[bandom] FIC: "Play it Dirty, Make a Mess," Brendon/Jon, NC17
Busy couple of days around here, let me tell you. *g*
Title: Play it Dirty, Make a Mess; or Reasons Brendon Urie Will Never Beat Jon Walker at Halo 2, #146
Authors: lyo and stephanometra
Pairing: Brendon/Jon
Rating: NC17
Summary: If they're playing dirty, then dirty's what Brendon's going to play.
Warnings: Porn. Lots of porn.
Notes: So once upon a time, lyo was all like, "I HAVE THIS BRENDON/JON FIC THAT WILL NEVER BE FINISHED, WOE." I demanded to see this fic (as you do) and then demanded that she either finish it, or let me finish it. As you can see, we compromised. :) Thanks to t_usual_suspect, burgaw, and hegemony for cheerleading at various points along the way. 4800 words.
***
The day's straddling that line between early and late. He wants to say that it's early, because part of his brain always seems to think that after five AM it's completely all right to be awake and alert, ready to greet the day, even though the rest of him grumpily informs his brain that no, actually, it's just five AM and he hasn't slept yet. He doesn't have school or church or a morning shift to work; his mom and dad and brothers are not crowded around the kitchen table talking in low voices over coffee. Not that there isn't coffee on the bus―the real stuff, even, not decaf―it's just that. Well. Right now, this morning, it's time to stop leaning on Jon, maybe kiss him good-morning-and-goodnight, and then try to get some sleep.
Except that right now, this morning, he and Jon are in the middle of trying to slaughter each other at Halo, which tends to trump all other concerns.
They're sprawled together on the couch, and Brendon's legs are under Jon's, one bare foot tucked up high on Jon's thigh. He moves it higher every time he gets a really good shot in, and Jon sort of rolls over a little more onto him, mouth close to Brendon's throat.
"Fucker," Brendon says, because he knows what Jon is trying to do, and it's not going to fucking work. He's almost got Jon cornered. It's like an epic sort of achievement, because Jon can school all of them at Halo (though sometimes Ross gets his rage on, and then it's just a battle royale between him and Jon, Brendon and Spencer reduced to little pixellated corpses) and doesn't pull punches. Doesn't mind playing dirty, either―he leans down a little more, his beard scratching Brendon's skin. He knows how ticklish Brendon is. Fucker.
So maybe Brendon gets back at him by dragging his foot up a little higher. He's bendy, almost astonishingly so, courtesy of the tumbling classes his parents hoped would take the edge off of his boundless energy as a kid; he's twisted around a little, folded almost in half under Jon's weight, but he's still got enough leverage to press his foot all the way up, holds it a little too tight against Jon's crotch. He smirks when he feels that Jon's half-hard under his foot, maybe applies a little more pressure: if they're playing dirty, then dirty's what Brendon's going to play.
Jon twitches and whimpers against Brendon's neck, but Brendon doesn't move his foot. "Don't even think about biting me," he says, voice low. It's a little hard to breathe with Jon on top of him. Jon's not big, exactly, except in that way that everyone is big compared to Brendon. Jon is just normal-shaped, with a broad chest and shoulders, attributes that Brendon is determinedly not thinking about while his guy on screen stalks around with grenade launcher in hand, poised to destroy. Oh yes, Jon Walker is going down.
He jumps a little when Jon licks his neck, beard rasping over his skin again, but he doesn't look away from the television, because he's going to be able to beat Jon, even if everyone else passed out and no one's going to be able to witness his totally awesome victory.
Brendon's man rounds a corner, and he does get Jon penned in this time, no way out and no options. "I'm going to make you cry like a preteen girl," he informs Jon, lining up the shot perfectly, savoring his inevitable triumph as his character rushes forward, trusting his body armor to deflect Jon's fire. He grins as his finger hovers over the trigger button.
Jon chuckles darkly, lips and tongue making lazy patterns on Brendon's skin, before he leans up and whispers, "I think there's lube under the couch," conversationally into Brendon's ear.
And then Jon's guy manages to blow Brendon's guy up.
Brendon frowns in disappointment, glaring sideways, but then Jon rolls his hips hopefully, rocking up against Brendon's foot, and really, it's not like Brendon actually expected to win. He turns, one hand sliding into Jon's hair so their mouths meet, fingers holding tight as he tries to sit up. It's a struggle, because Jon's still using his weight to push Brendon back into the couch, still playing dirty, trying to cement his victory.
He pulls back from Jon's mouth and stares at it, at the shine of Jon's spit-slicked lips under the muted fluorescent lights and the faintest glow of morning just starting to spill through cracked windows. He's breathless from the kissing and from Jon's weight pressing him into the couch; he tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs won't cooperate, not with Jon in the way. "Move back," he murmurs, bumping his nose against Jon's.
Jon tries to kiss Brendon again instead, twisting so Brendon's foot has to slide away. He gets a brush of lips, chaste and soft, and Brendon would like nothing better than to make out with Jon to both their hearts' content, but seriously, he can't breathe.
"Get off, Jon, I mean it." Squirming a little, he fists his hand in Jon's hair and pulls, just to get the point across.
Jon's neck snaps back, exposing the line of his throat, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows down a groan or maybe a gasp, but he listens, pulling back a little.
Brendon doesn't ease his grip at first, distracted by the rapid flutter of Jon's breathing, by the tension in the line of his throat, but then he shrugs inwardly and leans forward to run his tongue across Jon's bottom lip. "Better," he says, smiling happily against Jon's mouth when Jon relaxes against him, and then they're kissing again, Brendon moving his hand to cup the back of Jon's neck.
"Yeah, well," Jon whispers when they break. His legs are folded under him in a way that is probably uncomfortable, and Brendon splays a hand on his chest, gently pressing, just to see if he can make Jon go lower. It's all still new enough that he doesn't know how far he can push, how much Jon will let him have.
Jon goes easily enough, shifting his legs out from under him, letting Brendon push him down until his back is flat on the couch. He tilts his head to the side a little, acquiescent, and Brendon makes a pleased sound and leans in to nip at Jon's throat as he pushes down Jon's pajama pants. Jon moves his legs enough to make it easier to tug them off and let them slide to the floor. The door to the back lounge is cracked open, just a little bit, and Brendon smirks as he leans down, his hold on Jon's hips just to this side of too-tight, and licks a line from Jon's navel to his cock.
He slides his gaze upwards, meeting Jon's eyes as he flicks his tongue against the underside. "Hi," he says, grinning when Jon bites his lip and involuntarily flexes something, his dick bumping Brendon's chin.
"Hi," Jon replies. "Are you, uh." His hands twitch at his sides, but he doesn't move, doesn't make any inelegant illustrative gestures or grab for Brendon's head or anything, seemingly content to let Brendon take his time.
"Thinking about it," Brendon says, giving the head of Jon's cock another kittenish lick, enjoying the texture of the skin under his tongue. "That's okay, right?"
Jon makes a breathy noise. "Yeah, yeah, that's―" He trails off into a choked-off moan when Brendon slides his mouth down, letting Jon ride slickly against the roof of his mouth. Brendon gentles his grip on Jon's hips as he strokes up and down, working his tongue thick and hot over the crown, moaning a little when he tastes the salt-sweet of Jon getting wet, when he feels Jon's thighs trembling as he fights to stay still.
He pulls off with a wet, lingering kiss to the head and slides a hand up Jon's thigh to cup his balls, thumb gently stroking behind them, fingers fanned in the crease of his thigh. "You're such a gentleman, Jon Walker," he says, smiling.
Jon tries to laugh, but it cuts off into a groan when Brendon moves his hand, changing the pressure on his balls just a bit. "Trying," he forces out, panting a little. His left hand scrabbles for purchase on the shiny, worn upholstery of the couch, his fingers sliding off with a weird squeaking sound that makes Brendon's nose wrinkle. It's loud, covering the sound of Jon breathing.
Brendon shakes his head before he moves his hand away, using it to hold Jon so he can just lap at the head of Jon's cock, around it, without taking down back into his mouth. He looks back up at Jon, trying not to smile too wide at the faces Jon's making, how he's biting on his lip hard enough to make the skin blanch against his bottom teeth. His hips twitch up against Brendon's grip, and Brendon pulls his head back, sliding his hand easily along the shaft.
"Careful," he warns, voice barely above a whisper. He taps his fingers against Jon's hipbone. "It would really suck if I had to stop." He laughs a little at his own pun before taking Jon back into his mouth, hollowing out his cheeks and tonguing at the underside.
Jon breathes out loud and hard through his nose. "Fuck, Brendon, just―" He's not really quiet about it, voice strained and husky but not demanding, and Brendon pulls off again to grin up at him, eyes flicking back to the not-quite-closed door.
He keeps on lazily stroking Jon's cock, his grip loose and easy. "Just what?" he asks, rubbing his pinky finger against Jon's dick independently of his other fingers.
"Stop being a fucking tease," Jon groans, and then whines high in his throat when Brendon lets go of his dick altogether. "No, please, come on―"
"Shh," Brendon says. He climbs into Jon's lap, carefully avoiding Jon's dick, to peer into the crevice between the seat and the back of the couch. "What was that you said about lube in the couch?" he asks sweetly, totally ignoring the way Jon's hips are shifting under him, clamping his thighs down hard around Jon's to keep him still.
Jon drops his head back and groans again. "Here," he manages. "Underneath, here." He slides one hand between the couch cushions, moves the other to the small of Brendon's back, fingers slipping under the waist of Brendon's jeans, and Brendon wriggles happily at the touch as Jon digs around for the lube. "There!" he says when he finds it, holding it up triumphantly, and Brendon can't help but laugh, leaning in to kiss Jon's mouth lightly as his hand finds the bottle, fingers brushing teasingly against Jon's.
"So," Brendon murmurs into Jon's mouth. "So. You know what I'm going to do now?"
Jon's hand slides further into the back of Brendon's pants. "Tell me," he says, fingers dipping hopefully into Brendon's crease.
"Mm." Brendon mouths across Jon's jaw, nose twitching at the soft-rough feel of Jon's beard under his lips. He licks the sensitive skin below Jon's ear, nips at his earlobe. "Gonna fuck you," he says, deliberately pressing his hips closer to Jon's naked cock just to hear Jon's sharp inhale.
"Yeah?" Jon bucks beneath him, breath stuttering a little. Brendon sucks on his throat, lightly so he won't quite bruise Jon's skin. He can feel the vibration of Jon talking on his lips, and he tilts his hips again, just a little to feel Jon groan again. "How's it gonna go?"
Brendon stops, then, pulling his mouth back from Jon's neck, because he hadn't actually expected Jon to say that, to still be moving his body under Brendon's looking for friction, teasing them both even though Brendon's still mostly clothed. He swallows hard before he starts again. "Just, right here, with the door open, like the guys could hear everything." The words come out a little faster than he means them to, rushed and tumbling over each other, and his whole body feels hot, centered in the the blush he's certain is coloring the back of his neck.
Jon's breathing slows just a little, but his fingers are still pressing gently against the small of Brendon's back. "Are you going to make me be quiet?"
And Brendon has the real answer for that on the tip of his tongue―he knows what he wants to say, what he thinks Jon wants to hear, but then he looks up and there's Jon's stupid face with his eyes heavy-lidded and smile inviting, and Brendon's brain just freezes. He can't say it, not with Jon looking at him like that.
He runs his fingers over Jon's cock again, trying to keep his smile knowing and sexy when he shifts back all the way, off of Jon's legs, and Jon's hand falls away as he bucks up into Brendon's fist. "I think I'm going to make you get on your stomach, so they could see you if they look back here," Brendon says after a minute, taking his hand away. "C'mon, roll over."
Jon sits up first, pulling his shirt off and tossing it onto the floor before he leans over and kisses Brendon. Jon's tongue slides into Brendon's mouth, gently insistent against his, and Jon's hand is warm on the back of Brendon's neck, fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair. "Okay," he whispers when he pulls back, giving Brendon one of his weird, soft little smiles, and then he rolls over and stretches out in front of Brendon, knees a little bent, ass in the air. The muscles in his shoulders move as he settles down, resting his head on his forearms, and he gives Brendon one more look before he lets his eyes fall shut, lashes fanning out over his cheeks, sighing in anticipation.
Taking a deep breath, Brendon pulls his own shirt off, throwing it onto the floor near Jon's. He opens the lube and smears some onto his fingers, then leans forward and steadily presses the first one inside; Jon presses back onto Brendon's hand with a breathy gasp that makes Brendon shiver. Brendon closes his eyes, stroking into Jon's heat before he purposefully crooks his finger and says, softly, "Do you want me to make you be quiet?"
Jon shudders out a breath. "You think you can?" he asks, too curious to be a challenge.
Brendon bites his lip, considering, and then leans forward and grabs a handful of Jon's hair. He probably looks ridiculous, stretched out like this, but it's worth it when Jon moans brokenly as Brendon slips a second finger in alongside the first. "You're not doing a very good job of being quiet," he says, more confident now, pulling sharply on Jon's hair.
"Fuck, Brendon, please," Jon whimpers.
"Really not doing a very good job," Brendon admonishes, and this time when he tugs on Jon's hair, Jon just gasps wetly and jerks his hips back into the press of Brendon's fingers. And that makes Brendon feel a little bit reckless―he's got Jon spread out under him and is reducing him to noises. Sexy noises that Jon is purposefully biting back or muffling against his forearm, just because Brendon told him to, and the mere thought of it would maybe be enough to loosen Brendon's tongue a little, but the thought plus the sight and the sound and the feel of it makes him bold enough to say some of what's tripping around inside his head.
"You're so fucking hot inside, Jon," he says, shifting, straddling one of Jon's thighs so he can lean down to murmur the words against Jon's spine, his breath raising goosebumps on Jon's sweaty skin. His knee is almost nudging at Jon's balls, pushing his thighs a little further apart, and Jon chokes back a moan as Brendon's fingers twist inside him. "And you're just―the way you're opening up for me, it's fucking incredible. Feels so good." He darts his tongue out to taste the salt in the dip between Jon's shoulder blades, smiling when Jon gasps again. "You like it, right? You like this?"
"Brendon," Jon moans softly.
"Tell me," Brendon says, dragging two fingers hard over Jon's prostate, rubbing at Jon's rim with the tip of a third. "Tell me, I want to hear it."
Jon shudders and moves a little, pressing his forehead against his folded arms and rocking back against Brendon's hand. "Fucking―yeah, yeah, I like it."
"Yeah?" Brendon grins wide, even though Jon can't see. "That's good. But you're going to like it better when I'm fucking you, right?"
Huffing a laugh against the couch cushions, Jon says, "If you ever get around to―fucking Christ, Brendon!" He writhes as Brendon pushes a third finger in, a little too quickly, a little too much.
Relenting, Brendon withdraws his fingers a little. "I liked it better when you weren't talking."
Jon shifts, and he's panting, head still on his arms. He says something, but it's sort of lost, Jon's mouth against his forearm and voice going broken when Brendon gently pushes his fingers forward again. He has to be careful now, trying not to push Jon just over that edge; Brendon just wants to hold him there.
"What was that?" he asks, leaning back down to lick along Jon's spine, grazing his teeth lightly against the skin of his back. He shifts his hand again, still gentle and slow, and Jon makes a desperate noise high in his throat, shaking, muscles tense under Brendon's mouth. It's almost too much for Brendon, jeans too tight and skin too flushed; he pushes his hips against Jon's thigh, just a little bit of pressure. He needs more, needs it soon, although at this point he almost thinks he could just get off listening to Jon like this, needy and open for him.
"Please, Brendon," Jon chokes out, gasping hard. Brendon slides his fingers forward, a little more pressure than before. The shaking's getting worse, and Brendon can feel Jon sweating through his jeans.
Brendon licks Jon's skin again before he slides one hand around, palm warm against Jon's chest, fingers rubbing against Jon's nipples. He keeps his hand still, waiting for the shaking to settle, before he kisses Jon's shoulder. "Ask me for it," he says, pitching his voice low, sounding growly and seductive even to his own ears. He sort of wishes he could have sounded like that before, when he was still just opening Jon up for this.
"Christ," Jon says, almost collapsing on the couch before he takes a deep breath. Brendon can feel his body shuddering from the effort. "Please, Brendon, please just fuck me." His voice runs thin on the last two words, but it's enough―Brendon presses a delighted kiss to Jon's shoulder blade, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, because he got Jon to say it.
His face feels flushed as he pulls back, slides his fingers free and fights his jeans down. He hadn't noticed his own arms and legs sweating, and the fabric clings more than it should, not wanting to roll down over his legs. Jon watches him over his shoulder as Brendon gets his pants off, and Brendon stills at the look in Jon's eyes, at how much Brendon can tell he just wants. He catches himself grinning back stupidly for a moment, until he realizes that his wallet is still in his bunk, and this is sort of a really bad time to realize he doesn't have a condom.
Jon laughs when Brendon's face falls, pushing his head back down against his folded arms. "Pocket of my pajama pants."
Brendon wants to kiss Jon Walker, seriously. Right now he doesn't even care about the fact that there is fighting dirty, and then there is stashing lube and keeping condoms in your pajamas. "You had to be a Boy Scout, Walker. Always prepared." He grabs Jon's discarded pants and pulls out the foil package, opening it with slippery fingers and rolling it down.
Jon might say something like, "Have you seen my boyfriend?" but it's hard to hear with his face buried in his arms and his voice muffled by pillows. Brendon doesn't think about it, either, just slicks up and positions himself, using one hand to guide his cock into Jon, the other holding onto Jon's hip as he pushes forward, and then it's just tighthotawesome as he sinks in, as Jon pushes back against him.
"Holy fuck," he whispers, breathing out hard through his nose, shifting so that both of his hands are tight on Jon's hips. He concentrates on the sound of Jon's breathing, feeling the tremors under Jon's skin as Jon tries to keep himself quiet and still as he adjusts; when he's settled a little bit, Brendon says, "Can I―"
"Yeah," Jon breathes. "Yeah, go."
Brendon moans low as he rolls his hips, out and in and out again, an easy rhythm; for several long minutes Brendon's awareness narrows to the tight clutch of Jon's ass around him, the salt-warm scent of Jon's skin under him as he moves. Then he notices that Jon is circling his hips on the downstrokes, grinding against the couch. "Are you―fuck, Jesus―are you making a mess, Jon Walker?" Brendon asks, hands braced on the couch, wrists touching Jon's shoulders every time he settles his weight against Jon's ass.
Jon laughs a little as he rocks back to meet Brendon's thrusts. "Maybe," he says.
"I think you are," Brendon says. "I think you're getting the couch all wet. Think it's gonna smell like sex back here for weeks."
Groaning, Jon bucks up underneath him, planting his knees on the couch and pushing up so Brendon has to move with him, has to shift back onto his knees. The new angle makes Jon moan helplessly, especially when Brendon slips a hand under him to wrap around his cock.
"Oh, yeah," Brendon murmurs, slicking his palm with precome, driving Jon forward into his hand with the movement of his hips. "You were totally making a mess."
"I wasn't going to come," Jon says, breathless.
Blood rushes in Brendon's ears, drowning out the noise that Brendon totally won't admit to making at how hot that thought is, how fucking amazing it would be to feel Jon writhing helplessly under him, coming without a hand on his dick. But he gets a hold on himself, tightens his fist around Jon's cock and says, "Maybe I want you to. Maybe I want you to come all over the couch, make it all―fuck, Jon, I need―"
Jon scrambles up onto his elbows so he can rock back into Brendon's thrusts a little harder, so that Brendon's hips make a sharp, wet smacking sound against Jon's ass, fucking into him seemingly hard enough to bruise, but neither of them cares, too caught up in the feel of it.
"Fuck," Brendon says again, shifting his hand so he can keep going at this pace, keep Jon making those helpless little noises under him. He keeps his hand moving, trying to keep his rhythm, thumb swirling over the head of Jon's cock on the downstroke. His eyes slide closed, and he can feel himself starting to tense, abs tightening; he grits his teeth and fights it, because he doesn't want to come without Jon, wants to feel Jon clenching down around him while he's coming.
He lets his rhythm go so he can concentrate on jerking Jon off, tightening his grip just a little, leaning down and breathing against Jon's skin, mouthing words against Jon's skin. "So fucking hot," he whispers, but it's lost under the sounds Jon is making and the smack of his hips against Jon's skin. He tilts his hips, alters the angle a tiny bit, and that's enough, that's what it takes: Jon groans again, louder than before, loud enough that anyone on the bus could hear, and he comes all over Brendon's hand, on his own belly, and yeah, a little on the couch.
Brendon keeps moving, can't stop. Jon's still trembling beneath him, back arched, ass still tilted up and gripping Brendon tightly as Jon comes down. Brendon drops forward, putting a little more of his weight into his thrusts, resting his forehead against Jon's back. He sort of wishes they were doing this the other way, Jon on his back with his thighs tight around Brendon's waist, because he really, really wants to kiss Jon right now. He wants to be able to fuck Jon's mouth with his tongue, wants to drink down the tiny unconscious whining sounds Jon keeps making as Brendon picks up the pace again, wants to be tasting Jon's lips while he's coming in Jon's ass. He moans at the thought, mouth open and gasping against Jon's skin, and suddenly he's there, hips stuttering, the taste of Jon's sweat a burst of salt on his lips as he comes. He tries to muffle the sound against Jon's shoulder, but it's a weak attempt.
It's a minute before either of them talks, before either of them can talk. "Holy hell," Jon whispers when Brendon can finally feel his toes, and Brendon just groans his agreement as he pulls out carefully and ties off the condom, throwing it towards the wastebasket on the other end of the couch. He doesn't feel like moving too much, not yet.
Brendon leans up to kiss the back of Jon's neck, at his hairline, and smiles against Jon's skin, dopey and sated and probably a little silly. "Hey," he says, tugging insistently on Jon's shoulder until they roll over a little, so Brendon's back is pressed against the back of the couch. It's really not wide enough for two people to lay side-by-side; Brendon feels more than a little bit crowded, but he's still grinning as he presses close against Jon's chest and leans up to brush their mouths together.
"Hey yourself," Jon says when Brendon pulls back a little, reaching up to push Brendon's sweat-damp hair behind his ear, stroking his thumb gently over Brendon's cheekbone.
And that just makes Brendon smile even wider, until his cheeks ache. He reaches out to touch Jon's shoulder, brushes his fingers down his side to rest at his hip. They smell like sex, sweat overlaid with the sharp tang of come; his fingers are still sticky with it, and Brendon finds more when he trails his knuckles down Jon's belly. "I think you still made a mess," he says, looking critically at his hand. With a groan of effort, he pushes himself up onto one elbow and reaches over Jon to grab a shirt off the floor, so he can wipe off Jon's stomach and his hand.
Jon laughs and shifts again, pulling Brendon back down. "We'll flip the cushion," he says, and his beard scratches at Brendon's neck for a second before they're kissing again, slow and sweet.
"Okay," Brendon says sleepily, even though he's not even sure if they can flip the cushions, because he hasn't tried yet. Or what if someone spilled Coke on the other side, or something? Then they'll have to get new cushions entirely, and that seems like an awful amount of work, especially when he can just snuggle down on Jon and let his eyes close. His limbs feel pleasantly heavy, and he leans into Jon's warmth, still in the happy post-orgasmic place where it doesn't matter that they're both sweaty and sticky and kind of gross. "So that was pretty good, huh?"
"Yeah, Brendon," Jon says, smiling, reaching up to card his fingers through Brendon's hair again. "Yeah, that was good."
Brendon hums contentedly. "Should do it again sometime."
"Which part?"
"All the parts." Brendon stops, considering. "Well. Except next time, I'm going to win at Halo."
"Are you?" Jon asks, his tone warmly amused.
"Oh, yeah. One day, Jon Walker―someday soon― you will cry. Because of my mad skills with plasma grenades."
"You're going to blow me up with plasma grenades?"
Brendon nods. "Repeatedly."
Jon presses a kiss to the corner of Brendon's mouth. "Before or after you make me be quiet?" he asks.
"You're really not very good at it," Brendon replies. "Maybe you need practice."
"Not as much practice as you need with the plasma grenades."
"Oh, that's―take that back, Jon, I am wounded by your―"
Jon cuts him off by leaning forward to kiss him again, licking messily at Brendon's lower lip, stealing his breath.
"―I think, um. I think some mutual accommodation can be reached," Brendon finishes, panting a little into Jon's mouth.
Jon smiles against Brendon's lips. "I was hoping you'd say that."
***
Title: Play it Dirty, Make a Mess; or Reasons Brendon Urie Will Never Beat Jon Walker at Halo 2, #146
Authors: lyo and stephanometra
Pairing: Brendon/Jon
Rating: NC17
Summary: If they're playing dirty, then dirty's what Brendon's going to play.
Warnings: Porn. Lots of porn.
Notes: So once upon a time, lyo was all like, "I HAVE THIS BRENDON/JON FIC THAT WILL NEVER BE FINISHED, WOE." I demanded to see this fic (as you do) and then demanded that she either finish it, or let me finish it. As you can see, we compromised. :) Thanks to t_usual_suspect, burgaw, and hegemony for cheerleading at various points along the way. 4800 words.
***
The day's straddling that line between early and late. He wants to say that it's early, because part of his brain always seems to think that after five AM it's completely all right to be awake and alert, ready to greet the day, even though the rest of him grumpily informs his brain that no, actually, it's just five AM and he hasn't slept yet. He doesn't have school or church or a morning shift to work; his mom and dad and brothers are not crowded around the kitchen table talking in low voices over coffee. Not that there isn't coffee on the bus―the real stuff, even, not decaf―it's just that. Well. Right now, this morning, it's time to stop leaning on Jon, maybe kiss him good-morning-and-goodnight, and then try to get some sleep.
Except that right now, this morning, he and Jon are in the middle of trying to slaughter each other at Halo, which tends to trump all other concerns.
They're sprawled together on the couch, and Brendon's legs are under Jon's, one bare foot tucked up high on Jon's thigh. He moves it higher every time he gets a really good shot in, and Jon sort of rolls over a little more onto him, mouth close to Brendon's throat.
"Fucker," Brendon says, because he knows what Jon is trying to do, and it's not going to fucking work. He's almost got Jon cornered. It's like an epic sort of achievement, because Jon can school all of them at Halo (though sometimes Ross gets his rage on, and then it's just a battle royale between him and Jon, Brendon and Spencer reduced to little pixellated corpses) and doesn't pull punches. Doesn't mind playing dirty, either―he leans down a little more, his beard scratching Brendon's skin. He knows how ticklish Brendon is. Fucker.
So maybe Brendon gets back at him by dragging his foot up a little higher. He's bendy, almost astonishingly so, courtesy of the tumbling classes his parents hoped would take the edge off of his boundless energy as a kid; he's twisted around a little, folded almost in half under Jon's weight, but he's still got enough leverage to press his foot all the way up, holds it a little too tight against Jon's crotch. He smirks when he feels that Jon's half-hard under his foot, maybe applies a little more pressure: if they're playing dirty, then dirty's what Brendon's going to play.
Jon twitches and whimpers against Brendon's neck, but Brendon doesn't move his foot. "Don't even think about biting me," he says, voice low. It's a little hard to breathe with Jon on top of him. Jon's not big, exactly, except in that way that everyone is big compared to Brendon. Jon is just normal-shaped, with a broad chest and shoulders, attributes that Brendon is determinedly not thinking about while his guy on screen stalks around with grenade launcher in hand, poised to destroy. Oh yes, Jon Walker is going down.
He jumps a little when Jon licks his neck, beard rasping over his skin again, but he doesn't look away from the television, because he's going to be able to beat Jon, even if everyone else passed out and no one's going to be able to witness his totally awesome victory.
Brendon's man rounds a corner, and he does get Jon penned in this time, no way out and no options. "I'm going to make you cry like a preteen girl," he informs Jon, lining up the shot perfectly, savoring his inevitable triumph as his character rushes forward, trusting his body armor to deflect Jon's fire. He grins as his finger hovers over the trigger button.
Jon chuckles darkly, lips and tongue making lazy patterns on Brendon's skin, before he leans up and whispers, "I think there's lube under the couch," conversationally into Brendon's ear.
And then Jon's guy manages to blow Brendon's guy up.
Brendon frowns in disappointment, glaring sideways, but then Jon rolls his hips hopefully, rocking up against Brendon's foot, and really, it's not like Brendon actually expected to win. He turns, one hand sliding into Jon's hair so their mouths meet, fingers holding tight as he tries to sit up. It's a struggle, because Jon's still using his weight to push Brendon back into the couch, still playing dirty, trying to cement his victory.
He pulls back from Jon's mouth and stares at it, at the shine of Jon's spit-slicked lips under the muted fluorescent lights and the faintest glow of morning just starting to spill through cracked windows. He's breathless from the kissing and from Jon's weight pressing him into the couch; he tries to take a deep breath, but his lungs won't cooperate, not with Jon in the way. "Move back," he murmurs, bumping his nose against Jon's.
Jon tries to kiss Brendon again instead, twisting so Brendon's foot has to slide away. He gets a brush of lips, chaste and soft, and Brendon would like nothing better than to make out with Jon to both their hearts' content, but seriously, he can't breathe.
"Get off, Jon, I mean it." Squirming a little, he fists his hand in Jon's hair and pulls, just to get the point across.
Jon's neck snaps back, exposing the line of his throat, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows down a groan or maybe a gasp, but he listens, pulling back a little.
Brendon doesn't ease his grip at first, distracted by the rapid flutter of Jon's breathing, by the tension in the line of his throat, but then he shrugs inwardly and leans forward to run his tongue across Jon's bottom lip. "Better," he says, smiling happily against Jon's mouth when Jon relaxes against him, and then they're kissing again, Brendon moving his hand to cup the back of Jon's neck.
"Yeah, well," Jon whispers when they break. His legs are folded under him in a way that is probably uncomfortable, and Brendon splays a hand on his chest, gently pressing, just to see if he can make Jon go lower. It's all still new enough that he doesn't know how far he can push, how much Jon will let him have.
Jon goes easily enough, shifting his legs out from under him, letting Brendon push him down until his back is flat on the couch. He tilts his head to the side a little, acquiescent, and Brendon makes a pleased sound and leans in to nip at Jon's throat as he pushes down Jon's pajama pants. Jon moves his legs enough to make it easier to tug them off and let them slide to the floor. The door to the back lounge is cracked open, just a little bit, and Brendon smirks as he leans down, his hold on Jon's hips just to this side of too-tight, and licks a line from Jon's navel to his cock.
He slides his gaze upwards, meeting Jon's eyes as he flicks his tongue against the underside. "Hi," he says, grinning when Jon bites his lip and involuntarily flexes something, his dick bumping Brendon's chin.
"Hi," Jon replies. "Are you, uh." His hands twitch at his sides, but he doesn't move, doesn't make any inelegant illustrative gestures or grab for Brendon's head or anything, seemingly content to let Brendon take his time.
"Thinking about it," Brendon says, giving the head of Jon's cock another kittenish lick, enjoying the texture of the skin under his tongue. "That's okay, right?"
Jon makes a breathy noise. "Yeah, yeah, that's―" He trails off into a choked-off moan when Brendon slides his mouth down, letting Jon ride slickly against the roof of his mouth. Brendon gentles his grip on Jon's hips as he strokes up and down, working his tongue thick and hot over the crown, moaning a little when he tastes the salt-sweet of Jon getting wet, when he feels Jon's thighs trembling as he fights to stay still.
He pulls off with a wet, lingering kiss to the head and slides a hand up Jon's thigh to cup his balls, thumb gently stroking behind them, fingers fanned in the crease of his thigh. "You're such a gentleman, Jon Walker," he says, smiling.
Jon tries to laugh, but it cuts off into a groan when Brendon moves his hand, changing the pressure on his balls just a bit. "Trying," he forces out, panting a little. His left hand scrabbles for purchase on the shiny, worn upholstery of the couch, his fingers sliding off with a weird squeaking sound that makes Brendon's nose wrinkle. It's loud, covering the sound of Jon breathing.
Brendon shakes his head before he moves his hand away, using it to hold Jon so he can just lap at the head of Jon's cock, around it, without taking down back into his mouth. He looks back up at Jon, trying not to smile too wide at the faces Jon's making, how he's biting on his lip hard enough to make the skin blanch against his bottom teeth. His hips twitch up against Brendon's grip, and Brendon pulls his head back, sliding his hand easily along the shaft.
"Careful," he warns, voice barely above a whisper. He taps his fingers against Jon's hipbone. "It would really suck if I had to stop." He laughs a little at his own pun before taking Jon back into his mouth, hollowing out his cheeks and tonguing at the underside.
Jon breathes out loud and hard through his nose. "Fuck, Brendon, just―" He's not really quiet about it, voice strained and husky but not demanding, and Brendon pulls off again to grin up at him, eyes flicking back to the not-quite-closed door.
He keeps on lazily stroking Jon's cock, his grip loose and easy. "Just what?" he asks, rubbing his pinky finger against Jon's dick independently of his other fingers.
"Stop being a fucking tease," Jon groans, and then whines high in his throat when Brendon lets go of his dick altogether. "No, please, come on―"
"Shh," Brendon says. He climbs into Jon's lap, carefully avoiding Jon's dick, to peer into the crevice between the seat and the back of the couch. "What was that you said about lube in the couch?" he asks sweetly, totally ignoring the way Jon's hips are shifting under him, clamping his thighs down hard around Jon's to keep him still.
Jon drops his head back and groans again. "Here," he manages. "Underneath, here." He slides one hand between the couch cushions, moves the other to the small of Brendon's back, fingers slipping under the waist of Brendon's jeans, and Brendon wriggles happily at the touch as Jon digs around for the lube. "There!" he says when he finds it, holding it up triumphantly, and Brendon can't help but laugh, leaning in to kiss Jon's mouth lightly as his hand finds the bottle, fingers brushing teasingly against Jon's.
"So," Brendon murmurs into Jon's mouth. "So. You know what I'm going to do now?"
Jon's hand slides further into the back of Brendon's pants. "Tell me," he says, fingers dipping hopefully into Brendon's crease.
"Mm." Brendon mouths across Jon's jaw, nose twitching at the soft-rough feel of Jon's beard under his lips. He licks the sensitive skin below Jon's ear, nips at his earlobe. "Gonna fuck you," he says, deliberately pressing his hips closer to Jon's naked cock just to hear Jon's sharp inhale.
"Yeah?" Jon bucks beneath him, breath stuttering a little. Brendon sucks on his throat, lightly so he won't quite bruise Jon's skin. He can feel the vibration of Jon talking on his lips, and he tilts his hips again, just a little to feel Jon groan again. "How's it gonna go?"
Brendon stops, then, pulling his mouth back from Jon's neck, because he hadn't actually expected Jon to say that, to still be moving his body under Brendon's looking for friction, teasing them both even though Brendon's still mostly clothed. He swallows hard before he starts again. "Just, right here, with the door open, like the guys could hear everything." The words come out a little faster than he means them to, rushed and tumbling over each other, and his whole body feels hot, centered in the the blush he's certain is coloring the back of his neck.
Jon's breathing slows just a little, but his fingers are still pressing gently against the small of Brendon's back. "Are you going to make me be quiet?"
And Brendon has the real answer for that on the tip of his tongue―he knows what he wants to say, what he thinks Jon wants to hear, but then he looks up and there's Jon's stupid face with his eyes heavy-lidded and smile inviting, and Brendon's brain just freezes. He can't say it, not with Jon looking at him like that.
He runs his fingers over Jon's cock again, trying to keep his smile knowing and sexy when he shifts back all the way, off of Jon's legs, and Jon's hand falls away as he bucks up into Brendon's fist. "I think I'm going to make you get on your stomach, so they could see you if they look back here," Brendon says after a minute, taking his hand away. "C'mon, roll over."
Jon sits up first, pulling his shirt off and tossing it onto the floor before he leans over and kisses Brendon. Jon's tongue slides into Brendon's mouth, gently insistent against his, and Jon's hand is warm on the back of Brendon's neck, fingers tangling in his sweat-damp hair. "Okay," he whispers when he pulls back, giving Brendon one of his weird, soft little smiles, and then he rolls over and stretches out in front of Brendon, knees a little bent, ass in the air. The muscles in his shoulders move as he settles down, resting his head on his forearms, and he gives Brendon one more look before he lets his eyes fall shut, lashes fanning out over his cheeks, sighing in anticipation.
Taking a deep breath, Brendon pulls his own shirt off, throwing it onto the floor near Jon's. He opens the lube and smears some onto his fingers, then leans forward and steadily presses the first one inside; Jon presses back onto Brendon's hand with a breathy gasp that makes Brendon shiver. Brendon closes his eyes, stroking into Jon's heat before he purposefully crooks his finger and says, softly, "Do you want me to make you be quiet?"
Jon shudders out a breath. "You think you can?" he asks, too curious to be a challenge.
Brendon bites his lip, considering, and then leans forward and grabs a handful of Jon's hair. He probably looks ridiculous, stretched out like this, but it's worth it when Jon moans brokenly as Brendon slips a second finger in alongside the first. "You're not doing a very good job of being quiet," he says, more confident now, pulling sharply on Jon's hair.
"Fuck, Brendon, please," Jon whimpers.
"Really not doing a very good job," Brendon admonishes, and this time when he tugs on Jon's hair, Jon just gasps wetly and jerks his hips back into the press of Brendon's fingers. And that makes Brendon feel a little bit reckless―he's got Jon spread out under him and is reducing him to noises. Sexy noises that Jon is purposefully biting back or muffling against his forearm, just because Brendon told him to, and the mere thought of it would maybe be enough to loosen Brendon's tongue a little, but the thought plus the sight and the sound and the feel of it makes him bold enough to say some of what's tripping around inside his head.
"You're so fucking hot inside, Jon," he says, shifting, straddling one of Jon's thighs so he can lean down to murmur the words against Jon's spine, his breath raising goosebumps on Jon's sweaty skin. His knee is almost nudging at Jon's balls, pushing his thighs a little further apart, and Jon chokes back a moan as Brendon's fingers twist inside him. "And you're just―the way you're opening up for me, it's fucking incredible. Feels so good." He darts his tongue out to taste the salt in the dip between Jon's shoulder blades, smiling when Jon gasps again. "You like it, right? You like this?"
"Brendon," Jon moans softly.
"Tell me," Brendon says, dragging two fingers hard over Jon's prostate, rubbing at Jon's rim with the tip of a third. "Tell me, I want to hear it."
Jon shudders and moves a little, pressing his forehead against his folded arms and rocking back against Brendon's hand. "Fucking―yeah, yeah, I like it."
"Yeah?" Brendon grins wide, even though Jon can't see. "That's good. But you're going to like it better when I'm fucking you, right?"
Huffing a laugh against the couch cushions, Jon says, "If you ever get around to―fucking Christ, Brendon!" He writhes as Brendon pushes a third finger in, a little too quickly, a little too much.
Relenting, Brendon withdraws his fingers a little. "I liked it better when you weren't talking."
Jon shifts, and he's panting, head still on his arms. He says something, but it's sort of lost, Jon's mouth against his forearm and voice going broken when Brendon gently pushes his fingers forward again. He has to be careful now, trying not to push Jon just over that edge; Brendon just wants to hold him there.
"What was that?" he asks, leaning back down to lick along Jon's spine, grazing his teeth lightly against the skin of his back. He shifts his hand again, still gentle and slow, and Jon makes a desperate noise high in his throat, shaking, muscles tense under Brendon's mouth. It's almost too much for Brendon, jeans too tight and skin too flushed; he pushes his hips against Jon's thigh, just a little bit of pressure. He needs more, needs it soon, although at this point he almost thinks he could just get off listening to Jon like this, needy and open for him.
"Please, Brendon," Jon chokes out, gasping hard. Brendon slides his fingers forward, a little more pressure than before. The shaking's getting worse, and Brendon can feel Jon sweating through his jeans.
Brendon licks Jon's skin again before he slides one hand around, palm warm against Jon's chest, fingers rubbing against Jon's nipples. He keeps his hand still, waiting for the shaking to settle, before he kisses Jon's shoulder. "Ask me for it," he says, pitching his voice low, sounding growly and seductive even to his own ears. He sort of wishes he could have sounded like that before, when he was still just opening Jon up for this.
"Christ," Jon says, almost collapsing on the couch before he takes a deep breath. Brendon can feel his body shuddering from the effort. "Please, Brendon, please just fuck me." His voice runs thin on the last two words, but it's enough―Brendon presses a delighted kiss to Jon's shoulder blade, feeling ridiculously pleased with himself, because he got Jon to say it.
His face feels flushed as he pulls back, slides his fingers free and fights his jeans down. He hadn't noticed his own arms and legs sweating, and the fabric clings more than it should, not wanting to roll down over his legs. Jon watches him over his shoulder as Brendon gets his pants off, and Brendon stills at the look in Jon's eyes, at how much Brendon can tell he just wants. He catches himself grinning back stupidly for a moment, until he realizes that his wallet is still in his bunk, and this is sort of a really bad time to realize he doesn't have a condom.
Jon laughs when Brendon's face falls, pushing his head back down against his folded arms. "Pocket of my pajama pants."
Brendon wants to kiss Jon Walker, seriously. Right now he doesn't even care about the fact that there is fighting dirty, and then there is stashing lube and keeping condoms in your pajamas. "You had to be a Boy Scout, Walker. Always prepared." He grabs Jon's discarded pants and pulls out the foil package, opening it with slippery fingers and rolling it down.
Jon might say something like, "Have you seen my boyfriend?" but it's hard to hear with his face buried in his arms and his voice muffled by pillows. Brendon doesn't think about it, either, just slicks up and positions himself, using one hand to guide his cock into Jon, the other holding onto Jon's hip as he pushes forward, and then it's just tighthotawesome as he sinks in, as Jon pushes back against him.
"Holy fuck," he whispers, breathing out hard through his nose, shifting so that both of his hands are tight on Jon's hips. He concentrates on the sound of Jon's breathing, feeling the tremors under Jon's skin as Jon tries to keep himself quiet and still as he adjusts; when he's settled a little bit, Brendon says, "Can I―"
"Yeah," Jon breathes. "Yeah, go."
Brendon moans low as he rolls his hips, out and in and out again, an easy rhythm; for several long minutes Brendon's awareness narrows to the tight clutch of Jon's ass around him, the salt-warm scent of Jon's skin under him as he moves. Then he notices that Jon is circling his hips on the downstrokes, grinding against the couch. "Are you―fuck, Jesus―are you making a mess, Jon Walker?" Brendon asks, hands braced on the couch, wrists touching Jon's shoulders every time he settles his weight against Jon's ass.
Jon laughs a little as he rocks back to meet Brendon's thrusts. "Maybe," he says.
"I think you are," Brendon says. "I think you're getting the couch all wet. Think it's gonna smell like sex back here for weeks."
Groaning, Jon bucks up underneath him, planting his knees on the couch and pushing up so Brendon has to move with him, has to shift back onto his knees. The new angle makes Jon moan helplessly, especially when Brendon slips a hand under him to wrap around his cock.
"Oh, yeah," Brendon murmurs, slicking his palm with precome, driving Jon forward into his hand with the movement of his hips. "You were totally making a mess."
"I wasn't going to come," Jon says, breathless.
Blood rushes in Brendon's ears, drowning out the noise that Brendon totally won't admit to making at how hot that thought is, how fucking amazing it would be to feel Jon writhing helplessly under him, coming without a hand on his dick. But he gets a hold on himself, tightens his fist around Jon's cock and says, "Maybe I want you to. Maybe I want you to come all over the couch, make it all―fuck, Jon, I need―"
Jon scrambles up onto his elbows so he can rock back into Brendon's thrusts a little harder, so that Brendon's hips make a sharp, wet smacking sound against Jon's ass, fucking into him seemingly hard enough to bruise, but neither of them cares, too caught up in the feel of it.
"Fuck," Brendon says again, shifting his hand so he can keep going at this pace, keep Jon making those helpless little noises under him. He keeps his hand moving, trying to keep his rhythm, thumb swirling over the head of Jon's cock on the downstroke. His eyes slide closed, and he can feel himself starting to tense, abs tightening; he grits his teeth and fights it, because he doesn't want to come without Jon, wants to feel Jon clenching down around him while he's coming.
He lets his rhythm go so he can concentrate on jerking Jon off, tightening his grip just a little, leaning down and breathing against Jon's skin, mouthing words against Jon's skin. "So fucking hot," he whispers, but it's lost under the sounds Jon is making and the smack of his hips against Jon's skin. He tilts his hips, alters the angle a tiny bit, and that's enough, that's what it takes: Jon groans again, louder than before, loud enough that anyone on the bus could hear, and he comes all over Brendon's hand, on his own belly, and yeah, a little on the couch.
Brendon keeps moving, can't stop. Jon's still trembling beneath him, back arched, ass still tilted up and gripping Brendon tightly as Jon comes down. Brendon drops forward, putting a little more of his weight into his thrusts, resting his forehead against Jon's back. He sort of wishes they were doing this the other way, Jon on his back with his thighs tight around Brendon's waist, because he really, really wants to kiss Jon right now. He wants to be able to fuck Jon's mouth with his tongue, wants to drink down the tiny unconscious whining sounds Jon keeps making as Brendon picks up the pace again, wants to be tasting Jon's lips while he's coming in Jon's ass. He moans at the thought, mouth open and gasping against Jon's skin, and suddenly he's there, hips stuttering, the taste of Jon's sweat a burst of salt on his lips as he comes. He tries to muffle the sound against Jon's shoulder, but it's a weak attempt.
It's a minute before either of them talks, before either of them can talk. "Holy hell," Jon whispers when Brendon can finally feel his toes, and Brendon just groans his agreement as he pulls out carefully and ties off the condom, throwing it towards the wastebasket on the other end of the couch. He doesn't feel like moving too much, not yet.
Brendon leans up to kiss the back of Jon's neck, at his hairline, and smiles against Jon's skin, dopey and sated and probably a little silly. "Hey," he says, tugging insistently on Jon's shoulder until they roll over a little, so Brendon's back is pressed against the back of the couch. It's really not wide enough for two people to lay side-by-side; Brendon feels more than a little bit crowded, but he's still grinning as he presses close against Jon's chest and leans up to brush their mouths together.
"Hey yourself," Jon says when Brendon pulls back a little, reaching up to push Brendon's sweat-damp hair behind his ear, stroking his thumb gently over Brendon's cheekbone.
And that just makes Brendon smile even wider, until his cheeks ache. He reaches out to touch Jon's shoulder, brushes his fingers down his side to rest at his hip. They smell like sex, sweat overlaid with the sharp tang of come; his fingers are still sticky with it, and Brendon finds more when he trails his knuckles down Jon's belly. "I think you still made a mess," he says, looking critically at his hand. With a groan of effort, he pushes himself up onto one elbow and reaches over Jon to grab a shirt off the floor, so he can wipe off Jon's stomach and his hand.
Jon laughs and shifts again, pulling Brendon back down. "We'll flip the cushion," he says, and his beard scratches at Brendon's neck for a second before they're kissing again, slow and sweet.
"Okay," Brendon says sleepily, even though he's not even sure if they can flip the cushions, because he hasn't tried yet. Or what if someone spilled Coke on the other side, or something? Then they'll have to get new cushions entirely, and that seems like an awful amount of work, especially when he can just snuggle down on Jon and let his eyes close. His limbs feel pleasantly heavy, and he leans into Jon's warmth, still in the happy post-orgasmic place where it doesn't matter that they're both sweaty and sticky and kind of gross. "So that was pretty good, huh?"
"Yeah, Brendon," Jon says, smiling, reaching up to card his fingers through Brendon's hair again. "Yeah, that was good."
Brendon hums contentedly. "Should do it again sometime."
"Which part?"
"All the parts." Brendon stops, considering. "Well. Except next time, I'm going to win at Halo."
"Are you?" Jon asks, his tone warmly amused.
"Oh, yeah. One day, Jon Walker―someday soon― you will cry. Because of my mad skills with plasma grenades."
"You're going to blow me up with plasma grenades?"
Brendon nods. "Repeatedly."
Jon presses a kiss to the corner of Brendon's mouth. "Before or after you make me be quiet?" he asks.
"You're really not very good at it," Brendon replies. "Maybe you need practice."
"Not as much practice as you need with the plasma grenades."
"Oh, that's―take that back, Jon, I am wounded by your―"
Jon cuts him off by leaning forward to kiss him again, licking messily at Brendon's lower lip, stealing his breath.
"―I think, um. I think some mutual accommodation can be reached," Brendon finishes, panting a little into Jon's mouth.
Jon smiles against Brendon's lips. "I was hoping you'd say that."
***