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thejollyroger-writer · 6 years ago

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You and the Night and the Music: Movement 1: Andante -- allegro con fuoco

Heeeeeey, I’m back and fighting writer’s block by writing smut, that turned into a four-movement piece. Oops. It was going to be a two-shot, but inspiration struck in the form of the realization that symphonies have four movements, and so should this piece.

This story was inspired by a very intimate love scene in the newest season of Jessica Jones (if you've seen it, you'll know the one. If not, this is a spoiler-free zone.) Then I found a video of Adrian Anantawan, a one-handed symphony violinist, and I knew the route I was going to take. (Watch it here, it's truly incredible) Also brought to you by at least two dozen listenings of Mendelssohn's Symphony No. 5 in D Minor, "Reformations," which is the piece Killian uses and one of my favorite symphonic pieces.

Also on AO3!

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“What is it you do again?” she asks, nursing the third drink he’s bought for her — fourth for the night — but since she’s spaced them out enough, they’re not having the strongest effect on her. She may have come here to get drunk, but being approached by a handsome stranger who she has been both talking to and flirting with for the past two hours is enough to try to keep her in a decent state of mind.

The man in question, however, is having a very strong effect on her, with his dark hair and bright eyes and absolutely brilliant smile.

“I, uh, didn’t,” he says, his eyes turned down to his drink. Those damned eyes, somehow the brightest blue she has ever seen, that have hypnotized her and taken her aback by smiling at her, smirking at her, even frowning at her once.

Twice.

When he turns his gaze back up to where hers is waiting, he is frowning again. “It’s usually not the piece of information I divulge without preempting,” he says, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“Jesus, Jones, what does that even mean?” she asks, perhaps a bit harsher than she wanted. (She blames the whiskey, of course.) He told her his first name not long after their meeting, the syllables of Killian rolling eloquently off his tongue, but by some sort of unspoken agreement, they have both started calling each other by their last names. When she realizes that the very tips of his pointed ears have started to turn red, she backs off a bit, feeling a little bad for snapping at him.

“It’s a bit embarrassing,” he admits, “And not everyone really… understands it when I tell them.”

As warmly as she can, she smiles at him, leaning closer to where he is resting his elbow on the bar, the arm of his prosthetic resting in his lap — a subject that she is very interested in learning about, but very unsure how to breech without crossing any boundaries. “I promise that I won’t make fun of your for it, or… leave, or whatever these really judgemental women do when you divulge your little secret.”

The beginnings of a smile tick up the corners of his mouth, and she watches intently as his tongue darts out of his mouth and runs along his bottom lip. “Well, my day job is as a copy editor at one of the publishing firms in the city,” he says, his eyes set on something across the bar from them.

“That seems normal enough,” she comments, smiling over at him even though he is paying no attention to her. “And your… night job?”

At this, he laughs at loud, finally turning to her with a smile on his face. “And in the evenings, I turn into Batman,” he jokes, leaning towards her, his voice seemingly as low as he can make it. He holds himself together for just a few moments before he starts laughing, Emma following right behind him.

“Well,” she says after they have regained their countenance. “I do see why some people judge you for that.”

He shakes his head, letting out a breathy laugh.

“Joking, of course,” he explains.

“Of course,” she repeats. “I’ve never even heard of a British Batman, nonetheless one in Boston.”

“And how do you know I don’t just fake an American accent really well? Or maybe I’m faking my British one just to save face. Maybe Alfred taught my how so I don’t blow my cover while I’m flirting with beautiful women in bars.”

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

“Just wait until I tell you what I really do.”

“Come on!” she says excitedly, gently hitting his shoulder with her palm. “Just spill already.”

“Alright, Swan,” he says, taking a deep breath before finishing the end of the glass of rum in front of him. “I just… you promise to keep an open mind?”

She softens her features. “Of course.”

“Okay.” He takes another breath, lifting his prosthetic off his lap to set it on the bar in front of him. “I’m a, uh… a professional concert violinist with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. Second chair.”

“But you have—” she starts, pressing her lips together to stop herself from continuing. After a brief, awkward moment, she turns to him, trying her hardest to smile. “Sorry,” she mumbles, then turns on her stool to face him head-on. “How did — how long have — what —” she stutters, stopping herself again with a deep breath, relieved to see a small smile growing on his face. “How long have you been playing?”

He laughs, watching the bartender pour him another two fingers of the Shellback rum that he admitted earlier is one of the reasons he regulars this bar and not one closer to his apartment. “I, uh, picked it up after my mum passed when I was a teenager.”

“Oh,” she whispers, reaching out to press her fingertips against his forearm. “That must have been awful.”

“I’ve started to see the good over the bad, especially since I lost my hand. Fighting to — fighting to learn it all again, learn how to keep playing without my bow hand, I think it’s what kept my hopes up on those dark days.”

The realness of his statement pulls a blanket of silence over them, one that she’s not quite sure how to alleviate. Which, of course, helps nothing.

So she does the first thing she can think of: try to lighten the mood.

“You know, I never have been the biggest fan of instrumental music.”

His body’s response to her confession is almost humorous, with the way he straightens his back and takes a deep breath, his eyes growing wide — but when he turns to her, his face is covered with the biggest smirk she has seen from him so far.

“Well then, darling,” he mumbles, leaning close enough for his lips to almost touch the shell of her ear. His voice is completely different than just moments before, when he divulged a deep secret to her — and now, his voice shows no sign that he just bared a small piece of his soul to her. “I would say that is because you have never experienced a symphony the Killian Jones way.” There is a bright sparkle in his eye, an extreme comparison to the midnight shade that his irises have darkened to — one that ignites a small but warm fire deep in her stomach, paired with the weight and heat of his arm now curled around her shoulder, gently pulling her closer to him.

“What, exactly, is the Killian Jones way?” she asks, a naive smile on her face, though the hand that she rests on his thigh is anything but.

“It’s not the most appropriate thing to do in public, I’m afraid. A little risque to even discuss for fear of, uh, wandering ears.”

He lightly nods his head down the bar to where the bartender is washing glasses not far from them, his eyes turned down to the sink but a small, almost knowing smirk of his own spread across his face.

“Ah.” She smiles, nodding her head. “So, uh, where do you suggest we go for this… experience?”

His answer comes quickly, paired with his hand tightening around her shoulder. “If we call an Uber right now, we can get to my apartment in about five minutes.”

Continuing to nod, she pulls her wallet out of the clutch sitting next to her on the bar, leaving a small pile of cash between their drinks as he flags down the bartender to get their combined tab for the night.

By the time he has paid their bill, the car is waiting outside, a dark SUV abnormal for the streets of the city, but he leads her out to it anyway, his hand clasped tightly against hers, moving to her back as he helps usher her into the vehicle.

He slides across to the driver’s side, wanting her to decide how close to him she wants to be, but even though she moves to sit pressed up against him as the driver confirms their destination, he still does not expect her to grab him by the unbuttoned collar of his shirt and pull her lips to his once they are moving, seemingly just as worked up by their short conversation as he is.

And he especially does not expect her hand to squeeze his thigh, dangerously close to where he is quickly hardening at the thought of getting her back to his apartment. To calm himself, he finds himself whispering the violin part to Vivaldi’s ”Winter” concerto as her lips slide against his, her thumb brushing the very tip of his hardening length, and his hand on her hip begins to slide up her body until he is pressing his palm into her breast, pulling a small laugh from her lips.

He desperately wants to slide his hand beneath the fabric, to feel the weight and warmth of her in his hand, but he knows just how short the ride from the bar to his apartment is, and just when he expects it to, the car pulls to a stop at the curb outside his building.

“We’re here, darling,” he groans against her lips, but she does not stop kissing him, even as she slides back across the seat to open the passenger door, pulling him along with her by his shirt. His hand is on her hip as they climb the stairs to his apartment, longing to feel her legs, her stomach, her ass — any of her under his palm, and she presses against him as he unlocks the door, feeling the same need.

He has barely turned around from locking the apartment door before she can wait no longer and presses her body against his, her hands in his hair as she crashes her lips into his once more. Her fingers are already working the buttons of his dress shirt, quickly moving down his chest until she can push the shirt off his shoulders and onto the floor, her nails raking through the expanse of dark chest hair she finds there.

He reaches around her to slide the zipper of her maroon dress down her back, pushing the straps off her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. When he realizes that the only thing she is wearing under her dress is a pair of lacy black underwear, he chuckles, pulling her body closer to his so he can walk them backwards. With his hand clasped against the top of her thigh and the arm of his prosthetic wrapped around her back, he coaxes her to wrap her bare legs around him, making it easier to carry her to the bedroom. The apartment is small, and he is across the living room in seconds, only stopping to flick on a light switch before he drops her on the bed. He covers her body with his own for a few moments, swiping his tongue into her mouth once, and then again, before the warmth of him is gone.

“What are you doing?” she asks, propping her head up on one of her hands as she turns towards him.

“The whole purpose of this was to experience a symphony, remember?” She realizes that he is standing in front of a record player, his finger running along the spines of a row of records sitting on the dresser. “I have to choose the right one, or else the experience won’t be everything it’s meant to be,”

She chuckles lightly at him, but does not argue, simply watching him as he sheds his dark jeans and chooses one of the records from the stacks and places it on the waiting player. When he turns around, he is holding a piece of thin black silk in his hand.

“Do you trust me, Emma?” he whispers over the soft, slow opening of the piece, and all she can do is nod. “Tie this over your eyes, please.” She is useless against him, taking the fabric from between his fingers and doing just as he asks. When she has it tied, she relaxes back on the bed as he softly runs the tips of his fingers over her jaw.

Ever so slowly, his lips begin to follow his fingers, soft and warm against her cheek, her jaw, and down her neck, just as gentle as the opening of the song. As they travel down between her breasts, she finds herself squaring her shoulders, pushing her chest out towards him, and he must notice, since his breath falls against her skin as laughter.

“Patience, darling,” he whispers, simply kissing the peaks of her breasts before trailing his lips down her stomach. “You’re absolutely gorgeous, so bloody beautiful.”

With every touch to her skin — of his fingertips, of his lips, of the brush of the dark stubble on his jaw — he sends electrical sparks through her body, magnified by the mystery of where he will go next, since she cannot watch him — and magnified even further by the praises that continue to fall from his lips as he explores her body.

Finally, his lips reach the elastic waistband of her underwear, barely enough fabric to them to collect the warmth that is gathering between her legs, his fingers lightly swiping the spot that craves him the most, but he begins to move back up immediately, his lips finding their way back to her breasts. As the music swells louder, he swirls his tongue around one of her nipples, finally taking it into his mouth, sucking on it for a moment before she feels his teeth around it, working between the two — to the music, she realizes when her mind comes back down to earth. The thumb of his hand swipes over her other nipple, hardening it between his fingers before he switches his mouth to that one, doing exactly what he did with the first, though not before he whispers, “Absolutely perfect.”

“Oh, god,” she moans, somehow only for the first time, because she knows for a fact that no man has ever made her feel the way she does right now, and he has only used her breasts so far.

As the music grows louder once more, he releases her nipple from his mouth and runs his teeth down her ribcage, pressing just hard enough that she can feel him, though he backtracks and then covers the same area with kisses. His lips land at her waistband once more just as the music ends for a moment, and once it has started up again, he has hooked his thumb under the elastic and has started pulling them down her legs. She reaches her hands down to help him, lifting her hips to pull them from under her, and once they are down far enough, she kicks them to the floor.

His fingers tease her first, gentle against her folds as they slide through her, and she does not realize that she has widened her hips to welcome his lips until they are sliding against her, his hand on her thigh and the other arm draped over her other leg. He softly kisses the inside of her thigh, then the other, his lips traveling back towards her hip as the music slows to a stop.

“Time for the next movement,” he says, his voice dark, deep, and she does not even have time to think about what that means before he presses his tongue into her core, somehow cold against her even though the rest of him seems to be radiating warmth, and when he plunges deeper into her, she is useless against the raise of her hips towards his mouth. He licks a long stripe across her, his lips landing at the sensitive nerves of her clit, which he sucks between his lips, pulling an unsolicited moan from her lips. He uses his teeth, the hard edges of them the perfect mix of pleasure and pain against her, and when he slowly slides one of his fingers inside her, she bucks against his hand.

“Do you like this, love?” he asks, laughing against her, though his voice sounds anything but humored. “Are you going to come for me?”

She responds with a high moan, her breath hitching and then quickening as he uses his mouth — that damned tongue — to pull her closer to completion, adding a second finger to the first as he pumps in and out of her — again in time with the quickening music, that bastard — and it is not long before he finally has the black under the blindfold going white, before she feels the sparks of her orgasm travel across her body, riding his fingers and his mouth to the most intense completion she has ever felt in her life.

When she has finally regained control of her senses, she feels his lips moving slowly against her, his fingers still but buried inside her, slowly helping her come down off her high. This is also when she hears him whisper “That’s a good girl, take your time,” barely audible over the slow, quiet music, and when he does move away from her, his hand finds the blindfold, untying it from around her eyes.

After taking a moment to adjust to the light, she finds his gaze, reaching her hand up to press it against his cheek.

“Now what?” she whispers with a smile, the music still playing behind her words, and he leans down to press his lips against her cheek. “The music isn’t over yet.”

“I would really like to complete this whole experience and pound into you while the third movement swells into the fourth, if that’s okay.”

She laughs at just how sure he sounds, even though his eyes are blown wide and dark, his already dark scruff coated with her wetness. As a response, she reaches between them and hooks her fingers under the elastic of his boxer briefs, pushing them as far down his hips as she can.

“I think I can handle that,” she whispers, wrapping her fingers around his hard cock. “Do you have a condom?”

“They’re in the, uh, drawer in the nightstand,” he manages, the words not coming easy with her hand working him in time with the music, though she releases him so he can remove his boxers the rest of the way as she reaches to find one.

He tries to take it from her fingers, but she quickly tears the packet open, discarding it on the bed beside him as she takes him in her hand again, her eyes set on his. She continues to watch him as she pumps him once, twice, three times, sliding her thumb across his tip to catch the bead of moisture that has collected there — and he is useless against her, snapping his eyes shut. Letting out a breathy laugh, she begins rolling the condom over his length.

With her hands on his hips, she positions him between her thighs, pulling his lips down to meet hers. She has never tasted her arousal on another man’s tongue, and curls the fingers of one hand in his hair to pull him closer to her, wanting to taste as much of herself as she can from him. When he rests his hips against hers, hard against her warm, wet core, he lets his eyes flutter shut, enjoying the feel of her against him for a moment before lining up at her entrance. She is tight and wet and warm around him, and he sinks into her as much as he can, reveling in the way she envelops him completely — but when she moves her hips against his, her hand splayed out over his back with the other still tugging on his hair, he begins moving inside her, out as far as he can manage before slamming back into her. With every thrust, she releases a small, moaning breath, and with his eyes closed, he focuses on that sound, on the feel of her under him, against his fingers as they find her breast, of her breath on his neck, as he feels his own release gather within him.

His fingers travel down to where they meet, the pad of his thumb finding her clit as he thrusts hard into her, and it only takes a few swipes of his thumb against her before he feels the flutter of her walls against him, her moans louder and her grip in his hair a little harsher, but he couldn’t care less about that as he knows he is about to follow her over the edge, the thrusting of his hips turning a little erratic as he loses control.

His arms refuse to hold him up any longer, and he falls onto her, his head on her shoulder and even though he feels himself beginning to shrink inside her, he cannot bring himself to move — especially since she is doing the same, though he does move to remove the condom before they lose the contents of it all over his clean sheets.

They lay in silence for a few minutes, through the final movement and as the record player lifts the needle at the end of the symphony, silence filling around them.

“I should go get cleaned up,” she says finally, though she makes no move to do so. “And probably head home. Or at least let my roommates know you haven’t killed me.”

He chuckles, his voice tired, and when she does move to pull herself up off the bed, he lets her, rolling onto his back so he can watch her as she moves around the room.

“Stay. Please.” He’s not sure where the words come from, since he’s usually the first one to leave an awkward one night stand, but after they have left his lips, he finds himself wishing to see her again, to hold her through the night and wake her up with his lips against her skin.

She whips around to face him, her bright green eyes wide with surprise. Like him, she has never been one to stay the night, has always fled at the first opportunity, but when she finds his eyes, sees the sincerity so strong in them that she could lose herself in it, she shrugs.

“I’m still going to the bathroom. And texting my roommates.”

He smiles at her, the most brilliant thing she has ever seen, and she can swear that it would light up the room even if there were no other light source. “Of course, love. I’ll be waiting for your return.”

It only takes her a few moments, and when she returns, he realizes that she is wearing his button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up as far as they will allow, and nothing else. He has found himself a clean pair of boxers, removed the hand appendage from his arm, flipped the Mendelssohn record onto the opposite side, and settled down on top of all the covers. She joins him there, resting her head against his chest, her fingers playing with the soft, dark hair they find there.

“So, what do you think, love?” he asks, his fingers on his back following the fingering for this piece. “Have your views on instrumental music changed?”

She smiles up at him, her cheek still pressed against his chest. “Well, if that’s the way I get to experience it from now on, I think I might be more open to hearing some other pieces.”

#cs fics #my fics #my writing #wordsbymeganmichael #cs smut #yes its named after a sinatra song okay #sue me #the next three movements will be more fluff than smut #(kind of like the song)#seriously everyone listening to mendelssohn's fifth #the next piece will be centered around vivladi's spring #not sorry

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