Leather Jacket
For Stu, the guest who said they'd love to read a fic where Brendan screws Ste with his leather jacket on. Situated in a time before the two got back together, but Ste and Doug never happened. I sincerely hope that you enjoy this! ;)
The first thing Brendan does when he gets them back to Ste's flat is slam him into the wall. The boy groans with it, craves the rough handling and the animalistic side of Brendan – who wouldn't? Brendan goes to pull off his jacket – the tight-fitting leather one that he's had for God knows how long, since before he arrived in Hollyoaks – but then Ste's hands are there, not letting him, not allowing it.
"No," he says, "you look so fucking hot with that on." There's a smirk on Brendan's face then.
There's a blank space between when Ste stumbled away from drowning himself with bitter lagers and substandard alcopops on the dance floor with Doug and Ash, and then somehow ending up here, his ex pressed flush and tight against the front of his body, his back being forced against the wall, but Ste knows himself and he knows Brendan, so he's got a fair guess of how it happened.
Somewhere along the night, while drinking, he'd seen Brendan, who'd seen him, and then he may have gone to the bar to order another round and had Brendan serving him; there may have been some flirting, for old times' sake, and there may have been some intimate innuendos; Brendan might have reminded him, with a low and silky voice, of how loud he always was in bed when he'd had a drink – louder than usual. That may have then led onto Ste getting a few more drinks in his system, exchanging some heated glances with Brendan while he was on the dance floor, and then eventually curling his fingers around the open collar of Brendan's clingy shirt and dragging him out of there and to here: in his house, up against the wall outside of his bedroom, somewhere they can be alone.
Good for him, then, he thinks. So long as nothing dangerous comes from this – like the uncovering of some very strong and turbulent feelings that he'd long since tried to bury into the darker parts of his heart, praying that they'd eventually be morphed into bitterness and hatred – then he's more than satisfied. Better to pull Brendan, who he can trust to give him the best time of his life and more, than to pull a complete stranger.
Some would argue otherwise, but he doesn't really give a fuck what others might think.
Brendan's teeth drag along his bottom lip, then he pulls away, and Ste is left chasing the motion with his tongue before he opens his eyes again, wondering why there's suddenly a lack of contact. He can still feel Brendan's warmth, can still feel the heat of his breath: an intoxicating scent of mint and whisky. But there's no bodily contact.
He's being teased.
Ste licks his lips, watching the way Brendan's throat bobs as he swallows, and it's so hot, the movement of skin underneath the stubble on his neck, the stubble that leads to the scruffy jaw and that moustache; it's all man and it's all available for him – or it was, about twenty seconds ago. Now it's just out of reach.
The leather of his jacket creaks as he shifts his weight, and then Brendan's giving Ste that sly, crooked grin that has his heart thumping faster in his chest.
"You're gagging for it," he says, low and dirty, "ain't ye?" Ste blinks. It's not how he'd have described it, not how he first thought of it, but now? Yeah, it's possible. He might be gagging for it.
"Possibly," Ste murmurs, "so why aren't ya giving it to me?" There's a flicker in the man's eyes then, something changes slightly.
"You're want it, because you're drunk," Brendan says, and it's like the words are painful to say, like spitting razor blades that'd been lodged in his throat. There's an essence of vulnerability, and it still knocks the breath from Ste, that he's the one who gets to see Brendan's feelings, into his mind; he's the only one who Brendan can let his guard down with.
His hands get underneath the shoulders of that leather jacket, and then they travel beneath the open collar of Brendan's shirt to feel his collarbones, the man's skin warm beneath his fingers. He shakes his head, an immediate no spilling from his lips.
"I want you, because I want you. I wanted you last week, I wanted you yesterday, and earlier today. I want you now, and I'll want you tomorrow. I'm taking what I want because I'm drunk, and what I want is what I've wanted for a long time," he's honest, open, looking into Brendan's eyes to reassure him. Then he has the urge to express some of the lust inside him that bubbles up every time he sees Brendan in leather, the way it portrays his bad boy side, rough around the edges. "Though, it might also be something to do with that leather jacket," he grins, and it's enough for Brendan, because he grins, wicked and devilish, before their lips are connected and God, it really has been too long.
He's missed this, Brendan's lips, parted and forceful against his own, their tongues meeting and just Brendan: the way he kisses, like he's consuming him, devouring him, like Ste might be something he needs just to stay alive. He's missed this raw fervour; he's missed being the person that Brendan makes him into when they come together like this, liberated and warm and filled with something indescribable, something pure bliss. If he were a little more sentimental, he might say it's magical.
"What do ye want?" Brendan breathes, barely taking his lips off Ste's, the words a jumbled slur and fuck, it's so alluring, hearing that wrecked grumble, something he's caused.
"Bedroom," Ste gasps out, and then the breath is stolen from his lungs when Brendan reminds him exactly what he's been missing as he scoops his legs around his waist and carries him to the bedroom like he's weightless, like he's nothing, the sheer strength and power of it making Ste go crazy with need.
Brendan throws him down onto the bed and stands at the foot of it.
"Take off yer clothes," he orders, voice a filthy, low sound, and Ste does as he's told; he pulls his shirt over his head and slings it aside, then fumbles with his jeans before tugging them off to join the shirt; his boxers come off the quickest. Brendan just stands there then, drinking in the sight of his Steven, glowing with the shimmer of arousal and intoxication, wet lips and shuddering breaths. He stands there, watching, waiting, daring Ste to ask for what he wants. And Ste knows what this is, knows how Brendan loves it when he begs, and he's going to give him what he wants, because he's got a thing for the domestic edge to this man, the control he has.
He crawls to the end of the bed, gets up on his knees, and loops his fingers into Brendan's belt, pulling at it. Brendan places his hands on Ste's hips, fingertips digging in, enough pressure to leave white half-crescents that paint Ste's skin beautifully.
"Ye want me to take it off?" Brendan asks, and Ste nods. Brendan raises an eyebrow, tilts his head in that irresistibly sexy manner of his, and Ste whimpers a little, a broken sound from somewhere in the shallow recess of his larynx.
"Please," he whispers, "please." Brendan smiles then, strokes the backs of his fingers along Ste's jaw.
"Do it for me," he says, admiring Ste's eagerness to comply. The boy's fingers are a little shaky, the adrenaline and the lust and the nerves all mingling together. It's been a long time since this has happened, since they last came together in this way. He's high on the thrill of it, the anticipation.
The belt is slung to the floor, tossed away like it's offended him, and then Ste gets his hands on Brendan's button and zip, pops them open and pulls his jeans down unceremoniously, lets them pool to the floor. Brendan kicks them off along with his shoes, and then he pushes Ste back onto the bed and climbs on, crawls until he's hovering over Ste and the boy's hest is heaving.
He's drawing this out, Brendan is, knows that the anticipation is the best part before any kiss, or any touch; the swirling of your stomach and the jittering in your nerves, the tension in your muscles and the constant whirring of your mind. All of that is the best part, the part that has you coming apart at the seams. Brendan knows this, and he knows it well. He's going to prolong the inevitable until he's got Ste squirming and begging, crying out in frustration because it'll all feel so much better once it happens, the relief and the pleasure blending to create something unbeatable, something perfect.
Their lips touch, the lightest of touches, and then Brendan's pulling away again and looking down at Ste with mischief in his eyes and the boy practically whines, his hands coming up to rake angry red lines down Brendan's stomach and he knows what that does to Brendan; he knows that Brendan has some sort of fetish for markings, love the tinge of pain warring against the overwhelming pleasure. He shudders, has to. It's his only way of releasing some of the heat scorching within him at the moment that doesn't involve touching or kissing this boy beneath him, with those sooty eyelashes fluttering against his high cheekbones, the temptingly golden skin and scrawny limbs – it's all taking a lot of self-control to stay like this, barely touching, breathing each other's air and making no advances.
Ste quivers when Brendan strokes his fingers along his side, down to his jutting hip bone, and he's craving more contact as Brendan grips tightly.
"Ye really want this, Steven?" Brendan asks, ghosting his lips over Ste's neck, the barest of brushes over his pulsing jugular, his breath hot and skimming over his skin. The boy manoeuvres his shoulder, cranes his neck, tries to push for more contact. Brendan pulls away.
"Please," he chokes, scratching his fingers along the muscles straining in Brendan's arms as he leans over him, "please, please, please, please, please," he continues. Brendan feels something electric shoot to his groin at the sound of those desperate, panting moans, and it's his undoing.
Their lips meet in a hot mesh of tongue and a little teeth, bodies now pressed together, glorious heat and friction, smothered in each other. Brendan maps his tongue from the cut of Ste's jaw, along to the underside, and down to the sensitive nerves in his neck and in his shoulder muscle. He sucks, licks, kisses and bites, leaves his mark – purplish, reddish claims.
"Still want me to keep my jacket on?" Brendan asks, and Ste just nods, too worked up for words, coherent sentences.
Brendan's lips explore every inch of Ste's torso – every scar, mole, beauty spot, freckle and dip; every nook and cranny – and he sucks a few more bruises into the skin, admires the pretty purple speckled with red dots where the blood has risen to the surface, and all of it framed by the reddish pink inflammation of stubble rash. Ste's loud and carefree above him, writhing and jolting with every pleasurable stroke of tongue, every pucker of lips and every scrape of teeth against his flesh.
The boy manages to get his hands beneath the waistband of Brendan's boxers and places them on the jut of his hips, pushing him away. He gets onto his knees again, like Brendan, and then he's removing Brendan's boxers and takes the man down to the root, Brendan's body buckling at the contact. He grabs the sheets, clenches them in his fist, head thrown back and a hiss escaping the clench of his teeth. Ste is relentless in his attack, slurping and sucking and licking, Brendan's pulsing length hitting his soft palate. He hasn't lost his touch, despite it being a long time since giving head to anyone this big. In fact, he hasn't ever been with anyone this big – and he's picked up a couple of one night stands over the past year while he hasn't been with Brendan.
There may have been a pattern there, always picking the ones that were tall with dark hair and stubble on their jaws, the ones who weren't bulging with stupidly large muscles but who were extremely well built and looked powerful. No matter what, though, he never found anyone who he wanted, or needed, more than this man here, kneeling on his bed. Those other men were never Irish enough, were never dark enough, were never dangerous enough; they didn't have that edge to them, the aggressiveness and the sardonic tongue; and they didn't have that softer, more loveable side reserved just for him. They weren't Brendan enough. No one ever could be.
There's a tug on his shoulders, pulling him up, and then there's some fumbling, some groping and scratching and kissing, before he finds himself on his back, Brendan between his thighs, Brendan's fingers slicked and probing between his arse cheeks.
His breath is hitched, senses on high alert, as that first finger enters him, down to the knuckle, and curls to apply the barest hint of pressure on that spot. He moans a little, wants more contact on that spot, that soft bundle of nerves that shoot ecstasy throughout his body and into his core.
Then Brendan's hand is around his dick; he gives it a squeeze, and Ste gasps at the feeling, how Brendan knows exactly how to touch him, what he really likes.
It's a double attack, Brendan's two fingers now working to open him up and it's amazing but there's always that burn there, that initial sting that takes its sweet time to fade but God, what would this be without it? It's all a part of it, the overpowering gratification of having someone push inside you and melt your sentences into lumps of gibberish. He's panting, gasping, moaning, cursing and praying, the boy's never been so religious: God- Jesus Christ- My God.
Then there's the hot, damp pressure of Brendan's tongue against his hole while the man scissors his fingers in and out, his other arm wrapped around one of Ste's thighs and keeping it bent away, the leather burning Ste's skin and it stings like hell but God if it doesn't amplify the pleasure twisting through his gut. He cries out a guttural moan, so damn close, but Brendan isn't having that, grabs the base of his cock as he's about to cum and his sham of an orgasm slams through him painfully, the inability to release has him practically sobbing. He's begging and he's pleading, but Brendan's got the control here – always does, and it's a thrill.
There's an agonisingly long moment, where he's not being fondled but there's the sound of foil ripping, and it lasts for a couple of seconds but it feels like hours. He's more than ready; he wants that man inside of him. And he doesn't want any seconds wasted, he wants it instant and hardcore straight away. He doesn't care if he'll be sore in the morning, it'll be a souvenir.
It's like Brendan's read his mind – that or he doesn't have the time for care and patience – because in one swift movement, he's inside – and he does not wait. He thrusts hard and fast, deep and unbearably glorious; he fucks him like he hates him, his kisses soft like he loves them. There's not a moment when Brendan's lips aren't on his or some part of his skin, while he plunges deep inside Ste, batters his prostate and lets the boy's cries spur him on, occasionally swallowing them down through a slack-jawed, sensual kiss. They're close, so fucking close, and Brendan's working up a sweat with this jacket on but Ste seems to love raking his nails into the material and he knows there'll be marks there, never to leave. He spent a lot of money on this jacket, but somehow ruining it through these methods doesn't seem all that enraging.
Ste cries out the moment his orgasm hits him, thunders through his body and sets him alight. He screams out, Brendan's name like a prayer tumbling from his lips – God Brendan, Bren- oh God – and his clenching muscles tip Brendan over the edge, the man burying his teeth into Ste's sweat-damp neck, growls vibrating through the boy's skin.
They lie together in the come down, Brendan finally allowed to take his jacket off. They're dozing together, 'til Ste's hand crawls up his chest, fingertips pressing into every cut of muscle and winding through the wiry hairs on the man's chest.
"As much as I loved that, you havin' your jacket on n' everythin', I've missed your body…"
It's clear that sleep is the last thing on their minds.