Fic: SLUT., GSF, NC-17
Title: SLUT. [1/1] [GSF]
Pairing: GSF [Brendon/Ryan/Spencer/Jon], Brendon/Everyone
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, only the plot.
“Good boy, Brendon. But now my shoe’s all sticky.”
And that’s when Brendon lifts his head up, the rest of his body rooted to his spot on the floor, palms down, flat on the dirty hardwood of the too-big cabin the middle of fucking nowhere Nevada, knees spread several feet apart behind him.
Brendon knows what it looks like, knows the position allows his skirt to ride up just a little (just perfect) over his ass (round, red globes of flesh), the gap between his thighs visible, his shaven balls hanging low (full, heavy) in the window it creates. He knows it’s a really nice (beautiful) portrait for Spencer, comfortable and panting on the couch against the far wall, hand busy around his own flushed cock. And Brendon wishes he could turn around and see the look on Spencer’s face.
But Brendon lifts his head up, keeps his eyes lower, shows Ryan (above him, so tall and towering) that, yes, he knows.
(Shows Ryan the rest of the lip gloss, spread cherry red across his cheeks.)
“What are we going to do about that, Brendon?”
Brendon knows, Brendon dismisses the way the saliva builds up in his mouth, Brendon lowers his head back down to Ryan’s shiny, shiny black dress shoe. His tongue flicks out, tastes the cheap drug store make-up smeared across the surface,
(“Show me some respect, baby boy. Kiss it.”)
And licks up the mess he created seconds ago, and really, it doesn’t taste like the cartoon strawberries on the plastic tube it came from.
When he’s all done, Ryan’s shoe clean clean clean from the spit, he looks back up, and-
-“Spence?” Ryan smiles (looks at Brendon, it’s meant for Brendon). “What did we ever do to deserve such a good little baby boy?”
-
Well, it started on a Thursday, really.
Brendon doesn’t remember where they were, but fuck, they sure brought a lot of dancers and shit on that tour. And they were bored, because whoever assumed that it’s easy to find stuff to do in the hours between sunrise and sound check, well, they were just fucking wrong.
So there they were in the dressing room, the really big one that was made for a whole cast of dancers and twirlers and guys with top hats, and they were pretty much just wandering around and checking out the wardrobe trunks and being stupid and acting just like a quartet of douche bags when, fuck, that was Jon’s hands covering his eyes and mouth and, yeah, was he being kidnapped or something?
And then Ryan was slapping him when he talked, when he tried to ask, just, what?, and he was being tied down to a chair and, shit, they were all just staring at him with the same fucking look in all of their eyes (honey, brown, ice blue), like they had been waiting for this or planning this or some shit.
(Because
“I can’t take this anymore, Ry.”
“I know, Spence.”
“Jon wants it too.”
“I know, Spence.”
“We have to do something. We have to ask him. Or. I don’t know.”
“We will.”
“Do you think we can convince Brendon? Shit, if that were me-”
“Don’t worry about it Spence. He wants it too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll show you. Come on, we’ll take him for a walk. Get Jon?”)
So now Brendon was being undressed (and being naked wasn’t too horrible, okay, because he’d fucked around with them all at one point or another), and then redressed, and fuck, fishnets and corsets and blouses that no one bothered to button up and panties and skirts and, yeah, and electric blue pumps on his feet. (Brendon still can’t figure out how they managed to do that all with him sitting down.)
Oh, and Ryan brought his make-up with him, too.
And when the shuffle was done, and he was so pretty, Spencer was in his ear, hot, breathing, talking about a safeword, and because Brendon loves Diet Coke,
“Phenylalanine.”
And that had been that.
-
“I don’t know, Ry. I guess we just got lucky.”
Ryan grins back down at him, admiring the way Brendon looks in the new sparkly green eye shadow they bought him for his birthday, adoring the way Brendon’s back is so on display with the barely there tube top they had dressed him in, loving how fucking perfect Brendon is on all fours at his feet. And of course he knows that Brendon, well, Brendon loves it all even more.
The doors squeaks, and Jon Walker’s there now, and Ryan doesn’t miss the smile that threatens to form on Brendon’s face, because Ryan knows that even though Brendon can’t see him, he knows it’s Jon because Brendon knows the sound of all their footsteps by now.
“Without me?” asks Jon, warm as always, but Brendon can sense the hype in his voice because none of them ever get tired of entering a room and seeing him like this, Brendon at his most beautiful.
“Just warming him up. He’s been a good boy so far today. Haven’t you, baby boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
Then Brendon hears Jon set down whatever he may have been carrying when he entered the room, and fuck, his cock twitches just a bit when he hears Jon come nearer, closer, behind him.
“Mind if I mess with him for a bit, Ry?”
But Ryan just smiles, pets Brendon’s hair a bit (caressing the outer shell of his ear, maybe, with guitar string fingertips), and walks to the couch with Spencer (two men, fully dressed, flies down and dicks out in the open, red and needy and, well, everyone gets their turn with Brendon.)
And there’s a few seconds, or hours, or ounces, or some meaningless measurement of time when Brendon’s just staring at the rest of the empty room in front of him (the only time he doesn’t lovewhen they’re all behind him), and even though Brendon wishes Jon would just hurry the fuck up and touch him, he knows knows knows not to even think about asking.
But Jon’s kind (the kindest, probably), and soon he’s behind Brendon, really behind him, so behind him he can feel the Chicago rough denim of his jeans against his bare ass (because yeah, his skirt is that deliciously short), and he’s grinding just a bit. So Brendon, Brendon does what he’s been trained to do, what he was born to do, and Brendon pushes his ass back against Jon.
“You’re so pretty, baby boy. You know that?”
Brendon feels Jon’s hand, rough and calloused and practiced, trace across his back now, and though he knows better than to moan out loud, he can’t help but to press his whole body just a little upward (like a cat, Brendon thinks) in appreciation.
“You really are, just like this. So ready.”
And the hand slides down his spine, sweet, and caresses the upward, downward curve of Brendon’s ass just right, draws in on the space between the two fleshy cheeks and teases just so, with pressure more than with touch, against his entrance (like a weakening wall), and this, this is called anticipation.
“Do you want it, baby?”
And Brendon actually takes a minute, because he knows Jon, and knows that as soon as he nods, there isn’t going to be a waiting period. So, yeah, Brendon waits a moment and braces himself because then, then he does nod-
(A choke from somewhere on the couch)
-and Jon, he fucking spearheads Brendon’s ass with his fingers, three of them, all at once, all so dry, and Brendon learned about this thing called ‘friction’ in eighth grade science.
And he sort of severed away this part of his brain that knew the difference between pain and something better a long time ago, so now, now all he feels is Jon, Jon’s fingers, groping him from the inside, and fuck, fuck.
“Fuck-”
There’s that delicious smack across his ass, and he knows he isn’t supposed to like it, but then, he’s not supposed to talk or make any noise either.
“Aw, Brenny, and you were doing so good, too.”
Then no, no, no!, Jon’s taking his fingers away and God, emptiness in a horrible, wretched thing. He feels Jon’s hands run down the back of his thighs, tickle the nook behind his knees and trace down his calves, past them, where his thong’s been caught straddling his ankles since Ryan first pulled it down so Spencer could sit back and appreciate the view. And Jon’s taking it off now, lifting one foot at a time and stretching the elastic around each of the stiletto heels.
Once it’s free, Brendon can feel Jon’s body above him (warm, he must have taken off his shirt at some point), stretching up and around, fingers at his lips, shoving in the bunched up lingerie, and then Brendon’s been fitted with a gag.
“There. That oughta help a bit, don’t you think?”
Brendon nods, nods a Thank you, sir, closes his eyes and spreads his legs wider now that the cloth isn’t restraining him too much. Jon smiles at the invitation. But then, then he goes back to teasing, light, feathery touches at Brendon’s asshole, not enough because God, Brendon had more just a minute ago and now he wants it all back.
“You’re tight tonight baby doll,” a little more pressure, “wouldn’t want to waste that on my fingers any more.”
There’s the all too familiar sound of a zipper, Jon spitting into his palm, a split second’s wait, and yes, yes, yes!
Ryan told him once that when he’s got his eyes open and he’s being fucked, ass ripped apart for the first time on any given night, his pupils go so wide his irises dilate, all gold flecks and rings of chocolate, like the cross section of a tree trunk, big and glimmering and different every time. And if Brendon could have talked at the time, he would have asked Ryan, yeah, while that was sweet and everything, why are you looking at my eyes when there’s a ripe, throbbing dick being shoved up the ass you’re so fucking obsessed with?
Jon moans low behind him, stilling himself for a minute inside Brendon (full, full), his hand absently running across his skin and underneath the waistband of the skirt he’s still got on. Brendon’s happy for the moment, buzzing, and clenches his inner muscles to test Jon just a bit, question his stamina tonight, and gets his answer when Jon practically chokes and grips Brendon’s hips hard, bruising, both a warning and a silent ‘thank you’.
But Jon recovers (Jon always, always recovers) in good time, and pulls out halfway, slamming pounding crashing back into Brendon with all the force in his body. Here, Brendon would cry out.
He continues this, the steady slow rhythm of pulling out, back like a slingshot, and ramming home. And the thing with Jon is, his cock was built right, angled just like that so when he’s fully hard, Jon can find Brendon’s sweet spot even without his contacts in. And he does that, he’s been doing that since day one, and Brendon doesn’t think Jon’s ever not hit it just right, (except for that one November afternoon when Brendon was very, very bad.)
Jon’s bigger than Spencer or Ryan, Brendon knows that, both in girth and in length (even if it’s only a little teensy bit longer than Ryan’s), and that’s why a lot of times, Jon’s the first to fuck him. Because Jon stretches, Jon stretches him open, gets him loose for the others (but never loose loose, Brendon’s too elastic for that). And every time Jon fucks him, hard and long, just like this, Brendon’s thighs open wider, (wider), wider with every second, almost as if to provide a visual representation of what Jon’s doing to his insides with every bull’s thrust. And really, it’s made Brendon thighs pretty fucking limber over the past year.
Which is why even though Brendon’s not surprised when his whole body has practically made it’s way to a spread eagle position on the floor, his ass sticking far, far up, being fucked into, he issurprised when Jon stills for a moment and reaches his big arms around to hoist Brendon back up on all fours, because, hey, Brendon thought Jon thought it was sexy when he did that?
But then, then he understands, because sometime while Brendon was being yes, yes, yesfucked into oblivion, he didn’t notice Spencer Smith get up from the couch and walk around to his front, naked and gorgeous now, holding his blushing cock is his hand for Brendon to admire.
Brendon smiles into the gag, which, hey, isn’t there the next second because Spencer kind of needs that mouth now, and Brendon’s more than happy to lend it (of course, if he wasn’t, Brendon knows they’d take it from him anyway.) And Spencer smiles back, a little diabolical because it isSpencer Smith, and grabs hold of Brendon’s jaw with surprising force and thrusts forward, into Brendon’s hot, wet cavern of a mouth.
And Brendon’s delighted, with taste and touch and the slapping sound of skin on skin behind him, and he definitely kind of wishes that there were two Brendons right now so that the other could sit on the couch (next to Ryan) and watch the other Brendon get filled, stuffed, broken from both ends (and also watch Ryan touch himself a little maybe.)
Soon, before too long, next, Jon’s cumming, first a little inside Brendon and then pulling out, pushing the skirt up so as not to get any on the precious fabric, and letting the brilliant white fluid slide down Brendon’s ass a little, falling into the crevice, where Jon uses his thumb to press it in a bit. Brendon hums in appreciation around Spencer’s cock, causing his hips to buck even more, and there’s drool all over Brendon’s face because Spencer’s controlling his fucking jaw, and yeah, that’s nice.
Brendon knows what’s next, and even though he wants it, wants it so, so bad, wants it so, so hard, he’s not ready for Spencer to take away his cock just yet, and groans at the loss (slap, hard and lubricated by the saliva on his face), but the thong-gag thing doesn’t go back in his mouth this time, but Brendon knows why.
Because Ryan likes to watch him struggle to stay silent, kind of quietly considers the gag to be cheating, because that’s just too easy for Brendon, knows the most painful restraints are the restraints he forces Brendon to put on himself.
And this is all very important because Ryan is no longer on the couch, and Jon has sort of silently wandered off to collapse on the piece of furniture himself, and Spencer’s kind of backing away for a second, stroking himself while he watches Ryan approach, who’s undressing himself garment by garment, second by second. He’s expressionless for now, and Spencer knows the look on his face is a look of total comfort, comfort in the knowledge that there’s this sort of power that he wields over Brendon, because, well, Ryan is coming closer and maybe Brendon’s shaking a little bit from the pressure.
“How do I like you, baby boy?”
Ryan’s still a couple feet away, but Brendon knows the sound of falling clothes, knows Ryan’s close enough for him to worry, and flips himself over onto his back. Here, finally, finally, Brendon can see Ryan, can see him way, way up there, looking everywhere but Brendon for the moment, because this, this is also called anticipation.
Slowly, Brendon bends his right knee, up, and crosses his whole leg over his left (big, tall heels in the air), and lays it flat on the floor (his poor skirt, all disheveled to hell by now). His swollen ass is sticking out the side, turned upward a bit, and his back, his back is still flat against the floor, shoulder blades touching wood, and he can hear the nice sensation of his back popping a little, hears the crack of vertebrae knotted against each other and it calms Brendon a bit to know that he can still be broken just a tiny bit more.
Ryan only ever fucks Brendon in one position, this position, except for maybe on some special occasions. Ryan told Brendon it was because he could see all of him from a single standpoint, from that one place, could see the vast expanse of the pale, milk white skin of his ass and the bubble-gum pink nipples on his chest, the fullness of hips, lips, all of his highs and lows, the struggle knitted together between his eyebrows, the struggle not to scream, because if Brendon doesn’t know not to make any sound when Ryan’s inside him, then Brendon must not know jackshit about anything.
“That’s good, Brendon. Really good.”
Brendon grins, “Thank you, sir.”
“What do you want now, Brendon?”
“You sir.”
“Me?”
“Your cock, sir.”
“I see. And what do you want with my cock, baby boy?”
(And he’s holding it now, touching it and cupping it, and shit, Brendon’s own dick is fuckingscreaming.)
“I want you to fuck me with it, sir. Please.” Please?
And Ryan just smiles.
Spencer’s still standing a few feet away as Ryan sinks to his knees, still palming and teasing himself and just really fucking enjoying the way Brendon looks right now, all spread out, and he can’t resist just crossing the room quickly and retrieving a nice juicy tube of red lipstick from Ryan’s big ass make up case and kneeling down, next to Brendon, and he smears the tip of his leaking cock on Brendon’s nose, opens the tube. He takes his time with it, drawing slow and deliberate lines across Brendon’s forehead, hearing Ryan laugh once he’s able to guess the word.
SLUT.
Brendon can feel the lines, can read the nerve endings in his own skin, can imagine Spencer drawing them out, can smell the precum so close to his mouth, sees the way it looks in his mind and thinks he should maybe definitely turn that into another tattoo.
But Ryan, he just chuckles again and turns his attention back to Brendon
“What do you say, baby boy?”
“Thank you, Spencer. Sir.”
Ryan grins big, wide. “Good boy.”
And he reaches his hand out for a second, touches Brendon’s knee and runs it up his thigh.
In a lot of ways, Brendon knows he’s more close to Ryan than he is to Jon and Spencer, because sure, Ryan hits the hardest, and Ryan’s made him bleed and Ryan buys the most humiliating outfits, but it doesn’t escape Brendon’s observations (Ryan unfolds his body, spoons up behind Brendon, pinches a pink nipple through his tube top) that Ryan’s also the only one who will lay his body down on the floor, lateral and long, to fuck him. Ryan’s the only one who will get dirt on his hands.
And then Ryan wraps his long, hot fingers around Brendon’s knee, pulling it, holding it up so Brendon’s ass is open and exquisite for him, and slides in. And shit, Jon’s big, but Ryan throbs inside him, reminds Brendon that there’s another human being with a heart fucking him, reminds him for just a second that he’s a human too, but even that’s forgotten when Ryan sets a pace, sharp, fast, hard.
The thing with Ryan, the thing is that Ryan kind of does more than fuck him, but he doesn’tmake love to him or some nonsensical shit like that, he just. He does something different. And it’s different because however fast Ryan’s fucking him, whatever the pace is, it kind resets something, redefines Brendon’s pulse so that his blood is beating against the inner walls of his skin in time with Ryan’s cock thrashing against his insides. And Brendon doesn’t really think too much about it, just kind of accepts that Jon and Spencer (Spencer, jerking off above his face and waiting to explode any second now) don’t do that for him.
So Ryan fucks him. Ryan fucks him like he always has, fast and then slow and then faster (thud-thud-thud thud thud thud thud-thud-thud-thud), and even though Brendon knows Ryan’s eyes are closed (he can see him now), he can still feel Ryan watching him through the red walls of his eyelids, taking in the glitter he had strewn across Brendon’s face and hair earlier, watching Spencer’s cum fall like heavy rain onto Brendon’s lips and chin (a taste very much like cinnamon), seeing the flush on Brendon’s porcelain cheeks. He knows Ryan can see him because he knows Ryan’s memorized him by now, the same way Brendon’s memorized the way Ryan’s mouth falls open in his weaker moments, when Brendon squeezes him from the inside. Because they’ve just been doing this for so long and the monotony hasn’t settled in yet, because every day Brendon is wearing different panties and a different skirt and sometimes a pink, lacy bra, and that’s enough for both of them, enough for all four of them, because Brendon’s never looked fucking prettier than he is right now.
But, shit, now Brendon’s not sure how much longer he can hold on (there was Jon pounding on his prostate, Spencer sweet in his mouth and now Ryan fuck fuck fucking him), and it’s so hard to hold in the sounds his body wants to create, so he shoots Ryan the look, the one that begs and pleads and screams all at once, just ‘Please, please, can I?’.
And Ryan responds by slamming into him harder than he ever has, and his heart palpitates a little, and his cock is exploding all over the inside of his thigh and the floor, the insides bursting out and hot semen all over everywhere, his skin, the hardwood, and yes, yes, his ass too because Ryan’s gone, Ryan’s done and he’s filling him all the way up and spilling out the edges, and really, Brendon fuckingloves it when they cum together, and that’s something that just really can’t happen often enough.
And then that particular portion of the day is over.
So that’s how it happens. They’re both spent now, and Ryan’s still inside him, and Brendon’s still twisted up and around like a pretzel, and the whole room reeks of sex, and there’s four very, very satiated boys strewn about it, like four pairs of dirty used jeans on a bedroom floor.
But, in a minute, they’ll all get up. Jon and Spencer and Ryan will grab a piece of their own clothing and they’ll clean Brendon up a bit, and Ryan will rub the make-up remover on his face, wipe away Spencer’s writing and the sparkly green eye shadow and all the glitter too. Brendon will get a kiss, a little one from each of them.
(And Brendon thinks that maybe they’re kind of like tiny little thank you’s that land on someone else’s lips.)
* Phenylalanine (fee-nul-al-uh-neen) - It’s a chemical they put in some foods. Look on the back of your can of Diet Coke. Hard to pronounce.
Pairing: GSF [Brendon/Ryan/Spencer/Jon], Brendon/Everyone
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, only the plot.
“Good boy, Brendon. But now my shoe’s all sticky.”
And that’s when Brendon lifts his head up, the rest of his body rooted to his spot on the floor, palms down, flat on the dirty hardwood of the too-big cabin the middle of fucking nowhere Nevada, knees spread several feet apart behind him.
Brendon knows what it looks like, knows the position allows his skirt to ride up just a little (just perfect) over his ass (round, red globes of flesh), the gap between his thighs visible, his shaven balls hanging low (full, heavy) in the window it creates. He knows it’s a really nice (beautiful) portrait for Spencer, comfortable and panting on the couch against the far wall, hand busy around his own flushed cock. And Brendon wishes he could turn around and see the look on Spencer’s face.
But Brendon lifts his head up, keeps his eyes lower, shows Ryan (above him, so tall and towering) that, yes, he knows.
(Shows Ryan the rest of the lip gloss, spread cherry red across his cheeks.)
“What are we going to do about that, Brendon?”
Brendon knows, Brendon dismisses the way the saliva builds up in his mouth, Brendon lowers his head back down to Ryan’s shiny, shiny black dress shoe. His tongue flicks out, tastes the cheap drug store make-up smeared across the surface,
(“Show me some respect, baby boy. Kiss it.”)
And licks up the mess he created seconds ago, and really, it doesn’t taste like the cartoon strawberries on the plastic tube it came from.
When he’s all done, Ryan’s shoe clean clean clean from the spit, he looks back up, and-
-“Spence?” Ryan smiles (looks at Brendon, it’s meant for Brendon). “What did we ever do to deserve such a good little baby boy?”
-
Well, it started on a Thursday, really.
Brendon doesn’t remember where they were, but fuck, they sure brought a lot of dancers and shit on that tour. And they were bored, because whoever assumed that it’s easy to find stuff to do in the hours between sunrise and sound check, well, they were just fucking wrong.
So there they were in the dressing room, the really big one that was made for a whole cast of dancers and twirlers and guys with top hats, and they were pretty much just wandering around and checking out the wardrobe trunks and being stupid and acting just like a quartet of douche bags when, fuck, that was Jon’s hands covering his eyes and mouth and, yeah, was he being kidnapped or something?
And then Ryan was slapping him when he talked, when he tried to ask, just, what?, and he was being tied down to a chair and, shit, they were all just staring at him with the same fucking look in all of their eyes (honey, brown, ice blue), like they had been waiting for this or planning this or some shit.
(Because
“I can’t take this anymore, Ry.”
“I know, Spence.”
“Jon wants it too.”
“I know, Spence.”
“We have to do something. We have to ask him. Or. I don’t know.”
“We will.”
“Do you think we can convince Brendon? Shit, if that were me-”
“Don’t worry about it Spence. He wants it too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I’ll show you. Come on, we’ll take him for a walk. Get Jon?”)
So now Brendon was being undressed (and being naked wasn’t too horrible, okay, because he’d fucked around with them all at one point or another), and then redressed, and fuck, fishnets and corsets and blouses that no one bothered to button up and panties and skirts and, yeah, and electric blue pumps on his feet. (Brendon still can’t figure out how they managed to do that all with him sitting down.)
Oh, and Ryan brought his make-up with him, too.
And when the shuffle was done, and he was so pretty, Spencer was in his ear, hot, breathing, talking about a safeword, and because Brendon loves Diet Coke,
“Phenylalanine.”
And that had been that.
-
“I don’t know, Ry. I guess we just got lucky.”
Ryan grins back down at him, admiring the way Brendon looks in the new sparkly green eye shadow they bought him for his birthday, adoring the way Brendon’s back is so on display with the barely there tube top they had dressed him in, loving how fucking perfect Brendon is on all fours at his feet. And of course he knows that Brendon, well, Brendon loves it all even more.
The doors squeaks, and Jon Walker’s there now, and Ryan doesn’t miss the smile that threatens to form on Brendon’s face, because Ryan knows that even though Brendon can’t see him, he knows it’s Jon because Brendon knows the sound of all their footsteps by now.
“Without me?” asks Jon, warm as always, but Brendon can sense the hype in his voice because none of them ever get tired of entering a room and seeing him like this, Brendon at his most beautiful.
“Just warming him up. He’s been a good boy so far today. Haven’t you, baby boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
Then Brendon hears Jon set down whatever he may have been carrying when he entered the room, and fuck, his cock twitches just a bit when he hears Jon come nearer, closer, behind him.
“Mind if I mess with him for a bit, Ry?”
But Ryan just smiles, pets Brendon’s hair a bit (caressing the outer shell of his ear, maybe, with guitar string fingertips), and walks to the couch with Spencer (two men, fully dressed, flies down and dicks out in the open, red and needy and, well, everyone gets their turn with Brendon.)
And there’s a few seconds, or hours, or ounces, or some meaningless measurement of time when Brendon’s just staring at the rest of the empty room in front of him (the only time he doesn’t lovewhen they’re all behind him), and even though Brendon wishes Jon would just hurry the fuck up and touch him, he knows knows knows not to even think about asking.
But Jon’s kind (the kindest, probably), and soon he’s behind Brendon, really behind him, so behind him he can feel the Chicago rough denim of his jeans against his bare ass (because yeah, his skirt is that deliciously short), and he’s grinding just a bit. So Brendon, Brendon does what he’s been trained to do, what he was born to do, and Brendon pushes his ass back against Jon.
“You’re so pretty, baby boy. You know that?”
Brendon feels Jon’s hand, rough and calloused and practiced, trace across his back now, and though he knows better than to moan out loud, he can’t help but to press his whole body just a little upward (like a cat, Brendon thinks) in appreciation.
“You really are, just like this. So ready.”
And the hand slides down his spine, sweet, and caresses the upward, downward curve of Brendon’s ass just right, draws in on the space between the two fleshy cheeks and teases just so, with pressure more than with touch, against his entrance (like a weakening wall), and this, this is called anticipation.
“Do you want it, baby?”
And Brendon actually takes a minute, because he knows Jon, and knows that as soon as he nods, there isn’t going to be a waiting period. So, yeah, Brendon waits a moment and braces himself because then, then he does nod-
(A choke from somewhere on the couch)
-and Jon, he fucking spearheads Brendon’s ass with his fingers, three of them, all at once, all so dry, and Brendon learned about this thing called ‘friction’ in eighth grade science.
And he sort of severed away this part of his brain that knew the difference between pain and something better a long time ago, so now, now all he feels is Jon, Jon’s fingers, groping him from the inside, and fuck, fuck.
“Fuck-”
There’s that delicious smack across his ass, and he knows he isn’t supposed to like it, but then, he’s not supposed to talk or make any noise either.
“Aw, Brenny, and you were doing so good, too.”
Then no, no, no!, Jon’s taking his fingers away and God, emptiness in a horrible, wretched thing. He feels Jon’s hands run down the back of his thighs, tickle the nook behind his knees and trace down his calves, past them, where his thong’s been caught straddling his ankles since Ryan first pulled it down so Spencer could sit back and appreciate the view. And Jon’s taking it off now, lifting one foot at a time and stretching the elastic around each of the stiletto heels.
Once it’s free, Brendon can feel Jon’s body above him (warm, he must have taken off his shirt at some point), stretching up and around, fingers at his lips, shoving in the bunched up lingerie, and then Brendon’s been fitted with a gag.
“There. That oughta help a bit, don’t you think?”
Brendon nods, nods a Thank you, sir, closes his eyes and spreads his legs wider now that the cloth isn’t restraining him too much. Jon smiles at the invitation. But then, then he goes back to teasing, light, feathery touches at Brendon’s asshole, not enough because God, Brendon had more just a minute ago and now he wants it all back.
“You’re tight tonight baby doll,” a little more pressure, “wouldn’t want to waste that on my fingers any more.”
There’s the all too familiar sound of a zipper, Jon spitting into his palm, a split second’s wait, and yes, yes, yes!
Ryan told him once that when he’s got his eyes open and he’s being fucked, ass ripped apart for the first time on any given night, his pupils go so wide his irises dilate, all gold flecks and rings of chocolate, like the cross section of a tree trunk, big and glimmering and different every time. And if Brendon could have talked at the time, he would have asked Ryan, yeah, while that was sweet and everything, why are you looking at my eyes when there’s a ripe, throbbing dick being shoved up the ass you’re so fucking obsessed with?
Jon moans low behind him, stilling himself for a minute inside Brendon (full, full), his hand absently running across his skin and underneath the waistband of the skirt he’s still got on. Brendon’s happy for the moment, buzzing, and clenches his inner muscles to test Jon just a bit, question his stamina tonight, and gets his answer when Jon practically chokes and grips Brendon’s hips hard, bruising, both a warning and a silent ‘thank you’.
But Jon recovers (Jon always, always recovers) in good time, and pulls out halfway, slamming pounding crashing back into Brendon with all the force in his body. Here, Brendon would cry out.
He continues this, the steady slow rhythm of pulling out, back like a slingshot, and ramming home. And the thing with Jon is, his cock was built right, angled just like that so when he’s fully hard, Jon can find Brendon’s sweet spot even without his contacts in. And he does that, he’s been doing that since day one, and Brendon doesn’t think Jon’s ever not hit it just right, (except for that one November afternoon when Brendon was very, very bad.)
Jon’s bigger than Spencer or Ryan, Brendon knows that, both in girth and in length (even if it’s only a little teensy bit longer than Ryan’s), and that’s why a lot of times, Jon’s the first to fuck him. Because Jon stretches, Jon stretches him open, gets him loose for the others (but never loose loose, Brendon’s too elastic for that). And every time Jon fucks him, hard and long, just like this, Brendon’s thighs open wider, (wider), wider with every second, almost as if to provide a visual representation of what Jon’s doing to his insides with every bull’s thrust. And really, it’s made Brendon thighs pretty fucking limber over the past year.
Which is why even though Brendon’s not surprised when his whole body has practically made it’s way to a spread eagle position on the floor, his ass sticking far, far up, being fucked into, he issurprised when Jon stills for a moment and reaches his big arms around to hoist Brendon back up on all fours, because, hey, Brendon thought Jon thought it was sexy when he did that?
But then, then he understands, because sometime while Brendon was being yes, yes, yesfucked into oblivion, he didn’t notice Spencer Smith get up from the couch and walk around to his front, naked and gorgeous now, holding his blushing cock is his hand for Brendon to admire.
Brendon smiles into the gag, which, hey, isn’t there the next second because Spencer kind of needs that mouth now, and Brendon’s more than happy to lend it (of course, if he wasn’t, Brendon knows they’d take it from him anyway.) And Spencer smiles back, a little diabolical because it isSpencer Smith, and grabs hold of Brendon’s jaw with surprising force and thrusts forward, into Brendon’s hot, wet cavern of a mouth.
And Brendon’s delighted, with taste and touch and the slapping sound of skin on skin behind him, and he definitely kind of wishes that there were two Brendons right now so that the other could sit on the couch (next to Ryan) and watch the other Brendon get filled, stuffed, broken from both ends (and also watch Ryan touch himself a little maybe.)
Soon, before too long, next, Jon’s cumming, first a little inside Brendon and then pulling out, pushing the skirt up so as not to get any on the precious fabric, and letting the brilliant white fluid slide down Brendon’s ass a little, falling into the crevice, where Jon uses his thumb to press it in a bit. Brendon hums in appreciation around Spencer’s cock, causing his hips to buck even more, and there’s drool all over Brendon’s face because Spencer’s controlling his fucking jaw, and yeah, that’s nice.
Brendon knows what’s next, and even though he wants it, wants it so, so bad, wants it so, so hard, he’s not ready for Spencer to take away his cock just yet, and groans at the loss (slap, hard and lubricated by the saliva on his face), but the thong-gag thing doesn’t go back in his mouth this time, but Brendon knows why.
Because Ryan likes to watch him struggle to stay silent, kind of quietly considers the gag to be cheating, because that’s just too easy for Brendon, knows the most painful restraints are the restraints he forces Brendon to put on himself.
And this is all very important because Ryan is no longer on the couch, and Jon has sort of silently wandered off to collapse on the piece of furniture himself, and Spencer’s kind of backing away for a second, stroking himself while he watches Ryan approach, who’s undressing himself garment by garment, second by second. He’s expressionless for now, and Spencer knows the look on his face is a look of total comfort, comfort in the knowledge that there’s this sort of power that he wields over Brendon, because, well, Ryan is coming closer and maybe Brendon’s shaking a little bit from the pressure.
“How do I like you, baby boy?”
Ryan’s still a couple feet away, but Brendon knows the sound of falling clothes, knows Ryan’s close enough for him to worry, and flips himself over onto his back. Here, finally, finally, Brendon can see Ryan, can see him way, way up there, looking everywhere but Brendon for the moment, because this, this is also called anticipation.
Slowly, Brendon bends his right knee, up, and crosses his whole leg over his left (big, tall heels in the air), and lays it flat on the floor (his poor skirt, all disheveled to hell by now). His swollen ass is sticking out the side, turned upward a bit, and his back, his back is still flat against the floor, shoulder blades touching wood, and he can hear the nice sensation of his back popping a little, hears the crack of vertebrae knotted against each other and it calms Brendon a bit to know that he can still be broken just a tiny bit more.
Ryan only ever fucks Brendon in one position, this position, except for maybe on some special occasions. Ryan told Brendon it was because he could see all of him from a single standpoint, from that one place, could see the vast expanse of the pale, milk white skin of his ass and the bubble-gum pink nipples on his chest, the fullness of hips, lips, all of his highs and lows, the struggle knitted together between his eyebrows, the struggle not to scream, because if Brendon doesn’t know not to make any sound when Ryan’s inside him, then Brendon must not know jackshit about anything.
“That’s good, Brendon. Really good.”
Brendon grins, “Thank you, sir.”
“What do you want now, Brendon?”
“You sir.”
“Me?”
“Your cock, sir.”
“I see. And what do you want with my cock, baby boy?”
(And he’s holding it now, touching it and cupping it, and shit, Brendon’s own dick is fuckingscreaming.)
“I want you to fuck me with it, sir. Please.” Please?
And Ryan just smiles.
Spencer’s still standing a few feet away as Ryan sinks to his knees, still palming and teasing himself and just really fucking enjoying the way Brendon looks right now, all spread out, and he can’t resist just crossing the room quickly and retrieving a nice juicy tube of red lipstick from Ryan’s big ass make up case and kneeling down, next to Brendon, and he smears the tip of his leaking cock on Brendon’s nose, opens the tube. He takes his time with it, drawing slow and deliberate lines across Brendon’s forehead, hearing Ryan laugh once he’s able to guess the word.
SLUT.
Brendon can feel the lines, can read the nerve endings in his own skin, can imagine Spencer drawing them out, can smell the precum so close to his mouth, sees the way it looks in his mind and thinks he should maybe definitely turn that into another tattoo.
But Ryan, he just chuckles again and turns his attention back to Brendon
“What do you say, baby boy?”
“Thank you, Spencer. Sir.”
Ryan grins big, wide. “Good boy.”
And he reaches his hand out for a second, touches Brendon’s knee and runs it up his thigh.
In a lot of ways, Brendon knows he’s more close to Ryan than he is to Jon and Spencer, because sure, Ryan hits the hardest, and Ryan’s made him bleed and Ryan buys the most humiliating outfits, but it doesn’t escape Brendon’s observations (Ryan unfolds his body, spoons up behind Brendon, pinches a pink nipple through his tube top) that Ryan’s also the only one who will lay his body down on the floor, lateral and long, to fuck him. Ryan’s the only one who will get dirt on his hands.
And then Ryan wraps his long, hot fingers around Brendon’s knee, pulling it, holding it up so Brendon’s ass is open and exquisite for him, and slides in. And shit, Jon’s big, but Ryan throbs inside him, reminds Brendon that there’s another human being with a heart fucking him, reminds him for just a second that he’s a human too, but even that’s forgotten when Ryan sets a pace, sharp, fast, hard.
The thing with Ryan, the thing is that Ryan kind of does more than fuck him, but he doesn’tmake love to him or some nonsensical shit like that, he just. He does something different. And it’s different because however fast Ryan’s fucking him, whatever the pace is, it kind resets something, redefines Brendon’s pulse so that his blood is beating against the inner walls of his skin in time with Ryan’s cock thrashing against his insides. And Brendon doesn’t really think too much about it, just kind of accepts that Jon and Spencer (Spencer, jerking off above his face and waiting to explode any second now) don’t do that for him.
So Ryan fucks him. Ryan fucks him like he always has, fast and then slow and then faster (thud-thud-thud thud thud thud thud-thud-thud-thud), and even though Brendon knows Ryan’s eyes are closed (he can see him now), he can still feel Ryan watching him through the red walls of his eyelids, taking in the glitter he had strewn across Brendon’s face and hair earlier, watching Spencer’s cum fall like heavy rain onto Brendon’s lips and chin (a taste very much like cinnamon), seeing the flush on Brendon’s porcelain cheeks. He knows Ryan can see him because he knows Ryan’s memorized him by now, the same way Brendon’s memorized the way Ryan’s mouth falls open in his weaker moments, when Brendon squeezes him from the inside. Because they’ve just been doing this for so long and the monotony hasn’t settled in yet, because every day Brendon is wearing different panties and a different skirt and sometimes a pink, lacy bra, and that’s enough for both of them, enough for all four of them, because Brendon’s never looked fucking prettier than he is right now.
But, shit, now Brendon’s not sure how much longer he can hold on (there was Jon pounding on his prostate, Spencer sweet in his mouth and now Ryan fuck fuck fucking him), and it’s so hard to hold in the sounds his body wants to create, so he shoots Ryan the look, the one that begs and pleads and screams all at once, just ‘Please, please, can I?’.
And Ryan responds by slamming into him harder than he ever has, and his heart palpitates a little, and his cock is exploding all over the inside of his thigh and the floor, the insides bursting out and hot semen all over everywhere, his skin, the hardwood, and yes, yes, his ass too because Ryan’s gone, Ryan’s done and he’s filling him all the way up and spilling out the edges, and really, Brendon fuckingloves it when they cum together, and that’s something that just really can’t happen often enough.
And then that particular portion of the day is over.
So that’s how it happens. They’re both spent now, and Ryan’s still inside him, and Brendon’s still twisted up and around like a pretzel, and the whole room reeks of sex, and there’s four very, very satiated boys strewn about it, like four pairs of dirty used jeans on a bedroom floor.
But, in a minute, they’ll all get up. Jon and Spencer and Ryan will grab a piece of their own clothing and they’ll clean Brendon up a bit, and Ryan will rub the make-up remover on his face, wipe away Spencer’s writing and the sparkly green eye shadow and all the glitter too. Brendon will get a kiss, a little one from each of them.
(And Brendon thinks that maybe they’re kind of like tiny little thank you’s that land on someone else’s lips.)
* Phenylalanine (fee-nul-al-uh-neen) - It’s a chemical they put in some foods. Look on the back of your can of Diet Coke. Hard to pronounce.