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booshslashhavenI wish I could say I wrote this but I didn't - just posting as a favour to a shockingly talented friend. <3
Title: I Repeat It Till My Tongue Stiffens
Author:Hugh G. Rection anon
Pairing: Noel/Julian
Rating: NC17
Notes: If you dress up as Cathy and Heathcliff and passionately embrace on primetime television whilst fully knowing that your fanbase is mainly comprised of hormonal reprobates who like watching you get off with each other, then you are sort of asking for this to happen. That said – thanks guys, you always deliver!
Disclaimer: This is all fiction and any resemblance to any events which may or may not have ever occurred is purely coincidental (sorry lads!)
"C'mere."
A curt little beckoning gesture, quite imperious, and Noel smiles a day-breaking smile of genuine delight - and exhilaration that it's all over and people are cheering, cheering very loudly. He runs the short distance to where Julian's standing braced to catch him, pattering in the ballet flats that do half the job of making you skip daintily even if they are men's dance shoes customised to look like maryjanes because wardrobe couldn't get ladies ones big enough. Next to Julian, without heels, he looks tiny; anyone would. Hopping into Julian's arms to raucous applause, Julian spins him around with ease and Noel leans back, toes pointed, wide chiffon sleeves and ridiculous wig fluttering as he breathes in the dry ice, his eyes squeezed closed against the glare of the lights.
Success.
As Julian carries him off behind the set, stage right, their eyes meet once and then Noel wraps his arms around Julian's neck, tight. It's less from the fear of being dropped (although screwing up at this stage would be awful) than from habit and that hug-chasing, drug-high joy of a job well done and...
...stage right? Oh, they did screw up, but still Noel can't switch off his ecstatic grin.
Behind the tree-lit LED screens of the set they're suddenly, unexpectedly alone, marooned from the reception of crew and performers waiting stage-left. The cheering is weirdly muted behind here, the lights inexplicably dimmer, curling wisps of dry ice like little ghost fingers beckoning across moorland, following them around the partition. Julian's fingers tighten on Noel's chiffon-clad thigh and Noel presses his face a little closer against Julian's neck. Julian's skin is warm beneath the open collar of his poet shirt – like a country squire, an erect and handsome figure if sometimes morose, in dress and manners a gentleman... well... usually a gentleman.
Noel's scarlet manicured fingers creep, winding into the curls at Julian's nape and tightening there. His heart is hammering; Julian's too, pressed beat to beat like fists against a window: pounding from the exertion of the dance and from the excitement of the performance, like running downhill so fast that you can't stop your legs, you can't control your path, you feel like you're flying...
Noel looks up through his eyelashes, his breath coming fast. A few strands of silky, synthetic hair cling to his red lipstick. Julian lets him down, brushes the sticking strands back with one thumb, plucks a piece of fake leaf from Noel's fake hair, eyes locked and foreheads touching. Seconds seem to stretch into minutes as Julian's lips part and Noel lifts up on tip toe from instinct, but his eyes widen in subdued panic too because this shouldn't happen, no matter how carried away they are with the drama and Noel should be back onstage right now and if they kiss then it's guaranteed to smear his lipstick and how is he supposed to laugh that one off in the glare of primetime television lights? Julian dips his head, one hand at Noel's waist pulling him abruptly close again, the other fisted in the spill of his auburn wig. Pressing his lips brief and longing against Noel's throat just above the silk poppy that's tied there, he breathes in the scent of liquid foundation starting to melt under stage lights, of clean sweat and skin that tastes hot and salty as he catches it once, gently, between his teeth and hears Noel let out a most unladylike moan. Noel's hands grip Julian's full sleeves, like he wants to pull him closer and push him away at the same time, but there is no time. Stumbling out from behind the backdrop, Noel pitches first back into the lights, Julian mock-pushing him as if he's just set him down and they haven't just stood nose-to-nose and got all-too-briefly carried away.
"Noel?" Steve Jones laughs like he knows, although he's probably just laughing at Julian jogging right across the backdrop to reach the correct side to exit. "There he is!"
Precisely eight seconds have elapsed since they disappeared from view. Noel switches on a smile: half shy, half laughing, all professional, belying how dishevelled his wig is suddenly looking.
"How was that for you?"
Mindblowing? Life changing? Cataclysmic?
Noel collects himself, looks at his feet, at the audience, but he can't keep his grin in check. "No-one was expecting Heathcliff."
"Well, you got Julian instead, and that's pretty yummy, isn't it?"
Yummy? Yummy isn't quite the word, but it'll do. Noel laughs self-consciously, running his tongue across his teeth, derailing it into joke territory. "He's got a wheelbarrow around there." He drops his gaze, twisting one ballet-slippered toe on the floor. Who cares what the judges think, now – now all he wants to do is get offstage again and away from a million pairs of eyes that are watching to spot something.
*
When the knock sounds at his dressing room door, Noel is still in full costume, staring into the full length mirror and trying to see what everyone else sees.
It's Julian standing there when he opens up, oddly still in costume too but minus the bouquet of flowers that Noel's suddenly and irrationally expecting, like Dorian Gray has come backstage after Sibyl's performance.
And we know what happened there...
"Hi," Noel says, less spirited than when Julian last saw him. He drops his eyes, suddenly self-conscious. The silence is heavy, like static before a storm and Noel, feeling oddly under scrutiny, reaches up and pulls the flower out of his hair, starts to wriggle out the hairgrips that are holding his wig on. His breath catches as Julian reaches out and takes hold of his wrist. As Julian reaches his other hand behind him and twists the key in the door lock.
Shadows and sunshine flit across Noel's face in rapid succession; but the shadows rest longer. Julian takes the flower out of his hand and clips it surely back into his fake hair and Noel holds back a giggle that's partly the ridiculousness of the situation and partly butterflying nerves. They've been apart too long, but he knew Julian would come back; had said so, in interviews even. Whatever is between them, this platonic lust, it's like the eternal rocks beneath: necessary. Always, always in one another's minds: not as a pleasure any more than anyone is a pleasure to themselves, but as one being: separation is impracticable.
This, though. This is something else.
In the mirror Noel's eyes are wide and uncertain, the confident, glorious wild-child wrong-footed at last: it's a look he sort of likes on himself. It's them, but it doesn't look like them, not completely. To speak now would break the spell, which is tentative already: closing his eyes, Noel leans in, Julian's palm cupping the side of his face, thumb tracing a cheekbone as Noel tilts his head. If he keeps his eyes shut, he doesn't have to be responsible for his actions. If they both shut their eyes, then maybe this isn't happening at all...
Noel raises his head, his lips parting. He can feel Julian's breath and then the warm, ghosting awareness of a large hand, mapping the contours of his face like a blind man yet not quite touching, hovering just over his blushing skin. It settles to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers squeezing gently, and Noel draws a breath in sharply and opens his eyes. Julian is looking straight at him with heavy intent, his sharp cannibal teeth gleaming, his hair falling over his forehead.
One step backwards and Noel can lean against the wall. Julian follows, keeping no distance between them. His free hand traces a path up the zip at the side of Noel's dress, lingers at the little pull and then leaves it. And Noel puts both hands up, fingers curled into loose fists against the wall as if surrendering to an invisible firing squad. His pale arms in soft-focus behind the sheer red of his sleeves lose their masculine definition. Julian moves quickly, grips each wrist hard, pressing them against the painted plaster. The little buttons on Noel's dress cuffs dig into his flesh and Noel inhales, exhales, a shuddering breath rocking his whole body forward even as he's pinned back. When Julian raises his arms, sliding both their hands up the wall Noel follows the movement, going up onto his toes, straining, until Julian is leaning down over him, braced against the wall. And Noel doesn't struggle because he wants to get free; he struggles because it's exciting. His eyes flash fierce, his cheeks flushed and chest heaving like he's just danced all over again. It's been years coming, this thing that is cresting now, reaching its zenith. Julian's mouth is slack, soft, his lowered eyelashes sooty. He looks drugged and dreaming as he leans in close, cheek to cheek, forehead to forehead, caressing skin with soft whiskers and never quite closing the kiss. Whatever souls are made of, theirs are the same – everyone else's as different as moonbeams from lightning, or frost from fire. Their lips linger, millimetres apart, sharing breath; they are trapped in each other's gaze. When Julian lets go of Noel's wrists Noel almost falls, his legs shaky from being on his toes for so long, and from something else entirely and Julian catches him around the waist, drawing him forward. When their lips meet now, tentatively, Noel is trembling so much that Julian has to support nigh his whole weight. Shaking adrenalin and watch-spring nerves: this thing has reached its summit and tipped, gathering momentum as it falls crashing upon them both...
Julian's hands go to Noel's face, one either side, slipping through the satin of his counterfeit hair as Noel's arms wind firmly around Julian's neck, forcing him close and crushing their lips demandingly together. Julian's breath is sweet with beer, but Noel tastes of mint, clean and strangely virginal, at odds with the eagerness of his mouth. A second chance at earnest inexperience: the act is familiar but the situation renders it terrifyingly, beautifully new, and every pass of lips and tongues prompts a shudder and gasp into the other's mouth.
When they pull back Julian's lips are rosy with transferred colour, his cheeks flushed to match. He can't hold off, his gaze fixed on Noel's lipstick-smeared mouth, shiny as a promise, leaning in again and again to kiss him dizzy until they're both clinging for balance, arms and lips locked.
The dressing table is too low, but there's a cabinet against one wall that's closer to waist height. Julian grips Noel's trim hips and lifts him again easily to sit, scattering piles of flyers and sending an empty Coke can clattering. It's Julian's face upturned now. Noel elegantly scissors him, red clad legs wrapping around his waist to pull him forward. Julian reaches his arm out behind him, catches one foot around a slender ankle and Noel extends obediently, following Julian's gaze to his own slippered toe, delicately ballerina-pointed.
Beneath Julian's palm as he inches it up, up, Noel's sleek calf flexes. The opaque red of his tights hides any evidence of hair, adds to the unsettling illusion, but feeling strong muscle bunching, Julian can't forget the truth that makes this brazen lie all the more beguiling. Noel's breath hitches prettily as Julian's hand disappears beneath the demure handkerchief hem of his dress. The air between them prickles, electric, and the rise and fall of Noel's chest is so rapid and heaving that Julian can imagine he hears his heartbeat thunder. Julian's hand reaches his thigh and Noel shifts, whimpering at the uncomfortable restriction of this outfit. Julian's palm isn't really rough but it still catches against the thick nylon as he slides it up, up, feeling the side-swell of pert backside and closing over a firm hip. Noel places a hand over his, buried beneath his skirts, their fingers separated by layers of filmy chiffon, and urges Julian's hand around and between his legs. Julian drops his gaze, breathing hard. The heel of his hand presses against the too-many constricting layers of nylon and underwear that are trapping Noel's hard-on. When Noel lets out a helpless, needy sound that's more frustration than pleasure Julian looks up again, meeting Noel's eyes, his plump lower lip caught between his teeth, trying for silence. His fingers grip the edge of the cabinet, white-knuckled, as he bucks up into Julian's touch.
"I want..." The rest is lost as their mouths find each other again. Noel's hands are on Julian's waistband, both of Julian's lost now beneath the froth of red chiffon in Noel's lap. Tugging Julian's buttons free, Noel's clever stubby fingers dip, slipping into the front of his breeches, and Julian presses his forehead to Noel's, groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. Their mouths crush together again, eyes closed, navigating by touch. Noel spreads his legs a little wider, lifting his hips as Julian finds the snug waistband of the tights he's wearing, the second layer of his underwear, and works his hands beneath, Noel's skin hot against the back of his fingers. Noel wriggles, trying to ease the frustrating pressure, and when Julian manoeuvres the tight fabric down and over Noel's hips, the noise he makes is pure relief. His cock is thick, wet at the tip, and fits heavy and perfect into Julian's jumping fist. Both worked up, hot and reeling and not daring to look anywhere but each other's eyes, Noel runs a thumb over the head of Julian's cock, steady blue gaze firmly above shoulder height, and Julian narrows his eyes and bites back a moan. Noel slides his hand right down the length of it, back up, with a little twist and squeeze. He does it again. He does it again. They lean into each other and touch until kisses turn to open mouthed gasps and their stuttering hips finally still.
It's definitely got to be washed anyway; stage lights make you sweat like anything. There will have to be a first word, a first something, but that's not going to be it. They can't seem to look away, to look down to survey the mess. Julian leans heavily against the little cabinet, braced still between Noel's dangling legs, as if his own legs might give way at any second. Looking up through his fringe, hanging in damp spiral curls now, he gives a tentative little smile. And Noel smiles in return, unsure but genuine, and leans to kiss him on the forehead. In the full length mirror their reflection gives less away than the full story. The volume of Noel's red skirt hides a multitude of indiscretions, his face half obscured by the glossy curtain of hair falling. His reflection, chastely kissing its handsome darling, is a strange and contradictory patchwork of innocence and debauchery and love. For the first time, Noel thinks that maybe he sees what other people see.
Title: I Repeat It Till My Tongue Stiffens
Author:
Pairing: Noel/Julian
Rating: NC17
Notes: If you dress up as Cathy and Heathcliff and passionately embrace on primetime television whilst fully knowing that your fanbase is mainly comprised of hormonal reprobates who like watching you get off with each other, then you are sort of asking for this to happen. That said – thanks guys, you always deliver!
Disclaimer: This is all fiction and any resemblance to any events which may or may not have ever occurred is purely coincidental (sorry lads!)
"C'mere."
A curt little beckoning gesture, quite imperious, and Noel smiles a day-breaking smile of genuine delight - and exhilaration that it's all over and people are cheering, cheering very loudly. He runs the short distance to where Julian's standing braced to catch him, pattering in the ballet flats that do half the job of making you skip daintily even if they are men's dance shoes customised to look like maryjanes because wardrobe couldn't get ladies ones big enough. Next to Julian, without heels, he looks tiny; anyone would. Hopping into Julian's arms to raucous applause, Julian spins him around with ease and Noel leans back, toes pointed, wide chiffon sleeves and ridiculous wig fluttering as he breathes in the dry ice, his eyes squeezed closed against the glare of the lights.
Success.
As Julian carries him off behind the set, stage right, their eyes meet once and then Noel wraps his arms around Julian's neck, tight. It's less from the fear of being dropped (although screwing up at this stage would be awful) than from habit and that hug-chasing, drug-high joy of a job well done and...
...stage right? Oh, they did screw up, but still Noel can't switch off his ecstatic grin.
Behind the tree-lit LED screens of the set they're suddenly, unexpectedly alone, marooned from the reception of crew and performers waiting stage-left. The cheering is weirdly muted behind here, the lights inexplicably dimmer, curling wisps of dry ice like little ghost fingers beckoning across moorland, following them around the partition. Julian's fingers tighten on Noel's chiffon-clad thigh and Noel presses his face a little closer against Julian's neck. Julian's skin is warm beneath the open collar of his poet shirt – like a country squire, an erect and handsome figure if sometimes morose, in dress and manners a gentleman... well... usually a gentleman.
Noel's scarlet manicured fingers creep, winding into the curls at Julian's nape and tightening there. His heart is hammering; Julian's too, pressed beat to beat like fists against a window: pounding from the exertion of the dance and from the excitement of the performance, like running downhill so fast that you can't stop your legs, you can't control your path, you feel like you're flying...
Noel looks up through his eyelashes, his breath coming fast. A few strands of silky, synthetic hair cling to his red lipstick. Julian lets him down, brushes the sticking strands back with one thumb, plucks a piece of fake leaf from Noel's fake hair, eyes locked and foreheads touching. Seconds seem to stretch into minutes as Julian's lips part and Noel lifts up on tip toe from instinct, but his eyes widen in subdued panic too because this shouldn't happen, no matter how carried away they are with the drama and Noel should be back onstage right now and if they kiss then it's guaranteed to smear his lipstick and how is he supposed to laugh that one off in the glare of primetime television lights? Julian dips his head, one hand at Noel's waist pulling him abruptly close again, the other fisted in the spill of his auburn wig. Pressing his lips brief and longing against Noel's throat just above the silk poppy that's tied there, he breathes in the scent of liquid foundation starting to melt under stage lights, of clean sweat and skin that tastes hot and salty as he catches it once, gently, between his teeth and hears Noel let out a most unladylike moan. Noel's hands grip Julian's full sleeves, like he wants to pull him closer and push him away at the same time, but there is no time. Stumbling out from behind the backdrop, Noel pitches first back into the lights, Julian mock-pushing him as if he's just set him down and they haven't just stood nose-to-nose and got all-too-briefly carried away.
"Noel?" Steve Jones laughs like he knows, although he's probably just laughing at Julian jogging right across the backdrop to reach the correct side to exit. "There he is!"
Precisely eight seconds have elapsed since they disappeared from view. Noel switches on a smile: half shy, half laughing, all professional, belying how dishevelled his wig is suddenly looking.
"How was that for you?"
Mindblowing? Life changing? Cataclysmic?
Noel collects himself, looks at his feet, at the audience, but he can't keep his grin in check. "No-one was expecting Heathcliff."
"Well, you got Julian instead, and that's pretty yummy, isn't it?"
Yummy? Yummy isn't quite the word, but it'll do. Noel laughs self-consciously, running his tongue across his teeth, derailing it into joke territory. "He's got a wheelbarrow around there." He drops his gaze, twisting one ballet-slippered toe on the floor. Who cares what the judges think, now – now all he wants to do is get offstage again and away from a million pairs of eyes that are watching to spot something.
When the knock sounds at his dressing room door, Noel is still in full costume, staring into the full length mirror and trying to see what everyone else sees.
It's Julian standing there when he opens up, oddly still in costume too but minus the bouquet of flowers that Noel's suddenly and irrationally expecting, like Dorian Gray has come backstage after Sibyl's performance.
And we know what happened there...
"Hi," Noel says, less spirited than when Julian last saw him. He drops his eyes, suddenly self-conscious. The silence is heavy, like static before a storm and Noel, feeling oddly under scrutiny, reaches up and pulls the flower out of his hair, starts to wriggle out the hairgrips that are holding his wig on. His breath catches as Julian reaches out and takes hold of his wrist. As Julian reaches his other hand behind him and twists the key in the door lock.
Shadows and sunshine flit across Noel's face in rapid succession; but the shadows rest longer. Julian takes the flower out of his hand and clips it surely back into his fake hair and Noel holds back a giggle that's partly the ridiculousness of the situation and partly butterflying nerves. They've been apart too long, but he knew Julian would come back; had said so, in interviews even. Whatever is between them, this platonic lust, it's like the eternal rocks beneath: necessary. Always, always in one another's minds: not as a pleasure any more than anyone is a pleasure to themselves, but as one being: separation is impracticable.
This, though. This is something else.
In the mirror Noel's eyes are wide and uncertain, the confident, glorious wild-child wrong-footed at last: it's a look he sort of likes on himself. It's them, but it doesn't look like them, not completely. To speak now would break the spell, which is tentative already: closing his eyes, Noel leans in, Julian's palm cupping the side of his face, thumb tracing a cheekbone as Noel tilts his head. If he keeps his eyes shut, he doesn't have to be responsible for his actions. If they both shut their eyes, then maybe this isn't happening at all...
Noel raises his head, his lips parting. He can feel Julian's breath and then the warm, ghosting awareness of a large hand, mapping the contours of his face like a blind man yet not quite touching, hovering just over his blushing skin. It settles to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers squeezing gently, and Noel draws a breath in sharply and opens his eyes. Julian is looking straight at him with heavy intent, his sharp cannibal teeth gleaming, his hair falling over his forehead.
One step backwards and Noel can lean against the wall. Julian follows, keeping no distance between them. His free hand traces a path up the zip at the side of Noel's dress, lingers at the little pull and then leaves it. And Noel puts both hands up, fingers curled into loose fists against the wall as if surrendering to an invisible firing squad. His pale arms in soft-focus behind the sheer red of his sleeves lose their masculine definition. Julian moves quickly, grips each wrist hard, pressing them against the painted plaster. The little buttons on Noel's dress cuffs dig into his flesh and Noel inhales, exhales, a shuddering breath rocking his whole body forward even as he's pinned back. When Julian raises his arms, sliding both their hands up the wall Noel follows the movement, going up onto his toes, straining, until Julian is leaning down over him, braced against the wall. And Noel doesn't struggle because he wants to get free; he struggles because it's exciting. His eyes flash fierce, his cheeks flushed and chest heaving like he's just danced all over again. It's been years coming, this thing that is cresting now, reaching its zenith. Julian's mouth is slack, soft, his lowered eyelashes sooty. He looks drugged and dreaming as he leans in close, cheek to cheek, forehead to forehead, caressing skin with soft whiskers and never quite closing the kiss. Whatever souls are made of, theirs are the same – everyone else's as different as moonbeams from lightning, or frost from fire. Their lips linger, millimetres apart, sharing breath; they are trapped in each other's gaze. When Julian lets go of Noel's wrists Noel almost falls, his legs shaky from being on his toes for so long, and from something else entirely and Julian catches him around the waist, drawing him forward. When their lips meet now, tentatively, Noel is trembling so much that Julian has to support nigh his whole weight. Shaking adrenalin and watch-spring nerves: this thing has reached its summit and tipped, gathering momentum as it falls crashing upon them both...
Julian's hands go to Noel's face, one either side, slipping through the satin of his counterfeit hair as Noel's arms wind firmly around Julian's neck, forcing him close and crushing their lips demandingly together. Julian's breath is sweet with beer, but Noel tastes of mint, clean and strangely virginal, at odds with the eagerness of his mouth. A second chance at earnest inexperience: the act is familiar but the situation renders it terrifyingly, beautifully new, and every pass of lips and tongues prompts a shudder and gasp into the other's mouth.
When they pull back Julian's lips are rosy with transferred colour, his cheeks flushed to match. He can't hold off, his gaze fixed on Noel's lipstick-smeared mouth, shiny as a promise, leaning in again and again to kiss him dizzy until they're both clinging for balance, arms and lips locked.
The dressing table is too low, but there's a cabinet against one wall that's closer to waist height. Julian grips Noel's trim hips and lifts him again easily to sit, scattering piles of flyers and sending an empty Coke can clattering. It's Julian's face upturned now. Noel elegantly scissors him, red clad legs wrapping around his waist to pull him forward. Julian reaches his arm out behind him, catches one foot around a slender ankle and Noel extends obediently, following Julian's gaze to his own slippered toe, delicately ballerina-pointed.
Beneath Julian's palm as he inches it up, up, Noel's sleek calf flexes. The opaque red of his tights hides any evidence of hair, adds to the unsettling illusion, but feeling strong muscle bunching, Julian can't forget the truth that makes this brazen lie all the more beguiling. Noel's breath hitches prettily as Julian's hand disappears beneath the demure handkerchief hem of his dress. The air between them prickles, electric, and the rise and fall of Noel's chest is so rapid and heaving that Julian can imagine he hears his heartbeat thunder. Julian's hand reaches his thigh and Noel shifts, whimpering at the uncomfortable restriction of this outfit. Julian's palm isn't really rough but it still catches against the thick nylon as he slides it up, up, feeling the side-swell of pert backside and closing over a firm hip. Noel places a hand over his, buried beneath his skirts, their fingers separated by layers of filmy chiffon, and urges Julian's hand around and between his legs. Julian drops his gaze, breathing hard. The heel of his hand presses against the too-many constricting layers of nylon and underwear that are trapping Noel's hard-on. When Noel lets out a helpless, needy sound that's more frustration than pleasure Julian looks up again, meeting Noel's eyes, his plump lower lip caught between his teeth, trying for silence. His fingers grip the edge of the cabinet, white-knuckled, as he bucks up into Julian's touch.
"I want..." The rest is lost as their mouths find each other again. Noel's hands are on Julian's waistband, both of Julian's lost now beneath the froth of red chiffon in Noel's lap. Tugging Julian's buttons free, Noel's clever stubby fingers dip, slipping into the front of his breeches, and Julian presses his forehead to Noel's, groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion. Their mouths crush together again, eyes closed, navigating by touch. Noel spreads his legs a little wider, lifting his hips as Julian finds the snug waistband of the tights he's wearing, the second layer of his underwear, and works his hands beneath, Noel's skin hot against the back of his fingers. Noel wriggles, trying to ease the frustrating pressure, and when Julian manoeuvres the tight fabric down and over Noel's hips, the noise he makes is pure relief. His cock is thick, wet at the tip, and fits heavy and perfect into Julian's jumping fist. Both worked up, hot and reeling and not daring to look anywhere but each other's eyes, Noel runs a thumb over the head of Julian's cock, steady blue gaze firmly above shoulder height, and Julian narrows his eyes and bites back a moan. Noel slides his hand right down the length of it, back up, with a little twist and squeeze. He does it again. He does it again. They lean into each other and touch until kisses turn to open mouthed gasps and their stuttering hips finally still.
It's definitely got to be washed anyway; stage lights make you sweat like anything. There will have to be a first word, a first something, but that's not going to be it. They can't seem to look away, to look down to survey the mess. Julian leans heavily against the little cabinet, braced still between Noel's dangling legs, as if his own legs might give way at any second. Looking up through his fringe, hanging in damp spiral curls now, he gives a tentative little smile. And Noel smiles in return, unsure but genuine, and leans to kiss him on the forehead. In the full length mirror their reflection gives less away than the full story. The volume of Noel's red skirt hides a multitude of indiscretions, his face half obscured by the glossy curtain of hair falling. His reflection, chastely kissing its handsome darling, is a strange and contradictory patchwork of innocence and debauchery and love. For the first time, Noel thinks that maybe he sees what other people see.
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no subject
Date: 2011-03-21 09:56 pm (UTC)and that's really all I have to say on the matter. All hail Heathcliffs and groping around in packed breeches! <3
no subject
Date: 2011-03-21 11:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-21 10:27 pm (UTC)Only just watched the final version - so so beautiful to see Noel swept away by his Heathcliff. He really does look incredible, and the smile on his face during the first round of judges comments was just magnificent.
This is so great! Thanks for sharing :D
no subject
Date: 2011-03-21 11:15 pm (UTC)I'll... be in my bunk.
no subject
Date: 2011-03-21 11:28 pm (UTC)Also liked Noel's kiss to Julian's forehead, and the ending line For the first time, Noel thinks that maybe he sees what other people see. Fantastic!
no subject
Date: 2011-03-22 12:54 am (UTC)I'm speechless
Your prose is stunning.
*swoons*
no subject
Date: 2011-03-22 05:15 am (UTC)So elegantly written and so, so, so, so hot.
*____*
no subject
Date: 2011-03-22 06:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-22 10:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-22 02:05 pm (UTC)My favourite thing about this is the build up to kiss, the tension there is beautiful. He looks drugged and dreaming as he leans in close, cheek to cheek, forehead to forehead, caressing skin with soft whiskers and never quite closing the kiss. Yeah, that. *_______*
My second favourite thing is this: Noel's clever stubby fingers. XD Because so matter how much the fangirls like to write that he has slender artist fingers, he really does have stubby little monkey hands, hahah.
Gorgeooooous. Bookmarked for many many re-readings. <3
no subject
Date: 2011-03-22 08:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-22 10:35 pm (UTC)I...
I...
Ay yay yay!
The last line! YES!
And the disclaimer. Yeah. They give great fan service! <3
no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 11:54 am (UTC)...
...
There are no words for how beautiful this is.
<3
no subject
Date: 2011-05-11 04:04 am (UTC)You write like an angel. Shit. That was so amazing I cant even form a sentence.
x
no subject
Date: 2011-07-21 12:08 pm (UTC)