Will Nature Make A Man Of Me Yet?
Title: Will Nature Make A Man Of Me Yet?
Author: aerogroupie
Beta: youthanize
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Morrissey/Johnny Marr (from The Smiths and together make a gaytacular explosion like this)
POV: 3rd, Johnny
Summary: A welcome change of weather and a welcome exchange of body heat.
Disclaimer: Lol I own nothing. Hello. Song is This Charming Man by The Smiths.
Author Notes: So Julia wanted Moz porn, and I gave it to her. Idk if I have the character voices right because I am so far from an English person, but...I tried? So.
Johnny leaned back against the wall, folding his legs under him. The bed was old enough that it sunk a little, but not enough that he couldn't get a firm grip on his guitar. Morrissey was off doing whatever he did during the day, but he preferred to sit in the apartment and work on chord progressions.
It was odd to say the least. A few months ago it was difficult to coerce Moz outside, but now it was difficult to keep him in. Ever since he discovered this bench in the park there just wasn't any convincing him to come back in. All he did was sit out there and write and write and write.
Which, okay, great for the creative flow, but he was starting to get a tan. That was just...unnatural.
He plucked out a few notes and dug his fingertips into the strings, enjoying the twinge of pain.
Picking up his sunglasses, Johnny slid them on and closed his eyes, fingering out the intro to ‘Not Fade Away.’ Soon he was calm enough to start working on a small bit for a few lines Morrissey ever-so-graciously gave him the other day - or, more accurately, were tossed haphazardly on the pillow of the bed when he woke up in the morning.
Before he got too far, though, one of Moz's thousand cats crawled up on the bed and began to bitch at him to be fed. Pushing his glasses up in his hair, Johnny tried to remember the name of this one, but nothing came to mind. It was like every stray Morrissey stumbled across he brought home. They were nearing the point of a humane society.
Sighing, Marr set his guitar down and crawled off the bed to walk over to the side of the room that served as the kitchen. Immediately a hoard of hungry felines skittered their way over to stare at him expectantly, and he picked up the enormous pan that served as their feeding bowl to wash it off. “I'm gonna tell you how it's gonna be....And you’re gonna give your love to me...”
The specialty stuff Morrissey had ordered was near out so he made a note and stuck it on the fridge, glancing warily at the cats climbing over one another to eat. As soon as tour came Morrissey would pack them all up and take them to the no kill shelter off where ever the hell it was. Why he couldn't do that in the meantime was a mystery.
Fixing himself a bowl of cereal with soymilk, Marr stood next to where the table used to be before Morrissey decided that it'd be a wonderful idea to completely and totally cover it in flowers - including the chairs.
At least the flat smelled great.
Washing off his dish, Marr busied himself putting it up, but nearly dropped it when he heard the door open. After the bowl got set down safely Marr looked over his shoulder and felt a smile pull on his lips when he saw a disgruntled looking Moz standing there.
His hair was wet.
“Oh it finally bloody rained,” Marr said with a breath of relief. “Thought it'd never.”
“You say that. Look at these. Look at these!” Morrissey said agitatedly, flinging a water soaked notebook on the table. A cluster of daisies sagged under the weight.
“You're supposed to like nature,” Johnny said plainly before walking back over to the bed, pulling his guitar to him. “Isn't rain...Your friend or some such nonsense?”
Morrissey ignored him in favor of walking into the one door they had - the one to the john.
The cats hadn't looked up from the food bowl.
Johnny decided to occupy himself by strumming out a bit of ‘The Hand That Rocks the Cradle,’ laughing as Morrissey made disgusted noises in the bathroom.
It was pleasant when he reemerged nude, unabashedly walking to the dresser. He opened his chosen drawer so hard the sea of framed James Dean pictures on top rattled. Johnny set his guitar down in favor of walking over to him, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Now, now. What's the rush?”
“Get off, Johnny,” Morrissey said with a huff. “You know I'm finished with that nonsense. Eroticism stunts my creativity.” He pulled off if only to scowl at Moz's bony shoulders.
“You're still on with that?” he asked disparagingly. “Really?” One of the cats started to thump around with another in a mock wrestling match, causing a ruckus.
Morrissey ignored him in favor of trying to struggle on his jeans.
“Moz?” Johnny insisted, grabbing his shoulder. “Are you on with that? I asked you.”
“Yes,” Morrissey whispered testily. “Yes, I'm still on with that. Now if you please.”
Johnny drew his tongue along his lip before pulling his glasses off and flinging them amid the cheap gold picture frames, gripping Morrissey's bicep. “No. No, you're not.”
“Lay off, Johnny. I have to write. You know I have to write.”
“You don't. Not now. Here. Here,” he growled, jerking Morrissey over to the bed. He hastily set his guitar on the ground, trying to ignore the need to put it in its case before the cats got to it, and worked on pulling away the jeans Morrissey still had dangling on one foot.
“Stop it, will you? You know I don't like to raise my voice.” Johnny ignored him in favor of pulling off his own black shirt, shivering when the string of diamonds Morrissey gave him as a birthday gift a few months ago rested on his bare skin. “Johnny I won't fight you. I won't. I'm asking you to very well stop.”
One of the cats started to climb his leg and he shook it off agitatedly, popping the button of his jeans. “Roll over.”
Morrissey looked at him, aghast. “You just nearly gave Grant a concussion. Why should I?”
Rolling his eyes, Johnny leaned down to pick up the cat and kiss its head, giving Morrissey an expectant look and receiving one of calm consideration back. When he was rewarded with a glimpse of Morrissey's backside Johnny flung the cat across the room, giving it a dirty look.
“What was that?” Moz asked, straining his head over his shoulder.
“Cats tussling,” Marr offered, pulling open the nightstand drawer, crushed in next to the dresser. The cats loved using the different levels as a playground - hopping from the bed to the nightstand to the armoire. Needless to say the pictures crashing to the ground made a great alarm clock.
Pulling out a bottle of oil (that he'd had to rescue from the trash every other day), Johnny carefully pressed a hand to the middle of Moz's back and focused himself. It was always strange, preparing him. Johnny didn't have much of a fancy for anything except brunette lasses, but Morrissey was one of those boys that, no matter how much you resist, you're always drawn in.
He still remembers the first time he saw him. Still remembers looking across the library and seeing those absurdly blue eyes glued to some book or the other, remembers the way his almost feral eyebrows drew down at one particular sentence and shot right back up at the next. The way he drew his tongue slowly across his lips every few seconds - how his fingers rhythmically tightened and loosened on the cover.
His obsession had been so tragically severe. There wasn't one part of him that didn't want to devour and pull apart that composed, intelligent front he had.
One, two, three fingers in and Morrissey still wasn't responding to him, because if anything Moz was stubborn and consistently opposed to everything. “Johnny, I'm telling you. I'm telling you to stop,” Morrissey gasped when Johnny pulled back, and, paying no heed to Moz's protests, leaned over to tug out the buttercups in the crystal vase on the night stand.
Johnny snorted when he saw the way Morrissey ruffled at his still damp hair being pulled, but he still gracefully accepted the thick green stems between his lips. “Now hush, Mozzy. Hush for me.”
Something crashed near the sink, but Johnny didn't deter from pushing himself inside. He downright relished how tight Morrissey was, gasping at how much it reminded him of their first time. It was at some dumpy hotel right across from Andy and Mike - snoring away while Johnny did bad, bad things to the singer of their yet unknown band.
Of course Morrissey had woken up the next day and told him he should have never taken such advantage of his drunk sensibilities - for he was quite drunk. And Johnny took it in stride at the show that night when Morrissey happened to glance at him across the stage and rip his shirt open. Moz was an odd ticking clock to be certain.
Time and again Morrissey pretended he forgot he was as human as everyone else, and right now, lying half across his own bed, Morrissey was given a clear memo about it. Something that was no doubt bitter and unwanted to see, but needed all the same.
Johnny brushed away a tabby cat as it trekked across Moz's back and let himself lose it in the rhythm, loving the way Morrissey clenched around him. The flowers were a bright contrast to the whiteness of his face - even if tragically shaded by the sun's blistering rays. He loved watching Moz's jaw work to keep them in, loved seeing determination glitter in the blue of his eyes.
All the elegance and grace Morrissey surrounded himself with succumbed under each press of his hips, and if there was one reason Moz liked to play chaste it was because he knew composure was one thing not kept in these conditions. And as the clock danced onward Morrissey's eyes became more and more narrow, eventually closing all together. The flowers slipped out of his lips, and Johnny knew then it was okay. That everything was okay, and that when he pressed his hands between Moz's shoulder blades his heart beat would be slowed, relaxed.
“Johnny. My Johnny. My Johnny boy,” Morrissey breathed, prettier than anything he'd ever sung.
Releasing was more a relief than an achieved brink of pleasure, and he pulled out and tucked himself in with a flourish. Morrissey turned over in Marr's grip easily, and if the great painters of the world could only see what was in front of him right now they would burn all their art in despair that nothing but this could be so beautiful. They would simply be breathless at the very sight before them.
A charming Manchester boy. A snow white angel. A fey creature from one of the nighttime stories Mum read.
Johnny pulled on his member with easy strokes and felt himself ready to go all over again as Morrissey's face drew up into pleasure, quaint and fair. His release gave without much of a fight, and Marr didn't mind wiping it off on the Siamese flopped down next to them when Moz wasn't looking.
The cat gave him an angry look and stalked away to clean itself up. Serves it right for torturing him.
As usual Morrissey fell asleep right where he was. He was a bit selfish that way, yet every time Marr tucked him into bed and kissed his temple, stroking his forever ridiculous hair. After putting his guitar away and Morrissey's jeans up he gladly slipped into bed alongside him, accepting the arm pulled tight around his waist. “Sleep well, Steven,” Johnny whispered.
Author: aerogroupie
Beta: youthanize
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Morrissey/Johnny Marr (from The Smiths and together make a gaytacular explosion like this)
POV: 3rd, Johnny
Summary: A welcome change of weather and a welcome exchange of body heat.
Disclaimer: Lol I own nothing. Hello. Song is This Charming Man by The Smiths.
Author Notes: So Julia wanted Moz porn, and I gave it to her. Idk if I have the character voices right because I am so far from an English person, but...I tried? So.
Johnny leaned back against the wall, folding his legs under him. The bed was old enough that it sunk a little, but not enough that he couldn't get a firm grip on his guitar. Morrissey was off doing whatever he did during the day, but he preferred to sit in the apartment and work on chord progressions.
It was odd to say the least. A few months ago it was difficult to coerce Moz outside, but now it was difficult to keep him in. Ever since he discovered this bench in the park there just wasn't any convincing him to come back in. All he did was sit out there and write and write and write.
Which, okay, great for the creative flow, but he was starting to get a tan. That was just...unnatural.
He plucked out a few notes and dug his fingertips into the strings, enjoying the twinge of pain.
Picking up his sunglasses, Johnny slid them on and closed his eyes, fingering out the intro to ‘Not Fade Away.’ Soon he was calm enough to start working on a small bit for a few lines Morrissey ever-so-graciously gave him the other day - or, more accurately, were tossed haphazardly on the pillow of the bed when he woke up in the morning.
Before he got too far, though, one of Moz's thousand cats crawled up on the bed and began to bitch at him to be fed. Pushing his glasses up in his hair, Johnny tried to remember the name of this one, but nothing came to mind. It was like every stray Morrissey stumbled across he brought home. They were nearing the point of a humane society.
Sighing, Marr set his guitar down and crawled off the bed to walk over to the side of the room that served as the kitchen. Immediately a hoard of hungry felines skittered their way over to stare at him expectantly, and he picked up the enormous pan that served as their feeding bowl to wash it off. “I'm gonna tell you how it's gonna be....And you’re gonna give your love to me...”
The specialty stuff Morrissey had ordered was near out so he made a note and stuck it on the fridge, glancing warily at the cats climbing over one another to eat. As soon as tour came Morrissey would pack them all up and take them to the no kill shelter off where ever the hell it was. Why he couldn't do that in the meantime was a mystery.
Fixing himself a bowl of cereal with soymilk, Marr stood next to where the table used to be before Morrissey decided that it'd be a wonderful idea to completely and totally cover it in flowers - including the chairs.
At least the flat smelled great.
Washing off his dish, Marr busied himself putting it up, but nearly dropped it when he heard the door open. After the bowl got set down safely Marr looked over his shoulder and felt a smile pull on his lips when he saw a disgruntled looking Moz standing there.
His hair was wet.
“Oh it finally bloody rained,” Marr said with a breath of relief. “Thought it'd never.”
“You say that. Look at these. Look at these!” Morrissey said agitatedly, flinging a water soaked notebook on the table. A cluster of daisies sagged under the weight.
“You're supposed to like nature,” Johnny said plainly before walking back over to the bed, pulling his guitar to him. “Isn't rain...Your friend or some such nonsense?”
Morrissey ignored him in favor of walking into the one door they had - the one to the john.
The cats hadn't looked up from the food bowl.
Johnny decided to occupy himself by strumming out a bit of ‘The Hand That Rocks the Cradle,’ laughing as Morrissey made disgusted noises in the bathroom.
It was pleasant when he reemerged nude, unabashedly walking to the dresser. He opened his chosen drawer so hard the sea of framed James Dean pictures on top rattled. Johnny set his guitar down in favor of walking over to him, wrapping his arms around his waist. “Now, now. What's the rush?”
“Get off, Johnny,” Morrissey said with a huff. “You know I'm finished with that nonsense. Eroticism stunts my creativity.” He pulled off if only to scowl at Moz's bony shoulders.
“You're still on with that?” he asked disparagingly. “Really?” One of the cats started to thump around with another in a mock wrestling match, causing a ruckus.
Morrissey ignored him in favor of trying to struggle on his jeans.
“Moz?” Johnny insisted, grabbing his shoulder. “Are you on with that? I asked you.”
“Yes,” Morrissey whispered testily. “Yes, I'm still on with that. Now if you please.”
Johnny drew his tongue along his lip before pulling his glasses off and flinging them amid the cheap gold picture frames, gripping Morrissey's bicep. “No. No, you're not.”
“Lay off, Johnny. I have to write. You know I have to write.”
“You don't. Not now. Here. Here,” he growled, jerking Morrissey over to the bed. He hastily set his guitar on the ground, trying to ignore the need to put it in its case before the cats got to it, and worked on pulling away the jeans Morrissey still had dangling on one foot.
“Stop it, will you? You know I don't like to raise my voice.” Johnny ignored him in favor of pulling off his own black shirt, shivering when the string of diamonds Morrissey gave him as a birthday gift a few months ago rested on his bare skin. “Johnny I won't fight you. I won't. I'm asking you to very well stop.”
One of the cats started to climb his leg and he shook it off agitatedly, popping the button of his jeans. “Roll over.”
Morrissey looked at him, aghast. “You just nearly gave Grant a concussion. Why should I?”
Rolling his eyes, Johnny leaned down to pick up the cat and kiss its head, giving Morrissey an expectant look and receiving one of calm consideration back. When he was rewarded with a glimpse of Morrissey's backside Johnny flung the cat across the room, giving it a dirty look.
“What was that?” Moz asked, straining his head over his shoulder.
“Cats tussling,” Marr offered, pulling open the nightstand drawer, crushed in next to the dresser. The cats loved using the different levels as a playground - hopping from the bed to the nightstand to the armoire. Needless to say the pictures crashing to the ground made a great alarm clock.
Pulling out a bottle of oil (that he'd had to rescue from the trash every other day), Johnny carefully pressed a hand to the middle of Moz's back and focused himself. It was always strange, preparing him. Johnny didn't have much of a fancy for anything except brunette lasses, but Morrissey was one of those boys that, no matter how much you resist, you're always drawn in.
He still remembers the first time he saw him. Still remembers looking across the library and seeing those absurdly blue eyes glued to some book or the other, remembers the way his almost feral eyebrows drew down at one particular sentence and shot right back up at the next. The way he drew his tongue slowly across his lips every few seconds - how his fingers rhythmically tightened and loosened on the cover.
His obsession had been so tragically severe. There wasn't one part of him that didn't want to devour and pull apart that composed, intelligent front he had.
One, two, three fingers in and Morrissey still wasn't responding to him, because if anything Moz was stubborn and consistently opposed to everything. “Johnny, I'm telling you. I'm telling you to stop,” Morrissey gasped when Johnny pulled back, and, paying no heed to Moz's protests, leaned over to tug out the buttercups in the crystal vase on the night stand.
Johnny snorted when he saw the way Morrissey ruffled at his still damp hair being pulled, but he still gracefully accepted the thick green stems between his lips. “Now hush, Mozzy. Hush for me.”
Something crashed near the sink, but Johnny didn't deter from pushing himself inside. He downright relished how tight Morrissey was, gasping at how much it reminded him of their first time. It was at some dumpy hotel right across from Andy and Mike - snoring away while Johnny did bad, bad things to the singer of their yet unknown band.
Of course Morrissey had woken up the next day and told him he should have never taken such advantage of his drunk sensibilities - for he was quite drunk. And Johnny took it in stride at the show that night when Morrissey happened to glance at him across the stage and rip his shirt open. Moz was an odd ticking clock to be certain.
Time and again Morrissey pretended he forgot he was as human as everyone else, and right now, lying half across his own bed, Morrissey was given a clear memo about it. Something that was no doubt bitter and unwanted to see, but needed all the same.
Johnny brushed away a tabby cat as it trekked across Moz's back and let himself lose it in the rhythm, loving the way Morrissey clenched around him. The flowers were a bright contrast to the whiteness of his face - even if tragically shaded by the sun's blistering rays. He loved watching Moz's jaw work to keep them in, loved seeing determination glitter in the blue of his eyes.
All the elegance and grace Morrissey surrounded himself with succumbed under each press of his hips, and if there was one reason Moz liked to play chaste it was because he knew composure was one thing not kept in these conditions. And as the clock danced onward Morrissey's eyes became more and more narrow, eventually closing all together. The flowers slipped out of his lips, and Johnny knew then it was okay. That everything was okay, and that when he pressed his hands between Moz's shoulder blades his heart beat would be slowed, relaxed.
“Johnny. My Johnny. My Johnny boy,” Morrissey breathed, prettier than anything he'd ever sung.
Releasing was more a relief than an achieved brink of pleasure, and he pulled out and tucked himself in with a flourish. Morrissey turned over in Marr's grip easily, and if the great painters of the world could only see what was in front of him right now they would burn all their art in despair that nothing but this could be so beautiful. They would simply be breathless at the very sight before them.
A charming Manchester boy. A snow white angel. A fey creature from one of the nighttime stories Mum read.
Johnny pulled on his member with easy strokes and felt himself ready to go all over again as Morrissey's face drew up into pleasure, quaint and fair. His release gave without much of a fight, and Marr didn't mind wiping it off on the Siamese flopped down next to them when Moz wasn't looking.
The cat gave him an angry look and stalked away to clean itself up. Serves it right for torturing him.
As usual Morrissey fell asleep right where he was. He was a bit selfish that way, yet every time Marr tucked him into bed and kissed his temple, stroking his forever ridiculous hair. After putting his guitar away and Morrissey's jeans up he gladly slipped into bed alongside him, accepting the arm pulled tight around his waist. “Sleep well, Steven,” Johnny whispered.