Bandom ficlet: Delay (Jon/Tom, NC-17)
Title: Delay
Pairing: Jon Walker/Tom Conrad
Rating: NC-17
Summary/Note: x-posted from original here, for Porn Battle VIII, prompt: ink. 1800 words.
It's late when Jon finally gets there, so late they've already come off stage and Sean is mostly plastered. He's warm and friendly as he draws Jon into the kind of hug Jon gets from all of them now that he's more than just Tom's old friend.
It's so stupid, this falling-in-love-while-Jon's-in-a-touring-band thing. Then again, he and Tom never have done anything the easy way. It's not like they go out of their way to make life difficult; difficulty just seems to follow on their heels close enough to step on the hem of their jeans every so often.
Case in point: Jon's still-unexplained flight delay, the reason he missed Empires's set. Tom was supposed to pick him up from the airport. Instead, Jon took a long cab ride through a city that welcomed him with open arms but also echoed his solitude. It made him feel oddly melancholy. Only a few hours' delay, but merging into the Chicago skyline, it was enough.
He's better now. Just stepping into the dark, smoke-filled bar and finding it the same as he remembered makes him feel more at home. That and knowing Tom's here…somewhere. As Sean pushes him down a dark hallway, he thinks of the million and one times he's gone hunting for Conrad like this, how it took him so long to realize why.
Tom is asleep. The room is otherwise empty, just Tom sprawled on his back on the fugliest, most pathetically dilapidated couch Jon's ever seen. Tom's got an arm thrown over his eyes, and the other hand is palm down on his stomach. Jon already itches to touch him, but he stands and watches for a moment, unwilling to disturb the picture he makes, messy and lazy and perfect.
"I'm not asleep," Tom says without moving, not even the arm over his face. His voice is gravelly and Jon's not at all convinced he's awake. "In fact," Tom adds, and he's smirking now, "I worked hard at staying awake for when you got here, because I seem to remember a promise to suck my dick so long and good I'd lose my fucking mind."
"Now, what if it had been Max or Ryan or somebody coming in here?"
Tom grins and finally takes his arm off his face. There's a joke in there about straight boys and cocksucking, but it gets lost when Tom opens his eyes and Jon's heartbeat thumps up into his throat for a second. It's always like this when he sees him again, a split second of paralysis, like he's spinning back to the moment it first happened: when Jon worked up the nerve to ask him if it had always been flirting and Tom's eyes got wide, when Jon didn't back away and Tom kissed him, slow and soft, hands shaking on his jaw, when they both pulled back and stared at each other like they weren't sure what to do. That's when they discovered that laughing into each other's necks and mocking each other is a really effective way to avoid freezing up or freaking out.
Jon crosses the room and climbs onto the couch, his thighs bracketing Tom's hips, and he says a silent little prayer that the couch holds up (although he fears that, really, it's held up for much worse over the years). Tom is warm under him, his body solid and familiar. Jon braces his arms on the armrest on either side of Tom's head and he's about to get in a dig about Tom's sense of romance when Tom surges up and kisses him so hard their teeth click together. When they settle into the kiss, though, it's good-deep and wet and desperate. Tom sort of always kisses Jon like he's making up for lost time. This time in particular, five and a half weeks, but there's something like three and a half years that comes out, too, in the way Tom's hand curls around Jon's bicep and the way he slides the other hand into Jon's back pocket like that's where it's supposed to be.
It doesn't take long before Tom's pulling Jon down flush with his body, fitting a thigh between his legs as he does. Jon groans into the kiss, and Tom hums his approval, his fingers digging into Jon's back. Jon goes to push Tom's hair back off his face and ends up fisting it in his hands so he can hold his head back and trail biting kisses down his throat, stubble rough against his mouth. Tom tastes just like he remembered. Writhes familiarly, too, and grabs Jon's ass with both hands to make him grind down harder.
It's like a game of chicken, one Jon always loses. He pulls back, gasping and laughing at the same time, his body still rolling against Tom's as he sucks in a breath that turns shaky.
"Oh no," Jon says, even as he closes his eyes against so much sensation. Tom is chuckling at him a little. "No way, you fucker," Jon says. "I am really not blowing you on this sketchy fucking couch, so don't even-"
Tom rolls his body up into Jon's again and gropes for his face so he can pull him into another kiss. Jon pretends to struggle out of it, but he doesn't think he's trying all that convincingly. Tom rocks up into him, pulling at Jon's hips until their erections are lined up. Jon tries to pull up a little, get some space between them so he doesn't just rub one out right there against Tom's hipbone, but just as he makes some headway, Tom slips his hand down the front of Jon's jeans, over his briefs, over his dick.
"Tommy," he says with a squeak, and Tom draws his hand back-not completely out of Jon's pants, just back to some teasing distance from his dick that makes him rethink his protesting. Still, he'd kind of like this not to spiral out of control. They're going too far too fast in a place without a lock on the door, and Jon would really, really not like to be notorious around these parts for fucking on the ugliest couch in the city.
So Jon has every intention of getting up and dragging Tom's ass back to his apartment so they can do this properly, but unfortunately he needs to kiss the smug smirk off Tom's face, the one that feels even more smug as Tom slips his hand back into place over Jon's cock. He squeezes and Jon swears into Tom's mouth, bucks into his hand.
That's all the invitation Tom needs. He unzips him and pulls the waistband of his briefs down far enough he can take Jon's dick in his hand. Jon's already made a wet spot, and he feels the head get even slicker as Tom swirls his thumb over it. Thankfully, Tom's not really a teasing fucker. He's much more interested in seeing how quickly he can make Jon fall apart. So he lets Jon lick his palm, then he starts fisting him in long firm strokes.
Jon's up on his knees again, so it's a little awkward to bend down and kiss him, but he does, because Tom never seems to mind how sloppy Jon kisses when he's getting off. He just keeps jerking him off, body stretching up off the couch from time to time like he can't help himself, tongue fucking into Jon's mouth. His other hand holds Jon steady for a while, but then he uses it to pull Jon's waistband down just a little more, so he can curve his fingers down around Jon's balls. Jon will honestly never get tired of watching Tom touching him, his cock slipping up through Tom's fist and his balls heavy in Tom's hand.
When he comes, he's biting into Tom's shoulder. With his face still against Tom's collarbone, his hand goes for Tom's zipper only to have Tom slap it away with sticky fingers.
"Later," Tom says. His voice is some cross between sleepy and fucked out, and Jon hasn't even done anything to him. Eyes closed, he says, "Wanna get you in a bed and do all kinds of depraved things to you."
"Looks to me like you wanna get me in bed to do all kinds of sleeping things, you lazy bastard," he says with a grin against his skin.
"Sorry," Tom murmurs. "In the studio all last night."
Jon doesn't ask. He figures the details will unfold as the visit does. He just murmurs in the affirmative and kisses his collarbone. He finds, then, that he can't stop kissing him, so he leaves a trail of wet marks over Tom's throat and jaw, then he slides his mouth to Tom's neck, sucking soft just under his ear, because Jon feels so good now and because Tom is so fucking gorgeous like this.
When Jon reluctantly pushes up so he can tuck himself back into his pants, Tom throws his hands back over his head, the one still sticky. Jon realizes he hasn't looked very closely at Tom's face yet, at least not closely enough to see the faint trace of words written backwards and running diagonally from his right eye to his hairline.
"You got something written on your hand, dumbass?" Jon asks. It wouldn't be the first time Tom accidentally branded his face with some mundane grocery item or a utility company he needed to write a check for.
Tom's face wrinkles at him in momentary exhausted cranky confusion, then he snorts and hauls his left hand back onto the couch, presenting it for inspection.
amer 716 atl
Tom smiles tiredly at him. Jon's glad he caught them before they headed out to O'Hare.
"I'm sorry I missed the show," Jon says.
"There will be other shows," he says with a yawn. "Better ones, where I'm not a zombie. I'm just sorry you had to fly into the ninth circle of airport hell."
"Actually, I think you can blame this one on the A-T-L."
Tom snorts and says, "You are such a dork."
"You missed me," Jon replies. He doesn't say I missed you. He doesn't have to.
Tom's hand is still in his, so he lifts it and kisses the back of it, right over the fading blue ink. When he looks at Tom's face again, his eyes are dark and shiny and he's biting his lip, so Jon turns that hand over and kisses the palm, then he kisses down over the heel and onto his wrist. When he bites blunt and easy at Tom's pulse point, Tom shivers and suddenly struggles to sit up.
"C'mon," he says. "Let's get out of here."
~
Pairing: Jon Walker/Tom Conrad
Rating: NC-17
Summary/Note: x-posted from original here, for Porn Battle VIII, prompt: ink. 1800 words.
It's late when Jon finally gets there, so late they've already come off stage and Sean is mostly plastered. He's warm and friendly as he draws Jon into the kind of hug Jon gets from all of them now that he's more than just Tom's old friend.
It's so stupid, this falling-in-love-while-Jon's-in-a-touring-band thing. Then again, he and Tom never have done anything the easy way. It's not like they go out of their way to make life difficult; difficulty just seems to follow on their heels close enough to step on the hem of their jeans every so often.
Case in point: Jon's still-unexplained flight delay, the reason he missed Empires's set. Tom was supposed to pick him up from the airport. Instead, Jon took a long cab ride through a city that welcomed him with open arms but also echoed his solitude. It made him feel oddly melancholy. Only a few hours' delay, but merging into the Chicago skyline, it was enough.
He's better now. Just stepping into the dark, smoke-filled bar and finding it the same as he remembered makes him feel more at home. That and knowing Tom's here…somewhere. As Sean pushes him down a dark hallway, he thinks of the million and one times he's gone hunting for Conrad like this, how it took him so long to realize why.
Tom is asleep. The room is otherwise empty, just Tom sprawled on his back on the fugliest, most pathetically dilapidated couch Jon's ever seen. Tom's got an arm thrown over his eyes, and the other hand is palm down on his stomach. Jon already itches to touch him, but he stands and watches for a moment, unwilling to disturb the picture he makes, messy and lazy and perfect.
"I'm not asleep," Tom says without moving, not even the arm over his face. His voice is gravelly and Jon's not at all convinced he's awake. "In fact," Tom adds, and he's smirking now, "I worked hard at staying awake for when you got here, because I seem to remember a promise to suck my dick so long and good I'd lose my fucking mind."
"Now, what if it had been Max or Ryan or somebody coming in here?"
Tom grins and finally takes his arm off his face. There's a joke in there about straight boys and cocksucking, but it gets lost when Tom opens his eyes and Jon's heartbeat thumps up into his throat for a second. It's always like this when he sees him again, a split second of paralysis, like he's spinning back to the moment it first happened: when Jon worked up the nerve to ask him if it had always been flirting and Tom's eyes got wide, when Jon didn't back away and Tom kissed him, slow and soft, hands shaking on his jaw, when they both pulled back and stared at each other like they weren't sure what to do. That's when they discovered that laughing into each other's necks and mocking each other is a really effective way to avoid freezing up or freaking out.
Jon crosses the room and climbs onto the couch, his thighs bracketing Tom's hips, and he says a silent little prayer that the couch holds up (although he fears that, really, it's held up for much worse over the years). Tom is warm under him, his body solid and familiar. Jon braces his arms on the armrest on either side of Tom's head and he's about to get in a dig about Tom's sense of romance when Tom surges up and kisses him so hard their teeth click together. When they settle into the kiss, though, it's good-deep and wet and desperate. Tom sort of always kisses Jon like he's making up for lost time. This time in particular, five and a half weeks, but there's something like three and a half years that comes out, too, in the way Tom's hand curls around Jon's bicep and the way he slides the other hand into Jon's back pocket like that's where it's supposed to be.
It doesn't take long before Tom's pulling Jon down flush with his body, fitting a thigh between his legs as he does. Jon groans into the kiss, and Tom hums his approval, his fingers digging into Jon's back. Jon goes to push Tom's hair back off his face and ends up fisting it in his hands so he can hold his head back and trail biting kisses down his throat, stubble rough against his mouth. Tom tastes just like he remembered. Writhes familiarly, too, and grabs Jon's ass with both hands to make him grind down harder.
It's like a game of chicken, one Jon always loses. He pulls back, gasping and laughing at the same time, his body still rolling against Tom's as he sucks in a breath that turns shaky.
"Oh no," Jon says, even as he closes his eyes against so much sensation. Tom is chuckling at him a little. "No way, you fucker," Jon says. "I am really not blowing you on this sketchy fucking couch, so don't even-"
Tom rolls his body up into Jon's again and gropes for his face so he can pull him into another kiss. Jon pretends to struggle out of it, but he doesn't think he's trying all that convincingly. Tom rocks up into him, pulling at Jon's hips until their erections are lined up. Jon tries to pull up a little, get some space between them so he doesn't just rub one out right there against Tom's hipbone, but just as he makes some headway, Tom slips his hand down the front of Jon's jeans, over his briefs, over his dick.
"Tommy," he says with a squeak, and Tom draws his hand back-not completely out of Jon's pants, just back to some teasing distance from his dick that makes him rethink his protesting. Still, he'd kind of like this not to spiral out of control. They're going too far too fast in a place without a lock on the door, and Jon would really, really not like to be notorious around these parts for fucking on the ugliest couch in the city.
So Jon has every intention of getting up and dragging Tom's ass back to his apartment so they can do this properly, but unfortunately he needs to kiss the smug smirk off Tom's face, the one that feels even more smug as Tom slips his hand back into place over Jon's cock. He squeezes and Jon swears into Tom's mouth, bucks into his hand.
That's all the invitation Tom needs. He unzips him and pulls the waistband of his briefs down far enough he can take Jon's dick in his hand. Jon's already made a wet spot, and he feels the head get even slicker as Tom swirls his thumb over it. Thankfully, Tom's not really a teasing fucker. He's much more interested in seeing how quickly he can make Jon fall apart. So he lets Jon lick his palm, then he starts fisting him in long firm strokes.
Jon's up on his knees again, so it's a little awkward to bend down and kiss him, but he does, because Tom never seems to mind how sloppy Jon kisses when he's getting off. He just keeps jerking him off, body stretching up off the couch from time to time like he can't help himself, tongue fucking into Jon's mouth. His other hand holds Jon steady for a while, but then he uses it to pull Jon's waistband down just a little more, so he can curve his fingers down around Jon's balls. Jon will honestly never get tired of watching Tom touching him, his cock slipping up through Tom's fist and his balls heavy in Tom's hand.
When he comes, he's biting into Tom's shoulder. With his face still against Tom's collarbone, his hand goes for Tom's zipper only to have Tom slap it away with sticky fingers.
"Later," Tom says. His voice is some cross between sleepy and fucked out, and Jon hasn't even done anything to him. Eyes closed, he says, "Wanna get you in a bed and do all kinds of depraved things to you."
"Looks to me like you wanna get me in bed to do all kinds of sleeping things, you lazy bastard," he says with a grin against his skin.
"Sorry," Tom murmurs. "In the studio all last night."
Jon doesn't ask. He figures the details will unfold as the visit does. He just murmurs in the affirmative and kisses his collarbone. He finds, then, that he can't stop kissing him, so he leaves a trail of wet marks over Tom's throat and jaw, then he slides his mouth to Tom's neck, sucking soft just under his ear, because Jon feels so good now and because Tom is so fucking gorgeous like this.
When Jon reluctantly pushes up so he can tuck himself back into his pants, Tom throws his hands back over his head, the one still sticky. Jon realizes he hasn't looked very closely at Tom's face yet, at least not closely enough to see the faint trace of words written backwards and running diagonally from his right eye to his hairline.
"You got something written on your hand, dumbass?" Jon asks. It wouldn't be the first time Tom accidentally branded his face with some mundane grocery item or a utility company he needed to write a check for.
Tom's face wrinkles at him in momentary exhausted cranky confusion, then he snorts and hauls his left hand back onto the couch, presenting it for inspection.
amer 716 atl
Tom smiles tiredly at him. Jon's glad he caught them before they headed out to O'Hare.
"I'm sorry I missed the show," Jon says.
"There will be other shows," he says with a yawn. "Better ones, where I'm not a zombie. I'm just sorry you had to fly into the ninth circle of airport hell."
"Actually, I think you can blame this one on the A-T-L."
Tom snorts and says, "You are such a dork."
"You missed me," Jon replies. He doesn't say I missed you. He doesn't have to.
Tom's hand is still in his, so he lifts it and kisses the back of it, right over the fading blue ink. When he looks at Tom's face again, his eyes are dark and shiny and he's biting his lip, so Jon turns that hand over and kisses the palm, then he kisses down over the heel and onto his wrist. When he bites blunt and easy at Tom's pulse point, Tom shivers and suddenly struggles to sit up.
"C'mon," he says. "Let's get out of here."
~