revelry
Title: Revelry
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Joick
Warnings: underage sex, incest, drug use and alcohol use.
Disclaimer: The Jonas Brothers most definitely do not belong to me and this is entirely a work of fiction. The title comes from a Kings Of Leon song- check it out here before/as you read this. The lyrics are referenced throughout the fic.
Summary: So time we shared it was precious to me… A hazy day in a motel room.
A/N: Dedicated first and foremost to lovelickhump, because I love her. Also- as a thank you for the inspiration- to likecharity, for introducing me to the idea of a beautiful connection between KOL and JB; this is nowhere near as amazing as what she has written, however.
13a, their room in their random roadside motel, is lit like a Polaroid- a seventies Summer in the way that shafts of weak light spill across beige, filtered through the air dense with weed smoke. The colours go pale, go gold, and the glow is bleached. The room is too hot but the temperature dial is cracked and loose- their beers kept them cool but now there are eight empty cans crushed and scattered [along with their plaid shirts]. The lager is sparkling on their tongues, their breath, and their eyes are little more than black pupils, their movements lazy as a sunset, as dopey as their grins. Neither Nick nor Joe can ever remember feeling so wonderful- or maybe they can, but they have to trace back at least a decade to childhood Summer dazes in expanses of parkland.
Nick sits on the sagging motel bed, his acoustic guitar in his lap; the pads of his fingers pressing up against the fret board; the sweaty flesh of palm clapping against the bow of the wood as the plectrum catches the strings. Occasionally, he loses his place and he mumbles angrily, incoherently. He takes a second to pull it back but his palm continues to keep the beat along with the heel of his boot against the dense dust which lies in snowdrifts atop the motel room floor. The dust spins up beautifully, caught unaware in the blinding beams of aged light. Still, it doesn’t really have anywhere to go and so it settles back down so that Nick may kick it up into swirls again and again. His kicking at the floor flows from his thigh, as in time as a metronome.
Joe is sat opposite him- his back against the damp stained wall, his lips pursed around a joint as he inhales- hungry, though his gullet moves smoothly. Nick breaks suddenly into song, voice beautiful but as brittle as the smoke which escapes in loose ribbons from Joe, as his lips curve into a smile and he follows Nick’s lead. He lets the joint smoulder between two fingers, bleed ash into the dust, as he harmonises and he smiles with a hundred twinkling teeth and he slaps his hand over his denim-clad thigh. His hand is fevered enough to bruise but he’s too numb from the drugs and immeasurable quantities of suffocating love to care.
It is amber between them: as warm and sticky as bottled beer left out on a porch. The smiles they share are alcohol-slicked-easy and they reach their eyes. They’re sitting but dancing- it’s in their twitching limbs and their pulse points, in the way that the syrupy warmth trembles when Nick’s voice cracks and Joe cries out- almost feral and frightened as his little brother’s eyes snap closed and his head snaps back. Nick strums with sudden vigour and he sings up past the ceiling and into the clouds.
“With a fire in my bones and the sweet taste of kerosene, I got lost in the night, so high I don’t wanna come down…”
Joe pushes himself up against the wall almost as if he’s following his little brothers singing up high, socked feet slipping against the floor until he’s steady, spine arched a little. He’s lithe and tanned and cast in hazy half-shadows and if Nick was looking he’d be forgetting to breath. One of Joe’s hands tugs through his dark dirty hair, the other holds his joint to his lips so that he can take a drag before he begins to sing back at him, imperfect- “To face the loss of the good thing that I’ve found.”
Nick glances up from his scuffed tapping toes to meet Joe’s gaze. Joe’s lips are wrapped around his spliff again and his free hand is awkwardly placed, clumsily twisted so that his wrist brushes his hair as his thumb rubs circles over the peeling wallpaper. Nick plays his guitar but he drops notes, abandons the rhythm in a way that he’d never do on stage. He sings still though, not caring that he’s lost it. The right words are still there, spilling from the tip of his tongue in a tangled but mellowed rush [towards Joe].
“In the dark of the night I hear you calling my name, with the hardest of hearts I still feel full of pain.”
Joe shakes his head just a little [as he continues, ‘so I drink and smoke and I ask if you’re ever around even though it was me who drove us right into the ground’]- like he can’t believe it. It pretty much encompassing everything: he’s locked in the dingiest room of a cheap roadside motel with his baby brother; they’re caked in the dust which just lingers infinitely inside 13a and dripping sweat and Nick is singing Kings Of Leon songs with this perfect passion, as though he penned the words himself; they’re harmonising and inhaling oxygen laced with weed and dancing but barely moving and they’re only aware of the solid orange heat pressed too close to their flesh. Joe can’t believe it because they don’t get chances like this. Ever.
Joe is never given ten meagre minutes to sit back with a cigarette [mostly because he’d probably be packed off to rehab if he was caught with so much as a Marlboro Menthol] and lavish all of this sleepy-eyed, warm-cheeked attention on his little brother. He loves that there’s nothing stopping him from staring right now as tears break down his brother’s mental damn and Nick lays himself back against the bed. His voice is gold dust skidding through gravel, pretty boy raw as the words tear themselves from the tissue of his lungs. It’s roughened by spliff smoke and beer from the 7/11; a carnal honesty he can only afford to reach for when he’s away from home.
“Gonna run baby, like a stream down a mountainside. With the wind at my back I wont even bat an eye, just know it was you all along who had a hold on my heart,” Nick’s writhes, his body twists one way and the sheets go the other as plays with his arms at awkward angles, “But the demon and me was the best of friends from the start!”
Joe watches Nick’s bones through his sweat-stained clothes; each muscle as it ripples- the tugged tendons of his throat, right up into the nook below his strong jaw line. Nick who is usually so calm and controlled. Joe is the dancer who’ll kick up his feet awkwardly, who’ll march and sprint, and Kevin spins and spins until he knocks the kids in the crowd nauseous with dizziness, but Nick’s always too busy clutching perfection in his fist to really feel each note attack each nerve ending. It’s exciting to see him immersing himself- scattered sunshine and tender emotion. It reminds Joe of the kids at their old Bible camp- the kids who thought they were sinners. They fell to the ground, scuffed their bony knees and wept as the blood went sticky and stung, choked on the Holy Ghost. In a way, those kids were lucky.
“Joe?” Nick’s voice is butterfly wing light, his eyes red rimmed and a little too bright as he looks up at his older brother awkwardly from his position on the drooping bed.
Joe moves to sit himself beside Nick, fingers over the material of his white tank- eyes over his brother’s flushed cheeks and full lips. He offers Nick the joint without needing to hear him ask and Nick takes it gratefully, fingers gentle around the rolled paper as he takes a shaky drag. Joe watches the saline gleam coating Nick’s skin; he watches the shapes in the smoke, the rise of fall of Nick’s chest. He removes the cumbersome guitar from his brother, places it down on the floor, and then he dips down to press a dry kiss to the corner of Nick’s lips, once the arm holding the spliff is up above them somewhere, and shifts to sing into the knots of dark hair just below Nick’s ear.
“So time we shared it was precious to me…”
Nick whimpers, hand sliding over Joe’s hip, up under his damp shirt and over sharp bones and fleshy hollows. Skin to skin burns. Joe kisses Nick again, lips against Nick’s earlobe before he strokes his tongue along the silky flesh. Their chests are pressed close, heartbeats ricocheting off of each other in slow motion. Joe drags his tantalizing lips, refreshing tongue, from Nick’s lobe to his jaw line. Nick is undone below Joe, opened up to the waning sunlight; the shafts of dust and the scent of spliff and lager; the comfortable weight over his brother.
Joe’s hand works it’s way between Nick’s thighs, heel of his palm up against his little brother’s denim crotch. Nick’s breathing shakes, his body shakes too. He pushes up from the bed and grinds against Joe’s intrusion, legs curling up around Joe so that he can roll back and forth against his palm. Joe plucks the joint from his brothers wilting arm, weakening grip, and takes lasts. He holds what he inhales as he flicks the butt to the floor and then kisses Nick- all open mouthed, sharing the coarse smoke, as Nick bucks helplessly against Joe’s forearm, trembling fingers knotted in Joe’s hair.
Beyond the drapes, uneven at the square window, the sun is sinking deep into the hills rolling alongside the highway; the room is evening time dark now. Still bright with sunlight but it’s richer, oil pastel shades of cerise and peach and a faint suggestion of violet blue. There are deeper shadows between their bodies as they tumble across the bed. They moan as they touch, as fingers knot themselves in hair and palms map out expanses of belly flesh and planes between ribs and collarbones, as they dry hump hands and thighs, grind into angular male hips.
They lose their clothes- expensive jeans, one hundred percent cotton tees and cowboy boots- and Nick slides down to the floor, as though in prayer on his knees, chest pressed close to bed. Joe shifts so that he can wrap his legs around his brother’s strong shoulders and Nick leans in and latches onto the searing flesh of Joe’s inner thighs- his tongue and teeth painting the skin in weak watercolour shades of bruise. Nick’s hand steadies Joe’s hips but Joe is desperate, rocking hopelessly with his head thrown back and his eye stinging, lashes sodden and darkened, feathered, with perspiration.
“Nick, fuck my baby Nick, Nick,” He chants, although his voice is barely there, although oxygen is barely there.
Nick allows himself a small shy smirk, just a fraction of a second of drugged up pride, before he wraps his lips around Joe and works the flat of his tongue flush against the hot solid flesh of his brother. One hand is still harsh at Joe’s hip, nails cutting cold half moons just below the jutting bone, the other at his thigh- kneading tender flesh as his tongue tastes Heaven, as his tongue swirls over the beads of pre-cum at the tip and pulls the sharp salt over pulsing veins. Joe’s taste, far more familiar than it should be, brings tears to Nick’s eyes. He ruts against the bed as his harsh cries of need are choked by Joe, becoming vibrations which shoot through Joe and along his spine, causing him to jerk and scream and lock his legs even more tightly around Nick’s broad back.
“Fuck me,” Nick manages to whisper, his throat sore, sensitive, his cock aching.
Joe whines as Nick pulls off of him to speak softly but he wastes no time in mourning the loss of wet heat around his length. Instead, he reaches out with tired arms to lift Nick up to his feet, guiding the sixteen year old into his lap.
“Fuck me,” Nick repeats, forehead falling to Joe’s shoulder, arms around his neck.
His breath catches in his throat, a shard of glass through skin, as Joe guides him lovingly onto his erection. Joe murmurs affectionately, tracing the ivory ridges Nick’s spine, stroking his wet curls, and assuring him that he’s that he’s beautiful, perfect, sensational. That the ache will fade- it always fades, right? It’s bittersweet, like being brutally murdered and reaching the golden gates of Heaven simultaneously, but Nick concentrates on following Joe’s breathing until the burn subsides and everything‘s weed-dulled and wet warm again. He’s only aware of Joe.
“Love you, Joe,” Nick breathes against Joe’s cheek
Now that Joe knows that he can, Joe begins to rock- roll back and thrust deep into the boy trembling in his lap. Nick moans and shakes and whines, clutching at Joe so desperately, hands soaked with sweat and slick against Joe’s flawless skin, neck to biceps. His fluttering breathing goes uneven against Joe’s shoulder, matches the wavering pattern of his heart. His jaw goes slack so that the moans keep tumbling free as Joe works him- pilots their movements with his hands at Nick’s undulating hips, his nose in his tousled hair- the scent of his brother spurs him on in the cheap motel room.
Nick and Joe’s dripping chests meet as Nick takes Joe deeper, grinding when he feels the first flicker of Joe against his prostate. His mind’s sluggish from the weed and the beer and the pressure of the oven hot heat, but his body’s hyper-sensitive- it wont let him rest as the fierce fist of his approaching orgasm punches him in the gut, exploding into white wax butterflies. He aches, from his eyes [vision nothing but a salty, radiant blur] to his toes, which are curling and cramping as he bounces and grinds with all that his body has left. He groans like a little animal- for Joe, for stolen freedom, for fucking in dust and diminishing daylight, for the Kings Of Leon.
Joe‘s hand encircles Nick‘s erection, caught between them. It’s tired, a little loose and lazy around the pulsating flesh, but Nick screams. It’s enough. It’s white hot and ice cold. The juxtaposition is the key to unlocking the lust and love and life that’s been honey golden static between the two boys since they first turned Nick’s mustang off course hours earlier, the key to setting off the fireworks.
They explode, rocking the framework of the motel it’s self. The lack of control leaves them both coated in each other’s release and sweat and spit. Nick throws his forehead, sopping ringlets grazing his eyelashes, against Joe’s shoulder and locks his jaw to mute the yell that follows his come as it shoots out over his brother’s tanned belly flesh in pearly strings. The exertion is wonderful and his whole body goes tense enough to drag Joe’s release from him as he thrusts with the last of his quaking energy up into his little brother. His scream throws the room’s dust up in a sparkling downpour; the reverberations keeping them moving against each other, milking their orgasms until they’re positive that they’ve lost it all entirely. Until they’re too spent to even feel flesh and bone and muscle as they hold each other.
“It’s so hot…” Nick whispers, as he finally opens his eyes and moves his drained body ever so slightly; though despite complaining about the temperature he makes no move to shift away from Joe, merged against him post-coital.
“You’re so hot,” Joe grins, pressing his lips to the beads of sweat at Nick’s temple. The tip of his tongue swipes over the flesh, Nick’s usually pure taste tainted with sex and illicit substances. His hand curls around Nick’s ass, finger tips stroking, grasp a little possessive, “Fuck Nicholas, do you know how hot you are with passion and acoustic?”
Nick raises an eyebrow, shakes his head as much as he can muster and settles back against the touch of Joe’s palm to his behind, “No?” He whispers.
“It’s just like…” Joe laughs- brings up his free hand to force his own wavy hair from his face- his smile is brighter than the midday sun had been, dazzling. Just for Nick, “I thought we’d grab those beers, a bit of grass and just chill you know; escape and talk and not have to worry about set list changes and appointments and Dad’s knitted brow… and then… God, you got all intense, in your eyes, in your voice…” Joe gives up on his hair and traces the cupid’s bow of Nick’s lips, instead.
“You were singing good too,” Nick murmurs- his cheeks as pink as the evening’s clouds had been- “I was just a little gone… didn’t even keep the tune, Joe.” For a second his lips part and he sucks softy on the very tip of Joe’s thumb, eyes ghosting closed.
“No… it was,” Joe swallows a moan as he feels the tip of Nick’s tongue, “Epic. Golden. Legendary. Sing for me again, Nicholas?” Nick shakes his head and Joe’s thumb slips from his lips so that his hand can cup his cheek, slide down to knot in the sodden curls at the back of Nick’s head, over his neck. He tugs in a way that’s reminiscent of their childhood scraps and Nick’s beautiful lips curve into soft and silly childhood smile.
“My guitar’s all the way down there,” He laughs breathily, “too much effort to reach down for it…”
Joe shakes his head, locking his gaze with Nick’s for a second before falling into a kiss with him without warning. He sucks hungrily, teasingly at his little brother’s lower lip, lets teeth graze the spongy flesh and then sits back. Satisfied with himself, “Acapella, Nicholas.”
Nick bites back a whimper but shakes his head again- eyes wide, hoping for another…
“Baby!” Joe allows his little brother one more small kiss but then pulls back defiantly, “Now sing.”
13a had gone indigo since they’d first clicked open their cans and supped sweet lager. Where there once had been Polaroid shafts of brilliant lemon light there were now secret shadows and white glints, reflecting the moon. But, the room still smelt of the joints they’d lit and smoked and shared; the slow day they’d spent watching and touching and loving, and when Nick began to sing [‘but all the while I was dreaming of revelry’ ] Joe forced himself to his feet, despite the arguing agony in his bones, and held out his hands for Nick to take.
What a night for a dance,
You know I’m a dancing machine,
With the fire in my bones…
Rating: NC17
Pairing: Joick
Warnings: underage sex, incest, drug use and alcohol use.
Disclaimer: The Jonas Brothers most definitely do not belong to me and this is entirely a work of fiction. The title comes from a Kings Of Leon song- check it out here before/as you read this. The lyrics are referenced throughout the fic.
Summary: So time we shared it was precious to me… A hazy day in a motel room.
A/N: Dedicated first and foremost to lovelickhump, because I love her. Also- as a thank you for the inspiration- to likecharity, for introducing me to the idea of a beautiful connection between KOL and JB; this is nowhere near as amazing as what she has written, however.
13a, their room in their random roadside motel, is lit like a Polaroid- a seventies Summer in the way that shafts of weak light spill across beige, filtered through the air dense with weed smoke. The colours go pale, go gold, and the glow is bleached. The room is too hot but the temperature dial is cracked and loose- their beers kept them cool but now there are eight empty cans crushed and scattered [along with their plaid shirts]. The lager is sparkling on their tongues, their breath, and their eyes are little more than black pupils, their movements lazy as a sunset, as dopey as their grins. Neither Nick nor Joe can ever remember feeling so wonderful- or maybe they can, but they have to trace back at least a decade to childhood Summer dazes in expanses of parkland.
Nick sits on the sagging motel bed, his acoustic guitar in his lap; the pads of his fingers pressing up against the fret board; the sweaty flesh of palm clapping against the bow of the wood as the plectrum catches the strings. Occasionally, he loses his place and he mumbles angrily, incoherently. He takes a second to pull it back but his palm continues to keep the beat along with the heel of his boot against the dense dust which lies in snowdrifts atop the motel room floor. The dust spins up beautifully, caught unaware in the blinding beams of aged light. Still, it doesn’t really have anywhere to go and so it settles back down so that Nick may kick it up into swirls again and again. His kicking at the floor flows from his thigh, as in time as a metronome.
Joe is sat opposite him- his back against the damp stained wall, his lips pursed around a joint as he inhales- hungry, though his gullet moves smoothly. Nick breaks suddenly into song, voice beautiful but as brittle as the smoke which escapes in loose ribbons from Joe, as his lips curve into a smile and he follows Nick’s lead. He lets the joint smoulder between two fingers, bleed ash into the dust, as he harmonises and he smiles with a hundred twinkling teeth and he slaps his hand over his denim-clad thigh. His hand is fevered enough to bruise but he’s too numb from the drugs and immeasurable quantities of suffocating love to care.
It is amber between them: as warm and sticky as bottled beer left out on a porch. The smiles they share are alcohol-slicked-easy and they reach their eyes. They’re sitting but dancing- it’s in their twitching limbs and their pulse points, in the way that the syrupy warmth trembles when Nick’s voice cracks and Joe cries out- almost feral and frightened as his little brother’s eyes snap closed and his head snaps back. Nick strums with sudden vigour and he sings up past the ceiling and into the clouds.
“With a fire in my bones and the sweet taste of kerosene, I got lost in the night, so high I don’t wanna come down…”
Joe pushes himself up against the wall almost as if he’s following his little brothers singing up high, socked feet slipping against the floor until he’s steady, spine arched a little. He’s lithe and tanned and cast in hazy half-shadows and if Nick was looking he’d be forgetting to breath. One of Joe’s hands tugs through his dark dirty hair, the other holds his joint to his lips so that he can take a drag before he begins to sing back at him, imperfect- “To face the loss of the good thing that I’ve found.”
Nick glances up from his scuffed tapping toes to meet Joe’s gaze. Joe’s lips are wrapped around his spliff again and his free hand is awkwardly placed, clumsily twisted so that his wrist brushes his hair as his thumb rubs circles over the peeling wallpaper. Nick plays his guitar but he drops notes, abandons the rhythm in a way that he’d never do on stage. He sings still though, not caring that he’s lost it. The right words are still there, spilling from the tip of his tongue in a tangled but mellowed rush [towards Joe].
“In the dark of the night I hear you calling my name, with the hardest of hearts I still feel full of pain.”
Joe shakes his head just a little [as he continues, ‘so I drink and smoke and I ask if you’re ever around even though it was me who drove us right into the ground’]- like he can’t believe it. It pretty much encompassing everything: he’s locked in the dingiest room of a cheap roadside motel with his baby brother; they’re caked in the dust which just lingers infinitely inside 13a and dripping sweat and Nick is singing Kings Of Leon songs with this perfect passion, as though he penned the words himself; they’re harmonising and inhaling oxygen laced with weed and dancing but barely moving and they’re only aware of the solid orange heat pressed too close to their flesh. Joe can’t believe it because they don’t get chances like this. Ever.
Joe is never given ten meagre minutes to sit back with a cigarette [mostly because he’d probably be packed off to rehab if he was caught with so much as a Marlboro Menthol] and lavish all of this sleepy-eyed, warm-cheeked attention on his little brother. He loves that there’s nothing stopping him from staring right now as tears break down his brother’s mental damn and Nick lays himself back against the bed. His voice is gold dust skidding through gravel, pretty boy raw as the words tear themselves from the tissue of his lungs. It’s roughened by spliff smoke and beer from the 7/11; a carnal honesty he can only afford to reach for when he’s away from home.
“Gonna run baby, like a stream down a mountainside. With the wind at my back I wont even bat an eye, just know it was you all along who had a hold on my heart,” Nick’s writhes, his body twists one way and the sheets go the other as plays with his arms at awkward angles, “But the demon and me was the best of friends from the start!”
Joe watches Nick’s bones through his sweat-stained clothes; each muscle as it ripples- the tugged tendons of his throat, right up into the nook below his strong jaw line. Nick who is usually so calm and controlled. Joe is the dancer who’ll kick up his feet awkwardly, who’ll march and sprint, and Kevin spins and spins until he knocks the kids in the crowd nauseous with dizziness, but Nick’s always too busy clutching perfection in his fist to really feel each note attack each nerve ending. It’s exciting to see him immersing himself- scattered sunshine and tender emotion. It reminds Joe of the kids at their old Bible camp- the kids who thought they were sinners. They fell to the ground, scuffed their bony knees and wept as the blood went sticky and stung, choked on the Holy Ghost. In a way, those kids were lucky.
“Joe?” Nick’s voice is butterfly wing light, his eyes red rimmed and a little too bright as he looks up at his older brother awkwardly from his position on the drooping bed.
Joe moves to sit himself beside Nick, fingers over the material of his white tank- eyes over his brother’s flushed cheeks and full lips. He offers Nick the joint without needing to hear him ask and Nick takes it gratefully, fingers gentle around the rolled paper as he takes a shaky drag. Joe watches the saline gleam coating Nick’s skin; he watches the shapes in the smoke, the rise of fall of Nick’s chest. He removes the cumbersome guitar from his brother, places it down on the floor, and then he dips down to press a dry kiss to the corner of Nick’s lips, once the arm holding the spliff is up above them somewhere, and shifts to sing into the knots of dark hair just below Nick’s ear.
“So time we shared it was precious to me…”
Nick whimpers, hand sliding over Joe’s hip, up under his damp shirt and over sharp bones and fleshy hollows. Skin to skin burns. Joe kisses Nick again, lips against Nick’s earlobe before he strokes his tongue along the silky flesh. Their chests are pressed close, heartbeats ricocheting off of each other in slow motion. Joe drags his tantalizing lips, refreshing tongue, from Nick’s lobe to his jaw line. Nick is undone below Joe, opened up to the waning sunlight; the shafts of dust and the scent of spliff and lager; the comfortable weight over his brother.
Joe’s hand works it’s way between Nick’s thighs, heel of his palm up against his little brother’s denim crotch. Nick’s breathing shakes, his body shakes too. He pushes up from the bed and grinds against Joe’s intrusion, legs curling up around Joe so that he can roll back and forth against his palm. Joe plucks the joint from his brothers wilting arm, weakening grip, and takes lasts. He holds what he inhales as he flicks the butt to the floor and then kisses Nick- all open mouthed, sharing the coarse smoke, as Nick bucks helplessly against Joe’s forearm, trembling fingers knotted in Joe’s hair.
Beyond the drapes, uneven at the square window, the sun is sinking deep into the hills rolling alongside the highway; the room is evening time dark now. Still bright with sunlight but it’s richer, oil pastel shades of cerise and peach and a faint suggestion of violet blue. There are deeper shadows between their bodies as they tumble across the bed. They moan as they touch, as fingers knot themselves in hair and palms map out expanses of belly flesh and planes between ribs and collarbones, as they dry hump hands and thighs, grind into angular male hips.
They lose their clothes- expensive jeans, one hundred percent cotton tees and cowboy boots- and Nick slides down to the floor, as though in prayer on his knees, chest pressed close to bed. Joe shifts so that he can wrap his legs around his brother’s strong shoulders and Nick leans in and latches onto the searing flesh of Joe’s inner thighs- his tongue and teeth painting the skin in weak watercolour shades of bruise. Nick’s hand steadies Joe’s hips but Joe is desperate, rocking hopelessly with his head thrown back and his eye stinging, lashes sodden and darkened, feathered, with perspiration.
“Nick, fuck my baby Nick, Nick,” He chants, although his voice is barely there, although oxygen is barely there.
Nick allows himself a small shy smirk, just a fraction of a second of drugged up pride, before he wraps his lips around Joe and works the flat of his tongue flush against the hot solid flesh of his brother. One hand is still harsh at Joe’s hip, nails cutting cold half moons just below the jutting bone, the other at his thigh- kneading tender flesh as his tongue tastes Heaven, as his tongue swirls over the beads of pre-cum at the tip and pulls the sharp salt over pulsing veins. Joe’s taste, far more familiar than it should be, brings tears to Nick’s eyes. He ruts against the bed as his harsh cries of need are choked by Joe, becoming vibrations which shoot through Joe and along his spine, causing him to jerk and scream and lock his legs even more tightly around Nick’s broad back.
“Fuck me,” Nick manages to whisper, his throat sore, sensitive, his cock aching.
Joe whines as Nick pulls off of him to speak softly but he wastes no time in mourning the loss of wet heat around his length. Instead, he reaches out with tired arms to lift Nick up to his feet, guiding the sixteen year old into his lap.
“Fuck me,” Nick repeats, forehead falling to Joe’s shoulder, arms around his neck.
His breath catches in his throat, a shard of glass through skin, as Joe guides him lovingly onto his erection. Joe murmurs affectionately, tracing the ivory ridges Nick’s spine, stroking his wet curls, and assuring him that he’s that he’s beautiful, perfect, sensational. That the ache will fade- it always fades, right? It’s bittersweet, like being brutally murdered and reaching the golden gates of Heaven simultaneously, but Nick concentrates on following Joe’s breathing until the burn subsides and everything‘s weed-dulled and wet warm again. He’s only aware of Joe.
“Love you, Joe,” Nick breathes against Joe’s cheek
Now that Joe knows that he can, Joe begins to rock- roll back and thrust deep into the boy trembling in his lap. Nick moans and shakes and whines, clutching at Joe so desperately, hands soaked with sweat and slick against Joe’s flawless skin, neck to biceps. His fluttering breathing goes uneven against Joe’s shoulder, matches the wavering pattern of his heart. His jaw goes slack so that the moans keep tumbling free as Joe works him- pilots their movements with his hands at Nick’s undulating hips, his nose in his tousled hair- the scent of his brother spurs him on in the cheap motel room.
Nick and Joe’s dripping chests meet as Nick takes Joe deeper, grinding when he feels the first flicker of Joe against his prostate. His mind’s sluggish from the weed and the beer and the pressure of the oven hot heat, but his body’s hyper-sensitive- it wont let him rest as the fierce fist of his approaching orgasm punches him in the gut, exploding into white wax butterflies. He aches, from his eyes [vision nothing but a salty, radiant blur] to his toes, which are curling and cramping as he bounces and grinds with all that his body has left. He groans like a little animal- for Joe, for stolen freedom, for fucking in dust and diminishing daylight, for the Kings Of Leon.
Joe‘s hand encircles Nick‘s erection, caught between them. It’s tired, a little loose and lazy around the pulsating flesh, but Nick screams. It’s enough. It’s white hot and ice cold. The juxtaposition is the key to unlocking the lust and love and life that’s been honey golden static between the two boys since they first turned Nick’s mustang off course hours earlier, the key to setting off the fireworks.
They explode, rocking the framework of the motel it’s self. The lack of control leaves them both coated in each other’s release and sweat and spit. Nick throws his forehead, sopping ringlets grazing his eyelashes, against Joe’s shoulder and locks his jaw to mute the yell that follows his come as it shoots out over his brother’s tanned belly flesh in pearly strings. The exertion is wonderful and his whole body goes tense enough to drag Joe’s release from him as he thrusts with the last of his quaking energy up into his little brother. His scream throws the room’s dust up in a sparkling downpour; the reverberations keeping them moving against each other, milking their orgasms until they’re positive that they’ve lost it all entirely. Until they’re too spent to even feel flesh and bone and muscle as they hold each other.
“It’s so hot…” Nick whispers, as he finally opens his eyes and moves his drained body ever so slightly; though despite complaining about the temperature he makes no move to shift away from Joe, merged against him post-coital.
“You’re so hot,” Joe grins, pressing his lips to the beads of sweat at Nick’s temple. The tip of his tongue swipes over the flesh, Nick’s usually pure taste tainted with sex and illicit substances. His hand curls around Nick’s ass, finger tips stroking, grasp a little possessive, “Fuck Nicholas, do you know how hot you are with passion and acoustic?”
Nick raises an eyebrow, shakes his head as much as he can muster and settles back against the touch of Joe’s palm to his behind, “No?” He whispers.
“It’s just like…” Joe laughs- brings up his free hand to force his own wavy hair from his face- his smile is brighter than the midday sun had been, dazzling. Just for Nick, “I thought we’d grab those beers, a bit of grass and just chill you know; escape and talk and not have to worry about set list changes and appointments and Dad’s knitted brow… and then… God, you got all intense, in your eyes, in your voice…” Joe gives up on his hair and traces the cupid’s bow of Nick’s lips, instead.
“You were singing good too,” Nick murmurs- his cheeks as pink as the evening’s clouds had been- “I was just a little gone… didn’t even keep the tune, Joe.” For a second his lips part and he sucks softy on the very tip of Joe’s thumb, eyes ghosting closed.
“No… it was,” Joe swallows a moan as he feels the tip of Nick’s tongue, “Epic. Golden. Legendary. Sing for me again, Nicholas?” Nick shakes his head and Joe’s thumb slips from his lips so that his hand can cup his cheek, slide down to knot in the sodden curls at the back of Nick’s head, over his neck. He tugs in a way that’s reminiscent of their childhood scraps and Nick’s beautiful lips curve into soft and silly childhood smile.
“My guitar’s all the way down there,” He laughs breathily, “too much effort to reach down for it…”
Joe shakes his head, locking his gaze with Nick’s for a second before falling into a kiss with him without warning. He sucks hungrily, teasingly at his little brother’s lower lip, lets teeth graze the spongy flesh and then sits back. Satisfied with himself, “Acapella, Nicholas.”
Nick bites back a whimper but shakes his head again- eyes wide, hoping for another…
“Baby!” Joe allows his little brother one more small kiss but then pulls back defiantly, “Now sing.”
13a had gone indigo since they’d first clicked open their cans and supped sweet lager. Where there once had been Polaroid shafts of brilliant lemon light there were now secret shadows and white glints, reflecting the moon. But, the room still smelt of the joints they’d lit and smoked and shared; the slow day they’d spent watching and touching and loving, and when Nick began to sing [‘but all the while I was dreaming of revelry’ ] Joe forced himself to his feet, despite the arguing agony in his bones, and held out his hands for Nick to take.
What a night for a dance,
You know I’m a dancing machine,
With the fire in my bones…