Is it really so strange?
Author: Raven
Title: Is it really so strange?
Pairing: Jon/his hand
Warnings: um. No. Unless jerking off is a trigger for you, you’re safe.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own. Title by The Smiths.
A/N: It eventually had to happen. Chronicles-Jon.
Jon Walker was pretty happy with his role as supporting cast to the general fuck-fest, he really was. He’s a bass player, for God’s sake, it’s in his nature to take a back-seat. Also, everyone had already taken their vows when he had joined the band. He hadn’t planned on getting involved. The couple of episodes he witnessed didn’t bother him, but he was the dude with the steady girlfriend and two cats. The straight dude.
The first time happens on the road from nowhere to nowhere, he’s guessing it was the Midwest cause there’s a lot of nowhere all around. It’s a bus. It’s couples on a bus. It’s couples in bunks. While they’re at least trying to keep it down, there’s absolutely no way you don’t hear two guys fucking when it happens a couple of inches from your ears, whatever anyone might pretend the next morning.
He never minded. He never actually got off on it either. So he’s lying there in the dark, Shane and Brendon above him, Spencer and Ryan suspiciously silent across the little corridor between the bunks. Jon suspects they take turns cause it’s not polite to have four people fucking in the same bunk area while one has a girlfriend in a land far, far away.
He can imagine Ryan’s eyebrows raised and his facial expression indignant at the amount of noise Brendon and Shane make. Cause Ryan’s totally not self-aware enough to know he and Spencer aren’t exactly stealth ninjas when it comes to the art of silent anal intercourse and that Spencer’s rim jobs make him sound like a cheap, desperate whore.
Whatever. The point is, he’s always been fine with listening. He’s NOT fine with the fact that suddenly, things start happening in his pants. It’s the rhythm of Brendon’s shaky, urgent breaths and little gasps, off-set slightly against Shane’s lower, deeper moans. It’s the tiny whispers that sound thick with secrets and promises and that he can never quite decipher no matter how hard he tries.
It’s his over-active imagination and photographer’s eye that fills the blanks, that supplies possible movements, positions and facial expressions. His level of expertise at interpreting what he hears worries him slightly, but then, he’s from Chicago. There’s always someone fucking in a random bathroom, car, kitchen, pool, where ever. Skinny guys in Chicago get each other off hiding behind lamp-posts.
He lies in the dark and tries focusing on something else. Anything. When that doesn’t work, he thinks about Gabe and Mikeyway, but he’s not enough of a masochist to keep that going. He thinks about his aunt, the one with the beard to rival Spencer’s earlier attempts at growing facial hair, the one that crushes you in hugs and plants wet kisses all over your face leaving smears of purple lipstick everywhere. It might be the most powerful contraceptive ever invented, no one can justify beating off to that mental image, even if there’s an orgy going on one bed away.
Jon concentrates on being casual and unembarrassed the next morning and Shane and Brendon don’t notice if he’s maybe a little freaked out. Spencer does. Spencer is an ass. He totally knows, but doesn’t comment. Just watches Jon with that calculating expression, like he used to when Jon had started filling in for them on stage.
Spencer Smith notices too much shit. Spencer Smith rarely tells you this, but he’ll file the information away for a moment when he needs to use it against you.
The next night, it’s still the Midwest. The next night, it’s Spencer and Ryan. Ryan’s the only guy Jon’s ever come across - no, that he’s met cause he’s gonna ban any and all reference to coming from his vocabulary when it comes to Ryan. Case in point, he obviously fails at that. Anyway, Ryan’s the only guy he’s ever overheard who gets off in monotone. Until he really does get off, which is when the façade cracks and crumbles and he sounds desperate and raw for about a second and a half as he shoots his load. The next couple of minutes are silence and Jon knows Ryan’s replacing the fallen bricks. The build up is all even breaths, though. No panting, no begging and very unlike Brendon. Spencer too is a fairly quiet guy unless he really does let go. When he does… well. It’s pretty hot.
In a purely observant, uninvolved kind of way, obviously.
The night he jerks off to them having sex, no one is actually having sex. That doesn’t make it less creepy, though. He should lie there and drift and think about Cassie. Or at least about pussy in whatever shape or form. He’s a pretty simple guy when it comes to fantasies.
He’s not actually putting any effort in, he’s just lying there slowly running a hand over his boxers, feeling the fabric rubbing against his half-hard cock. He’s stoned enough to be able to do that forever, just enjoying the pleasant sensations without any real sense of urgency or need for release.
The image of Ryan lying next to him doing the exact same thing comes unbidden and without warning. They’re outside on a beach somewhere and Ryan’s got a joint between his lips and a hand in his pants. He’s smiling and the light from the late sunset casts shadows on his face. They exchange hits and lazy smiles and just fucking… Jon’s rock-hard even thinking about it and he almost pulls his hand back cause it makes him feel fucking guilty to get off to fantasies involving one of his best friends. Who is all but married to another best friend.
Jon doesn’t stop, though. He thinks about Spencer walking in on the situation. He can see Spencer standing there, towering over the both of them, his hips tilted and his eyebrows raised, a frown on his face as he’s trying to work shit out, an evil smile replacing the confusion when he’s arrived at the conclusion that this is fine with him. Maybe he’d sit down and watch. Maybe he’d tell Ryan that playing with yourself isn’t polite until the guest’s had some action. Maybe he’d get Ryan to blow him.
Jon’s quickly reaching the stage when cock wins over conscience, that peculiar half-turned on, half-embarrassed in-between where you know you’re too horny to let go of the fantasy, no matter how wrong. His hand slides into his boxers and he barely registers the moan escaping from his lips as he feels his calloused fingers rough on the smooth, warm skin of his dick. On a tour-bus, you train in the art of silent orgasm as a matter of course, but he can’t help it, what with the images.
He’s thinking about Spencer, about how Spencer would maybe crouch down on the floor next to him and close his fingers around his cock. How it’d be drier and rougher then his own grip, how Spencer wouldn’t waste time. The movement of his hand quickens and he bites back a gasp as he starts rubbing small circles over the head, spreading pre-come over his fingers before frantically picking up the pace again, better now, easier, with less friction.
He thinks about Ryan and Spencer in the next bunk and about Brendon and Shane above him, all of them holding their breaths, all of them listening as he’s getting closer and just that thought alone makes him come, hard and without warning, his hips arching up, pushing his cock into the tight grip of his hand once more as he shoots all over his hand, bed-sheets, stomach, boxers, whatever.
He feels vaguely guilty when he pulls back his hand and wipes it on the comforter, but tells himself that the guys all appreciate the fact that sometimes, a dude needs to get off, audience or none. The next morning, he can feel Spencer’s inquisitive stare and Brendon’s curious eyes. Shane’s the only one polite enough to just smirk and look somewhere else. Ryan’s the one who gets it. Ryan’s the one who leans over as he’s staring into his cup of coffee and whispers: “I’m pretty sure Spencer wouldn’t mind, man.”
Ryan’s pretty definitely the Anti-Christ. Ryan’s way too good at living in a fantasy world not to recognize when other people do the same thing. Ryan’s hot. Jon’s got a girlfriend and two cats. Jon’s the bass player. The straight one. For now. Jon also definitely needs to find time to talk to Cassie. Cassie knows Chicago and Cassie knows the boys. He’s pretty sure she’d be down with whatever as long as she gets to hear about it with any and all filthy details. Spencer? Would stand there cocking an eyebrow and smile down at him and run through possible disaster scenarios in his head. Then, he’d sit down with Cassie and debate the filthy details. Jon doesn’t stand a fucking chance, in a word.
Title: Is it really so strange?
Pairing: Jon/his hand
Warnings: um. No. Unless jerking off is a trigger for you, you’re safe.
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don’t know, don’t own. Title by The Smiths.
A/N: It eventually had to happen. Chronicles-Jon.
Jon Walker was pretty happy with his role as supporting cast to the general fuck-fest, he really was. He’s a bass player, for God’s sake, it’s in his nature to take a back-seat. Also, everyone had already taken their vows when he had joined the band. He hadn’t planned on getting involved. The couple of episodes he witnessed didn’t bother him, but he was the dude with the steady girlfriend and two cats. The straight dude.
The first time happens on the road from nowhere to nowhere, he’s guessing it was the Midwest cause there’s a lot of nowhere all around. It’s a bus. It’s couples on a bus. It’s couples in bunks. While they’re at least trying to keep it down, there’s absolutely no way you don’t hear two guys fucking when it happens a couple of inches from your ears, whatever anyone might pretend the next morning.
He never minded. He never actually got off on it either. So he’s lying there in the dark, Shane and Brendon above him, Spencer and Ryan suspiciously silent across the little corridor between the bunks. Jon suspects they take turns cause it’s not polite to have four people fucking in the same bunk area while one has a girlfriend in a land far, far away.
He can imagine Ryan’s eyebrows raised and his facial expression indignant at the amount of noise Brendon and Shane make. Cause Ryan’s totally not self-aware enough to know he and Spencer aren’t exactly stealth ninjas when it comes to the art of silent anal intercourse and that Spencer’s rim jobs make him sound like a cheap, desperate whore.
Whatever. The point is, he’s always been fine with listening. He’s NOT fine with the fact that suddenly, things start happening in his pants. It’s the rhythm of Brendon’s shaky, urgent breaths and little gasps, off-set slightly against Shane’s lower, deeper moans. It’s the tiny whispers that sound thick with secrets and promises and that he can never quite decipher no matter how hard he tries.
It’s his over-active imagination and photographer’s eye that fills the blanks, that supplies possible movements, positions and facial expressions. His level of expertise at interpreting what he hears worries him slightly, but then, he’s from Chicago. There’s always someone fucking in a random bathroom, car, kitchen, pool, where ever. Skinny guys in Chicago get each other off hiding behind lamp-posts.
He lies in the dark and tries focusing on something else. Anything. When that doesn’t work, he thinks about Gabe and Mikeyway, but he’s not enough of a masochist to keep that going. He thinks about his aunt, the one with the beard to rival Spencer’s earlier attempts at growing facial hair, the one that crushes you in hugs and plants wet kisses all over your face leaving smears of purple lipstick everywhere. It might be the most powerful contraceptive ever invented, no one can justify beating off to that mental image, even if there’s an orgy going on one bed away.
Jon concentrates on being casual and unembarrassed the next morning and Shane and Brendon don’t notice if he’s maybe a little freaked out. Spencer does. Spencer is an ass. He totally knows, but doesn’t comment. Just watches Jon with that calculating expression, like he used to when Jon had started filling in for them on stage.
Spencer Smith notices too much shit. Spencer Smith rarely tells you this, but he’ll file the information away for a moment when he needs to use it against you.
The next night, it’s still the Midwest. The next night, it’s Spencer and Ryan. Ryan’s the only guy Jon’s ever come across - no, that he’s met cause he’s gonna ban any and all reference to coming from his vocabulary when it comes to Ryan. Case in point, he obviously fails at that. Anyway, Ryan’s the only guy he’s ever overheard who gets off in monotone. Until he really does get off, which is when the façade cracks and crumbles and he sounds desperate and raw for about a second and a half as he shoots his load. The next couple of minutes are silence and Jon knows Ryan’s replacing the fallen bricks. The build up is all even breaths, though. No panting, no begging and very unlike Brendon. Spencer too is a fairly quiet guy unless he really does let go. When he does… well. It’s pretty hot.
In a purely observant, uninvolved kind of way, obviously.
The night he jerks off to them having sex, no one is actually having sex. That doesn’t make it less creepy, though. He should lie there and drift and think about Cassie. Or at least about pussy in whatever shape or form. He’s a pretty simple guy when it comes to fantasies.
He’s not actually putting any effort in, he’s just lying there slowly running a hand over his boxers, feeling the fabric rubbing against his half-hard cock. He’s stoned enough to be able to do that forever, just enjoying the pleasant sensations without any real sense of urgency or need for release.
The image of Ryan lying next to him doing the exact same thing comes unbidden and without warning. They’re outside on a beach somewhere and Ryan’s got a joint between his lips and a hand in his pants. He’s smiling and the light from the late sunset casts shadows on his face. They exchange hits and lazy smiles and just fucking… Jon’s rock-hard even thinking about it and he almost pulls his hand back cause it makes him feel fucking guilty to get off to fantasies involving one of his best friends. Who is all but married to another best friend.
Jon doesn’t stop, though. He thinks about Spencer walking in on the situation. He can see Spencer standing there, towering over the both of them, his hips tilted and his eyebrows raised, a frown on his face as he’s trying to work shit out, an evil smile replacing the confusion when he’s arrived at the conclusion that this is fine with him. Maybe he’d sit down and watch. Maybe he’d tell Ryan that playing with yourself isn’t polite until the guest’s had some action. Maybe he’d get Ryan to blow him.
Jon’s quickly reaching the stage when cock wins over conscience, that peculiar half-turned on, half-embarrassed in-between where you know you’re too horny to let go of the fantasy, no matter how wrong. His hand slides into his boxers and he barely registers the moan escaping from his lips as he feels his calloused fingers rough on the smooth, warm skin of his dick. On a tour-bus, you train in the art of silent orgasm as a matter of course, but he can’t help it, what with the images.
He’s thinking about Spencer, about how Spencer would maybe crouch down on the floor next to him and close his fingers around his cock. How it’d be drier and rougher then his own grip, how Spencer wouldn’t waste time. The movement of his hand quickens and he bites back a gasp as he starts rubbing small circles over the head, spreading pre-come over his fingers before frantically picking up the pace again, better now, easier, with less friction.
He thinks about Ryan and Spencer in the next bunk and about Brendon and Shane above him, all of them holding their breaths, all of them listening as he’s getting closer and just that thought alone makes him come, hard and without warning, his hips arching up, pushing his cock into the tight grip of his hand once more as he shoots all over his hand, bed-sheets, stomach, boxers, whatever.
He feels vaguely guilty when he pulls back his hand and wipes it on the comforter, but tells himself that the guys all appreciate the fact that sometimes, a dude needs to get off, audience or none. The next morning, he can feel Spencer’s inquisitive stare and Brendon’s curious eyes. Shane’s the only one polite enough to just smirk and look somewhere else. Ryan’s the one who gets it. Ryan’s the one who leans over as he’s staring into his cup of coffee and whispers: “I’m pretty sure Spencer wouldn’t mind, man.”
Ryan’s pretty definitely the Anti-Christ. Ryan’s way too good at living in a fantasy world not to recognize when other people do the same thing. Ryan’s hot. Jon’s got a girlfriend and two cats. Jon’s the bass player. The straight one. For now. Jon also definitely needs to find time to talk to Cassie. Cassie knows Chicago and Cassie knows the boys. He’s pretty sure she’d be down with whatever as long as she gets to hear about it with any and all filthy details. Spencer? Would stand there cocking an eyebrow and smile down at him and run through possible disaster scenarios in his head. Then, he’d sit down with Cassie and debate the filthy details. Jon doesn’t stand a fucking chance, in a word.