fic: The Night Is Younger Than We Are

[adellyna]

Title The Night Is Younger Than We Are
Authoresses adellyna AND txtequilanights
Pairing Pete/Ryland. Yes. Seriously. No, we're not joking.
Rating Is there an F for Filthy? There should be. Um. NC-17.
Summary They fuck.
Word Count 6200
Disclaimer Dirty, sexy lies.
Authors' Notes Thanks to shleemeri and maleyka for the betas. This is... completely filthy and utterly shameless and absolutely the hottest pairing that no one is writing. Pleasure Ryland, bitches.



Fucking, like, everyone is sick. And not just coughing-sick, runny-nose sick. It's vomiting-sick. Coming-out-both-ends-sick, the kind of sick that has them keeping buckets offstage just in case. The kind of sick that has Pete offering to buy Andy adult diapers to wear under his shorts, just in case he starts leaking.

Pete isn't sick yet--luckily, neither is Patrick, and not because they'd have to cancel shows, no, because Patrick's a bitch when he's sick-- but Joe's gone, lying limp on the bathroom floor. Andy's bearing up, stoic, but he slept in the bathtub the last two nights, and Pete's pretty sure it's not because he likes the cool porcelain against his forehead or something.

Gabe is sick, too. You can hear him swearing in Spanish between heaves when you pass their room at the wrong time, but he still goes on stage every night.

It gets Alex, drops Nate, levels Victoria, and skips Ryland altogether.

The other two bands on the tour don't stand a chance. They're baby bands, traveling in vans instead of buses, and it takes them out in whole groups. Pete buys bright orange hazardous waste stickers and slaps them on the back windows, then grins when the boys inside flip him off in unison. At least they're bonding in their misery.

It turns out that Patrick's Pete-tolerance drops dramatically when there is practically no one else to command Pete's attention, which is why Pete finds himself kicked out in the hallway of their hotel after a show one night. Patrick, headphones dangling from one hand, says "I just, look, I have got to finish working on this, okay?" and shuts the door unapologetically in Pete's face.

Pete sticks his tongue out at the door and wanders off, hoping to stumble across someone who has recovered enough to entertain him.

Finding Ryland is even better, because Ryland never got sick at all. He's been making sure his band stays hydrated and medicated and shit ("No," Pete heard him saying yesterday, "Let me drink the tequila, Gabe, you drink the Gatorade."), as far as Pete can tell, but now he seems footloose and fancy-free. It's not surprising, bedtimes dropped drastically from four in the morning to eleven at night sometime around when Victoria started dry heaving back at that truck stop on Saturday.

"It's a material world," Pete sighs, sidling into the vending area. "Money makes things happen. No such thing as a free lunch, gotta grease the wheels."

Ryland squints at him, like maybe he doesn't understand word-sounds that don't involve moaning and splatter.

"You have to give the machine money," Pete says slowly. "And then it will give you food."

Ryland waves his crumpled bill like a sad, defeated little flag. "I only have a five. The machine doesn't take fives."

"That's tragic," Pete says, reaching out to pat Ryland's arm gingerly. You can never tell where deadly germs might be lurking these days, what with all the vomiting. "But if you come with me, we can have real food."

Ryland's eyebrows go up hopefully. "Real food? That can be consumed in the presence of people who won't turn green and run away as soon as they see it?"

"Yes." Pete nods solemnly. "I hear it's like magic."

"And this is food that I'll only see once, right?" Ryland pulls out his slim, patched wallet and carefully places the bill back inside. "It won't come back for a visit on my shoes later?"

"No repeat appearances, I promise." Pete holds his hand over his heart and grins. "Would I ever lie to you?"

Ryland says "Yes," without hesitation, but he also links his arm through Pete's and says, "Let's go. Uh. We're not... taking Patrick, are we?"

Yeah, Ryland's been around them long enough. He obviously knows there are some times you just don't want to take Patrick with you, no matter how perfect and precious and awesome he is.

"Patrick," Pete answers carefully, "thinks maybe it's time for me to spread the love around. He doesn't like it when I deprive everyone else of my sparkling personality."

"If you buy my dinner," Ryland says. "You can sparkle all over me."

"Deal." Pete tightens his arm in Ryland's and tugs him down the hall, towards the elevators. "I'll even do it in pink, to complement your lovely green blouse."

They take the elevator down and manage to slide out the back door of the hotel without seeing a single fourteen-year-old in a Clan hoodie. It's a victory, to say the least.

"So," Ryland says, when they're standing outside, staring down the street at a blazing row of neon lights. "Where to?"

There's a lot of words lit up in lights, and not a single sign that says "come on in and get shitty service, we don't care who you are."

"Um," Pete says. He zips his hoodie up, tugs the hood forward over his ears, Patrick's cap low on his forehead, shoves his hands in his pockets. "Fuck if I know, dude. Uh." He points at a place a few doors down. It has a few dudes standing outside, smoking, and they look like they've never even heard of Fall Out Boy, much less Cobra Starship.

The sign above it says Grumpy Dick's. So, bonus penis joke. This is looking like Pete's kind of place.

"I vote Grumpy Dick's," he says, bumping hips with Ryland. "And don't let me forget to take a picture for Buzznet."

"Cranky Cocks it is," Ryland says. "Everything tastes better with alliteration."

The dudes outside don't even give them a second look when they walk past. Well, maybe one of them does, but it's possibly just to check out Pete's ass, so that's fine.

Their waitress snaps her gum at them and looks like she's about to keel over from apathy when she comes to take their order. She says "Whaddya want to drink?" and Pete stares at her horribly applied eyeliner and really wants to, like, fix it. His fingers twitch a little, and he shoves them under the table.

Pete orders a beer, because if he has to drink one more lukewarm Gatorade he's going to put a gun to his head and pull the trigger. Ryland orders one, too, probably for the same reason, but maybe also because they've ended up in a bar with stretched-leather lampshades and country music twanging overhead.

Country music. Not that Pete's opposed, exactly, and it's nice to see that they're not even the tightest-jeaned dudes in the bar, but still. Country music. He wonders if he'll be expected to open his beer bottle with his teeth, but then the waitress materializes out of nowhere and slides a mug in front of him, one in front of Ryland.

He checks it for authentic grime, but it's clean, water-spotted, generic plastic.

Honestly, he's a little disappointed.

"So," Ryland says, waggling his eyebrows at Pete above the crooked, laminated top of his menu. "How do you think the lobster is at this joint?"

Pete makes a face. "Too soon for food jokes, dude. I don't think those shoes Joe puked on will ever be clean again." It's a sad thing; he loved those shoes.

Ryland nods. "Fair enough. The hamburgers may actually be good though. And, oh, curly fries."

Right after they order, the jukebox in the corner kicks up a particularly twangy number and two couples in the corner stand up from their table. Pete tilts his head. "Hey, dancing."

Ryland says, "Oh, yeah," and they both watch as the couples put their arms around each other and start some complicated series of steps and turns in time to the music. The women are giggling and the men are obviously hamming it up a little to make them laugh even more. Pete thinks it actually looks kind of fun.

He turns his very best smile on Ryland and says, "Hey."

"No."

"I didn't even--"

"No dancing before dinner, Wentz. I know how you get handsy."

Pete does not. Ok, maybe he does, but not right now. He's too weak, too emotionally vulnerable, too-- "Ooh, wings."

The couples sit back down after the song and Pete and Ryland eat their food. Their non-vending machine, non-take-out, non-vomit inducing food. It's amazing. Pete eats a whole plate of wings without a single person calling him to ask pathetically for more Gatorade or soup.

When he's done, he licks at his fingers and watches as Ryland polishes off his burger. "So." Pete steals one of Ryland's fries and grins at him. "It's not before food anymore."

What? The dancing looked fun. Pete's life is lacking in fun lately.

Ryland pops another fry in his mouth. "Do you even know how to dance like that?"

"Well, no." Pete frowns. "But you do, I've seen you do it. With Alex."

"Oh, yeah," Ryland says. "We uh, in high school. Our gym teacher thought we should learn or something. I don't know. Florida."

"Dude," Pete says. "If Alex can learn, I can learn."

"What is that even supposed to mean?" Ryland asks, eyebrow raised, curly fry dangling out of his mouth.

"Just, you know. Alex is the whitest guy ever, and there's no way he can out-dance me."

"He's only half white," Ryland counters. "His mother is, uh, a Nubian princess."

Pete counters automatically, and steals one of Ryland's fries while he's at it. "What's a Nubian?"

"Something Alex is and you aren't," Ryland answers promptly. "Besides, I've seen you dance, Wentz. Last time, I just saw you from the back and thought you were someone's girlfriend."

Pete tries to look indignant, he does. But it's kind of true. "That's just because I haven't had proper instruction."

Ryland smirks. "I can call my old gym teacher for you."

"Ryland, you should dance with me." Pete pouts, widening his eyes. "You never dance with me."

"Because your ass would be rubbing against my knees," Ryland points out. "I'd be too busy laughing to do any dancing."

"Ok, fine," Pete says, pouting. "Whatever. Fuck dancing, we'll do body shots. We'll see how pretty you dance when you can't even keep your ass vertical."

Ryland grins and shoves his arm up in the air, hand flapping for the waitress. "Who needs to stay vertical? I'm on a date with Pete Wentz, the end is both predestined and horizontal."

Pete flips him off, but he's grinning when the waitress comes back over and blinks mildly at Ryland's request that she bring "as many shots of tequila as you can carry, pretty lady."

She comes back four minutes later with a bottle of Jose Cuervo and two shot glasses, along with a large, chipped porcelain bowl full of lemons.

"That'll do," Ryland coos. He beams and slaps a ten-dollar-bill on the table. The waitress does not appear any more moved than she did before. "That'll do nicely."

Pete lines the salt shaker and the lemons up in the middle of the table, pours one of the shot glasses full and pushes it at Ryland with a smirk. "Feel free to get the party started."

Ryland smirks back and catches Pete's hand before he can pull it back, circling long fingers around Pete's wrist and turning it so that the thin, delicate skin on the inside is facing up. He doesn't say anything when he tugs Pete's arm closer and picks up the salt shaker in one hand. His mouth is hot and wet on Pete's skin when he drags his tongue under the heel of Pete's palm;Pete watches, intent, as Ryland sprinkles salt over the area where Pete's wrist is shiny with spit, then follows it with another swipe of his tongue.

He takes the shot with his head tossed back, and doesn't let go of Pete's arm until he has a slice of lemon in his mouth. As he drops the rind on the table, he reaches for the bottle of tequila and fills the other glass. Ryland's eyes are dark and lazy when he meets Pete's gaze and nudges the glass at Pete. Pete swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, and reaches to pull it in closer.

There's a whole lot of Ryland to choose from in regards to licking; miles of pale skin, a perfect curve of stubbled jaw, smooth, blue veins and thin tendons lining Ryland's wrists, and all of it, in theory, available for tonguing. He lifts the shot glass while he contemplates, holds it steady at eye-level and then grabs for the bottle of tequila, tops it off.

Pete turns his palm up and wiggles his fingers until Ryland stacks his hand on top of it. He turns Ryland's hand this way and that, studies the available surfaces; he feints toward Ryland's knuckles but backs away at the last minute, shakes his head and grins, "I try never to put my mouth on anything that's been dragging on the ground."

Ryland lifts and eyebrow and smirks, swigs one of the few remaining sips from his beer bottle. "So no head, then?"

There's no real way to come back from that, so Pete just turns Ryland's arm back over and tugs it towards him, scoots forward until he can lick the soft, creased skin in the bend of Ryland's arm. It's warmth and sweat and pulse, and it makes Pete's head spin, but he pulls back and sprinkles salt across his spit anyway, hands steady.

Another lick, a mouthful of tequila, and then the sharp sting of lemon burning the stale taste off of his tongue, and Pete looks up just in time to see Ryland's teeth scrape across his lip, his eyes fixed on Pete's mouth.

"One is the loneliest number," Pete sings, toneless, and pushes the bottle of tequila across the table at Ryland.

Pete watches, licking at stray salt on his lower lip, as Ryland pushes his hair back out of his face and pulls his chair around the table so that he's sitting right up in Pete's space. "Peter, Peter, Peter," he says absently as his eyes trail over Pete's arms and up to his neck. Pete tilts his head a little, baring more skin in invitation, and shivers when Ryland bites his lip, white teeth digging into pink skin.

"I'm about to start humming the Jeopardy theme," Pete says. Ryland laughs and considers Pete for another second before he seems to come to a decision and reaches out.

Ryland's hand slides into Pete's hair, pulling a little, and Pete goes with it. He lets Ryland position him however he wants, then closes his eyes when Ryland leans in. The slide of Ryland's tongue comes across his collarbone, dipping into the hollow above it before Ryland pulls back and picks up the salt. The second swipe of his mouth is faster, not as lingering, but Pete is pretty sure he doesn't imagine the quick burn of teeth against his collarbone before Ryland reaches for the shot and takes it.

His hand is still in Pete's hair when he bites down on the lemon and a second later Pete has Ryland's mouth crushed against his and Ryland tongue darting into his mouth, sharp and bitter, before it's gone and Ryland is leaning back in his chair, legs kicked out in front of him.

Pete has two thoughts in quick succession: the first, that he always thought Gabe was the hot one in that band and the second, that there is no fucking way he's letting Ryland Blackinton get the best of him. He picks up a napkin off of the table, dabs gingerly at his collarbone.

He maybe drags the cloth a little harder over the spot where Ryland's teeth scraped, just to try to press the burn in deeper, but there's no way anyone can prove that.

Ryland is all sprawled, crazy-long limbs here and there, head tipped back a little bit. His eyes are slitted, and if they weren't carefully, warily watching Pete, he might think they were sleepy eyes. Hell, even if it is sleep that has Ryland's lashes all smooshed up into a thick, dark fringe, Pete's pretty sure he's about to wake him up.

"Nice," he says, tipping the tequila toward his shot glass. He gets distracted by the flex of Ryland's thigh when Ryland digs his toes into the ground and leans back a little, ends up pouring out too much; he has to lick his fingers clean, slide the shot glass very carefully toward the edge of the table.

The bar is suddenly a lot louder in Pete's head, silverware clanking, music blaring, couples laughing raucously from the dance floor, but he can still hear the slap of rubber on rubber when he kicks Ryland's feet farther apart and drops to his knees between them. He can hear Ryland's heart stop over the pounding of his own, and it takes every ounce of Pete Wentz in him to smirk at Ryland while he pushes his shirt up--eye contact instead of watching green cotton give way to skin.

Once he has enough skin bared he rises up on his knees, licks Ryland from bellybutton to sternum and stops, purses his lips and blows at the stripe of shiny while he gropes behind him for the salt shaker.

Sprinkle, lick again, shot, lemon, bite the citrus into Ryland's mouth, and maybe they're dancing after all.

Pete rocks back on his heels. He's not that drunk, there's no way, but he feels like the whole room is spinning. He braces his hands on Ryland's legs, pressing his fingers into worn denim and looks up. "Whaddya say we take this somewhere more private?"

There's a biggish guy in the corner who does not look thrilled at watching two dudes lick salt off each other. Pete isn't above fighting over it, like, at all, but that would kind of ruin the buzz he has going on. He stands up and stretches his arms over his head, letting his shirt ride up above the hem of his jeans, and smirks when he sees Ryland looking. "Stop staring and grab the alcohol, Blackinton."

Ryland laughs, low and smooth, and sweeps the bottle of tequila off the table along with the salt shaker and the lemons. Pete digs in his wallet and throws some money down on the table before he reaches for Ryland and presses against his side, one hand in his back pocket as they make their way out the door.

It's not that far to the hotel, but when they get there, Ryland makes a face and nudges Pete towards the parking lot in the back. "Buses. If we go up there Gabe will try to steal the tequila and drink it all. Then he'll throw it back up. No one wants that. Well, no one except him, but Gabriel is not in his right mind."

Pete shrugs and lets himself be steered towards his empty, silent bus. He keys in the code and pulls Ryland to his room in the back. There's a half-chewed dog bone laying in the middle of the bed. He frowns and pushes it to the floor, then throws himself across the bed and props himself up on his elbows. "I believe it's your turn."

Ryland hums and crawls on the bed, all long legs and red, bitten lips. He stops when he's straddling Pete's thighs and leans over to set the stuff in his hands out of the way. He pushes Pete's shirt up, and Pete watches Ryland's fingers skimming up over his skin and then back down to pop the button of his jeans.

He hisses out a breath when Ryland starts on the zipper and Ryland looks up, one eyebrow raised in question. Pete meets his eyes and raises his hips a little, accepting whatever challenge Ryland is about to throw at him. Ryland bites at Pete's stomach, gently, but his teeth dig in, and pulls Pete's jeans open just enough so that the lines of the bartskull are bared.

It's quick from there, hot mouth against the tattoo, salt, more wet heat, then Ryland turning the tequila bottle up and taking a swig. He doesn't bother with the lemons and when he leans forward and catches Pete's mouth, it's harder and longer.

There doesn't seem to be much point pretending it's not a kiss, not when he's on his back with his jeans slipping lower every time Ryland moves against him. Pete just lets his mouth fall open and rakes his nails up Ryland's back, thumbs catching on Ryland's shirt and dragging it up. He waits until Ryland pulls away enough to yank it up and off, and then drops his hands, bites his lip and watches his fingers as he pops the button on Ryland's jeans.

Ryland laughs a little, low, in the back of his throat, and says, "Pete?"

"My turn," Pete says, shrugging. "I think I paid for that fucking tequila, I'm not letting you drink all of it."

Plus, he has to out-do stomach-licking, or he'll have every fucking member of Cobra Starship calling him an easy lay for the rest of his life.

Ryland laughs again, and when he leans to toss his wadded-up shirt near the pillow, Pete bucks up and shoves at his hip, has Ryland flat on his back and is crawling over him before Ryland can arrange his limbs in any way but sprawled, gangly.

"This is a tough choice," Pete says. He shoves Ryland's legs together, straddles his thighs, and taps his chin with the salt shaker. "I mean, you're a skinny motherfucker. It's not like I have that many options, unless I want to start licking your toes."

"You can't lick my toes," Ryland counters, grinning. "Fuck only knows where your mouth has been, I don't want to get athlete's foot or some shit."

"Foot herpes?"

Ryland nods and folds his hands behind his head, smug. Bastard. Pete puts the head of the salt shaker in his mouth, clamps his teeth loosely over it, and drags the tab on Ryland's zipper down. Ryland lifts another of those skeptical brows, but Pete just lifts one back, carefully inches Ryland's jeans and boxers down low, low, lower, there, until there's the finest line of dark hair visible above elastic.

He takes the salt shaker out of his mouth and leans down, noses just above the waist of Ryland's boxers, breathing open-mouthed and heavy toward the slight gap in cotton beneath his mouth, then shifts up suddenly and licks a wide, hard stripe up Ryland's hipbone. He sprinkles salt while Ryland whispers, "Fuck," and then licks again, swigs the bottle and plants his palm next to Ryland's head on the bed.

He catches the last of Ryland's "Holy shit," with the first curl of his tongue. It tastes a lot like lemon and a little like victory.

They kiss hard, teeth pressing against lips and tongues twisted together. Then Ryland's hands are on Pete's hips and Pete's on his back before he can open his eyes, mattress underneath him and Ryland grinning smugly above him. "You think you've got moves?" Ryland says. "Let me show you moves."

He's sliding down Pete's body as he says it, salt shaker grasped loosely in one hand. He abandons it on the bed by Pete's hip and loops his fingers through Pete's belt loops, dragging his jeans down around his thighs. Pete is hard and he gasps a little when the denim slides over his dick. Ryland makes a noise like he's amused and Pete rolls his eyes and kicks at Ryland's leg, mutters, "Asshole."

"Nah, not quite," Ryland says, and leans down to lick a long line up the inside of Pete's thigh. Teasing motherfucker.

His nose brushes Pete's dick as he pulls away and Pete curses under his breath, his hips jerking up off the bed. Salt, mouth, Ryland's head tilted back as he swigs, and then Ryland is in Pete's face again, breathing hot against Pete's parted lips. Pete leans up, expecting Ryland to meet him, but he barely gets a brush of Ryland's mouth before he's gone.

Pete looks down just in time to see Ryland wiggling back to where he was before, but this time he swipes his tongue across the head of Pete's dick.

He manages to choke out a, "Jesus Christ," and fumbles a hand down to wrap it up in Ryland's hair, but Ryland catches his hand, presses it hard into the mattress.

"Nu'uh," Ryland mumbles, mouthing at the shaft. "No hair pulling, Wentz, that's not nice."

Pete kips his hips up a little, makes a plaintive noise, and Ryland finally fucking takes pity, wraps his mouth around Pete's dick and bobs low, sliding wet lips and wetter tongue halfway down, his hand loosely circling the base, and fucking hell, Pete's going to drink with this guy more often. He digs his fingers into the pillow beneath his head and shoves it higher, plumper, enough that he can look down and watch the slow, slick rise of Ryland's mouth, watch his long fingers pin Pete's wrist to the bed.

"You know," Pete gasps, nudging his hips up a little, like maybe he can fuck the smirky smile off of Ryland's face. "I don't--I don't suck dick."

Ryland pulls off with a wet pop. His fist tightens, jerks up hard once. "I know," he says, still grinning. "That's why I'm gonna fuck you."

Pete...yeah, Pete can work with that. He groans, "Fuck, yes," and rolls his hips up. Ryland opens his mouth and takes him in again, sucks hard, and pulls off again. Pete whines in his throat and Ryland's smirk deepens.

"Lube," he says. He strokes his hand up, sliding easily on slick spit. "It'd be useful about now."

Pete says, "Fuck, fuck, fuck," and slides his upper body over, groping at the floor until his fingers close around a bottle of lotion and a half-empty box of condoms.

He tosses both of them up on the bed and rolls his eyes when Ryland laughs and says, "Apple Berry?"

"Fuck you, it smells awesome." Pete spreads his legs wider, pushes into Ryland's hand "Weren't you about to do something?"

Ryland licks Pete's dick again and leans up to bite at his hip bone, teeth against thin skin. "Turn over."

Pete flips onto his stomach and pushes up, getting his elbows and knees under him. Ryland lets him for a second, then closes big hands over Pete's hips and pulls him up more. Pete goes tense, knees pushed wide open, expecting the pop of the lotion cap and the press of Ryland's fingers. What he gets is Ryland's thumbs digging in and spreading him open, and then the slick slide of Ryland's tongue against sensitive skin.

His response to this is a rough mix of words you use in church and words you definitely don't, half mumbled into his pillow until Ryland jerks his hips back hard and presses his tongue so deep in Pete he swears he can feel it in his dick. He can't stop jerking, clawing at the pillow, trying to get balanced enough that he can get a hand under him and grab his dick, smear some of the slick, hot precome he can feel leaking over the head onto the shaft, get some fucking relief, but every time he manages to get his elbow under him and get a hand off of the mattress, Ryland just fucking moves him again, lifts him higher and holds him in place or shoves him down until his toes are straining to make contact. And always with the vicious, merciless twist of his tongue going, lapping, licking in and dragging out.

By the time Ryland thumbs the lotion open and presses two fingers into Pete, Pete is pretty fucking sure he's going to come from that alone.

"Do you even need this?" Ryland whispers, his teeth scraping down the curve of Pete's ass. "Or are you as much of a whore as they say on the internet?"

Pete moans. He tries to tell Ryland to fuck off, but Ryland twists his fingers, knuckles scraping across Pete's prostate, and Pete feels his dick twitch, slapping up against his stomach almost painfully.

Before he can get any words out, Ryland presses his thumb above Pete's hole, stretches the skin up and slides a third finger in, twisting past any resistance. "No," Ryland mumbles, like he's come to a decision. His fingers are so fucking long, and he won't move them all the same way at the same time, it feels like at least two separate people have their fingers in Pete's ass, stroking. "No, you're too tight."

"Fuck. You." Pete says, but the end of the second word twists off in a ragged groan as Ryland finally thrusts all three fingers in deep, until Pete can feel the knuckles of Ryland's other fingers digging into his ass. He still can't get any fucking friction on his dick and the curl of Ryland's fingers inside him is so fucking hot that Pete doesn't even realize what he's doing when he starts begging for Ryland's cock. It's just a stream of "please" and "fuck me" and "want it now" that he can't seem to catch up with or control.

Ryland says, "shit, yeah," and "fucking eager," but Pete barely even hears it, because Ryland's fingers are sliding out. There's the sharp sound of foil tearing open and a second later the head of Ryland's dick is pressed where his fingers just were, feeling impossibly blunt and thick as Ryland starts to push in.

Pete thinks it's going to be too much. He's whining high and deep in his throat as Ryland stretches him open, and his arms are trembling, fingers twisted into the sheets so hard his knuckles are white. But then Ryland drags Pete back at the same time he thrusts in deeper and the pressure changes, the burn turns sweet, and Pete has to bite down on his forearm to muffle the sounds he wants to make.

"No, I wanna hear you." Ryland slides in the last inch or so and bottoms out, hips pressed flush against Pete's ass and cock buried deep inside him, hot, heavy, and throbbing. "You feel so fucking good."

He almost doesn't want to give Ryland the satisfaction, bites his lip and tries to keep the moaning to a minimum. Somewhere, distantly, apart from the slick, fast press of Ryland's dick in him, out and in and out just enough that Ryland's skin makes a loud slapping noise against Pete's ass when he slams in again, he realizes that he's going to hear any sounds he makes now whispered back in his ear in bars, at sound checks, Ryland spinning away and grinning.

So he muffles, bites down hard until he tastes copper and keeps it to wordless whining, barely dragging in enough breath to groan when Ryland shoves him down, pins him to the bed and slams in hard, hard enough that Pete slides forward a little on the mattress. The sheets rub against his dick and he fervently wishes they were lower thread-count, rougher, something.

"C'mon," Ryland pants. He fists his hand up in Pete's hair and yanks his head back, enough that Pete feels his throat stretch and his lip slide from between his teeth, and he can't fucking help it anymore.

Pete moans, "Fuck," and "Jesus, that feels so fucking good," and "Please, please--harder," and is in the middle of choking out Ryland's name when he feels Ryland drape over his back, ribs stuttering sharply against Pete's spine, fingers twisting tighter in Pete's hair, and then Ryland's breath in his ear, Ryland's voice whispering, "You really fucking love this, don't you? Someone's dick in you?"

Ryland shoves in harder, vicious twist of his hips, and the blunt scrape of his dick is almost too much, feels almost too good. Pete chokes on a sob and shoves back as hard as he can. He shuts his eyes tight and tries to arch into Ryland's weight, moans again, "Please."

"What?" Ryland's almost laughing again, but it's breathless, tight. "You want me to let you come?"

"Yes, Jesus." Pete's back slides against Ryland's chest, sweat slick between them. "Please."

Ryland thrusts into him again, then one more time, and then he fucking pulls out and manhandles Pete over onto his back. Pete hears the wet slap of a condom hitting...something, and then Ryland's weight is on him again, his thighs across Pete's legs. Their dicks slide together, a split second of sweet, perfect friction before Ryland lifts up higher, one hand braced on the bed by Pete's shoulder and the other fisting his dick. "I'm gonna come all over you," he says, low and dirty. Which, holy fuck, should not be one of the hottest things Pete has ever heard in his life.

Pete can't get any leverage to thrust up, and Ryland is stroking his dick just high enough that the backs of his knuckles barely brush Pete's cock on every downwards slide of his fist. He kisses Pete wet and sloppy, spit everywhere and his tongue pushing sloppily past Pete's teeth. Pete kisses back and the sounds their mouths make as they slide together are obscene.

"Yeah," Ryland says, dragging his mouth away from Pete's and looking down. Pete follows Ryland's gaze and focuses on the push of Ryland's dick through his fist. Ryland says, "yeah," again, then "fuck," on a harsh groan and his back arches, hips jerking forward as he comes all over Pete's stomach in long, sticky bursts, streaking Pete's abs and spattering the bartskull. Pete watches with his mouth open, panting, dick so hard he can barely stand it.

Ryland drags his fingers through the sticky mess on Pete's stomach, glinty-eyed and fascinated, but Pete doesn't fucking care about that. He finally has a hand free to wrap tight around his dick and stroke. After this long with nobody touching him, so fucking close he could die, it almost hurts. He whimpers, shuts his eyes and arches into the clench of his fist.

When Ryland thumbs across his lower lip, he opens his mouth easily, obligingly, and doesn't even think about it until Ryland presses wet, salty fingers to Pete's tongue.

He gets about as close to gagging as he does to coming when he realizes what it is, tries to push them out with his tongue and just ends up licking Ryland's come off of his fingers, swallowing hard, then again, trying to lose the residue, and it's so fucking hard to split his attention between that and twisting his hand just right that he can't stop the pained whimper that grits out between his teeth.

Ryland doesn't touch him again, doesn't drag his fingers down Pete's chest or anything, just hooks his foot over Pete's knee and drags it to the side, shoves three fingers in slick and hard, twisting up, pressing just the right fucking spot to make Pete gasp loudly.

"C'mon," Ryland whispers. "I wanna watch you come."

Pete comes. He comes over the stuttering jerk of his hand, over the arch of his stomach, his chest, the long lines of Ryland's come already decorating his skin.

He comes with his heels digging into the mattress, with profanity caught in his throat that he can't seem to push past his lips, with the bottle of tequila bumping cold and smooth against his side, and then he drops back onto the bed, slits his eyes open and squints petulantly at Ryland. "You're an asshole," he says, making vague flapping motions with his hand. "If I wanted to taste dick, I'd fucking suck dick."

"I," Ryland counters, leaning in, biting the pout off of Pete's mouth. "Didn't ask what you wanted, Wentz."

Pete jerks away. He reaches out, traces the sharp jut of Ryland's collarbone. "You do realize I'm your boss, right?"

"Really? Because I kind of thought you were my bitch."

Pete rolls his eyes and flips Ryland off with one hand, closing the other around the neck of the tequila bottle. "Fuck off."

Ryland grins. "Such a fucking sweet talker." He leans forward and sucks Pete's finger all the way into his mouth, then lets go and grabs the bottle out of Pete's hand. It's still almost half full. "I don't know about you," Ryland says, "but I vote we stay here and get drunk some more. Unless you just have a burning need to go inside and let Trohman puke all over you."

Pete wrinkles his nose and watches Ryland take a drink from the bottle and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah, not so much. Here is good, as long as you don't drink all the fucking alcohol." He plucks the bottle from Ryland's hand and takes a swig, thinks about saying they should do this again. He doesn't bring it up, though.

He figures Ryland will get the point when Pete shows up at his door with a bottle of tequila on the next hotel night. Or vodka. Maybe vodka means he gets to top.