FIC (repost): Dissonance - Monk, Monk/Stottlemeyer
Title: Dissonance
Pairing: Monk/Stottlemeyer
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~950
Other formats: AO3
Disclaimer: This is an amateur, not-for-profit work of fiction. No attempt has been made to copyright characters and/or concepts owned by the Monk people, nor is any infringement intended on existing copyrights.
A/N: Originally posted to AdrianMonkSlash, January, 2005. Thanks to A and thsfuhqinsux.
Summary: Uh. Wall sex? A companion piece to Memory Burn.
Dissonance
I know that my back is flush with Adrian's living room wall, that the wall supports my weight against it and his weight against me. But it feels like nothing that's hard behind me--it feels like air, or like thin sheets hung out on a clothesline to dry. Everything within my perception that's hard is acutely and only Adrian: Adrian's forehead, pressing near the juncture of my shoulder and neck; Adrian's elbow, digging in right above my abdomen; Adrian's knee, trembling, coming up inside my thigh and then down again and then again and oh my God--
Oh my God, he really is hard, no kidding, practically bursting the seams of those stupid beige pants ironed to within an inch of their lives--little wrinkle there, Monk? Christ. I did this to him; I turned him on; I turned him on enough to; oh, holy shit, just knowing that. It makes me want to hold him down and whip it out and just fucking go, just go, go--
His shoulders aren't moving right. "Whoa, whoa, Adrian, hey, take it easy. This thing doesn't work if you don't breathe. Nothing works if you don't breathe, all right, so just come on and just breathe, okay?"
I've got my hand at his back; his muscles stutter and start violently like an engine and then he scrapes himself against me, and I don't know if it was intentional but I'm seeing frigging fireworks. Ah, I want him, I want him--I want him so fucking bad.
"I can't!" he cries out. "I can't, oh my God, I can't!"
He pushes his face off my neck and lets his head loll back in agony. Perspiration trips off the end of his chin and I, I let my tongue flicker over my upper lip. Oh sweet Jesus, I'm sorry, but I can feel myself leaking for him, even for his pain--especially for his pain, oh Jesus, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but oh, Adrian.
"Shh shh shh, you need to relax," I tell him, and I'm easing his head down again. "Everything's--fine, it's perfectly fine. Look, it's whatever you can do, all right? Take--take it slow, you're fine."
Time is just this hot, shapeless, gouging thing. It's like I'm a kid again, and my jeans aren't completely prohibitive but they are fucking strangling me and I want to get into them and out of them and by the time Adrian starts moving oh, my Christ slowly in a more defined way, I'm wondering how long I can hang on. I want to get him into and out of his stupid beige pants, too, and I want--him--oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck, I just want.
He's yelling, anguished and panic-stricken, alive against me more and more. "Leland, Leland, ah, no, Leland, please, please! Please!"
Oh, fuck, he's saying my name--just, yes, goddamnit, say it again, say it. Ah, shit, I can't--Adrian, I can't, oh my God, I can't--
"It's--" I can't "--it's okay--you're okay--it's good, you're good--shh, that's it, that's it--"
He grapples insanely for a handful of my shirt, and when I feel his nails bite into my skin that's almost the end of it. There's copper in my mouth; I swallow painfully, then pull him closer because he's screaming, almighty God, he's screaming--please, please, Adrian, please, I can't, come on come on come on come on--
"Leland--no! No!" and for a microsecond there's a sinful slip of extra air between us; then it's gone and he's convulsing with a long, gutted sound.
"I'm here," I groan into his temple. All I know is hot and damp and flush. "I'm here--I'm here--Adrian, oh shit--!"
Now it's his teeth in my skin, and that really is the end. I shove myself up against him and then oh shit shit shit I'm coming I'm coming, oh yeah oh shit oh Jesus fucking fucking Christ I'm shooting hard into my jeans and I'm groaning from some recess of my stomach that's so deep it hurts, and it takes me forever to stop, to hear anything beyond myself.
I fade back in on Adrian's weeping. It doesn't strike me as a kind that's particularly harrowing, or harsh: he just sounds exhausted, disbelieving maybe. But as I'm standing there, still breathing heavily and touching the nape of his neck, all I can think is, don't. Don't cry; don't.
There's that slip of air between us again and Adrian draws back a little, looking at me and ah hell, I wish I could kiss him. His face is a combination of ruddy from sex, wet and pinched from emotion, and some other element I don't understand. I try for a reassuring smile; the muscles in my face are tighter than they should be. My chest is rolled tight at the center. Don't.
It's totally impossible, what's happening now: he's taking one of my hands in his and the air between us is receding and he's arcing up, up; he's kissing me, bare, imperfect; his lips are touching mine and then pressing and then slipping and then leaving. He exhales sharply, and his jaw twitches uncontrollably for a minute, but he doesn't let go of me, doesn't let go.
And then he's brushing back and forth over my knuckles with his thumb, and he's saying shakily, softly: "It's all right."
"Oh, my God," I choke, "you know every damn thing, Adrian, don't you?"
His eyes are fathomless, and beautiful. But everything is turning blurry and I pull my hand away without meaning to, panicked suddenly, groping behind me for something that's hard, because I feel like, it feels like I might be falling--
Pairing: Monk/Stottlemeyer
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~950
Other formats: AO3
Disclaimer: This is an amateur, not-for-profit work of fiction. No attempt has been made to copyright characters and/or concepts owned by the Monk people, nor is any infringement intended on existing copyrights.
A/N: Originally posted to AdrianMonkSlash, January, 2005. Thanks to A and thsfuhqinsux.
Summary: Uh. Wall sex? A companion piece to Memory Burn.
Dissonance
I know that my back is flush with Adrian's living room wall, that the wall supports my weight against it and his weight against me. But it feels like nothing that's hard behind me--it feels like air, or like thin sheets hung out on a clothesline to dry. Everything within my perception that's hard is acutely and only Adrian: Adrian's forehead, pressing near the juncture of my shoulder and neck; Adrian's elbow, digging in right above my abdomen; Adrian's knee, trembling, coming up inside my thigh and then down again and then again and oh my God--
Oh my God, he really is hard, no kidding, practically bursting the seams of those stupid beige pants ironed to within an inch of their lives--little wrinkle there, Monk? Christ. I did this to him; I turned him on; I turned him on enough to; oh, holy shit, just knowing that. It makes me want to hold him down and whip it out and just fucking go, just go, go--
His shoulders aren't moving right. "Whoa, whoa, Adrian, hey, take it easy. This thing doesn't work if you don't breathe. Nothing works if you don't breathe, all right, so just come on and just breathe, okay?"
I've got my hand at his back; his muscles stutter and start violently like an engine and then he scrapes himself against me, and I don't know if it was intentional but I'm seeing frigging fireworks. Ah, I want him, I want him--I want him so fucking bad.
"I can't!" he cries out. "I can't, oh my God, I can't!"
He pushes his face off my neck and lets his head loll back in agony. Perspiration trips off the end of his chin and I, I let my tongue flicker over my upper lip. Oh sweet Jesus, I'm sorry, but I can feel myself leaking for him, even for his pain--especially for his pain, oh Jesus, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but oh, Adrian.
"Shh shh shh, you need to relax," I tell him, and I'm easing his head down again. "Everything's--fine, it's perfectly fine. Look, it's whatever you can do, all right? Take--take it slow, you're fine."
Time is just this hot, shapeless, gouging thing. It's like I'm a kid again, and my jeans aren't completely prohibitive but they are fucking strangling me and I want to get into them and out of them and by the time Adrian starts moving oh, my Christ slowly in a more defined way, I'm wondering how long I can hang on. I want to get him into and out of his stupid beige pants, too, and I want--him--oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck, I just want.
He's yelling, anguished and panic-stricken, alive against me more and more. "Leland, Leland, ah, no, Leland, please, please! Please!"
Oh, fuck, he's saying my name--just, yes, goddamnit, say it again, say it. Ah, shit, I can't--Adrian, I can't, oh my God, I can't--
"It's--" I can't "--it's okay--you're okay--it's good, you're good--shh, that's it, that's it--"
He grapples insanely for a handful of my shirt, and when I feel his nails bite into my skin that's almost the end of it. There's copper in my mouth; I swallow painfully, then pull him closer because he's screaming, almighty God, he's screaming--please, please, Adrian, please, I can't, come on come on come on come on--
"Leland--no! No!" and for a microsecond there's a sinful slip of extra air between us; then it's gone and he's convulsing with a long, gutted sound.
"I'm here," I groan into his temple. All I know is hot and damp and flush. "I'm here--I'm here--Adrian, oh shit--!"
Now it's his teeth in my skin, and that really is the end. I shove myself up against him and then oh shit shit shit I'm coming I'm coming, oh yeah oh shit oh Jesus fucking fucking Christ I'm shooting hard into my jeans and I'm groaning from some recess of my stomach that's so deep it hurts, and it takes me forever to stop, to hear anything beyond myself.
I fade back in on Adrian's weeping. It doesn't strike me as a kind that's particularly harrowing, or harsh: he just sounds exhausted, disbelieving maybe. But as I'm standing there, still breathing heavily and touching the nape of his neck, all I can think is, don't. Don't cry; don't.
There's that slip of air between us again and Adrian draws back a little, looking at me and ah hell, I wish I could kiss him. His face is a combination of ruddy from sex, wet and pinched from emotion, and some other element I don't understand. I try for a reassuring smile; the muscles in my face are tighter than they should be. My chest is rolled tight at the center. Don't.
It's totally impossible, what's happening now: he's taking one of my hands in his and the air between us is receding and he's arcing up, up; he's kissing me, bare, imperfect; his lips are touching mine and then pressing and then slipping and then leaving. He exhales sharply, and his jaw twitches uncontrollably for a minute, but he doesn't let go of me, doesn't let go.
And then he's brushing back and forth over my knuckles with his thumb, and he's saying shakily, softly: "It's all right."
"Oh, my God," I choke, "you know every damn thing, Adrian, don't you?"
His eyes are fathomless, and beautiful. But everything is turning blurry and I pull my hand away without meaning to, panicked suddenly, groping behind me for something that's hard, because I feel like, it feels like I might be falling--