wrote this for my friend Britta (Raeupchen). she asked for it because apparently I'm good at Delnodas. what?

so yeah. not really any plot, but sex, so isn't that all that matters?

There They Go

Brad likes it rough.

You'd never expect someone like Brad would like sex so rough and hard, but he does. Secretly. The only person who's been let in on this secret is Mike. It came as a surprise, obviously.

A few months into the fucking spree he and Mike had set upon, Mike began to pick up on a few hints: how Brad would moan and tremble at the first finger deep in him, with no lube of any kind; how he would nod fervently when Mike asked if he was okay after he pushed in all the way; how right at the end, when Mike would lose control and absolutely tear at his insides, Brad would cry out and cum instantly or at least within a few seconds.

Mike wasn't sure if he was on the right track, though, so he made an effort each time to do something new to hurt Brad, to see the reaction. Dig his nails into Brad's hips (which Brad liked according to his moan and string of curses), pull Brad's Jewfro (which Brad liked according to the way he bucked up against Mike), skip one and two fingers for three (which Brad fucking loved according to the way he arched his back and grabbed blindly at Mike, rambling, "now now now now"). After these tests and some talking with Brad, he realized yes, Brad Delson in fact loves it rough.

After a few months, Mike caught on at just what really made Brad go out of his fucking mind. He learned that if he bit his lip while pushing in, Brad would fist the sheets (or scratch at the wall, whichever) and whimper really loudly. He learned that Brad loved when his balls were squeezed while he's getting the life sucked out of him, and that just before he is about to come, pinching both nipples at the same time made him absolutely fuck the world and scream, cry out this weird moan/groan that sounded both hot and frightening to Mike. Mike learned all this, and he thought he was making the sex a million times better (not that it needed improving).

Brad loved it at first--loved the passion Mike was giving him, the bruises he'd stare at in the mirror, the limp he got after that one three-day span in the hotel. He loved it all, really, but something changed.

He's not sure what, exactly. Maybe the once-mute thoughts cycling his head. You're a whore, you're a faggot, you pathetic little cocksucker. It haunted him most of the time; he learned to swallow it, but like most bullshit, it came back up.

He spent a lot of time thinking about it--he devoted all the time, actually. If Mike wasn't fucking him or making him cum, he was thinking about why in the fuck did it change, and he found his answer one night on the tour bus.

Did Mike like to hurt him? Or did he do it for him to get off?

More importantly, did he do it because he loved Brad?

They'd just finished a show in Colorado, or some random-ass state like that, and they were back in the hotel room, Brad on all fours and Mike just about to thrust in.

"Stop," Brad mumbled so quietly he didn't hear it himself.

Mike didn't hear it either, thrusted in and began a hard pace like he knew Brad liked. He only heard Brad's incessant stop's a few thrusts later. Immediately he pulled out and twirled Brad around. "What happened?"

Brad wasn't sure what to say, because he hadn't thought it through before he blurted out. Mike always broke him during sex, always, but he always put the pieces back together afterwards. He held Brad and let him fall asleep curled into his neck. Surely that meant something.

He opened his mouth and closed it again, opting instead to wrap his legs around Mike's waist, pulling him in again. Mike took the hint and thrusted in, beginning to fuck him hard.

"Mike," he whispered, which his lover actually took for encouragement, and moved harder. "Please, Mike." Brad swallowed. "Don't hurt me anymore."

The tone of his voice stopped Mike again and he stared down, too out of breath to talk.

"Do you love me?" Brad said in the smallest voice possible. He couldn't believe what he said as soon as the words fell out of his mouth. They'd been fucking for at least six months, but for all he knew, it was just fucking.

Mike reacted like any man would have: eyes widened, opened his mouth then closed it, opened then closed it again, pulled out and sighed.

The guitarist took this as an answer and immediately closed his legs, pushing away.

Mike, instead, pulled out and fell into Brad, lining up their bodies. "Let me show you," he mumbled into Brad's skin, and slipped between his lover's legs.

Mike's tongue was hot inside Brad's tight hole, suggesting--albeit subtly--how much he wanted to be inside there. Brad moaned and bucked when Mike's hand wrapped around his aching cock, and fisted Mike's hair as he worked his tongue inside.

He could feel Mike licking at his insides, deep, as if he were kissing all the scars he had ever laid on Brad's porcelain skin. He was breathing hard, as though this was the only thing in the world that existed, his tongue and Brad's ass.

Brad came in two minutes flat, arching off the bed, almost pulling Mike's hair out.

Mike retracted his tongue and cleaned up the mess he made, blushing at the satisfied noises Brad was making. He rolled up to meet Brad's eyes, smiling a little at the post-orgasmic glow throughout his face.

"Hi," he said and kissed Brad's lips softly. Brad made a noise in his throat and kissed back. "Yes I do love you."

Brad nodded and wrapped his hands around the dick that was pressed against his hip. "I love you too," he said simply and squeezed, working his hand over Mike.

They stayed connected like that, staring at each other and kissing and stroking the other's cheek. Mike lost control and came when Brad slapped his ass, pressing into Brad's thigh until the orgasm was over.

He collapsed on top of the guitarist, panting harshly, trailing soft kisses along his jaw. Brad smiled and wiped his hand on the sheets before wrapping his arms around Mike and falling asleep. Mike was just behind him, thinking that maybe hurt is underrated.