FIC: The Latest Record By The Dead Kennedys
Title: The Latest Record By The Dead Kennedys
Play: Richard II
Pairing/characters: Richard/Aumerle
Rating: R
Word Count: 1222
Warnings: drunk!sex, fail!sex, complete and utter silly pointlessness, references to Eton
Summary: Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes: it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery.
Author's Notes: For gileonnen. Coda to "Three Such Enemies" (it is set basically right afterwards). For the title, see "Current Music" (it's what DJs called the song when it was in the Top 40). Thanks to speak_me_fair for beta-reading!
It's nearly three AM by the time Edward and Richard decide that maybe they might possibly have had enough wine, or at least that getting up, going for another bottle, and attempting in their current state to operate a corkscrew is more effort than they feel themselves entirely capable of.
"On the other hand," Richard says, "I don't feel particularly drunk. I mean, I know I am, but I think I'm drunker than I feel like. As long as I keep talking. I feel quite all right if I keep talking."
Edward pauses for a second to work out if that actually is complete nonsense or if it just sounds like it because he is completely plastered, before it clicks that it doesn't really matter, because calling it complete nonsense would make Richard indignant, and God, he's adorable when he's indignant.
"That makes no sense," he says, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out if the paint is really crawling around. Which is oddly hilarious.
"Of course it does," Richard scoffs. "You just need more wine. If you'll kindly remove your head from my lap -- "
He attempts, without much success, to scoot forward enough that standing up is in the range of possibilities, despite that Edward has not budged even a millimeter of his own accord. The result is mostly that he manages, with great effort, to raise himself about two inches, before losing traction and collapsing into a flailing pointy heap. It is, at this particular moment anyway, the single most hilarious thing Edward has ever witnessed, if only because he isn't technically witnessing his own face floating out about six inches in front of him, or at least that is what it feels like.
"I would be much better at standing up," Richard mutters, "if you would sit up properly. I would hate to cause serious damage to someone who gives superlative handjobs."
"There's no -- um. Thingie." Edward flails a hand in the air for a moment as if to pluck the correct (and, surely, completely ordinary) word from somewhere above his head. "Argument. No argument there."
"There is," Richard smirks, "actually a considerable amount of thingie. I trust you haven't forgotten already."
"God, I can't believe we did that," Edward laughs. "Well. Okay. I can believe we did that. I can't believe Henry did that."
"Well, you know," Richard says, "you don't get through Oxbridge without some aptitude for buggery. Even if you haven't been to Eton. Did I ever tell you I went to Eton?"
Richard asks this question whenever he is drunk and in a good mood. One time he followed it up with a spectacularly tuneless rendering of the Eton Boating Song, the memory of which still makes Edward's ears bleed.
"Once or twice."
"Bloody awful place," Richard says. "Bunch of fucking toffs."
Oh God, not this again. There is positively nothing to completely ruin a perfectly lovely drinking-with-fucking-presumably-to-follow session like Richard's champagne-socialist bullshit. Of course, last time they had this argument, Edward hadn't been comfortable with ending the conversation by shoving his tongue down Richard's throat. It's a nice thing to have at one's disposal.
"If you start on the Eton rant again," Edward says, finally, "I'm not going to kiss you."
"Oh, well then!" Richard's eyes widen a bit. "Don't let me stop you!"
Edward levers himself upright then -- it's incredibly awkward, what with the really very squishy couch, and there is a lot of flailing before he's managed to arrange things so he's kneeling astride Richard's lap, a position which would probably be incredibly appealing if either of them could stop laughing. Richard's face is the same bright red that, Edward now knows, he turns during sex, and Edward is clinging to the back of the couch and cracking the hell up.
And then they catch their breath and all of a sudden Edward's sliding his tongue over Richard's lower lip, and Richard's got one hand on Edward's ass and the other skimming down his back, and it is marvelous and not at all hilarious.
"If I had thought about how effective this is in getting you to shut up," Edward says afterwards, "I'd have started doing it long ago."
"Why haven't we been doing this for years, anyway?" Richard's long fingers are trailing lazy circles on Edward's skin, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything else.
"The whole book thing? In case you've forgotten? And also -- hold that thought," he murmurs against Richard's lips. "Also," he says, after another lengthy kiss, "we are obviously complete morons."
"We just published a brilliant monograph, had a threesome with Henry Bolingbroke, and resolved nearly five years' worth of sexual tension," Richard reminds him, kissing him yet again. "I think we rule the fucking world. And should celebrate by going upstairs and screwing each other's brains out. Once I can stand up, I mean."
"You know, we could just fuck on the couch," Edward says. "Saves time that way."
"This is an excellent point," Richard says. "Although last time I tried that I did something positively ungodly to my back."
Standing up proves difficult but not completely impossible, as long as it remains a collaborative effort; Edward slides an arm around Richard's waist, and Richard braces his arm against Edward's shoulders. "I feel like I should sing 'Nellie Dean' or something," Richard says. "Or, more likely, 'Anarchy in the UK.'"
"I've got way better ideas about what you can do with your mouth," Edward laughs, as they pull themselves carefully up the stairs, Richard clinging desperately to the banister with his free hand and Edward bracing himself against the wall.
And then Edward is flat on his back on the bed and Richard is fumbling with the buttons on his jeans for what is certainly an inordinately long time.
"Need some help with those?" he says, propping himself up on his elbows, and Richard pouts at him.
"I am doing just fine," Richard says, fastening the same button he's just unbuttoned.
Edward is drunk enough that he can basically watch his thought processes as they happen. Once Richard's (finally) got his pants off, the situation becomes very weird indeed, because there he is with Richard Bordeaux sucking his cock, and yet it is not doing anything despite that he can get a hard-on just thinking about that if he concentrates, normally, but also, he is ridiculously drunk, so it's okay. And it does feel kind of nice anyway.
Richard, however, views the situation with less equanimity. "You could show a little enthusiasm," he grumbles.
"I'm very enthusiastic," Edward says, sounding out each syllable carefully, because, after all, epic drunk. "I bet you couldn't do better." He slides out from under Richard, who pulls himself into a kneeling position briefly before losing his balance and pitching forward onto the bed, and they both crack up yet again.
"All right, let's try this again," Richard mutters into the bed, and he rolls over onto his back; he smirks when Edward unbuttons his pants, which is terribly unfair of him since he was the one who had trouble with it before. The only thing for it is to kiss him, and when he's finished with that he makes his way downwards.
"Oh, God, nothing works," Richard moans, a while later.
"And I'm not even tired," Edward says. "Obviously we should just make out some more."
"Capital idea." Richard grins in his most evil manner. "We can fuck in the office on Monday."
Play: Richard II
Pairing/characters: Richard/Aumerle
Rating: R
Word Count: 1222
Warnings: drunk!sex, fail!sex, complete and utter silly pointlessness, references to Eton
Summary: Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes: it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance: therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery.
Author's Notes: For gileonnen. Coda to "Three Such Enemies" (it is set basically right afterwards). For the title, see "Current Music" (it's what DJs called the song when it was in the Top 40). Thanks to speak_me_fair for beta-reading!
It's nearly three AM by the time Edward and Richard decide that maybe they might possibly have had enough wine, or at least that getting up, going for another bottle, and attempting in their current state to operate a corkscrew is more effort than they feel themselves entirely capable of.
"On the other hand," Richard says, "I don't feel particularly drunk. I mean, I know I am, but I think I'm drunker than I feel like. As long as I keep talking. I feel quite all right if I keep talking."
Edward pauses for a second to work out if that actually is complete nonsense or if it just sounds like it because he is completely plastered, before it clicks that it doesn't really matter, because calling it complete nonsense would make Richard indignant, and God, he's adorable when he's indignant.
"That makes no sense," he says, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out if the paint is really crawling around. Which is oddly hilarious.
"Of course it does," Richard scoffs. "You just need more wine. If you'll kindly remove your head from my lap -- "
He attempts, without much success, to scoot forward enough that standing up is in the range of possibilities, despite that Edward has not budged even a millimeter of his own accord. The result is mostly that he manages, with great effort, to raise himself about two inches, before losing traction and collapsing into a flailing pointy heap. It is, at this particular moment anyway, the single most hilarious thing Edward has ever witnessed, if only because he isn't technically witnessing his own face floating out about six inches in front of him, or at least that is what it feels like.
"I would be much better at standing up," Richard mutters, "if you would sit up properly. I would hate to cause serious damage to someone who gives superlative handjobs."
"There's no -- um. Thingie." Edward flails a hand in the air for a moment as if to pluck the correct (and, surely, completely ordinary) word from somewhere above his head. "Argument. No argument there."
"There is," Richard smirks, "actually a considerable amount of thingie. I trust you haven't forgotten already."
"God, I can't believe we did that," Edward laughs. "Well. Okay. I can believe we did that. I can't believe Henry did that."
"Well, you know," Richard says, "you don't get through Oxbridge without some aptitude for buggery. Even if you haven't been to Eton. Did I ever tell you I went to Eton?"
Richard asks this question whenever he is drunk and in a good mood. One time he followed it up with a spectacularly tuneless rendering of the Eton Boating Song, the memory of which still makes Edward's ears bleed.
"Once or twice."
"Bloody awful place," Richard says. "Bunch of fucking toffs."
Oh God, not this again. There is positively nothing to completely ruin a perfectly lovely drinking-with-fucking-presumably-to-follow session like Richard's champagne-socialist bullshit. Of course, last time they had this argument, Edward hadn't been comfortable with ending the conversation by shoving his tongue down Richard's throat. It's a nice thing to have at one's disposal.
"If you start on the Eton rant again," Edward says, finally, "I'm not going to kiss you."
"Oh, well then!" Richard's eyes widen a bit. "Don't let me stop you!"
Edward levers himself upright then -- it's incredibly awkward, what with the really very squishy couch, and there is a lot of flailing before he's managed to arrange things so he's kneeling astride Richard's lap, a position which would probably be incredibly appealing if either of them could stop laughing. Richard's face is the same bright red that, Edward now knows, he turns during sex, and Edward is clinging to the back of the couch and cracking the hell up.
And then they catch their breath and all of a sudden Edward's sliding his tongue over Richard's lower lip, and Richard's got one hand on Edward's ass and the other skimming down his back, and it is marvelous and not at all hilarious.
"If I had thought about how effective this is in getting you to shut up," Edward says afterwards, "I'd have started doing it long ago."
"Why haven't we been doing this for years, anyway?" Richard's long fingers are trailing lazy circles on Edward's skin, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on anything else.
"The whole book thing? In case you've forgotten? And also -- hold that thought," he murmurs against Richard's lips. "Also," he says, after another lengthy kiss, "we are obviously complete morons."
"We just published a brilliant monograph, had a threesome with Henry Bolingbroke, and resolved nearly five years' worth of sexual tension," Richard reminds him, kissing him yet again. "I think we rule the fucking world. And should celebrate by going upstairs and screwing each other's brains out. Once I can stand up, I mean."
"You know, we could just fuck on the couch," Edward says. "Saves time that way."
"This is an excellent point," Richard says. "Although last time I tried that I did something positively ungodly to my back."
Standing up proves difficult but not completely impossible, as long as it remains a collaborative effort; Edward slides an arm around Richard's waist, and Richard braces his arm against Edward's shoulders. "I feel like I should sing 'Nellie Dean' or something," Richard says. "Or, more likely, 'Anarchy in the UK.'"
"I've got way better ideas about what you can do with your mouth," Edward laughs, as they pull themselves carefully up the stairs, Richard clinging desperately to the banister with his free hand and Edward bracing himself against the wall.
And then Edward is flat on his back on the bed and Richard is fumbling with the buttons on his jeans for what is certainly an inordinately long time.
"Need some help with those?" he says, propping himself up on his elbows, and Richard pouts at him.
"I am doing just fine," Richard says, fastening the same button he's just unbuttoned.
Edward is drunk enough that he can basically watch his thought processes as they happen. Once Richard's (finally) got his pants off, the situation becomes very weird indeed, because there he is with Richard Bordeaux sucking his cock, and yet it is not doing anything despite that he can get a hard-on just thinking about that if he concentrates, normally, but also, he is ridiculously drunk, so it's okay. And it does feel kind of nice anyway.
Richard, however, views the situation with less equanimity. "You could show a little enthusiasm," he grumbles.
"I'm very enthusiastic," Edward says, sounding out each syllable carefully, because, after all, epic drunk. "I bet you couldn't do better." He slides out from under Richard, who pulls himself into a kneeling position briefly before losing his balance and pitching forward onto the bed, and they both crack up yet again.
"All right, let's try this again," Richard mutters into the bed, and he rolls over onto his back; he smirks when Edward unbuttons his pants, which is terribly unfair of him since he was the one who had trouble with it before. The only thing for it is to kiss him, and when he's finished with that he makes his way downwards.
"Oh, God, nothing works," Richard moans, a while later.
"And I'm not even tired," Edward says. "Obviously we should just make out some more."
"Capital idea." Richard grins in his most evil manner. "We can fuck in the office on Monday."