FIC: Thinking straight, with nothing to prove (Brendon/Tom, adult)
Thinking straight, with nothing to prove
Brendon/Tom || 4495 words || adult || plotless porn
by irisgirl12000 and why_me_why_not
This is fiction. If you know or are any person named herein, please hit the back button. Or, you know, don’t tell us. (I’m looking at you, Tomrad.) Title from All the pretty girls, by fun.
Brendon goes to Chicago between Thanksgiving and Christmas to visit Jon. He spends time with Jon and his pets - he wonders if he could maybe adopt a kitten for Christmas, if the dogs (and Spencer) would mind - and Jon's parents take them out to 44th Ward, where they meet up with Nick and De'Mar.
After, they hit up a local bar. Brendon recognizes most of the guys at the table they join as the dudes from Empires, but he’s not as familiar with them as he is with the Decaydance Chicago family, so greets them casually and lets Jon drag him over to the corner and kick his ass at darts. He’s wondering when the pool table will be free when Tom comes up behind them, throwing an arm over each of their shoulders, and orders a round of shots for them and the rest of his band. Sean and Ryan each take one, but Max just lights a cigarette.
Brendon remembers Tom's behavior on the Circus tour, so he's sort of surprised when Tom switches to PBR after two rounds of tequila. He settles back into the corner of the booth Sean directed them to and sips on his Corona, watching Jon and Tom and Sean as they discuss the Cubs' possibilities for next season. He'll never understand baseball. Soccer, football, hockey, even. But Chicagoans' devotion to their Cubbies is beyond him. Instead he gets distracted by Max, who he rapidly decides is nearly as cool as Patrick when it comes to discussing music theory.
They're in the middle of a debate about Beethoven and Mozart's use of group theory in composition, and how to apply that to guitar, when Jon slides back into the booth and announces that Cassie expects him home within the hour. Brendon isn't ready to go home yet, or to go back to Jon's apartment to listen to him and Cassie. He makes a face at Jon, calls him an old married man. When Jon finishes his last beer, though, Brendon's ready to grab his jacket and follow. Before he can, Tom slides into the spot Jon's vacated and pushes Brendon back down.
"Stay, have another beer," Tom says with a grin full of false innocence. "I'll make sure you get home safe." He takes a swig of his own beer before winking at Brendon. "I'll even tuck you into bed myself."
Brendon glances at Jon and nods. "Okay."
There's some billiards and more beer, and it’s not that late, but Sean and Max head out, claiming an early radio interview as their excuse. Eventually De'Mar and Ryan each hook one of Nick's arms over their shoulders and stagger out, leaving Tom and Brendon. Tom signals the waitress, and there's another round waiting when they start their next round of pool. Theoretically, the outcome of this game will determine the winner of a friendly wager over the bar tab, but it degenerates when Brendon realizes that Tom's leaning back, ogling his ass when he's bent over the table.
From then on, Brendon makes sure to take his shots in front of Tom, even when it means having to lean most of the way across the table to do it, and he presses up against Tom when he moves past him even though he has plenty of room. He knows his assets, and he knows how to use them. And maybe he likes that frustrated little growly noise that Tom makes when Brendon leans a little too close behind him to watch over his shoulder as he takes his next shot.
Brendon's got the winning shot lined up, the eight ball in a side pocket, and he's already planning the half insult/half invitation that he'll follow it with, when the heat of Tom's hip against his distracts him, and instead of sinking the ball, the cue ball jumps it completely as his cue smears blue chalk across the felt.
"Problem there, Brendon?" Tom looks way too smug, too calm.
"Nothing a shot can't cure."
Brendon flags down the waitress and asks for a double round of shots and their check - he may as well go on and close out their tab since it's just about last call anyway. When she comes back, Tom takes the bill from her and hands over his own card. Brendon doesn't protest, just smirks at Tom as he downs his shot.
Brendon takes his time with his own shot, letting a little spill over his lips, and then running his tongue along his lower lip to catch it. He knows he’s there’s nothing subtle about his behavior; Tom’s stare is obvious, but neither of them care.
"Don't think I'm putting out just because you paid," Brendon tells him.
Tom just hands Brendon his jacket, signs the credit slip with a hefty tip, and leads him outside.
It's freezing outside, which is totally the main factor in Brendon having his hands tucked under Tom's layers of clothes. It's not because he thinks he'd fall over if he didn't have someone to lean on, or that Tom smells really good, or that Brendon really, really, really wants to know what'll happen if he licks that spot on Tom's neck. No, those reasons are the furthest from the truth. Besides, Tom's a liar, saying his apartment isn't far. They've been walking for miles already, and Brendon thinks maybe the cold air is making him drunker than he was in the warm haven of the bar.
"I wish Zack were here," he mumbles. There's more to that thought, but he doesn't explain. Tom gets it anyway.
"I'm not carrying you, you fucker. C'mon, we're almost there."
Brendon presses his cold nose against Tom's neck, feeling a jolt of self-satisfaction when Tom flinches just a little.
Even with shared body heat, it's cold enough that Brendon breathes a sigh of relief when they get to Tom's building. He crowds against Tom's back as he jiggles the key in the outside door. They're just drunk enough that Tom lacks the usual coordination it takes to get the key in at the right, finicky angle (Tom has been bitching about this needing to be replaced, and about the lazy landlord), and enjoys the hitch in Tom's breath and the way he fumbles with the key before the lock clicks and the door opens.
Then Tom's got Brendon's wrist in his hand and he's tugging him up the stairs two at a time. Brendon lets himself be led, laughing and stumbling, and pushes Tom when he stops in the living room.
"You said you'd tuck me in." Brendon tries for big eyes and a pout, but he's still laughing, and Tom's fingers are still wrapped around his wrist.
"You sure? The couch is pretty comfy." Tom's giving him an out, but Brendon's not taking it. He is so, so sure that Tom's bed is more comfy than the couch. Plus, Tom.
Brendon leans in like he's going to kiss Tom, but hovers a breath away as he licks his lips. "Bed, Conrad."
Tom sways little, like he's going to follow up on Brendon's lead, but he pulls away instead, tugging Brendon towards the bedroom.
Brendon pulls off his jacket and falls across the bed sideways, stretching out with a happy sigh. He loves the feel of bed when he's drunk. Tom's laughing at him, but that's totally okay because after Tom takes off his own jacket and shoes, he kneels down to take Brendon's shoes off as well. And Brendon is oh so good, he doesn't even make a comment about how hot Tom looks on his knees or what else he can do for Brendon while he's down there, and really, that takes a lot of restraint.
Tom stands back up, pulling his shirt off and unbuttoning his jeans. He's far more coordinated than Brendon thinks is fair since he's pretty certain Tom drank as much as he did.
"You know you're gonna have to share the bed," Tom says, standing at the edge of the bed with his legs on either side of Brendon’s knees.
Brendon's totally fine with sharing, and he'd be totally fine with a lapful of Tom, but he's barely leaning against the bed when he should be crawling up on top of Brendon. Really, doesn't he know how this is supposed to play out?
Brendon makes grabby hands at Tom, trying to get him to come closer.
Tom resists, just stands there and looks, so Brendon resorts to playing dirty. He falls back on the bed and stretches, twisting his neck to push his head into the pillow and rubbing his back against the worn-soft fabric of the blankets where his shirt is rucked up. When he reaches down to tug at his own zipper, Tom finally moves, bending down and pushing Brendon's hand out of the way.
"I've got that. Isn't undressing included in tucking in?"
That's more like it, now. Tom's hands are steady as he briskly unbuttons the top button and unfastens the zip, but when Brendon braces his feet and arches his hips, shifting his weight so the tight denim can be pushed off, he can see how the fabric bunches under suddenly tensed fingers.
And Brendon's all for teasing at the appropriate moment, he is, but that time is past. He kicks his legs, getting denim and cotton out of the way, and then he surges up, his hands on Tom's shoulders, urging him down, and they're a tangle of limbs, but he doesn't really care. The seam of Tom's jeans is rough against the skin of his inner thigh, and the open zipper is cool against his hip, but beneath that there's hot skin, and the denim is loose enough - Brendon spares an irreverent thought that he’s lucky Tom’s not a fan of girl jeans on anyone but girls - that Brendon can shove his hands past the waistband to palm Tom's ass.
Brendon kisses Tom, partly to ward off any protests and partly because he knows he's got a talented tongue. The kiss is slick and deep; Tom tastes like the shots they were downing at the bar and the PBR from earlier, the underlying hint of nicotine and a lot of Tom. Brendon has a protest of his own lined up when Tom breaks the kiss, but Tom's not pulling away. He shifts so he can slide his hand between them, run his fingers across Brendon's stomach where his shirt is still pushed up, and then wraps them around Brendon's dick. And yeah, no, Brendon's got nothing to protest about that. He feels Tom's stubble scrape against his skin - and fuck, that'll probably leave a mark, but it'll be less noticeable than the bruise that Brendon knows is going to end up where Tom's got his mouth right now - feels the rough slide of denim against his legs, against the back of his hands, feels every point of contact between their bodies spark with heat.
There's something hot and heavy pooling in Brendon's stomach, and he figures it's only fair that he slides one of his own hands around to cup Tom's balls, wrap around his dick. It takes him a few tries to figure out a good position, but when he does it's awesome. His grip is a little tighter, a little rougher than Tom's, and he pushes into Tom's touch to try and get him to take the hint, adjust his own strokes. Tom does, and really, Brendon would be just fine like this: mutual hand jobs are an excellent end to a drunken night, in his opinion. But Tom apparently has other ideas because he takes his hand off Brendon's dick, what the fuck, whispers "sorry" against Brendon's skin, and rolls away.
"Look, if you're having second thoughts, can they wait ‘til the morning? Really, I'll even pretend to be too drunk to remember or whatever. Or if you think I'm too drunk, really, I'm totally, totally consenting to this right now."
He’s being completely earnest here; he'll agree to just about anything as long as Tom puts his hands back on Brendon.
Tom just laughs, works his way out of his jeans. "Hey, no, I don't want to come all over these jeans. They're the last mostly-clean pair I have, and I don't have time for a trip to the laundromat before our next show."
Brendon has to laugh too. Really, his sex life is completely absurd. "Well take 'em off then, Tomrad, fuck."
Tom folds the jeans neatly and sets them aside, which Brendon finds sort of amusing given the messy piles of t-shirts and hoodies on the floor. But then Tom turns around and climbs back into bed, and laughing is the last thing on Brendon's mind, because there's warm, hair-roughened skin - Tom’s got more chest hair than Brendon has hair on his whole body, and Brendon finds the contrast stupidly hot - against his, and Tom's hands are on his chin and his hip, shifting Brendon into a position he's pretty happy to assume.
Except, wait, he'd like more skin-to-skin contact, so he pushes up, flips them over and kneels up, astride Tom's waist, to tug his shirt over his head.
Even as the shirt lands on the floor in a crumpled heap, Tom's hands on Brendon's back urge him back down, and yeah, it feels as good as he thought it would to have all that skin bare against his.
He ends up with his weight on one elbow, his fingers tangled in Tom's hair, their lips locked together. Tom's kisses are rough and hurried, with some bite, and Brendon feels his cheeks and lips stinging, knows they'll be red. It'll be totally worth it. He wriggles backwards and lets his weight settle so that his cock lines up with Tom's. That earns a muffled groan and teeth sinking into his bottom lip. One of Tom's hands, which had been planted on Brendon's ass, slides around to palm the head of Brendon's cock before wrapping firmly around them both. It's awkward, but hey, guitar player, strong wrists, so Tom manages to establish a steady rhythm.
Brendon rolls his hips, urging Tom on with movement and abbreviated words. Which are maybe not that coherent, but whatever, Tom clearly gets Brendon's meaning. Brendon is just drunk enough that he's turned on and it feels good, but the need to come isn't urgent. Mostly he's enjoying this, because it's been awhile since he's had anything other than random hookups who only want him because they recognize his name, so he loses himself in the slide of skin, tugging Tom's hair, muttering against his lips whenever they stop kissing long enough for breath.
Eventually Tom's hand shifts, gripping the curve of Brendon's ass tight before his fingers move boldly to the crack of his ass. Brendon whimpers and pulls back, buries his face against Tom's neck as he rocks his hips, pushing back into one hand, then forward into the other. He feels the pad of one finger push deliberately against his asshole, and groans, "Yeah, c'mon, Tom," before setting his lips on the side of Tom's neck. Tom's chin nudges his temple, and when he lifts his head, Tom kisses him deeply, pushing his tongue into Brendon's mouth in an echo of what he does with his finger, which slides in to the knuckle with a dry burn that has Brendon moaning again.
Brendon pushes back against the invading finger and tangles his fingers with Tom's around their cocks, and it only takes a handful of tight, rough strokes before he comes. He can barely hold his own weight up. Tom abandons hold on their cocks to plant his other hand on Brendon's ass, and somehow Brendon has the presence of mind to keep stroking Tom through his own orgasm. As he watches, Tom's eyelids fall shut, and then he's shuddering and coming on Brendon's hand and cock.
Brendon collapses on top of Tom, which earns him a muffle grunt and a half-hearted pinch on the ass. He hears a snorted giggle, and realizes it came from him. Before Tom can do or say anything more, though, Brendon rolls off, toward the edge of the bed. He gropes for his shirt, wipes them off cursorily, and then burrows back into Tom’s side.
“Hey, tucking in? There’s been a breach of promise, Tomrad.”
Tom cracks one eye open. “You’re in my bed.”
“Blankets. It’s wintertime.”
“High maintenance. I should’ve known,” Tom teases, but he shifts enough to lift the blankets and drag Brendon down to his side again. “Here.”
Brendon means to respond with a sarcastic “No bedtime story?” but a yawn interrupts him, and he’s warm and pleasantly tired, and he’s asleep before he realizes it.
Brendon's still dead to the world when Tom wakes up for the second time. (The first time didn't really count; they got up for water and to brush away the worst of the morning breath and hangover-fuzziness and went right back to bed.) He’s half hard, and their nest of blankets is inviting, as is the warmth of Brendon’s skin beneath his palm, but Tom needs caffeine more than he needs cuddling or the possibility of morning sex. He stands under a stream of hot water in the shower, and then tugs on boxers and a t-shirt before heading to the kitchen. He gets the coffee ground and water into the hopper, two mugs out of the cupboard, and that’s pretty much the limit of his coordination until the coffee is actually consumed. He leans against the counter and glares, bleary-eyed, at the coffeemaker, although he knows that that won’t hasten the brewing. The pot’s only half full when Brendon stumbles out of the bedroom, his hair standing straight up on one side of his head, smashed flat on the other, a pair of boxers Tom recognizes as his own falling over his hipbones, and Tom’s ratty old slippers on his feet.
Brendon hops up on the counter beside the coffeemaker, grinning at Tom. His heels drum an idle beat against the cabinet door, and one slipper dangles off his toes. "I don't think glaring at the machine is going to make it go any faster."
Tom transfers his scowl to Brendon, softening it just a little bit. "I don’t think it’s normal to be that cheerful in the morning."
"C'mere," Brendon says, reaching for the empty mug in Tom's hands and setting it aside. "Let me distract you while the evil coffee maker takes its time."
Tom shifts over to stand between Brendon's legs, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips as Brendon places his hands on Tom's shoulders and pulls him closer. Tom wraps his arms around Brendon as they kiss, and decides that the coffee can probably wait. Tom is sort of clumsy and half-awake without coffee, but he shivers when Brendon nuzzles against his neck, bites lightly at the spot just below his ear. "Wanna pick up where we left off last night?" He bites again, harder this time.
And, okay, mostly Tom was absently enjoying the feeling of Brendon's warmth through the thin, worn cotton of his t-shirt and Brendon’s lips on his (because seriously, that mouth was made for kissing, among other things) until that point, but the sharp sensation of teeth on his skin has Tom pushing closer, his grip tightening on Brendon's waist as he pulls him nearer, so that his weight is resting against Brendon's thighs, spreading them wider, rather than the cold, tiled edge of the counter.
Fingers tangle in his hair, blunt nails scraping scalp, and Brendon murmurs, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The kitchen is quiet except for the sound of shared breaths and the gurgle of brewing coffee. Tom can smell it, and wonders if it’s possible to inhale caffeine, because suddenly he feels energized, urgent, even without normal inoculation of coffee. Or maybe that’s just the effect of a demanding, nearly naked Brendon in his arms.
Brendon twines around him, hitching his legs around Tom, and one slipper hits the floor a second before cold toes tuck behind Tom’s knee. Tom really doesn’t care, though, because he’s distracted by the contact of his hard cock with Brendon’s, with only two thin layers of boxers separating them.
There’s an appreciative groan from Brendon, whose head lolls backwards. It hits the cupboard, and he jerks forward, but then Tom’s trailing chin down side of neck, biting the tendon that’s flexed, and whatever complaint he was about to utter is swallowed in another groan. His hips jerk upward, and they grind together in a clumsy rhythm while Tom revels in the taste and smell of warm skin.
When he finally surfaces, Tom admires his handiwork - a broad swath of skin on Brendon’s neck is reddened, and there’s a bite mark on collarbone. He bends back down and fastens his teeth to the spot, darkening it. Tom is basically ready to tug Brendon closer and get off like that, with lips and teeth and rutting hips, but Brendon’s snaking a hand down, cupping Tom’s dick, squeezing it through soft cotton.
“Fuck.” Tom’s teeth settle harder into the flesh beneath them.
“Yes, please.” Brendon’s request is throaty and fervent, but then Brendon’s releasing Tom, pushing him away. And, wait. What?
His confusion must be pretty obvious, because Brendon smiles reassuringly.
“You should definitely fuck me. But we need a condom and some lube for that.” He leans back and rests his weight on his palms, and Tom, whose inner photographer is never completely far away, has a moment to appreciate how beautiful Brendon is, with smooth skin Tom’d like to mark, dark nipples and a flat stomach, with the lickable arch of hipbones peeking over the edge of the loosely-draped elastic and flimsy cotton.
“Fuck.” He can’t wait to touch that again, and he reaches out, but-
“Condom. Now, Tomrad.” Definitely an order.
He hurries to the bedroom and back. He’s gone for maybe thirty seconds. When he returns, he finds Brendon standing in front of the counter he’d been propped on, in the midst of wiggling out of the boxers. As soon as they’re clear, he kicks them aside. Tom takes a moment to study the way the morning light hits the crest of Brendon’s hip bone and casts a shallow shadow onto Brendon's abdomen, a streak of dark that parallels the line of hair down the center, frames his erect cock. Tom’s standing there, cataloguing the image in his head, when he realizes that Brendon’s eyeing him, a question in the arch of his eyebrow and the cock of his hip. Tom crowds him back against the cold tile, kisses him, until Brendon turns in his arms and braces himself on his elbows. Smirking, he casts a taunting look over his shoulder. Tom tosses the condom and lube on counter and palms the curve of Brendon’s ass, pushing close so that his cock nestles in the crease of his buttocks.
He hears a growled, “Finally.”
“The lube, open it.” Tom forces himself to release his grip Brendon’s hip and stretches his hand out, palm up. There’s the liquid sound of the squirt of lube as Brendon obeys. Tom lets it warm against his skin before he pulls Brendon back tight, hip to ass, for a second. Then he’s palming Brendon’s cock with one hand, stroking it with a few tight jerks, while the other hand slides down between them, tracing a line until his fingertips press against the sensitive skin at Brendon’s entrance, circling once before pushing one, then two in with barely a breath of pause between them. Brendon tenses, then relaxes into it.
Tom thinks he could get off like this, watching the way Brendon’s back rises and falls, enjoying the little whimpering moans of encouragement, but Brendon’s pushing back into him, demanding.
“Enough, already. You should fuck me.”
“See, like I said last night: high maintenance.” Still, Tom has every intention of giving Brendon what he wants.
Tom reaches up to grip the back of Brendon’s neck. He lines up to push inside, but rests there, watching as his own hand drags hand down Brendon’s spine, enjoying the resulting shiver, the freshly-risen goosebumps. When his thumb finally settles just above point where the head of his cock is ready to push in, Tom anchors over the curve of hipbones and pulls Brendon back onto him as he pushes forward, a slow, steady slide that doesn’t stop until his hipbones rest against curve of Brendon’s ass. He hears a hissing breath, and then Brendon bucks back against him, deliberately squeezing tight.
“Any time now.” Brendon’s voice is wrecked, full of pleasure and need, but still he manages to tease.
“You are such a demanding little brat.” Tom tightens his grip on Brendon’s hips, starts moving, and Brendon moans again, opens his mouth to emit a stream of babble that’s a mixture of “please, please, yes, fuck” and “Tom”, and, fuck, that combined with the way he pushes back into it when Tom’s hips jerk forward, the visual of smooth, freckled shoulders and dark hair, the entire combination pushes Tom’s buttons. He won’t last long. He fucks Brendon with rough, short strokes, and when he sees Brendon’s shoulders flex and shift, knows Brendon’s reaching down, jerking himself off, his rhythm goes from abrupt to erratic.
“Don’t you dare, Brendon. Not yet.”
.“You gonna give me motivation?” Brendon’s head turns, and Tom can see bitten, red lips, blown pupils. He bends over and growls, “Fuck, fuck, yes,” in Brendon’s ear even as he lets him take his weight, fucks into him harder, once, twice, then holding still as his hips stutter against Brendon’s as he comes.
Tom holds himself there until he’s done, aware that Brendon is still, tension holding him up. He makes small movements with his hips, and Tom would bet that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it in an involuntary effort to get off.
He pulls out, turning Brendon even as he drops to his knees. Tom lets his eyes and his lips follow the trail he wanted to trace earlier, licking over hipbone to the narrow trail of dark hair and down. He closes his mouth over the head of Brendon’s cock, and Brendon’s hands tunnel into in his hair; Tom goes with it, letting Brendon direct him, savoring the slide of Brendon’s cock over his tongue, using one hand around the base to keep from choking when Brendon bucks forward with his orgasm.
The linoleum is cold beneath his knees, and the morning sunlight is bright. Tom’s got the taste of semen and the smell of Brendon’s skin filling his senses, competing with…
He staggers to his feet. Brendon’s sporting a goofy post-orgasmic grin, and Tom’s tempted to kiss him again, but he’s got priorities.
He reaches for the discarded mug at the other end of the counter.
“Coffee’s ready.”
Brendon/Tom || 4495 words || adult || plotless porn
by irisgirl12000 and why_me_why_not
This is fiction. If you know or are any person named herein, please hit the back button. Or, you know, don’t tell us. (I’m looking at you, Tomrad.) Title from All the pretty girls, by fun.
Brendon goes to Chicago between Thanksgiving and Christmas to visit Jon. He spends time with Jon and his pets - he wonders if he could maybe adopt a kitten for Christmas, if the dogs (and Spencer) would mind - and Jon's parents take them out to 44th Ward, where they meet up with Nick and De'Mar.
After, they hit up a local bar. Brendon recognizes most of the guys at the table they join as the dudes from Empires, but he’s not as familiar with them as he is with the Decaydance Chicago family, so greets them casually and lets Jon drag him over to the corner and kick his ass at darts. He’s wondering when the pool table will be free when Tom comes up behind them, throwing an arm over each of their shoulders, and orders a round of shots for them and the rest of his band. Sean and Ryan each take one, but Max just lights a cigarette.
Brendon remembers Tom's behavior on the Circus tour, so he's sort of surprised when Tom switches to PBR after two rounds of tequila. He settles back into the corner of the booth Sean directed them to and sips on his Corona, watching Jon and Tom and Sean as they discuss the Cubs' possibilities for next season. He'll never understand baseball. Soccer, football, hockey, even. But Chicagoans' devotion to their Cubbies is beyond him. Instead he gets distracted by Max, who he rapidly decides is nearly as cool as Patrick when it comes to discussing music theory.
They're in the middle of a debate about Beethoven and Mozart's use of group theory in composition, and how to apply that to guitar, when Jon slides back into the booth and announces that Cassie expects him home within the hour. Brendon isn't ready to go home yet, or to go back to Jon's apartment to listen to him and Cassie. He makes a face at Jon, calls him an old married man. When Jon finishes his last beer, though, Brendon's ready to grab his jacket and follow. Before he can, Tom slides into the spot Jon's vacated and pushes Brendon back down.
"Stay, have another beer," Tom says with a grin full of false innocence. "I'll make sure you get home safe." He takes a swig of his own beer before winking at Brendon. "I'll even tuck you into bed myself."
Brendon glances at Jon and nods. "Okay."
There's some billiards and more beer, and it’s not that late, but Sean and Max head out, claiming an early radio interview as their excuse. Eventually De'Mar and Ryan each hook one of Nick's arms over their shoulders and stagger out, leaving Tom and Brendon. Tom signals the waitress, and there's another round waiting when they start their next round of pool. Theoretically, the outcome of this game will determine the winner of a friendly wager over the bar tab, but it degenerates when Brendon realizes that Tom's leaning back, ogling his ass when he's bent over the table.
From then on, Brendon makes sure to take his shots in front of Tom, even when it means having to lean most of the way across the table to do it, and he presses up against Tom when he moves past him even though he has plenty of room. He knows his assets, and he knows how to use them. And maybe he likes that frustrated little growly noise that Tom makes when Brendon leans a little too close behind him to watch over his shoulder as he takes his next shot.
Brendon's got the winning shot lined up, the eight ball in a side pocket, and he's already planning the half insult/half invitation that he'll follow it with, when the heat of Tom's hip against his distracts him, and instead of sinking the ball, the cue ball jumps it completely as his cue smears blue chalk across the felt.
"Problem there, Brendon?" Tom looks way too smug, too calm.
"Nothing a shot can't cure."
Brendon flags down the waitress and asks for a double round of shots and their check - he may as well go on and close out their tab since it's just about last call anyway. When she comes back, Tom takes the bill from her and hands over his own card. Brendon doesn't protest, just smirks at Tom as he downs his shot.
Brendon takes his time with his own shot, letting a little spill over his lips, and then running his tongue along his lower lip to catch it. He knows he’s there’s nothing subtle about his behavior; Tom’s stare is obvious, but neither of them care.
"Don't think I'm putting out just because you paid," Brendon tells him.
Tom just hands Brendon his jacket, signs the credit slip with a hefty tip, and leads him outside.
It's freezing outside, which is totally the main factor in Brendon having his hands tucked under Tom's layers of clothes. It's not because he thinks he'd fall over if he didn't have someone to lean on, or that Tom smells really good, or that Brendon really, really, really wants to know what'll happen if he licks that spot on Tom's neck. No, those reasons are the furthest from the truth. Besides, Tom's a liar, saying his apartment isn't far. They've been walking for miles already, and Brendon thinks maybe the cold air is making him drunker than he was in the warm haven of the bar.
"I wish Zack were here," he mumbles. There's more to that thought, but he doesn't explain. Tom gets it anyway.
"I'm not carrying you, you fucker. C'mon, we're almost there."
Brendon presses his cold nose against Tom's neck, feeling a jolt of self-satisfaction when Tom flinches just a little.
Even with shared body heat, it's cold enough that Brendon breathes a sigh of relief when they get to Tom's building. He crowds against Tom's back as he jiggles the key in the outside door. They're just drunk enough that Tom lacks the usual coordination it takes to get the key in at the right, finicky angle (Tom has been bitching about this needing to be replaced, and about the lazy landlord), and enjoys the hitch in Tom's breath and the way he fumbles with the key before the lock clicks and the door opens.
Then Tom's got Brendon's wrist in his hand and he's tugging him up the stairs two at a time. Brendon lets himself be led, laughing and stumbling, and pushes Tom when he stops in the living room.
"You said you'd tuck me in." Brendon tries for big eyes and a pout, but he's still laughing, and Tom's fingers are still wrapped around his wrist.
"You sure? The couch is pretty comfy." Tom's giving him an out, but Brendon's not taking it. He is so, so sure that Tom's bed is more comfy than the couch. Plus, Tom.
Brendon leans in like he's going to kiss Tom, but hovers a breath away as he licks his lips. "Bed, Conrad."
Tom sways little, like he's going to follow up on Brendon's lead, but he pulls away instead, tugging Brendon towards the bedroom.
Brendon pulls off his jacket and falls across the bed sideways, stretching out with a happy sigh. He loves the feel of bed when he's drunk. Tom's laughing at him, but that's totally okay because after Tom takes off his own jacket and shoes, he kneels down to take Brendon's shoes off as well. And Brendon is oh so good, he doesn't even make a comment about how hot Tom looks on his knees or what else he can do for Brendon while he's down there, and really, that takes a lot of restraint.
Tom stands back up, pulling his shirt off and unbuttoning his jeans. He's far more coordinated than Brendon thinks is fair since he's pretty certain Tom drank as much as he did.
"You know you're gonna have to share the bed," Tom says, standing at the edge of the bed with his legs on either side of Brendon’s knees.
Brendon's totally fine with sharing, and he'd be totally fine with a lapful of Tom, but he's barely leaning against the bed when he should be crawling up on top of Brendon. Really, doesn't he know how this is supposed to play out?
Brendon makes grabby hands at Tom, trying to get him to come closer.
Tom resists, just stands there and looks, so Brendon resorts to playing dirty. He falls back on the bed and stretches, twisting his neck to push his head into the pillow and rubbing his back against the worn-soft fabric of the blankets where his shirt is rucked up. When he reaches down to tug at his own zipper, Tom finally moves, bending down and pushing Brendon's hand out of the way.
"I've got that. Isn't undressing included in tucking in?"
That's more like it, now. Tom's hands are steady as he briskly unbuttons the top button and unfastens the zip, but when Brendon braces his feet and arches his hips, shifting his weight so the tight denim can be pushed off, he can see how the fabric bunches under suddenly tensed fingers.
And Brendon's all for teasing at the appropriate moment, he is, but that time is past. He kicks his legs, getting denim and cotton out of the way, and then he surges up, his hands on Tom's shoulders, urging him down, and they're a tangle of limbs, but he doesn't really care. The seam of Tom's jeans is rough against the skin of his inner thigh, and the open zipper is cool against his hip, but beneath that there's hot skin, and the denim is loose enough - Brendon spares an irreverent thought that he’s lucky Tom’s not a fan of girl jeans on anyone but girls - that Brendon can shove his hands past the waistband to palm Tom's ass.
Brendon kisses Tom, partly to ward off any protests and partly because he knows he's got a talented tongue. The kiss is slick and deep; Tom tastes like the shots they were downing at the bar and the PBR from earlier, the underlying hint of nicotine and a lot of Tom. Brendon has a protest of his own lined up when Tom breaks the kiss, but Tom's not pulling away. He shifts so he can slide his hand between them, run his fingers across Brendon's stomach where his shirt is still pushed up, and then wraps them around Brendon's dick. And yeah, no, Brendon's got nothing to protest about that. He feels Tom's stubble scrape against his skin - and fuck, that'll probably leave a mark, but it'll be less noticeable than the bruise that Brendon knows is going to end up where Tom's got his mouth right now - feels the rough slide of denim against his legs, against the back of his hands, feels every point of contact between their bodies spark with heat.
There's something hot and heavy pooling in Brendon's stomach, and he figures it's only fair that he slides one of his own hands around to cup Tom's balls, wrap around his dick. It takes him a few tries to figure out a good position, but when he does it's awesome. His grip is a little tighter, a little rougher than Tom's, and he pushes into Tom's touch to try and get him to take the hint, adjust his own strokes. Tom does, and really, Brendon would be just fine like this: mutual hand jobs are an excellent end to a drunken night, in his opinion. But Tom apparently has other ideas because he takes his hand off Brendon's dick, what the fuck, whispers "sorry" against Brendon's skin, and rolls away.
"Look, if you're having second thoughts, can they wait ‘til the morning? Really, I'll even pretend to be too drunk to remember or whatever. Or if you think I'm too drunk, really, I'm totally, totally consenting to this right now."
He’s being completely earnest here; he'll agree to just about anything as long as Tom puts his hands back on Brendon.
Tom just laughs, works his way out of his jeans. "Hey, no, I don't want to come all over these jeans. They're the last mostly-clean pair I have, and I don't have time for a trip to the laundromat before our next show."
Brendon has to laugh too. Really, his sex life is completely absurd. "Well take 'em off then, Tomrad, fuck."
Tom folds the jeans neatly and sets them aside, which Brendon finds sort of amusing given the messy piles of t-shirts and hoodies on the floor. But then Tom turns around and climbs back into bed, and laughing is the last thing on Brendon's mind, because there's warm, hair-roughened skin - Tom’s got more chest hair than Brendon has hair on his whole body, and Brendon finds the contrast stupidly hot - against his, and Tom's hands are on his chin and his hip, shifting Brendon into a position he's pretty happy to assume.
Except, wait, he'd like more skin-to-skin contact, so he pushes up, flips them over and kneels up, astride Tom's waist, to tug his shirt over his head.
Even as the shirt lands on the floor in a crumpled heap, Tom's hands on Brendon's back urge him back down, and yeah, it feels as good as he thought it would to have all that skin bare against his.
He ends up with his weight on one elbow, his fingers tangled in Tom's hair, their lips locked together. Tom's kisses are rough and hurried, with some bite, and Brendon feels his cheeks and lips stinging, knows they'll be red. It'll be totally worth it. He wriggles backwards and lets his weight settle so that his cock lines up with Tom's. That earns a muffled groan and teeth sinking into his bottom lip. One of Tom's hands, which had been planted on Brendon's ass, slides around to palm the head of Brendon's cock before wrapping firmly around them both. It's awkward, but hey, guitar player, strong wrists, so Tom manages to establish a steady rhythm.
Brendon rolls his hips, urging Tom on with movement and abbreviated words. Which are maybe not that coherent, but whatever, Tom clearly gets Brendon's meaning. Brendon is just drunk enough that he's turned on and it feels good, but the need to come isn't urgent. Mostly he's enjoying this, because it's been awhile since he's had anything other than random hookups who only want him because they recognize his name, so he loses himself in the slide of skin, tugging Tom's hair, muttering against his lips whenever they stop kissing long enough for breath.
Eventually Tom's hand shifts, gripping the curve of Brendon's ass tight before his fingers move boldly to the crack of his ass. Brendon whimpers and pulls back, buries his face against Tom's neck as he rocks his hips, pushing back into one hand, then forward into the other. He feels the pad of one finger push deliberately against his asshole, and groans, "Yeah, c'mon, Tom," before setting his lips on the side of Tom's neck. Tom's chin nudges his temple, and when he lifts his head, Tom kisses him deeply, pushing his tongue into Brendon's mouth in an echo of what he does with his finger, which slides in to the knuckle with a dry burn that has Brendon moaning again.
Brendon pushes back against the invading finger and tangles his fingers with Tom's around their cocks, and it only takes a handful of tight, rough strokes before he comes. He can barely hold his own weight up. Tom abandons hold on their cocks to plant his other hand on Brendon's ass, and somehow Brendon has the presence of mind to keep stroking Tom through his own orgasm. As he watches, Tom's eyelids fall shut, and then he's shuddering and coming on Brendon's hand and cock.
Brendon collapses on top of Tom, which earns him a muffle grunt and a half-hearted pinch on the ass. He hears a snorted giggle, and realizes it came from him. Before Tom can do or say anything more, though, Brendon rolls off, toward the edge of the bed. He gropes for his shirt, wipes them off cursorily, and then burrows back into Tom’s side.
“Hey, tucking in? There’s been a breach of promise, Tomrad.”
Tom cracks one eye open. “You’re in my bed.”
“Blankets. It’s wintertime.”
“High maintenance. I should’ve known,” Tom teases, but he shifts enough to lift the blankets and drag Brendon down to his side again. “Here.”
Brendon means to respond with a sarcastic “No bedtime story?” but a yawn interrupts him, and he’s warm and pleasantly tired, and he’s asleep before he realizes it.
Brendon's still dead to the world when Tom wakes up for the second time. (The first time didn't really count; they got up for water and to brush away the worst of the morning breath and hangover-fuzziness and went right back to bed.) He’s half hard, and their nest of blankets is inviting, as is the warmth of Brendon’s skin beneath his palm, but Tom needs caffeine more than he needs cuddling or the possibility of morning sex. He stands under a stream of hot water in the shower, and then tugs on boxers and a t-shirt before heading to the kitchen. He gets the coffee ground and water into the hopper, two mugs out of the cupboard, and that’s pretty much the limit of his coordination until the coffee is actually consumed. He leans against the counter and glares, bleary-eyed, at the coffeemaker, although he knows that that won’t hasten the brewing. The pot’s only half full when Brendon stumbles out of the bedroom, his hair standing straight up on one side of his head, smashed flat on the other, a pair of boxers Tom recognizes as his own falling over his hipbones, and Tom’s ratty old slippers on his feet.
Brendon hops up on the counter beside the coffeemaker, grinning at Tom. His heels drum an idle beat against the cabinet door, and one slipper dangles off his toes. "I don't think glaring at the machine is going to make it go any faster."
Tom transfers his scowl to Brendon, softening it just a little bit. "I don’t think it’s normal to be that cheerful in the morning."
"C'mere," Brendon says, reaching for the empty mug in Tom's hands and setting it aside. "Let me distract you while the evil coffee maker takes its time."
Tom shifts over to stand between Brendon's legs, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips as Brendon places his hands on Tom's shoulders and pulls him closer. Tom wraps his arms around Brendon as they kiss, and decides that the coffee can probably wait. Tom is sort of clumsy and half-awake without coffee, but he shivers when Brendon nuzzles against his neck, bites lightly at the spot just below his ear. "Wanna pick up where we left off last night?" He bites again, harder this time.
And, okay, mostly Tom was absently enjoying the feeling of Brendon's warmth through the thin, worn cotton of his t-shirt and Brendon’s lips on his (because seriously, that mouth was made for kissing, among other things) until that point, but the sharp sensation of teeth on his skin has Tom pushing closer, his grip tightening on Brendon's waist as he pulls him nearer, so that his weight is resting against Brendon's thighs, spreading them wider, rather than the cold, tiled edge of the counter.
Fingers tangle in his hair, blunt nails scraping scalp, and Brendon murmurs, “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The kitchen is quiet except for the sound of shared breaths and the gurgle of brewing coffee. Tom can smell it, and wonders if it’s possible to inhale caffeine, because suddenly he feels energized, urgent, even without normal inoculation of coffee. Or maybe that’s just the effect of a demanding, nearly naked Brendon in his arms.
Brendon twines around him, hitching his legs around Tom, and one slipper hits the floor a second before cold toes tuck behind Tom’s knee. Tom really doesn’t care, though, because he’s distracted by the contact of his hard cock with Brendon’s, with only two thin layers of boxers separating them.
There’s an appreciative groan from Brendon, whose head lolls backwards. It hits the cupboard, and he jerks forward, but then Tom’s trailing chin down side of neck, biting the tendon that’s flexed, and whatever complaint he was about to utter is swallowed in another groan. His hips jerk upward, and they grind together in a clumsy rhythm while Tom revels in the taste and smell of warm skin.
When he finally surfaces, Tom admires his handiwork - a broad swath of skin on Brendon’s neck is reddened, and there’s a bite mark on collarbone. He bends back down and fastens his teeth to the spot, darkening it. Tom is basically ready to tug Brendon closer and get off like that, with lips and teeth and rutting hips, but Brendon’s snaking a hand down, cupping Tom’s dick, squeezing it through soft cotton.
“Fuck.” Tom’s teeth settle harder into the flesh beneath them.
“Yes, please.” Brendon’s request is throaty and fervent, but then Brendon’s releasing Tom, pushing him away. And, wait. What?
His confusion must be pretty obvious, because Brendon smiles reassuringly.
“You should definitely fuck me. But we need a condom and some lube for that.” He leans back and rests his weight on his palms, and Tom, whose inner photographer is never completely far away, has a moment to appreciate how beautiful Brendon is, with smooth skin Tom’d like to mark, dark nipples and a flat stomach, with the lickable arch of hipbones peeking over the edge of the loosely-draped elastic and flimsy cotton.
“Fuck.” He can’t wait to touch that again, and he reaches out, but-
“Condom. Now, Tomrad.” Definitely an order.
He hurries to the bedroom and back. He’s gone for maybe thirty seconds. When he returns, he finds Brendon standing in front of the counter he’d been propped on, in the midst of wiggling out of the boxers. As soon as they’re clear, he kicks them aside. Tom takes a moment to study the way the morning light hits the crest of Brendon’s hip bone and casts a shallow shadow onto Brendon's abdomen, a streak of dark that parallels the line of hair down the center, frames his erect cock. Tom’s standing there, cataloguing the image in his head, when he realizes that Brendon’s eyeing him, a question in the arch of his eyebrow and the cock of his hip. Tom crowds him back against the cold tile, kisses him, until Brendon turns in his arms and braces himself on his elbows. Smirking, he casts a taunting look over his shoulder. Tom tosses the condom and lube on counter and palms the curve of Brendon’s ass, pushing close so that his cock nestles in the crease of his buttocks.
He hears a growled, “Finally.”
“The lube, open it.” Tom forces himself to release his grip Brendon’s hip and stretches his hand out, palm up. There’s the liquid sound of the squirt of lube as Brendon obeys. Tom lets it warm against his skin before he pulls Brendon back tight, hip to ass, for a second. Then he’s palming Brendon’s cock with one hand, stroking it with a few tight jerks, while the other hand slides down between them, tracing a line until his fingertips press against the sensitive skin at Brendon’s entrance, circling once before pushing one, then two in with barely a breath of pause between them. Brendon tenses, then relaxes into it.
Tom thinks he could get off like this, watching the way Brendon’s back rises and falls, enjoying the little whimpering moans of encouragement, but Brendon’s pushing back into him, demanding.
“Enough, already. You should fuck me.”
“See, like I said last night: high maintenance.” Still, Tom has every intention of giving Brendon what he wants.
Tom reaches up to grip the back of Brendon’s neck. He lines up to push inside, but rests there, watching as his own hand drags hand down Brendon’s spine, enjoying the resulting shiver, the freshly-risen goosebumps. When his thumb finally settles just above point where the head of his cock is ready to push in, Tom anchors over the curve of hipbones and pulls Brendon back onto him as he pushes forward, a slow, steady slide that doesn’t stop until his hipbones rest against curve of Brendon’s ass. He hears a hissing breath, and then Brendon bucks back against him, deliberately squeezing tight.
“Any time now.” Brendon’s voice is wrecked, full of pleasure and need, but still he manages to tease.
“You are such a demanding little brat.” Tom tightens his grip on Brendon’s hips, starts moving, and Brendon moans again, opens his mouth to emit a stream of babble that’s a mixture of “please, please, yes, fuck” and “Tom”, and, fuck, that combined with the way he pushes back into it when Tom’s hips jerk forward, the visual of smooth, freckled shoulders and dark hair, the entire combination pushes Tom’s buttons. He won’t last long. He fucks Brendon with rough, short strokes, and when he sees Brendon’s shoulders flex and shift, knows Brendon’s reaching down, jerking himself off, his rhythm goes from abrupt to erratic.
“Don’t you dare, Brendon. Not yet.”
.“You gonna give me motivation?” Brendon’s head turns, and Tom can see bitten, red lips, blown pupils. He bends over and growls, “Fuck, fuck, yes,” in Brendon’s ear even as he lets him take his weight, fucks into him harder, once, twice, then holding still as his hips stutter against Brendon’s as he comes.
Tom holds himself there until he’s done, aware that Brendon is still, tension holding him up. He makes small movements with his hips, and Tom would bet that he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it in an involuntary effort to get off.
He pulls out, turning Brendon even as he drops to his knees. Tom lets his eyes and his lips follow the trail he wanted to trace earlier, licking over hipbone to the narrow trail of dark hair and down. He closes his mouth over the head of Brendon’s cock, and Brendon’s hands tunnel into in his hair; Tom goes with it, letting Brendon direct him, savoring the slide of Brendon’s cock over his tongue, using one hand around the base to keep from choking when Brendon bucks forward with his orgasm.
The linoleum is cold beneath his knees, and the morning sunlight is bright. Tom’s got the taste of semen and the smell of Brendon’s skin filling his senses, competing with…
He staggers to his feet. Brendon’s sporting a goofy post-orgasmic grin, and Tom’s tempted to kiss him again, but he’s got priorities.
He reaches for the discarded mug at the other end of the counter.
“Coffee’s ready.”