mercyrobot: (roadtrip kiss)
[personal profile] mercyrobot
Title: You'd Save Me From the Aliens
Pairing: Dan/Jones
Rating: just shy of NC-17
Words: ~900
Summary: Just a hotel with no heat and some almost-porny ridiculousness.
Notes: Bon voyage, [livejournal.com profile] eggnogged! Who I hope gets to see this one way or the other before she goes, as I'm very eleventh-hour and full of fail. Unfortunately not terribly occasion-appropriate except that it's cold. This is set in early 1999 and takes place in Rennes, France, which you'd really only know if you've ever been there and had a galette saucisse, also known as The Best Thing You'll Ever Eat With a Hangover.
The masterlist to this universe is here.



Jones comes through the door with, thank fuck, what appears to be an electric heater. "'S the whole building," he says. "Best I can work out, something's gone wrong with the boiler and they can't sort it out till the morning. My crap French don't extend to technical furnace words. Neither'd reception girl's English. Gave me this, though, so we should be alright." Jones plugs the heater in and slides it up near the bed. He's already shivering again as he strips off his clothes. "Bloke ahead of me didn't get one, guess 'cause he went all red and kept calling this place a whorehouse."

"Bordel?" Dan says. "It's just a general expletive."

"Never heard Sandrine use it."

"She seems to favour putain." It's every third word out of her mouth. Dan likes Sandrine. She looks like she should be baking crumbles and knitting things for her children at university, not running a club. 

"I like the idea of people going round all 'oh, whorehouse, I've burnt the toast!'" Jones pulls his pants off and is under the covers too quickly for Dan to be able to admire the view. Then there are cold feet on his calves and cold hands on his stomach, cold lips and nose against his neck. "Mm, you're nice'n warm."

"I was." Even Jones's hair is cold, more so than Dan's probably is, as it's still damp with sweat from his gig. Dan feels a bit guilty for making Jones be the one to get up and go down to complain about the heating. Dan's French is better, but Reception Girl, despite seeing them stumble in two nights in a row falling all over each other, has been practically writing love letters to Jones. Who has decided that Dan's cock is a better place to warm his hands. "If I'd wanted a handjob from Frosty the Snowman--"

"That'd be well twisted, snowman bumming." He licks Dan's neck. At least his tongue is warm. "They'll heat up. Heat transfer, friction. Basic physics. I wonder what the specific heat of cock is."

"Not much." Dan spreads his legs and pulls Jones's head up to kiss him. Jones isn't really doing anything, just idly fondling Dan's balls and half-erect cock. Dan doubts he'll be able to get properly hard again for a while yet given how much he's had to drink and the hour Jones spent teasing him at the edge of climax until he finally came so hard he thought he might break. It was only then they'd noticed it was still freezing. It still feels good, though, the dull sweet ache of Jones's hands on him and the lazy aimless kissing that might be what he misses the most when they're in London and don't always have the time for this, let alone opportunity. Work and other people, people Dan has to see every day and doesn't know how to explain this to, always seem to get in the way. Jones's grandmother misunderstood them entirely, and Jones let her. It was easier. Almost too easy, a nice chat and tea and family and having his hand held and Violetta's quiet approval. It's easy to want when it's already assumed, and safe.

"I reckon if we weren't fucking before, we would be after this," Jones says with a smile against Dan's lips.

"What do you mean?"

"Classic, innit? Freezing to death in some cave, have to huddle together to share body heat."

"We're not in a cave, we're in a whorehouse."

"Imagination, Ashcroft." Jones's eyes and teeth sparkle like fairy lights in the dim. "Everyone knows you gotta get naked, more skin to warm up that way."

"Have you been reading that Star Trek shit again?"

Jones laughs. "That was a fucking accident and you know it! I'll never be able to look at Spock the same way again. But yeah, you'd be all delirious and dying of alien bites and shit, talkin' nonsense and having sexy fever dreams and trying to fuck my leg."

"Why do I have to be the one dying? You could be dying."

"You wouldn't take advantage of me."

"And you would?"

"Fuck, yes." Jones slides a hand back and brushes his fingers over Dan's arsehole, still slick and sore. "I'd be proper sorry in the morning, though, all 'woe!' and guilty. But then you'd--" He stops talking and lets out a low moan at Dan wrapping a hand around his cock, which is properly hard, hotter than the heater probably is, and wet at the tip.

"Then I'd what?" It's not often that Dan's the one doing the teasing because Jones is so inclined to it, and so good at it, but Dan's enjoying it right now.

"Mmm. Blow me in a fucking arctic hotel room and take me to the market in the morning for one of those sausage galette things Sandrine was on about?"

"I should make a crude joke about sausage here."

"We'll pretend you did," Jones says hoarsely, bucking into Dan's hand. "C'mon, my dick might freeze off if you don't."

"You could go back downstairs and complain. I'm sure Reception Girl would--"

"Fuck off, I want you." That's enough to get Dan under the blankets and taking Jones's cock into his mouth, and when Jones claws at his scalp and pulls his hair and says, "Aw, fuck, I love your tongue," Dan forgets to panic about the choice of words because he finally feels warm.
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