fic: Slow and Easy Man
Title: Slow and Easy Man
Fandom: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Length: 785
Rating: NC-17
Content notes: no warnings apply
Pairing: Art/William
Author note: written for the Rush challenge at
fan_flashworks, and part of You Can Be Had: Extras; thanks to
owl_by_night for requesting this one and for an inspiring conversation about how it might turn out. This is for her.
Summary: Some things are too good to rush.
William likes it slow, slower than almost any man Art's ever had. His stamina is one of his many good points: how much punishment he can take, how many edges he can do. He complains vociferously about it all while it's happening, of course, unless Art explicitly orders him not to. It's fun to do that sometimes, to watch him struggling to keep quiet with the vibrator on its highest setting, or the milker on slow. William's unabashed pleasure in the contents of the toybox is another of his bonus points. His eyes light up whenever Art gets a new piece of kit and tells him what it's for; he wriggles with excitement, cock already standing to attention, until Art barks at him to keep still or he won't get to come at all.
Art's mostly used toys for decades now. It began as a necessity, safer sex in the dark times of the 80s and 90s, then became a habit. Just occasionally, though, he likes to change it up, to surprise a man with a good old-fashioned fucking. William's eyes go wide as he watches him roll the condom on and slick it up. The session's lasted several hours already; William's wrecked and dripping with sweat, very close to his limit. He's never safeworded yet, but there's a first time for everything. Art fingers him, careful and insistent, till William jerks his hips and whimpers. Christ, he's like a furnace as Art pushes into him, inch by slow inch.
“Fuck,” William says, “oh fuck, Art, please. God.” He's still got the cockring on, so he can't come yet.
“You know what to say,” Art says, and moves his hips, teasing him with slow, shallow thrusts. “If you want me to stop, that is.”
“No,” William says, and grits his teeth. “Oh, fuck.”
Art pushes deeper, still at that torturous slow pace, till he's all the way in. Infinitesimal movements now, William shuddering under him.
“Please, please, Art, I can't, I've got to -” William clenches helplessly around his cock.
“Not yet,” Art says, fighting his own desire to speed up. Some things are too good to rush.
He keeps his rhythm steady, holding back until William's cries grow sharper, wordless. So close now: he jerks his hips up to meet every slow push from Art, unable to control himself any more, thighs quivering and taut with the need to come. Art pulls back, drawing a desperate wail of protest from William. But he's not going to leave him hanging, not this time. He takes the ring off William's cock and starts to stroke him, fast and greedy, pushing him all the way to the edge. And then he moves again, thrusting hard and deep, fucking through William's orgasm and into his own. He can't remember the last time he came this hard.
William falls sound asleep almost at once afterwards, which is hardly surprising. Art doesn't have the heart to wake him. He's surprised, watching the video footage back when William's gone, to see how long he must have left the camera running.
It's sod's law that William finds him watching that particular video a few weeks later, when he comes round after work to check on Art, confined to bed with chickenpox. Emma had said she'd given him the spare keys, but thought he was going to look in over the weekend. If Art had known he was going to turn up today, he'd have chosen something else to distract himself with, obviously. Too late now: William's doubled up with laughter, gleeful at catching him in the act.
“I was bored, OK?” Art snaps.
“Aww, you kept it!” William teases him. “That's sweet; I didn't know you cared.”
Art's “Quiet, you cheeky young pup!” comes just a fraction too late.
They stare at each other in consternation. Oh, fuck.
“You're lucky I'm too ill to chastise you,” Art says, but it rings hollow.
There's too much truth in that joke of William's. It's a game-changer, and they both know it. If they're not going to call the whole thing off - and William's brief look of panic says he knows Art's thinking about that - then everything has to be renegotiated. This stopped being just another casual arrangement some time ago, for both of them, Art realizes, though they've been managing to ignore that till now. They're going to have to talk about it, feelings and all. Christ.
“Well, shit,” William says. He sits down hard on the bedside chair and pushes his hands through his hair. “What the fuck do we do now?”
“Put the kettle on, would you?” Art says wearily. “This is a conversation that calls for a very strong pot of tea.”
***
Title from Ida Cox's song One Hour Mama
Also posted at http://fengirl88.dreamwidth.org/225306.html with
comments.
Fandom: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Length: 785
Rating: NC-17
Content notes: no warnings apply
Pairing: Art/William
Author note: written for the Rush challenge at
fan_flashworks, and part of You Can Be Had: Extras; thanks to
owl_by_night for requesting this one and for an inspiring conversation about how it might turn out. This is for her.
Summary: Some things are too good to rush.
William likes it slow, slower than almost any man Art's ever had. His stamina is one of his many good points: how much punishment he can take, how many edges he can do. He complains vociferously about it all while it's happening, of course, unless Art explicitly orders him not to. It's fun to do that sometimes, to watch him struggling to keep quiet with the vibrator on its highest setting, or the milker on slow. William's unabashed pleasure in the contents of the toybox is another of his bonus points. His eyes light up whenever Art gets a new piece of kit and tells him what it's for; he wriggles with excitement, cock already standing to attention, until Art barks at him to keep still or he won't get to come at all.
Art's mostly used toys for decades now. It began as a necessity, safer sex in the dark times of the 80s and 90s, then became a habit. Just occasionally, though, he likes to change it up, to surprise a man with a good old-fashioned fucking. William's eyes go wide as he watches him roll the condom on and slick it up. The session's lasted several hours already; William's wrecked and dripping with sweat, very close to his limit. He's never safeworded yet, but there's a first time for everything. Art fingers him, careful and insistent, till William jerks his hips and whimpers. Christ, he's like a furnace as Art pushes into him, inch by slow inch.
“Fuck,” William says, “oh fuck, Art, please. God.” He's still got the cockring on, so he can't come yet.
“You know what to say,” Art says, and moves his hips, teasing him with slow, shallow thrusts. “If you want me to stop, that is.”
“No,” William says, and grits his teeth. “Oh, fuck.”
Art pushes deeper, still at that torturous slow pace, till he's all the way in. Infinitesimal movements now, William shuddering under him.
“Please, please, Art, I can't, I've got to -” William clenches helplessly around his cock.
“Not yet,” Art says, fighting his own desire to speed up. Some things are too good to rush.
He keeps his rhythm steady, holding back until William's cries grow sharper, wordless. So close now: he jerks his hips up to meet every slow push from Art, unable to control himself any more, thighs quivering and taut with the need to come. Art pulls back, drawing a desperate wail of protest from William. But he's not going to leave him hanging, not this time. He takes the ring off William's cock and starts to stroke him, fast and greedy, pushing him all the way to the edge. And then he moves again, thrusting hard and deep, fucking through William's orgasm and into his own. He can't remember the last time he came this hard.
William falls sound asleep almost at once afterwards, which is hardly surprising. Art doesn't have the heart to wake him. He's surprised, watching the video footage back when William's gone, to see how long he must have left the camera running.
It's sod's law that William finds him watching that particular video a few weeks later, when he comes round after work to check on Art, confined to bed with chickenpox. Emma had said she'd given him the spare keys, but thought he was going to look in over the weekend. If Art had known he was going to turn up today, he'd have chosen something else to distract himself with, obviously. Too late now: William's doubled up with laughter, gleeful at catching him in the act.
“I was bored, OK?” Art snaps.
“Aww, you kept it!” William teases him. “That's sweet; I didn't know you cared.”
Art's “Quiet, you cheeky young pup!” comes just a fraction too late.
They stare at each other in consternation. Oh, fuck.
“You're lucky I'm too ill to chastise you,” Art says, but it rings hollow.
There's too much truth in that joke of William's. It's a game-changer, and they both know it. If they're not going to call the whole thing off - and William's brief look of panic says he knows Art's thinking about that - then everything has to be renegotiated. This stopped being just another casual arrangement some time ago, for both of them, Art realizes, though they've been managing to ignore that till now. They're going to have to talk about it, feelings and all. Christ.
“Well, shit,” William says. He sits down hard on the bedside chair and pushes his hands through his hair. “What the fuck do we do now?”
“Put the kettle on, would you?” Art says wearily. “This is a conversation that calls for a very strong pot of tea.”
***
Title from Ida Cox's song One Hour Mama
Also posted at http://fengirl88.dreamwidth.org/225306.html with
comments.