your records are in charity shops!
I'm crossposting this story here because I won some sort of award for it at slacken_ties?! And there might be someone who reads this journal who might not have seen it?!
Also, I maybeprobably will be posting the Carl/AK doubledecker bus thing on albion_fic for their fic challenge involving hacks. At the very least, the first part edited with proper punctuation and all. Just a heads up.
Alex Kapranos is a voyeur. Sort of.
Not a voyeur in the sense of a certain Mr. Cocker, who is doing it all the time everytime you think about him. There's no question about Mr. Cocker. And nor is Alex a creepy fucker in a long dark raincoat who hides out in underpasses like some hellish manifestation of Smiths lyrics. He's just Alex Kapranos, voyeur. Every time it happens, it's almost an accident. Alex doesn't mind. He appreciates the art of voyeurism. He doesn't mind a show and he certainly doesn't mind giving one either. You know, new hedonism and all that.
This, Alex tells his bandmates when he's drunk, is the century of pleasure.
They usually ignore him.
They're getting a taste of it themselves now, the art of voyeurism. The four of them are frozen, just inside their dressing room. A gig has ended only ten minutes ago and that's the farthest thing from their minds. Thinking has been pushed away to make room for watching (in fascinated, pleasured horror) the couple on the couch in their dressing room.
It's. . .hot. The way the two go at each other without the awkward inhibitions of youth. Hands in hair, hands up shirts, biting lips, chewing, tasting, savoring- if they're not careful, the two might drink each other up without a second thought. Nick grabs Alex's arm and whispers in his ear, isn't that the man who was photographing us at tonight's show, isn't that the boy who interviewed us for the NME once? He sounds desperate. Alex looks to the press passes on their jeans. Yes, it's the NME. Who would have thought.
One of them, one with long dark hair and glasses has taken off the other man's (this other one is familiar, he's slightly chubby and much younger and altogether too cute for this situation) shirt. Have they not noticed us, wonders Alex and then he remembers. Everyone likes to show off.
So a shirt's off and the two have fallen back on the couch, one on top of the other, just kissing. Young men in the throes of passion- it's really something isn't it? They’re murmuring something to each other, something likely to be sweet and pornographic, and oh, Paul's left. He was never one for public displays of affection. At least, affection that didn't include him. Bob's dropped against the wall, hand over his mouth and Nick, well, Nick's still got his hand on Alex's arm and his mouth is still very close to Alex's cheek, but his eyes are on the NME. Alex takes this an opportunity to slide a hand around Nick’s waist and up his shirt. Gently letting his fingers dance around the area between Nick’s hipbone and ribcage. Nick's pleasure spot. Alex has got an astute memory.
There is definite, discernable talking between the men on the couch now. Please, let me and ohhhhh as the photographer slides to the floor leaving the writer alone and hungry on the couch. The photographer begins to work at the writer's zipper with his tongue and teeth, given that his hands are busy. One hand is playing in the writer's hair and the other is holding the writer's hand. Holding hands? How old are they? There's no way the two are doing this for the first time, there's just too much grace in their movements that comes from practice. But maybe it's in the little awkward moments that Alex has glazed over. Like the fumbling at the zipper, the slight gasp when the photographer's tongue gets caught very briefly in the teeth of the zipper, or the way the writer flushed when he touched the photographer's face the first time. It's cute. It's hot.
Pondering this, Alex slips his hand into Nick's trousers. His arm isn't quite long enough to reach Nick's cock but just the feeling of Alex's hand resting on his hip makes Nick stiffen and lean into Alex whispering, Andrew Kendall and Barry Nicolson. Andrew Kendall and Barry Nicolson.
Andrew Kendall (Alex remembers now, he met this guy years ago, long before they were famous) has gotten Barry Nicolson's (Alex met this kid at Reading. Or was it Leeds?) trousers to the floor and has his free hand on Barry's knee. The other is still clasping Barry's hand. And then, he goes in, takes Barry completely in his mouth.
They make a very gentle, tender couple, Barry thrusting neatly into Andrew's mouth, fingers wrapped in Andrew's hair, Andrew concentrating on whatever the hell one thinks about in that position. It's been so long since Alex was in that position, he can't remember.
Andrew and Barry are still holding hands when Alex goes down on Nick and, oh yes, it's all coming back to him now. It's all about making the other person feel good. He takes Nick in his mouth and is surprised when Nick gasps, more out of shock then pleasure. Well, what the fuck was Nick thinking when Alex put his hand down Nick's trousers? The McCarthy brain is one of mysterious workings. Alex didn't like thinking about it, it always led to dark and ridiculous places.
Alex and Nick start out with a steady rhythm but speed up as Nick gets desperate. (Paul would be appalled. But then that's a given in this position, isn't it?) Nick comes and Alex falls back on to his heels. He swallows of course, because he doesn't want to spit all over his new shirt and leave a mess on the floor for someone else to clean up. Nick stands over him, hands on his hips, shaking his head as if to say what have you done, you silly boy. What have you done.
Well if that's the way it's going to be. Alex sets off to finish himself. He's not just going to sit on the floor, hard and turned on. It's a painful place to be. But no sooner has he started on himself, cock in hand and all, then does Nick crouch down and help him.
And just before Alex's head falls back, eyes closed, world exploding in pleasure, he sees Bob. Dear sweet Bob, collapsed against the wall, one hand in his trousers and one hand over his mouth. It's a strange image to come to but hey, Alex has seen stranger.
Nick hugs Alex harder and tighter then he has in years. A lover's hug. Alex had missed that hug. Over Nick's shoulder, the NME have somehow managed to pull their clothes on and fall asleep on the couch, curled up in each other. They're still holding hands. Alex thinks that is ridiculous. Their breathing is too natural and Barry's not even pretending to be asleep, but watching the men in front of him through half-closed eyes. When he catches Alex smirking at him, he winks.
Nick hums in Alex's ear, let's go get wasted, so they collect Bob and head out. Alex is the last one out the door and just as he leaves, he hears a whisper. Habitual voyeurs.
Pardon? Alex turns back.
Barry grins at Alex, but Andrew's grip around him tightens, so Barry's back to feigning sleep.
Also, I maybeprobably will be posting the Carl/AK doubledecker bus thing on albion_fic for their fic challenge involving hacks. At the very least, the first part edited with proper punctuation and all. Just a heads up.
Alex Kapranos is a voyeur. Sort of.
Not a voyeur in the sense of a certain Mr. Cocker, who is doing it all the time everytime you think about him. There's no question about Mr. Cocker. And nor is Alex a creepy fucker in a long dark raincoat who hides out in underpasses like some hellish manifestation of Smiths lyrics. He's just Alex Kapranos, voyeur. Every time it happens, it's almost an accident. Alex doesn't mind. He appreciates the art of voyeurism. He doesn't mind a show and he certainly doesn't mind giving one either. You know, new hedonism and all that.
This, Alex tells his bandmates when he's drunk, is the century of pleasure.
They usually ignore him.
They're getting a taste of it themselves now, the art of voyeurism. The four of them are frozen, just inside their dressing room. A gig has ended only ten minutes ago and that's the farthest thing from their minds. Thinking has been pushed away to make room for watching (in fascinated, pleasured horror) the couple on the couch in their dressing room.
It's. . .hot. The way the two go at each other without the awkward inhibitions of youth. Hands in hair, hands up shirts, biting lips, chewing, tasting, savoring- if they're not careful, the two might drink each other up without a second thought. Nick grabs Alex's arm and whispers in his ear, isn't that the man who was photographing us at tonight's show, isn't that the boy who interviewed us for the NME once? He sounds desperate. Alex looks to the press passes on their jeans. Yes, it's the NME. Who would have thought.
One of them, one with long dark hair and glasses has taken off the other man's (this other one is familiar, he's slightly chubby and much younger and altogether too cute for this situation) shirt. Have they not noticed us, wonders Alex and then he remembers. Everyone likes to show off.
So a shirt's off and the two have fallen back on the couch, one on top of the other, just kissing. Young men in the throes of passion- it's really something isn't it? They’re murmuring something to each other, something likely to be sweet and pornographic, and oh, Paul's left. He was never one for public displays of affection. At least, affection that didn't include him. Bob's dropped against the wall, hand over his mouth and Nick, well, Nick's still got his hand on Alex's arm and his mouth is still very close to Alex's cheek, but his eyes are on the NME. Alex takes this an opportunity to slide a hand around Nick’s waist and up his shirt. Gently letting his fingers dance around the area between Nick’s hipbone and ribcage. Nick's pleasure spot. Alex has got an astute memory.
There is definite, discernable talking between the men on the couch now. Please, let me and ohhhhh as the photographer slides to the floor leaving the writer alone and hungry on the couch. The photographer begins to work at the writer's zipper with his tongue and teeth, given that his hands are busy. One hand is playing in the writer's hair and the other is holding the writer's hand. Holding hands? How old are they? There's no way the two are doing this for the first time, there's just too much grace in their movements that comes from practice. But maybe it's in the little awkward moments that Alex has glazed over. Like the fumbling at the zipper, the slight gasp when the photographer's tongue gets caught very briefly in the teeth of the zipper, or the way the writer flushed when he touched the photographer's face the first time. It's cute. It's hot.
Pondering this, Alex slips his hand into Nick's trousers. His arm isn't quite long enough to reach Nick's cock but just the feeling of Alex's hand resting on his hip makes Nick stiffen and lean into Alex whispering, Andrew Kendall and Barry Nicolson. Andrew Kendall and Barry Nicolson.
Andrew Kendall (Alex remembers now, he met this guy years ago, long before they were famous) has gotten Barry Nicolson's (Alex met this kid at Reading. Or was it Leeds?) trousers to the floor and has his free hand on Barry's knee. The other is still clasping Barry's hand. And then, he goes in, takes Barry completely in his mouth.
They make a very gentle, tender couple, Barry thrusting neatly into Andrew's mouth, fingers wrapped in Andrew's hair, Andrew concentrating on whatever the hell one thinks about in that position. It's been so long since Alex was in that position, he can't remember.
Andrew and Barry are still holding hands when Alex goes down on Nick and, oh yes, it's all coming back to him now. It's all about making the other person feel good. He takes Nick in his mouth and is surprised when Nick gasps, more out of shock then pleasure. Well, what the fuck was Nick thinking when Alex put his hand down Nick's trousers? The McCarthy brain is one of mysterious workings. Alex didn't like thinking about it, it always led to dark and ridiculous places.
Alex and Nick start out with a steady rhythm but speed up as Nick gets desperate. (Paul would be appalled. But then that's a given in this position, isn't it?) Nick comes and Alex falls back on to his heels. He swallows of course, because he doesn't want to spit all over his new shirt and leave a mess on the floor for someone else to clean up. Nick stands over him, hands on his hips, shaking his head as if to say what have you done, you silly boy. What have you done.
Well if that's the way it's going to be. Alex sets off to finish himself. He's not just going to sit on the floor, hard and turned on. It's a painful place to be. But no sooner has he started on himself, cock in hand and all, then does Nick crouch down and help him.
And just before Alex's head falls back, eyes closed, world exploding in pleasure, he sees Bob. Dear sweet Bob, collapsed against the wall, one hand in his trousers and one hand over his mouth. It's a strange image to come to but hey, Alex has seen stranger.
Nick hugs Alex harder and tighter then he has in years. A lover's hug. Alex had missed that hug. Over Nick's shoulder, the NME have somehow managed to pull their clothes on and fall asleep on the couch, curled up in each other. They're still holding hands. Alex thinks that is ridiculous. Their breathing is too natural and Barry's not even pretending to be asleep, but watching the men in front of him through half-closed eyes. When he catches Alex smirking at him, he winks.
Nick hums in Alex's ear, let's go get wasted, so they collect Bob and head out. Alex is the last one out the door and just as he leaves, he hears a whisper. Habitual voyeurs.
Pardon? Alex turns back.
Barry grins at Alex, but Andrew's grip around him tightens, so Barry's back to feigning sleep.