fic: Brendon/Ryan/butt plug
Title: I Slept With Someone In Fall Out Boy and All I Got Was This Brightly Colored Sex Toy
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (with Pete in the backstory, and that's all I'm going to give you)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's a butt plug, not a chastity belt.
Disclaimer: Not true! (Come on, if this were true, the plug so would have been covered with Patrick 2.0.)
Notes/Warnings: Um. I don't know what it is about the really pretty boys that makes me go all "that's all well and good but now let's violate him with a sex toy!" Yeah, I'm probably going to hell. Lots of tension and very snarky sex in this one. Yay! Oh, and I started writing it very early in the summer, immediately post Brentgate, just to put it into context.
Also, today was plainsong_x's birthday (look, I just made it!), and so if she likes this, she can totally claim it as her present. But it was completely unsolicited, and if she doesn't like it or something, um, everyone ignore this comment.
EDIT: Now featuring a sequel!
The hotel room is too small--most rooms are these days, too small to contain Brendon's ego, cramped from the piles of things that Ryan can't say. Ryan bumps into them, sometimes, and he knows Brendon does too, trips over Ryan's thoughts and baggage; Ryan can see it in the glint in Brendon's eyes, the set of his jaw. Sometimes he wonders if there's more space in Spencer's room, too much maybe, but he doesn't ask.
He's sitting cross-legged on the bed when Brendon comes out of the bathroom, muttering, of course, about the size and quality of the current hotel. "Seriously, instead of getting stars, this place would have to, like, give it's stars back!" and Ryan would have rolled his eyes, except he's learned that it only encourages Brendon, so he just ignores him until he brushes past the backpack perched at the foot of Ryan's bed.
Ryan's eyes shoot up from his Sidekick when he hears the bag hit the floor.
Brendon stops, looking down past his shoulder at the damage. Ryan sees his face shift, eyes widen, not quite with surprise, maybe an oh-really or even an I-thought-so, and Ryan doesn't have to crawl to the edge of the mattress to figure it out.
That's brave, Ryan thinks absurdly as Brendon twists and stoops, the toy clenched solidly in his hand when he rises. Just picking up someone's sex toy like that, Brendon doesn't even know if it's sanitary. Ryan almost grimaces at the thought. (Of course it is, come on, Ryan's good about that.)
The plug is purple, and really not that big, all things considered. Still, Ryan thinks he should be embarrassed; his face is hot, but he feels disconnected from the sensation. Brendon looks from the plug to Ryan, then back to the toy, and Ryan wonders faintly what he's going to say.
"When'd you buy this?" Brendon asks, and Ryan is a little surprised. Of all the things to ask.
Lie, he thinks. "I didn't," he says honestly, and almost winces.
Brendon watches his face. "Tell me it wasn't a gift from a fan," he says, and Ryan can see he already knows it wasn't. Ryan's really pretty good at reading Brendon. He figures Brendon can read him just as easily, so he shakes his head.
Brendon looks back down, tosses the plug in his hand, flipping it a couple of times. Base, tip, base. It's short, and almost flutters as it spins. His hands look kind of big trying to catch it, clumsy. "Funny," he mutters, eyes flicking over to Ryan in between throws. "He didn't get me one."
"Bren," Ryan starts. "Pete--"
"Didn't want anyone else invading his territory? 'This space reserved for Pete Wentz: Keep Out.'"
Now Ryan feels the heat in his cheeks acutely. "You know it's not like that."
Brendon stops fiddling with the plug. "Then what is it like?"
There's that clench of Brendon's jaw. It's not cruel, but it is sure. Cocky, even. The challenge is obvious in his gaze: it was your bag that spilled this out, there's no sidestepping it this time.
"I can fuck whoever I want," Ryan says. "It's not a fucking chastity belt."
Have Brendon's eyes always been so dark? Brendon shifts, the movement of his body almost imperceptible except for the sense that he is suddenly a little closer to Ryan. His knees sink into the edge of the mattress and he draws nearer still. "Then why don't you?"
"I..."
"What?" Brendon asks, and Ryan can hear the echo of all the previous questions in that one word. Brendon stops leaning in, too close for comfort, too far away to justify a push or a getthefuckoff! Tension's thick around them, between them, and it hadn't always been like that, either. Ryan wants to blame Pete. He wants to blame the band, and the tour, and the fans and the music. Brendon's voice growling out Ryan's thoughts like they were meant to come out of his mouth all along.
There's a point when flirty turns into something else, something sharper and scarier. Casual, boyish touches turn hot, and Ryan feels fingerprints burned onto on his neck all night. (The closer Brendon comes to him, the louder they scream.)
"Why'd you bring it along, then, if it wasn't for him?" Brendon asks, and now he's crawling forward and Ryan's moving back. Ryan leans on his elbows and Brendon's looming over the knees of his legs, still crossed awkwardly.
He wants an admission, a confession; he's been waiting for this opportunity. Ryan stares at him.
It's for me, I like it, he thinks plainly. I like being fucked. Pete figured it out. I liked being fucked by Pete, but now Pete's not here, and I still want... I need....
His thoughts stutter as if he were actually speaking the words, and he doesn't say anything out loud.
Sitting back, Brendon sighs, and his face looks familiar again. He studies the plug in his hand. "Fine. You're not going to tell me." He meets Ryan's eyes. "Care to show me?" His grin is quick and huge and playful, and it's almost hard to take him seriously.
Still, Ryan's protesting before he even thinks, "Come on, what the fuck are you..." but then he does think, and while he's frowning, Brendon crawls the rest of the way up the bed.
The first press of Brendon's lips is unexpected; after all this time, Ryan didn't think he'd ever actually make a move, but then he's falling on top of Ryan with a final lurch, and Ryan jerks underneath him. The sudden weight of a body moving between his thighs awakens all kinds of thoughts that Ryan had forcibly tranquilized in his own consciousness.
Ryan had been kind of unprepared for Brendon's mouth.
He is equally unprepared for Brendon's hands, which aren't clumsy at all as they slip over and then under fabric, slithering straight to his skin.
"Brendon, what--" Ryan tries to ask, but he's not sure it's intelligible because Brendon won't stop kissing him. Or he won't stop kissing Brendon, something.
"Shut up," Brendon mumbles.
"You shut up," Ryan tries to snap back, but yeah, not so much with the snapping when there's another mouth right there. Brendon laughs at him.
"Okay, you know what," Ryan tries again, but he never finishes because then Brendon's licking his throat, long lines that burn over his adam's apple, and he doesn't remember when those fingers reached his crotch, but they're certainly there now, reaching into his pants to touch flesh that isn't really complaining. "Hey," he says.
Brendon pulls away enough to blink at him, slow and smoky, and Ryan swallows and helps push his pants down.
And then there's more hands and tongue and fuck, Ryan can't even keep track of what's going on, except that everything in the room is kind of swimming in blurred layers and he really likes the way Brendon's hand cradles his hip when his head moves down (and then down) between his legs.
"So," Brendon says when he pauses, and the word sounds too low and muffled because Ryan is kind of dazed, and everything below his navel is just... buzzing. Brendon holds up the plug, and Ryan goggles. "Do you have lube in your bag, too, or do we have to improvise?"
"You're joking," Ryan says, not expecting his voice to be as hoarse as it is. He feels one of Brendon's fingers pressing up to sort of tickle his ass, damp with saliva, and no, he's probably not joking.
"I... bag," he says. Brendon moves, and in that second, Ryan has a flash of oh my god what is going on here, this is Brendon. He starts to pull his legs up, to shift away, but Brendon's back already, kissing Ryan's thigh as he reparts Ryan's legs for him, and yes, this is Brendon. His mouth is entirely too steady as it slides back up, all the way. Ryan can't remember how to breathe, can't even remember what it felt like to have a chest full of oxygen and Brendon's tongue not teasing his asshole.
When Brendon pauses to slick up the plug, Ryan tries not to gulp for air. He manages a shuddery breath, and then another, feeling lightheaded and very, very warm.
Something pushes between his legs, slippery smooth and definitely not a finger, Brendon's just going for it, and it's okay, because it's not really huge and that's how Ryan likes to do it anyway (lives for the fluttering in his stomach when he just... pushes). But as Ryan tries to relax his muscles, the familiarity gets lost in knowledge that this is somehow very, very different. He swallows, and actually considers stopping, or well, making Brendon stop, but even as the thought flits through his mind he knows he wouldn't (couldn't) go through with it now. Not when Brendon is touching his thigh like that and pushing steadily but not hard enough, and Ryan thinks, harder, it takes more than that at first, and bites his lip.
Brendon does push harder, and just like that Ryan opens for it, ass stretching as the plug widens, then closing around it. It's... god, like slow motion. Brendon pauses once he's got it inside, just pressing, and Ryan wants to scream, or moan, or fucking cuss at him until he runs out of words. He closes his eyes and lets his breath flicker weakly through his lips.
And Brendon, he's not sure of what's he's doing, it's obvious, but his hands are steady when he tugs, pulling it back out, and Ryan shifts his hips when the thickest part passes through. There's a pause, one beat, a rest, and then Brendon pushes again, firm, and it goes easier. Brendon keeps his rhythm, fucking Ryan with the plug like it's a goddamn dildo, and Ryan just... shakes.
Shit, just don't squirm, he thinks to himself, Brendon will never let you live it down. He whimpers instead. Goddamn Brendon.
"So you can fuck whoever you want, huh?" Brendon asks, his voice all low and husky in Ryan's ear. Ryan shivers, and can't even hate himself for it. "Do you want to fuck me?"
Ryan shakes his head quick. "No," he breathes. Brendon pauses, not a full stop; he doesn't believe the denial. Ryan clenches around the plug, and gasps in a breath. Fuck, he needs this, even though it hurts to admit it. "I--I want you to fuck me," he finishes, as if it needed to be clarified. Brendon grins, actually chuckles.
"Right," he says. "That's kinda what I meant."
Ryan tries to glare at him, but Brendon pulls the plug out of his ass, making his eyes roll in his head, and he hears Brendon laugh again before he manages to center his gaze. "Fucking asshole," he mutters, but his eyes slip down, watching Brendon push his own pants off his hips, out of the way. Ryan swallows as Brendon strokes his own cock, quick, and he can't have much lube left on his palm but maybe it's enough.
Brendon leans over him, and Ryan shivers just a little more; this close, Ryan can feel the heat coming off him, which is nothing new, Brendon's warm solidity is practically a constant dent in Ryan's personal bubble. But it has a new tang now, a humid whisper of sex that swirls lazily between their hips.
Balancing on one hand, Brendon flicks the hem of Ryan's t-shirt. "Wait, take this off."
Ryan really wants to say if you're going to do it, just fucking do it, now, nownownow. But he's not going to beg, no, he will not give Brendon the satisfaction, so instead he just asks, "Why?"
"Aw, come on, show me your tits, baby," and the smirk in Brendon's voice is too familiar.
"Dick," Ryan spits. In a flash he considers kicking Brendon in the balls and giving up on whateverthehell it is they're doing (like it's not apparent by now), but he figures by the time he pushes Brendon away and gets his leg around, Brendon will have figured out what's going on.
"Wanna see you," Brendon adds quickly, and his voice is different all of a sudden, lower again but also breathless. Ryan can't help thinking it's completely intentional, and he can't help falling for it anyway.
They wriggle him out of his t-shirt and Brendon makes it a point to ball it up tight before throwing it to the floor. Just for that, Ryan pulls extra hard on Brendon's shirt, "You too," stretching the collar unnecessarily.
"Fucker," Brendon says when his head comes free, hair ruffled.
"Bastard."
There's a pause, and Ryan is very aware of his legs brushing Brendon's hips, and Brendon's cock not in his ass. "Are you going to do this or what?" he asks.
"Do you want me to?"
Ryan feels his chin rise automatically, the sneer forming like something outside his control. "What if I changed my mind? If I say no?"
"I think I'd fuck you anyway," Brendon purrs.
Except, well, Brendon's not a complete asshole, not really, and Ryan knows that if he says no, really says no, Brendon will stop. And maybe he should, maybe this is a horrible idea. But...
He raises one leg, digging his heel into Brendon's back and urging him forward.
Brendon isn't the only one who had been waiting for an opportunity.
Guiding himself with his hand, Brendon starts to push in, and Ryan has to give him credit, he didn't have to be told twice.
There is a little bit of a size difference there, butt plug to cock, plus that little grace period, and it's just been so long, so long and finally, but yeah, Ryan actually has to concentrate to relax, to let Brendon in. It's just slick enough not to hurt (much), but Ryan can really feel it, the resistance and the slow drag of every fucking centimeter; he grasps at the sheets and squeezes so hard his knuckles burn. Brendon pauses when he's halfway in, exhaling, and Ryan feels it flicker across his skin.
"Jesus, you're tight," Brendon breathes, and he sounds genuinely surprised.
The fucker. Ryan tells him as much. "The hell did you expect?"
Brendon shakes his head, and pushes again. Ryan moans.
"Yeah."
And maybe Brendon is a complete asshole, because he keeps going slow like that, constant steady pressure so that Ryan's head doesn't have a chance to clear, can't think of anything really, except for a few vague concepts like feelsgood and more and jesuschristbrendonyoufuckheadjustdoit. Brendon has his head down, watching the drag of his cock in and out, and Ryan wants to hit him to get his attention. He grunts low in his throat, a slightly frustrated sound, but it works. Brendon looks up, twisting his hips.
Ryan snarls. "Just... fuck."
"What, you don't like it like this?" Brendon asks, and Ryan wishes helplessly that he could do something to strip the smirk off Brendon's face, to make him gasp, and shake. Make that ridiculous voice of his waver and crack. "How do you like it?"
Ryan takes a breath, releasing his hold on the sheets, and looks Brendon right in the eye before grabbing him by the back of the neck. He hauls him forward and Brendon almost loses his balance, barely catching himself on his hands at Ryan's sides. Ryan stops him, fingers in his hair, just before their mouths actually meet. "Hard," he says. He releases Brendon's head.
Blinking, Brendon pauses, but then carefully shifts his hands to better hold his weight. He jabs his hips forward (hard), and breathes, "Okay."
Brendon's as good as his word, fucking into Ryan with such force that it drives him up on the bed until he braces his hand against the headboard, biting his lip and arching into it. He presses his head back and closes his eyes, feeling Brendon shift and change angles. He keeps going like that, and after a while, Ryan opens his eyes. Brendon's watching him, eyes darting from his face down and then back again. God, stop fucking watching, Ryan thinks, but can't find his voice to say it. Brendon is flushed and Ryan can see the tension in his shoulders, feel it under his fingers when he reaches up. Brendon's hairline is slick with sweat, and Ryan lowers his hand between their stomachs, wrapping his fingers around his own cock.
He moans, but cuts himself off, squeezing and stroking, and he sees Brendon look down again. "God," he chokes. He shudders just a little as he comes, Brendon watching.
"Jesus," Brendon says, and Ryan hears himself whimper a little in response, Brendon still pounding into him as his body begins to slacken.
"Brendon," Ryan says, and Brendon gives a little jerk, going still and coming on the upstroke, cock lodged all the way inside Ryan. He gasps something that could be a word or just a short breathless moan.
It takes him a moment to catch his breath, but when his panting has calmed, Brendon leans down and kisses Ryan; Ryan lets him.
When Brendon pulls back, Ryan looks up at him, and really hopes he will just stay quiet like this, because it's actually kind of nice. He prays Brendon won't ruin it by saying something horribly inappropriate.
"So," Brendon says, "is Pete gonna be pissed?"
Fool's hope, Ryan thinks. "Fuck you," he says, covering his face with his hands.
"Hey, I have a right to know if, like, my life is gonna be in danger now."
"Brendon," Ryan says in his best calming-a-child voice (which admittedly isn't that impressive, he's not a very patient person), "Pete would not have you assassinated, even if I did tell him."
"Are you going to tell him?" Brendon's voice goes softer.
Ryan doesn't know. He stays quiet, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with his fingertips. It's a moment before he speaks. "Would you get off me? You're fucking sticky."
Since he keeps his eyes closed, Ryan doesn't see Brendon move away. He lowers his hands only when he feels the bed tilt. "If you use my shirt, screw Pete, I will fucking kill you in your sleep."
"Bitch," Brendon mutters, but he gets up and goes to the bathroom. When he comes back, he offers a damp towel to Ryan, who accepts it without a word. Brendon sits on the bed, staring Ryan until Ryan freezes and glares at him, and then he stretches, picking up the discarded butt plug. "You know, I'm surprised there isn't a bartskull on here somewhere," he mutters.
Ryan snatches it away and throws it on the floor with the towel. He moves under the covers, and Brendon nonchalantly crawls in with him, reaching around him to turn off the light. He leaves his arm slung across Ryan's body.
Ryan shifts, trying to elbow Brendon away. "Fuck you, you have your own bed."
Brendon's arm just squeezes tighter around Ryan's waist. "I'm not sleeping in that thing. There was a hair in it."
"There was not," Ryan says, but sighs. Fuck it, he thinks. He's groggy and, against his better judgment, feeling kind of content. He supposes there's enough room for Brendon.
Back on the bus the next day, Ryan finds himself in the back lounge sitting across from Spencer, who's digging through his bag, presumably looking for some specific connector cable since his laptop is resting on bench next to him; he keeps pulling out USB cords and then discarding them. Ryan doesn't really pay attention, he's busy scribbling words and nonsensical phrases in an old notebook. Maybe it'll make sense later, maybe it won't, he doesn't really care because as long as he keeps writing he doesn't feel the need to look up and just tell Spence everything. (Tell Spencer why he's sitting crooked, why Brendon went back to sleep as soon as he climbed on the bus this morning, why his throat sounds dry every time he speaks and his hands are shaky on his pen, why he feels better than he has in weeks and sick with worry that it won't last, can't fucking last...)
"God-fucking--" Spencer mutters, giving something gray and wiry a hard yank, and sending things flying out of his bag. Something falls with a thump at Ryan's feet, and his eyes blink over to it. Then they blink again. It's a butt plug. And it looks exactly like his, only pink.
Ryan meets Spencer's eyes. His face is calm, although his cheeks might be slightly flushed, Ryan's not quite sure. Spence kind of shrugs, and sets his stuff aside so that he can retrieve the fallen sex toy. Spencer's never been the kind to try to shove things away and pretend like they don't exist, but he doesn't like to leave things lying about, either. He fiddles with the plug for a second. Ryan keeps staring until Spencer looks up. There's something hidden there in his eyes, something Ryan kind of recognizes.
Ryan almost smirks, shakes his head. "So, Pete--" he stops himself, shrugs at Spencer's slightly startled look. He reaches in his backpack, and pulls out his own plug. "Mine's purple," he says.
-
more
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan (with Pete in the backstory, and that's all I'm going to give you)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It's a butt plug, not a chastity belt.
Disclaimer: Not true! (Come on, if this were true, the plug so would have been covered with Patrick 2.0.)
Notes/Warnings: Um. I don't know what it is about the really pretty boys that makes me go all "that's all well and good but now let's violate him with a sex toy!" Yeah, I'm probably going to hell. Lots of tension and very snarky sex in this one. Yay! Oh, and I started writing it very early in the summer, immediately post Brentgate, just to put it into context.
Also, today was plainsong_x's birthday (look, I just made it!), and so if she likes this, she can totally claim it as her present. But it was completely unsolicited, and if she doesn't like it or something, um, everyone ignore this comment.
EDIT: Now featuring a sequel!
The hotel room is too small--most rooms are these days, too small to contain Brendon's ego, cramped from the piles of things that Ryan can't say. Ryan bumps into them, sometimes, and he knows Brendon does too, trips over Ryan's thoughts and baggage; Ryan can see it in the glint in Brendon's eyes, the set of his jaw. Sometimes he wonders if there's more space in Spencer's room, too much maybe, but he doesn't ask.
He's sitting cross-legged on the bed when Brendon comes out of the bathroom, muttering, of course, about the size and quality of the current hotel. "Seriously, instead of getting stars, this place would have to, like, give it's stars back!" and Ryan would have rolled his eyes, except he's learned that it only encourages Brendon, so he just ignores him until he brushes past the backpack perched at the foot of Ryan's bed.
Ryan's eyes shoot up from his Sidekick when he hears the bag hit the floor.
Brendon stops, looking down past his shoulder at the damage. Ryan sees his face shift, eyes widen, not quite with surprise, maybe an oh-really or even an I-thought-so, and Ryan doesn't have to crawl to the edge of the mattress to figure it out.
That's brave, Ryan thinks absurdly as Brendon twists and stoops, the toy clenched solidly in his hand when he rises. Just picking up someone's sex toy like that, Brendon doesn't even know if it's sanitary. Ryan almost grimaces at the thought. (Of course it is, come on, Ryan's good about that.)
The plug is purple, and really not that big, all things considered. Still, Ryan thinks he should be embarrassed; his face is hot, but he feels disconnected from the sensation. Brendon looks from the plug to Ryan, then back to the toy, and Ryan wonders faintly what he's going to say.
"When'd you buy this?" Brendon asks, and Ryan is a little surprised. Of all the things to ask.
Lie, he thinks. "I didn't," he says honestly, and almost winces.
Brendon watches his face. "Tell me it wasn't a gift from a fan," he says, and Ryan can see he already knows it wasn't. Ryan's really pretty good at reading Brendon. He figures Brendon can read him just as easily, so he shakes his head.
Brendon looks back down, tosses the plug in his hand, flipping it a couple of times. Base, tip, base. It's short, and almost flutters as it spins. His hands look kind of big trying to catch it, clumsy. "Funny," he mutters, eyes flicking over to Ryan in between throws. "He didn't get me one."
"Bren," Ryan starts. "Pete--"
"Didn't want anyone else invading his territory? 'This space reserved for Pete Wentz: Keep Out.'"
Now Ryan feels the heat in his cheeks acutely. "You know it's not like that."
Brendon stops fiddling with the plug. "Then what is it like?"
There's that clench of Brendon's jaw. It's not cruel, but it is sure. Cocky, even. The challenge is obvious in his gaze: it was your bag that spilled this out, there's no sidestepping it this time.
"I can fuck whoever I want," Ryan says. "It's not a fucking chastity belt."
Have Brendon's eyes always been so dark? Brendon shifts, the movement of his body almost imperceptible except for the sense that he is suddenly a little closer to Ryan. His knees sink into the edge of the mattress and he draws nearer still. "Then why don't you?"
"I..."
"What?" Brendon asks, and Ryan can hear the echo of all the previous questions in that one word. Brendon stops leaning in, too close for comfort, too far away to justify a push or a getthefuckoff! Tension's thick around them, between them, and it hadn't always been like that, either. Ryan wants to blame Pete. He wants to blame the band, and the tour, and the fans and the music. Brendon's voice growling out Ryan's thoughts like they were meant to come out of his mouth all along.
There's a point when flirty turns into something else, something sharper and scarier. Casual, boyish touches turn hot, and Ryan feels fingerprints burned onto on his neck all night. (The closer Brendon comes to him, the louder they scream.)
"Why'd you bring it along, then, if it wasn't for him?" Brendon asks, and now he's crawling forward and Ryan's moving back. Ryan leans on his elbows and Brendon's looming over the knees of his legs, still crossed awkwardly.
He wants an admission, a confession; he's been waiting for this opportunity. Ryan stares at him.
It's for me, I like it, he thinks plainly. I like being fucked. Pete figured it out. I liked being fucked by Pete, but now Pete's not here, and I still want... I need....
His thoughts stutter as if he were actually speaking the words, and he doesn't say anything out loud.
Sitting back, Brendon sighs, and his face looks familiar again. He studies the plug in his hand. "Fine. You're not going to tell me." He meets Ryan's eyes. "Care to show me?" His grin is quick and huge and playful, and it's almost hard to take him seriously.
Still, Ryan's protesting before he even thinks, "Come on, what the fuck are you..." but then he does think, and while he's frowning, Brendon crawls the rest of the way up the bed.
The first press of Brendon's lips is unexpected; after all this time, Ryan didn't think he'd ever actually make a move, but then he's falling on top of Ryan with a final lurch, and Ryan jerks underneath him. The sudden weight of a body moving between his thighs awakens all kinds of thoughts that Ryan had forcibly tranquilized in his own consciousness.
Ryan had been kind of unprepared for Brendon's mouth.
He is equally unprepared for Brendon's hands, which aren't clumsy at all as they slip over and then under fabric, slithering straight to his skin.
"Brendon, what--" Ryan tries to ask, but he's not sure it's intelligible because Brendon won't stop kissing him. Or he won't stop kissing Brendon, something.
"Shut up," Brendon mumbles.
"You shut up," Ryan tries to snap back, but yeah, not so much with the snapping when there's another mouth right there. Brendon laughs at him.
"Okay, you know what," Ryan tries again, but he never finishes because then Brendon's licking his throat, long lines that burn over his adam's apple, and he doesn't remember when those fingers reached his crotch, but they're certainly there now, reaching into his pants to touch flesh that isn't really complaining. "Hey," he says.
Brendon pulls away enough to blink at him, slow and smoky, and Ryan swallows and helps push his pants down.
And then there's more hands and tongue and fuck, Ryan can't even keep track of what's going on, except that everything in the room is kind of swimming in blurred layers and he really likes the way Brendon's hand cradles his hip when his head moves down (and then down) between his legs.
"So," Brendon says when he pauses, and the word sounds too low and muffled because Ryan is kind of dazed, and everything below his navel is just... buzzing. Brendon holds up the plug, and Ryan goggles. "Do you have lube in your bag, too, or do we have to improvise?"
"You're joking," Ryan says, not expecting his voice to be as hoarse as it is. He feels one of Brendon's fingers pressing up to sort of tickle his ass, damp with saliva, and no, he's probably not joking.
"I... bag," he says. Brendon moves, and in that second, Ryan has a flash of oh my god what is going on here, this is Brendon. He starts to pull his legs up, to shift away, but Brendon's back already, kissing Ryan's thigh as he reparts Ryan's legs for him, and yes, this is Brendon. His mouth is entirely too steady as it slides back up, all the way. Ryan can't remember how to breathe, can't even remember what it felt like to have a chest full of oxygen and Brendon's tongue not teasing his asshole.
When Brendon pauses to slick up the plug, Ryan tries not to gulp for air. He manages a shuddery breath, and then another, feeling lightheaded and very, very warm.
Something pushes between his legs, slippery smooth and definitely not a finger, Brendon's just going for it, and it's okay, because it's not really huge and that's how Ryan likes to do it anyway (lives for the fluttering in his stomach when he just... pushes). But as Ryan tries to relax his muscles, the familiarity gets lost in knowledge that this is somehow very, very different. He swallows, and actually considers stopping, or well, making Brendon stop, but even as the thought flits through his mind he knows he wouldn't (couldn't) go through with it now. Not when Brendon is touching his thigh like that and pushing steadily but not hard enough, and Ryan thinks, harder, it takes more than that at first, and bites his lip.
Brendon does push harder, and just like that Ryan opens for it, ass stretching as the plug widens, then closing around it. It's... god, like slow motion. Brendon pauses once he's got it inside, just pressing, and Ryan wants to scream, or moan, or fucking cuss at him until he runs out of words. He closes his eyes and lets his breath flicker weakly through his lips.
And Brendon, he's not sure of what's he's doing, it's obvious, but his hands are steady when he tugs, pulling it back out, and Ryan shifts his hips when the thickest part passes through. There's a pause, one beat, a rest, and then Brendon pushes again, firm, and it goes easier. Brendon keeps his rhythm, fucking Ryan with the plug like it's a goddamn dildo, and Ryan just... shakes.
Shit, just don't squirm, he thinks to himself, Brendon will never let you live it down. He whimpers instead. Goddamn Brendon.
"So you can fuck whoever you want, huh?" Brendon asks, his voice all low and husky in Ryan's ear. Ryan shivers, and can't even hate himself for it. "Do you want to fuck me?"
Ryan shakes his head quick. "No," he breathes. Brendon pauses, not a full stop; he doesn't believe the denial. Ryan clenches around the plug, and gasps in a breath. Fuck, he needs this, even though it hurts to admit it. "I--I want you to fuck me," he finishes, as if it needed to be clarified. Brendon grins, actually chuckles.
"Right," he says. "That's kinda what I meant."
Ryan tries to glare at him, but Brendon pulls the plug out of his ass, making his eyes roll in his head, and he hears Brendon laugh again before he manages to center his gaze. "Fucking asshole," he mutters, but his eyes slip down, watching Brendon push his own pants off his hips, out of the way. Ryan swallows as Brendon strokes his own cock, quick, and he can't have much lube left on his palm but maybe it's enough.
Brendon leans over him, and Ryan shivers just a little more; this close, Ryan can feel the heat coming off him, which is nothing new, Brendon's warm solidity is practically a constant dent in Ryan's personal bubble. But it has a new tang now, a humid whisper of sex that swirls lazily between their hips.
Balancing on one hand, Brendon flicks the hem of Ryan's t-shirt. "Wait, take this off."
Ryan really wants to say if you're going to do it, just fucking do it, now, nownownow. But he's not going to beg, no, he will not give Brendon the satisfaction, so instead he just asks, "Why?"
"Aw, come on, show me your tits, baby," and the smirk in Brendon's voice is too familiar.
"Dick," Ryan spits. In a flash he considers kicking Brendon in the balls and giving up on whateverthehell it is they're doing (like it's not apparent by now), but he figures by the time he pushes Brendon away and gets his leg around, Brendon will have figured out what's going on.
"Wanna see you," Brendon adds quickly, and his voice is different all of a sudden, lower again but also breathless. Ryan can't help thinking it's completely intentional, and he can't help falling for it anyway.
They wriggle him out of his t-shirt and Brendon makes it a point to ball it up tight before throwing it to the floor. Just for that, Ryan pulls extra hard on Brendon's shirt, "You too," stretching the collar unnecessarily.
"Fucker," Brendon says when his head comes free, hair ruffled.
"Bastard."
There's a pause, and Ryan is very aware of his legs brushing Brendon's hips, and Brendon's cock not in his ass. "Are you going to do this or what?" he asks.
"Do you want me to?"
Ryan feels his chin rise automatically, the sneer forming like something outside his control. "What if I changed my mind? If I say no?"
"I think I'd fuck you anyway," Brendon purrs.
Except, well, Brendon's not a complete asshole, not really, and Ryan knows that if he says no, really says no, Brendon will stop. And maybe he should, maybe this is a horrible idea. But...
He raises one leg, digging his heel into Brendon's back and urging him forward.
Brendon isn't the only one who had been waiting for an opportunity.
Guiding himself with his hand, Brendon starts to push in, and Ryan has to give him credit, he didn't have to be told twice.
There is a little bit of a size difference there, butt plug to cock, plus that little grace period, and it's just been so long, so long and finally, but yeah, Ryan actually has to concentrate to relax, to let Brendon in. It's just slick enough not to hurt (much), but Ryan can really feel it, the resistance and the slow drag of every fucking centimeter; he grasps at the sheets and squeezes so hard his knuckles burn. Brendon pauses when he's halfway in, exhaling, and Ryan feels it flicker across his skin.
"Jesus, you're tight," Brendon breathes, and he sounds genuinely surprised.
The fucker. Ryan tells him as much. "The hell did you expect?"
Brendon shakes his head, and pushes again. Ryan moans.
"Yeah."
And maybe Brendon is a complete asshole, because he keeps going slow like that, constant steady pressure so that Ryan's head doesn't have a chance to clear, can't think of anything really, except for a few vague concepts like feelsgood and more and jesuschristbrendonyoufuckheadjustdoit. Brendon has his head down, watching the drag of his cock in and out, and Ryan wants to hit him to get his attention. He grunts low in his throat, a slightly frustrated sound, but it works. Brendon looks up, twisting his hips.
Ryan snarls. "Just... fuck."
"What, you don't like it like this?" Brendon asks, and Ryan wishes helplessly that he could do something to strip the smirk off Brendon's face, to make him gasp, and shake. Make that ridiculous voice of his waver and crack. "How do you like it?"
Ryan takes a breath, releasing his hold on the sheets, and looks Brendon right in the eye before grabbing him by the back of the neck. He hauls him forward and Brendon almost loses his balance, barely catching himself on his hands at Ryan's sides. Ryan stops him, fingers in his hair, just before their mouths actually meet. "Hard," he says. He releases Brendon's head.
Blinking, Brendon pauses, but then carefully shifts his hands to better hold his weight. He jabs his hips forward (hard), and breathes, "Okay."
Brendon's as good as his word, fucking into Ryan with such force that it drives him up on the bed until he braces his hand against the headboard, biting his lip and arching into it. He presses his head back and closes his eyes, feeling Brendon shift and change angles. He keeps going like that, and after a while, Ryan opens his eyes. Brendon's watching him, eyes darting from his face down and then back again. God, stop fucking watching, Ryan thinks, but can't find his voice to say it. Brendon is flushed and Ryan can see the tension in his shoulders, feel it under his fingers when he reaches up. Brendon's hairline is slick with sweat, and Ryan lowers his hand between their stomachs, wrapping his fingers around his own cock.
He moans, but cuts himself off, squeezing and stroking, and he sees Brendon look down again. "God," he chokes. He shudders just a little as he comes, Brendon watching.
"Jesus," Brendon says, and Ryan hears himself whimper a little in response, Brendon still pounding into him as his body begins to slacken.
"Brendon," Ryan says, and Brendon gives a little jerk, going still and coming on the upstroke, cock lodged all the way inside Ryan. He gasps something that could be a word or just a short breathless moan.
It takes him a moment to catch his breath, but when his panting has calmed, Brendon leans down and kisses Ryan; Ryan lets him.
When Brendon pulls back, Ryan looks up at him, and really hopes he will just stay quiet like this, because it's actually kind of nice. He prays Brendon won't ruin it by saying something horribly inappropriate.
"So," Brendon says, "is Pete gonna be pissed?"
Fool's hope, Ryan thinks. "Fuck you," he says, covering his face with his hands.
"Hey, I have a right to know if, like, my life is gonna be in danger now."
"Brendon," Ryan says in his best calming-a-child voice (which admittedly isn't that impressive, he's not a very patient person), "Pete would not have you assassinated, even if I did tell him."
"Are you going to tell him?" Brendon's voice goes softer.
Ryan doesn't know. He stays quiet, rubbing at the corners of his eyes with his fingertips. It's a moment before he speaks. "Would you get off me? You're fucking sticky."
Since he keeps his eyes closed, Ryan doesn't see Brendon move away. He lowers his hands only when he feels the bed tilt. "If you use my shirt, screw Pete, I will fucking kill you in your sleep."
"Bitch," Brendon mutters, but he gets up and goes to the bathroom. When he comes back, he offers a damp towel to Ryan, who accepts it without a word. Brendon sits on the bed, staring Ryan until Ryan freezes and glares at him, and then he stretches, picking up the discarded butt plug. "You know, I'm surprised there isn't a bartskull on here somewhere," he mutters.
Ryan snatches it away and throws it on the floor with the towel. He moves under the covers, and Brendon nonchalantly crawls in with him, reaching around him to turn off the light. He leaves his arm slung across Ryan's body.
Ryan shifts, trying to elbow Brendon away. "Fuck you, you have your own bed."
Brendon's arm just squeezes tighter around Ryan's waist. "I'm not sleeping in that thing. There was a hair in it."
"There was not," Ryan says, but sighs. Fuck it, he thinks. He's groggy and, against his better judgment, feeling kind of content. He supposes there's enough room for Brendon.
Back on the bus the next day, Ryan finds himself in the back lounge sitting across from Spencer, who's digging through his bag, presumably looking for some specific connector cable since his laptop is resting on bench next to him; he keeps pulling out USB cords and then discarding them. Ryan doesn't really pay attention, he's busy scribbling words and nonsensical phrases in an old notebook. Maybe it'll make sense later, maybe it won't, he doesn't really care because as long as he keeps writing he doesn't feel the need to look up and just tell Spence everything. (Tell Spencer why he's sitting crooked, why Brendon went back to sleep as soon as he climbed on the bus this morning, why his throat sounds dry every time he speaks and his hands are shaky on his pen, why he feels better than he has in weeks and sick with worry that it won't last, can't fucking last...)
"God-fucking--" Spencer mutters, giving something gray and wiry a hard yank, and sending things flying out of his bag. Something falls with a thump at Ryan's feet, and his eyes blink over to it. Then they blink again. It's a butt plug. And it looks exactly like his, only pink.
Ryan meets Spencer's eyes. His face is calm, although his cheeks might be slightly flushed, Ryan's not quite sure. Spence kind of shrugs, and sets his stuff aside so that he can retrieve the fallen sex toy. Spencer's never been the kind to try to shove things away and pretend like they don't exist, but he doesn't like to leave things lying about, either. He fiddles with the plug for a second. Ryan keeps staring until Spencer looks up. There's something hidden there in his eyes, something Ryan kind of recognizes.
Ryan almost smirks, shakes his head. "So, Pete--" he stops himself, shrugs at Spencer's slightly startled look. He reaches in his backpack, and pulls out his own plug. "Mine's purple," he says.
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