Boredom makes me porn.
I was so bored during the last fifteen minutes that the Depot was open that I just started typing out *waves hand* whatever this is. I'm blaming all the really awesome Bob/Brian BigBangs. I sort of have these boys on the brain.
So, I have this image of Bob pressing Brian against a wall with his hips, his hands pinning Brian's wrists against cinder block. Brian is panting like he's run a thousand miles and he's already straining up against Bob, rock hard and pupils blown, and Bob's only had him there for about a minute.
(Sometimes, Bob is really impressed with himself.)
Bob bites down on the taunt line of Brian's neck, just to hear him gasp out a weedy moan, to feel Brian's hands clench into useless fists underneath his own. Bob knows if he keeps going, just gnaws on Brian's neck, it'll only take another minute before Brian comes hard and loud, keening out a wordless sound that'll echo down the venue hallway.
And as tempting as the thought of leaving Brian shaking in his no longer clean last pair of clean jeans, especially after the last few days, Bob wants more than that. He wants to push Brian to his knees and fuck his mouth. He wants to spin Brian around and fuck him into next week. He wants to make out against this wall like fucking teenagers until Frank or Mikey or Ray come stumbling out of the dressing room looking for them. He wants... He wants.
He wants.
Bob pulls away from Brian's neck with a slick pop and straightens up to press Brian more firmly against the wall, settling all his weight against Brian and devours the resulting whimper in a biting kiss.
Brian's making constant sound now, all whimpers, moans and groans that he isn't even trying to stifle and Bob doesn't even care who hears or sees this. Fuck the crew, fuck the label, fuck the rest of the band, Bob doesn't care anymore. They can take their hypocritical bullshit and shove it, because Bob has what he wants right here between him and the cinder blocks, gasping and straining and coming with a broken sound that drives Bob right to the edge.
Bob breaks the kiss to lean his forehead against Brian's. Brian's eyes are closed as he melts against Bob and tries to catch his breath. Bob just stares at Brian's closed eyelids, forcing himself to stay still against Brian until Brian opens his eyes and stares back, pupils still blown and just this side of the panic that has to be settling in now that the orgasm haze is fading.
But Brian doesn't try to push Bob off of him or start damage control or anything that Bob is half expecting. Instead he drives his hips up against Bob's and tilts his head to the side to rub their cheeks together, their stubble catching and dragging in a sensation that sends a shiver down Bob's spine, until Brian's lips are right at Bob's ear.
Brian nips at Bob's earlobe and growls, his voice low and fucked, "Come on, Bob. Wanna feel it, wanna feel you come, feel you fucking using me." His voice catches as Bob's hips slam against his, rutting against him hard enough that he'll be feeling it for hours, still be feeling it when Bob finally gets to fucking him in the hotel room later, be bruised and sore and aching for hours. "Fuck, yes. Come on, Bob. Fuck."
Bob drops his head and bites the junction of Brian's neck and shoulder as his hips slam once, twice, three times and he's coming, driving Brian against the wall.
When Bob comes back to himself the only thing he can hear over the rushing in his own head is Brian's heavy breathing in his ear. He lazily kisses the mark he left before he raises his head to look at Brian. Brian is smiling his smile that's halfway between a grin and a smirk (the one that means he's pretty fucking satisfied with the way shit is going down at that particular moment) and his hands twitch under Bob's, but not enough to give the impression that he wants free. More like he's reminding Bob that he's pretty good with where he is.
Bob's hands loosen on Brian's wrists just enough to allow circulation again. Bob smiles back at Brian and he doesn't make a move to shift away, even though he can hear someone coming and the mess in his pants isn't all that comfortable.
And, that's about where my brain stops working. *hands*
So, I have this image of Bob pressing Brian against a wall with his hips, his hands pinning Brian's wrists against cinder block. Brian is panting like he's run a thousand miles and he's already straining up against Bob, rock hard and pupils blown, and Bob's only had him there for about a minute.
(Sometimes, Bob is really impressed with himself.)
Bob bites down on the taunt line of Brian's neck, just to hear him gasp out a weedy moan, to feel Brian's hands clench into useless fists underneath his own. Bob knows if he keeps going, just gnaws on Brian's neck, it'll only take another minute before Brian comes hard and loud, keening out a wordless sound that'll echo down the venue hallway.
And as tempting as the thought of leaving Brian shaking in his no longer clean last pair of clean jeans, especially after the last few days, Bob wants more than that. He wants to push Brian to his knees and fuck his mouth. He wants to spin Brian around and fuck him into next week. He wants to make out against this wall like fucking teenagers until Frank or Mikey or Ray come stumbling out of the dressing room looking for them. He wants... He wants.
He wants.
Bob pulls away from Brian's neck with a slick pop and straightens up to press Brian more firmly against the wall, settling all his weight against Brian and devours the resulting whimper in a biting kiss.
Brian's making constant sound now, all whimpers, moans and groans that he isn't even trying to stifle and Bob doesn't even care who hears or sees this. Fuck the crew, fuck the label, fuck the rest of the band, Bob doesn't care anymore. They can take their hypocritical bullshit and shove it, because Bob has what he wants right here between him and the cinder blocks, gasping and straining and coming with a broken sound that drives Bob right to the edge.
Bob breaks the kiss to lean his forehead against Brian's. Brian's eyes are closed as he melts against Bob and tries to catch his breath. Bob just stares at Brian's closed eyelids, forcing himself to stay still against Brian until Brian opens his eyes and stares back, pupils still blown and just this side of the panic that has to be settling in now that the orgasm haze is fading.
But Brian doesn't try to push Bob off of him or start damage control or anything that Bob is half expecting. Instead he drives his hips up against Bob's and tilts his head to the side to rub their cheeks together, their stubble catching and dragging in a sensation that sends a shiver down Bob's spine, until Brian's lips are right at Bob's ear.
Brian nips at Bob's earlobe and growls, his voice low and fucked, "Come on, Bob. Wanna feel it, wanna feel you come, feel you fucking using me." His voice catches as Bob's hips slam against his, rutting against him hard enough that he'll be feeling it for hours, still be feeling it when Bob finally gets to fucking him in the hotel room later, be bruised and sore and aching for hours. "Fuck, yes. Come on, Bob. Fuck."
Bob drops his head and bites the junction of Brian's neck and shoulder as his hips slam once, twice, three times and he's coming, driving Brian against the wall.
When Bob comes back to himself the only thing he can hear over the rushing in his own head is Brian's heavy breathing in his ear. He lazily kisses the mark he left before he raises his head to look at Brian. Brian is smiling his smile that's halfway between a grin and a smirk (the one that means he's pretty fucking satisfied with the way shit is going down at that particular moment) and his hands twitch under Bob's, but not enough to give the impression that he wants free. More like he's reminding Bob that he's pretty good with where he is.
Bob's hands loosen on Brian's wrists just enough to allow circulation again. Bob smiles back at Brian and he doesn't make a move to shift away, even though he can hear someone coming and the mess in his pants isn't all that comfortable.
And, that's about where my brain stops working. *hands*