Grace - Chapter 12
Title: Grace - Chapter 12 (part 2)
Rating: M
Fandom: P!atd (Brendon/Ryan)
( A thousand nurses have stolen Catherine from me, stolen my white rabbit and left me sitting here with her broken clock. Tick! it goes, and it’s too slow, too desperate and strained in its timing, the second hand is moving in hours. )
Rating: M
Fandom: P!atd (Brendon/Ryan)
( A thousand nurses have stolen Catherine from me, stolen my white rabbit and left me sitting here with her broken clock. Tick! it goes, and it’s too slow, too desperate and strained in its timing, the second hand is moving in hours. )
Ah, Brendon/Ryan is totally my OTP for the Panic! fandom, coz, seriously, it is not possible that they are not madly in love. No straight boys are that pleased to grope each other in public. Seriously. But, ahah, the Brandon/Brendon hot, gritty, angry sex sounds like way too much fun.
Like, the Brandon thing, it only happens sometimes, it only happens when Brendon’s left in bed, when he’s wide awake as the clock by the bed blares with the digits 1:13. It only happens when Ryan’s unhappy, when Ryan’s stressed and sad and just, when his eyes haze over with words he can’t write down.
It only happens when Brendon’s not happy either, when Brendon’s heart has shrivelled in his chest, has caught between the bars of his rib cage. It happens when Brendon’s shoes and jeans are too close to the side of the bed, when he can slide out too easily from under Ryan’s feather-light arm.
It’s when the bar, that dark, gritty, cave of a thing is too appealing for comfort, too close, too glittery, too there.
Only happens when Brandon’s there, fingers desperate around a can of some German-dubbed beer that Brendon will be able to taste on his lips and his tongue and maybe, maybe around his cock too.
Totally gonna stop that right there.
(And yay! for friends!)
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I think Brandon/Brendon happens when they're both single, arrogant assholes at the same party, all glittering lights and pretentious suits, but the champagne is free. Brendon knocks it back, it's cloyingly sweet, and he knows he shouldn't, he knows that it's gonna piss Ryan off, but he doesn't care. His eyes are burning with a different agenda tonight, although Brendon swears he didn't come here just to get wasted and pretend not to watch Ryan make out with his girlfriend.
But there's no way Ryan will be pissed, he thinks, because Ryan won't notice. Won't notice through veils of blonde hair and expensive makeup. He won't see through clouds of floral perfume and estrogen, high heels and cinched waists.
Brendon grimaces and grabs another glass from a passing waiter. He looks down at the empty champagne flute in his hand, glancing around for somewhere to put it, eyes meet a familiar face, smirking, still so fucking smug, and why did no one tell him Brandon fucking Flowers was going to be here? If he'd known, he wouldn't have come. If he'd known, he would have brought a condom.
Seriously, though, I love to believe that Ryan and Brendon are in love. Really. They're just so beautiful together, and the photos prove it, and just. Oh! They're such boys! And they'd still be boys, they'd just be boys in love, and ugh, why is it so fucking canon?
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And Brandon, he's nothing like Ryan, he's all hard edges, straight lines and a tongue that doesn't so much cut as it slits, slaughters, tears the neck of the victim, leaves it hanging open like the slots in the pokies machines back home. Leaves it like the casualties of your run-of-the-mill African genocide.
Brendon's fingers don't shake as he puts the glass down on the bartop, but his heart, it throbs in his chest, his cock in his pants, Ryan can't see, so it's not...it doesn't matter.
Brandon though, his face is set in something between homicidal irritation and an uncontainable haughtiness. A guy who just fucked a chick he hated, a guy who just watched Passion of the Christ.
He moves too quickly though, roadrunner on speed, and he's at Brendon's side before he can think to move away, before he can think to move closer.
"You fucked your guitarist yet?" The first words out of Brandon fucking Flowers' mouth that night, and Brendon isn't sure if he wants to fuck the guy over or just fuck him.
"Dunno," he says instead, "you still jacking off to kiddie porn?"
"Take that as a 'no'," Brandon says, and he grasps another glass of champaigne from the penguin waiters, downs it like it's vodka.
"Take it however the fuck you want."
They really are beautiful together, Ryan and Brendon, and the affection there is just, *smothers them both*. Lovelovelovelovelove. And yay! for the canon-ness of this fandom.
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But mostly he's mad as hell at Brandon. Mad because he wants to be angry, he wants to yell and throw punches. He hates Brandon for being so collected, for prying where he doesn't belong, asking questions that sting, and they aren't even friends. Last time Brendon checked, they were meant to hate each other.
Brandon's eyes flash darkly, unreadable, inscrutable (but Brendon knows, he knows), and he leans in, voice rough and warning, running sharp currents down Brendon's spine (he knows), as he breathes into Brendon's ear. "Maybe I will," he murmurs, breath warm, moist, clouding, before he leans back, arms crossed. His face is impassive, cold, closed. His eyes are burning, bright, heat (and oh God, he knows).
Brendon swallows, blinks, because this is all too much, he feels it too much. He's rejected, and hurt, and Ryan's right fucking there (but he can't see, won't see), and Brandon's eyes are burning, he's like a fucking magnet, and Brendon hates him. He hates him because he's the biggest fucking douchebag he's ever met. He hates him because he just wants someone, anyone, and Brendon promised himself he wouldn't, never again, not Brandon.
But Brandon is here, and now, sharp angles and defiance. He's cold, and mean, and God knows he's a good fuck. And he's not Ryan. He's not, and Brendon knows it, and Brandon knows it, and Ryan won't ever know, can't know, and Brendon doesn't know if that makes it hurt more or less. He licks his lips, meeting Brandon's eyes.
"You're a real fucker, you know," he spits out. Brandon shrugs, steps closer.
"I do, yes. And you do, as well. So why don't you and I find a dark corner somewhere, and you can use your pretty mouth for something that isn't firing half-assed insults at me." Brandon emphasises where he should, and he doesn't touch Brendon, not once, but Brendon can still feel the hairs rising on the back of his neck. Feels the words choked in his throat.
Brandon sighs. "You can pretend I'm your guitarist boyfriend if you want. But I'll fuck you twice as well as he ever can." Smirk, smirk. Brendon wants to punch him in the face.
Instead he just nods, swallows dryly. Heads for the door. He's grateful for the muted silence of the hallway, the less harsh burn of the halogen ceiling lights. Ryan won't notice that he's gone, and as Brandon's pushing Brendon to his knees, he just knows.
This needs to not ever stop. Hahahah. Comments-based cowrite!
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Then again, carpet burn is a bitch.
The tiles though, they’re freezing beneath his covered knees, he can feel the icecaps rip at he skin, the bergs jabbing like they’re that famous one, like he’s the goddamn fucking Titanic.
Brandon’s thighs are thin in front of his face (not like Ryan’s though, Ryan’s are less thin, more skeletal) and Brendon, he goes to unzip the already bulging crotch, but…but he fingers the fabric a little, and maybe one-night-stands aren’t as much his thing as he likes to pretend. Maybe his Mum’s constant ramblings of love and commitment seeped through more than he’d thought, maybe it had soaked through and his head, his heart, it hasn’t been wrung dry yet, it still drips with romantic ideals.
“Fuck,” Brandon says, in the vast space above him. “Fuck, kid, I don’t have the entire fucking night.”
And that’s his cue to up and leave, to say ‘well, hun, maybe your right hand would be quicker.’ He doesn’t though, can’t, coz he doesn’t want this, but on some level he needs it. The zip, he tugs it down too swiftly, yanks the legs of Brandon’s pants down around his thighs, and he doesn’t prepare either of them, just engulfs the cock presented to him.
A good, Catholic alter boy.
“You,” Brandon gasps out, laughs, “You are not too fucking bad at this.”
And Brendon, he tries too hard not to bite the assholes cock off.
Less porny, more angsty? I have no idea, although I do tend to have that effect on everything. It is really bad, people ask me for plotless stuff, and I give them more plot then they can handle. Have you read my original thing 'Between Us'? My friend who requested it didn't know what she was in for. *le sigh*
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I think I brought the angst, don't worry. I haven't written angst in ages, but it just... happened.
And no, I haven't read it, but I'll be sure to, because I'm pretty sure that I love you.
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I loved your bits, and it all just, guh, fell together so well. *tears* I'm so proud.
Maybe we both brought the angst, there was no escaping it. Everything I write is angsty though, all of it. Just can't help myself.
Just for the record, I love you too, in like, every sense of the word. I think we should get married, set up house in some lonely Brisbane suburb and just write forever together. That sounds like fun. Lets do that.
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And yes! Brisbane writing co-op! We can farm some kind of animal. This could work! But no, I really adore what you write, you have an unquestionable talent. So there.
Anyway, I'm skipping off to have lunch, so have a super afternoon!
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I adore you too! (Hardly talentless yourself, love) ^^
We should do this more often. Comment co-write galore.
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