Christmas!porn featuring Bob Bryar and Brian Schechter!
in which brian is snarky and bob thinks it's totally hot
nc17
bryarxschechter
an: for this prompt over at anon_lovefest
Getting drunk at Pete Wentz’s holiday party was not on Brian’s “list of things to do this Christmas season,” and yet here he sits, feeling comfortably light-headed and just a little dizzy, on Pete’s living room couch. Gerard, Ray, Mikey, Pete, Alicia, Ashlee, Joe, and Vicky T are playing a pretty intense game of strip Scrabble and Brian keeps nudging Gerard’s shoulder and whispering words to him because Gerard is down to just his holiday boxers and he’s looking kind of desperate.
“Quit helping Gerard cheat,” Bob says, flopping down on the couch next to Brian. Brian scoffs and reaches out to absently hit Bob in the shoulder with the back of his hand.
“I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating, Bryar,” he says, and is honestly kind of surprised when his words don’t meld together. Clearly this means he can have at least another two glasses of that deliciously Jack Daniels-flavored eggnog before he cuts himself off. Awesome.
Bob rolls his eyes. “I’m not insinuating anything, Schechter, I’ve been watching you help him for like, forty-five minutes now.” Brian glances over, because there’s something suspiciously chipper to Bob’s tone. Bob looks like he normally does, long, shaggy hair underneath a beanie, nondescript black hoodie, jeans, but there’s a definite quirk to his mouth that’s rarer than Brian would like it to be.
“Oh my God,” Brian whispers, “you’re smiling.” Bob’s cheeks flush just a little and the smile falls away, a determined scowl taking its place.
“No ‘m not,” Bob mumbles. Brian very valiantly doesn’t dramatically leap to his feet and point his finger at Bob, although he does lean over and jab Bob in the sternum.
“Oh my God,” he repeats, “you’re drunk!”
Bob opens his mouth to debate this but apparently thinks better of it and lets it snap shut once more. “You’re drunker than I am,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.
Brian smirks smugly to himself for approximately six seconds until Bob punches him in the side. Spluttering a cough, Brian glares at Bob and starts to reprimand him. Bob cuts him off, though, squishing his hand over Brian’s mouth and stating gruffly, “Go get me some eggnog, Schechter.”
And fine, if Bob is going to be like that, then maybe Brian will go get him some eggnog. Not that he’s trying to encourage this kind of behavior, because seriously, Bob needs to lighten up, but still. Brian doesn’t feel like dealing with grumpy drummers right now, it’s killing the rocking buzz he has going.
“Whatever,” he huffs, rising to his feet and striding purposefully toward the table where the snacks are set up. He maybe sways a little bit and falls into an armchair on the way, but if nobody calls him on it then Brian’s certainly not going to point it out himself.
He pours a glass of eggnog, and then reaches for another, filling it just barely over halfway and grinning. “Ha!” he mutters to himself. “Who’s laughing now, punk?” He glances off to his right at the questioning noise that floats through the air and stares blankly at a very confused looking kid in a paisley shirt. Brian’s pretty sure he’s from Panic at the Disco, but he’ll be damned if he can tell any of them apart.
Rather than try and explain himself, Brian just gives a little wave and then heads back to the couch, sitting down, careful not to spill his, before halfway-dropping the other unceremoniously into Bob’s lap. Bob glares at him, but Brian remains unaffected, taking a deep gulp of the totally awesome eggnog that Pete swears is his grandmother’s original recipe. Come to think of it, that kind of explains a lot, right there.
They sit there in an exasperated silence for a long few moments before Bob stands and sets his cup down on the corner of the Scrabble board, earning them a few indignant shouts from the people who still have most of their clothes on and a thankful sigh from Gerard.
“Come on,” Bob says, in a way that doesn’t leave much room for argument. Brian makes a big show of considering it, planning on snapping something about how he doesn’t want to be around Bob if he’s in one of his many moods, but Bob doesn’t let him. He grabs Brian by the collar of his shirt and yanks him to his feet so fast that Brian ends up with both his hands flat on Bob’s chest, their hips knocking together for a split second that makes Brian’s mouth go dry.
“Where are we going?” Brian asks feebly after he’s followed Bob into a mostly-dim hallway. Bob doesn’t answer, and Brian frowns at the silence, briefly considering fucking off and turning around to go back to the party. Bob ducks into a room at the end of the hall, though, and Brian sighs, frustrated, and follows before he can talk himself out of it. He’s still feels pleasantly like he’s floating but it’s starting to fade a little, and belatedly Brian realizes he probably should have brought his drink with him.
“What?” he snaps, shutting the door behind him. Bob stares him down for a long moment before pointing at the ceiling.
Brian looks up, scrunching his face to try and make out what the little blob of a shape is. It takes him a few minutes since Bob apparently doesn’t want the lights on, and when he finally starts to smile, Bob’s taking him gently by the upper arms and pinning him against the wall.
“You should know better than to be all pissed off in public, Schechter,” Bob growls, and Brian shivers at the sensation of Bob’s warm breath curling around his neck. He bites his lip to keep from moaning when Bob leans in and sinks his teeth gently into the dip where Brian’s neck becomes his shoulder, dragging further down to swirl his tongue over Brian’s collarbone.
“You’re an asshole,” Brian whimpers, reaching one of his hands up underneath Bob’s hoodie and his shirt, clutching at Bob’s back in the least wimpy way possible.
Bob’s smirk is positively feral in the dark, and he presses his mouth over Brian’s, running his tongue along Brian’s bottom lip and pushing Brian back up against the wall. Brian tightens one hand at Bob’s hip, groaning against Bob’s lips when Bob reaches between them to unbutton Brian’s pants. He starts tugging them down and Brian wiggles a little, doing his best to help even though he’s almost completely distracted by Bob’s tongue, which is clearly hell-bent on memorizing every detail of Brian’s mouth.
Once Brian is appropriately pants-less, Bob steps back and pulls his hoodie and shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing them to the side. He reaches up and throws his beanie over his shoulder before moving forward once more, running his hands up the outsides of Brian’s thighs, thumbs catching in the crevices of Brian’s hips for the briefest of seconds before his fingers are inching their way up the plane of Brian’s stomach. Bob pulls Brian’s shirt off over Brian’s head and drops it into the growing pile of clothes on the floor, sliding his arms around Brian and running his palms over Brian’s ass. Brian makes a keening noise in the back of his throat and stumbles forward, the friction of Bob’s jeans against the thin layer of boxer fabric covering his hard dick almost too much for him to bear. He would totally be more embarrassed about his neediness if the whole situation wasn’t looking so much like he was going to get laid for the first time in a month - fucking tour schedule.
“Seriously,” Brian moans breathlessly when Bob leans down to mouth at his nipple, thumb slipping teasingly beneath the hem of Brian’s boxers but no further. “You’re such a douche sometimes.”
Bob bites Brian’s nipple - not hard, but enough that Brian hisses a breath - and grins up at the other man.
“You love it,” he murmurs and finally closes his hand around Brian’s cock. Bob’s voice is about twice as deep as it usually is, all husky and making Brian fucking melt and before he can stop himself, Brian surges forward, his arms wrapped around Bob’s chest, one hand fisted in Bob’s hair. He kisses Bob, hard, and murmurs against his lips, “Yes, yes, I do, I fucking love it,” in various different combinations over and over again.
“Good,” Bob growls, and then he picks Brian up and if Brian hadn’t been totally gone for Robert Bryar since the very first day they met - way back when Bob was tech-ing for The Used - that right there would seal the deal. He drops Brian, albeit not unkindly, on a bed that Brian hadn’t even noticed before, crawling up so that he’s on his knees above Brian, leaning down when they kiss. Brian wraps his legs around Bob’s waist and is rewarded with a rumbling groan when he rolls his hips.
“Fuck,” Bob moans against Brian’s sternum and Brian is vaguely aware of himself saying, “That’s the plan,” because apparently his life actually is one big romantic comedy.
After that, what little grasp on coherency Brian still has sort of slips away, and it’s all a whirlwind of Bob’s lips and his tongue and his fingers and then the full sensation that makes Brian’s skin tingle. Bob pulls out and then snaps his hips forward and he hits that spot that makes stars explode in front of Brian’s eyes and before Brian’ knows it, they’re both laying there, tangled together, panting and totally sated.
“Wow,” Brian breathes, and Bob chuckles next to him.
“It’s what you get for being a prick,” he says, leaning over to capture Brian’s mouth in a lazy kiss. Brian grins into it and responds cheekily, “If that’s what I get for being mean then I can’t wait to see what I get for being nice.”
Bob actually laughs at that, and replies, “Yeah, no, that’ll never happen, so don’t even worry about it.”
“Fuck you,” Brian says, without any real venom in his voice. “I can totally be nice. Sweet, even. Darling.”
“You kind of just proved my point right there,” Bob states, waggling his eyebrows, and Brian’s not drunk anymore but he finds himself laughing hysterically anyway. They can worry about the rest of the party later, after Brian’s had his fill of private Bob time.
“Hey,” Brian asks absently, “why does Wentz have mistletoe hanging in a spare bedroom, anyway?”
Bob glances up at the ceiling and then says, “You know, I’m not really sure.”
Brian sighs and glances at where Bob has apparently decided that Brian’s chest makes a superior pillow. “So,” he asks, after a few minutes of running his hands through Bob’s hair, which Bob secretly loves but will never admit to, no matter how much Brian pesters him about it, “should we check for cameras?”
Bob huffs against Brian’s skin and responds, “Yeah, probably.” He pauses, adding, “Give me a minute though, I’m kind of enjoying this.”
Brian’s eyes widen and he glances down at Bob, the same sleepy, satisfied smile on Bob’s face playing around his own mouth. “You are such a sap,” he murmurs.
Bob flicks him in the arm and Brian cringes. “Shut up, I could still kick your ass from here to Sunday.”
And even though Brian is legitimately kind of an asshole, he wisely keeps his mouth shut, enjoying the afterglow and thinking that maybe getting drunk at Pete’s place wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
nc17
bryarxschechter
an: for this prompt over at anon_lovefest
Getting drunk at Pete Wentz’s holiday party was not on Brian’s “list of things to do this Christmas season,” and yet here he sits, feeling comfortably light-headed and just a little dizzy, on Pete’s living room couch. Gerard, Ray, Mikey, Pete, Alicia, Ashlee, Joe, and Vicky T are playing a pretty intense game of strip Scrabble and Brian keeps nudging Gerard’s shoulder and whispering words to him because Gerard is down to just his holiday boxers and he’s looking kind of desperate.
“Quit helping Gerard cheat,” Bob says, flopping down on the couch next to Brian. Brian scoffs and reaches out to absently hit Bob in the shoulder with the back of his hand.
“I’m not sure I like what you’re insinuating, Bryar,” he says, and is honestly kind of surprised when his words don’t meld together. Clearly this means he can have at least another two glasses of that deliciously Jack Daniels-flavored eggnog before he cuts himself off. Awesome.
Bob rolls his eyes. “I’m not insinuating anything, Schechter, I’ve been watching you help him for like, forty-five minutes now.” Brian glances over, because there’s something suspiciously chipper to Bob’s tone. Bob looks like he normally does, long, shaggy hair underneath a beanie, nondescript black hoodie, jeans, but there’s a definite quirk to his mouth that’s rarer than Brian would like it to be.
“Oh my God,” Brian whispers, “you’re smiling.” Bob’s cheeks flush just a little and the smile falls away, a determined scowl taking its place.
“No ‘m not,” Bob mumbles. Brian very valiantly doesn’t dramatically leap to his feet and point his finger at Bob, although he does lean over and jab Bob in the sternum.
“Oh my God,” he repeats, “you’re drunk!”
Bob opens his mouth to debate this but apparently thinks better of it and lets it snap shut once more. “You’re drunker than I am,” he mutters, crossing his arms over his chest.
Brian smirks smugly to himself for approximately six seconds until Bob punches him in the side. Spluttering a cough, Brian glares at Bob and starts to reprimand him. Bob cuts him off, though, squishing his hand over Brian’s mouth and stating gruffly, “Go get me some eggnog, Schechter.”
And fine, if Bob is going to be like that, then maybe Brian will go get him some eggnog. Not that he’s trying to encourage this kind of behavior, because seriously, Bob needs to lighten up, but still. Brian doesn’t feel like dealing with grumpy drummers right now, it’s killing the rocking buzz he has going.
“Whatever,” he huffs, rising to his feet and striding purposefully toward the table where the snacks are set up. He maybe sways a little bit and falls into an armchair on the way, but if nobody calls him on it then Brian’s certainly not going to point it out himself.
He pours a glass of eggnog, and then reaches for another, filling it just barely over halfway and grinning. “Ha!” he mutters to himself. “Who’s laughing now, punk?” He glances off to his right at the questioning noise that floats through the air and stares blankly at a very confused looking kid in a paisley shirt. Brian’s pretty sure he’s from Panic at the Disco, but he’ll be damned if he can tell any of them apart.
Rather than try and explain himself, Brian just gives a little wave and then heads back to the couch, sitting down, careful not to spill his, before halfway-dropping the other unceremoniously into Bob’s lap. Bob glares at him, but Brian remains unaffected, taking a deep gulp of the totally awesome eggnog that Pete swears is his grandmother’s original recipe. Come to think of it, that kind of explains a lot, right there.
They sit there in an exasperated silence for a long few moments before Bob stands and sets his cup down on the corner of the Scrabble board, earning them a few indignant shouts from the people who still have most of their clothes on and a thankful sigh from Gerard.
“Come on,” Bob says, in a way that doesn’t leave much room for argument. Brian makes a big show of considering it, planning on snapping something about how he doesn’t want to be around Bob if he’s in one of his many moods, but Bob doesn’t let him. He grabs Brian by the collar of his shirt and yanks him to his feet so fast that Brian ends up with both his hands flat on Bob’s chest, their hips knocking together for a split second that makes Brian’s mouth go dry.
“Where are we going?” Brian asks feebly after he’s followed Bob into a mostly-dim hallway. Bob doesn’t answer, and Brian frowns at the silence, briefly considering fucking off and turning around to go back to the party. Bob ducks into a room at the end of the hall, though, and Brian sighs, frustrated, and follows before he can talk himself out of it. He’s still feels pleasantly like he’s floating but it’s starting to fade a little, and belatedly Brian realizes he probably should have brought his drink with him.
“What?” he snaps, shutting the door behind him. Bob stares him down for a long moment before pointing at the ceiling.
Brian looks up, scrunching his face to try and make out what the little blob of a shape is. It takes him a few minutes since Bob apparently doesn’t want the lights on, and when he finally starts to smile, Bob’s taking him gently by the upper arms and pinning him against the wall.
“You should know better than to be all pissed off in public, Schechter,” Bob growls, and Brian shivers at the sensation of Bob’s warm breath curling around his neck. He bites his lip to keep from moaning when Bob leans in and sinks his teeth gently into the dip where Brian’s neck becomes his shoulder, dragging further down to swirl his tongue over Brian’s collarbone.
“You’re an asshole,” Brian whimpers, reaching one of his hands up underneath Bob’s hoodie and his shirt, clutching at Bob’s back in the least wimpy way possible.
Bob’s smirk is positively feral in the dark, and he presses his mouth over Brian’s, running his tongue along Brian’s bottom lip and pushing Brian back up against the wall. Brian tightens one hand at Bob’s hip, groaning against Bob’s lips when Bob reaches between them to unbutton Brian’s pants. He starts tugging them down and Brian wiggles a little, doing his best to help even though he’s almost completely distracted by Bob’s tongue, which is clearly hell-bent on memorizing every detail of Brian’s mouth.
Once Brian is appropriately pants-less, Bob steps back and pulls his hoodie and shirt off in one smooth motion, tossing them to the side. He reaches up and throws his beanie over his shoulder before moving forward once more, running his hands up the outsides of Brian’s thighs, thumbs catching in the crevices of Brian’s hips for the briefest of seconds before his fingers are inching their way up the plane of Brian’s stomach. Bob pulls Brian’s shirt off over Brian’s head and drops it into the growing pile of clothes on the floor, sliding his arms around Brian and running his palms over Brian’s ass. Brian makes a keening noise in the back of his throat and stumbles forward, the friction of Bob’s jeans against the thin layer of boxer fabric covering his hard dick almost too much for him to bear. He would totally be more embarrassed about his neediness if the whole situation wasn’t looking so much like he was going to get laid for the first time in a month - fucking tour schedule.
“Seriously,” Brian moans breathlessly when Bob leans down to mouth at his nipple, thumb slipping teasingly beneath the hem of Brian’s boxers but no further. “You’re such a douche sometimes.”
Bob bites Brian’s nipple - not hard, but enough that Brian hisses a breath - and grins up at the other man.
“You love it,” he murmurs and finally closes his hand around Brian’s cock. Bob’s voice is about twice as deep as it usually is, all husky and making Brian fucking melt and before he can stop himself, Brian surges forward, his arms wrapped around Bob’s chest, one hand fisted in Bob’s hair. He kisses Bob, hard, and murmurs against his lips, “Yes, yes, I do, I fucking love it,” in various different combinations over and over again.
“Good,” Bob growls, and then he picks Brian up and if Brian hadn’t been totally gone for Robert Bryar since the very first day they met - way back when Bob was tech-ing for The Used - that right there would seal the deal. He drops Brian, albeit not unkindly, on a bed that Brian hadn’t even noticed before, crawling up so that he’s on his knees above Brian, leaning down when they kiss. Brian wraps his legs around Bob’s waist and is rewarded with a rumbling groan when he rolls his hips.
“Fuck,” Bob moans against Brian’s sternum and Brian is vaguely aware of himself saying, “That’s the plan,” because apparently his life actually is one big romantic comedy.
After that, what little grasp on coherency Brian still has sort of slips away, and it’s all a whirlwind of Bob’s lips and his tongue and his fingers and then the full sensation that makes Brian’s skin tingle. Bob pulls out and then snaps his hips forward and he hits that spot that makes stars explode in front of Brian’s eyes and before Brian’ knows it, they’re both laying there, tangled together, panting and totally sated.
“Wow,” Brian breathes, and Bob chuckles next to him.
“It’s what you get for being a prick,” he says, leaning over to capture Brian’s mouth in a lazy kiss. Brian grins into it and responds cheekily, “If that’s what I get for being mean then I can’t wait to see what I get for being nice.”
Bob actually laughs at that, and replies, “Yeah, no, that’ll never happen, so don’t even worry about it.”
“Fuck you,” Brian says, without any real venom in his voice. “I can totally be nice. Sweet, even. Darling.”
“You kind of just proved my point right there,” Bob states, waggling his eyebrows, and Brian’s not drunk anymore but he finds himself laughing hysterically anyway. They can worry about the rest of the party later, after Brian’s had his fill of private Bob time.
“Hey,” Brian asks absently, “why does Wentz have mistletoe hanging in a spare bedroom, anyway?”
Bob glances up at the ceiling and then says, “You know, I’m not really sure.”
Brian sighs and glances at where Bob has apparently decided that Brian’s chest makes a superior pillow. “So,” he asks, after a few minutes of running his hands through Bob’s hair, which Bob secretly loves but will never admit to, no matter how much Brian pesters him about it, “should we check for cameras?”
Bob huffs against Brian’s skin and responds, “Yeah, probably.” He pauses, adding, “Give me a minute though, I’m kind of enjoying this.”
Brian’s eyes widen and he glances down at Bob, the same sleepy, satisfied smile on Bob’s face playing around his own mouth. “You are such a sap,” he murmurs.
Bob flicks him in the arm and Brian cringes. “Shut up, I could still kick your ass from here to Sunday.”
And even though Brian is legitimately kind of an asshole, he wisely keeps his mouth shut, enjoying the afterglow and thinking that maybe getting drunk at Pete’s place wasn’t such a bad idea after all.