[pornmas] day 19.
Summary: Tom draws all over Alex, then they have sex. I'm getting lazy here, guys.
Fandom/Pairings: Youtube Slash; Hexamon.
Rating: R.
Pre-Notes: . . . You mean there are kinks besides writing on the body? What madness is this?? Reili: she who cannot write anything but porn. Also she of the mermaid au that Tom Milsom apparently liked. (Which was not porn, so the only solution: write porn and try to forget that tweet exists.) Also she who is running out of clever titles for writing on the body fic. Also she who has retracted her earlier scientific discoveries for the purposes of this fic because Tom drawing on people is unf. HI D/S UNDERTONES, HOW ARE YOU TODAY?
Disclaimer: I have come to the conclusion that you can read this. I am cool with you reading this, so long as you don't tweet about it and I never find out you read it. Also this never happened, but you knew that.
----
symphonies on your skin
Tom is an artist. Like paints and oils and canvas and that kind of artist. Sometimes Alex forgets that he's that kind of artist, because he looks at Tom and thinks music, thinks his, thinks beautiful. He forgets that Tom has interests and hobbies outside of that, so when Tom uncaps the Sharpie and takes Alex's wrist into his hand while they're sitting on the couch? It takes Alex by surprise. He watches as Tom runs the Sharpie along the skin of his wrist, drawing music notes between other designs that cover Alex with no real rhyme or reason. It tickles, and Alex jerks in Tom's grip.
"Don't move," Tom says quietly, "you'll ruin it."
Alex stills, and the designs start spiraling up his arm. Tom hums while he does it, and Alex can't breathe while he watches, can't breathe as the marker drags across his skin. It seems to take hours, years, before Tom pulls away and caps the marker. Alex marvels at the design creeping up his arm. He lifts his other arm to touch it and Tom grabs his wrist.
"It'll smear," Tom says, "don't touch it."
They're like that, frozen in time, for a long moment. Then Tom shifts to straddle Alex, and Alex watches, unsure. Tom leans down, and crushes their lips together. Alex arches up, and Tom wraps his hand around the back of Alex's neck, pressing them closer. Alex can feel Tom's other hand slipping under his shirt and tracing the chords to "Indigo." At least Alex thinks it's "Indigo." He could be wrong, it's a little hard to identify chords when Tom's kissing him senseless. Tom pulls away, and Alex makes a soft noise of protest, but Tom quiets him.
"Take off your shirt. I'll be right back."
There's a quick press of Tom's lips to his, and then Alex is alone in the living room. He sheds his shirt quickly and waits, perfectly still, until Tom come back into the room with another handful of Sharpies. Alex blinks at him, half wanting to ask what Tom's going to do and half waiting for permission to ask.
"Lie down," Tom says, motioning with the Sharpies, "on the floor."
Alex tilts his head slightly, but slides off the couch and lies down on the carpet. He hears Tom walk over before Tom is straddling him. There is the sound of a marker being uncapped and then the coolwet drag of the marker across his skin. Alex sighs, a soft exhale, because the drag of it feels . . . Calming? Good? Indescribably hot? He's not sure of anything-not sure what Tom is drawing, not sure how he feels about any of it, not sure how long he's been lying on the floor, not sure how long this is going to take-but he can just barely hear Tom humming, and he thinks it's "Mixtape" but he's not quite sure. There are still markers dragging over the expanse of his back, and if Alex listens? If he really really listens, he can hear Tom's breathing, slightly ragged, over the hum of the fridge. Tom shifts above him, and Alex tries to match his breathing.
"Almost done," Tom whispers, "almost done."
Tom leans down, over Alex, and presses a kiss to the nape of Alex's neck. Alex shivers, and Tom laughs, mouth still against Alex's skin so he can feel Tom's laughter echoing through him. Like this, Alex can tell Tom is hard, wanting, and so he dares a comment.
"May I . . . I want to ride you," Alex says, the words tumbling over themselves a little, "please."
"Yes," Tom hisses, heavy with want and need and lust.
There's a awkwardness to the movements, trying to find the ways in which they fit together and trying to shed clothes without poking each other's eyes out, but eventually they manage. Eventually Alex is straddling Tom and they're pressed skin to skin and Tom is working a finger, two fingers into Alex, who rests his head against Tom's shoulder and just tries to breath.
There's a rip of foil and the condom being rolled down and Tom lining up and then yes yes yes sinking down down down until Alex can still for a moment and just kiss Tom until he can't breathe any more, until he has to move or he'll explode from being so so full, and they move together like that. They move together in harmony, and Tom clutches at Alex's back, runs his hands across it and from where the arm Tom had started on is hitting Tom's arm, rubbing against it, Alex can tell that yes, yes the ink is smearing into mess and transferring onto Tom until they're both covered in whatever symphonies Tom penned onto Alex.
It's a mash-up of Alex and Tom and AlexandTom and air and ink and color and grime and everything anything nothing at all at once at the point that Tom manages a hand around Alex and Alex cries out and Tom does too and then they're both stickydirtymessy on the carpet. Just like that, breathing. Being.
Alex touches his forehead to Tom's and breathes, just breathes, until it feels like he could maybe form words without having to stop in the middle for air. Then he kisses Tom until all that breath is gone and Tom presses him closer with the hand on his back and everything is smeared and perfect and them.
----
Postit-Notes: There are probably many things I could attempt to say about this, but I don't actually want to say any of them. Instead I'll say this: I now have a voice that sounds suspiciously like Tom Milsom in my head that cracks up whenever I try to write #y_slash. Yeah.
(ps: if you're late to the party/just want more porn, go check out the pornmas advent calendar/masterlist.)
This entry originally posted here. Original entry currently has
comments. :D
Fandom/Pairings: Youtube Slash; Hexamon.
Rating: R.
Pre-Notes: . . . You mean there are kinks besides writing on the body? What madness is this?? Reili: she who cannot write anything but porn. Also she of the mermaid au that Tom Milsom apparently liked. (Which was not porn, so the only solution: write porn and try to forget that tweet exists.) Also she who is running out of clever titles for writing on the body fic. Also she who has retracted her earlier scientific discoveries for the purposes of this fic because Tom drawing on people is unf. HI D/S UNDERTONES, HOW ARE YOU TODAY?
Disclaimer: I have come to the conclusion that you can read this. I am cool with you reading this, so long as you don't tweet about it and I never find out you read it. Also this never happened, but you knew that.
----
symphonies on your skin
Tom is an artist. Like paints and oils and canvas and that kind of artist. Sometimes Alex forgets that he's that kind of artist, because he looks at Tom and thinks music, thinks his, thinks beautiful. He forgets that Tom has interests and hobbies outside of that, so when Tom uncaps the Sharpie and takes Alex's wrist into his hand while they're sitting on the couch? It takes Alex by surprise. He watches as Tom runs the Sharpie along the skin of his wrist, drawing music notes between other designs that cover Alex with no real rhyme or reason. It tickles, and Alex jerks in Tom's grip.
"Don't move," Tom says quietly, "you'll ruin it."
Alex stills, and the designs start spiraling up his arm. Tom hums while he does it, and Alex can't breathe while he watches, can't breathe as the marker drags across his skin. It seems to take hours, years, before Tom pulls away and caps the marker. Alex marvels at the design creeping up his arm. He lifts his other arm to touch it and Tom grabs his wrist.
"It'll smear," Tom says, "don't touch it."
They're like that, frozen in time, for a long moment. Then Tom shifts to straddle Alex, and Alex watches, unsure. Tom leans down, and crushes their lips together. Alex arches up, and Tom wraps his hand around the back of Alex's neck, pressing them closer. Alex can feel Tom's other hand slipping under his shirt and tracing the chords to "Indigo." At least Alex thinks it's "Indigo." He could be wrong, it's a little hard to identify chords when Tom's kissing him senseless. Tom pulls away, and Alex makes a soft noise of protest, but Tom quiets him.
"Take off your shirt. I'll be right back."
There's a quick press of Tom's lips to his, and then Alex is alone in the living room. He sheds his shirt quickly and waits, perfectly still, until Tom come back into the room with another handful of Sharpies. Alex blinks at him, half wanting to ask what Tom's going to do and half waiting for permission to ask.
"Lie down," Tom says, motioning with the Sharpies, "on the floor."
Alex tilts his head slightly, but slides off the couch and lies down on the carpet. He hears Tom walk over before Tom is straddling him. There is the sound of a marker being uncapped and then the coolwet drag of the marker across his skin. Alex sighs, a soft exhale, because the drag of it feels . . . Calming? Good? Indescribably hot? He's not sure of anything-not sure what Tom is drawing, not sure how he feels about any of it, not sure how long he's been lying on the floor, not sure how long this is going to take-but he can just barely hear Tom humming, and he thinks it's "Mixtape" but he's not quite sure. There are still markers dragging over the expanse of his back, and if Alex listens? If he really really listens, he can hear Tom's breathing, slightly ragged, over the hum of the fridge. Tom shifts above him, and Alex tries to match his breathing.
"Almost done," Tom whispers, "almost done."
Tom leans down, over Alex, and presses a kiss to the nape of Alex's neck. Alex shivers, and Tom laughs, mouth still against Alex's skin so he can feel Tom's laughter echoing through him. Like this, Alex can tell Tom is hard, wanting, and so he dares a comment.
"May I . . . I want to ride you," Alex says, the words tumbling over themselves a little, "please."
"Yes," Tom hisses, heavy with want and need and lust.
There's a awkwardness to the movements, trying to find the ways in which they fit together and trying to shed clothes without poking each other's eyes out, but eventually they manage. Eventually Alex is straddling Tom and they're pressed skin to skin and Tom is working a finger, two fingers into Alex, who rests his head against Tom's shoulder and just tries to breath.
There's a rip of foil and the condom being rolled down and Tom lining up and then yes yes yes sinking down down down until Alex can still for a moment and just kiss Tom until he can't breathe any more, until he has to move or he'll explode from being so so full, and they move together like that. They move together in harmony, and Tom clutches at Alex's back, runs his hands across it and from where the arm Tom had started on is hitting Tom's arm, rubbing against it, Alex can tell that yes, yes the ink is smearing into mess and transferring onto Tom until they're both covered in whatever symphonies Tom penned onto Alex.
It's a mash-up of Alex and Tom and AlexandTom and air and ink and color and grime and everything anything nothing at all at once at the point that Tom manages a hand around Alex and Alex cries out and Tom does too and then they're both stickydirtymessy on the carpet. Just like that, breathing. Being.
Alex touches his forehead to Tom's and breathes, just breathes, until it feels like he could maybe form words without having to stop in the middle for air. Then he kisses Tom until all that breath is gone and Tom presses him closer with the hand on his back and everything is smeared and perfect and them.
----
Postit-Notes: There are probably many things I could attempt to say about this, but I don't actually want to say any of them. Instead I'll say this: I now have a voice that sounds suspiciously like Tom Milsom in my head that cracks up whenever I try to write #y_slash. Yeah.
(ps: if you're late to the party/just want more porn, go check out the pornmas advent calendar/masterlist.)
This entry originally posted here. Original entry currently has
comments. :D