Bandom ficlet: You Still Have All Your Clothes On (Brendon/Jon, NC-17)
Title: You Still Have All Your Clothes On
Pairing: Brendon/Jon
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A rainstorm comes, and then they have sex. No, really; that's it. Just random fluffy porn to jolt me out of a writing slump. 2600 words.
Note: Ironically, the day I began to get over a bout of writer's block was the day before the announcement of the Big Split. At that point, I'd written about half of this, so I decided I ought to finish it. I don't know if self-indulgent domestic porn is the world's best or world's worst way of coping, but here it is.
You Still Have All Your Clothes On
Brendon's out walking the dogs when the rainstorm comes. As rare as rain is out here, Jon has no doubt that Brendon will be just as happy getting caught in it as the dogs are. And he'll probably smell about as good when he gets in.
The storm is a quick thing, and the pavement is already drying in the powerful desert sun when Jon hears the scuffling sound of sneakers and the shake and rattle of collars and leashes on the porch. Jon lets himself out the door without letting the dogs in, and pats their heads as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and settles in to watch Brendon as he's furiously scratching his fingers through his hair, droplets flying from his near buzz cut. Jon's finally gotten used to it, the way it feels under his hands, or against his neck when they're sleeping.
As he unties his shoes, Brendon looks up at him through those dark lashes of his, smiles and says, "Hey, look: the sky made water."
"I didn’t even know the sky here could do that."
As he stands up, Brendon just nods very seriously through his smile, like this is a wonderful but sacred occasion.
Before he comes in, Brendon lets the dogs out into the back yard to dry off a bit before they're allowed to be inside the house again. Even though the concrete must be hot to the soles of his feet, he takes the time to shake the dregs of dirt and rainwater out of the dogs' bowls and refill them with the hose. Then he stops to pet each of them one last time and chatter at them about how good a day it is. Jon has to admit this is one of his three thousand favorite things about Brendon, this tireless care and affection he has for their sort of ridiculous menageries of pets.
Finally, Brendon comes inside and, predictably, starts stripping out of his wet clothes. His jeans aren't the skin-tight sort, but wet denim is never particularly easy to get out of. He does a ridiculous little hobbling dance, a not especially sexy one, to get free of them. They hit the floor in a pile near the door along with a pair of orange briefs. His shirt ends up discarded somewhere in the hallway as he makes his progress to the bedroom.
Apparently, it used to drive Shane crazy how fucking carelessly messy he could be, but Jon doesn't really mind too much, most days. He just goes behind him and collects the wet things and deposits them in the laundry room. He doesn't even think about washing or drying them, though; if Brendon wants that done, he'll have to do it himself. Spencer thinks things like this are why Jon and Brendon are perfect together. Jon easily tolerates the whirlwind that Brendon is (where Ryan can't quite) without feeling the need to totally become his mother (like Spencer does). Jon, however, thinks about perfect in a different vein, given the view he has of Brendon's ass as he disappears into the bedroom.
Jon expects to hear the shower start up, but after just a minute or two, Brendon wanders out into the living room. He's not naked anymore, which is surprising, but all he's wearing is a pair of Jon's boxers--faded blue plaid ones with old, worn-out elastic that makes them hang off his hips in a pretty filthy way. From the couch, Jon just raises his eyebrows.
Brendon runs a palm across his stomach, one of his typically half-coy but entirely unsubtle seduction techniques.
"I have this rule," Brendon says, doing something very serious with his dark eyes. Then his mouth goes into a bit of a pout. "When it rains, you have to fuck me."
"Since when?"
"What?"
"Really, Bren, I'm curious to know about this rule and how long it's been in effect."
Brendon puts his hands on his barely covered hips. "I offer up my body," he grouses, eyes narrowed, "to satisfy all your depraved lusts, and you want to get technical on me?"
That very few of their mutual lusts would even aspire to qualify as depraved is beside the point, really. Brendon likes to play at being put-upon. Jon likes to provoke him by pretending not to care. It's just this ridiculous way they are.
"Technicality matters," Jon says calmly, his eyes never leaving Brendon's. "For instance, if this has always been a rule, I've broken it a lot of times. Makes me pretty sad, actually. We should've been fucking for…years now."
Brendon's diva posture finally drops as he rolls his eyes. "Don't remind me." With that, he slinks ungracefully over to Jon and drapes himself across his lap, all damp hair and warm skin and worn cotton. He smells like dust and rain and the dogs and Brendon. It's really pretty perfect.
"Also," Jon says softly in his ear, teasingly, "it makes a difference to know if, technically, I have to be inside you or not, because if not, I'd kind of like to suck you off."
Brendon squirms a little against him, and his voice drops into that low, thick register it does only when he's playing droll and sarcastic or he's all stirred up. "You," he says, dipping his head down to nip at Jon's neck hard enough to make a blunt, quick pain, "shall have what you want, because you are obviously a much more knowledgeable shaman of rain ritual than I am."
Jon giggles against the back of Brendon's neck. "You," he replies, mocking his dramatic pause, "are seriously bizarre, but luckily you're killing me in those boxers, you shameless little whore."
"Yeah," Brendon says, laughing even as he pushes back from him and stands up just long enough to turn and face him again, dropping back into his lap straddling him, apparently so he can waste no time in fitting their hips together for a slow grind. They're both only half hard, but there's something so obscene about the roughness of Jon's jeans meeting no resistance but a thin layer of cotton, and it makes him both shudder. Brendon suddenly reaches up and grabs Jon's face so he can tip their foreheads together. He's still got a grin on his face, a sly one.
"Yeah, I'm totally a whore for you," Brendon says, "but you're the one about to get on your knees for me."
Jon snorts. "I'm about to get on my back on that big soft bed of yours, you mean."
"Really?" he says with a grin. "That worked?" Then his eyes go wide. "Wait, what?"
Jon kisses his neck, grinning. "You know what."
"Like, with me up on your chest and…?"
Jon nods, then without warning he twists them and presses Brendon's back into the couch. He kisses him hard before he can even get a breath, but so soon Brendon's kissing him back, eagerly wrapping his arms and legs around him and holding on for dear life. After a moment, though, the kissing turns softer but no less frantic, and their hands start wandering, Brendon's warm palms sliding up under his shirt, over his belly and down and around to his love handles.
Brendon murmurs against his mouth, "You still have all your clothes on."
Jon was thinking the same thing, but in a good way. It's sort of hot to have Brendon mostly naked and vulnerable, warm and smooth against him while he's still in jeans and a t-shirt. Of course, he's rethinking that more and more the longer they stay on the couch kissing like it's going out of style, Brendon wiggling his narrow hips under him in ways that ought to be illegal.
And he's rethinking the blowjob, too. It might be really nice to fuck him after all. He would take his time, lay Brendon out on the king sized bed and make him so incoherent with lust he'd be wild when Jon finally pressed inside. First, he'd rim him, then stretch him slow with three fingers so he could sink all the way in on the first thrust. Brendon's nice and bendy, and he loves getting fucked, so he could keep him on his back and take him as long and slow as he wanted.
But who is he kidding? He doesn't have the patience just now, and Brendon often has a one-track mind about sex, especially if he's going to get his dick sucked. Unsurprisingly, then, he's the one to pull back and say, "C'mon, bedroom."
Jon follows him down the hallway with his hands on Brendon's hips, fingertips under the waistband of his boxers, watching the way his ass moves under the material. When they get to the bedroom and Brendon turns, he likes this view maybe even better, with Brendon's cock tenting out the boxers and threatening to slip out through the slit.
Brendon stays at the foot of the bed and waits until Jon's propped up against the headboard before he pulls the elastic out and down over his cock. He leaves the boxers hugging his hips for a moment as he strokes himself a few times because he knows Jon likes to watch. His other hand sneaks down to give his balls a light squeeze and roll against his palm as he pushes the boxers over them, too, then he suddenly drops the underwear down and off and immediately climbs up onto the bed.
Jon's already reaching out to pull him close, but Brendon hovers over Jon's legs, hands on Jon's ankles.
"Can I take off these?" he asks, tugging at the hem of Jon's jeans.
"Why?" As if he doesn't know why. As if he's not expecting this.
Brendon's already sliding up his body so he can work at his fly. "It would be hot," he says. "To have you naked under me. And then I'll have easy access. You know, for after."
"Lazy bastard," Jon murmurs as he lifts his hips, but the protest is mostly for show. It's kind of maddening being naked when he can't do anything about it, but it's a good sort of maddening. Besides, he's not about to argue with his gorgeous naked boyfriend.
Brendon pulls off his jeans and underwear all at once, then Jon sits up so Brendon can pull his shirt over his head. By the time Brendon stretches out over him again, this time with skin on skin, Jon's decided he was so, so wrong about the friction of clothes, because skin is the best thing ever. And Brendon's mouth, his tongue licking along Jon's lower lip before it slides inside.
Not that Brendon wastes much time with groping and kissing, not when both of them are so hard and needy and ready. As he settles into place straddling Jon's chest, Jon throws his arms back and hooks his fingers into a slat in the headboard because Brendon likes being in control. Brendon's keeping his hand at the base of his dick anyway, only giving Jon as much as he can take. Brendon doesn't need him to deep throat or anything complicated, just make a good suction and let him thrust at whatever pace he wants.
Brendon's on the small side of average, but Jon thinks about dicks pretty much the same way he does tits: there's something to love about every size. What he loves about Brendon's dick is how perfectly it fits in his mouth, how Jon can take him in pretty far and curl his tongue around the head, but how he's big enough to feel heavy and substantial on Jon's tongue. It's the same for the weight of his small frame on Jon's chest-solid but not crushing.
Jon closes his eyes at first. If he doesn't, he'll get overwhelmed by the way Brendon's narrow hips look sliding toward his face, the muscles in his abs clenching and his dick wet and red as it slides out of his mouth and back in again. The sensations, though--they aren't making it any easier for him to keep it together. He loves the way Brendon smells, the strong musk he has that just gets stronger when he's aroused, and he loves the vulnerable little sounds he makes when Jon's mouth is on him. He likes the taste, too, and feeling Brendon's cock swell and harden against his tongue.
Once Brendon gets close, he starts talking, never anything all that complex, just an uninterrupted stream of encouragement.
"Fuck, baby, so good, so good Jon, yeah, just like that, like-- Oh, god, yeah, don't stop. Taking me so good. Do you know how fucking good you are with your mouth? Fuck, fuck fuck fuck, don't stop Jon, please don't stop."
Moments later when he comes, he goes silent, and Jon's watching. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open in an obscene pant, and Jon really, really needs to be touched now, before he explodes.
Brendon gets kind of lazy and languid after an orgasm, but he manages to climb off and slide down beside him so he can stroke him hard and fast, never taking his eyes off Jon's face even as Jon's hips pump up to push his cock through the circle of Brendon's fist. He'd thought he'd come so fast, but for some reason his body's being stubborn, almost to the point of frustration. Every thrust has him right at the edge, but he's so wound up he's afraid it won't happen at all. Then Brendon presses his face against Jon's neck, a soft kiss just under his ear, and says, "God, baby, so hot." And Jon loses it.
He's still a little twitchy from his orgasm as Brendon curls around him and puts his head on his chest. Brendon's hair's a little damp, but it might not have anything to do with the rain. They're both pretty sweaty.
"Shower?" Jon says.
Brendon makes a grumpy noise and clings tighter, but after a moment he rolls over onto his back and, smiling sleepily with eyes closed, murmurs, "Okay, but then we gotta let the dogs in. It's hot out there."
"How 'bout we let the dogs in first. Or else we'll probably need another shower."
Brendon chuckles as he rolls himself over to the edge of the bed and plants his feet on the ground.
"I bet they're not all dried off already," Brendon says.
Jon reluctantly sits up, still a little shaky, and crowds up behind Brendon where he's perched on the edge of the bed. Jon hooks his chin over Brendon's shoulder.
He says, "I bet they are."
"You're on. Pizza, I'm right. You're right…"
"Tacos."
"You're not sick of tacos yet?"
"Being sick of tacos would be like being sick of you."
"Aww, Jon Walker," he says, disentangling himself from Jon's arms so he can totter to his feet and look down at him, smirking. "You're so sweet when your own dog is about to help you lose a bet."
As Brendon bends over to find his discarded boxers, Jon reaches out and slaps his ass. Brendon yelps playfully, and instantly there's an echoing yelp from the back yard.
"Traitor," Jon mutters as Brendon collapses on the bed, giggling in ways that make it impossible for Jon to resist tickling him.
~
Pairing: Brendon/Jon
Rating: NC-17
Summary: A rainstorm comes, and then they have sex. No, really; that's it. Just random fluffy porn to jolt me out of a writing slump. 2600 words.
Note: Ironically, the day I began to get over a bout of writer's block was the day before the announcement of the Big Split. At that point, I'd written about half of this, so I decided I ought to finish it. I don't know if self-indulgent domestic porn is the world's best or world's worst way of coping, but here it is.
You Still Have All Your Clothes On
Brendon's out walking the dogs when the rainstorm comes. As rare as rain is out here, Jon has no doubt that Brendon will be just as happy getting caught in it as the dogs are. And he'll probably smell about as good when he gets in.
The storm is a quick thing, and the pavement is already drying in the powerful desert sun when Jon hears the scuffling sound of sneakers and the shake and rattle of collars and leashes on the porch. Jon lets himself out the door without letting the dogs in, and pats their heads as he leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and settles in to watch Brendon as he's furiously scratching his fingers through his hair, droplets flying from his near buzz cut. Jon's finally gotten used to it, the way it feels under his hands, or against his neck when they're sleeping.
As he unties his shoes, Brendon looks up at him through those dark lashes of his, smiles and says, "Hey, look: the sky made water."
"I didn’t even know the sky here could do that."
As he stands up, Brendon just nods very seriously through his smile, like this is a wonderful but sacred occasion.
Before he comes in, Brendon lets the dogs out into the back yard to dry off a bit before they're allowed to be inside the house again. Even though the concrete must be hot to the soles of his feet, he takes the time to shake the dregs of dirt and rainwater out of the dogs' bowls and refill them with the hose. Then he stops to pet each of them one last time and chatter at them about how good a day it is. Jon has to admit this is one of his three thousand favorite things about Brendon, this tireless care and affection he has for their sort of ridiculous menageries of pets.
Finally, Brendon comes inside and, predictably, starts stripping out of his wet clothes. His jeans aren't the skin-tight sort, but wet denim is never particularly easy to get out of. He does a ridiculous little hobbling dance, a not especially sexy one, to get free of them. They hit the floor in a pile near the door along with a pair of orange briefs. His shirt ends up discarded somewhere in the hallway as he makes his progress to the bedroom.
Apparently, it used to drive Shane crazy how fucking carelessly messy he could be, but Jon doesn't really mind too much, most days. He just goes behind him and collects the wet things and deposits them in the laundry room. He doesn't even think about washing or drying them, though; if Brendon wants that done, he'll have to do it himself. Spencer thinks things like this are why Jon and Brendon are perfect together. Jon easily tolerates the whirlwind that Brendon is (where Ryan can't quite) without feeling the need to totally become his mother (like Spencer does). Jon, however, thinks about perfect in a different vein, given the view he has of Brendon's ass as he disappears into the bedroom.
Jon expects to hear the shower start up, but after just a minute or two, Brendon wanders out into the living room. He's not naked anymore, which is surprising, but all he's wearing is a pair of Jon's boxers--faded blue plaid ones with old, worn-out elastic that makes them hang off his hips in a pretty filthy way. From the couch, Jon just raises his eyebrows.
Brendon runs a palm across his stomach, one of his typically half-coy but entirely unsubtle seduction techniques.
"I have this rule," Brendon says, doing something very serious with his dark eyes. Then his mouth goes into a bit of a pout. "When it rains, you have to fuck me."
"Since when?"
"What?"
"Really, Bren, I'm curious to know about this rule and how long it's been in effect."
Brendon puts his hands on his barely covered hips. "I offer up my body," he grouses, eyes narrowed, "to satisfy all your depraved lusts, and you want to get technical on me?"
That very few of their mutual lusts would even aspire to qualify as depraved is beside the point, really. Brendon likes to play at being put-upon. Jon likes to provoke him by pretending not to care. It's just this ridiculous way they are.
"Technicality matters," Jon says calmly, his eyes never leaving Brendon's. "For instance, if this has always been a rule, I've broken it a lot of times. Makes me pretty sad, actually. We should've been fucking for…years now."
Brendon's diva posture finally drops as he rolls his eyes. "Don't remind me." With that, he slinks ungracefully over to Jon and drapes himself across his lap, all damp hair and warm skin and worn cotton. He smells like dust and rain and the dogs and Brendon. It's really pretty perfect.
"Also," Jon says softly in his ear, teasingly, "it makes a difference to know if, technically, I have to be inside you or not, because if not, I'd kind of like to suck you off."
Brendon squirms a little against him, and his voice drops into that low, thick register it does only when he's playing droll and sarcastic or he's all stirred up. "You," he says, dipping his head down to nip at Jon's neck hard enough to make a blunt, quick pain, "shall have what you want, because you are obviously a much more knowledgeable shaman of rain ritual than I am."
Jon giggles against the back of Brendon's neck. "You," he replies, mocking his dramatic pause, "are seriously bizarre, but luckily you're killing me in those boxers, you shameless little whore."
"Yeah," Brendon says, laughing even as he pushes back from him and stands up just long enough to turn and face him again, dropping back into his lap straddling him, apparently so he can waste no time in fitting their hips together for a slow grind. They're both only half hard, but there's something so obscene about the roughness of Jon's jeans meeting no resistance but a thin layer of cotton, and it makes him both shudder. Brendon suddenly reaches up and grabs Jon's face so he can tip their foreheads together. He's still got a grin on his face, a sly one.
"Yeah, I'm totally a whore for you," Brendon says, "but you're the one about to get on your knees for me."
Jon snorts. "I'm about to get on my back on that big soft bed of yours, you mean."
"Really?" he says with a grin. "That worked?" Then his eyes go wide. "Wait, what?"
Jon kisses his neck, grinning. "You know what."
"Like, with me up on your chest and…?"
Jon nods, then without warning he twists them and presses Brendon's back into the couch. He kisses him hard before he can even get a breath, but so soon Brendon's kissing him back, eagerly wrapping his arms and legs around him and holding on for dear life. After a moment, though, the kissing turns softer but no less frantic, and their hands start wandering, Brendon's warm palms sliding up under his shirt, over his belly and down and around to his love handles.
Brendon murmurs against his mouth, "You still have all your clothes on."
Jon was thinking the same thing, but in a good way. It's sort of hot to have Brendon mostly naked and vulnerable, warm and smooth against him while he's still in jeans and a t-shirt. Of course, he's rethinking that more and more the longer they stay on the couch kissing like it's going out of style, Brendon wiggling his narrow hips under him in ways that ought to be illegal.
And he's rethinking the blowjob, too. It might be really nice to fuck him after all. He would take his time, lay Brendon out on the king sized bed and make him so incoherent with lust he'd be wild when Jon finally pressed inside. First, he'd rim him, then stretch him slow with three fingers so he could sink all the way in on the first thrust. Brendon's nice and bendy, and he loves getting fucked, so he could keep him on his back and take him as long and slow as he wanted.
But who is he kidding? He doesn't have the patience just now, and Brendon often has a one-track mind about sex, especially if he's going to get his dick sucked. Unsurprisingly, then, he's the one to pull back and say, "C'mon, bedroom."
Jon follows him down the hallway with his hands on Brendon's hips, fingertips under the waistband of his boxers, watching the way his ass moves under the material. When they get to the bedroom and Brendon turns, he likes this view maybe even better, with Brendon's cock tenting out the boxers and threatening to slip out through the slit.
Brendon stays at the foot of the bed and waits until Jon's propped up against the headboard before he pulls the elastic out and down over his cock. He leaves the boxers hugging his hips for a moment as he strokes himself a few times because he knows Jon likes to watch. His other hand sneaks down to give his balls a light squeeze and roll against his palm as he pushes the boxers over them, too, then he suddenly drops the underwear down and off and immediately climbs up onto the bed.
Jon's already reaching out to pull him close, but Brendon hovers over Jon's legs, hands on Jon's ankles.
"Can I take off these?" he asks, tugging at the hem of Jon's jeans.
"Why?" As if he doesn't know why. As if he's not expecting this.
Brendon's already sliding up his body so he can work at his fly. "It would be hot," he says. "To have you naked under me. And then I'll have easy access. You know, for after."
"Lazy bastard," Jon murmurs as he lifts his hips, but the protest is mostly for show. It's kind of maddening being naked when he can't do anything about it, but it's a good sort of maddening. Besides, he's not about to argue with his gorgeous naked boyfriend.
Brendon pulls off his jeans and underwear all at once, then Jon sits up so Brendon can pull his shirt over his head. By the time Brendon stretches out over him again, this time with skin on skin, Jon's decided he was so, so wrong about the friction of clothes, because skin is the best thing ever. And Brendon's mouth, his tongue licking along Jon's lower lip before it slides inside.
Not that Brendon wastes much time with groping and kissing, not when both of them are so hard and needy and ready. As he settles into place straddling Jon's chest, Jon throws his arms back and hooks his fingers into a slat in the headboard because Brendon likes being in control. Brendon's keeping his hand at the base of his dick anyway, only giving Jon as much as he can take. Brendon doesn't need him to deep throat or anything complicated, just make a good suction and let him thrust at whatever pace he wants.
Brendon's on the small side of average, but Jon thinks about dicks pretty much the same way he does tits: there's something to love about every size. What he loves about Brendon's dick is how perfectly it fits in his mouth, how Jon can take him in pretty far and curl his tongue around the head, but how he's big enough to feel heavy and substantial on Jon's tongue. It's the same for the weight of his small frame on Jon's chest-solid but not crushing.
Jon closes his eyes at first. If he doesn't, he'll get overwhelmed by the way Brendon's narrow hips look sliding toward his face, the muscles in his abs clenching and his dick wet and red as it slides out of his mouth and back in again. The sensations, though--they aren't making it any easier for him to keep it together. He loves the way Brendon smells, the strong musk he has that just gets stronger when he's aroused, and he loves the vulnerable little sounds he makes when Jon's mouth is on him. He likes the taste, too, and feeling Brendon's cock swell and harden against his tongue.
Once Brendon gets close, he starts talking, never anything all that complex, just an uninterrupted stream of encouragement.
"Fuck, baby, so good, so good Jon, yeah, just like that, like-- Oh, god, yeah, don't stop. Taking me so good. Do you know how fucking good you are with your mouth? Fuck, fuck fuck fuck, don't stop Jon, please don't stop."
Moments later when he comes, he goes silent, and Jon's watching. His eyes are closed and his mouth is open in an obscene pant, and Jon really, really needs to be touched now, before he explodes.
Brendon gets kind of lazy and languid after an orgasm, but he manages to climb off and slide down beside him so he can stroke him hard and fast, never taking his eyes off Jon's face even as Jon's hips pump up to push his cock through the circle of Brendon's fist. He'd thought he'd come so fast, but for some reason his body's being stubborn, almost to the point of frustration. Every thrust has him right at the edge, but he's so wound up he's afraid it won't happen at all. Then Brendon presses his face against Jon's neck, a soft kiss just under his ear, and says, "God, baby, so hot." And Jon loses it.
He's still a little twitchy from his orgasm as Brendon curls around him and puts his head on his chest. Brendon's hair's a little damp, but it might not have anything to do with the rain. They're both pretty sweaty.
"Shower?" Jon says.
Brendon makes a grumpy noise and clings tighter, but after a moment he rolls over onto his back and, smiling sleepily with eyes closed, murmurs, "Okay, but then we gotta let the dogs in. It's hot out there."
"How 'bout we let the dogs in first. Or else we'll probably need another shower."
Brendon chuckles as he rolls himself over to the edge of the bed and plants his feet on the ground.
"I bet they're not all dried off already," Brendon says.
Jon reluctantly sits up, still a little shaky, and crowds up behind Brendon where he's perched on the edge of the bed. Jon hooks his chin over Brendon's shoulder.
He says, "I bet they are."
"You're on. Pizza, I'm right. You're right…"
"Tacos."
"You're not sick of tacos yet?"
"Being sick of tacos would be like being sick of you."
"Aww, Jon Walker," he says, disentangling himself from Jon's arms so he can totter to his feet and look down at him, smirking. "You're so sweet when your own dog is about to help you lose a bet."
As Brendon bends over to find his discarded boxers, Jon reaches out and slaps his ass. Brendon yelps playfully, and instantly there's an echoing yelp from the back yard.
"Traitor," Jon mutters as Brendon collapses on the bed, giggling in ways that make it impossible for Jon to resist tickling him.
~