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booshslashhaven(I posted this a couple of other places last night, so you may have already seen it. But as it took forever and a day to finish, I'm putting it on all my archives in celebration.)
Title: And I Play It On Repeat
Pairing: Noel Fielding/Julian Barratt
Word Count: 1400 + EP
Rating: M (fic) to possible R (EP; I forget how explicit Fall Out Boy can be)
Spoilers/Warnings: language, semi-implied breath play and my usual excessive use of colour.
Summary: There's one thought Noel can never get out of his head.
Disclaimer: Noel and Julian belong to themselves; I just like to make them kiss from time to time. The original photo I used for the EP cover art belongs to Dave Brown.
Notes: Largely written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
cheeerie, and inspired by the Arctic Monkey's Do I Wanna Know. This started as vague tour porn but ended up slightly more specific when the little bastards did Beck's Song Reader last July. Yes, it has taken that long to write. Thank you to anyone who's given it a look over or listened to me whine about the writing process - your advice and care is always appreciated. Any remaining mistakes are mine, and yes, please feel free to point out my typos. (Spelt is not one of them.)
Mirrors: AO3 // Dreamwidth
Waiting is always the worst part. Noel’s fingers itch with the urge to reach out but Old Father Time demands respect. Rituals must be observed; the children have to give up their curtained hiding places and take off the masks they armour themselves with. Boundaries are re-learned before they’re abandoned. Minutes are allocated to bowed heads and scuffing feet. Shoulder bumps. Fingers poking inelegantly into remembered ribcages.
Today, the waiting seems interminable. Noel presses listlessly at his phone, tracing a finger over the slim white numbers that appear on its screen. It’s been almost an hour and a half since the final sound check. An hour and a half of awkward pleasantries in a cabinet-sized dressing room, of sipping Coke to calm the butterflies swarming in his stomach. Ninety sodding minutes of drumming his fingers and kicking his heels on the underside of the table and flirting every way he knows how to try and elicit a response, but Julian’s face is still carefully neutral as his fingers strum restlessly over chords they already know inside out.
Noel wonders how they ever found this easy. The live shows in those glittering stadiums and overfilled arenas seem an entire universe away. The cramped little bus and their unbreakable rapport have been usurped by a barely-lifted eyebrow and, as he checks his phone again, he finds himself wondering if this is all he’ll ever have now. It isn’t a mask if the boy behind the other curtain grew up.
That terrifying thought is interrupted by a runner, pink-cheeked and harried, telling them it’s time: he wends them through fluorescent tunnels to the dark, curtained wings of the stage. And when they take their place, everything is somehow upside-down normal again. There’s banter; music; the smile Noel sees painted throughout his dreams. The ground sways gently beneath his feet when the applause starts, the way it always has. Noel picks his way across it, basking in blood-red spotlights and the sound of adoration, until he reaches side-stage and is swallowed by black: black cloak and curtains, black crowding the corners of his vision as Julian’s weight crushes against him. Hands encircle his wrists, a familiar mouth meets his, and in the muffled dark, Noel’s heart thrashes against the brittle white bones of its cage.
He’s set free almost immediately but he stays where he is when his other walks away, a mess of shaking limbs and burning cheeks. The air that was so hot half a minute ago burns icy cold as he gulps it in. The ground pitches ever more violently, until even the bricks at his back seem incapable of anchoring him. He pushes his fringe out of his eyes with trembling fingers; he counts backwards from twenty-three, willing the dimly-lit wings to stay still. His hands slip once, twice, as he straightens his antlered hood.
Julian’s still in the dressing room when he gets back, leaning against the little table Noel perched on earlier. His face, when he looks up, is frustratingly unreadable again, but this time it’s only a few seconds before his mouth twitches up into the grin Noel remembers so well, and not even a few more before Noel’s heart starts hurling itself against walls and over cliffs. He waits where he is, acutely aware of the blush creeping into his cheeks and how he’s framed in the doorway. His pulse is relentless, filling the space between him and Julian with a hundred thousand tiny beats, banging away like the bass in that song he keeps hearing, the one he pretends to hate every time it comes on because it makes him want to grab his phone and text the filthiest things he can think of to the one person he shouldn’t. He plays them out now in his head. He’ll cross this room, still littered with the remnants of their stilted conversation, and pin Julian to the table, the floor, the nearest flat surface. He’ll press his lunatic heart against him and whisper that ridiculous line, I dreamt about you nearly every night this week.
Only it’s Julian who moves. Julian who tugs him in by the corners of his cloak, Julian who walks him backwards until he’s quivering flush against a rough brick wall.
There’s a moment, when Julian kisses him, where everything coalesces: the chaotic whorls of colour that fill Noel’s mind distil into the purest white, and all the words he can never find line up in order, spelt correctly, ready to be spoken. There’s always a moment, and only ever a moment. As soon as he reaches for them the prism shatters and his perfect verses go tumbling into the mess, drowning in murky indigo. And he’s tried to catch them, pushing hopelessly at those huge Northern hands that roam his body, but he’s never fast enough; the words he ends up blurting are only stuttery echoes of the ones he wants to say.
He doesn’t bother chasing them this time. But he tells Julian anyway, the best way he knows, twisting fingers into his curls. He tells him as steals his breath and swallows his heart; he tells him, wordlessly, with the grind of his hips.
The space between them returns too soon – Julian pulls away and Noel’s hands slip from his hair to rest on his shoulders. He pushes off the wall with a half-smothered whine, following lest the distance between them start growing again. The sound stops Julian moving but it doesn’t bring him back; he just stands there, staring, breathing in ragged shudders that Noel can feel in his own lungs. He glances down to where Julian’s fingers are still digging into his hips, sensing rather than seeing Julian do the same. Their grip loosens almost immediately, and Julian takes another minute step backwards, rubbing the whiteness from his knuckles. It’s a movement Noel knows well, awkward and apologetic. He remembers it from after-parties, tour buses, weekends filled with alcohol when they should have been filled with storyboarding. He lets his eyes drift slowly upwards, and when they meet Julian’s, he can hear the thunderous rumble of his thoughts: porcelain flesh and fragile bones, tiny tea cups that his fingers should crush.
“You can’t break me,” Noel whispers.
Julian’s hand shoots to his throat, thumb and middle finger digging into either side, half a shade short of threatening. His index finger strokes delicately over Noel’s pulse point.
“Don’t be so sure.”
And Noel smiles as the final layer of Julian’s mask falls away.
A flurry of sensations follows in its wake. Teeth tug at Noel’s lower lip, his earlobe; they graze his jawline and bite a path down his neck to his shoulder. A hand works up into his hair, tugging the back of it so he moans into the mouth that covers his own, then slinks away down his chest, scraping fingernails as it goes. A thigh pushes between his, the errant hand grabs his wrist, crushing the bones tight against one another, and all the while there’s the pressure of that other hand an inch above his collarbone, squeezing until the world goes black for the second time that night and Noel’s certain he’ll burst into shards of light. As his eyes flutter shut, the hand – the beautiful, infuriating, sweat-slicked hand – releases his wrist, dips down into his glittery leggings and curls around him with such finesse, born of ancient habit, that three strokes from base to tip is all it takes before Julian’s name breaks in sobs over his lips.
Noel slumps down against the wall the second Julian lets him go, vision swimming. His head, the world, is blissfully silent, and as he lolls back against the brick work, he reaches up to touch his neck, running a finger dreamily across the places Julian pressed. It’s tender already; tomorrow it will be bruised. He smiles at the hazy room. Good.
“What was that about not being able to break you?” Julian nudges his leg with one foot and Noel glances up, blinking to bring him into focus. Miles above him, one dark eyebrow quirks slightly. Faint traces of a grin mull about Julian’s lips.
“Fuck off. I’ve been waiting fucking years for that.”
As if against their owner’s wishes, the traces morph and tug until they’re a fully-fledged smirk. “Then schedule a tour sooner next time,” Julian says, and holds out a hand to help Noel to his feet.
fin.
Title: And I Play It On Repeat
Pairing: Noel Fielding/Julian Barratt
Word Count: 1400 + EP
Rating: M (fic) to possible R (EP; I forget how explicit Fall Out Boy can be)
Spoilers/Warnings: language, semi-implied breath play and my usual excessive use of colour.
Summary: There's one thought Noel can never get out of his head.
Disclaimer: Noel and Julian belong to themselves; I just like to make them kiss from time to time. The original photo I used for the EP cover art belongs to Dave Brown.
Notes: Largely written for
cheeerie, and inspired by the Arctic Monkey's Do I Wanna Know. This started as vague tour porn but ended up slightly more specific when the little bastards did Beck's Song Reader last July. Yes, it has taken that long to write. Thank you to anyone who's given it a look over or listened to me whine about the writing process - your advice and care is always appreciated. Any remaining mistakes are mine, and yes, please feel free to point out my typos. (Spelt is not one of them.)Mirrors: AO3 // Dreamwidth
i. do i wanna know
ii. nobody puts baby in the corner
iii. vanilla
iv. this modern love
v. fake empire
Waiting is always the worst part. Noel’s fingers itch with the urge to reach out but Old Father Time demands respect. Rituals must be observed; the children have to give up their curtained hiding places and take off the masks they armour themselves with. Boundaries are re-learned before they’re abandoned. Minutes are allocated to bowed heads and scuffing feet. Shoulder bumps. Fingers poking inelegantly into remembered ribcages.
Today, the waiting seems interminable. Noel presses listlessly at his phone, tracing a finger over the slim white numbers that appear on its screen. It’s been almost an hour and a half since the final sound check. An hour and a half of awkward pleasantries in a cabinet-sized dressing room, of sipping Coke to calm the butterflies swarming in his stomach. Ninety sodding minutes of drumming his fingers and kicking his heels on the underside of the table and flirting every way he knows how to try and elicit a response, but Julian’s face is still carefully neutral as his fingers strum restlessly over chords they already know inside out.
Noel wonders how they ever found this easy. The live shows in those glittering stadiums and overfilled arenas seem an entire universe away. The cramped little bus and their unbreakable rapport have been usurped by a barely-lifted eyebrow and, as he checks his phone again, he finds himself wondering if this is all he’ll ever have now. It isn’t a mask if the boy behind the other curtain grew up.
That terrifying thought is interrupted by a runner, pink-cheeked and harried, telling them it’s time: he wends them through fluorescent tunnels to the dark, curtained wings of the stage. And when they take their place, everything is somehow upside-down normal again. There’s banter; music; the smile Noel sees painted throughout his dreams. The ground sways gently beneath his feet when the applause starts, the way it always has. Noel picks his way across it, basking in blood-red spotlights and the sound of adoration, until he reaches side-stage and is swallowed by black: black cloak and curtains, black crowding the corners of his vision as Julian’s weight crushes against him. Hands encircle his wrists, a familiar mouth meets his, and in the muffled dark, Noel’s heart thrashes against the brittle white bones of its cage.
He’s set free almost immediately but he stays where he is when his other walks away, a mess of shaking limbs and burning cheeks. The air that was so hot half a minute ago burns icy cold as he gulps it in. The ground pitches ever more violently, until even the bricks at his back seem incapable of anchoring him. He pushes his fringe out of his eyes with trembling fingers; he counts backwards from twenty-three, willing the dimly-lit wings to stay still. His hands slip once, twice, as he straightens his antlered hood.
Julian’s still in the dressing room when he gets back, leaning against the little table Noel perched on earlier. His face, when he looks up, is frustratingly unreadable again, but this time it’s only a few seconds before his mouth twitches up into the grin Noel remembers so well, and not even a few more before Noel’s heart starts hurling itself against walls and over cliffs. He waits where he is, acutely aware of the blush creeping into his cheeks and how he’s framed in the doorway. His pulse is relentless, filling the space between him and Julian with a hundred thousand tiny beats, banging away like the bass in that song he keeps hearing, the one he pretends to hate every time it comes on because it makes him want to grab his phone and text the filthiest things he can think of to the one person he shouldn’t. He plays them out now in his head. He’ll cross this room, still littered with the remnants of their stilted conversation, and pin Julian to the table, the floor, the nearest flat surface. He’ll press his lunatic heart against him and whisper that ridiculous line, I dreamt about you nearly every night this week.
Only it’s Julian who moves. Julian who tugs him in by the corners of his cloak, Julian who walks him backwards until he’s quivering flush against a rough brick wall.
There’s a moment, when Julian kisses him, where everything coalesces: the chaotic whorls of colour that fill Noel’s mind distil into the purest white, and all the words he can never find line up in order, spelt correctly, ready to be spoken. There’s always a moment, and only ever a moment. As soon as he reaches for them the prism shatters and his perfect verses go tumbling into the mess, drowning in murky indigo. And he’s tried to catch them, pushing hopelessly at those huge Northern hands that roam his body, but he’s never fast enough; the words he ends up blurting are only stuttery echoes of the ones he wants to say.
He doesn’t bother chasing them this time. But he tells Julian anyway, the best way he knows, twisting fingers into his curls. He tells him as steals his breath and swallows his heart; he tells him, wordlessly, with the grind of his hips.
The space between them returns too soon – Julian pulls away and Noel’s hands slip from his hair to rest on his shoulders. He pushes off the wall with a half-smothered whine, following lest the distance between them start growing again. The sound stops Julian moving but it doesn’t bring him back; he just stands there, staring, breathing in ragged shudders that Noel can feel in his own lungs. He glances down to where Julian’s fingers are still digging into his hips, sensing rather than seeing Julian do the same. Their grip loosens almost immediately, and Julian takes another minute step backwards, rubbing the whiteness from his knuckles. It’s a movement Noel knows well, awkward and apologetic. He remembers it from after-parties, tour buses, weekends filled with alcohol when they should have been filled with storyboarding. He lets his eyes drift slowly upwards, and when they meet Julian’s, he can hear the thunderous rumble of his thoughts: porcelain flesh and fragile bones, tiny tea cups that his fingers should crush.
“You can’t break me,” Noel whispers.
Julian’s hand shoots to his throat, thumb and middle finger digging into either side, half a shade short of threatening. His index finger strokes delicately over Noel’s pulse point.
“Don’t be so sure.”
And Noel smiles as the final layer of Julian’s mask falls away.
A flurry of sensations follows in its wake. Teeth tug at Noel’s lower lip, his earlobe; they graze his jawline and bite a path down his neck to his shoulder. A hand works up into his hair, tugging the back of it so he moans into the mouth that covers his own, then slinks away down his chest, scraping fingernails as it goes. A thigh pushes between his, the errant hand grabs his wrist, crushing the bones tight against one another, and all the while there’s the pressure of that other hand an inch above his collarbone, squeezing until the world goes black for the second time that night and Noel’s certain he’ll burst into shards of light. As his eyes flutter shut, the hand – the beautiful, infuriating, sweat-slicked hand – releases his wrist, dips down into his glittery leggings and curls around him with such finesse, born of ancient habit, that three strokes from base to tip is all it takes before Julian’s name breaks in sobs over his lips.
Noel slumps down against the wall the second Julian lets him go, vision swimming. His head, the world, is blissfully silent, and as he lolls back against the brick work, he reaches up to touch his neck, running a finger dreamily across the places Julian pressed. It’s tender already; tomorrow it will be bruised. He smiles at the hazy room. Good.
“What was that about not being able to break you?” Julian nudges his leg with one foot and Noel glances up, blinking to bring him into focus. Miles above him, one dark eyebrow quirks slightly. Faint traces of a grin mull about Julian’s lips.
“Fuck off. I’ve been waiting fucking years for that.”
As if against their owner’s wishes, the traces morph and tug until they’re a fully-fledged smirk. “Then schedule a tour sooner next time,” Julian says, and holds out a hand to help Noel to his feet.
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