"intrepid", jon/tom. pg-13?
so this is the first thing i've posted, fic-wise in what...two years? yeah. kind of intimidating, but whatever. feature one jonathan walker and also, a tom conrad.
intrepid
Sometimes he gets lost in Jon's...in Jon, trying to figure out where they separate, physically and mentally. Between them, there are no walls, only years and miles of connected joints, thoughts swimming in company. Most of the time, it only makes Tom want to stop thinking.
Tom's never seen Jon like this. Not naked, but bare. Exposed and open, eyes lacking their usual tinge of humor. His hair is skewed, but away from his face. His head is cradled in the pillow, and tilted just so. So that Tom's hands almost feel pricked with guilt for every inch they touch. The muscles beneath his fingertips tense and Tom doesn't know where to start.
-
Jon's not sure how this is what it is, but it is and he's maybe panicking a little. Shit, but this is Tom. Tom. Tom, whose name is practically branded onto Jon's tongue. Tom, whose tongue is branding its shape on the sensitivity of Jon's skin. He can't breathe but he lets his head loll a little and pulls Tom in closer to his chest where he is steadily breathing, wet and ragged.
He knows Tom. He knows the red slickness of his lips, he knows the slowly fluttering lashes, he knows the small, deep vibrations that are emitting from Tom's voice right now. But he holds his eyes open - barely, but open still - simply for the sake of concrete belief.
intrepid
Sometimes he gets lost in Jon's...in Jon, trying to figure out where they separate, physically and mentally. Between them, there are no walls, only years and miles of connected joints, thoughts swimming in company. Most of the time, it only makes Tom want to stop thinking.
Tom's never seen Jon like this. Not naked, but bare. Exposed and open, eyes lacking their usual tinge of humor. His hair is skewed, but away from his face. His head is cradled in the pillow, and tilted just so. So that Tom's hands almost feel pricked with guilt for every inch they touch. The muscles beneath his fingertips tense and Tom doesn't know where to start.
-
Jon's not sure how this is what it is, but it is and he's maybe panicking a little. Shit, but this is Tom. Tom. Tom, whose name is practically branded onto Jon's tongue. Tom, whose tongue is branding its shape on the sensitivity of Jon's skin. He can't breathe but he lets his head loll a little and pulls Tom in closer to his chest where he is steadily breathing, wet and ragged.
He knows Tom. He knows the red slickness of his lips, he knows the slowly fluttering lashes, he knows the small, deep vibrations that are emitting from Tom's voice right now. But he holds his eyes open - barely, but open still - simply for the sake of concrete belief.