A/N:

*waves* *runs back into hiding* *steels self from the guilt and waves again*. Hi! So this last month has been fucking crazy, I'm really sorry I know I've been a very bad author. I feel totally blocked with the other fics. I wasn't writing anything although I wanted to, but then a little birdy said she misses me and my plot bunnies kicked alive again and I have loads of new stuff to post (so this fic wouldn't have happened without Kabr - just saying thank you, lovely). I'm really sorry, and to anyone who'd rather throw tomatoes at me, I'm wearing a white top today so I'd rather you didn't :P

About this fic:

I'm doing a series of fics with the prompt "Stendan are close, very, very close. But there will always be some things Brendan can only say through actions, and some things that just sound better that way." The series is called "More than words", theyre all Brendan POV. This is the first one.

It's really supposed to be a one shot, but it got very long so I put a chapter split in butt I'm posting it all at the same time so you guys can decide whether to read it all in one go.

Warning:

It's hardcore M, the most intense I've written for this fandom so I'm a little nervous, but I hope you like it. It was a helluva load of fun to write.

Please leave some words, tell me to ***k off, tell me you'd really rather I didn't post anything if I'm not gonna update, tell me you're not quite sure what the worry is about because you'd forgotten who I am. Deffinaely let me know if this is a little too intensem, I'll remember to tone it down in the future.

Right and now here's to the boys:

**B&S**

"This isn't about you," are the first words Steven says to me.

He stands with his back against the office door, hands on his hips, looking at me with mild distaste and withdrawal. The look that's been growing these last few weeks since I screwed up again for "the last time ever" he had called it.

"It's not nothing about you. I haven't even thought about you." He wobbles slightly on his feet as he says it, evidence of the alcohol he's been drinking on a mission named forget, and although he refuses to drop eye contact I can still read that his words are a lie.

"But I'm drunk, proper plastered. And Doug and the Queen are making me wanna be sick with their dancing and kissing and…." He pulls a face.

I breathe heavily. I wouldn't admit it, but I'd been watching him since the moment he walked through the door with those two. I was formulating their little relationships: Steven and Doug back together, Steven and JP, which was an image I'd saved for later, and then some weird threesome pattern. Steven as the third wheel was not what I pictured - I feel my heart take a breath.

"I mean I'm happy for them, me, obviously, just their acting like love's actually about more than just great sex and not being lonely."

I look up at him for the first time, his words catching my attention like barbed wire. Since when did he give up on love? Looking into his eyes takes my breath away, there's a look in the vivid blue that's old and wary, that tastes like timeworn heartbreak.

That's me.

"And all the guys out there are proper mingers, there's not one bit of talent, and I'm… see the thing is I'm proper horny," quickly he laughs like he can't believe he's just said that.

But it's too late to stop the effect of that speech. The words plaster everything in this office, expand and stretch till there's nothing but the scent of him and the heat of him, and God he's fucking hot tonight. He's left those scally clothes for jeans and a tight white t-shirt that shows off that amazing tan – pulling clothes.

I place the papers down on my desk, slowly, methodically; like I'm about to divert my attention to a new task.

"Did you want me to do something about that?" I ask, even I doubt the question.

His eyelashes flutter closed, blood heating his cheeks, the shy boy I know. I'm reminded that Steven will always have a part of me, like there's long burning embers that will never be extinguished no matter how many times I fuck up and he kicks me out.

"If you want," he whispers, quickly.

There's a look in his eye like he craves danger. Like he knows he's entering the dragons den but he's not going to pay attention to any warnings.

"So," I say, standing up slowly, unfurling my limbs for his viewing pleasure, "let me get this straight – you're asking for what? A one night stand? Friends with benefits?"

"I don't fucking care Brendan! Call it whatever you want, I'm just…"

"Desperate?" I ask to make his eyes narrow – lust was always parallel to anger for him.

"Fine, forget I said anything. I hate to break it to you but there's plenty of other guys out there, I'm sure I can find one much-"

I slam the door shut as he opens it.

"Did I say no?"

I feel my breath reverberate from his shoulders pulled tight. Without touching him I pull the soft cotton of his tee down, needing more of him for my exploration.

I take a breath of him. He's wearing new aftershave tonight and for some inexplicable reason my heart clenches painfully at the thought.

He turns to look at me from over his shoulder, his eyes shining brightly and I feel those embers enflame.

"You just want me to make you come?" I question.

I keep my face low, close to his. The smell of alcohol on his breath excites me – he was always so fucking wild after he'd been drinking, I could make him do anything.

I take my time to be close to him, breathing in deeper. I smile, watching his lips part, knowing he's growing infatuated by the thought of my kiss.

"Yes," he says.

I move closer to his lips and those rosebuds tremble, shaken by the storm of us.

"Just sex?"

I flick my eyes up over his smooth long neck, hard jaw, damp soft lips, knowing he can feel every inch of my exploration.

"Y-yes." He stutters voice irrefutably heated.

I breathe over his mouth, watch his eyes fill with pleading for my kiss.

"So you don't want me to kiss you?" I ask pulling up quickly.

His lips tense closed for a second.

"No, I don't." His words are determined like I can't read him.

I nod stepping away from him, watching his eyes darken into rejection. But I reach out, lock the door and he beams at me like an over excited puppy, finally a little bit of life within his gaze.

I look over him, all over him. Seeing where the tee is rucked just above his jeans, his hip bone jutting; the place on his jeans where he clearly dried his hands before coming in here; the shake of his fingers as he hooks them into his belt loop. I formulate.

He bites his lip, all wrought nerves and excitement and fuck I wanna push him against this door, fuck him till all he knows is the sound of my name.

But that's not how this is going to work.

I turn on my heel and walk away from him slowly, rolling my shoulders, knowing he's watching my every step. I sit onto the leather couch. Relaxing. I spread my legs, ready to enjoy this spectacle he was practically begging to put on for me.

"Take off your clothes Steven," I said, nonchalantly like I was asking him to turn on the light or pass me something. Like the thought of him stripping for me could ever be inconsequential.

"What?!" He asked incredulously, clearly still unaware of exactly what I was going to make him do for me.

"All this is about is sex." I reminded him slowly, "so it doesn't matter what I do, or rather what I make you do, as long as I make you come."

"I'm not going to strip for you!"

I smirk - like he's never done it before.

"You're talking like you have a say in it." I said, shaking my head slowly, telling him clearly how this is going to work. "You're only choice is simple, you walk away and screw whatever looser you can find out there, or you sign yourself over to me, your entire body, the entire time you're in this room. You leave, or you do exactly as I say, the moment I say it, no questions asked," I say, rather enjoying the places his submission could stretch my imagination.

I watch the play of fear and confidence in his eyes - he has no idea how sexy he is when he's like this.

"So, which is it?"

His eyes flicker over to the door.

A part of me screams to drop this act, to stop pushing him away when all I've wanted to do for weeks is pull him to me, keep him safe, sleep with him, not sex but sleep the way I only can when he's in my embrace.

But he looks to the floor and smiles, and when his gaze meets mine I know he wants this just as much as I do.

"Take. Your clothes. Off." My voice is breathy then, pitched in the way I know pumps straight to his cock.

His hands shake as he pulls at the white cotton, his arms crossing, abs tensing, as he pulls it up and over his head. I drink in the sight of him, I can practically feel the thrill in those slight muscles, the fire I'm filling him with. I map every part of his torso, the darkened nipples, the shadow of his abs, that ridiculous tattoo. God I could watch him for hours, I've tasted every inch of him and still I get pleasure from just looking. I can't imagine a day I'd ever get bored.

He's biting his lip as his shirt drops to the floor, and I can see he's drenched in nerves, that he thinks it's possible for me to ever be unresponsive to him.

I feel my dick harden already.

I lower my eyes, looking down him once more, assessing, as if I need to! And nod slowly, giving him my verdict.

He slides his feet out of his trainers, and pops the button on his fly. He stumbles in his haste to take off his jeans and laughs at himself, shaking his head. His eyes flick to mine wanting to share the joke. But they immediately darken with the way I'm looking at him. I tell him, with just my gaze, that I have don't have time for anything but lust, exactly what he asked me for.

"Fuck," he breathes and looks as if he doesn't even know he said it.

I see his adams apple bob as he swallows, hard.

He bends, slowly pushing off his jeans.

He reaches for his boxers.

"Stop." I instruct, "stay still."

His hands drop to his side and then he stands for my inspection.

I look at him for the entire length of a song in the club.

My eyes glance all over him from his hair slicked back, eyes darkened, pupils dilated, lips parted, jaw tensed, chest smooth, nipples pert, muscles shaking, fingers clenching and unclenching. Treasure trail sweet and the shadow on his boxers so fucking dark. I've not even touched him and he's already hard, although I can't exactly say anything different.

Steven's pretty organised with his underwear. He has his laundry day boxers, fucking ugly things usually pastel colours with ducks or umbrellas or ducks holding umbrellas, I blame Doug. "Lucky day" boxers which apparently Amy had given him the day he'd got the job with Tony, that are slightly too tight so I knew them as my lucky day boxers. Of course he has his casual boxers and then these.

These.

Tight, black, Calvin Kliens, that have the unfair effect of making his cock look impossibly larger, arse look perter, skin look smoother and I defy any man, gay or otherwise, to look at him and not need to pummel him into the closest wall.

"Come 'ere." I instruct and beckon him.

He moves quickly. He's with me in an instant. And I know exactly what thought is twinkling in those blue eyes.

Dublin.

He bends down, calling for my kiss.

But I sit back.

We're not exactly going to get back there are we? When he's wearing nothing but his boxers and I'm… me. I was a different man then. For that night, and all those wonderful hours I thought I could be a better man. I was an idiot.

He reaches for me again.

"No kissing, remember?" I say, reminding him of the rules of tonight's game.

His eyes darken despondently and on instinct I move closer to him. I check myself just in time and just let the tip of my tongue flick over the sensitive nub of his right nipple. He bucks toward me, impulsively and I do the same to the left.

And then he keens.

And fuck I forgot how much I would do for that sound, how it seeps into my consciousness and makes me it's slave. I grasp his hips, and pull him closer toward me, taking his nipple right into my mouth sucking and pulling, teeth and tongue. His hands sink to my hair, strands weaving between his fingers, bringing me back to reality. I drop his nipple but he holds me in place.

"Let go." I say, but he moans in protest. "Let. Go." I order, dominantly.

He fulfils my request and I do too, my fingers clasping at the ridged edge of the leather couch, needing something to hold on to.

I take a breath.

"No touching," I say, knowing how he loves to respond to rules. "You're not allowed to lay a finger on me, do you understand?"

He nods and I can see the excitement flashing in his eyes as he waits patiently.