i love my mutuals because we never talk but we still… like… follow each other……….. and i admire that we stick together even tho there is no communication in the slightest………u kno what i mean… hello…
Can't wait for more dilf Noel smut. Old man huffing and puffing can't last more than one round and then talks abt how he's glad he got in all that fingering practice when he was younger so he could use it now on his younger gf. Need dat. 😩😩
omg was thinking this like everyone needs to write them being more old rn!!!! liam hip replacement and them being out of breath talking about how they’re not young anymore and maybe sometimes needing viagra but then at least they can go a couple more rounds (?? is that true #fakeoldmanfucker) the kinda unsexy parts are so sexy…. i can romanticise anything if u give me a chance…
anyways i talked about this w @highflyingcami and we r starting a campaign. we will get hats. stickers perhaps. the #oldmanfucking billboard hits times square on monday actually.
just washed my dog and it was so fun😭 i love washing him in summer cause after i dry him with his towel he shakes and always splashes me 😭😭 he's just a tiny wet gremlin
ok i was talking w my #tumbaddies abt this but i need everyone in laineyland to walk with me rn.
you’re a fresh graduate and new to the industry of music when you start as an intern at oasis’ team. it’s around 2008, so tension is alr brewing and the brothers are already at odds. but you forge on and try making a name for yourself in the industry, going above and beyond your duties. this catches liam’s eye as he makes sure that you’re always assigned to him during gigs, he flirts with you to which you always respond with a roll of your eyes and a reminder that he’s married and a father, and he makes sure to involve your name in conversations bc he knows you’re bright and have places to go. he sets you up with people he knows and your career begins to steadily take off.
then, 2009 happens and oasis splits up, and to liam: utter betrayal and horror, you join noel and the high flying birds team. he finds out just as he’s about to offer you a job for beady eye, because he knows just how talented you are, but gets absolutely jealous when he finds out you’ve already sided with noel.
but the thing is, somehow and some way your paths cross with liam again and the two of you start something. he’s mid-divorce, his band just broke up, and beady eye’s sales are at a downward slope so he’s not really the liam you know anymore. he’s angry and irrational and annoyed all the time, and what better way to get his frustrations out than by fucking the pretty girl in her cute skirts and glossy lips?
impulsively, he buys you an apartment near him sk that he can come over anytime he wants, he buys you clothes just so he can see you wear it for noel’s events, he leaves hickeys when he knows you gotta be up early the next day to meet with noel. just full on situationship with beady eye liam.
he fucks you stupid everytime to try and get noel’s secrets out of you, you ride him like you hate him everytime you see him trying it on with another girl. liam’s so annoyed at the fact that he basically set up your career and you still end up siding with noel. and you’re annoyed at him for thinkinf that you owe him your service with beady eye. at one point, liam fucks you so dumb before work that you mess up noel’s schedule, and noel gets so angry at you that you hunt liam down in the city, drag him by the ear out of the pub, and put your frustrations out on him, because really, it’s all his fault. so you tie him up, blindfold him, and fuck him so violently that he genuinely believes that you hate him more than anyone in the world.
BONUS: gem absolutely knows what’s going on. he knows you’re part of noel’s team and sees you with him at the office, and he can see you coming out of liam’s hotel room shaky legged and with mascara tracks down your face. and gem really won’t tell the brothers … just for a small price.
finally reader goes at noel's house in manchester!!! i wanted to write smut for this chapter, butttttt i want to add it to the next one where we'll have the smut + confession!!! brushing my hands together like a fly.......enjoy!!!
tags : fluff, mentions of kissing and petting, these two are in love good for them
CHAPTER FOUR
The freezing cold entered your veins as soon as you put a foot outside your house.
The sky was still dark since it was 7 in the morning and your mother insisted on taking you personally to the train station, so at 5am she woke you up and, after getting ready, you kissed your cat goodbye and exited from the front door with your luggage and backpack.
It was hard persuading your mum to make you go to another city, completely alone, sleeping in a boy’s house she didn’t even know personally.
But, after talking on the phone with Peggy, she convinced herself that Noel was a good guy and that same was his family, good enough to leave them her precious daughter for a whole week.
When you arrived at the platform where your train was about to depart, you hugged your mum tight and, when she kissed your cheeks, she said “Call me when you arrive, alright?” and you nodded.
It was your first time away from home, except for the summer camp, but you were with your friends there, which was completely different from now.
After two hours, that you spent reading or listening to the tape Noel made for you on your cassette player, you could see the signs of Manchester Piccadilly.
And you felt your heart explode in your chest.
In one of your last calls with Noel, you said to him that you’d arrive there at 11am.
Holding your backpack and your luggage you went down the train’s stairs on the platform, searching with your gaze a sign of Noel or Liam.
When someone shove you with their shoulder, you heard a very recognizable voice calling for you and you raised your eyes.
Liam, who was wearing a parka and a wool hat on his very long hair, ran to you and hugged you so tight you weren’t able to breathe.
“Hey, hey, Li…i’m happy to see you too” you said.
He smiled “Sorry if i came picking you up, but…Noel had to do an extra shift at the shop”.
“Oh, you said…it sucks”
“Yeah, well, they’ll pay him more, so ‘s okay”.
He walked you out of the station and you met Manchester’s sky, full of clouds, but still an enjoyable weather, much more than London.
He took you to a car, where a woman was sitting, waiting for you; she had short blonde hair, a pair of pearl earrings, blue eyes and a little smile you found immediately very familiar “Oh, here you are dear!” she said.
“That’s me mum” said Liam.
“Nice to meet you love, i’m Peggy” she said, getting out of the car to hug you.
You could recognize her accent was different even from her kids’ and you remembered how Noel told you that their parents were from Ireland and emigrated in Manchester and you nodded to yourself, as you were connecting the dots.
“We’re so happy to have you here, love” she said as she started the engine.
“I hope i’m not bothering you”
“No bother, Paul’s room has been empty for ages and i’m so happy to finally have a girl in our house!” she laughed, after Liam whispered an “Oi” offended.
The city was much better than London; less crowded, slower life, more parks, gardens…it felt fresh, new.
Their house was small, but comfortable.
When you stepped inside you could’ve smell what was a cake maybe baked a few hours before by Peggy.
Liam immediately showed you his room, or better, his and Noel’s room; full of posters, Noel’s guitars (one acoustic and one electric) on their stands, lots and lots of notebooks on a table, some old books on two shelves hanging on a wall and some other things that were maybe from their childhood.
You spent the evening with Liam, laughing at how enthusiastic he was of having who he called his “best friend” here with him after all those months.
At night, after dinner, the front door clicked open and Noel appeared on the threshold, with his jacket slightly damp, probably by rain outside, a bag in his hand.
His blue eyes lighting up as soon as he saw you, sitting on the couch, Liam next to you and Peggy washing the dishes from dinner.
You stood up and immediately ran into his arms, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his cologne still attached to his skin “Fuckin’ miss ya” he whispered in your ear.
Liam cleared his throat, laughing and looking behind his shoulder to see the face his mam was making at that scene “Me too” you breathed.
“I’ve got something for you” he said, holding his bag up in front of your face.
You made a surprised expression and took the bag from his hands, opening it and finding a vinyl, a Bob Dylan vinyl “No fucking way” you said.
It was an old edition of The Times They Are a-Changing, you looked up at him again “S the…the first print, y’know?” he said “Noel, the fuck are you saying”, he laughed.
“M serious, they got it at the store and…i had to spend my 50% off and…thought you might’ve liked it”.
You immediately jumped and hugged him again, squeaking like a kid, while he span you around a little “You’re fuckin amazing” and he smiled.
It was half past ten in the night when Peggy went to bed, kissing your temple and disappearing behind her door, leaving you in her kids’ room, sure you’d go to sleep in Paul’s bedroom very soon.
But you had to make up all the things you couldn’t tell the boys in all those months, so you stood up late, sitting on the floor, talking under your breaths so that Peggy wouldn’t wake up.
All at once Liam started slowly to drift off, his eyes closing while he was mid conversation with you, making you giggle, so you adjusted the blanket on his shoulders, leaving him to sleep.
With only the light of a small little table lamp in the room, you crawled inside of Noel’s bed, your feet covered in fluffy pink socks brushing against his naked ones, he smiled while putting his head on the big ass pillow “You sleep with socks on?”.
“It’s bloody freezing, Noel”
“I’ll keep you warm”, but the only thing that was getting warm were your cheeks from his little cheeky comment.
You ended up whispering things in each other’s ears, giggling softly and exchanging small kisses on your cheeks and lips like two teenagers.
One particular kiss turned into a makeout session, slow, full of the thick emotions only two people who didn’t see each other for six months could put in it.
His lips moved gracefully on yours, they were soft, warm and a little wet from your spit mixing in the kiss.
He pulled out and looked at your eyes, your expression; frowned eyebrows, lips still a little puckered up and red, eyes glowing in a light that said everything you couldn’t put into words in that moment.
His hand caressed your hip, under the shirt of your pajama and you shivered slightly, closing your eyes at the feeling of his fingers sliding down to your lower belly, just above the hem of your knickers.
You gasped under your breath, forehead falling on his shoulder as he chuckled at your reaction “Shhh, or Liam’s gonna wake up”.
“Fu-” but you couldn’t finish cause he kissed you again, harder now, full of new found passion.
That night there was nothing more than a bit of touching upon and under clothes, kisses, some hickeys on your neck and Noel’s hands sliding to grab your ass and tits, making you giggle under the covers.
He didn’t want to rush you at all, just having you that close, for him, was enough.
But maybe, a few days later, a particular event would make you give yourself completely to him.
collecting images where noel looks like the manager of a very understaffed it department and he seems to hate everyone there and chainsmokes at his desk and hes shit at his job but hes the best to gossip with
my dad is such a fucking kid sometimes, he acts like a fucking child, a 5 year old is more mature than him istg,,,, he was SUPER SWEATY cause it's hot af here today and he decided to put our fan BEHIND HIS SWEATY BACK and i told him "you can't do that, you'll get sick or you'll get backache" and he told me "shut up im hot" alright man well don't come at me when you'll get sick cause i won't help u
[24/09/2017] NOEL GALLAGHER ANNOUNCES HIS THIRD STUDIO ALBUM: noel gallagher has confirmed the november 24 release of the third high flying birds album, 'who built the moon?' and concert dates at the [...]
i.
“You can’t judge me when you got sprinkles.” Noel quips, turning away from where he’d been watching his boys walk three strides ahead, in that way kids always seem to love doing, hoping someone passing by might mistake them for being out on their own rather than with their dad and nanny in tow. He nods towards your cone, ignoring the way the late-summer sun has been tickling the back of his neck, probably turning it an unattractive shade of pink. “Pure sugar, that.”
“I like them. It kinda looks like a watercolour painting, see.” Taking one last lick for good measure, you hold it out, referring to the way the brightly coloured sugar had melted and bled into the white ice cream. It’s such a sweet thing to say, so romantic in the face of the mundane that Noel can’t help but smile from ear to ear, with the corners of his eyes crinkling up with joy; it’s oddly something he’s found himself doing a lot more since you’ve been around, though he usually puts it down to the fact he likes seeing his kids look so happy in your company. “It’s better than mint choc chip, anyway.”
“No. It’s fucking great, this.” He defends, hearing you scoff in disagreement beside him. Earlier, in between phone calls regarding the rollout of his new album and greeting his kids as they came home from school, he’d promised to take them for ice cream as soon as he finished for the day, only for them to vehemently insist that you had to come along too, despite the fact that you technically finished at five and it was now verging on seven, with the sky slowly fading into an orange glow as the sun begins to set.
“So are sprinkles.” You lick a bit of ice cream from where it had trickled down to your thumb, and Noel suddenly looks away as if he’s intruding on something private, immediately taking great interest in the way his shoes thud against the pavement and fiddling with the pair of sunglasses he’d thrown on before you’d all left. It’d been a month and a half since you’d both first met, and though it somehow felt like you’d been in his life for years, he still sometimes finds himself being strangely cautious around you; it’s perhaps something he’ll unpack later, while he’s staring at the ceiling in some hotel room on tour.
“Too much chewing with sprinkles.” Shaking his head, he comments. Though he didn't mind bits of chocolate, and maybe a flake or a wafer at a push, he drew the line at sprinkles, along with those cheap, gooey sauces they always sell from ice cream vans that somehow always stick to the roof of his mouth like glue; something he used to love as a kid, that he now can’t stomach for the life of him, no matter how hard he tries for the sake of nostalgia. “It’s a waste of time.”
“You sound ninety already.” Watching you speak, Noel can see his own reflection in your sunglasses, and where the bridge of your nose has gone all sunkissed from being outside for most of the summer; learning the art of football through the advice of his sons, and treating his garden as though it were a Premier League football pitch, rather than a patch of green in one of the most expensive neighbourhoods in London.
“I’m practising. Only got forty years to go.” The joke sounded much funnier in his head, made him feel witty rather than geriatric, though saying it aloud seems to be a different story entirely, and he takes a big bite out of the side of his cone to distract himself from wanting the ground to swallow him up. Looking ahead, he watches his kids thoughtfully share their different ice cream flavours in a rare act of diplomacy, and the sticky mess of strawberry that’s now dripping down his youngest son's arm and onto the material of his school shirt. “How does he manage to get it everywhere like that?”
“It melts pretty quickly.” Laying your tongue flat, you absentmindedly lap up another mouthful of vanilla, and Noel quickly looks away again. It’s quiet outside, with everyone in their houses having their dinner, and he tries to take a deep breath to catch the scent of freshly mowed grass in the air. To fill the silence, he’s about to make a teasing comment about Sonny being a ‘scruffy little fucker’ before an elderly woman out watering her potted plants does it for him.
“Mum and Dad bought you ice cream? Lucky things.” She grins as you all walk past, standing on her front steps and holding a posh-looking watering can with the kind of confidence only experienced gardeners seem to possess. The sentence makes his stomach do a funny lurch, and his teeth clench, though it oddly doesn’t make him entirely uncomfortable. Perhaps with your sunglasses on, it’s easier to assume you're closer to his age, rather than a couple of generations apart.
“Sorry.” Noel apologises once you’re both out of earshot, a couple of houses down, after walking in a stifling silence that made his skin crawl. “Should’ve said something.” Though he has no visceral reaction to the comment himself, he’s sure being mistaken for your boss's wife and the mother of his children isn’t the most pleasant thing in the world, and he feels like he has some sort of duty of care as your employer to make sure you aren’t ever uncomfortable; especially now that he can't afford to lose you, since he dreads the reaction of his kids if he ever had to break the news that you’d quit.
“It’s alright.” Judging by your reaction, you hadn’t thought anything of it at all; neither good nor bad. It’s probably something you’ve gotten before while working for other people, and nowadays, a comment like that is the equivalent of water off a duck's back. The kids shout something unrelated back to you as you’re both walking, perhaps an inside joke Noel isn’t in on and never will be, and then you finish the conversation with a shrug. “There’d be no point.”
ii.
Two coffees down and trying to keep his eyes open, Noel stares at his phone, attempting to muster up enough brainpower to type out a text without littering it with a dozen spelling mistakes. Though he’s used to being up early, thanks to both his gruelling tour schedules and having three kids, he still can’t quite stomach the daytime television version of it, with the cheery voices of the employees ringing in his ears and the bright dressing room lights making his head throb.
Swearing under his breath, he deletes his sentence and begins retyping his text for the third time; the constant notifications of his WhatsApp group chats make the simple task twice as difficult, and do nothing to ease the symptoms of his growing headache. Halfway through checking his message to make sure it isn’t pure gibberish, your name pops up at the top of the screen, and his breath stalls for a second, clearly forgetting that he’d always had your details sitting there in his contacts list, ready in case you ever needed them in an emergency.
Clicking on the little banner at the top of his screen and abandoning his unsent message altogether, he’s slightly disappointed to see that it’s just a picture; part of him wants to know how you text, and if you use cute little corresponding emojis or a bunch of crosses at the end to symbolise kisses. It takes a second to load, and he twiddles his ring around on his finger as he stares impatiently at that annoying loading circle which always seems to take forever. Bouncing his leg up and down, he chews impatiently on the end of his fingernail.
Finally it loads, and he’s faced with a picture of both his sons eating breakfast in front of the television, already absent-mindedly watching the programme he’s about to promote his new album on as they get ready for school. The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile, and, in typical dad fashion, he replies with a smiley face and a quip about not getting cereal on the carpet. Truthfully, he’d do just about anything to be there in that photo; sprawled out on the sofa and sipping his coffee, able to slowly wake up for the day on his own terms instead of being thrust under some studio lights in front of the nation.
He’s about to click away, go back to typing out that text, though instead, his finger hovers over the photo you’d set as your profile picture, staring at the way it sits there, tauntingly next to your name. Passing it off as curiosity, a way to pass the time instead of twiddling his thumbs, he presses on it, letting it fill his screen. His stomach flutters, and though he no longer gets nervous about these types of interviews, he still puts it down to the fact that he’s about to go on television, since it’s easier than admitting the alternative; that it’s something to do with you, the person he agreed to hire.
It's a photo of you, a selfie technically, with your hair spread out slightly where you’re lying down. There’s some grass behind you, and the striped material of a blanket, and he assumes it was taken when you were out having a picnic; he’d heard you mention the fact that you sometimes go and sit on Primrose Hill with your friends when it’s sunny outside, drinking wine and people watching until the sun sets and the chill becomes unavoidable.
Even though it’s cropped into a perfect square, he can still see the thin straps on your shoulders, and he wonders if you’re wearing either a dress or a top, and if the material had teasingly slipped off your shoulder every time you moved to fill up your cup of wine or talked animatedly as you explained some story; maybe one about him, where he hopes you see him as something other than your grumpy boss, or maybe it was about something else entirely, since it was probably taken well before you’d met him.
It makes his chest feel tight with how pretty you look, and he nibbles on the end of his fingernails even more, as though that will relieve the stress of whatever new emotion this is; one he feels too scared to address, which he’ll have to avoid from now on like the plague. Despite this, he still finds himself moving his fingers and pressing the screenshot button, as if having your photo sitting there in his camera roll might soothe the new inner turmoil he’s going through, rather than perpetuate it further.
“Mr Gallagher, we’re looking at about twenty minutes now.” The voice of an assistant poking her head from behind the dressing room door makes him nearly jump out of his skin, and he shuts his phone off, trying to shove it into his jacket pocket as though she knows what he’s doing. Although Noel believes this album is some of the best stuff he’s put out in decades and therefore needs promoting accordingly, he can feel his mind going blank with nothing but your face lingering in his head.
“Alright, thanks.” He replies politely, clearing his throat afterwards. It’s strange how he has such an aversion towards you calling him by his last name, and that he feels just fine when other people do it. For now, he’ll store that away, leave it as something else to unpack when he has the time and guts to do so, and in the meantime, he’ll try to come up with something clever to say when the interviewer inevitably asks him the same questions he’s heard for years; ones about the nineties, the state of rock music today, and the obligatory talk about his relationship with his brother that only ever ends in him saying something mean.
iii.
“Doing work?” Noel had been in the kitchen for almost ten minutes now, fiddling around in the drawers and staring at the back of your head from where you’d been studying at the dining table, before he’d finally built up enough courage to actually speak to you. It’s as though in your company, simple tasks seem to suddenly transform into rocket science, and he finds himself unable to string together a basic sentence without feeling his throat going dry and his hands going all clammy.
“Yeah.” Smiling politely, you look up at him from where you’d been all focused, trying to cram in some extra revision before you left to pick up the boys from school. The expensive decorative candles his wife had picked out have been moved cautiously to the side, and with all your work spread out against the tabletop, Noel notices that even your stationery is somehow cute: with your pink notebooks covered in stickers, and big chunks of essays highlighted in pretty pastel colours, instead of the usual fluorescent yellow.
“I like your top.” Blurting the words out before he has time to properly think, he grits his back teeth and bites on the end of his tongue, turning around to pretend to look for something else in the cupboard to avoid looking at you; not the smoothest of moves, since he doesn’t need many utensils to boil a packet of instant noodles for his lunch. Though he doesn’t necessarily believe in god, he still prays that the compliment hasn’t come off as creepy, and that you can’t read his mind, and the fact that he’d recognised the piece of clothing as the one from your profile picture from just the look of the straps alone.
“Thanks.” He can hear you reply from behind him, as he stares at the organised rows of mixing bowls and frying pans in front of him. Although it’s impossible, he still feels like you can see straight through him, and that you know what he’s been doing; that he’s been opening up his camera roll and staring at that photo of you as though it were the modern equivalent of putting your picture in a locket for safekeeping. It makes his stomach physically hurt when he thinks about how many times he’s done it in the past week, almost absentmindedly, without even any conscious thought or effort.
“I don’t know how you can understand that stuff.” Closing the cupboard door with a thud, he tries to remember that he’s a middle-aged man and not a teenage boy, and attempts to change the subject to regain control of the way his heart is thudding in his chest like a drum. Leaning back against the countertop, he fiddles with the chain on his wrist and the wedding band on his finger; he’s married, he’s being an idiot, and he’s married. It’s a mantra he’ll have to start repeating, and that he’ll have to get used to from now on as long as you’re in the room.
“It’s easy once you get the hang of it.” Shrugging your shoulders up, you poke your tongue out the side of your mouth in concentration as you highlight another passage of the essay you’d been reading over. It makes his brain ache just thinking about the way you balance all of this, going to university and looking after his kids, and still appearing at his door with a smile on your face that makes it all look as easy as breathing.
“No, I reckon you’re just clever.” Stuff like this, books and academic work, is something he can never quite understand no matter how hard he tries. It winds him up even, the idea of reading fiction books and studying the events that happen in them; if someone ever brings up the subject, it’s usually enough to make him break out into a rant. Though somehow, you have the magical ability to make it all look so interesting, despite the big words and scarily large paragraphs.
“I swear I’m not, Mr – Noel.” Quickly, you catch yourself before you’re about to call him ‘Mr Gallagher’ again. It’s a habit you’d been finding particularly hard to break, having told him the last people you worked for were much more set on going by last names only, and that rewiring your brain to do the opposite would take a lot longer than the two months you’d been working here. He laughs, watching you scrunch your nose up as you correct yourself once more, as if to prove you’re properly trying: “I meant Noel.”
“See. Got it that time, clever girl.” He doesn’t mean to make the compliment sound so sexual and patronising, but it comes off that way, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. Already, he knows something like that will be what he thinks about when his head hits the pillow tonight; both cringing and strangely aroused, in a way he’ll try to avoid by taking a sleeping pill and nodding off to sleep. If he dwells on it too much, he’s scared it’ll turn into something else, and he’ll end up in the bathroom with his cock in his hand, grunting over that photo of you which he’ll probably have to delete for the sake of his sanity.
“Your thing over there is –” Pointing your pastel purple highlighter towards the kitchen behind him, you nibble on the inside of your cheek with worry. Focused entirely on you, he’d let the water he’d put on for his noodles boil over onto the expensive marble countertop in a mess of froth and bubbles. It’s as if the universe is giving him a textbook example of how he can’t seem to perform normal tasks around you, almost taunting him with the notion that his fifty-year-old self could be instantly reduced to nothing but a clumsy mess in your presence.
“Fuck sake.” He hisses, swearing as he turns the hob off, and quickly searching for something to mop up the hot water. In a panicked frenzy, his mind goes blank, and he tries to remember what drawer they keep the tea towels in, as he hears the trickle of water spilling over the edge and onto the freshly-polished floor. “Fuck, Sara’s gonna kill me.”
titsay
tangentwithtanner
gummygunk
areudirty
