cw: mild age gap (five years); fem!reader x noel gallagher; rubbing; reader is an archaeologist and older; sex with plot; +18.
set in: 1987 (pre-oasis noel)
an: hi. bit of my nerdiness in there and self-insert. first post ever in here as well, hope youse like it! x
the hacienda’s strobes hit the sweat-slick floor like artillery — fire, white, red, blue, white again, each flash carving the crowd into a thousand frozen silhouettes. you stood at the edge of the mezzanine railing, fingers curled tight around a warm bottle of newcastle brown, trying to look like you belonged.
the music was some weird mix you’d never heard that felt like a heartbeat on amphetamines and it thudded through the soles of your boots and up into your teeth. acid house, lynne had called it. you had nodded like you understood, but really you’d spent the cab ride from piccadilly reading the sleeve notes on a cassette lynne had shoved into your hand: 808 State, a guy called gerald, names that sounded like code.
lynne was down on the dance floor somewhere, swallowed by the swarm of the crowd. she’d promised to come back up once she’d “sorted the lads,” whatever that meant. you took a sip of beer and tasted metal.
twenty five years old, fresh off a dig where the wind had flayed your cheeks raw and the nearest pub closed at ten, and here you were in manchester on a friday night in july 1987, wearing a second-hand man’s shirt tucked into high waisted jeans because lynne had insisted that your usual nerd-like look wouldn’t fly.
you scanned the floor again, the way bodies moved here wasn’t like the folk clubs back in sheffield or the polite swaying at union’s gatherings. this was different: loose hips, arms thrown skyward, eyes half closed like they were praying to the bassline. a religion, lynne had called it in the taxi, half laughing.
you’d written it down in the little black notebook you kept in your back pocket, next to a stub of pencil and a fossilised otter tooth from your first dig you always kept with you. religion, ritual, ecstasy. same ingredients, new recipe.
a hand landed on your shoulder. you jumped, nearly sloshing beer over the railing.
“christ, sorry!” lynne’s voice, bright and already half-cut. “thought you’d scarpered back to the trenches.”
you turned. lynne’s eyeliner had started its inevitable migration south, but her grin was intact. she wore a yellow smiley face shirt knotted at the waist and a pair of cycling shorts that your mother would’ve called indecent. lynne smelled of sweat, ck one and the sharp citrus of whatever was in the plastic cup she waved.
“still here,” you muttered.“observing.”
“observing,” lynne repeated, mocking. “yer not on a bloody field trip, love. you’re in the hac. manchester! loosen up, yeah?” she hooked an arm around your neck and steered you toward the stairs. “c’mon. the carpets are in the vip bit. well… bit with the sofa that isn’t soaked in piss.”
you let yourself be dragged. the carpets. inspiral carpets. you’d heard them once, supporting some other band whose name you’d forgotten already. they were competent. nothing that made you want to shove your notebook aside and dance. but our lynne had been writing about the madchester scene for the nme, and when she’d said “come up for the weekend, you’ll see the future” you’d packed a rucksack before you could talk your daft self out of it.
you pushed through a knot of bodies near the bar. someone shouted lynne’s name, she shouted back something you didn’t catch.
the air down here was thicker. full of cigarette smoke, dry ice, the sweet chemical tang of poppers. it made your shirt clung to your back making you feel suddenly, stupidly overdressed, like a missionary in the jungle.
“there they are,” lynne said, nodding toward a roped off corner where a sagging velvet sofa had been colonised by five lads and a sprawl of beer bottles. “the usual suspects.”
you recognised them from the gig posters lynne had stuck to her bedroom wall back when youse shared a flat. there were five lads: one lean and floppy haired, laughing at something other one said. the singer, whose name you couldn’t be arsed to remember, was rolling a cigarette with one hand while the other argued with a hanger on.
and then… your gaze snagged.
there was this sixth lad, perched on the arm of the sofa rather than sunk into it, one trainer clad foot tapping an arrhythmic beat against the metal frame. he didn’t look that tall — 5’7, maybe 5’8. pale in the way only men who avoided sunlight could be, skin almost translucent under the strobes. his hair was chestnut, thick, longer on top and shorter at the sides, kind of cut that looked diy’ed with kitchen scissors and a mirror. a beatle fringe but messier, falling into his eyes. and those eyes… pale blue, startling against the dark brows that arched thick and expressive above them. he wore a faded the jam shirt and leather jacket despite the heat.
he was watching the dance floor with a half smile, like he was in on a joke no one else had heard yet. when he lifted a bottle of red stripe to his lips, the strobes caught the condensation sliding down the glass and the way his throat worked when he swallowed.
fuck. your stomach did something complicated and undesirable.
lynne was already halfway across the rope. “oi! brought youse a present.”
the singer looked up first. “lynne, you gorgeous bastard. thought you’d ditched us for the posh seats.”
“could never.” lynne vaulted the rope with the ease of someone who’d done it a hundred times. she turned to you with a chester smile. “this is my friend. archaeologist. brains of britain. be nice.”
you hesitated at the rope, feeling every eye swivel toward yourself. the singer grinned and patted the sofa cushion beside him. “plenty of room, love. mind the wet patch.”
you climbed over, careful not to snag your own jeans. up close, the carpets smelled of sweat, lager, and the particular musk of boys who’d been in a van all day. bit gross, but not uncomfortable. you perched on the edge of the cushion, knees together, notebook burning a hole in his pocket.
lynne dropped onto the sofa between clint and the drummer. “she’s doing her phd on ritual, music and that. told her you lot were the high priests of the new religion.”
clint laughed. “high priests? i’m still waiting for me bloody vestments.”
you managed a very shy smile, not really appreciating the attention. “it’s more about… trance states. rave as modern shamanism.”
one of them leaned forward.“shamanism? like, with mushrooms and that?”
“sometimes,” you nodded. “but the drugs are secondary, sort of. it’s the repetition, the lights, the shared physical experience and—“
“fuckin’ hell,” steve said. “we’ve got a proper boffin here.”
heat crawled up your neck, so you took a swig of beer to hide it. when you lowered the bottle, you found the quiet lad on the sofa arm watching. not staring, exactly. just… observing. like he was trying to work out what species you were.
lynne kicked your ankle softly, noticing your gaze and realising she hadn’t told you their names. “fuck, right. your names. this is the band. clint, tom, steve, graham—” she rattled off names, pointing. “and the short arse on the end is noel. roadie, the chief, tea-boy and occasional weirdo.”
noel. the name landed soft, like a stone skipped across water. he lifted his bottle in a quiet salute. “alright?” his voice was pure manchester. it made your pulse stutter.
“hi,” you said. brilliant. eloquence itself.
he doesn’t say much then. just watches everything with a half smile, fingers drumming silent chords on his thigh.
you are in the worst kind of trouble.
lynne leans in suddenly, mouth at your ear. “you’ve gone proper quiet. what’s it?”
you swallow. “the roadie,” you whisper. “noel. he’s… really fucking cute.”
lynne pulls back, eyes huge, then bursts out laughing so loud half the sofa turns.
“shut up!” you hiss, mortified, face on fire.
she wipes her eyes, still giggling. “knew it. knew you’d fall for the scruffy-looking quiet one.”
noel glances over again at the noise. his gaze lingers on you this time just a second longer than before, then slides away.
your heart is trying to climb out of your throat.
lynne stands up, yanking tom with her. “right, dance floor. now.”
the others follow in a messy chain. noel stays put, bottle dangling between two fingers, watching the crowd. you stay too, because leaving feels impossible.
after a minute he shifts, slides down to sit properly on the arm, closer now. close enough you can smell leather and smoke and something just manly underneath.
he doesn’t look at you. just says, quiet, “not your thing either, then?”
you shake your head. “not really.”
he nods like that makes perfect sense.
silence stretches, but it’s not awkward. it’s full. the bass thumps between you like a third heartbeat. so you risk a glance. he’s looking at you now, head tilted, fringe in his eyes.
“you’re lynne’s mate,” he says. “the clever one.”
“i just dig holes for a living,” you say with a small shrug.
he smiles, crooked, devastating. “still clever.”
your stomach flips again. he lifts his bottle in a tiny toast. you clink yours against it without thinking. neither of you says anything else.
you just sit there, side by side, watching the strobes carve the world into pieces, the space between your arms shrinking with every song until your knuckles almost brush.
the lights keep flashing, the bass keeps pounding, but the little corner you’re both in feels quieter than the rest of the room. your knuckles are almost touching the denim of his jeans now. you can feel the heat coming off him.
you swallow the last of your beer for courage and turn your head.
“so… how does someone end up as roadie?” you ask, voice low so it doesn’t carry.
he huffs a small laugh through his nose, eyes still on the dance floor. “tried for the singer job first, didn’t i.”
“yeah. worst audition in history, probably.” he finally looks at you, crooked little grin. “they handed me these lyrics. proper year nine poetry shite. ‘i’m floating in your cosmic mind’ and all that. i got about four lines in and just started laughing. couldn’t stop. thought tom was gonna lamp me.”
you bite your lip so you don’t laugh too loud.
“so they said, ‘right, you’re shite, but you can carry an amp’. been lugging flight cases ever since.”
he shrugs like it’s nothing, but there’s a flicker of something behind it, probably embarrassed.
“i do write, though,” he adds, quieter. “just… keep it to meself mostly.”
you nod, not trusting your voice yet. the way he says it, casual, like it doesn’t matter, makes your chest feel tight. you picture him on the back of the van with a battered notebook, scribbling while everyone else is asleep.
“bet they’re good,” you say before you can stop yourself.
his eyebrows lift, surprised. he looks at you properly now, pale eyes catching the strobes. “you’ve never heard ‘em.”
he smiles then. real, slow, the kind that starts in his eyes and ends somewhere dangerous. “careful,” he murmurs. “might hold you to that.”
the bass drops into something slower, almost syrupy, and the crowd shifts like one breathing thing. you feel the change in the air and it loosens something in your shoulders.
you take a breath that tastes like smoke and spilled lager and citrus off his skin.
“so,” you say, louder this time, “what music do you into, then? not the cosmic mind bollocks.”
he laughs under his breath, surprised, pleased. “getting brave, are we?”
“i’ve had two beers,” you say. “practically drunk.”
he turns fully toward you now, one elbow, one leg still dangling off the sofa arm, the other knee pulled up so he can rest his chin on it. the strobes catch the sharp line of his cheekbone every few seconds.
“alright,” he says. “proper stuff… the smiths, obviously. sex pistols when i was fourteen and thought anarchy meant never doing the washing up, awesome times. bowie, always bowie. t. rex. the who when they still wanted to smash things. velvet underground, obviously. and… the la’s.” he lists them like he’s reading from a private map inside his head, voice low and quick, like he’s worried someone might overhear and take the piss. “and the beatles,” he adds, almost shy. “can’t escape ‘em round here anyway, but… yeah. them most of all.”
you nod, trying to keep up. half those names are just noises to you, but the way he says them makes them sound sacred.
“your turn,” he says, nudging your trainer with his. “go on then. psychoanalyse me or whatever it is you do.”
you snort. “i’m not psychoanalysing you.”
“feels like it. asking about music’s worse than asking what star sign i am.”
you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling now, proper smiling, the kind that hurts your cheeks. “fine. i’m not really a music person,” you say.
he stares at you. full on stares, mouth actually open a little. “you’re joking.”
“you’re in the hacienda in the middle of madchester in 1987 and you’re telling me you’re not a music person?”
you shrug. “i like… cocteau twins, sometimes. when i need something that sounds like being underwater. and the beatles, i suppose. me dad played revolver on sundays when i was little. that’s… about it.”
he keeps staring like you’ve told him the earth is flat. “cocteau twins,” he repeats, like he’s tasting it. “and nothing else? no offence, but that’s like eating the custard and leaving the cake.”
you laugh. loud, startled, real. “i told you,” you say. “i’m not a music person. i like silence. or rain on tent canvas. or the sound the kettle makes when it’s about to boil. that’s my favourite album.”
he shakes his head slowly, still looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s dying to solve. “you’re mad weird,” he says, but it sounds like the best thing anyone’s ever said to you.
“you literally got laughed out of a singing audition,” you fire back.
“fair point.” he grins, then leans in a fraction. “right, that’s it. i’m making you a tape.”
“cassette. proper one. side a and side b. i’ll write the tracklist on the little card, all neat. you’ll listen to it on that walkman you’ve probably got buried in your rucksack under all them trowels and fossils.”
you raise an eyebrow. “you’ve thought about what’s in my rucksack?”
“i’ve thought about a lot of things in the last twenty minutes,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it under the music.
your heart does something complicated and athletic.
you swallow. “and what if i hate your tape?”
he shrugs, but his eyes don’t leave yours. “then you’ll hate me. worth the risk.”
the song changes again. something with a guitar line that sneaks in under the house beat. his head tilts like he recognises it, fingers drumming the rhythm on his thigh without thinking.
you watch his hands. they’re rough, nails bitten down, a thin silver ring on his right middle finger. you wonder what they’d feel like on your waist. your neck. your mouth goes dry.
“what?” he asks, catching you looking.
“nothing,” you say, too quick.
he smiles like he knows exactly what you were thinking and is stupidly pleased about it.
the gap between you has shrunk to inches now. you can see the tiny freckles across his nose you hadn’t noticed before. the way his fringe sticks to his forehead when he’s warm. the little scar near his eyebrow that looks like a wee lightning bolt. you want to ask where he got it. you want to ask everything.
instead you say, “make it two tapes.”
“one with the loud stuff,” you say, “and one with the quiet stuff. so i don’t go deaf on the train home.”
he laughs, soft and startled, and the sound goes straight into your bloodstream. “deal,” he says.
the song under melts into something slower, almost dreamy, and the lights dim to a bruised purple. you’re both leaning in now, shoulders brushing every time either of you laughs. noel’s just finished taking the absolute piss out of your “rain on tent canvas” album for the third time when lynne barrels back into the corner like a heat seeking missile.
“alright, lovebirds” she shouts over the tail end of the track, hair now fully escaped its ponytail and sticking to her sweaty neck. “we’re shooting off to clint’s. van’s outside, engine running, tom’s already crying about his feet. move it!”
noel makes a quiet, wounded noise in his throat, half groan, half sigh, and drops his forehead to his knee for a second like a man who’s just been told he has to go to church.
you feel the same little twist in your stomach — the night was stretching out perfectly here on this shitty sofa and now the real world is barging in with its keys and its curfews.
lynne clocks the pair of you and her grin turns evil. “aw, look at you two, all cosy. don’t worry, there’s definitely a sofa at clint’s that’s only mildly diseased. you can continue your deep and meaningful conversations.”
“piss off, lynne,” noel mutters, but there’s no venom in it. he stands up, offers you a hand without even thinking about it.
you take it. his palm is warm, dry, rough from strings and flight case handles. you let him pull you up and you don’t let go straight away. neither does he.
lynne is already halfway to the exit, bellowing for stragglers. the rest of the carpets are collecting jackets, bottles, random tambourines. noel keeps hold of your hand while you weave through the thinning crowd. the air outside hits like cold water after the fug inside: july night that still smells of chips and petrol and summer. the transit is idling at the kerb, back doors yawning open. clint’s in the driver’s seat, drumming on the steering wheel. tom’s got his feet up on the dashboard singing the wrong words to “that’s entertainment” at the top of his lungs.
“shotgun!” lynne yells, diving for the passenger seat.
“you had shotgun last time, you selfish cow,” steve shouts from the pavement.
“rank has its privileges,” she sings back, slamming the door.
noel rolls his eyes so hard you’re worried he’ll strain something. “come on,” he says, tugging you toward the back. “sit with me before one of this lot decides to use you as a footrest.”
you climb in. the floor is a landfill of empty film canisters, crisp packets, and something that might once have been a kebab. there are two actual seats — everything else is flight cases and coiled leads. noel kicks a space clear, sits on an amp, and pulls you down beside him so your hip is against his thigh and there’s nowhere else to look but at each other.
the doors slam. clint throws the van into first with a lurch that sends everyone sliding.
noel leans in so his mouth is near your ear again. “told you the night wasn’t over.”
you shiver, and it’s got nothing to do with the air con someone’s rigged up with gaffer tape and prayers.
the van smells of petrol, sweat, and old stage smoke. every time clint changes gear you slide a fraction closer to noel until your shoulder is pressed to his chest and his arm has somehow found its way along the amp behind you. you don’t move it. neither does he.
lynne twists round from the front, hair whipping. “you two alright back there? need a chaperone?”
“fuck off,” noel and you say at exactly the same time.
lynne cackles and faces forward again.
streetlights smear orange across the windows. you feel the journey in your bones, like it’s a thousand miles. and noel’s thumb starts tracing tiny circles on the sleeve of your shirt, just above your elbow. you turn your head. he’s watching you with that half smile again, the one that makes your ribs feel too small.
“i’m really making you that tape,” he says, quiet enough that only you hear it over the music and the engine and tom’s offkey shouting.
“two tapes,” you remind him.
“two tapes,” he agrees. “side a stuff that’ll blow your tiny mind. side b stuff you can fall asleep to without dreaming of cosmic fucking minds.”
you laugh into the curve of his neck without meaning to. his hand shifts, fingers spreading across the back of your neck, thumb brushing the short hairs at your nape. it’s not a kiss, not yet, but it’s a promise that one is close.
the van swerves round a corner and everyone slides the other way. you end up half in his lap, his hand sliding down to steady your waist. you stay there. neither of you bothers pretending it was an accident.
tom starts a drunken rendition of “everything i own” by boy george and the whole van joins in, badly. noel’s mouth is at your temple now, singing under his breath, not to them, just to you. his voice is rougher than you expected, low and sure, like he’s been carrying these words around for years waiting for the right ear.
you close your eyes and let the vibration of the van and the vibration of his chest become the same living thing.
clint yells something about being five minutes away. someone produces a warm can of stella and it starts doing the rounds. noel takes a swig, offers it to you. you drink from the same place his mouth just was. the aluminium is still warm from his hand.
the van lurches to a stop outside a terraced house with all the lights on and music already leaking through the open windows. doors fly open, bodies spill out onto the pavement shouting about who’s got rizlas.
noel doesn’t move yet. his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing the same inch of air.
“you coming in?” he asks, like there was ever any chance you’d leave.
you nod. your nose bumps his. he smiles, slow and certain, and finally lets you go but only so he can climb out first and offer you his hand again.
the night is wide open and humming, and you follow him up the path with lynne wolf whistling behind you and the promise of two homemade tapes burning a hole in your pocket right next to your notebook.
you’ve got no idea what time it is and you don’t care.
somewhere inside that house is a sofa, a kettle, maybe a bedroom with the door closed and the rest of the world locked outside.
you squeeze his fingers once. he squeezes back. and you both walk in.
the living room at clint’s a tip: ashtrays overflowing, records leaning like pisa towers, a half eaten pizza fossilised on the coffee table. someone’s put the smiths on low, “there is a light that never goes out,” which feels like a joke and a promise at the same time.
you and noel have claimed the corner of the big saggy sofa that smells faintly of cat and weed. your knees are touching. neither of you has moved them since you sat down. someone passed round a packet of marlboro red. you don’t usually, but tonight you take one because noel does and you want another reason to keep your hands steady. he lights yours off the end of his, cupping the flame with one hand, eyes flicking up to yours while the cherry flares.
you both exhale at the same time, smoke curling up into the orange lampshade.
he nudges your trainer with his. “so go on then. what do you actually do when you’re not letting lynne drag you to acid house churches?”
you take another drag, buying time. you’re knackered and half pissed and everything feels soft at the edges. “i dig holes,” you say.
he snorts. “yeah, lynne said. proper student stuff, innit? fieldwork and that.”
you open your mouth, close it again. student. right. you’re twenty five, been on more sites than you can count, have a bank account that’s permanently overdrawn because of conference fees and your dad refuses to roll the check in, but sure, student. you let it sit there. it’s easier. warmer, somehow, the way he says it — like you’re still young enough for things to be simple. you nod, roll with it.
“yeah. this summer i was up in this tiny island, middle of nowhere. wind never stops. we were looking for… old houses, sort of. places people lived thousands of years ago. you find a stain in the ground and that’s someone’s fireplace. or a heap of shells and that’s their rubbish tip. whole lives in the dirt.”
his eyebrows go up, properly interested now. he shifts so he’s facing you more, one arm along the back of the sofa, cigarette dangling. “thousands of years?”
“four, five sometimes. before metal, before writing. people who thought the sky was falling if the sun went red.”
he lets out a low whistle. “and you just… find their stuff? their actual stuff?”
“sometimes. bead made of bone. pot with fingerprints still in the clay. little stone tools no bigger than your thumb… you hold it and you’re the first person to touch it since they dropped it.” you shrug, suddenly shy under how closely he’s listening. “sounds daft when i say it out loud.”
“doesn’t sound daft at all,” he says, quiet. “sounds like time travel.”
you smile at that, small and surprised. “that’s what it feels like, yeah. you’re kneeling in mud, freezing your tits off, and suddenly you’re not in ‘87 anymore. you’re in their morning. someone’s making breakfast, arguing about whose turn it is to milk the cow… same as us.”
he’s staring at you like you’ve just told him the best secret in the world.
“and you write it all down?” he asks. “every bead and burnt bit of barley?”
“try to. argue about what it means later. that’s half the job. the fighting, i mean.”
he laughs softly. “sounds like being in a band.”
you take another drag, watch the smoke drift. “probably. except your songs don’t have to wait four thousand years to be heard.”
he goes quiet for a second, thumb rubbing the label off his beer bottle. “some of mine feel like they’ve waited that long,” he says, so low you almost miss it.
you look at him then. really look. the way the lamplight catches the tiny freckles over his nose you noticed before, the way his mouth goes softer when he’s not trying to be clever.
you want to kiss him so badly your ribs hurt.
instead you flick ash into the saucer you’d been using as an ashtray and say, “you’ll play them one night. proper night. and the room’ll go still because everyone realises they’re hearing something that was supposed to happen.”
he doesn’t answer right away. just looks at you with something bright and unguarded in his eyes. “you’re weird,” he says again, fond this time.
your knees are still touching. his little finger finds yours on the sofa cushion between you, hooks there like it belongs.
across the room lynne catches your eye and raises both eyebrows so hard they nearly disappear into her fringe. you flip her off with the hand that isn’t attached to noel. she grins like christmas came early.
the record ends. someone puts something else on — slower, guitars drenched in reverb. noel’s thumb starts tracing the inside of your wrist, slow circles that match the song. you stay like that, smoking and talking in low voices about nothing and everything, until the sky outside starts going pale grey and the ashtray is full and your throat tastes like ash and his heartbeat is the loudest thing in the room.
eventually the music got down to a murmur, just a lazy guitar line looping like a lullaby. half the room is horizontal — tom’s sprawled across two beanbags snoring, lynne’s curled up in an armchair with her boots still on, clint and the others arguing in the kitchen. no one is looking at the sofa in the corner anymore.
you’ve run out of cigarette and excuses to keep your hands to yourself.
noel is talking, low and close, something about a song he wrote when he was sixteen that still makes him cringe, and you’re watching his mouth move and the way his fringe keeps falling into his eyes.
you lean in and kiss him.
no asking, no warning, just the soft surprised sound he makes against your lips and then he’s kissing you back like he’s been thinking about it for the last four hours too. his hands come up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, and you feel the exact second he decides not to be careful anymore.
you shift, swing a leg over so you’re straddling his lap without breaking the kiss. the sofa groans but no one stirs. his hands slide down to your waist, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt, warm against your skin. you can taste smoke and red stripe and something that’s just him.
you kiss like you’re trying to make up for every minute you spent sitting two careful inches apart earlier. teeth and tongue and the little noises you can’t hold back. his head tips back against the sofa cushion and you follow, chasing his mouth, hands in his hair, tugging just enough that he groans quietly into you.
someone across the room snorts in their sleep. neither of you care.
you feel him hard underneath you and it makes you bold, makes you roll your hips once, slow. his grip tightens on your waist, almost bruising, and he pulls back just far enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing ragged.
“fuck,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “we should—”
he doesn’t finish the sentence. instead he stands up, hands under your thighs, lifting you with him like you weigh nothing. you wrap your legs round his waist on instinct, arms round his neck and he carries you out of the living room without looking back.
the hallway is dark and narrow, posters peeling off the walls. he shoulders open the first door he finds and kicks it shut behind you.
the click of the lock sounds enormous in the sudden quiet.
he sets you down on the edge of the bed, but you’re already pulling him down with you, mouths crashing together again, hungry and clumsy and perfect. he’s got your shirt halfway up your ribs, when his fingers hook the waistband of your jeans and tug. the button pops, the zip rasps down, and he peels them off with your help, kicking them somewhere into the dark.
then he slides his hands up your thighs, thumbs tracing the edge of your knickers, and stops dead. you feel him freeze, then the huff of a laugh against your collarbone.
they’re pale blue cotton covered in tiny cartoon otters holding umbrellas. you bought them in a three pack from home stores because they were on sale and you were skint after the latest dig. you did not expect anyone to see them tonight at all.
noel pulls back just far enough to look down, biting his lip so hard to keep from laughing out loud that his shoulders shake. “otters,” he whispers, delighted. “fucking little otters with brollies.”
“shut up,” you hiss, face on fire.
he tries, he really does, but another laugh slips out. then he catches your expression and schools his face into something almost serious. “hang on,” he says, voice suddenly quieter, thumb still stroking the elastic at your hip. “how old are you, actually?”
you’re busy wrestling your shirt the rest of the way off just to avoid his gaze. you toss it onto the floor, sit there in just bra and cartoon knickers, and mutter, “twenty five,” without looking at him.
the room goes very still.
you feel the shift in the air and risk a glance.
he’s staring at you like you’ve just told him you’re royalty. eyes wide, mouth slightly open, that fringe falling forward. “twenty five,” he repeats, slow.
you nod, bracing. “why? how old are you?”
he swallows. “i’m twenty.”
you squeeze your eyes shut. of course he is. of course the ridiculously pretty boy with the diy haircut and the leather jacket in july is twenty. you should’ve clocked it hours ago. “fuck’s sake,” you breathe.
noel starts grinning. slow, wicked, delighted. “i’m shagging an older woman,” he says, reverent, like he’s just won the pools and darts.
you open one eye, glare murder at him.
he rolls his eyes, still grinning. “it’s five years, calm down, mrs robinson.”
“call me that again and i’ll break your fucking nose.”
he laughs, bright and filthy, and crawls back over you, hands sliding up your thighs again.
“yes, miss,” he whispers against your mouth, and kisses you so hard you forget you were ever embarrassed about the otters.
he’s kissing you filthy, tongue sliding against yours like he’s trying to taste every corner of your mouth. his hands are everywhere — your waist, your ribs, the clasp of your bra that he undoes with one flick like he’s done it a thousand times before. “not that shy now, eh?” he mutters against your lips, voice rough, grinning into the kiss.
you bite his bottom lip in answer and he groans, hips rolling forward.
he shifts back just enough to shove his jeans and boxers down. you hear the crinkle of foil, the quick tear, and then he’s rolling the rubber on with one hand while the other keeps you pinned by the hip.
he doesn’t take your knickers off. just drags you to the edge of the bed, kneels between your thighs and presses the length of his cock against the damp cotton, right over your fanny. the fabric is soaked already you’re almost embarrassed. you can feel it when he slides up and down, slow, deliberate, the head nudging your clit on every stroke.
you make a desperate little noise and try to lift your hips. he pins you with a hand on your stomach.
“easy, tiger,” he whispers, eyes dark, watching your face like he’s memorising it. “got all night.”
he keeps rocking, dragging himself through the wet patch on your knickers until you’re shaking, until every drag feels like it’s pulling the air out of your lungs. then he hooks one finger under the gusset, tugs it aside and rubs the head of his cock through your folds, up and down, slow circles around your clit, pressing just at your entrance and stopping.
you whimper. actually whimper.
he does it again. and again. until your thighs are trembling and you’re clutching fistfuls of the duvet.
he leans over you, mouth at your ear. “love hearing you say my name like that. keep doing it.”
then he lines up and pushes in, slow, relentless, the cotton still bunched to the side. the stretch is perfect, almost too much, and you both exhale at the same time like you’ve been holding your breath since the hacienda. he bottoms out and stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.
“fuck,” he mutters. “so good.”
you clench around him on instinct and he hisses, hips jerking once before he gets himself under control. he starts to move, then. long, deep strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you, the head of his cock catching just right every time he pulls back. your knickers are twisted, rubbing against your clit with every thrust, and it’s messy and perfect and overwhelming.
his hand slides under your lower back, tilting you so he can go deeper. you wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him faster.
he drops his head to your neck, teeth grazing your skin, breath hot and ragged. “jesus, you feel—” he breaks off into a groan as you tighten around him again.
you’re both moving together now, the bed creaking under you, the headboard tapping the wall in a rhythm that matches the low throb still echoing from the living room stereo.
every thrust winds you tighter, the friction of the cotton, the stretch of him inside you, the way his thumb finds your clit through the ruined fabric and rubs in tight circles until your back arches off the bed and your nails dig into his shoulders.
you’re close, so close, and he knows it so he speeds up, hips snapping, breath coming in sharp little gasps against your throat.
“c’mon,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “let us feel it.”
he’s moving even harder now, the headboard knocking a steady, reckless beat against the wall. every thrust drags the twisted cotton of your knickers across your clit and his thumb keeps circling, relentless, perfect pressure. the room narrows to the wet sound of your bodies, the creak of the mattress, the ragged hitch of his breath in your ear.
your spine bows off the bed. heat coils low and tight, tighter, until it feels like something inside you is about to snap.
“noel—” it comes out broken, half sob.
“yeah,” he rasps, “i’ve got you, come on—”
he drives in deep and grinds, just there, and that’s it.
the orgasm crashes over you like a wave you didn’t see coming. your whole body locks, thighs clamping around his hips, cunt pulsing hard around his cock in long, rolling waves. you can’t breathe for a second. everything whites out behind your eyes and the only thing left is the feel of him buried inside you, the way he groans your name like it hurts.
he follows right after. hips stuttering, a choked sound in his throat as he comes hard, buried to the hilt, forehead pressed to yours. you feel every throb, every pulse, the way he jerks once, twice, then stills, shaking.
for a moment neither of you move. just the two of you breathing the same air, slick with sweat, hearts hammering so loud you’re sure the whole house must hear it.
he drops his weight onto his elbows so he doesn’t crush you, face buried in your neck, lips brushing the damp skin there.
“fuck,” he whispers, hoarse and wrecked and laughing a little, like he can’t quite believe it. “fuck.”
you manage a shaky laugh of your own, legs still wrapped around him, fingers tangled in the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck.
the room smells like sex and smoke and summer night spilling through the cracked window.
neither of you says anything else.
you just hold on, riding the last little aftershocks together, until the sky outside is fully light and the rest of the world feels a very long way away.
you wake up to thin grey light sneaking through the manky curtains and the smell of old lager ebbed into every fibre of the room. your mouth tastes like an ashtray and your head is doing a slow drum solo. for one sweet second you’ve got no idea where you are.
then the duvet shifts and a warm arm slides across your bare stomach.
memory hits like a brick.
noel gallagher. twenty years old. twenty. curled up behind you, breathing slow against the back of your neck, one hand cupped over your breast like he owns it.
panic claws straight up your throat. you start the slow motion escape, sneaking out from under his arm like you’re defusing something explosive. the mattress squeaks anyway. he makes a small grumbling noise and rolls onto his back, arm flopping over his eyes. the sheet slips low on his hips and your stupid brain replays last night in high definition.
stop it. crisis in progress.
you find your bra hanging off a chair like a wee surrender flag, shirt inside out on the floor, one trainer under the bed, the other missing presumed dead.
you’re hopping into your jeans when his voice, rough as gravel, cuts through the quiet.
“goin’ somewhere, mrs robinson?”
you freeze, one leg still half in. “got a coach to catch,” you lie. it’s not till four.
he lowers his arm and squints at you. daylight makes him look even more fit, stubble gold, eyes that ridiculous pale blue, hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted. he’s unfairly gorgeous and you want to die.
“right,” he says slowly. “so last night was a mistake, then?”
your mouth opens. nothing comes out. you try again. “i don’t… i don’t do this. i don’t shag strangers. and you’re twenty.”
he sits up. the sheet pools in his lap and you have to force your eyes to his face.
“twenty,” he repeats, flat. “not twelve. i’ve got a job, i buy me own fags, very much legal. what’s the actual problem?”
“you’re five years younger than me.”
“and you weren’t complainin’ when you had your legs round my—”
he holds both hands up. “sorry, sorry. just sayin’. you seemed pretty keen at half three this morning. begged me, actually. twice. maybe three times, lost count after—”
you hurl his shirt at his head. he catches it, pulls it on, still watching you like he’s trying to work out if you’re serious.
“look,” he says, softer. “was i shit? that it? tell me straight, can handle it.”
“no!” it bursts out louder than you meant. you drop your voice. “no, you were… really good. too good. that’s half the problem.”
he arches an eyebrow. “too good?”
“i woke up and realised i’ve just had the best sex of my life with someone who probably still lives with his mam.”
his face goes blank for a second. then he rubs a hand over his jaw. “yeah, i live with me mam. rent’s a killer otherwise and i’d rather buy guitars than give some landlord a new merc. didn’t think that made me a kid.”
you groan and sit on the edge of the bed, head in your hands. “i’m making this worse. i’m sorry. i just had this moment of oh god i’m a cradle snatcher and now i want the floor to swallow me whole.”
he snorts, but there’s no laugh in it. “you make it sound like i’m still in short trousers. it’s five years. the police ain’t coming.”
you peek through your fingers. he’s staring at the ceiling now, jaw tight.
“i liked it,” he says quietly. “liked you last night. thought you liked me back. if you’re gonna fuck off and pretend this never happened, fine. i’ll live. but i’d rather you didn’t.”
the honesty slices straight through you. you look at him properly. he’s picking at a loose thread on the duvet, shoulders hunched like he’s waiting for a telling off.
you take a breath that tastes like dust and last night’s vodka. “i do like you,” you admit. “and the sex was… mortifyingly good. which makes me a walking cliché now.”
his head snaps round. the corner of his mouth twitches. “best ever?”
“too late.” he shifts closer, careful. “so what you’re saying is i’ve ruined you for older blokes with proper jobs and mortgages.”
you huff a laugh despite everything. “something like that.”
he reaches out, slow enough you could move away. you don’t. his fingers brush your wrist, then slide down to lace with yours.
“i’m not a kid,” he says. “and you’re not ancient. you’re fit and clever and you laugh at my jokes. i’d like to see you again. if you want. no pressure. but i’m asking.”
you stare at your joined hands. his are rough, nails bitten, little scars. yours have a burn from a burner in first year.
“i’ve never done this,” you say finally. “seen someone younger. i don’t really date anyone lately. my ex was thirty two, had a mortgage, still shagged a nineteen year old barista. age clearly isn’t a guarantee of anything.”
noel snorts. “sounds like a twat.”
“then let me buy you breakfast. there’s a cafe round the corner does proper chips and gravy. you can grill me about my o levels if it makes you feel better.”
you bite your lip. “you’re really not bothered i’m older?”
he shrugs, sheet slipping again. you keep your eyes on his face this time.
“turns me on, if i’m honest,” he says. “always had a thing for clever women who could tell me off and boss me about. you tick boxes, doctor.”
the panic has ebbed into something warm and terrifying that might be hope.
“okay breakfast. and maybe… okay phone numbers. maybe.”
his grin is sudden and blinding. he lunges forward and kisses you, quick, fierce, tasting of sleep and last night. when he pulls back his eyes are bright.
“you won’t regret it,” he promises.
“i already regret the cartoon otters,” you mutter.
he laughs and flops back against the pillows, dragging you half on top of him. you go, cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“tell you what,” he says, fingers combing through your hair. “next time i’ll be twenty one. problem solved.”
“keep taking the piss and there won’t be a next time.”
“liar,” he whispers, and kisses the top of your head.
from the living room comes the unmistakable sound of lynne retching into something, followed by clint’s groggy “for fuck’s sake, woman, sink’s right there.”
noel’s chest shakes with silent laughter.
you close your eyes and, against every shred of common sense, smile.
he reaches for the gig ticket on the bedside table, scrawls a number in biro.
“that’s the house,” he says, pressing it into your hand. “mam’ll answer. just ask for noel. tell her it’s about… work or summat. she’ll be made up.”
you fold the ticket carefully. the words me mam echo in your head like a warning bell.
you tuck it into your pocket anyway.
the day is already too bright and too loud and too full of possibility and regret and you haven’t even found your other trainer yet.
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
romaincrisis
blakekathryn
germansingergirl
origamiaround
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