Er. What?
Yeah. So.
I forgot to mention music in an analysis of artistic techniques in a film. *Head.Fucking.Desk.*
In other news, I was going over old fic I had written on msn convos and over emails, and er.. There's a lot of it.
There's an especially high number of Graham/Carl fics. WTF?
Ohgod he's fucking smashed. There aren't words in the English Language to describe how much he's had to drink. He's pretty sure paralytic drove past him about half an hour ago. Graham's not. Graham's exchanged drinks for fucking cigarettes and Carl wants to say something about stupidity but he's not sure which one of the two Grahams in front of him he should address.
"Riding boots. What's that supposed to say about a man, again?" It sounds like his voice. Logically speaking, and through the elimination of all other possibilities, (his brain is doing strange things. he's beginning to think the way pete speaks, the pretentious twat.) this suggests that it must be because he said it.
"What about your white shirt?"
Carl smiles. "Fucking innocent, aren't I?" He hopes the mumble (yes, it was a mumble because he mumbles. he's accepted it. moving on.) is sexy.
"In your dreams, boy." Graham's voice is closer to his face now.
Carl thinks, in this new-found spirit of scientific inquiry, that he should test the circumstance that has presented itself in front of him. (dear god what was in that fucking whiskey? 'cause this isn't him speaking. he's pretty sure some smart person pissed in it 'cause he's channelling them, yeah?)
"Found something to ride yet?"
Graham's mouth is soft on his and ohgod he loves the feeling of stubble scratching his face and now he's clinging - he knows he is - because he's not fallen over in a dead slump.
Graham seems to have realised this as well, because Carl finds himself with a whole wall supporting his back and he relaxes against it. At least when he passes out now, the smart person's piss says, he'll slide gently and collapse. Yeah, and then Gary will carry him back to
his room.
(what the fuck is he doing thinking about gary when graham fucking coxon has his tongue down his throat anyway? and when did he become such a fucking fangirl?)
He leaves kisses all over Graham's jawline and feels ridiculously pleased with himself for about three seconds.
"Carl?"
"Mmmm?"
"Carlos?"
"Mmmm."
Graham fucking Coxon shakes his head, tiny grin playing on his face, as he eyes Carl. Who has slid down the wall gently and is now lying in a little (happily dreaming) heap.
"Gary? Clean up job on aisle 4."
"Wha-? Awww fuck!"
Also? I hate the taste of papayas.
ETA: Fucking fuck's sake, London. My hair was perfect half an hour ago. STOP IT WITH THE RANDOM WEATHER, ALREADY.
I forgot to mention music in an analysis of artistic techniques in a film. *Head.Fucking.Desk.*
In other news, I was going over old fic I had written on msn convos and over emails, and er.. There's a lot of it.
There's an especially high number of Graham/Carl fics. WTF?
Ohgod he's fucking smashed. There aren't words in the English Language to describe how much he's had to drink. He's pretty sure paralytic drove past him about half an hour ago. Graham's not. Graham's exchanged drinks for fucking cigarettes and Carl wants to say something about stupidity but he's not sure which one of the two Grahams in front of him he should address.
"Riding boots. What's that supposed to say about a man, again?" It sounds like his voice. Logically speaking, and through the elimination of all other possibilities, (his brain is doing strange things. he's beginning to think the way pete speaks, the pretentious twat.) this suggests that it must be because he said it.
"What about your white shirt?"
Carl smiles. "Fucking innocent, aren't I?" He hopes the mumble (yes, it was a mumble because he mumbles. he's accepted it. moving on.) is sexy.
"In your dreams, boy." Graham's voice is closer to his face now.
Carl thinks, in this new-found spirit of scientific inquiry, that he should test the circumstance that has presented itself in front of him. (dear god what was in that fucking whiskey? 'cause this isn't him speaking. he's pretty sure some smart person pissed in it 'cause he's channelling them, yeah?)
"Found something to ride yet?"
Graham's mouth is soft on his and ohgod he loves the feeling of stubble scratching his face and now he's clinging - he knows he is - because he's not fallen over in a dead slump.
Graham seems to have realised this as well, because Carl finds himself with a whole wall supporting his back and he relaxes against it. At least when he passes out now, the smart person's piss says, he'll slide gently and collapse. Yeah, and then Gary will carry him back to
his room.
(what the fuck is he doing thinking about gary when graham fucking coxon has his tongue down his throat anyway? and when did he become such a fucking fangirl?)
He leaves kisses all over Graham's jawline and feels ridiculously pleased with himself for about three seconds.
"Carl?"
"Mmmm?"
"Carlos?"
"Mmmm."
Graham fucking Coxon shakes his head, tiny grin playing on his face, as he eyes Carl. Who has slid down the wall gently and is now lying in a little (happily dreaming) heap.
"Gary? Clean up job on aisle 4."
"Wha-? Awww fuck!"
Also? I hate the taste of papayas.
ETA: Fucking fuck's sake, London. My hair was perfect half an hour ago. STOP IT WITH THE RANDOM WEATHER, ALREADY.