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stephanometraPorn Battle VII is live. :D
Title: Frozen in the Moment
Pairing: Jon/Tom
Rating: NC17
Summary: steady as the night is cold, heat the frost can't touch
Warnings: tame, tame, tame
Notes: For Porn Battle, prompts: "smoke," "frost," "still." Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lyo for letting me talk at her and anoneknewmoose for the once-over. 1300 words.
***
Four o'clock on some morning in March, forty-five drunken minutes from his apartment, and Tom really kind of regrets leaving his coat at home. Nick found the party—Nick usually finds the parties—and it's alright, Tom supposes, except for how he doesn't know anybody but Nick and Jon and the dark-haired girl who let him bum a cigarette, whose name he's either already forgotten or never actually knew. And for how, while it may have felt like spring when the sun was up, it's twenty degrees now, and Jon and Tom's mutual decision to go out in hoodies and flip-flops maybe wasn't particularly bright. Giving winter the finger is a great idea in principle, but it feels like less of one when Tom's hanging halfway out a stranger's bedroom window, smoking someone else's Turkish Silvers and feeling his fingers trying to freeze in place in the wind. Tom closed the door behind him, so he wouldn't let all the heat out of the apartment, but Jon's keeping him company, leaning his elbows on the windowsill and staring out at the street.
They're both in that quiet, thoughtful stage of drunkenness, hunched over against the cold. Tom's not moving very much or very fast, trying to make his cigarette last, but Jon's perfectly still next to him. Tom couldn't even tell Jon was breathing if it weren't for the way his long, slow exhales mist up in the cold of the morning, little wisps of vapor that match the starbursts of frost on the fire escape below.
Tom smokes and freezes and watches, wishing he had his camera. He wishes the light weren't shit, wishes that it weren't the middle of the night; he wishes the window were a little wider, so it wouldn't be impossible to get the angle right to capture exactly what he sees: Jon's eyes half-closed, breath bleeding from Jon's chapped, parted lips in a pale cloud that curls through the smoke from Tom's cigarette. But his camera's at home—just like his coat—and all he's got is the nicotine craving under his skin, the glow of the cherry and the light from the streetlamps four stories down and the itch in his fingers to hold onto the stillness and the shadows, stronger even than the flare of pain when the cigarette burns down to the filter and blisters his fingertips.
He doesn't have his camera, though, so he scratches the itch against the two days' worth of stubble on Jon's jaw instead, consoles himself for the waste of the cigarette by putting his mouth on Jon's. Jon makes a soft sound and leans into Tom a little, shivering in the chill.
"Cold?" Tom asks, hushed in the quiet and the dark, like his voice poses a greater threat to the cold, static clarity of the moment than the party on the other side of the door.
Jon smiles slowly, turning into the heat of Tom's body and settling his hands on Tom's hips. He pulls Tom away from the window and leans back into the wall, sliding a knee between Tom's legs so they're tangled together, thighs and hips and chests pressed tight together. "Tom," he says, tilting his face up for another kiss. Tom recognizes that that's not any kind of answer, really, but he's happy to kiss Jon again, happier still to roll his hips forward so he can rub his half-hard dick against Jon's through their jeans.
His knees hit the carpet before he's even really decided what he's going to do, and Jon makes another soft sound, one hand sliding into Tom's hair as Tom fumbles Jon's jeans open. When Tom glances up, Jon's gone still again, staring down at Tom kneeling between his legs. His teeth flash white in the dark as he bites his lip, but then he goes still again, and Tom holds back a moan as he wraps his lips around the head of Jon's cock, curling his tongue around the underside and feeling Jon's pulse there, steady as the night is cold, heat the frost can't touch.
Tom breathes out hard through his nose and goes down, faster than he probably ought to, faster than he would sober. But he's drunk enough now to be confident in his ability to take it, determined even when he chokes a little, ridiculously self-satisfied when he manages to swallow instead of gag. His own cock twitches in his jeans when Jon's fingers tighten in his hair, when Jon moans low and sweet.
Jon's hips push forward, a tiny movement that he probably couldn't help, but Tom glances up again and pushes back, tucking his cold fingers into the waistband of Jon's jeans where they're still clinging to his hips, open and pushed down just far enough for Tom to get at Jon's dick. He forces Jon's hips still, feeling Jon's skin warm under his fingers, smooth and winter-dry, and Jon trembles when Tom sucks him down again.
"I—" Jon manages, and Tom hears Jon's head hit the wall behind him as he stutters out a moan and comes, buried so deep in Tom's mouth that Tom only gets the barest taste of him before he swallows, getting one last bitter streak across his tongue as he sits back on his heels.
"Jon," Tom says, voice sounding rusty and used. His hands are still curled tight around Jon's hips.
Jon shushes him, holding Tom's head still with the hand in his hair, reaching out and touching Tom's raw, wet lips with the other, fingertips pressing gently against Tom's teeth. Tom sucks his fingers in, tastes the ridges and whorls of Jon's fingerprints with the flat of his tongue. His cock is pushing needy and hot against the zip of his jeans, aching to be touched, but neither of them moves for a long moment, so fucking still again, Jon breathing slow in repletion as he looks down at his fingers in Tom's mouth with his eyes all pupil, lens held steady, shutter open wide.
Tom lets his eyes flutter shut, and Jon says, "Jesus, Tommy," and falls to his knees, too, Tom's hands skimming up under Jon's shirt when he doesn't move them out of the way fast enough. Jon curls one hand around the back of Tom's neck, tilting his head into another kiss, and presses the other between Tom's legs, cupping him through his jeans. Tom cries out.
He reaches down to unbutton his jeans, but Jon's faster, and their fingers tangle for a second in their haste to get Tom's pants open. Jon's the one who reaches inside, though, wrapping his fingers—cold, just like Tom's, just like everything in this frigid fucking room in this unfamiliar apartment—around Tom's cock, rubbing his thumb through the slick on the head and stroking Tom fast.
"C'mon, c'mon," he whispers into Tom's mouth, grazing his teeth over Tom's lower lip. He twists his wrist a little, and Tom arches into his hand, clutching at his shoulders.
Tom gasps as he comes, startled by the intensity of it. Jon strokes him through it, hand working in counterpoint with the jerk of Tom's hips, and Tom has to break away from Jon's mouth to catch his breath, dropping his forehead against Jon's shoulder instead and breathing in the stale fabric-softener-and-smoke scent of Jon's hoodie, the warm salt of his skin under it.
His come cools fast on his skin, on Jon's hand, and he shivers, even though he can still feel the echoes of his orgasm pulsing under his skin. It's fucking weird. He's still shivering when he sits back and watches as Jon brings his hand to his mouth, grinning as he licks his fingers clean of Tom's come.
"Cold?" Jon says when he's done, shoving his hands into his pockets, seemingly unconcerned that his jeans are still open and his dick is still hanging out.
Tom sighs, but he smiles back. "Should have closed the fucking window first."
***
Title: Frozen in the Moment
Pairing: Jon/Tom
Rating: NC17
Summary: steady as the night is cold, heat the frost can't touch
Warnings: tame, tame, tame
Notes: For Porn Battle, prompts: "smoke," "frost," "still." Thanks to
lyo for letting me talk at her and anoneknewmoose for the once-over. 1300 words.Four o'clock on some morning in March, forty-five drunken minutes from his apartment, and Tom really kind of regrets leaving his coat at home. Nick found the party—Nick usually finds the parties—and it's alright, Tom supposes, except for how he doesn't know anybody but Nick and Jon and the dark-haired girl who let him bum a cigarette, whose name he's either already forgotten or never actually knew. And for how, while it may have felt like spring when the sun was up, it's twenty degrees now, and Jon and Tom's mutual decision to go out in hoodies and flip-flops maybe wasn't particularly bright. Giving winter the finger is a great idea in principle, but it feels like less of one when Tom's hanging halfway out a stranger's bedroom window, smoking someone else's Turkish Silvers and feeling his fingers trying to freeze in place in the wind. Tom closed the door behind him, so he wouldn't let all the heat out of the apartment, but Jon's keeping him company, leaning his elbows on the windowsill and staring out at the street.
They're both in that quiet, thoughtful stage of drunkenness, hunched over against the cold. Tom's not moving very much or very fast, trying to make his cigarette last, but Jon's perfectly still next to him. Tom couldn't even tell Jon was breathing if it weren't for the way his long, slow exhales mist up in the cold of the morning, little wisps of vapor that match the starbursts of frost on the fire escape below.
Tom smokes and freezes and watches, wishing he had his camera. He wishes the light weren't shit, wishes that it weren't the middle of the night; he wishes the window were a little wider, so it wouldn't be impossible to get the angle right to capture exactly what he sees: Jon's eyes half-closed, breath bleeding from Jon's chapped, parted lips in a pale cloud that curls through the smoke from Tom's cigarette. But his camera's at home—just like his coat—and all he's got is the nicotine craving under his skin, the glow of the cherry and the light from the streetlamps four stories down and the itch in his fingers to hold onto the stillness and the shadows, stronger even than the flare of pain when the cigarette burns down to the filter and blisters his fingertips.
He doesn't have his camera, though, so he scratches the itch against the two days' worth of stubble on Jon's jaw instead, consoles himself for the waste of the cigarette by putting his mouth on Jon's. Jon makes a soft sound and leans into Tom a little, shivering in the chill.
"Cold?" Tom asks, hushed in the quiet and the dark, like his voice poses a greater threat to the cold, static clarity of the moment than the party on the other side of the door.
Jon smiles slowly, turning into the heat of Tom's body and settling his hands on Tom's hips. He pulls Tom away from the window and leans back into the wall, sliding a knee between Tom's legs so they're tangled together, thighs and hips and chests pressed tight together. "Tom," he says, tilting his face up for another kiss. Tom recognizes that that's not any kind of answer, really, but he's happy to kiss Jon again, happier still to roll his hips forward so he can rub his half-hard dick against Jon's through their jeans.
His knees hit the carpet before he's even really decided what he's going to do, and Jon makes another soft sound, one hand sliding into Tom's hair as Tom fumbles Jon's jeans open. When Tom glances up, Jon's gone still again, staring down at Tom kneeling between his legs. His teeth flash white in the dark as he bites his lip, but then he goes still again, and Tom holds back a moan as he wraps his lips around the head of Jon's cock, curling his tongue around the underside and feeling Jon's pulse there, steady as the night is cold, heat the frost can't touch.
Tom breathes out hard through his nose and goes down, faster than he probably ought to, faster than he would sober. But he's drunk enough now to be confident in his ability to take it, determined even when he chokes a little, ridiculously self-satisfied when he manages to swallow instead of gag. His own cock twitches in his jeans when Jon's fingers tighten in his hair, when Jon moans low and sweet.
Jon's hips push forward, a tiny movement that he probably couldn't help, but Tom glances up again and pushes back, tucking his cold fingers into the waistband of Jon's jeans where they're still clinging to his hips, open and pushed down just far enough for Tom to get at Jon's dick. He forces Jon's hips still, feeling Jon's skin warm under his fingers, smooth and winter-dry, and Jon trembles when Tom sucks him down again.
"I—" Jon manages, and Tom hears Jon's head hit the wall behind him as he stutters out a moan and comes, buried so deep in Tom's mouth that Tom only gets the barest taste of him before he swallows, getting one last bitter streak across his tongue as he sits back on his heels.
"Jon," Tom says, voice sounding rusty and used. His hands are still curled tight around Jon's hips.
Jon shushes him, holding Tom's head still with the hand in his hair, reaching out and touching Tom's raw, wet lips with the other, fingertips pressing gently against Tom's teeth. Tom sucks his fingers in, tastes the ridges and whorls of Jon's fingerprints with the flat of his tongue. His cock is pushing needy and hot against the zip of his jeans, aching to be touched, but neither of them moves for a long moment, so fucking still again, Jon breathing slow in repletion as he looks down at his fingers in Tom's mouth with his eyes all pupil, lens held steady, shutter open wide.
Tom lets his eyes flutter shut, and Jon says, "Jesus, Tommy," and falls to his knees, too, Tom's hands skimming up under Jon's shirt when he doesn't move them out of the way fast enough. Jon curls one hand around the back of Tom's neck, tilting his head into another kiss, and presses the other between Tom's legs, cupping him through his jeans. Tom cries out.
He reaches down to unbutton his jeans, but Jon's faster, and their fingers tangle for a second in their haste to get Tom's pants open. Jon's the one who reaches inside, though, wrapping his fingers—cold, just like Tom's, just like everything in this frigid fucking room in this unfamiliar apartment—around Tom's cock, rubbing his thumb through the slick on the head and stroking Tom fast.
"C'mon, c'mon," he whispers into Tom's mouth, grazing his teeth over Tom's lower lip. He twists his wrist a little, and Tom arches into his hand, clutching at his shoulders.
Tom gasps as he comes, startled by the intensity of it. Jon strokes him through it, hand working in counterpoint with the jerk of Tom's hips, and Tom has to break away from Jon's mouth to catch his breath, dropping his forehead against Jon's shoulder instead and breathing in the stale fabric-softener-and-smoke scent of Jon's hoodie, the warm salt of his skin under it.
His come cools fast on his skin, on Jon's hand, and he shivers, even though he can still feel the echoes of his orgasm pulsing under his skin. It's fucking weird. He's still shivering when he sits back and watches as Jon brings his hand to his mouth, grinning as he licks his fingers clean of Tom's come.
"Cold?" Jon says when he's done, shoving his hands into his pockets, seemingly unconcerned that his jeans are still open and his dick is still hanging out.
Tom sighs, but he smiles back. "Should have closed the fucking window first."
