ficlet | Thanksgiving | Brendon/Shane | pg-13 | 850 words |
So, it's Thanksgiving weekend and I wrote this little bit of stupidness. IDK, cuz I guess it isn't even Thanksgiving for Brendon and Shane, but anyway.
Brendon/Shane, pg-13, 850 words. Same 'verse as Everything Else, I guess.
"Did you buy sparkling apple juice for the kids?" Shane asks.
"I bought sparkling apple juice for the kids," Brendon confirms.
"We've got the turkey in the oven, and it should be ready by seven, and did you finish peeling the potatoes?"
"Yup," Brendon says. "They're boiling on the stove."
"Already?" Shane asks. "Brendon, your family isn't going to be here until 6; it's way too fucking early to cook the potatoes."
"Nah, it'll be good," Brendon says. "We can just keep them warm on the stove."
"They're going to dry out." Shane looks around the kitchen, trying to remember where he left the can of cranberry sauce. "Or, well, given how much butter you always put it, maybe they won't."
"See, exactly," Brendon says. "It'll be fine."
"Next time you tell your family that they should come to Thanksgiving dinner at our house, we're going to fucking cater it," Shane says. He pushes his hair away from his face. His forehead is sweaty, and his bangs are a little damp. Shit, is there time for another shower?
"Everyone's going to bring food, anyway," Brendon says. "If everything gets fucked up, we can totally just eat their shit. Hopefully there will be lots of pumpkin pie."
Shane walks over to the oven to check again that it's still turned to the right temperature.
"Do you think we should have made pumpkin pie?" Brendon asks.
"Do you know how to make pumpkin pie?" Shane asks.
"No," Brendon says. He quirks his mouth to the side and bounces on the balls of his feet. Oh, great, now Brendon's getting nervous.
"Do you want me to go buy one from the store?" Shane offers.
Brendon continues to bounce, then unquirks his mouth. "No, it's okay," he says. "We've got it under control. It's going to be fine."
Shane nods, then takes a deep breath.
"At least you're not, like, meeting my family for the first time or whatever," Brendon says.
"I guess," says Shane.
Shane crosses his arms, and Brendon continues to bounce up and down, and they stand in silence in the middle of the kitchen, until -- "You're got fucking toothpaste on your shirt," Shane says, gesturing with one hand.
Brendon looks down at his shirt, raising his eyebrows. "Huh," he says, then reaches for the dish cloth in the sink, dabbing at his shirt.
Shane reaches out and snatches the cloth away from Brendon. "I just used that to wipe up turkey grease," Shane says. "Go change your shirt."
"I think it'll be okay," Brendon says. He licks his finger and rubs at the white spot.
"Change your shirt," Shane says.
"Dude, what? It's just toothpaste. I'm pretty sure my parents have seen me with toothpaste on my shirt before," Brendon says. "Oh, is it 'cause you're worried it looks like something like?"
Shane stares blankly. "What?"
Brendon wiggles his eyebrows.
Shane covers his eyes with his hand, then digs his fingers into his forehead. "No, I don't think your parents will think it looks like jizz," Shane grits out.
Brendon shrugs. "'kay, 'cause you've got a little something," he gestures, "right there on your pants, and I'm pretty sure that's not toothpaste."
Shane looks down. "Brendon! Have you ruined another pair of my pants? Just-- never mind. We both need to go change."
He grabs Brendon's arm and drags him down the hall to the bedroom, Brendon trotting along peaceable behind him.
Shane lets go of Brendon and starts rummaging around through the closet.
"Do we own an iron?" he asks, holding up another pair of pants and shaking them.
Brendon waits until Shane turns around to face him before he starts pulling off his shirt, slowly.
"I dunno," Brendon says, shaking his bangs out of his eyes and letting the shirt drop onto the floor. "Do we own an iron?"
"I don't know," Shane says. He shakes the pants again. "Do you think these'll be okay?"
"What about those grey ones?" Brendon suggests.
Shane pulls another pair out of the closet. "These?"
"Yeah," Brendon says. He walks over and stands in front of Shane, sliding his fingers to the waistband of the pants that Shane's wearing. He says, "Kiss for luck?" then makes fishlips.
Shane doesn't fail to notice the way that Brendon's pulling down his zipper as they kiss, but whatever. Shane needs to put new pants on anyway. And he appreciates the distraction.
Shane lets Brendon back him over to the bed, and as they fall back onto the mattress, they both start reaching for the lube, resting on the bedside table, at the same time.
"I'm not letting you fuck me before dinner with your family," Shane says.
"Well, I'm not sitting through dinner with an itchy ass," says Brendon.
Shane makes a face.
"Stress relieving blowjobs?" Brendon suggests.
Shane glances at the clock. They could probably go ten minutes without checking the turkey. "Yeah, that'll work," he says.
Brendon/Shane, pg-13, 850 words. Same 'verse as Everything Else, I guess.
"Did you buy sparkling apple juice for the kids?" Shane asks.
"I bought sparkling apple juice for the kids," Brendon confirms.
"We've got the turkey in the oven, and it should be ready by seven, and did you finish peeling the potatoes?"
"Yup," Brendon says. "They're boiling on the stove."
"Already?" Shane asks. "Brendon, your family isn't going to be here until 6; it's way too fucking early to cook the potatoes."
"Nah, it'll be good," Brendon says. "We can just keep them warm on the stove."
"They're going to dry out." Shane looks around the kitchen, trying to remember where he left the can of cranberry sauce. "Or, well, given how much butter you always put it, maybe they won't."
"See, exactly," Brendon says. "It'll be fine."
"Next time you tell your family that they should come to Thanksgiving dinner at our house, we're going to fucking cater it," Shane says. He pushes his hair away from his face. His forehead is sweaty, and his bangs are a little damp. Shit, is there time for another shower?
"Everyone's going to bring food, anyway," Brendon says. "If everything gets fucked up, we can totally just eat their shit. Hopefully there will be lots of pumpkin pie."
Shane walks over to the oven to check again that it's still turned to the right temperature.
"Do you think we should have made pumpkin pie?" Brendon asks.
"Do you know how to make pumpkin pie?" Shane asks.
"No," Brendon says. He quirks his mouth to the side and bounces on the balls of his feet. Oh, great, now Brendon's getting nervous.
"Do you want me to go buy one from the store?" Shane offers.
Brendon continues to bounce, then unquirks his mouth. "No, it's okay," he says. "We've got it under control. It's going to be fine."
Shane nods, then takes a deep breath.
"At least you're not, like, meeting my family for the first time or whatever," Brendon says.
"I guess," says Shane.
Shane crosses his arms, and Brendon continues to bounce up and down, and they stand in silence in the middle of the kitchen, until -- "You're got fucking toothpaste on your shirt," Shane says, gesturing with one hand.
Brendon looks down at his shirt, raising his eyebrows. "Huh," he says, then reaches for the dish cloth in the sink, dabbing at his shirt.
Shane reaches out and snatches the cloth away from Brendon. "I just used that to wipe up turkey grease," Shane says. "Go change your shirt."
"I think it'll be okay," Brendon says. He licks his finger and rubs at the white spot.
"Change your shirt," Shane says.
"Dude, what? It's just toothpaste. I'm pretty sure my parents have seen me with toothpaste on my shirt before," Brendon says. "Oh, is it 'cause you're worried it looks like something like?"
Shane stares blankly. "What?"
Brendon wiggles his eyebrows.
Shane covers his eyes with his hand, then digs his fingers into his forehead. "No, I don't think your parents will think it looks like jizz," Shane grits out.
Brendon shrugs. "'kay, 'cause you've got a little something," he gestures, "right there on your pants, and I'm pretty sure that's not toothpaste."
Shane looks down. "Brendon! Have you ruined another pair of my pants? Just-- never mind. We both need to go change."
He grabs Brendon's arm and drags him down the hall to the bedroom, Brendon trotting along peaceable behind him.
Shane lets go of Brendon and starts rummaging around through the closet.
"Do we own an iron?" he asks, holding up another pair of pants and shaking them.
Brendon waits until Shane turns around to face him before he starts pulling off his shirt, slowly.
"I dunno," Brendon says, shaking his bangs out of his eyes and letting the shirt drop onto the floor. "Do we own an iron?"
"I don't know," Shane says. He shakes the pants again. "Do you think these'll be okay?"
"What about those grey ones?" Brendon suggests.
Shane pulls another pair out of the closet. "These?"
"Yeah," Brendon says. He walks over and stands in front of Shane, sliding his fingers to the waistband of the pants that Shane's wearing. He says, "Kiss for luck?" then makes fishlips.
Shane doesn't fail to notice the way that Brendon's pulling down his zipper as they kiss, but whatever. Shane needs to put new pants on anyway. And he appreciates the distraction.
Shane lets Brendon back him over to the bed, and as they fall back onto the mattress, they both start reaching for the lube, resting on the bedside table, at the same time.
"I'm not letting you fuck me before dinner with your family," Shane says.
"Well, I'm not sitting through dinner with an itchy ass," says Brendon.
Shane makes a face.
"Stress relieving blowjobs?" Brendon suggests.
Shane glances at the clock. They could probably go ten minutes without checking the turkey. "Yeah, that'll work," he says.