#oasis fics

[ironically-w0ke]

inside your mind- n. gallagher

where he watches her sleep

warnings: none! literally just noel being a loverboy

She’s asleep, and he watches the way her chest rises and falls, the way her eyelashes flutter as she reacts to a dream. The moonlight filters into the bedroom, silvery and ethereal, and dances across her pillow, a privilege only granted in the middle of the night. She shifts, murmuring something in her sleep, decipherable only to the dreamworld she occupies. He watches, running his hand through her hair, touch featherlight. He imagines what she could be dreaming of; whether his face appears, blurry and hazy in the way faces in dreams tend to be. Her mouth opens slightly, and her face tilts towards him, as if she seeks him out, even whilst asleep.

Noel doesn’t try and wake her up, doesn’t disturb her, but he doesn’t try and sleep, either. She’s always so busy, so stressed that to see her at such peace, frown lines cleared by deep sleep, stirs something inside of him that reminds him of the feelings he experienced when they first got together. He recalls his own dreams, the ones that feature her. His favourite is the one where she wears a white dress, the ring he keeps in the safe in his wardrobe finally adorning her finger. He’s never been married before, but he imagines it can’t get any better than it does now. The clock ticks over to two a.m, and he hears the big Vienna clock downstairs ring out twice. In five hours, she’ll be up and getting ready for work, kissing him on the forehead before slipping out for the day. He’ll be asleep, entirely unaware that she watches the early morning sunlight bathe his face, the starched white bedsheets turning golden with the rays.

Two in the morning means that he gets to sit and think. He watches as she frowns slightly, mouth moving as if her dream-self is arguing with something. The silver moonlight ebbs as a cloud covers the moon, and he thinks that they should probably buy curtains sooner rather than later. It never seemed too high on their priorities, but the room does get awfully hot in the afternoon, when the sun beams straight into the glass. As the cloud clears and her face reappears in the darkness, he wishes his camera didn’t have such a flash, so he could take a picture to look at whenever. He can’t, though, so he commits her face to memory, taking in every facet of her skin, counting each individual eyelash. Her voice, the accent she carries, is memorised already; whenever he hears an accent like hers, he turns, expecting to see her. The way she moves, the way she walks, is perfected in his mind, too. The way she silently slips her hand into his, the way she always puts her right foot forward first and takes wider steps to make up for the longer strides he prefers.

With all of this memorised, he turns to what’s inside. Her brain antagonises him in a way he’s never been able to comprehend; the most private thing in the history of the world. He wonders again what she’s dreaming about, and if the dreams have the shimmery, fairy-dust quality that his dreams tend to. He’s never been one for philosophy, not really, but he thinks about her mind and her brain as two different entities. Because, surely, her parents couldn’t have created such a mind. The mind that’s dreaming now, but dictates his waking hours; he doesn’t think he laughs quite so much whenever she’s not around. He wonders what would happen if he cracked open her skull, just to see what was inside. Would her brain be doused in the silver moonlight that’s flared up again, beams swirling across her face like smoke? Would he find some iridescent energy, some pulsating dream that he could definitively say was her mind? He doesn’t think so.

“I love you.” He knows she can’t hear him, but he says it anyway, because it feels good. Hours like these, when the home phone doesn’t ring and her face is clear of difficulties and his mind is free of distractions are rare, and he takes it and holds the moment for as long as possible. He knows his mind and brain are intertwined, since he sorts her characteristics into different pockets of his brain, making sure he’ll remember each one forever. Memories of her shimmer in his mind, distorted by his old dreams. He sorts through each one methodically, trying to sort them into some kind of mental cabinet. The one of her at the beach- real, iridescent in the nighttime.

The only option he has, he thinks, is to take her brain, her mind, to some kind of futuristic scientist that could tell him everything about how she thinks. He imagines he has some kind of right to her thoughts- after all, she is laid beside him, entirely trusting in her sleep. He wants her to know his thoughts, anyway, which is why he talks so much, spewing intimate nonsense that she rarely tries to make sense of. She has a way of smiling, nodding as if she’s filed it into her own mental cabinet, and moving him onto the next thought that captivates him. He thinks again about her dreams, and imagines colours, jewel bright and beautiful, swirling around her mind, figures like ghosts popping up as and when needed. He thinks about the moonlight, flickering now as clouds roll in, and the silver that coats her eyelashes and rising chest, preserving her in molten metal like some kind of statue.

He thinks about the metaphysics of her mind again, thinks about the concept of being. Is it enough to be here now, in this moment, or do memories suffice? If he were to know her mind inside out, no secrets, would he like her just the same? She probably wouldn’t like him if she knew everything there was to know about him. Maybe it’s a good thing, then, that they can only express so much out loud, a finite amount of knowledge allocated to each other. Her chest continues to rise and fall steadily, her mouth closed now, her eyelashes stilled as sleep takes her fully.

He closes his eyes himself now, images of his guitar, his band, crowds, cocaine, and panic attacks swirling around his head, each one poised to attack. He thinks of her, imagines her as colours swooping around like tropical birds, painting his brain- his mind- with jewel tones that mirror his perception of her dreaming. Perhaps, soon, he will know fully what’s inside her mind. But for now, he’s content with what he has; he wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her into him gently. She stirs, humming softly.

“Love you.” Her voice breaks into the silvery moonlight, and he kisses the back of her neck, hearing the way she smiles against her pillow.

“Love you, too.” His dreams are shimmery, like they tend to be, and when she appears in them her face is clear, each eyelash accounted for, each blemish appearing like in real life. Maybe this is what it’s like to be inside her mind; an innate, intrinsic knowledge of herself that he longs to hold. Either way, he takes the dreams for what they are, and he doesn’t grumble when the glimmering fades into the sunlight of early morning, when even in his own deep sleep he can feel her gaze on him, her brush of his hair before she gets up for work. He smiles softly, in his sleep, and dreams about performing to a crowd of millions, only making out her face.

[autourdesaturne]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

taking my drafts out of my notes app to the world. took some inspiration from here.

[ironically-w0ke]

panic attack- n. gallagher

where manchester remembers what you did

warnings: ongoing panic attack, very brief religious guilt, noel deserving more, no speech marks, pre fame noel

It’s strange, coming home for summer. Stalling your car on the hill because in London, nobody drives. In Manchester, nobody really does either, but it’s quiet, and you’re the one who gives all the lifts. Making awkward small talk with the girl who works at the pub, because you knew her when you were fifteen and had illusions of the world, and now you’re twenty-one and ‘gone soft’ down South.

And he’s there, of course. On the dole, Jess tells you, getting high and occasionally setting up gear for the Inspiral Carpets, a band Jess tells you has the worst name in all of music history. You don’t think that’s true, but you don’t tell her, not wanting to defend him.

You see him for the first time since New Year at the pub the girl works at. He’s with his mates, and his brother Liam, who you’ve always found to be a bit of a straggler, is sat there too, even though he’s not old enough to be drinking. You get ID’d, even though the barman’s your Da’s mate, and get a vodka coke, because you’re going out that night and Jess told you to start drinking beforehand.

He calls your name when he stands up, as if you’re a friend, someone who he’s used to seeing, someone whose memories of him aren’t stale and unpleasant, like the potato you found at the back of the cupboard that had gone green.

“You going out? Good to see yous, didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

It is June, and the time for rebirth has been and gone, the desire of spring dormant for another year. The sun stays up until nine, ten, eleven o’clock, and an unwanted flush creeps over your cheeks like sunburn. You tell him that yes, you’re going out, with Jess actually, and would you like to come?

As soon as you ask this, you regret it, but you don’t take it back, because his face lights up as if it’s the offer of a lifetime, and he nods eagerly. Yeah, sure, he’s saying, and he buys you a drink, even though you know now that he’s on the dole and your student grant could cover it. You sit next to him, bare thigh pressed up against his jeans, and you wonder why he always wears jeans, because isn’t it so hot in here? Jess is sat on Nathan’s lap, always fucking sits on Nathan’s lap, and she jabbers on about some workplace drama, Woolworths assistant, and you’re pressed against his thigh like it’s normal.

He lights a cigarette, dragging the ash tray closer to him, not bothering to ask you if it’s alright. Never one to ask for permission, and his brother Liam looks at it longingly, even though he’s seventeen and old enough to buy his own, has been for a year. You take pity on him where his brother doesn’t, slide him a box of cigarettes and a lighter, and he has that same smile, his face lit up. Sweet, really.

“Are you coming out too, Liam?” You ask, and he shakes his head, makes an excuse about work in the morning, and smokes his cigarette quietly. His brother is getting daring, more pints down, a hand on your thigh, so light you barely register it. But you do register it, of course you do. He’s loud, interrupting Jess’ ramblings, talking about music- always music- his Beatles, his Bowie, his Stones. Jamie nicked Sgt Pepper’s from HMV on Wednesday, apparently, and they loudly argue over the best track- quietly, you think it’s She’s Leaving Home, but you don’t say that. His hand gets further up your thigh, before Jess announces the taxi’s here, and he snatches it away like he’s been burned, as if it’s embarrassing to be vulnerable. It is, here.

You pile into the taxi, all eight of you, and Jamie gives the driver an extra fiver so he doesn’t complain about road safety or anything like laws. You sit in Jess’ lap, laughing as the boys tell a story, your skirt shifting up your thighs but making no move to tug it down. The Hacienda’s in town, and you spend the whole taxi ride laughing. Nathan pays, because he wants to impress Jess, and you queue up, and Noel’s behind you, and you pay his entry. It’s midnight, now, no more summer sun, and in the dark he’s familiar, the music too loud, but louder than the thrumming of your pulse under your skin. You lose Jess in the first twenty minutes, and you push through crowds blindly, and he’s behind you, and his fingers on your pulse are grounding.

It’s only a club, he says, calm down. He says your name, right in your ear, and you don’t want to turn around, because turning around is facing what you did, what he did. It’s June, and 1989, and in this room, your life doesn’t stretch out in front of you like it does every summer. In this room, it stays with him, with Noel, his blue eyes knowing and his pale skin remembering. You turn around, because of course you do, because you will every Christmas, and every summer, and you imagine you’ll do it until you die. I missed you, he says, and because it’s loud you think he says I want to kiss you. Are those sentences really so different, anyway?

You’re waiting, then, expectant for something he never promised to give. He blinks at you, expectant of a response you don’t know you’re meant to give, and then shakes his head. Forget it, he says, and the surge of rejection feels hot in your chest, like bile, rotting in your stomach and up through your throat. You make a sign to smoke, and he follows you, out through the club until the sticky summer heat hits you again, even if it’s cooler now because it’s nighttime. Your pulse runs hot, and your cheeks flush, and you want to ignore him when he looks at you.

He says your name, once, twice, and your hands are shaking as you reach in your bag, cigarettes you rolled earlier, no lighter. You gave them to Liam, what were you thinking? Have you got a light? You ask, and your voice sounds underwater, foreign, closer to the Southern accents you surround yourself in at uni, and he’s saying your name again. Stop, breathe, stop. Have you taken anything? Have you mixed your drugs? No, you don’t think so, and you feel like a trapped animal. You can barely see him, and when you do, there’s an unfamiliar emotion on his face, compassion maybe? Understanding? His hand is on your arm then, and you almost fold into him, that feeling in your stomach burning.

Have you got a light? You say again, and he’s putting a cigarette in your mouth, one of the bought ones because he doesn’t like rolling, and he’s lighting it for you, thumb brushing your lips. He’s murmuring something to you, and you can’t listen, too focused on that nicotine rushing through your veins. I want to go home, you’re murmuring, and he says, okay. He leads you out of the smoking area, hand on your back, doesn’t bother to go inside and tell everyone where you’re going, an Irish goodbye is in anyway.

My mam’ll pick us up, you’re saying, even though she won’t, never will. He nods, knowingly, guides you into another taxi that always wait down the bottom of Deansgate. Fog Lane, he says, and you watch the city fly past, still in some kind of a daze. Sorry, you say, and your eyes fill up with tears. You can go back to the club, Jess said you’ve not been out in ages.

It’s fine. I only came out because I wanted to spend time with you, he tells you, and you sink into the car seat, can’t look at him. He says your name again, almost pleadingly, like you’re eighteen again and the kisses he gives you are like freckles across sunny skin, and you didn’t do it and he’s yours again, you and him, him and you. You take a deep, gasping breath, and he swears under his breath, for fucks sake, and rolls the window down, so you can lean out of it and throw up, right on Wilmslow Road.

Guilt, your parents would say, Irish Catholic and disapproving. God knows what you did. Noel knows what you did, and he’s like a kicked puppy, coming back to you because he doesn’t know anything else. The taxi’s kicked you out, and he pays, and you burst into tears, right in the middle of Withington, that feeling in your chest making you want to explode.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, you’re saying, but it doesn’t mean anything, not anymore. He’ll take everything he can get from you, desperate for attention, and you can drip feed it to him like morphine. You take big, gasping breaths, and he’s holding onto you, close and warm and trusting, even when you broke it.

Let’s go home, he says, walks the rest of the way, knows where you live still, the semi detached off Fog Lane that he used to be jealous of. The living room light is on, your mam sat up for you, and your face is in his shoulder, gasping for air, as if he could give you anything more.

I know. He says it softly, stroking your hair, and you’re gripping onto him so tightly it’s leaving crescent shapes in his forearms, and still he takes it. I know. It’s summer, and he might be yours but you’re not his, not after it all. You go inside, and he waits until your bedroom light turns off before he walks home, your curtains shutting without you looking out. It’s June, and the cycle begins again, never really ends with him. He walks home, hands in pockets, and thinks about when you were eighteen.

[ironically-w0ke]

i bet you look good on the dancefloor - l. gallagher

where they have a one night stand (18+)

minors dni 🎀

pre-fame liam x female reader

warnings: mentions of alcohol, mentions of drugs, high sex, oral sex (f recieving), protected (!) sex, based off of an arctic monkeys song

The club is thick with cigarette smoke and body heat, sweat dripping from the walls and evaporating back into the air, some cycle of life dictated by alcohol and the house mix the DJ is spinning. He’s made eye contact with her once, twice now, both times prolonged, until she turns away, and is swept back into the crowd. He’s making his way to the bar now, his head not spinning as much as he’d like it to, and he swears under his breath as he weaves through the crowd. This is what he gets for being sorted out by Big Mike down the road, because he could swear on his mam’s life that at least sixty percent of a half gram was sugar, but he just can’t prove it.

“Vodka coke, please, mate,” he says to the bartender, folding his arms against the bar and fishing in his pocket for coins, stacking them up and sliding them over. It’s more expensive, but the gear’s not hitting like it should, so he needs something that’ll make the experience more enjoyable. He’s surprised, for some reason, when he turns his head to the right, and sees her leant against the bar, swirling a straw into her drink and staring him down.

“You’re making the eyes at me,” she tells him, leaning in close so he can hear her over the music. Her mascara is dark, and slightly smeared under her eyes, and he thinks he could potentially be talking to the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. He shrugs, taking his drink from the bartender and turning fully to face her, watching as she takes him in.

“Maybe. Can’t help it if you look that good on that dancefloor, can I?” He takes a sip from his drink, lips curling up as she grins. She knows she’s fit, and she’s looking up at him like she knows exactly where she’s going to end up tonight.

“Are you gonna go back to your mates or do you want to dance?” She’s forward, in a way not a lot of girls are. He shrugs again, downing his drink and putting the empty glass back on the bar, waiting for her to do the same before taking her hand, dragging her back into the crowd. The DJ’s playing some naff Happy Mondays tune, but he’s beyond complaining when she’s dancing on him like that. He’s got his hands on her waist, and her arm is around his neck, and there’s no space between them. She tells him her name, lips pressed against his ear, and he feels as high as a kite even if he’s only had dodgy gear.

“Liam,” he shouts back, by way of introduction, and she’s kissing him then, arms tight around his neck and hips pressed against his. He kisses her back just as hard, the taste of vodka and rollies intoxicating. His mates are somewhere, they won’t mind if he leaves, and his family’s in Ireland anyway, visiting family on a trip he was too skint to warrant missing work for. In short, he’s determined to get this girl home. She’s mean with the way she kisses, tongue and teeth making sure she’s in control. He’s gripping her hips hard, and the second she lets out a soft whimper, he’s done, pulling away and grabbing her hand again. “Come back to mine?” He asks, loud enough that she’ll be able to hear him over the music.

Yeah, she says, and they’re leaving then, pupils blown and lips swollen. Liam near enough yanks her through the crowd, not looking back, an Orpheus in all senses of getting this girl back. He slows down a bit when the crowd thins out, but stays holding her hand, weaving through cigarette smokers and people vomiting in the corner before they’re outside. It’s raining, as it tends to be in October, and he stands to look at her in the night air. A street lamp illuminates her gold, shoulders immediately freezing, but she makes no move to complain.

“Are you cold? We can get a cab. I’m out in Burnage, it’s a bit of a walk,” he says, watching as she rolls a cigarette, thinking over her options.

“Cab’s fine, yeah. Let me smoke this first,” she says, her voice quieter now she’s not contending with the DJ for Liam’s attention. He leans against the street lamp, cupping his hand around her lighter as she tries to light it, shaking from cold. The walk to the taxi rank is short, but he slings his arm around her bare shoulders anyway, toying with the strap of her top just because he can. They kiss in the cab, her lips still mean, and then they’re paying and stumbling into his bedroom. He flushes at the state of it; nineteen and still sharing a room with his brother. At least he’s not here, the bed neatly made, a contrast to Liam’s, the duvet hanging off the edge and the pillow flat and sad-looking, bunched up against the headboard.

“Sorry for the state,” he says, and she shakes her head and tells him it’s fine. They look at each other for a couple of seconds, and he sits down on the bed, looking up at her. “Do you want to fuck?” It’s about as subtle as an earthquake, but her lips curl up into a grin again, and she settles onto his lap, knees bracketing his thighs.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, looping her arms around his neck again. Her pupils aren’t as blown anymore, and his heartbeat is starting to correct itself, but they kiss anyway, her lips mean and his touch daring as it slips under her top. His thumb brushes the top of her ribcage, and she leans back and pulls her top off, braless after all. Fuck, is all he says in response, lowering his lips to her neck and sucking his way down it, his hands cupping her breasts and thumbs brushing her nipples.

He’s hard now, can feel her wriggling on top of him, and he breaks away from her neck, looking up at her with dark eyes. Her hair has fallen across her face, and she’s looking down at him, skirt riding up her thighs as her skin flushes. “So pretty,” he whispers, kissing her again, this time being the first to introduce tongues. He can tell she’s coming down, because she’s not as fierce as she was before, allowing soft moans to slip out of her mouth and sharp stings to his scalp when she grabs at his hair. He moves back down to her neck, lifting one of her breasts to his mouth, wrapping his lips around her nipple and dancing his tongue across it.

“Liam,” she gets out, breath shaky, so he keeps going, only stopping when he flips them round, letting her sit on the bed as he sinks to his knees in front of her, tugging at the waistband of her skirt, a silent question to take it off. She nods, raising her hips, and he slips it off.

“So wet already,” he murmurs, as if he’s not rock hard himself. His thumb brushes over the cotton of her panties, not hard enough to give any kind of pressure, but just enough to feel how soaked she is. He doesn’t bother taking them off, just pulls them to the side and leans in, his breath hot against her. “Can I?” He asks, and when she nods his tongue darts out, licking her clit just enough to make her feel it. She inhales, sharp, and he takes that as an invitation to keep going, spreading her thighs further apart and pressing his thumb to her clit, licking a long stripe downwards.

“Liam,” she says again, voice pleading, hand tangling in his hair. He keeps going, swapping his tongue and thumb for kitten licks and hard circles, revelling in the taste of her. No drug he’s ever taken has made him feel as good as he feels right now. He slips a finger inside her, mouthing at her inner thigh and sweating under his breath at how tight she is. She moans, loud, head tipping back and chest heaving as soon as he starts to move, lips wrapped around her clit again.

“Can you take another?” He moves back just enough to ask the question, slipping a second finger in as soon as she nods. It’s a strange feeling around his fingers, but he moves slowly, letting her adjust before licking at her clit. It’s obvious she’s close, and he moans into her as he looks up to see her brushing her fingers over her own nipples, lip pulled between her teeth.

“I can’t-“ she whispers, hand tightening in his hair. “I need to come.” Her head tilts back, and he nods, not even considering the possibility he could deny her. He scissors his fingers inside her, and sucks hard on her clit, and then she’s coming, thighs locking around his head and both hands grabbing at his hair. “Shit. Liam, Liam, Liam,” she cries out, legs shaking when he doesn’t let up. He only pulls away when he’s satisfied, and she lays back, hitting the mattress hard as her hips twitch.

“Good?” He asks, wiping at his mouth and crawling onto the single bed, kneeling in front of her. She’s coming down from more than the drugs now, and she opens her eyes, chest heaving hard.

“Good,” she echoes, catching her breath and propping herself up on her elbows. He pulls his shirt off and starts to unbuckle his belt, groaning as she opens her legs again and pulls her panties off. He’s quick to undress, even quicker to rip a condom open with his teeth and roll it on, even the feeling of the rubber against his tip almost too much. “I’m ready when you are,” she tells him, face scrunching up as he brushes his fingers over her still-sensitive clit.

“You’re ready?” He asks, even though she said she was, because he’s scared to hurt her. She nods and says yes, Liam, and he’s lining himself up then, pushing in slowly. She gasps, and his head drops to her shoulder as soon as he’s fully in, because it feels so good. “Fuck,” is all he can say, and when she tells him he can move, he pulls back slowly, pushing in quicker. He feels dizzy, unsure if he’s still on a comedown or if she’s just intoxicating.

“You can-“ she cuts herself off, scratching at his back as he hits some spot inside her. “Shit. You can go faster,” she gasps out, and Liam pulls out quicker, hitting that spot inside her again. Her nails are digging into his skin, but he doesn’t care, not when he’s the one making her feel this good. He lets out a low, choked moan when she clenches around him, her name pouring off of his lips as he attaches them to her neck. He’s messy with it, dragging his teeth across her skin, his hips snapping up into her, moans swirling around the room like cigarette smoke.

“Feels so fucking good,” he grits out, positioning himself so his lips are above hers, his blue eyes almost black with the way his pupils are blown. She leans up, kisses him, and slips her hand down between them, rubbing at her clit and clenching around him. He moans at the sight, at the feeling, dropping his head back down to her neck as his hips grow erratic. “‘m close,” he admits against her skin, feeling a familiar fire start in his lower belly.

“Me too,” she gasps, fingers speeding up between them, a brutal pace matching the way Liam’s thrusting into her. She whines, head tipping back and back arching, and then she’s warning him she’s going to come, walls fluttering around him.

“Come, then,” he says bluntly, hips jerking as she tightens to the point of being painful, mouth falling open and his name leaving her lips as she comes, her legs shaking. He thrusts again, once, twice, and then he’s coming too, biting down on her collarbone and driving his hips into her as he empties into the condom, gasping for breath against his skin. “Fuck,” he says, for what could be the fiftieth time tonight. He pulls back, pulls out, looking at her underneath him as he ties the condom up. She’s shaking still, and she presses her thighs back together, eyes fluttering shut.

“Good?” She asks, leaning against the pillow, making no move to cover herself up. He gets up, throws the condom away, and pulls his boxers back on.

“Good, yeah,” he answers, and he’s certain then that no drug could ever make him feel better than he does now.

[ironically-w0ke]

illicit affairs- n.gallagher

posting a tiny snippet of what i’ve written so far for part two because i’m proud of it and im hoping it’ll convince me to actually finish it 🥲

warnings: none really, mentions of cheating and london (ahh)

November on the Heath is quite a morbid affair, really. It’s too far from Christmas to have lights on the trees, and too far from Halloween to have red leaves and giggles of children in costumes. The branches above his head are bare, reaching out like hands, criss crossing as if their souls are intertwined. He stares at the ground as he walks, the once-green grass patchy and brown under his feet. The cafe, if you can call it that, is a tiny little hut by the mixed pond, wooden shutters dark with age and the roof bowed by the weight of the lichen and moss that’s sat on it for years. She’s standing there already, hands in her pockets, watching him like she’s surprised he actually showed up.

“Alright?” Noel stops about a metre away from her, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. She’s got a hat on, a red one with a bobble on top, and he gets punched square in the chest by a memory of when he was nineteen and watching her pack to leave Manchester.

“Hi. I didn’t think you’d come, like.” She rocks on her feet slightly, her voice muted and quiet, grey like the winter that surrounds them. Her face hasn’t changed at all, and he has to take a deep breath to avoid the memories that are bubbling under his skin like a geyser, ready to reminisce at any moment.

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me.” His voice is stiff, and they order a drink each before starting to walk, the heat from the paper coffee cup seeping into his bones and easing the anxiety that’s been crushing him since she called. “You look good. I mean, really good.” She looks at him and sighs, smiling crookedly like she always does.

“I know. It’s classic me, init? Came to London and got pretty.” They’re walking around a bench, and she visibly slips into a thoughtful kind of mindset before sitting down, tucking her legs underneath her. He sits down next to her, awkwardly clutching his coffee cup as he leaves about a metre of space between them.

“Well, you were always pretty. Very pretty.” She looks at him again, the weight of the world on her shoulders as she does. He takes in her face, the slight puffiness of her eyes as if she’d cried before she came out, the way her fingers clutch around her cup as she takes a sip. She presses her lips together, looking away from him and across the Heath. He frowns slightly, looking into his cup, certain the biting wind isn’t the only thing that’s adding to the frosty atmosphere between them. And then-

“Why did you do it, Noel?” Well, there’s the million-dollar question. He opens his mouth for clarification- the cheating, or the friends with benefits?- but closes it again, not sure he could’ve even called them friends. He doesn’t even know her middle name, and he knows- knew- her body so intricately.

“I don’t know.” Noel Gallagher doesn’t seem to know a lot these days, not really. He doesn’t know why he’s sat here, doesn’t know why she wanted to meet him at all. He doesn’t feel guilty for what he did, because he’s sure the only person he wronged in all of this was his wife. If everything he was touching before was gold, it’s now ice, frost curling around their conversation and freezing him into place, all of the feelings he felt towards her locked into some kind of glacier. She shakes her head, as if she’s about to leave, but she just sighs instead, and he thinks that’s worse.

“I thought you might apologise.” His brows furrow further, and he leans back on the bench, shivering slightly in the cold. The wind picks up, and he watches a crisp packet flying across the ground and landing in the pond.

“For what?” The way that she looks at him then is nothing short of hate. She sets the cup on the bench, in the gap between them, and he just watches. She looks like she’s going to say something, her eyes cold. He doesn’t know if it’s better or worse that she just gets up and leaves, not even bothering to say goodbye. That heavy feeling settles in his chest again, and he holds onto his cup until it stops being hot, and her cup left next to him is icy too. Maybe, just maybe, he’s in the wrong. He could’ve treated her better, he supposes, or could’ve been more honest. He gets up and throws the coffee cups into the bin and starts the walk out of the Heath, the wind in the branches above him whispering like it knows what he did.

[ironically-w0ke]

finding comfort in my bf cheating on me by writing fics about cheating. at least it’s character accurate?