I like you. (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} addictedkitten) wrote,@ 2008-08-07 13:22:00 |
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Fic: Like A Game (sequel to That First Inconceivable Touch)
Title: Like A Game (sequel to That First Inconceivable Touch)
Author:addictedkitten
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Summary: Boys are only after one thing, Ryan is. Ryan doesn't know what he's after, but he hopes to find that only one thing one of these days so he can stop looking.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Note: I wrote That First Inconceivable Touch just over two years ago. Consider this one possible future for the story, rather than a definitive sequel. Thanks tocallsigns for the beta.
So he and Keltie are on the outs again (on, off, long distance is hard, it's worth it, it isn't, is it?) and last time it was two weeks before they got back together, last time he slept with someone else and she slept with someone else and this is how it goes, sex with other people, no longer something new and important. Ryan's count of people he's slept with is approaching the twenties the way he used to be and it's always the same, girls are always the same. Guys are, too, that mystery gone. Boys are only after one thing, Ryan is. Ryan doesn't know what he's after, but he hopes to find that only one thing one of these days so he can stop looking.
He doesn't let himself think about it too much, the timing, the destination. The windows are still down and he still drives too fast, the Mercedes is new and Ryan isn't. Older, wiser, happier (happier? It's easier now to try, at least), better dressed maybe, but that's it. More interestingly dressed, though not tonight. Tonight he fits in, jeans as tight as he wore them four years ago, the worn pair of girl jeans from AE that he never managed to get rid of, a battered pair of Converse, black deep V with the black Ray-bans he just might be enough of an asshole to wear into the venue. Whatever. If he's recognized he's recognized, he's had worse fucking problems in his life than taking a few pictures with fans and he can always hide by the bar. He's had worse problems than being in a band he loves and having an on/off girlfriend who doesn't fuck with his head as much as Tarah did in high school, as much as Jac did after, as much as Pete, as much as fucking anyone, whatever. On a relative scale of one to fucked up he's done worse.
Four years and a few albums later and this band is still playing the same size venues and still drawing the same crowds, the scene kids a little older, some younger to replace ones lost. Ryan's there again anyway, still there. He doesn't have to reach so far back to remember listening to these records in his room and wanting to take those rhythms, construct furious songs that sounded like sex out of keyboards and drum machines, songs that would get in people's heads and stay there. He just wanted to make people dance, and they did, and now he looks beyond this for inspiration, finds new words and new sounds to backdrop them, but this. He still loves this. The latest record's been on his iPod for weeks and he knows it'll be just as good like this, surrounded by bodies, anonymous, feeling it like everyone else here, feeling it like he used to, like he wants to again. He wants to again.
He doesn't think about it, he's not thinking about down the Boulevard, he's not thinking about it as he shows his ticket to get into the venue, he's not thinking about it through the last opener. He's not thinking about anything but how much he needs this, now. He's not thinking about what this means.
He's not thinking. He closes his eyes and stands in the back and sips from his drink and slips his sunglasses off, but not to see. Just not to hide.
He's different now, this is all different, but he's still drawn helplessly into the crowd when the lights go down and the band comes on stage, he still feels the pull, the need to be close, closer, in it. He hasn't seen The Faint since, since he was edging up on eighteen but not quite there yet. They've toured through Vegas but never when Panic was on a break, and anyway if they had he still might not have gone. He's not even sure why he's here now. (He knows exactly why he's here now. Exactly.)
It's cooler on the fringes of the crowd but he can feel the humidity, sweat and bodies pressed together, the helpless movement of the crowd, the sway and twitch and burn of masses of kids, people his age, all together on the edge of something moving inward. The band opens with a newer track, one he doesn't know the name of, just the number on the record, and a few people sing it back. Ryan feels the bass pounding up through the floor, the press and brush of skin and fabric around him, his fingers soft but insistent on strangers' hips, working his way through the crowd towards the middle. Under the stage lights everyone glitters red and orange, a crowd full of fireworks and motion, oh god, Ryan's heart is pounding so fast, his fingers tingling, his whole body oversensitive to every touch, the sensory overload of being surrounded, pinned in, trapped, held in place, pushed against a cold bathroom wall and pounded into, fucked, taken, fucked, oh god, he wasn't going to let himself think about this, he wasn't. He needs air, he needs not this, he thought this was right but it's wrong, it's breaking up the memory he wants to keep close and that can't happen.
"Fuck," he says, breathless and shaking, and turns in the crowd, letting himself drift out of it, casually pushed, the crowd parting in slim spaces he can slip through, but nowhere he can disappear. His hands clench into fists and his legs feel insufficient to the job of holding him up. The music is so loud he can't think, almost loud enough to lose himself in, but he can't, he can't fucking let himself again, things are different now. The music follows him out to the crowd's edge and he's so busy trying to tread water that he almost misses it, the familiarity of the touch on his shoulder, not guiding him out, not a casual brush. He looks up from the floor, from navigating the sea of Chuck Taylors and skinny jeans, and stops short of running into Brendon.
Brendon. Brendon's hand squeezes his shoulder, Brendon doesn't smile, Brendon doesn't say a word, Brendon. Now that he's here and in front of Ryan he's all Ryan can think about, the name spilling from every corner of his mind, the million ways he thought the two of them could end up here, back here. Brendon, Brendon, Brendon talking to him this week about his plans for their time off, going to the mall, buying a new couch, going to his favorite donut shop, spending time with his nieces and nephews, and he never once said this, never even mentioned that he knew this show was happening, that he'd be here. He never mentioned it, and Ryan never said anything, and Ryan knew. He fucking knew. He should have known.
Brendon licks his lips, and Ryan fits his fingers to Brendon's hips, guides Brendon back and further out of the crowd, a thousand words dying before they even make it to his throat. Brendon swallows, and Ryan's trembling, his thumb twitching against the waist of Brendon's jeans as Brendon turns and leads him there. There, where they both want to go, need to go, back to the bathrooms. It's been four years, and Ryan's fucking trembling.
Brendon leads him and Ryan lets his eyes slip shut, lets himself pretend this is then but he can't, it's now, he knows every inch of Brendon and Brendon knows every inch of him, even knows what he's thinking, and it's been so long. His breath is trapped in his chest like his hand is trapped in Brendon's grip, like they're both trapped in this memory and reliving it, reshaping it. The scene is the same, the bathroom's the same, the graffiti in the stall is the same and Brendon's mouth under his tastes the same when Brendon shoves him against the wall and kisses him hard.
Brendon's not the same; he knows how to kiss now, he gives as good as Ryan gives it to him, his hands rough on Ryan's waist as he digs his fingers into Ryan's sides and urges his arms up, peeling the t-shirt from his body, only giving up possession of Ryan's mouth to get it all the way off of him as Ryan bumps his hips up against Brendon's, rubbing hot and needy against him when he can't touch with his hands. Brendon's mouth is back on his and Ryan's hands are back at Brendon's belt as soon as Ryan's chest is bared. Out of the crowd, the light sheen of sweat on his chest cools enough to get his nipples hard, and Brendon pinches one as he pushes his tongue into Ryan's mouth, his other hand at Ryan's ass, squeezing him through his jeans until Ryan manages to get Brendon's own jeans undone.
Ryan drops to his knees, landing harder than he meant to, clumsier, and the forward motion has him nuzzling against Brendon's cock through his boxers even as he reaches greedily inside, finally getting what he wants, what he needs, Brendon's dick hard and thick and hot in his grip, the taste so familiar on his tongue as he takes it in his mouth, skipping the pleasantries and just swallowing it down, stretching his mouth around the thickness of it, getting it good and wet as Brendon gasps and thrusts forward gracelessly. It catches Ryan by surprise and he chokes a bit, making Brendon moan above him, but Brendon doesn't stop or even slow down and Ryan welcomes it, fuck, he wants this so much, he can feel his eyes wet at the corners from gagging, the lack of air, he can feel so much and he wants so much more already. It's been so long, it's been so fucking long. He wants Brendon to come down his throat but he wants Brendon to fuck him even more than that. He tries to pull back and Brendon just thrusts deeper, Ryan's head bumping against the stall wall.
It takes his fingers clenching on Brendon's hip to make Brendon let him pull off, gasping for air and looking up at Brendon, blinking back helpless tears, touching one hand to his flushed cheek. Brendon's eyes are dark, his cock shining wet and hard, an angry red that makes Ryan's mouth water, makes him feel empty and needy and so fucking desperate, god, "Fuck me," Ryan begs, his voice hoarse, and Brendon takes his hand, guides him up and pulls him close, kissing him fiercely as Ryan tangles his hands in Brendon's hair and returns the kiss just as hard, aching for this, aching to feel Brendon's touch wherever he can.
He whimpers when Brendon pulls away, the color high on Brendon's cheeks and his lips parted, his eyes wild. "Ryan," he whispers, and Ryan swallows, his hands going to his own jeans, thumbs sliding against his hips as he pushes them down, baring his cock. "Fuck, Ryan," Brendon says, and leans in close, circling Ryan's cock in his fist, a few dry strokes that leave Ryan on the edge of pleading. Brendon's mouth moves over Ryan's neck, sucking a mark there, tongue and teeth wet and tender on Ryan's sweaty skin, and Ryan's fingertips dig into Brendon's shoulders, helpless sounds spilling from his throat, so desperate out loud as Brendon touches him, marks him. "Turn around," Brendon murmurs, and Ryan's so grateful he could cry, turning clumsily in the cage of Brendon's arms, leaning his forehead against the wall, seventeen and twenty-one, about to let this stranger fuck him, about to let Brendon fuck him, everything unfamiliar and familiar. Ryan would crack his ribcage open and let Brendon see and steal his heart if he could, but instead he takes a deep shuddering breath and spreads his legs and says, "Please."
Brendon's breath hitches, Ryan can feel it when Brendon presses their bodies together, Ryan's spine long and bare against Brendon's clothed chest, Brendon's cock hard and slick between his cheeks, sliding down until he can feel the head prodding between his cheeks. When Brendon pushes forward, it feels like the first time, like Ryan's being split apart all over again, forced open, and he can't help but moan, trying to relax into it, trying to open up for Brendon. He'd tried so hard to be strong the first time, telling Brendon what he needed without being afraid, but never breaking for him, not even a little. Ryan lets himself break now, lets himself go slack in Brendon's arms, lets Brendon hold him up, impaled on his cock, Brendon taking control without being asked, without being goaded into it. He lets Brendon give him what he needs and take the same in turn and Brendon accepts it like he was meant to all along. He fucks Ryan slow and deep, Ryan trembling at each thrust, breathing unevenly and forgetting to breathe altogether. Brendon's hand is loosely cupped around his cock, just holding him, but Ryan doesn't thrust into it, just closes his eyes and feels the music and lets it drown out everything but the sound of Brendon panting in his ear, trusting Brendon to take care of him.
"Say my name, Ryan," Brendon breathes, hot and harsh as he works his cock in and out of Ryan's body, and Ryan nods, pushing his hips back into it.
"Brendon," he says obediently, "Brendon, Brendon," and now he's started it's hard to stop, each utterance punctuated by another insistent thrust, "Brendon, please," he gasps, relishing the snap of Brendon's hips forward, driving his cock in deeper, his grip tightening on Ryan, keeping him from coming but not from feeling, denying him for now but Ryan knows it's for his own good, that this has to last him for now and for who knows how long after. But he can't think about that now, doesn't want to, just wants this, fucking needs it, needs fucking, needs Brendon, "Brendon, Brendon," he pants, his spine tensing up when Brendon braces his one hand against the wall, wrapping it around Ryan's wrist, and really starts to pound him. The head of Ryan's cock peeks through Brendon's fist as he moves and smears the wall with pre-come, dirty, inelegant, nothing like what they've been for each other. It's been years, and Ryan's needed this so fucking badly. "Brendon," he sighs, and Brendon buries his teeth in Ryan's shoulder as he buries his cock in Ryan's ass.
Brendon's grip loosens fractionally, just enough for Ryan to thrust into it, just enough for him to come gasping over Brendon's fingers, his whole body shaking from it as Brendon's thrusts speed up, battering into Ryan's sore ass until he chokes out Ryan's name and goes still against him, inside him. Ryan closes his eyes and lets himself feel it, lets Brendon fill him up with it. He feels the ghost of an instinct to flee but ignores it, settling back into Brendon's arms as Brendon kisses lazily over the bite marks he's left. Brendon's cock softens inside him, and Ryan wants to stay.
Brendon breathes soft and warm against the back of his neck, settled there. Neither of them move. The band plays on, and Ryan still likes this song.
"Ryan," Brendon whispers, "Ryan." His arms curve around Ryan's bare waist, and he holds on tight. Ryan lets him. "Was this what you wanted?"
"You know it was," Ryan says, his voice just as quiet. He feels Brendon nod against the back of his neck, right before Brendon carefully pulls out. Ryan winces but tries to hide it, and pulls up his pants as he hears Brendon doing the same. When he turns to face Brendon, Brendon looks sixteen again. He looks scared.
Brendon swallows. "Was it all you wanted?"
Ryan says, "Not this time."
-
"I can't believe you guys broke up," Spencer says. "I'm sorry dude, that sucks. Are you alright? Do you need ice cream? Hookers?"
"I'm good," Ryan says, balancing his phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he picks his wrinkled shirt up off the floor and goes to fold it. "We were more off than on these last few months, anyway."
"Sorry though," Spencer tells him. "I liked Keltie."
"We'll still be friends." Ryan frowns at his reflection in the mirror. Yeah, that hickey's not going away anytime soon. Luckily, he has a few scarves in his wardrobe. Although he could probably stand to buy a few more. His scarf drawer isn't quite full. "Anyway, I've been keeping myself busy."
"Right, you went to the Faint show, didn't you? You hadn't seen them in awhile."
Ryan smiles. "I hadn't." He climbs back onto the bed, and pokes Brendon in his side. The sheet's slipped down enough to bare half of Brendon's naked ass. Ryan's fingers wiggle with the urge to smack.
"Good show?" Spencer asks.
Brendon rolls over and tugs at Ryan's wrist until Ryan straddles him. "Spencer," Ryan mouths, and Brendon opens his mouth as if to shout a hello. Ryan clamps a hand over his mouth. Now is not quite yet the time. This one's going to take some explaining, and right now Ryan has different priorities.
"Hello?" Spencer says.
"Yeah," Ryan says. He bounces a little on Brendon's lap, and Brendon leers at him. "Yeah, it was a really good show. I had a good time."
"Cool," Spencer says.
"Yep." Brendon grabs for his dick. "I'm gonna go, I'll talk to you later, okay?" he says, and when Spencer offers a goodbye, he hangs up.
"Good show, huh?" Brendon says.
Ryan smiles.
Title: Like A Game (sequel to That First Inconceivable Touch)
Author:
addictedkittenRating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Summary: Boys are only after one thing, Ryan is. Ryan doesn't know what he's after, but he hopes to find that only one thing one of these days so he can stop looking.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Note: I wrote That First Inconceivable Touch just over two years ago. Consider this one possible future for the story, rather than a definitive sequel. Thanks to
callsigns for the beta.So he and Keltie are on the outs again (on, off, long distance is hard, it's worth it, it isn't, is it?) and last time it was two weeks before they got back together, last time he slept with someone else and she slept with someone else and this is how it goes, sex with other people, no longer something new and important. Ryan's count of people he's slept with is approaching the twenties the way he used to be and it's always the same, girls are always the same. Guys are, too, that mystery gone. Boys are only after one thing, Ryan is. Ryan doesn't know what he's after, but he hopes to find that only one thing one of these days so he can stop looking.
He doesn't let himself think about it too much, the timing, the destination. The windows are still down and he still drives too fast, the Mercedes is new and Ryan isn't. Older, wiser, happier (happier? It's easier now to try, at least), better dressed maybe, but that's it. More interestingly dressed, though not tonight. Tonight he fits in, jeans as tight as he wore them four years ago, the worn pair of girl jeans from AE that he never managed to get rid of, a battered pair of Converse, black deep V with the black Ray-bans he just might be enough of an asshole to wear into the venue. Whatever. If he's recognized he's recognized, he's had worse fucking problems in his life than taking a few pictures with fans and he can always hide by the bar. He's had worse problems than being in a band he loves and having an on/off girlfriend who doesn't fuck with his head as much as Tarah did in high school, as much as Jac did after, as much as Pete, as much as fucking anyone, whatever. On a relative scale of one to fucked up he's done worse.
Four years and a few albums later and this band is still playing the same size venues and still drawing the same crowds, the scene kids a little older, some younger to replace ones lost. Ryan's there again anyway, still there. He doesn't have to reach so far back to remember listening to these records in his room and wanting to take those rhythms, construct furious songs that sounded like sex out of keyboards and drum machines, songs that would get in people's heads and stay there. He just wanted to make people dance, and they did, and now he looks beyond this for inspiration, finds new words and new sounds to backdrop them, but this. He still loves this. The latest record's been on his iPod for weeks and he knows it'll be just as good like this, surrounded by bodies, anonymous, feeling it like everyone else here, feeling it like he used to, like he wants to again. He wants to again.
He doesn't think about it, he's not thinking about down the Boulevard, he's not thinking about it as he shows his ticket to get into the venue, he's not thinking about it through the last opener. He's not thinking about anything but how much he needs this, now. He's not thinking about what this means.
He's not thinking. He closes his eyes and stands in the back and sips from his drink and slips his sunglasses off, but not to see. Just not to hide.
He's different now, this is all different, but he's still drawn helplessly into the crowd when the lights go down and the band comes on stage, he still feels the pull, the need to be close, closer, in it. He hasn't seen The Faint since, since he was edging up on eighteen but not quite there yet. They've toured through Vegas but never when Panic was on a break, and anyway if they had he still might not have gone. He's not even sure why he's here now. (He knows exactly why he's here now. Exactly.)
It's cooler on the fringes of the crowd but he can feel the humidity, sweat and bodies pressed together, the helpless movement of the crowd, the sway and twitch and burn of masses of kids, people his age, all together on the edge of something moving inward. The band opens with a newer track, one he doesn't know the name of, just the number on the record, and a few people sing it back. Ryan feels the bass pounding up through the floor, the press and brush of skin and fabric around him, his fingers soft but insistent on strangers' hips, working his way through the crowd towards the middle. Under the stage lights everyone glitters red and orange, a crowd full of fireworks and motion, oh god, Ryan's heart is pounding so fast, his fingers tingling, his whole body oversensitive to every touch, the sensory overload of being surrounded, pinned in, trapped, held in place, pushed against a cold bathroom wall and pounded into, fucked, taken, fucked, oh god, he wasn't going to let himself think about this, he wasn't. He needs air, he needs not this, he thought this was right but it's wrong, it's breaking up the memory he wants to keep close and that can't happen.
"Fuck," he says, breathless and shaking, and turns in the crowd, letting himself drift out of it, casually pushed, the crowd parting in slim spaces he can slip through, but nowhere he can disappear. His hands clench into fists and his legs feel insufficient to the job of holding him up. The music is so loud he can't think, almost loud enough to lose himself in, but he can't, he can't fucking let himself again, things are different now. The music follows him out to the crowd's edge and he's so busy trying to tread water that he almost misses it, the familiarity of the touch on his shoulder, not guiding him out, not a casual brush. He looks up from the floor, from navigating the sea of Chuck Taylors and skinny jeans, and stops short of running into Brendon.
Brendon. Brendon's hand squeezes his shoulder, Brendon doesn't smile, Brendon doesn't say a word, Brendon. Now that he's here and in front of Ryan he's all Ryan can think about, the name spilling from every corner of his mind, the million ways he thought the two of them could end up here, back here. Brendon, Brendon, Brendon talking to him this week about his plans for their time off, going to the mall, buying a new couch, going to his favorite donut shop, spending time with his nieces and nephews, and he never once said this, never even mentioned that he knew this show was happening, that he'd be here. He never mentioned it, and Ryan never said anything, and Ryan knew. He fucking knew. He should have known.
Brendon licks his lips, and Ryan fits his fingers to Brendon's hips, guides Brendon back and further out of the crowd, a thousand words dying before they even make it to his throat. Brendon swallows, and Ryan's trembling, his thumb twitching against the waist of Brendon's jeans as Brendon turns and leads him there. There, where they both want to go, need to go, back to the bathrooms. It's been four years, and Ryan's fucking trembling.
Brendon leads him and Ryan lets his eyes slip shut, lets himself pretend this is then but he can't, it's now, he knows every inch of Brendon and Brendon knows every inch of him, even knows what he's thinking, and it's been so long. His breath is trapped in his chest like his hand is trapped in Brendon's grip, like they're both trapped in this memory and reliving it, reshaping it. The scene is the same, the bathroom's the same, the graffiti in the stall is the same and Brendon's mouth under his tastes the same when Brendon shoves him against the wall and kisses him hard.
Brendon's not the same; he knows how to kiss now, he gives as good as Ryan gives it to him, his hands rough on Ryan's waist as he digs his fingers into Ryan's sides and urges his arms up, peeling the t-shirt from his body, only giving up possession of Ryan's mouth to get it all the way off of him as Ryan bumps his hips up against Brendon's, rubbing hot and needy against him when he can't touch with his hands. Brendon's mouth is back on his and Ryan's hands are back at Brendon's belt as soon as Ryan's chest is bared. Out of the crowd, the light sheen of sweat on his chest cools enough to get his nipples hard, and Brendon pinches one as he pushes his tongue into Ryan's mouth, his other hand at Ryan's ass, squeezing him through his jeans until Ryan manages to get Brendon's own jeans undone.
Ryan drops to his knees, landing harder than he meant to, clumsier, and the forward motion has him nuzzling against Brendon's cock through his boxers even as he reaches greedily inside, finally getting what he wants, what he needs, Brendon's dick hard and thick and hot in his grip, the taste so familiar on his tongue as he takes it in his mouth, skipping the pleasantries and just swallowing it down, stretching his mouth around the thickness of it, getting it good and wet as Brendon gasps and thrusts forward gracelessly. It catches Ryan by surprise and he chokes a bit, making Brendon moan above him, but Brendon doesn't stop or even slow down and Ryan welcomes it, fuck, he wants this so much, he can feel his eyes wet at the corners from gagging, the lack of air, he can feel so much and he wants so much more already. It's been so long, it's been so fucking long. He wants Brendon to come down his throat but he wants Brendon to fuck him even more than that. He tries to pull back and Brendon just thrusts deeper, Ryan's head bumping against the stall wall.
It takes his fingers clenching on Brendon's hip to make Brendon let him pull off, gasping for air and looking up at Brendon, blinking back helpless tears, touching one hand to his flushed cheek. Brendon's eyes are dark, his cock shining wet and hard, an angry red that makes Ryan's mouth water, makes him feel empty and needy and so fucking desperate, god, "Fuck me," Ryan begs, his voice hoarse, and Brendon takes his hand, guides him up and pulls him close, kissing him fiercely as Ryan tangles his hands in Brendon's hair and returns the kiss just as hard, aching for this, aching to feel Brendon's touch wherever he can.
He whimpers when Brendon pulls away, the color high on Brendon's cheeks and his lips parted, his eyes wild. "Ryan," he whispers, and Ryan swallows, his hands going to his own jeans, thumbs sliding against his hips as he pushes them down, baring his cock. "Fuck, Ryan," Brendon says, and leans in close, circling Ryan's cock in his fist, a few dry strokes that leave Ryan on the edge of pleading. Brendon's mouth moves over Ryan's neck, sucking a mark there, tongue and teeth wet and tender on Ryan's sweaty skin, and Ryan's fingertips dig into Brendon's shoulders, helpless sounds spilling from his throat, so desperate out loud as Brendon touches him, marks him. "Turn around," Brendon murmurs, and Ryan's so grateful he could cry, turning clumsily in the cage of Brendon's arms, leaning his forehead against the wall, seventeen and twenty-one, about to let this stranger fuck him, about to let Brendon fuck him, everything unfamiliar and familiar. Ryan would crack his ribcage open and let Brendon see and steal his heart if he could, but instead he takes a deep shuddering breath and spreads his legs and says, "Please."
Brendon's breath hitches, Ryan can feel it when Brendon presses their bodies together, Ryan's spine long and bare against Brendon's clothed chest, Brendon's cock hard and slick between his cheeks, sliding down until he can feel the head prodding between his cheeks. When Brendon pushes forward, it feels like the first time, like Ryan's being split apart all over again, forced open, and he can't help but moan, trying to relax into it, trying to open up for Brendon. He'd tried so hard to be strong the first time, telling Brendon what he needed without being afraid, but never breaking for him, not even a little. Ryan lets himself break now, lets himself go slack in Brendon's arms, lets Brendon hold him up, impaled on his cock, Brendon taking control without being asked, without being goaded into it. He lets Brendon give him what he needs and take the same in turn and Brendon accepts it like he was meant to all along. He fucks Ryan slow and deep, Ryan trembling at each thrust, breathing unevenly and forgetting to breathe altogether. Brendon's hand is loosely cupped around his cock, just holding him, but Ryan doesn't thrust into it, just closes his eyes and feels the music and lets it drown out everything but the sound of Brendon panting in his ear, trusting Brendon to take care of him.
"Say my name, Ryan," Brendon breathes, hot and harsh as he works his cock in and out of Ryan's body, and Ryan nods, pushing his hips back into it.
"Brendon," he says obediently, "Brendon, Brendon," and now he's started it's hard to stop, each utterance punctuated by another insistent thrust, "Brendon, please," he gasps, relishing the snap of Brendon's hips forward, driving his cock in deeper, his grip tightening on Ryan, keeping him from coming but not from feeling, denying him for now but Ryan knows it's for his own good, that this has to last him for now and for who knows how long after. But he can't think about that now, doesn't want to, just wants this, fucking needs it, needs fucking, needs Brendon, "Brendon, Brendon," he pants, his spine tensing up when Brendon braces his one hand against the wall, wrapping it around Ryan's wrist, and really starts to pound him. The head of Ryan's cock peeks through Brendon's fist as he moves and smears the wall with pre-come, dirty, inelegant, nothing like what they've been for each other. It's been years, and Ryan's needed this so fucking badly. "Brendon," he sighs, and Brendon buries his teeth in Ryan's shoulder as he buries his cock in Ryan's ass.
Brendon's grip loosens fractionally, just enough for Ryan to thrust into it, just enough for him to come gasping over Brendon's fingers, his whole body shaking from it as Brendon's thrusts speed up, battering into Ryan's sore ass until he chokes out Ryan's name and goes still against him, inside him. Ryan closes his eyes and lets himself feel it, lets Brendon fill him up with it. He feels the ghost of an instinct to flee but ignores it, settling back into Brendon's arms as Brendon kisses lazily over the bite marks he's left. Brendon's cock softens inside him, and Ryan wants to stay.
Brendon breathes soft and warm against the back of his neck, settled there. Neither of them move. The band plays on, and Ryan still likes this song.
"Ryan," Brendon whispers, "Ryan." His arms curve around Ryan's bare waist, and he holds on tight. Ryan lets him. "Was this what you wanted?"
"You know it was," Ryan says, his voice just as quiet. He feels Brendon nod against the back of his neck, right before Brendon carefully pulls out. Ryan winces but tries to hide it, and pulls up his pants as he hears Brendon doing the same. When he turns to face Brendon, Brendon looks sixteen again. He looks scared.
Brendon swallows. "Was it all you wanted?"
Ryan says, "Not this time."
"I can't believe you guys broke up," Spencer says. "I'm sorry dude, that sucks. Are you alright? Do you need ice cream? Hookers?"
"I'm good," Ryan says, balancing his phone between his cheek and his shoulder as he picks his wrinkled shirt up off the floor and goes to fold it. "We were more off than on these last few months, anyway."
"Sorry though," Spencer tells him. "I liked Keltie."
"We'll still be friends." Ryan frowns at his reflection in the mirror. Yeah, that hickey's not going away anytime soon. Luckily, he has a few scarves in his wardrobe. Although he could probably stand to buy a few more. His scarf drawer isn't quite full. "Anyway, I've been keeping myself busy."
"Right, you went to the Faint show, didn't you? You hadn't seen them in awhile."
Ryan smiles. "I hadn't." He climbs back onto the bed, and pokes Brendon in his side. The sheet's slipped down enough to bare half of Brendon's naked ass. Ryan's fingers wiggle with the urge to smack.
"Good show?" Spencer asks.
Brendon rolls over and tugs at Ryan's wrist until Ryan straddles him. "Spencer," Ryan mouths, and Brendon opens his mouth as if to shout a hello. Ryan clamps a hand over his mouth. Now is not quite yet the time. This one's going to take some explaining, and right now Ryan has different priorities.
"Hello?" Spencer says.
"Yeah," Ryan says. He bounces a little on Brendon's lap, and Brendon leers at him. "Yeah, it was a really good show. I had a good time."
"Cool," Spencer says.
"Yep." Brendon grabs for his dick. "I'm gonna go, I'll talk to you later, okay?" he says, and when Spencer offers a goodbye, he hangs up.
"Good show, huh?" Brendon says.
Ryan smiles.
