(no subject)
Title: Jealous Of Your Cigarette
Pairing: unrequited Tom Conrad/Mike Carden
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1222
Series: Slantverse
Summary: Either Carden needs to stop smoking cigarettes or he needs to start sucking dick.
Prompt used: oral fixation for kink_bingo
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
AN: Title obviously from Hawksley Workman.
“Explain to me why we’re having a smoke now, when Carden and Pete and Sisky came out five minutes ago and you weren’t interested.”
“Sudden craving,” Tom mutters.
Jon doesn't seem convinced. “Right.”
“What? You know how that works.” It’s not like Jon has never dragged him outside for a smoke at an inconvenient time.
"I know how a lot of things work, Tom.”
“If that was supposed to sound threatening you need to work on it.” Jon couldn’t pull off threatening if he had a gun in hand.
“You’re my best friend. Threatening you is never on the menu. I’m just saying lying to me is pointless, so can you not?”
“Fine. Didn’t want to watch him smoking. His damn mouth.” Tom doesn’t need to say who, they both know he’s not attracted to Pete.
“You wanna tell me about it?”
For a second Tom thinks about it. He could talk in form of complaint about how Carden is a cockteasing bastard, and have Jon commiserate. He could talk in form of problem solving, asking what do I do to make myself stop wanting someone I know won’t work, and hope for some advice. He could even talk in form of erotic speech, and they could both get off imagining what Carden’s mouth could do. But Tom really isn’t much of a talker.
“No. He doesn’t want me, what else is there to talk about?”
“Oh, no, Tom. Your and his life both would be much easier if he didn’t like you. Instead you just want the exact same thing from each other, something neither of you can give. That’s way more complicated.”
“Yeah, well maybe one day he’ll change.”
Jon doesn’t answer. Tom knows it’s not because he agrees, but because Jon knows Tom doesn’t believe what he’s saying. If he doesn’t believe it there’s no reason to point out Tom would fail basic fifth grade sex ed. People’s orientations do not change because you want them to.
It takes a minute to locate the lighter in his pocket. His jeans always bulge with junk, a male version of a purse. When he finds it he just rubs his thumb against the wheel. It revolves easy, but doesn’t ignite his jeans. He doesn’t need to pull it out. Joints can be difficult, but cigarettes tend to keep their cherries and don’t often need to be relit. It’s just something to do. Jangling his keys or feeling the buttons of his cell will be next on his useless fidgeting list.
“Done. You’re down to filter too,” Jon points out a few minutes later.
“You go inside. I’m going to smoke another one.”
Jon shrugs. He doesn’t give Tom a conciliatory shoulder pat, not that Tom would freak out about someone touching him without asking. He’s not formal. If Mikey wants to nudge him and ask if he wants to trade sandwiches, or Butcher loses his shit watching something on Youtube and drops his forehead onto Tom’s arm as he’s crying with laughter, whatever. He’s firmly dominant, but it’s hard to read disrespect in friends being comfortable around him. Tom’s good at watching people. Maybe not as good at Jon, and he doesn’t get quite the same kick out of it that Jon does, but he can read into actions well enough. Or lack thereof. Jon doesn't have to pat him for Tom to know he empathizes.
Tom doesn’t smoke another one. Instead he heads for the parking lot, fingering the spare key in his pocket. Carden and Butcher -and for some reason Ryan- have spares too. Tom’s never known Jon to lose his set, and it’s not like the vehicle is good for emergency scening, it’s not a van with a hook screwed into the roof. But it still makes Tom feel happy to have it. It’s a trust thing.
He could lay across the front seat of the truck, but it’s not very comfortable. A seat that feels long when you’re sitting up isn’t always wide when you’re lying down. And the upholstery isn’t that soft velveteen stuff, or even plain canvas. Instead it’s a rough woolen blend, like that armchair from the eighties his dad insists on keeping in the basement. If Tom can’t wear shorts in Jon’s truck without his calves being scraped, it’ll probably be worse for his bare ass. Besides, he doesn’t want to be trapped in a confined space that smells like sweat and spunk with Jon and Carden when they go home in a half hour. The truck bed will work better.
Tom doesn’t bother to take down the tailgate, he doesn’t need that horrible screech in his life. Instead he steps on the bumper with his left foot and heaves himself over. There’s nothing in the bed, Jon isn’t really a long-haul kind of guy. There’s not even a tarp or something to ball up under his head; he ends up repurposing his hoodie. The night is decently warm, but the metal under his back is chilly. It’s not a deterrent, just encourages him to do this quickly.
His jeans are moderately tight, he can’t thrust his hand in them still zipped, like Travis could. He peels them down as little as he can while still getting his fingers on his cock. He might not have gone out to smoke with Carden, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t play his side of the air hockey game distracted as hell, thinking about what he was doing outside. He’s been half hard for twenty minutes, it doesn’t take much to get full mast.
Tom is not a narcissist. Not really. Everyone is, to some degree. When you look nice you know you look nice, and your mind demands compliments, even if you don’t actually ask for hem. But he wouldn’t fall in love with his own reflection in still water.
That doesn’t stop it from being true that it’s not just Carden’s mouth he likes. When he’s jerking off he imagines what his own could do just as often. Never in a submitting way, of course. But he’s got lips and a tongue and teeth, and he likes to think he knows how to use them.
In his mind, he makes Carden cry. Tom has been sitting beside him, and every time Carden starts to go soft, he licks him until he’s near orgasm. As always Carden is a stubborn bastard. He holds out silently, digging his nails into his own palms. He grabbed Tom by the hair once, trying to force him to finish. The fifty count spanking showed him it was a poor idea. Now he just bites his lips so the whimpers don’t escape and claws his own hands.
At least, it’s what Carden does until he can’t stand it. After nearly two hours, Mike breaks. He starts crying, moans to just let him come falling like jewels out of his sweet lips. Tom lets loose his own moan and comes into his hand. There’s nowhere absorbent to wipe it off on in the bed of the truck, so one by one he sucks his fingers clean. It’s almost too much sensation, which proves his point. He could easily dom Carden with his mouth, if only he would submit.
Pairing: unrequited Tom Conrad/Mike Carden
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1222
Series: Slantverse
Summary: Either Carden needs to stop smoking cigarettes or he needs to start sucking dick.
Prompt used: oral fixation for kink_bingo
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit, non-commercial work of fiction using the names and likenesses of real individuals. This fictional story is not intended to imply that the events herein actually occurred or that the attitudes or behaviors described are engaged in or condoned by the real persons whose names are used without permission.
AN: Title obviously from Hawksley Workman.
“Explain to me why we’re having a smoke now, when Carden and Pete and Sisky came out five minutes ago and you weren’t interested.”
“Sudden craving,” Tom mutters.
Jon doesn't seem convinced. “Right.”
“What? You know how that works.” It’s not like Jon has never dragged him outside for a smoke at an inconvenient time.
"I know how a lot of things work, Tom.”
“If that was supposed to sound threatening you need to work on it.” Jon couldn’t pull off threatening if he had a gun in hand.
“You’re my best friend. Threatening you is never on the menu. I’m just saying lying to me is pointless, so can you not?”
“Fine. Didn’t want to watch him smoking. His damn mouth.” Tom doesn’t need to say who, they both know he’s not attracted to Pete.
“You wanna tell me about it?”
For a second Tom thinks about it. He could talk in form of complaint about how Carden is a cockteasing bastard, and have Jon commiserate. He could talk in form of problem solving, asking what do I do to make myself stop wanting someone I know won’t work, and hope for some advice. He could even talk in form of erotic speech, and they could both get off imagining what Carden’s mouth could do. But Tom really isn’t much of a talker.
“No. He doesn’t want me, what else is there to talk about?”
“Oh, no, Tom. Your and his life both would be much easier if he didn’t like you. Instead you just want the exact same thing from each other, something neither of you can give. That’s way more complicated.”
“Yeah, well maybe one day he’ll change.”
Jon doesn’t answer. Tom knows it’s not because he agrees, but because Jon knows Tom doesn’t believe what he’s saying. If he doesn’t believe it there’s no reason to point out Tom would fail basic fifth grade sex ed. People’s orientations do not change because you want them to.
It takes a minute to locate the lighter in his pocket. His jeans always bulge with junk, a male version of a purse. When he finds it he just rubs his thumb against the wheel. It revolves easy, but doesn’t ignite his jeans. He doesn’t need to pull it out. Joints can be difficult, but cigarettes tend to keep their cherries and don’t often need to be relit. It’s just something to do. Jangling his keys or feeling the buttons of his cell will be next on his useless fidgeting list.
“Done. You’re down to filter too,” Jon points out a few minutes later.
“You go inside. I’m going to smoke another one.”
Jon shrugs. He doesn’t give Tom a conciliatory shoulder pat, not that Tom would freak out about someone touching him without asking. He’s not formal. If Mikey wants to nudge him and ask if he wants to trade sandwiches, or Butcher loses his shit watching something on Youtube and drops his forehead onto Tom’s arm as he’s crying with laughter, whatever. He’s firmly dominant, but it’s hard to read disrespect in friends being comfortable around him. Tom’s good at watching people. Maybe not as good at Jon, and he doesn’t get quite the same kick out of it that Jon does, but he can read into actions well enough. Or lack thereof. Jon doesn't have to pat him for Tom to know he empathizes.
Tom doesn’t smoke another one. Instead he heads for the parking lot, fingering the spare key in his pocket. Carden and Butcher -and for some reason Ryan- have spares too. Tom’s never known Jon to lose his set, and it’s not like the vehicle is good for emergency scening, it’s not a van with a hook screwed into the roof. But it still makes Tom feel happy to have it. It’s a trust thing.
He could lay across the front seat of the truck, but it’s not very comfortable. A seat that feels long when you’re sitting up isn’t always wide when you’re lying down. And the upholstery isn’t that soft velveteen stuff, or even plain canvas. Instead it’s a rough woolen blend, like that armchair from the eighties his dad insists on keeping in the basement. If Tom can’t wear shorts in Jon’s truck without his calves being scraped, it’ll probably be worse for his bare ass. Besides, he doesn’t want to be trapped in a confined space that smells like sweat and spunk with Jon and Carden when they go home in a half hour. The truck bed will work better.
Tom doesn’t bother to take down the tailgate, he doesn’t need that horrible screech in his life. Instead he steps on the bumper with his left foot and heaves himself over. There’s nothing in the bed, Jon isn’t really a long-haul kind of guy. There’s not even a tarp or something to ball up under his head; he ends up repurposing his hoodie. The night is decently warm, but the metal under his back is chilly. It’s not a deterrent, just encourages him to do this quickly.
His jeans are moderately tight, he can’t thrust his hand in them still zipped, like Travis could. He peels them down as little as he can while still getting his fingers on his cock. He might not have gone out to smoke with Carden, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t play his side of the air hockey game distracted as hell, thinking about what he was doing outside. He’s been half hard for twenty minutes, it doesn’t take much to get full mast.
Tom is not a narcissist. Not really. Everyone is, to some degree. When you look nice you know you look nice, and your mind demands compliments, even if you don’t actually ask for hem. But he wouldn’t fall in love with his own reflection in still water.
That doesn’t stop it from being true that it’s not just Carden’s mouth he likes. When he’s jerking off he imagines what his own could do just as often. Never in a submitting way, of course. But he’s got lips and a tongue and teeth, and he likes to think he knows how to use them.
In his mind, he makes Carden cry. Tom has been sitting beside him, and every time Carden starts to go soft, he licks him until he’s near orgasm. As always Carden is a stubborn bastard. He holds out silently, digging his nails into his own palms. He grabbed Tom by the hair once, trying to force him to finish. The fifty count spanking showed him it was a poor idea. Now he just bites his lips so the whimpers don’t escape and claws his own hands.
At least, it’s what Carden does until he can’t stand it. After nearly two hours, Mike breaks. He starts crying, moans to just let him come falling like jewels out of his sweet lips. Tom lets loose his own moan and comes into his hand. There’s nowhere absorbent to wipe it off on in the bed of the truck, so one by one he sucks his fingers clean. It’s almost too much sensation, which proves his point. He could easily dom Carden with his mouth, if only he would submit.