Fic: Winning


        
Title: Winning
Author: Peak in Darien
Rating: R
Pairing: Noel Fielding/Simon Amstell (with implied mentions of Noel/Julian and Noel/Russell)
Warning: Features "adult" bits, such as sex and taxation. Well. Maybe not taxation.
Summary: Simon and Noel find themselves together after a night out.
Disclaimer: This is 100% fictional and intended as harmless fan fiction. I make no money from this.
Note: Thanks to trickseybird for a spectacular beta which included such structural advice as “lol booty call”.


It’s two in the morning and they’re shoulder to shoulder, pressed up against the wall, down an alleyway in Camden. The others have melted away, heading back to flats and houses and havens of warmth. Noel thinks they must be snuggled up in bedsheets, easing down to sleep, content to get home to a soft pillow. That’s what normal people do, he tells himself. They go out. They come home. Then they go to sleep. But Noel doesn’t want to sleep, and he doesn’t want to be normal.

“Give me a cigarette,” he says.

“Manners, please, you little twot.” Simon smirks. “It’s just not good enough.”

“What, you want me to do a pop quiz for a cigarette?”

“Yes, I’d like some answers, please.”

Noel giggles, and takes the cigarette from Simon’s fingers. He inhales, then carefully places the cigarette back between Simon’s lips.

Simon smokes, blows it into Noel’s face, and says, “You’re a little slut.”

“Me?” Noel looks at him. “I’m virginal.”

“I saw you snogging Julian Barratt on BBC3. Disgusting.”

“That was a beautiful moment in the history of television.”

“Disgusting,” repeats Simon, with the same know-it-all smirk.

“You’re just jealous ’cause you want some.”

“Me?” says Simon, feigning surprise. “Why would I be jealous? I could have it any time.”

Noel looks at the ground and laughs. “In your dreams, Amstell.”

“Is that so?” says Simon.

He slips a hand around Noel’s neck and brings their faces within an inch of each other. Slowly, he leans in for a kiss.

He tastes cigarettes, and vodka, with a sweet edge. He doesn’t know if the sweetness is the alcohol or Noel himself. Noel’s skin is cold, but his mouth is warm and wet, and Simon leans into him.

He fiddles with a belt buckle and Noel, struck dumb, lets him. He slips a hand down Noel’s jeans. He’s slightly more impressed than he thought he’d be. He swivels till he’s right up against Noel, pressing him hard against the bricks in the wall.

“Told you you’re a slut,” Simon says, with just the tiniest of chuckles.

He squeezes.

Then Noel is pushing back, pushing hard, wriggling free. He grabs Simon before he knows what’s happened and twists him round, reversing their positions. Simon finds himself up against the wall with Noel’s hands on his shoulders, Noel’s lips against his cheek.

He thinks Noel must be the most arrogant little shit ever. Then Noel’s tongue is in his mouth, and he doesn’t think much at all.

The kiss is even better this time. He almost doesn’t notice Noel’s thigh pressing against him, until he feels Noel’s erection rub his own. He gasps, then hates himself for it. Noel grins.

They kiss harder. Simon hands wrap around Noel’s neck, and Noel’s hands move further south. Simon can feel cold fingers between his legs.

There’s a noise behind them; a clatter. They spring apart to find a drunk stumbling by. It’s enough to shock them to their senses.

“Your place,” says Noel.

Simon doesn’t argue.

*


They don’t even make it to the bed.

“Get this off,” says Noel, ripping off Simon’s jacket. “It makes you look like a twat.”

Simon pries Noel’s hands off and slams him up against the wall. “Shame I can’t return the favour. You’ll always look a twat.”

Noel smiles a little, and breathes out hard. “I’m going to get you back for that.”

He pushes Simon onto his own couch. They tussle, kicking each other hard. Simon feels Noel’s nails dig into his shoulder. He scratches back hard.

Simon isn’t particularly strong, but he matches Noel for determination. One minute he’s on top of Noel, then he’s being crushed into the couch, then he’s pressing down on Noel. He doesn’t think he’ll ever stop moving. He’ll be damned if he’ll let Fielding win. But then Noel starts to strip him, and he slows right down.

Noel pulls off Simon’s trousers in two swift movements. He does this too often, thinks Simon, then brushes the thought away. It’s hard to get concerned when Noel is kissing his way down Simon’s abdomen.

Noel is amazing at sucking cock. Simon had secretly suspected this, but there’s nothing quite like a practical demonstration. He tries to stay silent, but he can’t stop a noise from escaping his lips, half-moan, half-cough.

Noel stops and looks up. “Choking?” he says.

“No,” says Simon. “You might choke, though, if you’re not careful.”

Noel grins, and goes back to giving head.

He stops after a few minutes. Simon’s brain seems to have melted into liquid and is sloshing around inside his head. He hears the crackle of a condom-wrapper opening and has a faint reminder that this is not what he intended – that Fielding is winning. He kicks Noel, and Noel slaps him in the face, and he’s not under any illusions any more. Fielding isn’t winning. Fielding has won.

He tries not to scream as Noel pushes in. He clenches and hears Noel swear. The two of them are breathing like athletes. Simon hates being on his back, but he likes watching Noel with his hair all askew and sweat on his naked skin. He bites his lip as Noel pushes harder.

“Who’s the slut now?” asks Noel.

“Um... let me see… still you.” Simon regrets saying it a second later, as Noel slams him hard.

“Sure about that?”

“Jesus – Christ – ”

“Just call me Noel.”

Simon hates him right then, but he can’t stop himself shuddering and moaning. Noel’s frequent practice has obviously paid off. He closes his eyes and slides one hand down, feeling the jabbing heat inside him. He jerks himself off as Noel finishes; cries out in time with Noel.

His body feels white-hot. He lies there, still, watching Noel’s face.

Noel breathes deeply as he extricates himself. Finally, he says, “Not bad.”

“As if you didn’t love it.”

“Pretty good,” admits Noel, grinning again.

“I might write to my mother and tell her all about it,” says Simon.

Noel laughs. “Yeah, you’d have to. I, on the other hand, will write to my friends.”

“Make sure you tell Russell Brand, then.”

Noel looks taken aback, then furious. He opens his mouth, but Simon is too quick.

“And Julian. Better tell him, or I will.”

Noel looks like he’s just been shot.

It takes him a moment to collect himself. He laughs and says, “Yeah, right.”

Simon laughs too. He’s pretty sure he’s just scored double points.

*


They don’t talk for a while. In fact, they don’t talk for twelve days, eight hours and twenty-four minutes – not that Simon’s counting.

“Listen,” says Noel, “make it quick, all right? I’ve got people coming round. You know, cool people.”

Simon can just hear him grinning.

“All right,” he says, “I’ll let you get back to snorting crack off Winehouse’s shoulder-blades. I just thought you might like to catch up.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow, ten p.m.. My place.”

“Sure,” says Noel, casually.

“Not got any cooler people to get inebriated with?”

“See you tomorrow, Simon.”

Tomorrow comes far too quickly. Simon has overpriced wine and two glasses on the table. He expects to be mocked, but Noel looks impressed.

“What’ve you been up to?” Simon asks as he pours.

“Not much.”

“I saw you on the Quiz.”

“Yeah,” says Noel, “I got to sit with Russell for hours.”

“My commiserations.”

“He groped me under the desk.”

“You need a herpes check, then, I imagine,” says Simon.

“Do you think they’ll ask you on next year?” Noel shoots back. It’s not really a question.

Simon ignores it. They sit, and drink, and talk about anything. One glass becomes two, then three, then neither of them can keep count. Noel bursts sporadically into song. When he’s belting out David Bowie at the top of his voice, Simon grabs him by the shoulder and takes the wine glass from his hand.

“What?” says Noel.

“Nothing,” says Simon, and kisses him.

This time, he takes it slowly. He wants to feel Noel’s breath hitch underneath his touch, wants to map every inch of that smooth skin with his fingers. He’s ready, this time, and he’s enjoying every moment.

“Sure you know what you’re doing?” says Noel.

“Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Fielding.”

And this time, Noel doesn’t want to fight. He wants to play, and no one does playful quite like Simon. They head to the bedroom, peeling off pieces of clothing as they go. Simon’s kisses form a soft trail down Noel’s neck and Noel breathes out shakily, letting Simon lower him onto his back.

He closes his eyes and feels the cloth-soft brush of Simon’s lips, creeping up the side of his cheek. When Simon reaches his own lips he opens them, parting for Simon’s tongue, enjoying the feeling of being explored. He shouldn’t be trembling so much – he’s fucked Simon, for Christ’s sake – but he can’t help himself. Something has changed, and Simon’s in charge.
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