ART DECO ₊˚⊹
You and Noel go shopping in London while he’s feeling generous.
1.5 k. late 90s NG x reader. based on this request.
The street was buzzing with life and all eyes seemed to be turned to you as the two of you passed—a pair, surrounded and almost swallowed by the numerous bodyguards around you.
When you met Noel, you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into. The world of fame—gawping, glamour, a papparazzi’s flash in the worst moment. You were almost used to it by now.
Though glamour was something you’d always been familiar with. As a teen, you were fired from your first job at the cornerstore for nicking Vogue magazines off the shelf and taking them home, adding onto your ever-growing collection. As a young adult with access to real money, you’d spend whatever was left over on the stores you passed on the way to work. You didn’t care about what the label said or how big or small the price tag was—fashion’s fashion. Sequin, pearls, silver and gold—you were sure your continuous sparkle is what caught Noel’s eye many months ago.
This, however, seemed to be something the tabloids failed to catch. They painted a picture from broken shards of your life, placing them in an arbitrary jigsaw for the world to see.
Because of this, Noel “for the bit” Gallagher was unabashedly generous, showering you with anything you as much as laid your eyes upon.
“What about this then?” he said.
You followed his line of sight and landed on Chanel, written in elegant, lit-up letters over glass doors.
“Chanel?” you read aloud. You glanced up at him, not failing to catch the glimt of mischief in his eyes.
He put a silent hand on the small of your back, leading you in the shop’s direction.
Inside, the space was clean with neat racks of colourful tweed clothing and glass cases of jewellery. You looked around in awe, repeatedly stunned by the fortunate situation you woke up to every morning.
Time passed quickly as the two of you worked your way around the store with slow steps, your manicured fingernails brushing against the fabric, pulling items off the rack only to put them back again. With your arm in his, it felt like nothing in the world could bring you down.
“Just this?” Noel asked, at last, as you had browsed the entire store and landed on two perfumes, one of which you chose simply because you’d read Priscilla wore the same one.
You nodded, pleased.
The next target was Hermès. Really, you’d only gone in for your amusement, but someone in the staff must’ve recognised Noel and therefore ushered the two of you into a secluded room in the back. You were now seated on a beige leather sofa, an apprehensive expression on your face. You’d told the saleswoman how you were “only browsing” and wasn’t “looking for anything”, yet she had still, professionally enough, told you to sit down and she would bring something “just your style”.
When you made eye contact with Noel in the eerily silent room, the two of you broke into a laugh. It all seemed so surreal, foreign to the both of you. Though you weren’t unfamiliar with luxury stores, nor luxury service, you’d never been so masterfully persuaded into obedience before. Noel, no stranger to wealth, didn’t often find reason to enter stores as profoundly posh as this—the performance culture of it all seemed to repel him. It all came down as something humorous to the two of you.
The saleswoman came back with a large orange box in her hand. She set it down on a little, perfectly placed table beside the sofa and unpacked a medium-sized tan bag.
She presented it like a bottle of wine. “The Bolide Bag. Beautifully tinted real leather and skilfully crafted by masters in-“ she trailed off, reciting the focus points of the bag like she was reading off a spreadsheet.
You accepted it just to humour her. You put it around your shoulder and posed with it for Noel, blowing him a kiss.
“Perfect,” he clapped, circling his finger in the air as if to say “twirl”.
You did just so, twirling with the bag over your shoulder and reenacted strutting down the street with it.
“You look like Kate Moss,” he laughed.
“How do you like it, Miss?” the saleswoman asked, patience drawn thin by the jester.
You snapped out of your performance and realised you were handing a thousand-pound item. “Erm. No, but thanks anyway. I don’t think I’ll be getting anything.”
She smiled politely and took the bag from your hold, a newfound haste at your objection of purchase. “Let me show you one more thing before you go—something we only show the most exclusive customers,” she made sure to add with a wink.
You were almost dumbfounded, eyebrows raised as she left the room again. Half a chuckle escaped you and you searched for Noel’s face, wondering if he was as stunned as you were.
Indeed, he was. “We’re exclusive?”
You theorised aloud, “Pleasantries to justify the purchase, I reckon.”
“God,” he mumbled, “it’s like they’re reading off a script. ‘Sales 101: How to butter up’.”
You laughed. “What do you think, ostrich or alligator skin?”
Before he could respond, the woman returned, this time with an even bigger box. She smiled brightly as she opened it, glancing at you to make sure you were paying attention.
“The Birkin Bag,” she revealed, pinching the handle of a large, espresso-brown bag between three fingers.
You weren’t exactly opposed to it. You accepted it, inspecting it in your arms before trying it on in the mirror.
“It’s sort of nice, I suppose,” you said, head tilting in the mirror as if it would somehow change the reflection. “Nice colour, design…”
“D’you like it?” Noel asked, watching you through the mirror.
You did like it. A lot. But you hadn’t thought of buying anything from Hermès. You’d simply never been able to look past the price tag. Though, in this lighting, where the bag matched the colour of your boots and the saleswoman rambled about craftsmanship and quality, you began understanding why people carried such expensive bags.
“It’s quite nice,” you said slowly, eyes not leaving your reflection.
“You love it,” Noel said, a statement.
You suddenly snapped out of your daze and met Noel’s eyes in the mirror. “I don’t need. It’s fine.”
He rolled his eyes. “God, don’t start. I’ll buy it. Don’t feel bad about it.”
He walked up behind you, his hands tender at your waist.
“Really, Noel. I’ve got tons of bags. I don’t need another-“
He shut you up with a kiss. “Don’t. I wanna get it for you. I like seeing you happy.” His eyes looked down on you with sincerity and you knew it was no use to protest.
You walked out, one large, orange shopping bag richer—or poorer, you should say. Insistingly, carried by Noel.
From one store to the other, you progressed down the street, every now and then branching off to grab a cooling drink or quick snack. You snuck through alleyways and stalked through quiet thrift shops in an attempt to shake off the papparazzi, laughing like little kids as you tried on disguises made from obscenely sized sun hats and large sunglasses.
Your last stop was Burberry, where Noel, too, found himself a couple items.
As you staked down the street, side by side, you felt satisfied in a way entirely unrelated to the money spent that day. Feeling generous, Noel posed for one last picture for the pap by throwing his arm around you, pulling you in to kiss the side of your face.
You laughed, dodging him like you weren’t enjoying his affection. The smiles subsided as you settled into the backseat of his car, your head resting against his shoulder.
The soft material of his jacket padded your head from the shaky drive and you nestled further into him, as if to make sure he was really there and not a mirage caused by fashion-draught mind.
You glanced up at him through your eyelashes, watched him as he gazed out the window at the passing buildings. You often found yourself watching him in the quiet moments, wondering what he was thinking about. If you were somewhere in there, phasing into lyrics and chords from some half-finished song.
Your fingers toyed with the hem of his sleeve, his arm still around you, then found the skin of his hand. He looked at you then, watching you for a quiet moment before his calloused hand trapped yours—a tender action.
When your eyes met, it was like no words needed to be said. No man-made language could translate the emotion communicated when you looked at each other, really looked. It was satisfaction, intimacy, solicitude—a warmth that grew in your chest and pulsed through your body like a physical drug in your bloodstream: it was love.
And you knew, in that moment, that no one else could understand so much through so little.
! ! ! SAP ALERT SAP ALERT ! ! !
guys. what’s happening. i’ll blame it on the cold night. cause like. sentimental who.
i didn’t plan for it to end this cheesily… i’m on my period, OKAY?!?! hope you enjoy anyway. sappies.
