For Music Lovers Only
For the lovely hanakotoba_fic, yet another fanfiction of cracky and entirely unhealthy ideas; I swear, there is Something Wrong with me. Ah, modern verse - pairing is William/Alan. Hope you like it!
Notes: The 'fine' at the end is musical terminology - it symbolizes the end of the piece.
Alan’s shirt was hanging off the bedroom lamp, and William’s trousers were half down and clinging to his ankles like a persistent girlfriend, and neither of them noticed that the blinds on the window were up, that moonlight and quite a bit of nosy neighbours’ eyes fell into the room, or that there was a newel post at the end of their bed, which was the first fact that Alan remembered - mostly because he bashed into it.
The slowly-growing bruise ignored, he cupped William’s face in his hands and yanked his head back down to relegate his tongue to its rightful position back into his mouth, scrambling his way over the buttons on his shirt and over the shirt itself, until it was puddled on the floor in a wrinkled pile.
His breathing had not so much slowed as stopped, and his head felt dizzy, obviously due to the combination of having his heart pump blood-cells through his veins like they were sweets and the air hiding in his lungs and refusing to come out, and any moment now, he was going to trip over a shoe and knock himself out, but the solution was either to pull away or to stop and neither was a plausible nor sane suggestion now.
William’s teeth were on his neck, and it felt damn good, and his hands were gliding across his back, and just the friction of William’s underwear against his bare skin was going to send him over. Alan’s head fell back, offering his throat to William like a feast, throaty praise skipping with the hot pattern of kisses streaking across his shoulders. “Oh God, yes, yesyesy-why’d you stop?”
That was not how that sentence was supposed to play out. Shaking his head, to get rid of the little whining voice that demanded he yank William’s head back down to his body and keep it there until it was too much to bear, Alan watched curiously as the taller man broke away from him and reached for the stereo.
“Just once, I’d like you to shag me without stopping before to gather your nerves,” Alan grumbled, rubbing his arms as he turned away from the sight of William - half naked, but not in a movie star way, since his trousers had gotten caught on his shoes and rather unflatteringly drew attention to his skinny legs - fiddling about with the CD player.
“Do you want it fast or do you want it good?” William asked, and his voice still retained - somehow - that shred of British politeness that made insults seem like compliments. “Anyway, I thought you liked music when we’re… together.”
“I’d settle for fast and good and right now if it’ll get you away from there.” Watching his back for a moment longer, Alan turned away from him and pulled the sheets on the bed downwards, folding them over themselves. “All we have is classical music, William. You can’t really shag to classical music.” He stopped, reconsidering the thought - you possibly couldn’t, but then most people didn’t have a boyfriend who drank Victorian Earl Grey and dressed in suits constantly. “… Pick something from an opera, those always last a good twelve minutes.”
“Twelve minutes?” William asked, icily. “Twelve minutes doesn’t even cover foreplay, what kind of man do you think I am?”
“You can put it on repeat, or I don’t know, I’m having trouble thinking. It happens when you’re too horny to see straight, William.” With an undue slap to a defenceless pillow, Alan sat down at the edge of the bed and carefully arranged the bedside table - lubricant first, then the lamp to the side, then a space for their glasses. “Have you picked anything yet?”
“How about Chopin’s Nocturne?” William clacked CDs together, and jolted Alan’s nerves with every soft thump.
“... That sounds like a funeral dirge. How about the Moonlight Sonata?”
“Have you heard that tempo? All night long’s a myth, you know. A painful myth. Scientifically speaking, it wo-” William began, but Alan cut him off at that point, with a fed-up little sigh.
“You’re already bringing music into this, don’t bring in science as well.”
Clack, clack, clack. Alan blew out a steadying breath, bringing his hands up to his hair and pushing through it, tempted to grip it and pull until strands broke away from his scalp. “How about... La Cumparsita? Tango music - full of passion, vibrant... nice medium pace.”
“I don’t have tha-”
“Just. Pick. One.” Alan hissed, his teeth gritted so hard, his dentist would’ve fainted over on the chair should he have seen him. With a final clack, and a ‘shhh’ of the CD player lid flying up, music sounded, and William was suddenly back against him.
“Tomorrow, I’m buying you a Queen CD,” Alan warned and took advantage of William’s horrified look to pin him beneath him, smiling down at him like a cat. The man stared back at him mutinously, looking as though he was tempted to pout, then the look faded, and William’s hands were on him again, and his mouth was sliding wetly across his throat, and he was empty, cold, then that hard, hot heat was inside him, curls of flame warming him, edging him onwards - the music a fog, a bubble around them, adding a soundtrack to blurred shapes and quick sounds, and different textures beneath fingertips, building and building and building until... fine.
Notes: The 'fine' at the end is musical terminology - it symbolizes the end of the piece.
Alan’s shirt was hanging off the bedroom lamp, and William’s trousers were half down and clinging to his ankles like a persistent girlfriend, and neither of them noticed that the blinds on the window were up, that moonlight and quite a bit of nosy neighbours’ eyes fell into the room, or that there was a newel post at the end of their bed, which was the first fact that Alan remembered - mostly because he bashed into it.
The slowly-growing bruise ignored, he cupped William’s face in his hands and yanked his head back down to relegate his tongue to its rightful position back into his mouth, scrambling his way over the buttons on his shirt and over the shirt itself, until it was puddled on the floor in a wrinkled pile.
His breathing had not so much slowed as stopped, and his head felt dizzy, obviously due to the combination of having his heart pump blood-cells through his veins like they were sweets and the air hiding in his lungs and refusing to come out, and any moment now, he was going to trip over a shoe and knock himself out, but the solution was either to pull away or to stop and neither was a plausible nor sane suggestion now.
William’s teeth were on his neck, and it felt damn good, and his hands were gliding across his back, and just the friction of William’s underwear against his bare skin was going to send him over. Alan’s head fell back, offering his throat to William like a feast, throaty praise skipping with the hot pattern of kisses streaking across his shoulders. “Oh God, yes, yesyesy-why’d you stop?”
That was not how that sentence was supposed to play out. Shaking his head, to get rid of the little whining voice that demanded he yank William’s head back down to his body and keep it there until it was too much to bear, Alan watched curiously as the taller man broke away from him and reached for the stereo.
“Just once, I’d like you to shag me without stopping before to gather your nerves,” Alan grumbled, rubbing his arms as he turned away from the sight of William - half naked, but not in a movie star way, since his trousers had gotten caught on his shoes and rather unflatteringly drew attention to his skinny legs - fiddling about with the CD player.
“Do you want it fast or do you want it good?” William asked, and his voice still retained - somehow - that shred of British politeness that made insults seem like compliments. “Anyway, I thought you liked music when we’re… together.”
“I’d settle for fast and good and right now if it’ll get you away from there.” Watching his back for a moment longer, Alan turned away from him and pulled the sheets on the bed downwards, folding them over themselves. “All we have is classical music, William. You can’t really shag to classical music.” He stopped, reconsidering the thought - you possibly couldn’t, but then most people didn’t have a boyfriend who drank Victorian Earl Grey and dressed in suits constantly. “… Pick something from an opera, those always last a good twelve minutes.”
“Twelve minutes?” William asked, icily. “Twelve minutes doesn’t even cover foreplay, what kind of man do you think I am?”
“You can put it on repeat, or I don’t know, I’m having trouble thinking. It happens when you’re too horny to see straight, William.” With an undue slap to a defenceless pillow, Alan sat down at the edge of the bed and carefully arranged the bedside table - lubricant first, then the lamp to the side, then a space for their glasses. “Have you picked anything yet?”
“How about Chopin’s Nocturne?” William clacked CDs together, and jolted Alan’s nerves with every soft thump.
“... That sounds like a funeral dirge. How about the Moonlight Sonata?”
“Have you heard that tempo? All night long’s a myth, you know. A painful myth. Scientifically speaking, it wo-” William began, but Alan cut him off at that point, with a fed-up little sigh.
“You’re already bringing music into this, don’t bring in science as well.”
Clack, clack, clack. Alan blew out a steadying breath, bringing his hands up to his hair and pushing through it, tempted to grip it and pull until strands broke away from his scalp. “How about... La Cumparsita? Tango music - full of passion, vibrant... nice medium pace.”
“I don’t have tha-”
“Just. Pick. One.” Alan hissed, his teeth gritted so hard, his dentist would’ve fainted over on the chair should he have seen him. With a final clack, and a ‘shhh’ of the CD player lid flying up, music sounded, and William was suddenly back against him.
“Tomorrow, I’m buying you a Queen CD,” Alan warned and took advantage of William’s horrified look to pin him beneath him, smiling down at him like a cat. The man stared back at him mutinously, looking as though he was tempted to pout, then the look faded, and William’s hands were on him again, and his mouth was sliding wetly across his throat, and he was empty, cold, then that hard, hot heat was inside him, curls of flame warming him, edging him onwards - the music a fog, a bubble around them, adding a soundtrack to blurred shapes and quick sounds, and different textures beneath fingertips, building and building and building until... fine.