illicit affairs- n. gallagher
where all relations with him are behind closed doors. (18+)
warnings: sex, unprotected sex, drunk sex, drug use, alcohol, cheating, no use of y/n, based on sally rooney’s ‘normal people’, taylor swift title, no happy ending
“I have to go back to uni in September.” She’s the first to speak after they collapsed beside each other. She can still feel him leaking out of her- he doesn’t like wearing condoms, and she’s not sleeping with anyone else, anyway. Noel doesn’t reply at first, just rolling over and blinking his eyes open, those bright blue irises almost glowing against his flushed cheeks.
“Uh-huh.” His voice drips disinterest, and one hand comes up to brush his hair out of his face, his eyes not meeting hers but focusing on the place where the duvet barely covers her chest. “That’s ages away yet, though. My family’s out on Thursday night so you can come round if you want.” This is so typically Noel that it pains her a little bit- she’s not even sure he knows what she studies at university, even though she feels like she knows everything there is to know about him. She thinks that if he ever got famous, she’d be the one to write the biography about his adolescence; how at twenty-one, he floated between jobs and pubs and her bed and didn’t really seem to have any kind of life plan whatsoever.
“Yeah, okay. Maybe.” Noel raises a brow at her answer, but doesn’t say anything. They both know she’ll come; what else would she do? He grunts as he sits up, pulling his backpack towards him and gathering his things to roll a joint. The duvet sits lowly around his hips as he works, and he lays back as he licks the paper to seal it, fumbling around for a lighter. This has been their routine for a while now; he comes over, they fuck, he smokes. Then he goes home and pretends not to know that she cries as soon as she’s gone, as soon as she steps in the shower.
“Our Liam’s doing his GCSE’s now, yknow. Maybe he’ll be like you, off to uni.” He snorts as he says this, inhaling deeply from his joint. The smell of weed clouds her bedroom, and combines with the smell of sex. She feels like if she focused hard enough, she’d be able to see their scent swirling about the room, condensing on her posters and dripping down the walls, the way his come drips down her thighs. She shifts, sticky, turning her head so she’s looking at the ceiling.
“I thought he got suspended.” It’s rare that Noel talks about his family, really; it’s rare that he talks at all. He told her before they started having sex that he doesn’t like people knowing his business, and that what happens at home stays at home. Maybe that’s why he’s so secretive about their relationship- if it could be called that- and it’s privacy, rather than embarrassment, that stops him from telling the world that they’re shagging. She’d like to think this, but she’s not stupid, not really. Burnage isn’t known for keeping secrets; gossip spreads around the estates like wildfire. If he was proud of sleeping with her, the whole city would know about it.
“Yeah, well, they let him back in. Got to get an education, init?” He snorts again as he says this, as if the idea of getting an education was stupid. He’s made it clear that he’s not a fan of her going to university- ‘it’ll just make you soft, won’t it?’ Still, she went anyway, and came back in the summer to Manchester being exactly the same as before. The only difference was that Noel had discovered the Stone Roses, and waxed lyrical about them and how he was going to become famous just because he can play a few songs on guitar. He wasn’t that good of a guitarist, but she sat politely as he played her the Smiths, even if it was to ensure she’d be fucked afterwards.
“S’pose so.” He nods as she says this, and stubs out the rest of his joint on her bedside table, placing the butt in the dish she keeps her jewellery in. He looks at the silver pieces momentarily, picking up an earring and spinning it through his fingers, before standing up.
“Best be off, then. Don’t want your Da to find me, eh?” She doesn’t point out that her dad won’t be home for another four hours- it’s only two- but nods and looks away as he gets dressed, pulling on boxers and jeans and a t-shirt that she’s certain is his older brother’s. “You can look. Not like I’ve never been inside ya.” He laughs at his own joke, and she blushes, sitting up and covering her body with her duvet. He’s dressed, now, anyway, his backpack slung over one shoulder.
“Sorry,” she says, but she’s not really sure why. Maybe it’s because she didn’t look when he was changing- he probably thinks she’s a prude. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want her, not really, just a good shag- he probably thinks she’s easy. Hundreds of possibilities swirl around her head, but she doesn’t voice any of them, just apologising for what could’ve been. He doesn’t move to comfort her, or accept her apology. He just nods again, shifting on his feet.
“All reyt. See yous Thursday, then.” She hadn’t agreed earlier outright, but they both knew she’d go anyway. She nods, and he leaves, closing her bedroom door and going downstairs. She waits until she hears the click of the front door locking, and looks out the window until she can see him round the corner of her street before she lets the tears fall. Then, she gets up, wiping at her face, and turns the shower on. The water’s cold, to get rid of his come, and even after she gets rid of it and she turns the water warm, it’s not until it runs icy down her back that she gets out and towel herself off. She gets dressed and pulls out her diary, the little one with dates in, and flips to Thursday so she can write Noel ♡ in glittery gel pen. When that’s done, she cries, properly, and tries not to think about him.
*
“Fuck.” He breathes out, fast, chest rising and falling as he grabs her hips, her thighs, her tits as she bounces above him. Her head tilts back, and she ignores the burning in her legs as he thrusts upwards, moaning out her name. She breathes equally quickly, bracing herself to move faster, to make him feel better; he cries out her name, grabbing her hips as his rhythm falters, thrusting once, twice, before he finishes inside her, eyes squeezed shut and grip hard enough to bruise. She doesn’t move until he lets go, folding his arms behind his head, and she swings off of him, laying down. She hasn’t finished, but that’s okay; it’s not abnormal for him to stop caring once he comes. “Toilet’s down the hall to the right.” He rolls over. She gets up, pulling on her knickers and his top to go to the loo. It doesn’t matter that his come drips into her knickers in the short walk to the loo, and she has to wrap toilet paper around the lace to catch the rest of it that she can’t wipe away. She heads back into his room and swaps his top for her bra, sliding the rest of her clothes back on before sitting at his (and Liam’s) desk chair, drawing her legs up to her chest.
“I like your room.” This is only the second- third?- time she’s been here, and she looks around as if it’s a museum exhibit. In a way, it’s a curation of Noel’s life; posters on the wall and photo booth pictures of him and his mates, Beatles records in a pile next to the desk, a hi-vis jacket from a building site hung over the wardrobe door. Noel grunts in response, opening his bedside cabinet and pulling out a joint. It’s pre-rolled, and he lights it easily, not having to faff about with filters. Home comforts, she supposes.
“I’m going on tour with a mate. America and all,” he tells her as he smokes, the window open and letting in the frigid air from outside. He never opens the window at hers, saying he likes the smell; she supposed his mum would have something to say if the smell lingered on his, his brothers stuff. She thinks over what he’s just said before looking for a response, biting at a hangnail.
“Oh, right. How long for, a couple months?” She wonders where he got the money, considering he seems to spend most of his time in bed, smoking, or shagging. Not a bad life, mind. She feels her heart sink a bit at the way he shrugs, leaning towards the window to exhale smoke.
“Dunno. Gonna be a techie, on guitars and that. Told ya I was gonna be famous,” he laughs lightly, but it’s not funny, not really. “I bet if you got famous you’d pretend not to know me. You’d move far away from here forever, wouldn’t ya?”
“I’d never pretend to not know you, Noel.” Her reply comes quietly, the significance behind her words lurching out the window like the smoke that curls around his fingers. Maybe she would move far away- could you blame her?- but she knows for certain she’d think about him always, as she tends to do now. He looks up at her, as if this is the first time he’s really ever seen her. He hums, shortly, and frowns.
“Maybe I don’t really know you at all.” No, maybe he doesn’t. She shrugs somewhat, stretching her legs out and ignoring the screams of her thighs as she does so. She doesn’t offer him a reply, thinking about him in America. She’s never left the country, even own a passport- the furthest she’s ever been is Bournemouth, on a school trip in Year Five. America is unknown territory- they’ve got cowboys, don’t they? And the Velvet Underground, her favourite band. She tries to imagine him fitting in there, cosying up to Lou Reed, tuning guitars as his face gets plastered all across American newspapers. America seems so far, and so modern; but, this is the eighties, so it’s as good a time as any to go, she supposes.
“Have you ever read the Bell Jar?” She’s not sure why she asks him this, but she guesses it’s something to do with America- Plath was American, wasn’t she? Most of the book is set in New York. She feels a bit like Esther when she swims into the sea; if Noel is the dry land, she swims and swims to get away, only to always end back up there. Really, that’s a bit dramatic, considering she can leave at any time- it’s not like they’re dating, not like they’re ever going to get together.
“No. Meant to be a bit depressing, init?” He responds after he’s finished his joint, stubbing it out in an ashtray before leaving the remnants to burn down. She watches the smoke dissipate into the air, and shrugs.
“Yeah, a bit. Just reminded me of America, that’s all. Are you going to go to New York?” She pays attention to him in a way that he’s never done to her; she’s desperate to know everything about him, even if he drip feeds information to her like it’s medicine to keep her alive.
“Probably.” The finality of his tone indicates the end of the conversation- she’s not to know any more about his tour, even if it is a thousand miles away. She leans down to put her shoes on, tying the laces with shaky hands. She’s not going to cry, not in front of him, not when she’s leaving, too. But isn’t university in Sheffield much more accessible than a tour in America? He calls her, sometimes, when she’s at uni; she knows he won’t call when he’s across the Atlantic.
“When are you leaving?” She slips one more question in. She goes to uni in September, a month from now; surely she can get another visit in, another night of this fraught, fragile relationship.
“Next week. Tuesday.” Noel leans back in his single bed, folding his arms behind his head. “Probably won’t see you before, like. I’ll call when I land.” She nods, but she knows he won’t call. He knows this, too, and shifts somewhat in his bed, something like a guilty conscience weighing on his chest.
“Right. I’ll see you about, then.” Her voice is clipped from trying not to cry, and she stands up, trying not to care that Noel doesn’t even attempt to get out of bed. He nods, saying goodbye, before she leaves the house. She waits until the front door lock clicks and she’s around the corner to cry, brushing tears from her face in the three minutes it takes to get to her house from his. She doesn’t even know who he’s touring with, and she wants to scream as she hears the Smiths from a neighbour’s open window. It’s August, and she feels him slipping away like he was never there at all.
He leaves on Tuesday, like he said, and she doesn’t see him. Instead, she sits in her back garden, Plath’s The Bell Jar open in the grass and her eyes watching every plane that flies ahead, wondering if any of them carry him. She feels like Esther again, as if a bell jar sits above her house in Manchester- she doesn’t leave for a week, watching as the world seems to pass by, even though he’s not here. She supposes he escaped the bell jar, and she tries to be happy for him. She throws herself into writing, buying records that she’s never heard of from Sifters and strumming on her dad’s guitar, playing the chords she’s known since she was young.
*
She’s always preferred parties to a club, especially at uni, but the party she’s at now invokes barely a flicker of a memory from her uni days. Her bandmates are here somewhere, probably off their faces on something or other, and she searches for them, stopping short at the kitchen, where she fills up her cup. London seems to be the place to be, especially in 1997, and people walk past, chattering about things that drunk people should never discuss- (Tony Blair, mostly; Oasis’s third album, secondly.) She jumps as someone swings their arm around her shoulder, looking up at a man who she kind of recognises. He calls her name, excitedly, taking a swig of his beer.
“Man, you used to live in Burnage, didn’t ya? On Cavendish Road? Mate, I remember everyone from home. Let me introduce you to my mates,” the man babbles- she faintly recognises him from Oasis- is he the bassist? No, the drummer- she opens her mouth to protest, but he grabs her arm, pulling her over to where his band are sat in a corner. Liam looks up first, a spark of recognition in his blown-out pupils. He inhales from his cigarette, standing and shaking her hand.
“Liam Gallagher,” he says plainly, and he introduces the rest of the band. His brother looks up, then, and his face drops slightly- like he’s recalling years of regrets. Maybe that’s just her dreaming, though. “This is me brother, Noel. Maybe you were in the same year at school?”
“We used to be…friends,” she says lightly, but there’s meaning behind her words, one that settles in the grip around her drink and takes root in a place in her memories she’d long since shut out. She hadn’t spoken to Noel since that Thursday in 1989, had barely seen him; hadn’t wanted to, not really.
“Hi,” Noel mumbles, shifting in his seat. He looks the same as he always had, smoke curling around his face like mist on a beach, legs spread in his jeans like he owned the place. He swallows heavily, standing up. “Let me get you a drink.” Nobody points out that she’s holding a full cup, and she doesn’t say anything when he leads her away, past the kitchen and upstairs, shutting them in a room where coats lay thickly on the bed. He locks the door before turning to her, and his dilemma on what to say is evident on his face. He settles with a simple “How’ve you been?”
“Good.” The conversation is so casual that it’s almost funny; he pushes his hair out of his eyes, meaning she doesn’t miss the unsubtle look he gives her body, dragging his gaze from her legs right up to her face. “You?”
“Good.” The air itself is charged, and she holds his gaze, her chest rising and falling rapidly. The room is hot, too hot, and he licks his lips slightly, soothing over a crack in the soft skin. She wants to reach out and touch him, run her thumb along his lip, have him feel the scars from guitar strings scattered across her hands. She’s not entirely sure why she doesn’t; maybe she’s embarrassed, to potentially be seen with him. “You look well. Good, I mean. Pretty.” This is perhaps the first compliment he’s ever given her outside of sex, almost a decade after the last time they slept together. She doesn’t miss this fact, and shrugs.
“I know.” She doesn’t offer anything more, but he nods, swallowing. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and closes it again when he can’t think. “You never called. When you were in America.” She feels as if the bell jar is over the two of them, in this room, and she won’t be able to leave it until something has happened between them. He shifts on his feet, playing with his fingers before pushing them into the pockets of his jeans.
“Yeah, well. Busy times,” he mumbles, knowing full well it’s hardly an excuse. Truthfully, he’s drunk- they both are- and he can’t tear his eyes away from the low cut of her top, or the way her skirt cuts off at her mid-thighs, leaving the rest of her legs on full display. He swallows, looking up at her eyes and the way she’s watched him do all this for so long. She’s breathing heavily, and he’s certain it’s not the heat of the room that contributes to the blush in her cheeks. He reaches out, brushing his thumb against her lips. “I really want to kiss you right now. Sorry if that’s rogue.”
“Kiss me, then,” she says, and it hangs in the air, more like a dare than permission. So, he kisses her. She grabs the back of his head, pulling lightly on the hair there. He nips at her bottom lip, taking her gasp as an opportunity to kiss her properly, his tongue exploring hers. It’s messy, and they’re both drunk, and she can taste the beer on his lips, and he can taste the vodka on hers. But they kiss anyway, and his hand slips under her top, getting braver when she doesn’t stop him. She breaks away to gasp and tilt her head back when he circles her tits over her bra, and doesn’t stop him when he pulls her top off, groaning lowly when he sees what lies underneath.
“Fuck,” he whispers, and bows his head, kissing her neck, biting lightly and skimming his tongue where it hurts. He grabs at her chest, and she undoes her bra, so he flicks his tongue over her nipple, his thumb rubbing across the other one. She moans, quietly, the sound rising up and blending with the music of the party below.
“Noel,” she gasps when he hooks his fingers around her waistband, looking up for permission to pull her skirt off. It’s rushed, he knows this, since they only reunited half an hour ago. She knows it too, but nods, and tips her head back when he yanks the skirt down, a moan leaving her lips at the sound Noel makes in his throat when he sees her in just her underwear, the lace soaked through already. She reaches up and tangles her hand in his hair, pushing him down so he’s on his knees. “Take them off,” she whispers, and he obliges, breathing heavily. He says her name and hooks one of her legs over his shoulder, leaning in and licking one, long stripe up her slit. She moans, again, one hand coming up to play with her nipple as he continues to lick at her. She’s all too aware that she’s naked, barely tucked away from a party full of people, but she doesn’t care, not when he sucks and laps at her clit like he’ll die if he doesn’t get his fill. Noel brushes his finger against her, pushing his middle finger, ripe with callouses, into her. The effect is instantaneous; she tips her head back again, moans out his name, and tightens around him the second he adds a second finger. He pumps them in and out of her erratically, lips still attached to her clit.
“Come for me, yeah?” He says like it’s a convenience to him, so she does, bracing herself against the wall as her back arches, squeezing around his fingers as she comes, his name exhaling from her lips like a prayer. When she comes down, she sinks to her knees to be next to him, pupils blown as she watches him suck her come off of his fingers. She kisses him, then, tasting herself on his lips and not saying anything when he cups her chest, kissing her deeper. She can feel him try and press closer to her, she knows if she looks at his jeans she’ll see the evidence of his arousal. He breathes out her name, and she looks, tracing the seam of his jeans with a fingernail. It’s awkward, being entirely naked whilst he’s fully dressed, and she pulls at the bottom of his shirt, hoping he’ll get the hint. He does, and pulls it off, but leaves his jeans on. She presses against him, and he gasps, letting her feel how hard he is. He whispers her name, again, and she wants to laugh against his lips.
“What?” She squeezes the base of him through his jeans, and he gasps, his eyes nearly rolling back into his head. He unbuttons his jeans, but leaves his boxers on, a wet patch blooming against the grey. “What?” She repeats again, and he grabs her wrist.
“Fuck. I need you so bad,” he kisses her again, and the little control she has is relinquished as he picks her up and near enough throws her on the bed, stripping himself of his boxers. She watches as he starts to line himself up, freezing before grabbing his jeans and pulling a condom packet out of the pocket. She doesn’t question it, just watches as he rolls it on and pumps himself once, twice. “Can I?” She nods, and he lines himself up again, pushing in slowly. They breathe out at the same time; her moan high pitched, his a deep vibration in his throat. He waits a few seconds before starting to thrust, burying his face into her neck as his hips move rhythmically.
“Noel,” she breathes out, and locks her legs around him, pushing her chest up to meet his as he mouths along her neck. It’s sloppy, and wet, and she can feel the haze of the alcohol creeping around her head as he moves inside her, his movements quick and deep. “Noel,” she cries out again as he lifts his face up, hooking her legs over his shoulders as he continues to move his hips, hitting that spot deep inside her over and over again.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, watching as her tits bounce below him and she gasps out his name. He echoes her name as he moves, slipping a hand between her legs to find her clit, swollen and ready. He presses down, continuing to move inside her as her back arches. “Fuck.” He tilts his head back, snapping it back down as he feels her tighten around him. “Do that again.” She does, so tight he can barely move, and he leans down, kissing her deeply. She moans out, and he feels her tightening still. “Come for me.”
“I’m-“ she doesn’t finish before she comes, digging her nails into his shoulders so hard it could draw blood. He’s not far behind her, his thrusts getting sloppy before he buries himself deep into her, emptying into the condom with a final whisper of her name.
“Fuck,” he says, letting himself rest there for a minute before he pulls out, tying off the condom. Then he thinks, condom still in hand, and says, “fuck,” again. He gets dressed, the alcohol in his system making him stumble slightly. The music downstairs is suddenly too loud, and he doesn’t want to look behind, where he knows she’s getting dressed herself.
“I thought you didn’t like to use condoms,” she comments, pulling her skirt back on, buttoning her top back up. She’s transported to memories of sticky thighs and ruined knickers of years ago, and shakes her head out of it, pressing a hand to her forehead as she does so.
“Well, yknow. Protects me and the mrs,” he tells her, not looking at her when he turns around.
“What?” She sees it then, the band of silver that sits on his left hand. She’s frozen, her hands falling limply at her side. “What?”
“Fuck,” Noel mutters, for the hundredth time that night. “Really, love, I-“ he trails off, rubbing his hand over his face. He doesn’t have an excuse for this, not really. He tries to justify it in his head- he wanted a quick shag, and she was easy? No, that’s horrible. He’s embarrassed to be with his wife, because she’s not exciting to go out with- a prude, maybe? No, that’s not it, either, because he loves her. “I’m sorry.” He puts his shoes back on, and leaves.
She waits until she hears the door click shut, and his footsteps disappear, until she lets herself cry.
