Challenge #38
Title: Favourite Song
Author: N
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I live in a box in an alley. I fight crime.
Warnings: This is, like a hamster's butt, pure fluff. PG-13 maybe.
Summary: UXM. Could very well be set after Kirkman's latest abortion Issue 79/80.
It's not that Piotr doesn't enjoy music - he does - it's just that he doesn't think he enjoys it on the same level that Jean-Paul does. If Piotr likes a song, he likes it. That's it. He sees no reason to treat a song like a butterfly to be killed, mounted, and hung behind glass so it can be inspected closely.
Jean-Paul would make a wonderful entomologist.
Piotr sits in Jean-Paul's room, and he listens dutifully to the CDs that Jean-Paul puts on and he even tries to remember the band names sometimes (Les Breastfeeders sticks in his mind, not for the music but because the name is absurd) because Jean-Paul seems so happy when he does. Most of the bands are people Piotr has never heard of, and they all look the same with tight pants and floppy haircuts, and to Piotr's ears they sound a very much the same, which makes it awfully hard to keep them straight, but. He tries.
Jean-Paul would be angry if he knew how often Piotr zones out when he talks about music. How he's zoning now. Not listening at all, just watching Jean-Paul's lips shape consonants and vowels, his tongue doing this somehow very French thing against his upper lip when he pauses to think of a word. He doesn't pause often, and the pauses are brief, but Piotr knows to watch for them. Watching Jean-Paul's tongue is erotic voyeurism, and Piotr's sure that the fact he doesn't tell Jean-Paul this makes him slightly creepy, but he can live with that. Being slightly creepy, that is. Because it means he gets to watch Jean-Paul's tongue.
“...Pop music,” Jean-Paul says, sneering suddenly, and Piotr resolves to never under any circumstances tell him about the time he and Ororo wound up as cage dances in a club in Hong Kong where they played exclusively remixed Madonna hits.
He must have made some sort of face, because Jean-Paul breaks off his tirade and cocks his head. “You thirsty or anything?” he asks.
Piotr shakes his head.
Jean-Paul grins and leans forward. “You're so cute when you're nonverbal,” he says. Piotr's not sure if he's serious or just disguising his criticism well, but he decides it really doesn't matter because Jean-Paul's close enough for a kiss now.
He wonders, eyes half closed, if he could get Jean-Paul to do that weird French pause on his lips. Not the sort of thing you ask, really, so he just hopes and enjoys the feeling of tongue on tongue, lips on skin, teeth on flesh.
“Peter,” Jean-Paul says, pulling back and looking at him like he's the only thing on earth and he's waited years to feel this good and when he licks his lips he still tastes him there...
“Peter?”
“Yes?”
“What's your favourite song?”
Song? Oh. There's music playing now, isn't there? Right. “This one,” Piotr says.
Jean-Paul arches one perfect eyebrow - it makes him look a little like a teenage Mr Spock, and Piotr figures he'll probably have some weird dream about THAT later - and grimaces. “THIS is your favourite song?”
“Yes,” Piotr says, only now finally paying attention to the music. It sounds... bad.
“Peter, this is is a joke track Alex put on the end of the disc. It's Four Non Blondes for God's sake.”
Oops. “Yup,” Piotr says. Confession seems out of the question.
Jean-Paul shakes his head. “You feeb. You're lucky your taste in men is better than your taste in music.”
“Yup.”
He is.
Author: N
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I live in a box in an alley. I fight crime.
Warnings: This is, like a hamster's butt, pure fluff. PG-13 maybe.
Summary: UXM. Could very well be set after Kirkman's latest abortion Issue 79/80.
It's not that Piotr doesn't enjoy music - he does - it's just that he doesn't think he enjoys it on the same level that Jean-Paul does. If Piotr likes a song, he likes it. That's it. He sees no reason to treat a song like a butterfly to be killed, mounted, and hung behind glass so it can be inspected closely.
Jean-Paul would make a wonderful entomologist.
Piotr sits in Jean-Paul's room, and he listens dutifully to the CDs that Jean-Paul puts on and he even tries to remember the band names sometimes (Les Breastfeeders sticks in his mind, not for the music but because the name is absurd) because Jean-Paul seems so happy when he does. Most of the bands are people Piotr has never heard of, and they all look the same with tight pants and floppy haircuts, and to Piotr's ears they sound a very much the same, which makes it awfully hard to keep them straight, but. He tries.
Jean-Paul would be angry if he knew how often Piotr zones out when he talks about music. How he's zoning now. Not listening at all, just watching Jean-Paul's lips shape consonants and vowels, his tongue doing this somehow very French thing against his upper lip when he pauses to think of a word. He doesn't pause often, and the pauses are brief, but Piotr knows to watch for them. Watching Jean-Paul's tongue is erotic voyeurism, and Piotr's sure that the fact he doesn't tell Jean-Paul this makes him slightly creepy, but he can live with that. Being slightly creepy, that is. Because it means he gets to watch Jean-Paul's tongue.
“...Pop music,” Jean-Paul says, sneering suddenly, and Piotr resolves to never under any circumstances tell him about the time he and Ororo wound up as cage dances in a club in Hong Kong where they played exclusively remixed Madonna hits.
He must have made some sort of face, because Jean-Paul breaks off his tirade and cocks his head. “You thirsty or anything?” he asks.
Piotr shakes his head.
Jean-Paul grins and leans forward. “You're so cute when you're nonverbal,” he says. Piotr's not sure if he's serious or just disguising his criticism well, but he decides it really doesn't matter because Jean-Paul's close enough for a kiss now.
He wonders, eyes half closed, if he could get Jean-Paul to do that weird French pause on his lips. Not the sort of thing you ask, really, so he just hopes and enjoys the feeling of tongue on tongue, lips on skin, teeth on flesh.
“Peter,” Jean-Paul says, pulling back and looking at him like he's the only thing on earth and he's waited years to feel this good and when he licks his lips he still tastes him there...
“Peter?”
“Yes?”
“What's your favourite song?”
Song? Oh. There's music playing now, isn't there? Right. “This one,” Piotr says.
Jean-Paul arches one perfect eyebrow - it makes him look a little like a teenage Mr Spock, and Piotr figures he'll probably have some weird dream about THAT later - and grimaces. “THIS is your favourite song?”
“Yes,” Piotr says, only now finally paying attention to the music. It sounds... bad.
“Peter, this is is a joke track Alex put on the end of the disc. It's Four Non Blondes for God's sake.”
Oops. “Yup,” Piotr says. Confession seems out of the question.
Jean-Paul shakes his head. “You feeb. You're lucky your taste in men is better than your taste in music.”
“Yup.”
He is.