WM Prompt 04
Prompt:
[01] 28.5B: Picture prompt.
"Will you two get your fucking paws off each other?"
Curt's twined around Brian, hand easing up some slick pinstriped vest, impeccably buttoned. He's only going upwards because glam rock calls for pants far too tight to do anything in the opposite direction. it's not as if Jerry hasn't seen worse. Curt and Brian have all but full-out fucked in front of the man, and Curt's pretty sure even that isn't an exception, but then that night is still kind of a blur in his mind. A lot of Smirnoff. Even more glitter.
Jerry scowls like it's all Curt's fault.
Curt sheepishly removes his hands from up Brian's shirt, ducks his head and grins a little jovially.
"Right, well." Jerry doesn't seem to have caught how Curt's and Brian's minds are quite otherwise occupied. "The bridge, then. At..."
This is Curt's song, he wrote it.
"Come on and take me?"
It's called 'Penetration'.
"Sure, without the fondling this time."
He didn't think too much about the effect it would have on people listening until he'd heard Brian sing it.
Jerry's going to kill him today. Slaughter and maim. Curt doesn't care too much. Brian barely gets himself halfway into the chorus of the song, fingers caressing the microphone like he does, before Curt's right pressed up behind him again. There's a half a quirked smile on Brian's face as Curt's fingers start trailing in circles down across the front of his pants, between his legs, and that's the sixth practice 'round that Curt's been a distraction during.
It's not that Curt can count on so many fingers how many times he's heard Brian right-out laugh, really meaning it. It's just so much more amusing hearing it while he's being dragged away by the ear like a little kid who can't stop digging in the cookie jar.
||
Hands. Are what Curt misses most about Brian, he thinks, when it really comes down to it. When he really starts to try to break everything down into categories, tries to separate the good from the bad and the ugly and attempts to make some or any kind of sense of what he and Brian had. Because he doesn't know. He really doesn't. But he wants to try.
It's a good place to start, improving on things he never really bothered with when they had gotten on. Trying.
So. Hands.
Curt looks at his own splayed on the bar, wiggles his fingers a little and manages a half a grin. All rough and knobby and callused and. He remembers Brian having really smooth fingers, really clean, all neatly manicured and whatever else he did with them. Moisturizer or some shit, Curt was pretty sure he used. He didn't fucking know, he didn't do any of that lotion shit, the pampering that Brian got into.
"Illusion is the first of all pleasures." Those hands, cupping either side of his face and drawing slow, languid circles with fingertips. Three fingernails painted a royal blue because his stylist hadn't quite gotten to the other two before Brian had gotten otherwise occupied. "A man's face is his autobiography." He'd always said everything all calm, all pointed and poignant, as if the entire world was hanging onto every word. Because he knew the entire world was hanging onto every word. Hell, Curt was hanging onto every word, and he already knew half of it was plagiarized bullshit.
"What does that even mean?" Curt had asked, somewhere between curious and frustrated; he liked his answers straight and Brian spent half his time ducked behind that bush and slowly beating his way around it.
"It means a first impression is the most important," Brian replied briefly, almost tersely. "How else does a man greet himself but by a handshake?" Cooper smirks and resumes his painting as Brian's fingers splay back against the dressing table between them, a menagerie of bottles and tubes and imps of makeups and perfumes lined up precise and perfect against the mirror.
Curt looks at his own nails, chipped lacquer and bite marks to the roots. Wonders what that means about his own hands.
||
Mahogany double neck. Cherry red body, custom decal dancing up the front. There was no fucking way this wasn't an expensive guitar.
Brian wore the thing like it was his latest designer exclusive, some new clothing line presented just for him. Rock and Roll as told by Oscar de la Renta rather than an actual fucking instrument. Something to be played, rather than worshiped.
Two necks. One pair of hands.
And out walks Brian, him and how he always takes the stage like a god would, arms splayed and come hither expression fully locked and loaded. Claims the entire fucking concert, makes it his glitter bitch with wide-spread legs and eyes narrowed in at the screaming audience.
Harley who? Reg what? When did Trevor get here? The 'Venus in Furs' part of the introduction is hardly necessary, because everybody knows they're here to see The Maxwell fucking Demon. Curt barely even remembers his own name once Brian's on that stage, certainly doesn't expect the crowd to do so.
He's Curt Wild, a peon when Brian's up front.
Two necks. One pair of hands.
It takes more than 180 proof to make Curt forget just where his fingers are supposed to go on the frets, dancing up the neck closest to him, picking out the strings with his head thrown back and aviator sunglasses falling half down his nose. Normal instincts for the thoroughly trashed are to duck into the background, remain forgotten, maybe so the crowd doesn't notice just how gone you are. Curt makes it his fucking own, he loves the stage almost as much as it loves him.
Two necks. Two pairs of hands.
Fictions, sure, but something sure as hell feels real as Brian's fingers snake to the second neck of the guitar, padding out the right rhythm and bucking his hips in flush with Curt's own. Hands, patented Maxwell Demon hands slide between Curt and the guitar, run up his front before there's the right number of people playing the right number of guitar strings.
Brian's hips roll forward. Curt tilts his head back onto the guy's shoulder and lulls out a groan.
The crowd goes motherfucking wild.
||
And it's hands, when Curt wraps fingers tight into Brian's belt loops later that night, tugs him backwards into the hotel room, barely gets the door kicked closed before he's tearing into the buckled fastenings of his pants.
Hands, when Brian's thumb swipes across Curt's lips, fingertips pressing in hard as their teeth clack together and Brian's tongue swirls in to tangle around Curt's own.
Definitely hands, Curt's braced against Brian's shoulders, one of Brian's clasped hard around to hitch Curt's hips in even closer, fast and hard and everything in between as Curt fucks him into the wall.
||
Curt runs his fingers through his hair, back at the bar, back in the eighties where there's air that's stale with cigarettes, watery beer and Tommy Stone. He grabs at his jacket on the stool beside him, throws two bills onto the counter and gives the room one last look around as he leaves.
It's just weird, what you focus on, when you think back.
Curt just misses it, is all.
Muse: Curt Wild
Fandom: Velvet Goldmine
Word Count: 1,182
[01] 28.5B: Picture prompt.
"Will you two get your fucking paws off each other?"
Curt's twined around Brian, hand easing up some slick pinstriped vest, impeccably buttoned. He's only going upwards because glam rock calls for pants far too tight to do anything in the opposite direction. it's not as if Jerry hasn't seen worse. Curt and Brian have all but full-out fucked in front of the man, and Curt's pretty sure even that isn't an exception, but then that night is still kind of a blur in his mind. A lot of Smirnoff. Even more glitter.
Jerry scowls like it's all Curt's fault.
Curt sheepishly removes his hands from up Brian's shirt, ducks his head and grins a little jovially.
"Right, well." Jerry doesn't seem to have caught how Curt's and Brian's minds are quite otherwise occupied. "The bridge, then. At..."
This is Curt's song, he wrote it.
"Come on and take me?"
It's called 'Penetration'.
"Sure, without the fondling this time."
He didn't think too much about the effect it would have on people listening until he'd heard Brian sing it.
Jerry's going to kill him today. Slaughter and maim. Curt doesn't care too much. Brian barely gets himself halfway into the chorus of the song, fingers caressing the microphone like he does, before Curt's right pressed up behind him again. There's a half a quirked smile on Brian's face as Curt's fingers start trailing in circles down across the front of his pants, between his legs, and that's the sixth practice 'round that Curt's been a distraction during.
It's not that Curt can count on so many fingers how many times he's heard Brian right-out laugh, really meaning it. It's just so much more amusing hearing it while he's being dragged away by the ear like a little kid who can't stop digging in the cookie jar.
||
Hands. Are what Curt misses most about Brian, he thinks, when it really comes down to it. When he really starts to try to break everything down into categories, tries to separate the good from the bad and the ugly and attempts to make some or any kind of sense of what he and Brian had. Because he doesn't know. He really doesn't. But he wants to try.
It's a good place to start, improving on things he never really bothered with when they had gotten on. Trying.
So. Hands.
Curt looks at his own splayed on the bar, wiggles his fingers a little and manages a half a grin. All rough and knobby and callused and. He remembers Brian having really smooth fingers, really clean, all neatly manicured and whatever else he did with them. Moisturizer or some shit, Curt was pretty sure he used. He didn't fucking know, he didn't do any of that lotion shit, the pampering that Brian got into.
"Illusion is the first of all pleasures." Those hands, cupping either side of his face and drawing slow, languid circles with fingertips. Three fingernails painted a royal blue because his stylist hadn't quite gotten to the other two before Brian had gotten otherwise occupied. "A man's face is his autobiography." He'd always said everything all calm, all pointed and poignant, as if the entire world was hanging onto every word. Because he knew the entire world was hanging onto every word. Hell, Curt was hanging onto every word, and he already knew half of it was plagiarized bullshit.
"What does that even mean?" Curt had asked, somewhere between curious and frustrated; he liked his answers straight and Brian spent half his time ducked behind that bush and slowly beating his way around it.
"It means a first impression is the most important," Brian replied briefly, almost tersely. "How else does a man greet himself but by a handshake?" Cooper smirks and resumes his painting as Brian's fingers splay back against the dressing table between them, a menagerie of bottles and tubes and imps of makeups and perfumes lined up precise and perfect against the mirror.
Curt looks at his own nails, chipped lacquer and bite marks to the roots. Wonders what that means about his own hands.
||
Mahogany double neck. Cherry red body, custom decal dancing up the front. There was no fucking way this wasn't an expensive guitar.
Brian wore the thing like it was his latest designer exclusive, some new clothing line presented just for him. Rock and Roll as told by Oscar de la Renta rather than an actual fucking instrument. Something to be played, rather than worshiped.
Two necks. One pair of hands.
And out walks Brian, him and how he always takes the stage like a god would, arms splayed and come hither expression fully locked and loaded. Claims the entire fucking concert, makes it his glitter bitch with wide-spread legs and eyes narrowed in at the screaming audience.
Harley who? Reg what? When did Trevor get here? The 'Venus in Furs' part of the introduction is hardly necessary, because everybody knows they're here to see The Maxwell fucking Demon. Curt barely even remembers his own name once Brian's on that stage, certainly doesn't expect the crowd to do so.
He's Curt Wild, a peon when Brian's up front.
Two necks. One pair of hands.
It takes more than 180 proof to make Curt forget just where his fingers are supposed to go on the frets, dancing up the neck closest to him, picking out the strings with his head thrown back and aviator sunglasses falling half down his nose. Normal instincts for the thoroughly trashed are to duck into the background, remain forgotten, maybe so the crowd doesn't notice just how gone you are. Curt makes it his fucking own, he loves the stage almost as much as it loves him.
Two necks. Two pairs of hands.
Fictions, sure, but something sure as hell feels real as Brian's fingers snake to the second neck of the guitar, padding out the right rhythm and bucking his hips in flush with Curt's own. Hands, patented Maxwell Demon hands slide between Curt and the guitar, run up his front before there's the right number of people playing the right number of guitar strings.
Brian's hips roll forward. Curt tilts his head back onto the guy's shoulder and lulls out a groan.
The crowd goes motherfucking wild.
||
And it's hands, when Curt wraps fingers tight into Brian's belt loops later that night, tugs him backwards into the hotel room, barely gets the door kicked closed before he's tearing into the buckled fastenings of his pants.
Hands, when Brian's thumb swipes across Curt's lips, fingertips pressing in hard as their teeth clack together and Brian's tongue swirls in to tangle around Curt's own.
Definitely hands, Curt's braced against Brian's shoulders, one of Brian's clasped hard around to hitch Curt's hips in even closer, fast and hard and everything in between as Curt fucks him into the wall.
||
Curt runs his fingers through his hair, back at the bar, back in the eighties where there's air that's stale with cigarettes, watery beer and Tommy Stone. He grabs at his jacket on the stool beside him, throws two bills onto the counter and gives the room one last look around as he leaves.
It's just weird, what you focus on, when you think back.
Curt just misses it, is all.
Muse: Curt Wild
Fandom: Velvet Goldmine
Word Count: 1,182