, annoyance burning through you as he took his time answering.

“Noel,” you bite.

He laughs, “What? I thought you liked playing games,” he tells you, still horsing around. “Just givin’ you what you wanted, yeah?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays are mine,” you remind him. The two of you had even sent in representatives to talk about it, not willing to be in the same room together after the last time.

Noel hums, a buzzing sound that irritates you further. “Yeah, but he’s our singer.”

“It shouldn’t take three fucking months to finish vocals for a feature on two tracks,” you sneer, getting on the receiving end of more than a few funny looks as people passed you. “You’re delaying my album and we both know it. What?” you taunt, “Scared I’ll overtake you on the charts?”

The sound he makes his half laugh and half gasp, “Overtake us on the charts?” he echoes through a chuckle. “‘Yer funny, you. Y’know what? Go do your silly fuckin’ album before opening ‘yer fat fuckin’ mouth ‘bout my band,” he bites at you.

“That’s what I intend to do,” you say, resolutely. “Just get Liam here in the next hour before I come over there and make a mess.”

“Not gonna say please? You’re good at sayin’ please,” he says, testing both his luck and your patience.

“Oh, go suck my dick, Noel,” you scowl.

He laughs, the aggravatingly smug sound echoing in your ears as he bids you goodbye. “Bye, doll,” he drawls easily. “Liam’s on his way.”

You snort, already ready to be done with this stupid call, “Fina-fucking-lly,” you say before hanging up and marching right back to the studio, ignoring everyone’s funny looks and placing yourself in the audio booth, eager to prove Noel Gallagher wrong.

The next hour passes by like that — with you in the studio, banging out a few vocal tracks as everyone else worked around you like bees making honey. By the time Liam arrives, his signature swagger intact, you’re midway through berating a poor sound engineer who looks like he’s found god after you ditch the argument in favor of greeting Liam with a friendly kiss on the cheek instead.

“Hi, Liam,” you coo as he kisses your cheek back, “How’re you? How’s Pats?” you ask.

He nods in that jaunty way of his, “She’s good, yeah. She’s grand, both her and James are havin’ a good time and all’at.”

You smile, “That’s lovely to hear,” you say, your smile turning vicious as you turn the point of conversation and begin to ask, “And how’s Lis—”

He shakes his head vigorously and draws the line in the sand as he firmly tells you, “We’re not doin’ that.”

You laugh easily, diffusing any tension, “Alright, Casanova,” you say patting his shoulder before your attention snags on the studio door and the man entering it, acting like the room owes him something just by being there. Noel. “Now, what the fuck are you doing in my studio?” you explode, all attention on him now as Liam scampers away to do fuck knows what with fuck knows who.

Noel shrugs, not an ounce of care in his body, “Lending you my singer,” he replies steadily.

You scowl at him, “He’s a grown fucking man.”

Noel snorts and points to Liam who had gotten himself tangled in microphone wires, cursing under his breath as he tries to hop himself out of the situation. “Barely,” says Noel.

“Noel,” you say, steely.

He only smiles, the self-satisfied fuck. “What? Not happy to see me?” he jeers, crowding you as everyone in the studio watches.

You lean in closer, testing the waters as you speak into the shell of his ear, “Get the fuck out,” you say, as sweetly as you could before shoving at his chest.

He jolts back before recovering, “Aw, don’t be like that,” he says. “You and me, we’ve been though a lot, haven’t we?” He titls his head at you and doesn’t let his smile falter one inch.

You laugh, uncaring of the fact that everyone had gone silent, watching you and Noel like bombs ready to detonate. “Flirty little fuck, aren’t you? Had a taste of it and now you’re just gaggin’ for it?” you sneer.

Noel shakes his head. “You’re about to crash and burn,” he tells you, so sure of himself that it makes you laugh. “I want a front row seat.”

You shake your head then point at the leather couch, unoccupied save for two sound techs doing anything but making eye contact with you, “Then sit,” you demand from him, like an owner would to their dog. Then you let yourself smile, the familiar sharklike one that stretches over your face and makes Noel shiver. “And watch how it’s done.”

The next few hours are spent in a state of productivity that you knew you wouldn’t have achieved had Noel not challenged you in front of your own team. Liam records some of his vocal tracks, then you burst into the audio booth and don’t come out until it’s time for Liam to record his own vocals again. That cycle continues, on and on and on, the sound engineer cycling coffee cups on his desk as Noel watches it all with arms crossed and his signature scowl on his face.

You smile to yourself, observing him as he observes you, taunting him as you sing, swaying your hips as you bent down to check out whatever the sound engineer was showing you, standing a bit too close to Liam in between breaks and in the audio booth. And by the time the afternoon shifts into the later hours, the amount of people in the room dwindling and dwindling until everyone’s left, and all that remains is you and Noel.

That’s when you say it, the words at the edge of your tongue for the entire afternoon since he showed up, sulking and scowling on your couch, not saying a word to anyone. “You fucking fancy me, don’t you?”

His thick brows furrow and his face twists as he spits, “What?” he chokes. “No?”

You laugh standing in the corner opposite from where he’s sitting, his legs splayed open lik the king of the fucking world. You tilt your head and survey him calmly, “One shag and you’re already mooning after me, Gallagher?”

He laughs, that deep chuckle of his that you know is just him putting on a confident act. The rockstar that he was. “You wish,” he snorts. “I was just watching after Liam.”

You smile, like you’re in on a joke that he hasn’t yet heard. “Hm,” you hum, condescending. “And the man you’ve been watching out for just walked out the door five minutes ago. Yet you’re still here,” you point out, gesturing at the door that Liam already walked out of quite some time ago, shooting an odd look at Noel as he went.

Noel shrugs defensively. “Your music’s shite,” he tells you simply.

You scoff and put your arms across your chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he doubles down. “In Your Eyes is a hit, yeah. But this album, man …” he says, whistling lowly as if he can’t even form the words to explain how shite he finds your album.

You sneer, moving in closer to him. “Fucking wanker,” you spit, “You’re sitting here because you want to act all big and tough and tell me how much more you know about music than me. That it?” you ask, getting closer to him just so he could feel the words land in his chest. “Just because Carmen’s not around to hear you whinging, doesn’t mean that I’m up for it,” you say, making him flinch just the smallest amount at the mention of Carmen.

Still, he doesn’t let up, standing his ground as he looks up from you from the couch. “Let me produce,” he demands, chin tilted up like he knows you’ll relent.

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve, Noel,” you say through gritted teeth.

Noel shakes his head, ‘I’m not letting Liam put himself in an album that sounds like a second rate Madonna copy, d’ya hear?”

You laugh incredulously. “Stop using Liam as an excuse, Noel. By god, he’s a grown man who can make his own decisions,” you say, irritated.

“And he’s also my frontman,” says Noel stonily, all business now as you move in closer to him. “And my frontman shouldn’t go around associating himself with this kind of shite. It’d be one thing if it didn’t trace back to the band, but it does.”

You consider it for a second too long, and Noel notices, his eyes glinting as he recognizes the impending victory. “Go on, then. Tell me to my face, what’s so shit about my album?” you ask.

Noel raises a brow before relenting, giving you what he’s been dying to say since he stepped inside the studio. “Your voice is drowned out by the production and the amount of reverb they’ve been layering onto your voice, everything is set in a key that you can’t reach so you should maybe lower them by a semitone, and your drummer’s to busy staring at your tits to play on the beat,” he lists, brow still arched as if to say there’s more where that came from.

Instead of the simmering irritation in your gut, you only smile and ask, “Jealous?”

He snorts, ‘As if.”

You really shouldn’t say yes. This was supposed to be your victory, your name on people’s lips, your career that takes off. But Noel’s stare is unwavering as he watches you decide, already acting like the cat that got the cream. You think about it then, that you’d rather die than let your album be some forgettable piece of shit. And really, Noel was the one offering. So you hold out your hand, and Noel shakes it without second thought, the deal sealed between the two of you. “Work your magic then,” you demand of him.

He does, getting up from the couch for the first time since he walked in, groaning as he stretched his back, only to sit back down by the controls and jerk his head at you, “Get in the booth,” he says without preamble.

You snort, “Bossy,”

“Now,” he insists roughly, eyes not leaving yours as he waits for you to move.

You roll your eyes and move at a glacial pace, complaining all the way, “Jesus Christ, this is my album, y’know?”

Noel’s quick to reply, “And I’m your producer.”

“Yeah, you seem to get off on that fact,” you say drily, getting nearer and nearer to the audio booth, watching as Noel frowns at your slow strut, before wrenching the door open and placing yourself back in front of the microphone, headphones back on as you ask, “All good?”

He wastes no time, speaking into his own microphone as his voice blares over the speaker, “Recording vocals for the track Crush,” he declares, before saying to you, “Semitone down, remember?”

Then, the track plays in your headphones, your head bobbing along as you keep to the beat and sing, “It’s just a little crush, not like I faint every time we touch,” you croon. “It’s just some little fling, not like everything I do depends on you.”

You’re midway through the second verse when Noel shakes his head, aggravated as he speaks into the microphone, “No. Again,” he demands. “Too high, take it down a notch or you’re gonna start sounding like Kermit the fuckin’ Frog, alright?”

You sneer and flip him the bird, “Bite me.”

He pays you no mind, already speaking again into the microphone, “Take two for vocals on Crush,” he says, before mumbling to himself, “Stupid name.”

You roll your eyes and sing, enunciating the lyrics with more bite as Noel observes you from the other side of the glass, his eyes roving down your form as you continue to sway, only for him to lazily reach his hand out and speak into the microphone again just as you’re about to enter the chorus.

“No. Stop switching up the words. Lyrics aren’t optional,” he berates. “Again.”

You grit your teeth and glare, letting the track play all over again as Noel cues it up, the words pouring out of you as you sing.

Then, that stupid fucking microphone crackle. “Again. You’re singing too far away from the mic.”

You take your headphones off and throw them to the ground, jeering at him as you deman, “Then you fucking do it, then.”

He huffs, just as irritated as you are as he stalks into the audio booth, wrenching the door open and slamming it closed as he nears you and the microphone, picking up the headphones and gripping them in his hands as he sneers, ‘How fucking hard is it to sing in tune? You’re a singer, ain’t you? Christ.” He shoves the headphones at you, jaw going tight as you refuse to move a muscle. Instead, he does it for you, arranging the headphones so you’re wearing it, and shoving at the back of your head so that your lips nearly touched the microphone, his hand gripping at your neck warmly as he tells you, “Now do it.”

You arch a brow and look to the control booth warily. “Now?”

“I’m recordin’,” he explains simply. And who were you to argue?

You sing, voice a bit strangled as Noel continues to grip the back of your neck, jerking you everytime you stray too far from the microphone and tugging at the strands of your hair everytime your voice goes higher than his instructed tone.

You last until the first chorus before you’re throwing the headphones back down and spinning around to face him, hands reaching for his face before you could even think.

It’s frenzied and heavy from the start, his mouth hot and slick against yours as he presses you against the mic stand, a few wayward pieces of equipment falling as he crowds against you, his hands roaming down to give your arse a rough squeeze, your own hands flying up to give his hair a sharp tug, earning a moan from him.

“Knew you fuckin’ fancied me,” you whisper teasingly against his lips, biting at his bottom lip as he rolls his eyes.

“You wish, cheeky bitch,” he hisses before silencing you with a kiss, moving you backwards until your back hits the padded wall, your breath leaving you at the impact as Noel continues to let his tongue roam around the cavern of your mouth, angling your head just the way he likes it.

You fight back, shedding his coat with eager hands, letting your mouth wander down to his neck to mark him up in a way that you knew the paparazzi would inevitably catch. You gasp as his hands make their way up your skirt, flirting with the hem of your knickers before deftly pulling them down with one hand, the lacy scraps falling down and pooling at your ankles. “So sure I’d put out?” you tease.

He grunts, pressing into you so that you could feel the weight of his growing erection against your slick cunt. “I’m kind enough to give it to’ ya,” he says, so self assured that you have no choice but to reach down and squeeze the bulge in his jeans just to see him falter and his mouth open in a helpless moan.

You laugh, licking your lips. “Missed me, didn’t you?” you ask, head tilted innocently as you begin to fondle him over his jeans, his glare waning the more you feel him up, letting your tongue dance against whatever skin it could reach.

“Still recordin’” he reminds you as soon as you drop to your knees, your eyes wide and trained on him as you begin to tug at his belt, pulling both his jeans and his underwear down in a quick motion.

You hum and kiss his angry red tip, tasting the pre-cum already leaking from the head as you whisper, “That’s the point,” you tell him. “Gonna make a hit, Noel-y,” you say, sultry and sweet before finally taking him in your mouth, suckling at the head as he throws his head back and groans, his large hands coming down to tug at your hair like his own personal marionette, already bucking his hips into your face to fuck your mouth, your gags spilling out of you along with the drool already slicking his cock.

“Should have brought my camera,” he pants as you look up at him, mouth so full that you can’t help the gagging sounds that escape you. “Show everyone how much of a slag you are.”

You roll your eyes and bite down, just hard enough to make him yelp pathetically and attempt to scramble away from your mouth. You hold in a laugh and instead take him deeper, nose buried in his thatch of pubic hair as he stretches his neck in pleasure, already lost in the sensation as your hands reach down to cup at his balls, already slicked up with your drool.

“Fuckin’ Christ,” he whispers, entranced by the sight of you on your knees, bobbing your head so enthusiastically that he thinks this might just be the best head he’s ever had. You pop of him, the sound so lewd that it echoes against the walls, only to lean down further and kiss his balls with the same amount of attention you’ve been giving his cock.

“Your cock tastes weird,” you tell him through soft whispers of kisses. “Fix that.”

He snorts as best he can with the amount of pleasure coursing through his body. “For next time?”

You laugh in his face and leave his cock aching for your touch, his hands automatically grasping at your waist to push you against the padded walls, an involuntary moan leaving your lips as your bare cunt comes into contact with his dick. You smile, satisfied with yourself as you reach down and tug at him, slow and sure as his breath shudders and his head falls to your shoulder. “Hm,” you hum, kissing his hairline. “Gonna fuck me now?” you say, not leaving him with any more time to answer as you line him up with your entrance and sink down on him with a desperate moan.

You’ve been thinking about shagging Noel Gallagher for three months. It was pathetic, the way that he’s got you reaching for your vibrator every time you see him on the telly. But you couldn’t help it, the memory of Noel inside you searing your body and making you ache for his touch, for the way he feels inside you, for the way he’d fuck you until you saw spots of white in your vision.

And now, you’ve got it.

Noel wastes no time in thrusting up into you, punching all the breath out of you as he reaches down to wrap your legs around his waist, grinding his cock into your g-spot and leaving you breathless at every thrust. You moan into his mouth, eyes furrowed as you focus on the intense feeling at the pit of your stomach, at the slick sounds of him thrusting inside you, at the guttural groan that leaves him everytime he slams home.

“Perfect cunt,” he mumbles against your lips, the two of you sharing a single breath as he you meet his frenzied thrusts, your hands coming to his shoulders to score their desperate marks, the pleasure so overwhelming that your toes curl within your heels and a whimper escapes you. “No one can fuck you like I do, yeah?” he mumbles.

You grit your teeth. “You wish,” you say, shaky and uneven as he continues to thrust inside of you, his pubic bone grinding against your clit so perfectly that your head lolls back.

He laughs, coming to grasp at your neck, leaving just the right amount of pressure to make your cunt clamp down on him and your clit throb. “Oh yeah?” he says. “D’ya hear the way your cunt’s talkin’ to me, doll?” he asks, angling your head down by the grip he has on your neck, forcing you to focus on the slick sound of the two of you. “But it’s no matter. We can listen back to the track.”

You moan, your lips reaching for the thumb at the edge of your jaw to suckle at it, his eyes burning against yours at the action, your breasts bouncing against your top as you met each thrust with your own. “Almost there,” you pant, mouth full and voice rough from the grip he has on your throat. “Noel, goddamnit, fuck,” you whine, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you finally succumb to your orgasm, cunt pulsing as you came, rendering Noel helpless to his own orgasm as he he grunts animalistically into your ear, biting at the shell of it as he fills you with warmth, his cum dripping down even as he’s still seated deep inside you.

You pant, swallowing roughly as you look to the ceiling, avoiding the way that he was still sat inside you, still holding you like you were his, still shoving his cum deep in you like he couldn’t help it. Then, you reach up and run your hands through his hair. He stiffens at the contact, before melting right into it, the two of you a sweaty pile pressed against the studio wall.

And if the next day, three sound techs fill in resignation forms without the courage of looking either you or Noel in the eye, you know exactly what they’ve stumbled upon. Still, you let them talk, delighted to see the story in the next week’s tabloids.

You don’t need to send the headline to Noel that day. Instead, he sends it to you.

1997

Amber York. That’s the name of the girl he’s got his arm around. An actress with big doe eyes and a bell-like laugh, a perfect little angel that everyone loves to coo about. It’s quite serious and intense, she says to the press for an interview of whatever stupid fucking movie she’s starring in this time. He’s a gentleman, my Noel. He isn’t what the papers print him out to be.

You almost laughed at that. Because Noel Gallagher is every bit of a rockstar as people expect him to be — the arrogance, the unbothered air, the sex, the drugs, the women he pretends not to have around him backstage.

And well, most of all, because Noel has always been a filthy fucking liar. Some dumb bird wasn’t going to change him or whatever she thinks she’s done. He’s always going to be searching for the next thrill, he’ll always crave the buzz of a line, he’ll always be thinking about you and all the ways you had him in the studio. You know this because you made sure of it.

You made sure of it as you wrapped everything up in a neat little bow, your album fully ready and everything set for release. You planned the dress you would wear to the celebration you had up your sleeve, you made sure not to wear any knickers underneath your dress, the two of you had plied yourselves full of food, champagne, and enough drugs to keep the entire party entertained before slipping away into the night and fucking him so good that you knew that he won’t ever forget.

Because after that, you went your separate ways. Irresistible got announced later that year, and you and Noel had cut ties, neither hide nor hair of him visible to you as you went about your promotion cycle, admitting that yes, both Gallagher brothers were a big help to your record, knowing that somewhere out there, Noel was already fucking some other random bitch.

It was no matter to you, you had found your own string of lovers to entertain you in the nights that you weren’t busy with being either a singer or a host. You had Carlos who had a cock so big that you could feel it in your throat, you had Amara who whispered filth in your ear as her fingers worked you open, you had Tanya who had a penchant for bending you over various pieces of furniture, and you had Lance who did anything and everything you said.

But they all fade into background noise whenever Noel was in the picture. Like tonight.

You had won four Brit Awards tonight, four fucking awards all in one night — Best Pop Act, Song of the Year for In Your Eyes, Best Pop Album for Irresistible, and Breakthrough Artist of the Year. You had held the award firmly in your hand each time you were called, smile unbreakable as you preened at the camera and looked out to the audience that you knew doubted you every step of the way but still listened to your voice in the speakers whenever it came on in the club.

And of course, your eyes found him easily. Who wouldn’t with those bushy fucking brows, the rowdy table with drinks flowing freely, and the woman perched on his lap like his very own trophy? It was easy for you to spot him, really. And it was even easier for you to lift your award up in his direction, mouth moving before your head could catch up. “And special thanks to Irresistible’s producer, Noel Gallagher. Everyone give him a hand!” you cue, smiling gracefully as everyone follows your instructions and gives out a round of appluase, Noel only nodding once, eyes not betraying any emotion as his arms cradle his girl. You hum and continue, “Really, I wouldn’t know what I would do without Noel on this album. He really gave me a lot of special attention,” you say teasingly, letting the crowd roar with laughter and hoot at the innuendo, remembering the headlines from a year ago.

From your vantage point on the stage, you could see Noel shift, his jaw clenching as holds on even more tightly to his girl. You grin, eyes alight with mirth at his obvious discomfort, letting the hollering guide you as you near the microphone again.

“And even though you made my life so hard,” you preen, “We ended up making something so beautiful. Like our little baby!” you cheer joyfully, pointing at him with the tip of your trophy, the crowd roars once more, amused. “So here’s to Irresistible! Mine and Noel’s lovechild! Cheers, everyone!”

Laughter guides you down from the stage, your dress swishing behind you as you strut, waving at people like the Queen of England herself, heels making muted sounds on the carpet as you make your way back to your table, buzzing off the high of victory and the feeling of having Noel’s scowl directed back at you.

The night flows as smoothly as the drinks do, you make your rounds and catch up with both friends and foes — though the latter was much more common to you. You dance when the music starts, you snort lines with anyone who asked you to, and you end up going to whichever afterparty sounded the rowdiest.

And of course, Noel was there too, like a magnet for trouble and all thing rock and roll. You smile to yourself as you spot him, already anticipating whatever move he’d make.

But Amber sticks by him like a magnet, as if she knows what kind of man she snagged, as if she knows that you’re lurking somewhere in the shadows, ready to make the latest headline with your favorite little toy. Her manicured nails are firm on his bicep, and he stays with her like the good and obedient pup he never was. You snort to yourself, downing a glass of champagne at the thought — Noel Gallagher could never be a tamed man. And you were about to test that theory tonight.

By the time that you saunter out for a cheeky cigarette, your head is already spinning and the earth feels like just a wisp beneath your palms. Victory flows through your bloodstream along with whatever else substances you’ve been handed all night, everyone wanting to congratulate you on your victorious ascent into the music industry even though you know for a fact they all call you a frigid cokehead behind your back. But who cares when you get a few free lines out of it?

To your luck, Noel is already out in the alley, no girlfriend in sight and his cigarette lit up against the dark background of the night. You smile, already chuffed as you approach him on steady feet, your stilettos announcing your entrance and turning his head your way. “Noel-y,” you croon, drawling as you near him, his own eyes rolling as you approach him to leave a friendly kiss on his cheek. “Congrats on the victory, darling.”

He snorts and takes a puff of his cigarette. “Not here for the awards,” he tells you simply. “Just here for the party.”

You shrug and lean next to him, pulling out a cigarette. “Well, you’ve got both,” you say, putting the fah to your mouth and turning to him. “Light it?” you prompt, eyes wide and as innocent as they can be as he chuckles sarcastically, moving to take out a lighter from his jeans pocket. You stop the motion with fast hands, holding onto his wrist before he could reach the lighter. And instead, you surge forward, indicating for him to light the cigarette with his own.

He curls his lip but obliges you anyway, crowding against your space as he waits for the end of your cigarette to catch, his breathing so close that you could feel it on your face. You shudder as he moves away as soon as the cigarette is lit, both of you leaning against the rough brick wall and taking a deep drag.

Neither of you say anything, just letting the space between you speak and letting the smoke reach the sky as the night moves forward and the party rages on inside. And then, Noel makes a move you didn’t expect — he puts out his cigarette against the bricks, throws it to the ground, and puts his hands in his pockets and walks away from you, leaving you with just four words before he disappears back inside. “Amber’s waitin’ for me.”

As soon as the door slams shut, you’re left alone, laughing in pure disbelief. Amber’s waiting for him? You snort. Since when did he care about the women in his life? Since when has he been Mister Monogamy? Since when has he ever turned down a good shag?

You stew, inhaling the rest of your cigarette with contempt before storming back inside, blinded with annoyance as you ignore everyone calling out to you and zip straight to the bar, taking two bottles of vodka with you before leaving on a cab that you demand go faster than it should have.

Who the fuck does he think he is? You grit your teeth and slam the cab door shut as soon as it parks outside your home. Steaming up the stairs of your townhouse and opening the front door with as much finesse as an angry drunk woman would have, you hear a few things clatter to the floor with the force of your ire.

You huff, taking off your coat and shedding it by the floor, kicking your heels as you wander around the house, setting your awards on the sofa, and jetting up to your room to let out a frustrated groan. Fuck, you knew you shouldn’t count on Noel for anything. Not even for a good victory shag.

You shed your clothes in a rage, your glamorous dress falling down on the floor, leaving you in just your knickers as you grit your teeth and place yourself on the bed, so irritated that you crack open the bottle of vodka and take a swig with your eyes screwed shut. “Ugly fucking twat,” you growl out. “Thinks he’s god or something,” you say, taking another swig directly from the bottle before your eyes land on the phone right next to you, sitting innocently as an idea stews in your head.

Noel’s number wasn’t meant to be used for any other purpose than for the making of the album. That much had been made clear. Still, his scrawled out digits were sitting primly in your phone book, like a bomb waiting to be detonated.

And tonight, it would explode.

You dial his number with shaky fingers, rage and liquor making every sensation in your body heighten, the burn of desire and anger coursing through you as the phone line rings and rings and rings, then, it clicks, Noel Gallagher and Amber York’s residence, please leave a message. You smile, satisfied. The pair of them were probably still at the party, unaware to the plan brewing in your head as you opt to leave a message, your receiver already waiting to record as your fingers fly up to your mouth, your lips already suckling them in to wet them just as the recording starts.

Showtime.

“It’s me,” you whisper down the phone, hoping that it catches the way your breath hitches as your finger play with the waistband of your lacy knickers, a pornographic gasp leaving you as you trace your already soaking entrance, needy and desperate. “Congrats on the win,” you say, inhaling sharply as your fingers, slick with saliva and your wetness circle your clit teaisngly, leaving no room for wondering what you were doing on the phone.

You hoped that when they came home to this message, they’d hate your guts. You hoped that they’d remember it forever. You hope that the sound of your moans were forever stamped in their minds, never to be replaced by anything else.

You shut your eyes and keen as your hand begins to move faster against your clit, the circles growing tighter as your legs try to shut involuntarily at the sensation. “Mhm,” you moan, drool collecting in your mouth. “I’m so fucking wet,” you hum against the phone before grinning, a nasty idea in your head as you take the phone out of its position between your ear and shoulder, and move it down to your cunt, just in time for two of your fingers to stretch you out and for the lewd squelch to be caught by the receiver. “Hear that?” you moan, jaw opened wide as you hit the spot inside of you that makes your hips buck and your legs shake. “All for you,” you say, moving the phone even closer so it could pick up every sound that your cunt makes, each wet sound your own little act of revenge.

You move the phone so close to your pussy that you begin grinding your clit against the handset, getting the plastic soaked as your hips continue to buck, seeking the pleasurable sensation as your orgasm crests inside you. You moan loadly, keening as your head falls back against your headboard, the slick sounds so loud that you had no doubt that the phone was picking it up.

“Think you could just fucking forget me?” you spit, intentionally rubbing the handset against your clit, your fingers working you open tirelessly as you moan helplessly, stars in your eyes. “Think you can find some goody two shoes bitch to fuck you like I could?” you punch out, punctuating the sentence with a choked out moan fit for a pornstar, your slick dripping out of you and soaking the bedsheets beneath you as you continue to writhe helplessly. “Hear that?” you ask again, making your cunt squelch against your fingers as you moan. “Could have been yours tonight,” you pant, bucking against the handset so wildly that the bed began to shake underneath you and the springs began to creak in time with your thrusts.

“Fuck you,” you spit, eyes screwed shut and legs trying to close on the handset, your orgasm washing through you so violently that nothing but ragged pants escape your mouth, your toes curling and your mouth opening without a sound. “Let’s see if you could ignore me now,” you whimper, still stuttering as your cunt clenches down on your fingers, wishing that they were Noel’s instead.

He doesn’t break up with that librarian of a girlfriend he has. But you wake up the next day to Noel banging on your door and falling into bed with you. Just like you wanted — a dog answering to his master’s beckon.

1998

By the time that 1998 rolls around, you and Noel have come up with somewhat of an understanding. No matter who you were with, who he was with, where you two were — sex was always an option. Amber’s out of the picture, but another dumb whore takes her place. You didn’t bother learning her name this time around.

It was unspoken, only agreed upon by the way that neither of you managed to go a week before finding yourselves with his cock inside of you and your fingers in his mouth. In his hotel room, in your townhouse, in someone else’s bathroom, in Liam’s coat closet, in the studio while Oasis was out on a lunch break, in a pub alley when both of you were too sloshed to walk back to his place.

Just sex. Because for all intents and purposes, Noel Gallagher was still a cunt, a man that you loved to toy with in the papers, the food you played with before eating, the bitch who slagged you off everytime you did something worth a damn.

So the fact that the American leg for your tour of your second album, Graceless Minds coincides with the American leg for Be Here Now was just a mere coincidence, something neither of you planned on happening. Because the two of you didn’t talk about business. How could you when everything that came out of your mouth were insults or pleas for him to come so deep inside you that you feel it for the next week?

You don’t plan for it to happen, but it happens anyway. First, you run into him in New York, with Liam insisting that you come and watch their gig, with you obliging him even as Noel scowled and told you how he wouldn’t want anything less that to have you there.

“Really?” you crooned to him backstage that night, your hand working on his cock so fast that you knew you’d feel it in your wrist later that night. But it was worth it to see the way that Noel suppressed a moan against the impromptu gag of your knickers in his mouth, his muffled groans like music in your ears as the opener for their gig closed out their set. “You’re telling me that you don’t want me here? Hm? Don’t want me jerking your cock off backstage when you’re supposed to be on stage in …” you trail off looking at the clock and smiling as you saw the time, “In two minutes?”

He moans helplessly, hips bucking against your hand as he tries to reach for you and speed the process up. You slap his hand away, tutting as he spits out his gag to say, “Just do what you do best and make me cum,” he growls out, voice breathier than it should be.

You lick your lips and twist your wrist as your hand glides upwards, making him go dumb as his head falls backwards. “Mouthy fuck,” you tell him. “‘S’that how you talk to me? Hm?” you challenge him, eyes sparkling as he continues to leak so profusely that he soaks your hand in precum.

He frowns at you, “I could find any other fucking slag to do this for me,” he threatens. “You’re not as special as you think you are.”

One eye on the clock and the other on the way his dick twitched in your hands, you laughed and let him go, causing him to whimper involuntarily. “Oh, yeah?” you challenge backing away from him as his brows knit at the interrupted pleasure. “Well, you’re onstage in a minute and I doubt you could find any other bird that would wanna touch you now,” you say, grabbing your stuff and heading for the door. “So, tick tock, Noel,” you say, licking your wet palm and waving goodbye at him. “I’ll see ‘ya out there, rockstar.”

When the band walks out and Noel trails behind them, his guitar slung on his hips and hiding his obvious hard-on you laugh and leave the venue. If he didn’t want you there, then you wouldn’t be there. Serves him right.

The next time that you see him is in Fairfax, the two of you unintentionally booking the same hotel, much to your ire.

Clad in a volominous fur coat and sunglesses big enough to cover half your face, you groan as you spot him and his band in the lobby, checking in to the floor below you. “Well, well, well,” you drawl as they all turn around to see you, their faces betraying the fact that they sense trouble as you walk towards them. “Look who it is,” you say, unimpressed.

Noel’s the first to speak, already matching your attitude as his face betrays no emotion. “Didn’t know that the hotel came with free hookers,” he remarks dryly.

You hum and draw closer, invading his space just to pat his cheek patronisingly. “You’re funny,” you coo, pinching his cheek as he slaps your hand away, making Liam laugh jauntily behind him. “Acting like you won’t come crawling to my room later tonight.”

He snorts, “Already begging for some cock,” he tuts. “Shameless fuckin’ slut.”

You laugh in his face and reach behind him for the key that the receptionist was handing you, telling her casually, “Duplicate this key and give it to ‘im, yeah?” you say, gesturing to Noel who was scowling fiercely. “He needs one, see.” And before he could answer, you saunter off, letting your hips sway as you make your way to the elevator and wave at him just before the doors close and you ascend up into your floor.

He finds you in your hotel room at an unreasonable hour, both of your gigs done and dusted and the night being home to just a few crickets peppering the otherwise silent air.

You grin as the door opens, sitting up in bed as Noel makes his way in, stumbling lightly in a way that betrayed his drunkenness. “Missed me?” you ask, setting your magazine aside and tilting your head at him appraisingly. “Glad I gave you a spare key?”

“Shuddup,” he grumbled, making his way to the bed and, flopping in top of you gracelessly. You hum and immediately thread your hands through his hair, scratching at the roots and making him groan in pleasure.

You hum, the sound reverberating in your chest and making him burrow deep into the valley of your breasts, already mouthing at your clothed nipples as you carress his head. “How was the gig?” you ask lightly, voice almost a whisper as he soaks the fabric of your thin pajama top.

“Better than yours, for fuckin’ sure,” he tells you smugly, face tilting up so you could see his crooked grin, one that you only see whenever he’s had something to drink.

You laugh, and push him away from you, with him landing on the spot beside you and grinning as he put his hands behind his head, just as you straddle his hips. “‘S’that so?” you tease, running your hands down his chest and fiddling with his belt buckle.

He hums, watching your hands work at the metal and disposing of his belt. “Ain’t even a question, doll,” he drawls, confident and easy.

You chuckle, placing a hand on his cheek, so gentle that it was almost like it wasn’t there at all. “Feeling lucky tonight?” you ask, the question whispered against his lips, nipping against his skin so softly.

He cracks a smile, hands still behind his head and making no move to even touch you. “As ever,” he confirms.

You shake your head and shift, smiling gently as you say, “Oh, Noel.”

By the time that your hands find the headboard and your weeping hole is placed on his face, sitting on him as you smother all the air out of his lungs, he’s not as cocky as he was going in, his hands gripping at your hips to help you ride the crooked ridge of his nose, his jaw hinged open to collect all the gathering slick at your hole, his tongue flicking against your clit as he slurps you up and leaves you a panting mess, only held up by his steady hands on your body and the white-knuckled grip on the headboard.

Las Vegas is last in your itinerary, and it wasn’t a surprise anymore to find Oasis was there at the same time as you. And why not surrender to it? It was the last night of your tour, the last night of theirs, and you were in the city of sin, a perfect place to reign over as you and the band hit every possible place you could after your gig.

Liam, of course, predictably drags you to a strip club, one with burlesque dancers, and tight garters, women with feathers in their hair and jewels covering their nipples. The lad hollered at every woman that came close, even at every woman that stayed far away. Basically, Liam hollered at every pair of tits that he sees, even a few firm arses that he whistles at.

Meanwhile, you sat by Liam and stoked the flames, drinking whenever he did, sneaking to the bathroom to do lines with him, pointing out curves and tits and perfect little cunts that were bared to your eyes. You yell along with him as women take items of clothing one by one, the two of you fight to insert dollar bills in a woman’s thong, and the two of you end up buzzing as the rest of the band beg to hit the strip.

So you do. Bonehead drags all of you to some smoky casino, all of you betting insane amounts of money, just to laugh it off when you lose and rave about it when you won. You find joy in the Blackjack tables, so mesmerized by the shuffle of cards that you don’t notice how much you’ve lost until Noel’s dragging you out with a hand on your waist.

You smoke as you walk to the next haunt, some themed wild-western bar that serves cocktails that could sedate an elephant. It’s there that Guigsy meets up with some sketchy dealer he’s been talking to for a while, and it’s there that all of you snort the best line of cocaine that all of you have ever done. You dance on a couple tables, drink more than you should, and make out with a man triple your age just because Liam and Bonehead dared you to do it.

Meanwhile, Noel looks on, the jolliest drunk of them all as he snaps a picture with the cheap tourist-y disposable camera that he stole off some souvenir shop, knowing full well that he’d be the one to send the pictures to The Sun as soon as he sobers up. He laughs when you pull away from the old man, laughs as you and Liam do an inebriated rendition of Wonderwall on karaoke, and laughs when you sit on Bonehead’s lap, drained of all energy.

Everything’s a blur after that. You snort a few more lines with Liam, you sneak a puff of Guigsy’s weed, you drink another gigantic cocktail whose portion size only exists in America, then you hit the strip once more.

Somewhere down the line, you lose Liam to a busty blonde and a shapely brunette who’ve been making eyes at him, the three of them disappearing to do god knows what in god knows where. Then, two bars later, Guigs calls it a night after Bonehead throws up on his new pair of boots, the two of them stumbling off back to the hotel. It leaves you, Noel, and poor Whitey who gives up on the bar crawl another two bars in after you start sitting on Noel’s lap and start grinding on his growing erection a little less subtly than you intended.

Which leaves two.

The night turns into one big neon haze, every single substance mixing in your body like a cocktail for trouble as you and Noel lean against each other as the night grows louder and rowdier the later that the hour gets. You can’t read the signs as you pass them, every face begins to morph into one, and your laughter grows higher and higher each time Noel’s stubble tickles your jaw.

It’s him that suggests it first, spitting it out with slurred words as his eyes alight at a familiar establishment, the two of you just wandering aimlessly through the strip at that point “We should fuckin’ …” he says, trailing off and his eyes blinking profusely, the pupil so dilated that you laugh giddily and lean against him. “We should get married, yeah?”

You laugh even harder, bending at the stomach as you cling to him like magnets, the two of you looking like a pair of lunatics as you laugh freely in the middle of the sidewalk, your hands around his waist and his own around your shoulders. “Lunatic!” you accuse him, still laughing uncontrollably. “We can’t get married, I don’t love you!”

He shakes his head, smiling, “Nah, nah, nah, babe,” he mumbles, stumbliver the words as he peers at you blearily. “But the sex is good, ain’t it?”

And how could you argue with that? The sex was mindblowing.

The two of you end up getting married at the Little Vegas Chapel after a brief detour to the shops. You buy a nice white slip dress and a veil, Noel buys a suit jacket and a clip-on tie printed with a heinous floral pattern, the two of you buy wedding rings —- yours a cheap silver one with a Betty Boop shaped diamond, and his a chunky silver Playboy ring that’s the only one in the shop that could fit his thick fingers.

Then, giddily, with the two of you in your wedding attire, you speed to the nearest payphone, calling up Liam’s room only for the man to answer, clearly in the throes of passion, “Busy,” he spits out, two girlish giggles punctuating his statement. “Call later,” he says perfunctorily before hanging up. That sends you and Noel into another fit of laughter, the sound lost in the haze of the chaotic strip as you try to find people off the road that would act as your witness now that Noel’s brother had RSVP’d no to the wedding of the decade.

And at 4:27AM, you and Noel Thomas David Gallagher are pronounced man and wife, the paperwork signed, sealed, and delivered as Elvis Presley sings his catalogue of songs to the two of you, sending his best regards as you and your husband race out the chapel and make a break for the hotel, eager to start your drunken honeymoon as soon as possible.

You don’t so much as stumble over your heels, the perks of being a model, as you and Noel run towards the blaring lights of your hotel room, taking quick stops at every seedy alley to snog the faces off each other, giggling hazily as you called one another husband and wife.

By the time that the two of you reach the hotel, the sun’s beginning to rise in the horizon, and Noel is insisting that he carry you over the threshold of the hotel, paying no mind to your laughing protests as he ducks down and catches you with one hand behind your knees and the other looped around your waist, your own arms circling his shoulders as you laugh and laugh and laugh, people congratulating the pair of you as Noel continous to stumble over his feet.

“I’m a fuckin’ size two!” you screech in his ear as he pants, nodding at the hotel lobby receptionist. “Why are you panting?” you demand.

He huffs as he punches the elevator buttons. “You forgot the fact that your ego’s the size of the UK,” he says drily, but softens the blow with a kiss to your decolletage. You snort and stretch out in his arms, cheering as the elevator finally opens and Noel steps in, settling you down beside him.

Then, like he can’t wait a single moment more, he moves forward, traps you against the elevator wall, and surges in for a kiss, his hands already wandering as his lips move sloppily against yours, the two of you moaning so loudly that you knew you’d somewhat be ashamed of it in the morning.

But for now, you let Noel’s rough hands tug your dress up and move your knickers to the side, the calloused pads of his fingers feeling like heaven against your clit as he works you in fast tight circles. You open your eyes and train your gaze on the moving numbers atop the elevator.

“Worried someone would see you like this?” murmurs Noel, circling your wet hole and slicking his fingers up teasingly before taking his hand off you and offering up his hand to you, the request clear as you open your mouth and suck him in, the taste of yourself making your eyes roll to the back of your head as he places his thigh between your legs, letting you hump it like a bitch in heat. “Don’t worry, doll,” he coos at you as you screw your eyes shut, his hands tugging the hem of your dress down to expose your tits to his hungry mouth. “The penthouse is a long way up. Just gotta pray no one’s gonna get in, yeah?”

You nod, panting against his mouth. “No one’s gotta know,” you say, chasing his lips eagerly as his bites your nipple lightly, making you cry out and writhe against him, moving your hands down to fiddle with his buckle, pulling his zipper down and getting his cock out with practiced eased, offering your hand out to him, saying, “Spit,” you tell him, to which your husband obliges, a glob of spit falling in your hand as you move it back down and use it to slick his cock up.

Everything pauses as the elevator dings, opening its doors as you and Noel look at the opening like a deer in headlights. You wait a beat, then two, and breathe a sigh of relief as no one waits on the other side. Noel moves quick, shutting the door and latching himself back to you. “That was close,” he mumbles, hissing as you tighten your grip on his cock.

You hum. “You liked it,” you observe slyly, noting the way his dick hardened even more in your hand the moment that the elevator door opened.

He rolls his eyes, “Just shut the fuck up and get on,” he shoots.

You kiss the corner of his mouth delicately before guiding him to your entrance, the two of you giving twin moans that echo in the chamber of the rising elevator, the numbers ticking up steadily as you begin to slider yourself up and down on his dick, his hands guiding the motions as you buck into each other like animals in the wild. You keen, a wrecked sound as he shoves into you so hard that your head hits the metal wall of the elevator, your cunt clamping down on him and slicking him up.

He smiles at the sight of you, dumb with pleasure and head tilted back, bearing the marks he had left on your neck in the numerous times he had nipped at it on the way back. Your breasts bounce in a hypnotizing way, captivating Noel’s gaze as he pinches a nipple and grins even wider at the way you moan for him. “My pretty wife,” he coos, working faster against you as you near your floor.

You grit your teeth, the smacking sound of your arse against his thighs so deafening, the smell of sex and sweat so prominent that you could get high off it. “My stupid fucking husband,” you whine, clutching at him desperately, your nails scoring down his back as he presses against you, wanting nothing more than to meld into you at that very moment, to have you so close to him that you become one.

He slaps your thigh and you keen in response, the sting so pleasurable that it brings a thin sheen of tears in your eyes. “Who the fuck you callin’ stupid?” he slurs dumbly, hiding his face in the crook of your neck as he pants like a dog into your ear.

You tug at the roots of his hair harshly and his, “You,” you manage to groan out just before reaching your orgasm, hips wildly moving against his and your legs shaking uncontrollably as your body convulses against his.

He follows soon after, spilling into you with a loud groan, his cum dripping down your legs as he fucks it into you dutifully. It’s then that the elevator doors ding open, while the two of you are panting against each other, half naked and glowing with your orgasms, faces red and flushed with pleasure.

“Erm,” Bonehead says from the other side of the door, in his pajamas and clearly still drunk. “Hello?” he asks, so disoriented that you and Noel can’t help but laugh, uncaring of the state you’re in.

You hold up your ring finger, still hooked around Noel’s shoulders and give Bonehead a winning smile, “We got married!” you cheer.

The man only nods blearily and begins to walk off. “That’s a funny joke, guys,” he says, voice garbled as he leaves you and Noel to ringing peals of laughter, the very picture of drunken marital bliss and Las Vegas indulgence.

The night is spent in pretty much the same state, writhing on top of the sheets of Noel’s penthouse suite, moaning so loud that you two were quite sure that there was a noise complaint incoming, and kissing each other lazily as the sun came up.

“Jus’ put it in,” you whisper lazily as your eyes begin to shut, exhausted and sleepy as the wild night you had begins to catch up. You tug at Noel’s arm, wrapped around you from behind. “C’mon, Noel,” you urge, face planted on the pillow, exhausted and voice garbled. “Don’t be a pussy.”

He grunts as the head of his cock meets your ruined cunt, running it through the folds that were slick with both his and your cum. “Y’wan’ it?” he mumbles, kissing your nakes shoulder.

You huff and push back against him, your sore cunt taking him in easily as the two of you sigh in relief, the slide so slick that you have to swallow down the surge of pleasure as your eyes flutter closed. “Wanna sleep with it in,” you tell him, whispering now as you begin to drift off, Noel surrounding you in every way possible as you pulse around him, too drunk to care about infections or anything practical. All that mattered was this.

Hum hums, pushing you closer to him as he fits his head in the crook of your shoulder and tells you, “G’night.”

You hum, the weight of him inside you addicting, “Night-night, Noel.”

It isn’t a shock that you wake up to an absolute fucking mess on your sheets, making you feel an uncharacteristic surge of embarrassment for whatever scene the housekeeper is about to stumble on. But you and Noel pile a tip large enough to make them turn another cheek, and leave the hotel room, bow-legged and giddy.

The band, predictably, reacts to the news with wolf-whistles as you and Noel stumble into the brunch buffet marked up like envelopes about to be sent through the post. And while you and Noel grab a bite to eat, you hear it. Liam bets a thousand pounds that you and Noel would divorce after a year, Bonehead bets a thousand pounds that it’ll be after two years, Guigsy optimistically bets that you and Noel would stay together, and Whitey bets that you would call it quits after six months.

And as soon as you and Noel get back to London, you instantly know that Whitey would end up wining that bet.

The press hound you from the minute you step out of the plane, they hound you as you and Noel stare at each other, confused outside his home after you tell him that there’s no way in fuck that you’re living in Supernova fucking Heights, they hound you as you leave Noel outside his home and head towards your own. They hound and hound and hound, and sniff the two of you out like police dogs sniffing for drugs.

And so the first month of your marriage is spent in separate houses, visiting each other whenever the other felt like shagging, watching some mindless telly, or snorting a line with someone they found entertaining.

The second month is spent finally purchasing a house — a mansion, really, that’s big enough to fit you, Noel, and the two gigantic egos that have to live in the house with you. You pack boxes and boxes of your stuff, he packs boxes and boxes of his, then you unpack it in your large home and fuck in the foyer in celebration. But neither of you sell your previous homes, Supernova Heights still belongs to Noel and your Highgate townhouse is still under your name. A great way to start a marriage between two known cheaters, the London Telegraph once wrote about the situation, to which you responded by going on your show and ripping the writer of that article to shreds, even though you knew he was right.

The third month is when things seem like they’re going good. Oasis takes a bit of a break, Noel starts talking about going off cocaine for good, and your days are spent languidly laying out in your sofa and laughing over things that you weren’t sure were actually funny to anyone but the two of you. You catch popcorn in your mouth on movie nights, he helps you pick outfits for big events, you console him after a Manchester City loss, and you experiment with cooking dinner that always ends up getting burnt because neither of you could keep your hands off each other.

In the fourth month, you receive a bouquet of flowers from none other than Carmen Beavouis congratulating you and Noel on your nuptials. Neither of you respond.

On the fifth month, Noel starts getting twitchy — the result of going off coke and cheating on his wife. You weren’t dumb. In fact, you’ve said the same lies yourself once upon a time. You recognize the marks on his neck that you knew you didn’t leave, you spot lipstick stains in a shade you would rather die than wear, you smell tacky perfume and even tackier hairspray on him as he comes home — if he even comes home. Because most of these days, Noel says he’s over at Liam’s to help with what the kid’s been going through. Like it was Noel’s fault that Liam had gone off and decided to get his mistress pregnant while still married to Patsy.

Still, it’s Liam that spills the beans. Unintentionally though, poor lad.

“He’s got a trip to New York this weekend,” Liam slurs, just as you planned. You had specifically called him that night for this very purpose; to wring the truth out of him with lager and coke. “Says its for the new album and all that shite,” he says hiccupping as he grips on tightly to his glass. “But he booked tickets for two. Him and that Vera girl he’s been shagging.”

You hum and raise a brow. “Vera?” you prompt.

Then, Liam’s eyes widen as he begins to slap his mouth, “No,” he whines pitifully. “No. ‘Ye aren’t supposed to know,” he says before putting his index finger to your mouth. “Shhhh!”

And that confirms your suspicions. You let him have his fun on that trip, even going so far as to leave him his privacy by not calling, not asking, not nagging him while he’s gone. Then, when he comes home, rejuvenated and refreshed after his business meeting, you tell him;

“I’ve got a special episode of Sex, Scandals, and Secrets in the countryside,” you tell him as he’s unpacking his suitcase.

He hums. “Really?” he asks, focused on unpacking as you sit on the bed and watch him. “Anythin’ interestin’ there?”

You shrug and stretched yourself out, “Yeah, we’re hitting a few countryside studios that were home to the best albums of all time. It’s a whole thing,” you say. “Shooting starts on Wednesday, it’ll take up a whole week,” you say, setting up the bait.

He doesn’t even blink. “Gonna miss you,” he says automatically.

You stand and pat his shoulder, moving to leave, ready to take the plan in action, “I’m sure you will, baby.”

You count down the days until you have to ‘leave’, excitedly looking at the calendar as you anticipate the next few days, calling up your lawyers as you ask for papers and necessary documents, and heading to the studio to cause a ruckus in your talk show.

Marriage has made you boring. Marriage to Noel has especially made you uninteresting. It’s like the finish line had been reached the moment that you said I Do, like anything crazy was never going to happen again, as if you’ve reached all the limits of what you can do. So maybe him cheating on you was something more of a blessing, you think this as you pack up your suitcase and leave him with an enthusiastic kiss, excitement buzzing through your veins as you wait and wait and wait.

You stay at Liam and Patsy’s for a day, both of them owing you their silence as you make up some fake story about how heartbroken you were over Noel’s affair and whatnot. Liam, for his sake, doesn’t say a word to his brother under your threat that you’d tell his wife about his newborn baby to the woman he swore he’d never see again.

Then, well rested and anticipatory, you hail a cab and jet back to yours and Noel’s home, feeling joy when what greets you as you silently open the front door are moans.

“Oh, Noel! Noel, Noel, Noel!” the pitchy voice cries as the headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall that you and Noel painted yourselves, eager to be the picturesque husband and wife, not knowing that this is the life that’s for you. “Fuck, baby, your cock is so big!” she whines loudly, making you snort as you begin your ascent up the stairs. Is that why Noel found someone else? Because you rarely complimented him on his size?

You near the master bedroom, the sound of their affair growing louder and louder the more that you pad towards them. “Yeah, baby?” you hear Noel’s familiar drawl. “C’mon, show me how much you want it, yeah?”

“‘S so good, Noel,” she cries out, sounding pornographic as the bedsprings creak.

You roll your eyes and wrench the door open without preamble, making the couple shriek at the intrusion, rushing to cover up as you hiss, “Oh, calm the fuck down, bitch,” you sneer at her. “He’s not that fuckin’ good.”

They scramble even more, with her trying to get off her shameful position on her hands and knees in the bed you picked out yourself and Noel behind her with his cock still fucking into the dumb slag. It’s not fear that you see in his eyes, or shame, or an apology. You know it for what it is because it’s the same fire burning through you right now. You know the glint in your husband’s eyes were excitement the thrill of the game between you and him not being over, even when you sport rings on your fingers and have houses with both your names on the deed. He sees the challenge in your own eyes and rises up to it defiantly. You smile, long and slow as he drawls, “Sorry you had to see this, doll,” he says. “But I thought you were going away for a week.”

You roll your eyes and sit on the edge of the bed, right by his mistress’ head. “Do you take me for a fucking idiot, Noel?”

“I – I’m so sorry, I —” says the girl, stuttering with wide eyes as she pleads with you.

You screw your face up in displeasure. “What?” you ask her, mimicking her nervous stutter as you get up in her face. “You wanted my husband’s cock so bad, didn’t you?Oh, Noel! It’s so big! It’s spearing me open!” you taunt, copying the way she was moaning.

“I’m really —”

You shake your head, eyes tearing away from the girl to land on Noel who was looking at you with a raised brow and clear eyes, a question in it; So, what now?

And the answer is; “Keep fucking her,” you tell him, pointing at the woman bent over in your shared bed. “Go on then, show me what you had to go looking for outside our marriage, Noel.”

He does exactly what you say, your ever dutiful husband and pulls Vera back into his thrusts, the girl confused as little huffs of pleasure escape her mouth at every violent thrust of Noel’s cock insider her. You smile down at her and pet her soft hair gently, cooing, “Aww,” you say, surveying her tearful eyes and her drooling mouth. Noel always did like a crybaby. “Shh, darling. It’s okay. I’m not mad.”

“What?” she stutters out, eyes rolling at the back of her head as Noel continues on behind her, nearly pushing her up the bed with the force of his thrusts. “Wh-what is this?” she asks before moaning long and loud as Noel reaches down to circle her clit, her back bowing and her arms losing all strength as she falls face down into the mattress.

You stroke her back, like a stray cat. “Didn’t know Noel was into redheads,” you tell her softly, hands coming back up to reach for her hair. “But don’t worry, hon. This is a game, alright?”

“Can you shut ‘yer trap?” Noel grits out, panting as he glares at you.

You glare back, “Just do your damn fuckin’ job, Noel,” you shoot back, bending down to soothe Vera with whispered assurances as she goes back to moaning loudly for your husband. Pornographically loud, in the way that makes you screw your face in disgust at Noel as if to ask Really? This is what you’re into?

He shrugs and nearly bends Vera in half with the force of his thrusts, the girl reaching her orgasm as Noel begins to lose his pace, bucking fast and wild before spilling into the condom that he thankfully remembered to wear. That’s when you tug at the strands of Vera’s hair, pulling her up with the force of it as she whimpers, face a blotchy mess as you hiss, “Now, get out of my fucking bed if you aren’t gonna be any more useful than a sex doll.”

As soon as she scampers off the bed like a fawn learning how to walk, you train your eyes on Noel and arch a brow, “Well, isn’t this awkward?” you drawl lazily.

He sighs, getting rid of the condom and throwing it in the nearest bin, slumping back against the bed as he meets your eyes. “Sorry,” he tells you, so simply that you laugh out loud, the sound grating and amused as you reach forward and tut at him, already reaching for his flaccid dick, making him wince and whine.

You tilt your head and widen your eyes. “Oh?” you ask. “You wanted to be a slag, didn’t you?” you ask him, pumping his cock up, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut in overstimulation, his head slick with the remnants of his cum. “That’s what you wanted, right? So let me give it to you?” you challenge him, hand moving faster on his cock, making schlick sounds that made your clit pulse in need as he gripped onto your wrist just to have something to hold on to.

You kept going as he came a second time, not even fully hard as he did so. You kept going as he grumbled and groaned about it being too much for him to handle, tears in his blue eyes. And you kept going as you finally got him hard enough to ride, making him leave a sticky mess between your thighs as you pat his tearstained cheek and bestow him with the sweetest kiss.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again,” you whisper to him, and he nods. But you both know how much of a lie it was.

So you go on, living life as the picturesque husband and wife as you attend each event, hanging on to each other like everyone in the world can’t spot how much of a sham it is. You let the weeks pass by, noticing every time Noel would come home late, every receipt for jewelry that you wouldn’t be caught dead in, every phone call to a mysterious person that he won’t tell you much about. Then, he books another flight to America.

You knew the signs, you saw it for what it was, and you knew what you had to do. And on July of 1998, you make a splash that was sure not to be forgotten by anyone, especially Noel Gallagher.

You invite his mother over for a special edition episode of Sex, Scandal, and Secrets, talking about how it was like raising two rockstars like Noel and Liam. Childhood anecdotes come about, laughter ensues as she tells you about how much of a little loner Noel was growing up, you talk about how it was like growing up with your own neurotic mother and how nice it is to have someone like Peggy around in your life now that you and Noel were together.

Then you tell her, everyone in the audience, and the millions of people watching at home that you can’t wait until she meets the baby you’re carrying in your womb right now. And predictably, the media circus explodes — articles, news segments, magazine covers, speculation upon speculation at each talk show.

And most predictably, Noel cuts his trip short and jets back home frantically, searching for you at home, wide-eyed and in shock. Pleading about how he’ll shape up, how he’ll be a great father, how he supports your decision to keep the baby you flaunted in live television. He begs, he pleads, he gets on his knees. By god, the stony man even begins to cry.

Only to find divorce papers in the console behind him, your signature already in ink, just waiting for his just beside it.

And oh, you aren’t pregnant either.

Checkmate.

Paradise lost? Gallagher and missus split after brief five month marriage

July 19th, 1998

Written by Juliana Bell

Who hasn’t seen this coming? Our favorite scandal couple have just reportedly filed for divorce after only five months of marriage. Which, if you ask anyone on the streets of Britain, is five months longer than they thought the pair would last.

The two met in early 1996 after the ex-model and then talk-show star made quite the stir after inciting rumors of Carmen Beauvois’ pregnancy to Liam Gallagher. Beauvois had been involved with Noel Gallagher for around three years at the time of the incident, and it is rumored that her and our model have been locked in an intense rivalry since the beginning of their modelling days at Victoria’s Secret, up until Little Miss Mouthy finds herself blacklisted from the industry, hence her pivot to hosting.

Gallagher has since gone on the record to extensively detail his hatred for the model, calling her a slag with not much to her name other than a great pair of tits. Whew, what a great foundation for a marriage!

1996 sees the pair’s feud, fueled by their common connection to Beavouis, through a series of talk show guestings, A-List parties, and contractual agreements such as Noel taking the time to buy shares for Starstruck Productions, known as Sex, Scandals, and Secrets’ production home — only for him to stand in as producer for the host’s show, limiting her capabilities under the guise of a new contract. Subsequently, she retaliates by signing under Creation Records that same year, even going as far as to get Liam Gallagher on two of her records on her debut album, Irresistible.

And though 1996 is filled with their shared hatred and vitriol, it also comes to a head at the afterparty for the screening of Graceless Souls, to which both Gallagher and her attend with their then partners Beavouis and Manchester City’s Marcus Hernandez, only to ditch them in the bathroom line to have a quick chat in the bathroom.

What precedes is an event that had everyone’s mouths moving in shock — with the pair hooking up in the venue’s bathroom as the press and their significant other’s stood helplessly. And as soon as the two of them walked out, looking like they had just come out of the WWE ring, our lovely host takes the opportunity to plug the release of her debut single In Your Eyes to the awaiting cameras of the press.

Since then, the two have been locked in an unspoken on-and-off relationship. Liam Gallagher, Noel’s brother and bandmate states, “Dunno what the fuck they’ve got goin’ on. Don’t even wanna ask some days. It’s best we leave those two alone to whatever fucked up foreplay the got goin’ on, yeah?”

And in news that shocked the nation, the two wed in a Las Vegas ceremony during Oasis’ Be Here Now Tour, in a sweet Valentine’s Day commemoration. Neither Noel’s brother or our host’s model friends made an appearance, instead, they had a scantily clad stripper and local sixty-two year old gambling man as their witnesses.

Now, five months later, we find ourselves with the news of the pair’s split. It’s such a shame to see such an entertaining couple go. We wish both parties our best wishes during this time. Neither camp issued a further statement, though Gallagher has been spotted with his arms around a mysterious beach blonde in Ibiza and our host has been cozying up with Producer Warner Gerry as of late. It’s seems like the pair have already moved on, leaving us to scramble after them. What an adventure it has been!

1999

1999 is the year that Noel Gallagher goes steady with Meg Matthews, it’s the year you break up with Warner and meet Billy Frederick, it’s the year that the storm calms down and everyone finally thinks that you and Noel had had enough of each other. The divorce is done and dusted, the trial lasting as short as your marriage did. But little did everyone know, everything was far from over.

2000

Wedding bells toll for you once more, the life of being a wife calling to you as Billy gets on one knee and proclaims just how much he wants to marry you. And of course, you oblige.

Your first wedding didn’t involve as much planning as this one. In fact, it didn’t involve any planning at all, just a shit ton of drugs and drinks and a wedding chapel in Vegas that was open twenty-four hours. But this time, you make a grand old time of everything; flowers, dresses, table runners, the venue, the centerpieces, the color of the carpet, every last fucking detail down to the bridesmaids and the color of their manicure. Everything was planned out to a tee, ready to be the wedding of the new millennium.

And just because you’re still that same thrill seeker you’ve always been, you mail out two invites that make you laugh as you mail them out. One for Carmen as your Maid of Honor, and the other for Noel without an option for a plus one for his new wife, Meg.

Both parties accept, much to your delight. So, you count down the days, preparing every little detail, even going so far as to invite Carmen to your wedding dress fitting just to ply her so full of the complementary champagne and watch her cry and lament her single life. You snicker to yourself as she weeps, happy to have the upper hand as you sit beside her and coo about how she might catch herself someone nice if she just lost weight.

That earned you a slap. But still, at least it was far from a boring life.

By the time your wedding had rolled around, you felt an odd sort of peace building up in you. A feeling that prevailed all throughout getting glammed up, putting on your stellar dress that you got custom made, and while walking down the aisle to your moviestar husband and his moviestar good looks and his moviestar money.

You said your vows with a kind of tenderness that didn’t exist in your drugged up first wedding, and you finally got to wear a ring with a real diamond that wasn’t shaped like a cartoon character. You were the picturesque bride, a doll in all white as everyone fawns over you, congratulating you with kisses to your cheeks and hugs that you knew were insincere.

Carmen plays her role, standing beside you like your second in command, and you take advantage of that fact — sending her out on useless errands that end up taking hours, distracting her from flirting with a few guests that she fancied, and making her take pictures even though there was a fully qualified professional photographer doing that same job.

You shake your head, disappointed. She had really let herself go, not even putting up a fight with you when she could easily douse you in wine or push your head into the cake.

Beside you, a voice speaks up, eyes on Carmen as she fret about the venue in the heinous flour sack of a dress you picked out for her. “Jesus, she’s just takin’ it, ain’t she?” Noel says, the first words he’s ever said to you since your divorce got finalized.

You smile and turn to him, mouth drying up at his shaggy hair that framed his face perfectly, swallowing your champagne as your wedding ring glinted heavily in the light. “She’s mellowed out,” you muse. “Which is a shame.”

He shakes his head. “She used to be a spitfire,” he laments.

You hum, “And now she’s doing everything I say like a little bitch,” you bemoan. “I really thought she’d cause a scene.”

Noel arches a brow, his suit looking devastatingly good on him as you sip on your champagne once more, your clit throbbing just by looking at him. “That why you invited her?” he asks.

You snort. “Obviously,” you say without preamble. “That’s why I invited you, too.”

He hums and laughs under his breath, flashing his own wedding ring at you, “Chill out, yeah?” he says to you, amused. “Taken man over here,” he says.

You roll your eyes, smiling with amusement, “Like that’s ever fucking stopped you,” you tease.

He shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “It’s different this time, yeah? She’s pregnant,” he tells you, then after a brief pause, he tacks on, “Like, actually properly pregnant. None of that crazy shit you fuckin’ pulled with your show.”

You laugh, the sound catching the attention of everyone near you as they arch their brows at the odd sight of you and Noel together. You smile at them, gracious in a way that comes with practice as they turn back around, at ease after your reassuring smile.

Noel arches a brow at the display, “So, you mellowed out, too?”

“As if,” you laugh. “Y’think I’d invite you if I mellowed out?”

He shrugs. “Could be a peace treaty.”

You lower your gaze as you speak the next words, drawling them out like honey, “Noel,” you coo. “There could never be peace between us,” you say.

He shakes his head, then changes the subject, eyes trailing down your dress, clad in the skintight wedding dress that you adored. “Why didn’t I get some of that, eh?”

You huff, “We got married while high off coke and weed and what I’m pretty sure was crystal fuckin’ meth,” you say dryly. “Not to mention the fact that we were drunk off our arses.”

“Still wanted me, though,” he hums.

You hum back, “And you can still have this if you want,” you tell him, dangerously towing the line as his eyes widen and his face morphs into shock, then into one of familiar amusement, as if he already saw this coming from miles away. As if this was the entire reason he even came to your stupid fucking wedding in the first place.

It isn’t a shock to either of you when you end up dragging him to a secluded alcove in the venue, one that you saw months ago while scouting for a venue, one that you marked as somewhere you can have him without anyone interrupting.

And that’s exactly what you do. His mouth is a familiar weight against yours, like a vice you can’t quit. He moves his lips with so much surety, like he isn’t afraid of anyone catching the two of you like this, as if this was always how it was meant to be, as if he had a right to have you like this — in your wedding gown and with a ring on your finger.

“Noel,” you groan, arching your back as he reaches down to shift your gown up, up, and up, until his fingers find what he’s looking for, a dirty grin taking over his face as he comes into contact with your lacy garter, immediately falling down to his knees, his blue eyes locked into your as he takes the lace into his teeth, kissing the skin of your inner thigh, and slides it down your leg. “Noel, Billy’s gonna have to go looking for that in the reception,” you protest but make no move to stop him as he stands back up and silences you with a firm kiss. You grip onto his shaggy hair and moan into his mouth as he presses into you, caging you in between the wall and his body.

“Jus’ tell ‘im I had first dibs,” he says, mumbling against your lips and smudging your lipgloss everywhere as he opens your mouth and plunges his tongue inside, savoring the taste of you. “He’d understand.”

No, Billy wouldn’t understand. But you let Noel tuck away the lace garter in his trouser pocket and let him kiss you breathless. You let him pull the hem of your gown up and you let him unbuckle his trousers.

And by the time he’s pushing into you, you’re more or less a mess. He’s taken down the pins in your hair, he’s smattered his saliva all over your skin, he’s smeared your lipstick all over your chin, he’s scratched your face with his stubble, and he’s bitten your lip more than he should have.

But Noel’s like a man possessed, pushing into you with a groan of longing, his eyes screwing shut as he presses his forehead against yours and thrusts into you so slowly that you feel every single ridge and vein of him inside of you.

“Been thinkin’ about you,” he admits, moving so torturously slow as you let your head loll back dumbly in pleasure.

“Mhm?” you prompt, whining. “Missed me?”

He nods against your skin. “Can’t fuckin’ cum without thinkin’ of you.”

You laugh even though it’s much of the same for you, the only thing that can bring you over the brink being the thought of Noel. “Yeah?” you taunt. “That’s fuckin’ pathetic.”

He shakes his head and snaps into you with so much force that your tits bounce, making Noel groan as he gropes at the globes of your breasts, mesmerized by them as he continuous his torturous pace, making you feel every goddamn inch as you pant and whine like a bitch in heat.

“Knew you’d let me do this,” he groans as if in pain, beginning to speed up his thrusts. “Knew it from the moment you sent that invite.”

You take the shell of his ear into your mouth and lick at it, making him buck helplessly into you, “I’ve been so bored,” you lament, keening as he hits the spot inside of you, making your toes curl in your wedding shoes.

“I know,” he coos at you, pecking your lips sweetly. “I know, babe. I know.”

You keen and cling onto him, not letting go as you let him rail into you, ruining you even further like you knew you’d always do. “But we can’t keep doin’ this, yeah?” he whispers, even as his cock slams into you filthily. “‘S’wrong.”

You nod, “‘S’wrong,” you echo, beginning to meet every single one of his thrusts, cunt squelching obscenely as you panted without a care in the world. “Shit,” you breathe out, brows furrowed.

“That’s it,” he coaxes. “You get it, hm? ‘M’about to be a daddy,” he tells you softly, kissing any part of your face he could. “Can’t go around fuckin’ dumb birds like you.”

You bite at his shoulder in retaliation for his comment, making him laugh. “That’s what gets you g-goin’ nowadays, hm?” you ask, going a bit cross eyed as he starts circling your clit with a calloused finger. “Bein’ called daddy?”

He laughs lightly and pinches your clit harshly, making you keen and cry at the same time, legs trying to slam shut. “I already fuckin’ told you what gets me going,” he tells you.

You squeeze your cunt around him purposefully just to hear him moan pathetically. Then, you take his left hand in yours, both of your rings aligning as you surge forward and kiss him, messy and hard as he nips at you, hands roving to your hips to turn you around, tracing a pathy up your arms to place them on the balustrade, before returning them to your hips to fuck into your with no limits.

You bend over for him, moaning like a whore as he presses down on your clit and thrusts relentlessly against your g-spot, making you cum with a white hot sensation that sends your body shaking against his, supporting you as he bends down with his chest to your back and his hands on your tits as he keeps going, kissing your bare shoulder as he whispers words that you can’t catch in your post-orgasmic state. And when he finally cums, he holds you with so much force that you think he might just squeeze the life out of you, his cum filling you up as you vaguely think about what lie to tell your new husband.

By the time you turn around and get cleaned up, Noel’s already back to how he was before.

“Call me when you get that divorce,” he tells you, buttoning up his trousers.

You hum and fluff your hair back up to its normal state. “Let me know when you get yours,” you shoot back, giving his cheek one last kiss before sauntering out, ready to be the picture perfect wife.

Well, one who just shagged her ex-husband in a hidden alcove of her reception, that is. But who cares? You sit by your husband in front of everyone, you kiss him when the champagne flutes chime in a chorus, you dance in that practiced routine you’ve been fretting about for days.

And though Noel leaves the reception early, claiming that he needs to get home to his pregnant wife, it’s hard to miss the gift he leaves you. One that was definitely not on the registry as it sits out in the courtyard of your reception venue, a large bow tacked to the hood and a number plate that spells out your initials.

A fully restored vintage Rolls Royce sits there waiting for you, your name on the ownership papers, the tag on the ribbon spelling out something that makes you laugh out loud.

Here’s something fun to ride

xx Noel

A star is born: Noel Gallagher and Meg Matthews welcome baby girl Anais

January 27, 2000

Written by Diane Dickinson

It seems like it’s time to put the cigarettes and alcohol down and start putting those nappies and milk bottles up. Party girl and columnist Meg Matthews gives birth to a glowing baby girl with rocker husband Noel Gallagher of Oasis today, marking the beginning of a new chapter for the happy couple.

The new parents met in 1998 after Gallagher’s divorce from his then-wife. They spent some time getting to know each other under the Ibizan sun, soaking up the rays and letting go of their pasts. They officially stepped out as a couple at the 1998 Brit Awards, making a splash with their covert displays of affection and their intimate whispers to each other over the smattering of conversation.

Noel’s brother, Liam has welcomed two of his own children in the past three years, his hands even more full now with a baby niece to take care of. “I’m on my way to the hospital now, yeah,” says Liam as our reporters requested a statement off him as he leaves his Camden home with his signature swagger. “But ‘r’kid says that she doesn’t have our eyebrows. Thank fuck for that.”

We here at the London Journal congratulate Gallagher and Matthews for the new addition to their family.

2001

You wanted to give Noel’s hairdresser the sloppiest fuck they’d ever had in their life.

Noel looked unfairly good with that new haircut of his, rendering you soaking wet whenever any of his new stuff hit MTV and left you so desperate that you’d end up shagging your clueless fucking husband instead. The same husband who was wondering why you were insisting on him having his hair cut in a particular way, the same husband that doesn’t understand how that haircut has led him to having the best sex of his life, the same husband that thinks that he’s got the picture perfect wife.

It’s been ages since you and Noel had last fucked. In fact, the last time had been at your wedding, only thirty minutes after you’ve said I do to Billy, and you were already off and busy getting fucked by your ex-husband.

But it was no matter. It wasn’t a big deal. You had many other things to worry about, like your show, and your new album, and a new tour, and rehearsals, and every single thing aside from how good Noel looks with that fucking haircut.

He hasn’t divorced Meg. In fact, Noel becomes the husband of the year alongside being father of the year. He’s splashed all over the papers, the new family man of Britain, as you snort to yourself and try not to think about how he said he’d find you after his divorce.

So you don’t divorce your husband, either. Not even when he’s been boring you to tears and you’ve been shagging his co-star behind his back.

So even though you were busy with the up and up of your career, you’ve grown terribly bored once again. So bored that you even bring out your vibrator for a fun little romp, pathetically waiting for the interview you’d had an eye on since it had been announced. And as soon as Noel is shown on screen, you turn the dial up on your vibrator and let the image of him take you away.

It’s annoying, the way that he’s got you like this. Does he ever see you modelling for those new lingerie brands and gave himself a tug? Does he ever think of you when he’s deep inside his wife and pretend that it’s you? Does he ever wish that he could call and just drop by your house for a shag just like old times?

You bite a groan and throw the vibrator away frustratedly, staring at contempt at Noel and his stupidly good looking face. You’ve had fucking enough of whatever bullshit level you were in this game. So with a bitten off growl, you rise from the couch and go back up to your room to rummage for something to change the tides once more.

Wonderballs: Oasis’ Noel Gallagher’s sextape with ex-model leaked!

April 05, 2001

Written by Philippe Jay

It seems like this dynamic duo still hasn’t had enough of their time in the spotlight. You may remember them as a pair of hellraisers back in the 1996 entertainment scene. There seemed to be no day in that period of history where the two haven’t managed to weasel their way in to a headline or two, and most of the time — they did it together.

Known for their public feud over Gallagher’s then girlfriend Carmen Beauvois, the two made quite the stir as they constantly tried to ruin each others’ careers — Noel in music and our lovely ex-model with her hit show Sex, Scandals, and Secrets. But that same year, the two create the headline of the century as they hook up in a public bathroom, both of their partners stood behind the door just waiting for them to emerge.

The pair wed in 1998 at a drunken Las Vegas wedding to which none of their friends or family attended. They subsequently file for divorce just five months later with both of them admitting to infidelity during the court proceedings. It’s only then that Gallagher meets his now wife, Meg Matthews and our loudmouthed host cuddles up to producer Warner Gerry, who she eventually broke up with after three months. She is now married to actor Billy Frederick, star of the critically acclaimed Pillowhead franchise.

But it seems that history has a way of coming back as today, the pair’s intimate videos have been leaked to the press and have been made accessible to people all over Britain. Now, we at the London Herald aren’t one for vulgar details, and we urge everyone to respect Gallagher and our host’s privacy.

We asked for a statement from Noel’s brother, Liam, only for the man to shove at one of our reporters and say, “Why the fuck are people always askin’ me questions about those two?” he cries frustratedly before walking off.

We wish the pair all the best in these trying times. And if anything, this serves as a reminder for everyone to stay safe with any naughty videos they’ve got with them.

2002

What happens when you put a bunch of rowdy musicians in one yacht? Furthermore, what happens when two divorcees find themselves in the same party on the same night? Well, give them enough drinks and …

“I, Noel Thomas David Gallagher, take you to be my lawfully wedded wife,” he says, hands holding onto yours as everyone in the yacht cheers, your minister the captain of the ship, smiling as he looks on at you and Noel. “I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

And as everyone hollers their commentary, drunk off the overflowing liquor that the party yacht had been serving all night, the captain pronounces, “I pronounce you, husband and wife,” he says, the words bringing you a sense of deja vu as you waggle your brows at Noel who does the same. “You may now kiss the bride!”

Truthfully, you weren’t as drunk as you had been on your first wedding. And looking at Noel, you knew that he wasn’t either. But what else would possess the two of you to get hitched in the middle of the ocean in front of the industry’s current greats after not seeing each other for more than a year?

“I, Marcus Hernandez, take you, Carmen Beavouis to be my lawfully wedded wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

That’s what. Because apparently, there wasn’t a better time than then and there to get married — not when Carmen has researched the fact that captains can officiate weddings, not when her and Marcus have been hiding their love and can’t help it anymore, not when the two of them proclaim than they’d die if they don’t get married right that second.

And for the first time in a year, you and Noel lock eyes and share twin looks of disgust at the proclamations. A clear provocation from Carmen, who had gone and gotten her attitude back and was now back on track to ruining your life.

Well, good on her. But she’s been out of the game for a while and is clearly a bit rusty if she thinks that you won’t stoop down to her level.

Noel agrees to your proposal without fanfare, nodding like you had just asked him to go out for a ice cream rather than get married to each other again. And when pressed about it, he merely shrugs, “We’ve done it before,” he says. “We can do it again.”

So the two of you do it again, outshining the bride and groom as you proclaim that both you and Noel would throw yourselves overboard if the captain refuses to marry you right that second. Which leaves you here, married once again, sporting ugly rings again, and seasick on a yacht as Noel holds your hair for you while you throw up into the water.

“Is it that awful bein’ married to me?” he asks jokingly as you gag. And when you glare at him he laughs. “Oh, come on. You weren’t like this the first time around!”

Your second marriage to Noel is less turbulent. Though Liam still believes that you and Noel could still implode at any moment (and if you’re being honest, so do you), things settle in a way they haven’t before.

Noel agrees to live in your old Highgate townhouse, the two of you buy a chateau in France, then a villa in Spain, playing monopoly with your shared money and jetting to your properties whenever you needed a vacation and a classy fuck.

Noel’s daughter is a peach, coming over at yours for the weekend and playing Barbies and princesses with you and her dad until she passes out in her cute pink comforter.

It’s all deceptively domestic, the way you build routines around one another, the way your lives meld into one, the way that Noel becomes the one you wake up to and the one you come home to.

And when the boredom creeps back up, Noel fixes it by making sure that you stay; he brings home Butter, a tiny Maine Coon that looks up at you with docile eyes that somehow tear up whenever you tell her no and cries whenever you so much as leave the couch for a glass of water. She purrs when you so much as look at her and butts up against you wherever you go. She trails after you with her tiny paws and she flicks you with her tail whenever she pleased.

“It’s like you’re baby trapping me,” you lament to him one night as you brush your teeth right next to him, Butter sitting pretty between the two of you. “How can I fuckin’ leave her?”

He grins at you, foamy toothpaste in his mouth. “That’s the fuckin’ point,” he says. “She loves me, she loves you, and she’d fuckin’ throw a fit if you ever leave.”

You glare at him. “Is this your way of letting me know you don’t want me to leave.”

He spits the toothpaste out on the sink. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

By the time that Noel leaves for America once more, Butter has reluctantly been added to the family. Which means that on the night that you get that fateful call from an American hospital, the one asking if you were Noel Gallagher’s wife and if you could come quick because he’d been in an accident, you had nowhere to leave the stupid cat. So you pack your bags in the middle of the night, you knock on every door in the street to ask for a pet carrier, and you jet to the airport and demand a ticket for you and your cat in first class.

The headline makes Noel laugh when he sees it, laying in the hospital bed and looking worse for wear as you scold him. “Not fucking funny, Noel,” you say, glaring at him as he gazed up at you with amusement in his eyes. “You could have died.”

He arches a brow. “Mad that you couldn’t get to do it yourself?”

You huff. “And you’d leave me all alone with the cat, too,” you say. “He’s your fucking cat!”

2003

Oasis hits a plateau just as you rush up the ladder. Doors to the fashion industry once more as you finally close out a final episode with Sex, Scandals, and Secrets and start a new show under Britain’s Next Top Model.

You start getting invites to walk runways, you release another album that goes to the top of the charts, and Butter is still Butter who likes to seat herself between you and Noel on the couch. 2003 is good, the headlines are filled with your name, but with less scandal this time around.

2004

Noel meets Sara MacDonald in a hazy Ibiza night club and proclaims that he loves her enough to leave you. So you let him. Why would you keep around a man who didn’t want to stay? So you file for divorce once more and go through the entire cycle all over again. Besides, you had been getting bored again as of late, the itch in the back of your skull telling you that you’ve been too domestic with Noel as of late. Him and his daughter and that stupid cat.

The same cat that can’t go two days without looking for you. Which is how Noel ends up outside your doorstep, frowning as he carries a bushy looking Butter who looked like a jolly little fuck. “You took your time answering,” he greets dryly as you swing the door open.

You hum and pay him no mind, immediately reaching for Butter whose tail was swinging like a pendulum as you scratched at her chin. “Hello, fatty,” you coo, more fond than you’d ever admit. Then, because you knew it’d annoy Noel further, you called out behind you, “Liam! Noel and Butter are here!”

So, you shacked up with Liam after the divorce. Sue you if you were a bit bitter of Noel ending things over some chick he met in a nightclub. And Liam knew what he was getting into, a divorcee himself, he just wanted something fun and light with someone he didn’t have to work to woo. That’s where you come in, with a proposal that he couldn’t pass up; buying a house in Camden together, splitting utilities and being housemates, and shagging whenever either of you got the particular itch for it. And if Liam ever needed help with Molly or Lennon, he’d come to you.

So it wasn’t anything serious, both of you knew that it was just for convenience and appearances. But if the pair of you stirred trouble by pretending it was more than it was in front of Noel …

Well, Noel wasn’t too happy about that. But Butter’s mood had swayed him to visit at least once a week, making sure that he always saw you and Liam in the house you bought and shared.

Liam clomps his way out of the kitchen and greets his brother with a nod, grabbing Butter off his arms and plonking her in your awaiting arms instead. “See you at the studio?” Liam asks perfunctorily.

Noel nods, not betraying a single emotion. “I’ll pick up Butter tomorrow.”

Liam salutes. “Aye, aye!”

Noel rolls his eyes.

You smile and kiss Butter’s fur, driving the knife further as you wave her little paw and say, “Now, say goodbye to daddy!”

Liam shuts the door in Noel’s face before he could even reply.

2005

You find out through Liam that Noel and Sara break up that Fall. He saunters through the front door of your shared home, plonks himself down on the couch and begins his tale. Noel had grown tired, she had stolen his passport and gone berzerk, Noel had even sought refuge at Gem’s house for a short while. You listen to him with rapt attention, eyes furrowed as you follow along before asking the important question;

“Now what the fuck’s that gotta do with me?” you ask, to which Liam only shrugs and turns the telly on to some mindless thing that the two of you loved gorging on.

So what if Noel and Sara had broken up. Serves him fucking right, if anyone asks you.

You and Noel see each other every week, now. And he had made no mention of this development in his relationship. Just last week, the two of you had brought both Butter and Anais to the park, and you pretended not to preen as the paparazzi caught photos of you.

It wasn’t the frist time that happened either. The month before, you and Noel were spotted taking Butter to a dog-friendly ice cream parlor that you wanted to try. The week before that, you and Noel brought Butter to the beach. The week before that, you and Noel brought Butter to a playdate with one of your modelling friends. It wasn’t uncommon for you and Noel to spend time together, Butter or Anais acting as a buffer between the two of you. And it wasn’t uncommon either for you to get so worked up from hanging out with him so casually that you end up tumbling into Liam’s bed right after.

The game’s over, you think to yourself. He had chosen Sara over you, and what you and Liam had was neither stable nor boring — it was a landing strip for wherever else you wanted to go. So you let the news of their break up slide past you instead of letting it fester. You continue as a judge on Britain’s Next Top Model, you walk the runway once more for Vivienne Westwood, and you sign a deal to make a record for a charity album.

And as it turns out, Noel signs that same deal. And Liam, the cheeky fucker made no mention of it to you.

“Oh,” says Noel as he walks in to see you on the studio couch. “You,” he says.

“Me,” you answer dryly.

Noel coughs. “Didn’t know that you were on this album.”

You shrug, not looking him in the eye. “Didn’t know I had to tell you every fucking thing.”

He jolts back before rearranging his features, shifting as he says, “Well, this is a nice start,” he tacks on making you roll your eyes, to which he snaps, “Oh, don’t fuckin’ do that.”

You roll your eyes again just to spite him. “Do what?” you challenge.

He grits his teeth. “Act like I’m the one that went and fucked your brother then went and bought a fucking house with ‘im!”

You laugh in disbelief and push at his chest. “You’re the one that wanted a divorce so you could go and chase after that angel that appeared out of the smoke of a nightclub,” you say mimicking his words from an interview you had watched and pretended not to be hurt by.

He frowns. “But you said that that marriage wasn’t even fuckin’ real! Jus’ something to piss Carmen off!” he yells, the emptiness of the studio echoing his words back to him and piercing you right in the heart.

“I lied!” you explode. “I fuckin’ lied, Noel. And if you haven’t noticed after two marriages, then I hope you’re noticing now that I tend to fuckin’ do that a lot.”

His nostrils flare as his blue eyes search yours in confusion. “Then stop fuckin’ lyin’ and just say what you mean for once in your goddamn fuckin’ life!”

You grit your teeth, your head pounding and blood roaring in your veins as you speak with vitriol and longing coating your words. “I’m tired of this fucking game,” you push out. “I’m exhausted and I’m frustrated, and I can’t keep doing this anymore.”

He huffs. “You’re the one that started it.”

You blink at him before bearing your teeth in annoyance. “Ten fucking years ago, Noel!” you yell, so loud that the glass of the console table rattles. “It was ten years ago in my stupid talk show that doesn’t even exist anymore. But then you go and continue it and chase after Sara. So I go and give you the divorce you so clearly wanted, and you get mad when I run to Liam for some comfort.”

“Some comfort,” he scoffs. “You mean a shag.”

You let your features twist with displeasure, “Yes, Noel,” you growl out. “A shag. I shag your brother because I get so fucking lonely with this game we invented. There’s no one out there that could match me the way that you do. Not even Liam. But he’s as close as I can get to you, so what does it matter if I shag him?”

“It matters ‘cause he’s my brother!” protests Noel. “He’s my brother and your my missus —”

“Ex-missus!” you correct him, annoyed. “You signed those divorce papers willingly, Noel!”

“Yeah, and I’m fuckin’ regrettin’ it!” he finally says. “I regret ever goin’ after Sara, I regret asking for that divorce, I regret saying that that second marriage wasn’t ever real because it was. It was the only time I felt normal and the only time I’ve let my guard down like that. You — you fuckin’ keep me on my toes, and you drive me mad, and I think I’d actually die if you stop fuckin’ paying attention to me,” he huffs out, eyes desperate and wide as he tells this to you, the first time you’ve ever heard Noel speak about his feelings, and most probably the last time as well. “And I want you to stop doin’ whatever it is you’re doin’ with Liam and pay attention to me instead,” he huffs.

And before you could answer, the door swings open and the crew along with the band walks in, intruding on a moment they didn’t even know was happening as they greet you and Noel with easy smiles and delightful chirps.

Noel’s shoulders deflate and that’s when you make the decision. You lean over, just so that your mouth was near his ear to whisper, “Nice speech, Casanova,” you snort. “Wanna talk more about it over dinner tonight? That old Chinese place we used to go to the first time around? You can have Liam catsit Butter, he hasn’t much going on, anyway.”

For the first time, you see the twitch of hope blooming in Noel’s smile as he agrees.

It’s a date.

2006

Third time’s the charm? Oasis star Noel Gallagher and ex-wife of two marriages tie the knot … again

December 08, 2006

Written by Yancy Salvador

It is often said that third time’s the charm, but could this be applied to Noel Gallagher and our dear model?

The pair have had a turbulent history, dating back a decade as 1996 sees the era of vitriol and harsh headlines between the two of them. From the very beginning, the two of them start off on the wrong foot — with both of them being locked into relationships as they hook up in the bathroom stalls at an afterparty for a film viewing.

But that didn’t seem to stop them. That was only just the beginning of their decade long on-and-off relationship, with the two getting married in February of 1998 before divorcing in July of the same year.

Their patterns seem to catch up to them as they begin another tumultuous affair, with Noel married to now ex-wife Meg Matthews and our host married to actor Billy Frederick.

Ten years later, the pair still haven’t calmed down, instead choosing to test their luck and get married at an uncharacteristically quiet civil registry ceremony with only their parents in attendance.

Gallagher is a father to Anais Gallagher, whose mother is Meg Matthews. He is a dedicated co-parent and a stellar father, according to sources close to him. Meanwhile, our host does not have any children from her previous relationships, only having Butter, her Maine Coon with whom she shares with Gallagher.

When asked for a statement, brother Liam says, “Ah, didn’t they divorce already?” he asks confusedly to one of our reporters. When informed of the news of the recent marriage, he only shrugs, “Well, congrats to those crazy cats. Maybe they could finally invite me to the next wedding. F***ers.”

But if the bump she was sporting this morning at a Givenchy showcase was anything to go by, we’d say that another hellraiser is on the way. We at the Telegraph congratulate the couple on their third nuptials, continuing their tradition of keeping us on our toes.

lainey’s delivery service: @strwbryluver @gxnyadavid @bigbluedoeyes @highflyingcami @invinsabel @bunnyhopella @anjalfc @akasheselectric @simoneeyy @ngmyfav @ghostinyourhome @alicehighflyingbirds @veruschkaaaa @shesselectricc @youretheoutcast @connieloveslove @meggyboots @noelgallagherswifee @sonnyangel11 @babywewereborn @glaeiv @dirtyshirtgirll @charmlessgrrl @thegiriinthedirtyshirt @dilfliamgallagherishisbestera @oasisswag @d8isyann @letgotstyles @halftheworldawayy @celestialgallaghers @oliverwoodsravenclw @oliviastring @pugatr0n @xerxeneea @dancinginredshoes11 (join thru the link/ dm to be removed) 💋

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