A Little More Touch Me, Brendon/Ryan (NC-17)
A Little More Touch Me
Panic! at the Disco || Brendon/Ryan || NC-17 || 2700 words
If he were Ryan, he could write some dirty, pornalicious song about them that still managed to include, like, fourteen Doug Coupland references. But then, if he was Ryan, they’d be his hands, and so probably not as interesting.
I decided to expand on the hand!porn ficlet I wrote for foxxcub's challenge. It's possible that I'm the one with the hand thing, not Brendon, IT IS POSSIBLE. Thanks to txtequilanights for the beta.
A Little More Touch Me
by iamtheenemy
Brendon had a thing about Ryan's hands. His long, thin fingers and narrow palms. The way his fingertips peeked out of his fingerless gloves while he carefully strummed his guitar. They were just…wow.
If he were Ryan, he could write some dirty, pornalicious song about them that still managed to include, like, fourteen Doug Coupland references. But then, if he was Ryan, they’d be his hands, and so probably not as interesting.
Oh, wow. Being Ryan and having Ryan’s hands. What Ryan does to himself with his hands. Oh, oh, wow.
Brendon’s thing was, maybe, becoming a problem.
***
It was some time after three in the morning, and they were all crowded into a booth at a roadside diner they’d come across, somewhere in the middle of Ohio. They left Zach asleep on the bus, because no one in the place, staff included, was under the age of forty.
Brendon had used the puppy dog eyes - perfected over a lifetime of being the youngest child - to convince their waitress, a plump, motherly woman named Theresa, to make him a pb and j sandwich. She also included some homemade potato chips and a side dish of orange and pineapple slices and maraschino cherries on the plate. Even though Brendon was still drunk, his high from the bowl they'd smoked earlier had faded. He felt clearheaded enough to say with certainty that this was the best meal he’d eaten in his life.
Brendon took a long slurp from his Diet Coke and sighed, feeling the need to share his revelation with the rest of the group. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Beside him, Jon was eating a cheeseburger and coleslaw and was on his thirteenth cup of coffee. Across the table, Ryan and Spencer were sharing a huge plate of cheese fries between them.
“No, dude, no,” Spencer said. “You have to try our fries.”
“These are real potato chips,” Brendon said, waving one in Spencer’s face before popping it into his mouth and moaning exaggeratedly (though not by much) at the salty flavor.
“But the cheese,” Spencer said while Brendon was busy chewing. “The cheese, Brendon.”
Jon snorted and then downed one of the individually packed creamers like a shot.
“That’s disgusting,” Spencer said.
“Give me one!” Brendon cried, stretching his arm across the table.
“Fuck off, they’re mine,” Jon said, wrapping his arms around the bowl of creamers possessively.
“You’re a selfish drunk, Jon,” Brendon said. “I’ll ask Theresa for more, she loves me.” He took a bite from the second half of his sandwich and promptly forgot about the creamer in the face of the most perfectly made pb and j in the history of the world.
“These fries are really good,” Ryan said, speaking for the first time in almost ten minutes. When he got drunk, and especially when he was stoned, he tended to become quiet and relaxed. Picking the last cheese-soaked fry from the plate, Ryan slid it into his mouth and lapped at the cheese left on his thumb and forefinger.
Brendon found himself watching, helpless, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open unflatteringly, as Ryan’s spit-slick fingers popped out from between his lips.
“They…” Brendon croaked, his throat suddenly dry. He swallowed and tried again. “They look good.”
“Mmm…” Ryan agreed, bending down to lick a smear of cheese off of his palm. Had Brendon seriously missed a whole plateful of this because of a stupid (okay, amazing, but still) sandwich? “Messy though. I’m going to wash my hands.”
He scooted out of the booth, Spencer following. “I’ll come with you,” Spencer said.
Brendon’s eyes strayed to the empty plate of fries longingly.
“I’ve seen a look like that before,” Jon said.
“What?” Brendon asked, dragging his gaze away from his missed opportunity and over to Jon’s amused face.
“On Dylan,” Jon said. “When I wave his favorite toy mouse in the air where he can’t reach it.” He dropped his head into the crook of his arm and giggled. Brendon punched him in the shoulder, ignoring the pinkness of his cheeks, but that only made him laugh harder.
***
He didn’t let it affect his performance. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t stupid. While he’s performing, while there’s an audience, his mind was in a totally different place. There’s no inappropriate thoughts, no lingering glances. In fact, on stage Brendon’s not thinking about anything but the next lyric or next notes or next monologue.
He felt the sweat dripping down the back of his neck, sticky and lukewarm; the pounding of Spencer’s bass drum in his chest and thrumming down his legs; the heat and glare of the lights surrounding him; the love and enthusiasm emanating from the crowd.
During shows he had so many other things to think about. But after shows? There was nothing to stop him from crawling into his bunk and slipping his hand under his sweatpants, imagining dropping to his knees and sucking Ryan off, Ryan’s long fingers gripping his hair.
Nothing stopped him from getting half-hard watching Ryan scribble lyrics in his journal or dick around on his Sidekick.
That hour and a half a night, Brendon was safe. Everything else was fair game.
***
It didn’t help - it really did not help - that Ryan was also Brendon’s best friend, and pretty much the most awesome person Brendon knew.
***
Brendon, turned out, was maybe too focused on Ryan’s hands, because he missed some pretty important that only started making sense in retrospect.
For instance, when some scene girl with a bright green mohawk and nose ring was talking to him about The Ramones and Ryan sidled up next him, throwing and arm around his shoulders. The girl had raised her hands with a smirk and taken a step back.
“This is Ryan,” Brendon had said.
“It’s cool,” the girl had responded. “I gotta go.”
“But…” Brendon had said, looking at Ryan in confusion as the girl walked away. “What just happened?”
“No idea,” Ryan had breezed. “Come help me convince Spencer to buy a pair of high heels.”
Or the way Ryan insisted on sitting practically in his lap at any opportunity.
Spencer’s dirty looks every five minutes made a lot more sense.
What made the most sense, though, looking back, was when Ryan had busted into his hotel room at midnight, pushed him against the wall and muttered, “Jesus Christ, what else do I have to do?” before kissing him.
***
Afterward, Brendon and Ryan sacked out on the top of the covers, naked except for a thin film of sweat and come between them. Ryan reached over and slid a hand down Brendon’s arm from shoulder to elbow.
Brendon winced. “Don’t,” he croaked.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed as he turned to face Brendon. “What, you don’t want me to touch you now?”
“No, no,” Brendon said quickly. “It’s just too much sensation right now. Give me like five minutes.”
“I’m touching your arm,” Ryan pointed out. “It’s not like I’m trying to grab your dick.”
Brendon’s cock gave a painful twinge at that and he winced again. “I know, but. Look, your hands.”
“My hands?” Ryan asked, raising one eyebrow.
“Yes, yes, your hands,” Brendon said. “I may have. I may have a…thing about them, okay? You can’t touch me right now. Or, or talk about touching me. Just…five minutes.”
A slow grin spread over Ryan’s face. “Brendon, are you telling me that you get off on my hands?”
“God, how did you not know?” Brendon answered. He flipped over on his stomach and rested his cheek on his arms.
“Do you jerk off thinking about them?” Ryan asked.
“Every night,” Brendon said before he could stop himself. He hid his burning face under his arms.
Ryan laughed and wiggled closer to Brendon. He slid one hand from the back of Brendon’s neck down to his ass. Brendon groaned bucked his hips into the mattress.
“Ryan,” he moaned pitifully. “Come on.”
“What’s your favorite?” Ryan asked.
“What?” Brendon wished he never mentioned his thing in the first place. Ryan made him do crazy shit.
“What’s your favorite fantasy in your spank bank?”
“Shut up,” Brendon said, horrified. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Is it something kinky?” Ryan persisted, nuzzling his face against Brendon’s neck. “Am I fingering you?”
“Ryan…” he whined, feeling his dick begin to fill again, despite his humiliation. “That’s not it, okay?” One of the top five, granted, but not number one.
“Then what?” Ryan asked. When Brendon remained quiet, he nudged him with his shoulder. “Brendon, Brendon.”
“What?” Brendon asked, turning to look at him. The look Ryan gave him was dark with promise and mischief.
“I’ll do it,” Ryan said. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”
“Oh god,” Brendon said faintly, his eyes widening. He licked his lips and panted out a few deep breaths. “You swear?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said.
“Okay,” Brendon said. His heart hammered in his chest. “Okay. Well, it’s…in a hotel room, so there’s a bed, and…you. God. You tie me up. To the headboard? And then jerk me off.”
He ventured a look at Ryan who seemed rather unimpressed.
“That’s it?” Ryan asked. “With the way you were freaking out, I thought you were going to ask me to fist you.”
“No, no, ew,” Brendon said. And, fine, that fantasy was probably in the top fifteen, but Ryan didn’t need to know that. “It’s just…when you do it you go really slow. You make me…you make me beg for it.”
Ryan smoothed a hand over Brendon’s sweaty hair, making his shiver, and gave him an affectionate look. “I have scarves in my bag,” he said.
***
"Shit," Brendon panted, pulling against the thin scarves trapping his wrists against the headboard and digging his heels into the mattress. "Ryan, shit, come on. You're such a..."
"I told you not to move," Ryan said. His hand went from wrapped around Brendon's cock (where it should be! Where it was born to be!) to palming the sweaty skin of his inner thigh.
"You suck, Ross," Brendon groaned as he tried to relax into the bed and still his taut, shaking muscles. "This game sucks too. I don't want to do this anymore."
An uncertain look passed over Ryan's face, and if Brendon wasn't tied to the fucking bed, he would have immediately pulled him down for a kiss.
"Are you serious?" Ryan asked, shifting away.
"No," Brendon answered quickly. "This is the hottest thing that has ever happened to me. Also, you're fucking adorable. Also, kiss me now, please."
Grinning, Ryan bent down, and Brendon sighed as Ryan's tongue slid into his mouth. The kiss lasted several long moments, until Ryan's hand crept to Brendon's chest and a blunt, even nail raked over his nipple. Brendon turned his head and sucked in a gasping breath at the sensation.
"Ryan, Ryan, Ryanryanryan," he panted. "Ryan Ross, touch me. Touch me, touch me."
He could feel Ryan's smile pressed into his neck as Ryan's fingers traced a pattern over his hip once, and then again when it made Brendon squirm and bite back a very unmanly giggle, before moving farther down.
"Ohh..." Brendon groaned when Ryan's hand, oh god, his hand, wrapped around Brendon's dick again. "Oh yes, oh God. Ryan, don't make me stay still, please. It isn’t fair."
Instead of answering, Ryan pushed himself up and straddled Brendon's thighs.
“You know,” he mused, watching his hand slide up and down slowly, so slowly, “next time, I want to try and get you off without touching your dick. Do you think it would work?”
“Are you kidding? I almost came this afternoon just from your hands on my waist.” Too much information! his mind screamed at him, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Honestly, he would make the world’s worst spy, since apparently all it took to get him spilling his secrets was a decent handjob. “Your hands, Ryan. Your hands…”
Brendon trailed off on the sibilant end of the word as Ryan’s thumb brushed the sensitive skin behind his balls. His hips jerked hard once and he pulled against his restraints.
“Ryan, oh, Ryan. If I paid you, would you do this for me every day? Because I can’t…this is the greatest…please, please, don’t stop…keep it slow and tight, just like that, make me work for it, keep it…god, oh, yes, yes, yes,” Brendon babbled as Ryan continued his torturously methodical strokes. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth in an effort to stop the stream of nonsense from tumbling out.
“Are you asking me to be your whore?” Ryan asked. He looked amused rather than offended, though, when he leaned down and kissed Brendon’s quivering stomach, just below his belly button, sending a shivery jolt through Brendon’s whole body.
“Yes,” Brendon admitted. “But the classy kind, like Julia Roberts in Pretty Women. I’d treat you so good, Ryan.”
Ryan’s laugh buzzed against Brendon’s skin, and Brendon’s eyes drifted shut at the pleasant sensation. A second later, he forced them open again so he could keep watching Ryan’s hand, now sticky with Brendon’s pre-come (oh god - hot, so hot!) jerking him off.
“When you come,” Ryan said casually, “I’m going to lick it off my fingers.”
“Shit,” Brendon gasped. His hips, which had been thrusting steadily in counterpoint to Ryan’s hand, bucked sharply at that mental image. “Oh yes. Me too, Ryan. I want to suck them aft…mmph-“
Brendon’s words were cut off by two of the fingers on Ryan’s unoccupied hand slipping into his open mouth.
Brendon moaned, his eyes slipping shut. He sucked greedily, tonguing the pads of Ryan’s fingers and the smoothness of his nails.
“Look at you,” Ryan said roughly, his voice tinged with awe. “If I had known how this would shut you up, I would have done it years ago.”
Brendon sucked hard on the fingers in his mouth, and Ryan let out a ragged breath. “Okay, that might not have been the only reason.”
Brendon smiled smugly around Ryan’s fingers.
In retaliation, Ryan stopped stroking Brendon’s whole dick in favor of using the pads of his fingers to massage just the swollen head. Brendon whined, shifting his hips restlessly and trying to push the shaft of his dick into Ryan’s fist, despite the heavy weight of Ryan’s body over his thighs.
Instead, the fingers in Brendon’s mouth were pulled out with a pop. Ryan trailed them, shiny and wet with Brendon’s spit, down Brendon’s chin to trace over his collarbones.
Brendon squeezed his eyes shut. “You asshole, do it right. I need more. I need…your hand, Ryan. Come on, wrap it…wrap it around… I can’t take this.”
“Okay?” Ryan asked, sounding worried again.
“Oh god, oh god, so good,” Brendon confirmed, nodding frantically.
Ryan brought the hand on Brendon’s collarbone down, down, down to cup and massage Brendon’s balls. His thumb ghosted over the fine hairs there, and the shivery feeling was so cruel when all Brendon wanted was the tight circle of Ryan’s fist to thrust into.
It was that extra tease that ended up being exactly what he needed.
Brendon meant to shout, yes, yes, now! but it came out a long, throaty groan. He dug his heels into the mattress and pushed up the best he could as his dick pulsed again and again, coating his stomach and Ryan’s hands with come.
“Seriously, how are you not a professional?” Brendon asked when he stopped trying to swallow his tongue.
Ryan rolled his eyes and crawled off of Brendon to kneel beside him on the bed, but he was totally smiling. Instead of issuing a comeback, Ryan lifted one wet hand to his mouth, making Brendon’s breath catch. “You realize I’m going to use this against you forever, right?” he asked.
“So worth it,” Brendon answered honestly.
Panic! at the Disco || Brendon/Ryan || NC-17 || 2700 words
If he were Ryan, he could write some dirty, pornalicious song about them that still managed to include, like, fourteen Doug Coupland references. But then, if he was Ryan, they’d be his hands, and so probably not as interesting.
I decided to expand on the hand!porn ficlet I wrote for foxxcub's challenge. It's possible that I'm the one with the hand thing, not Brendon, IT IS POSSIBLE. Thanks to txtequilanights for the beta.
A Little More Touch Me
by iamtheenemy
Brendon had a thing about Ryan's hands. His long, thin fingers and narrow palms. The way his fingertips peeked out of his fingerless gloves while he carefully strummed his guitar. They were just…wow.
If he were Ryan, he could write some dirty, pornalicious song about them that still managed to include, like, fourteen Doug Coupland references. But then, if he was Ryan, they’d be his hands, and so probably not as interesting.
Oh, wow. Being Ryan and having Ryan’s hands. What Ryan does to himself with his hands. Oh, oh, wow.
Brendon’s thing was, maybe, becoming a problem.
***
It was some time after three in the morning, and they were all crowded into a booth at a roadside diner they’d come across, somewhere in the middle of Ohio. They left Zach asleep on the bus, because no one in the place, staff included, was under the age of forty.
Brendon had used the puppy dog eyes - perfected over a lifetime of being the youngest child - to convince their waitress, a plump, motherly woman named Theresa, to make him a pb and j sandwich. She also included some homemade potato chips and a side dish of orange and pineapple slices and maraschino cherries on the plate. Even though Brendon was still drunk, his high from the bowl they'd smoked earlier had faded. He felt clearheaded enough to say with certainty that this was the best meal he’d eaten in his life.
Brendon took a long slurp from his Diet Coke and sighed, feeling the need to share his revelation with the rest of the group. “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
Beside him, Jon was eating a cheeseburger and coleslaw and was on his thirteenth cup of coffee. Across the table, Ryan and Spencer were sharing a huge plate of cheese fries between them.
“No, dude, no,” Spencer said. “You have to try our fries.”
“These are real potato chips,” Brendon said, waving one in Spencer’s face before popping it into his mouth and moaning exaggeratedly (though not by much) at the salty flavor.
“But the cheese,” Spencer said while Brendon was busy chewing. “The cheese, Brendon.”
Jon snorted and then downed one of the individually packed creamers like a shot.
“That’s disgusting,” Spencer said.
“Give me one!” Brendon cried, stretching his arm across the table.
“Fuck off, they’re mine,” Jon said, wrapping his arms around the bowl of creamers possessively.
“You’re a selfish drunk, Jon,” Brendon said. “I’ll ask Theresa for more, she loves me.” He took a bite from the second half of his sandwich and promptly forgot about the creamer in the face of the most perfectly made pb and j in the history of the world.
“These fries are really good,” Ryan said, speaking for the first time in almost ten minutes. When he got drunk, and especially when he was stoned, he tended to become quiet and relaxed. Picking the last cheese-soaked fry from the plate, Ryan slid it into his mouth and lapped at the cheese left on his thumb and forefinger.
Brendon found himself watching, helpless, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open unflatteringly, as Ryan’s spit-slick fingers popped out from between his lips.
“They…” Brendon croaked, his throat suddenly dry. He swallowed and tried again. “They look good.”
“Mmm…” Ryan agreed, bending down to lick a smear of cheese off of his palm. Had Brendon seriously missed a whole plateful of this because of a stupid (okay, amazing, but still) sandwich? “Messy though. I’m going to wash my hands.”
He scooted out of the booth, Spencer following. “I’ll come with you,” Spencer said.
Brendon’s eyes strayed to the empty plate of fries longingly.
“I’ve seen a look like that before,” Jon said.
“What?” Brendon asked, dragging his gaze away from his missed opportunity and over to Jon’s amused face.
“On Dylan,” Jon said. “When I wave his favorite toy mouse in the air where he can’t reach it.” He dropped his head into the crook of his arm and giggled. Brendon punched him in the shoulder, ignoring the pinkness of his cheeks, but that only made him laugh harder.
***
He didn’t let it affect his performance. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t stupid. While he’s performing, while there’s an audience, his mind was in a totally different place. There’s no inappropriate thoughts, no lingering glances. In fact, on stage Brendon’s not thinking about anything but the next lyric or next notes or next monologue.
He felt the sweat dripping down the back of his neck, sticky and lukewarm; the pounding of Spencer’s bass drum in his chest and thrumming down his legs; the heat and glare of the lights surrounding him; the love and enthusiasm emanating from the crowd.
During shows he had so many other things to think about. But after shows? There was nothing to stop him from crawling into his bunk and slipping his hand under his sweatpants, imagining dropping to his knees and sucking Ryan off, Ryan’s long fingers gripping his hair.
Nothing stopped him from getting half-hard watching Ryan scribble lyrics in his journal or dick around on his Sidekick.
That hour and a half a night, Brendon was safe. Everything else was fair game.
***
It didn’t help - it really did not help - that Ryan was also Brendon’s best friend, and pretty much the most awesome person Brendon knew.
***
Brendon, turned out, was maybe too focused on Ryan’s hands, because he missed some pretty important that only started making sense in retrospect.
For instance, when some scene girl with a bright green mohawk and nose ring was talking to him about The Ramones and Ryan sidled up next him, throwing and arm around his shoulders. The girl had raised her hands with a smirk and taken a step back.
“This is Ryan,” Brendon had said.
“It’s cool,” the girl had responded. “I gotta go.”
“But…” Brendon had said, looking at Ryan in confusion as the girl walked away. “What just happened?”
“No idea,” Ryan had breezed. “Come help me convince Spencer to buy a pair of high heels.”
Or the way Ryan insisted on sitting practically in his lap at any opportunity.
Spencer’s dirty looks every five minutes made a lot more sense.
What made the most sense, though, looking back, was when Ryan had busted into his hotel room at midnight, pushed him against the wall and muttered, “Jesus Christ, what else do I have to do?” before kissing him.
***
Afterward, Brendon and Ryan sacked out on the top of the covers, naked except for a thin film of sweat and come between them. Ryan reached over and slid a hand down Brendon’s arm from shoulder to elbow.
Brendon winced. “Don’t,” he croaked.
Ryan’s eyes narrowed as he turned to face Brendon. “What, you don’t want me to touch you now?”
“No, no,” Brendon said quickly. “It’s just too much sensation right now. Give me like five minutes.”
“I’m touching your arm,” Ryan pointed out. “It’s not like I’m trying to grab your dick.”
Brendon’s cock gave a painful twinge at that and he winced again. “I know, but. Look, your hands.”
“My hands?” Ryan asked, raising one eyebrow.
“Yes, yes, your hands,” Brendon said. “I may have. I may have a…thing about them, okay? You can’t touch me right now. Or, or talk about touching me. Just…five minutes.”
A slow grin spread over Ryan’s face. “Brendon, are you telling me that you get off on my hands?”
“God, how did you not know?” Brendon answered. He flipped over on his stomach and rested his cheek on his arms.
“Do you jerk off thinking about them?” Ryan asked.
“Every night,” Brendon said before he could stop himself. He hid his burning face under his arms.
Ryan laughed and wiggled closer to Brendon. He slid one hand from the back of Brendon’s neck down to his ass. Brendon groaned bucked his hips into the mattress.
“Ryan,” he moaned pitifully. “Come on.”
“What’s your favorite?” Ryan asked.
“What?” Brendon wished he never mentioned his thing in the first place. Ryan made him do crazy shit.
“What’s your favorite fantasy in your spank bank?”
“Shut up,” Brendon said, horrified. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Is it something kinky?” Ryan persisted, nuzzling his face against Brendon’s neck. “Am I fingering you?”
“Ryan…” he whined, feeling his dick begin to fill again, despite his humiliation. “That’s not it, okay?” One of the top five, granted, but not number one.
“Then what?” Ryan asked. When Brendon remained quiet, he nudged him with his shoulder. “Brendon, Brendon.”
“What?” Brendon asked, turning to look at him. The look Ryan gave him was dark with promise and mischief.
“I’ll do it,” Ryan said. “Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”
“Oh god,” Brendon said faintly, his eyes widening. He licked his lips and panted out a few deep breaths. “You swear?”
“Yeah,” Ryan said.
“Okay,” Brendon said. His heart hammered in his chest. “Okay. Well, it’s…in a hotel room, so there’s a bed, and…you. God. You tie me up. To the headboard? And then jerk me off.”
He ventured a look at Ryan who seemed rather unimpressed.
“That’s it?” Ryan asked. “With the way you were freaking out, I thought you were going to ask me to fist you.”
“No, no, ew,” Brendon said. And, fine, that fantasy was probably in the top fifteen, but Ryan didn’t need to know that. “It’s just…when you do it you go really slow. You make me…you make me beg for it.”
Ryan smoothed a hand over Brendon’s sweaty hair, making his shiver, and gave him an affectionate look. “I have scarves in my bag,” he said.
***
"Shit," Brendon panted, pulling against the thin scarves trapping his wrists against the headboard and digging his heels into the mattress. "Ryan, shit, come on. You're such a..."
"I told you not to move," Ryan said. His hand went from wrapped around Brendon's cock (where it should be! Where it was born to be!) to palming the sweaty skin of his inner thigh.
"You suck, Ross," Brendon groaned as he tried to relax into the bed and still his taut, shaking muscles. "This game sucks too. I don't want to do this anymore."
An uncertain look passed over Ryan's face, and if Brendon wasn't tied to the fucking bed, he would have immediately pulled him down for a kiss.
"Are you serious?" Ryan asked, shifting away.
"No," Brendon answered quickly. "This is the hottest thing that has ever happened to me. Also, you're fucking adorable. Also, kiss me now, please."
Grinning, Ryan bent down, and Brendon sighed as Ryan's tongue slid into his mouth. The kiss lasted several long moments, until Ryan's hand crept to Brendon's chest and a blunt, even nail raked over his nipple. Brendon turned his head and sucked in a gasping breath at the sensation.
"Ryan, Ryan, Ryanryanryan," he panted. "Ryan Ross, touch me. Touch me, touch me."
He could feel Ryan's smile pressed into his neck as Ryan's fingers traced a pattern over his hip once, and then again when it made Brendon squirm and bite back a very unmanly giggle, before moving farther down.
"Ohh..." Brendon groaned when Ryan's hand, oh god, his hand, wrapped around Brendon's dick again. "Oh yes, oh God. Ryan, don't make me stay still, please. It isn’t fair."
Instead of answering, Ryan pushed himself up and straddled Brendon's thighs.
“You know,” he mused, watching his hand slide up and down slowly, so slowly, “next time, I want to try and get you off without touching your dick. Do you think it would work?”
“Are you kidding? I almost came this afternoon just from your hands on my waist.” Too much information! his mind screamed at him, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Honestly, he would make the world’s worst spy, since apparently all it took to get him spilling his secrets was a decent handjob. “Your hands, Ryan. Your hands…”
Brendon trailed off on the sibilant end of the word as Ryan’s thumb brushed the sensitive skin behind his balls. His hips jerked hard once and he pulled against his restraints.
“Ryan, oh, Ryan. If I paid you, would you do this for me every day? Because I can’t…this is the greatest…please, please, don’t stop…keep it slow and tight, just like that, make me work for it, keep it…god, oh, yes, yes, yes,” Brendon babbled as Ryan continued his torturously methodical strokes. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth in an effort to stop the stream of nonsense from tumbling out.
“Are you asking me to be your whore?” Ryan asked. He looked amused rather than offended, though, when he leaned down and kissed Brendon’s quivering stomach, just below his belly button, sending a shivery jolt through Brendon’s whole body.
“Yes,” Brendon admitted. “But the classy kind, like Julia Roberts in Pretty Women. I’d treat you so good, Ryan.”
Ryan’s laugh buzzed against Brendon’s skin, and Brendon’s eyes drifted shut at the pleasant sensation. A second later, he forced them open again so he could keep watching Ryan’s hand, now sticky with Brendon’s pre-come (oh god - hot, so hot!) jerking him off.
“When you come,” Ryan said casually, “I’m going to lick it off my fingers.”
“Shit,” Brendon gasped. His hips, which had been thrusting steadily in counterpoint to Ryan’s hand, bucked sharply at that mental image. “Oh yes. Me too, Ryan. I want to suck them aft…mmph-“
Brendon’s words were cut off by two of the fingers on Ryan’s unoccupied hand slipping into his open mouth.
Brendon moaned, his eyes slipping shut. He sucked greedily, tonguing the pads of Ryan’s fingers and the smoothness of his nails.
“Look at you,” Ryan said roughly, his voice tinged with awe. “If I had known how this would shut you up, I would have done it years ago.”
Brendon sucked hard on the fingers in his mouth, and Ryan let out a ragged breath. “Okay, that might not have been the only reason.”
Brendon smiled smugly around Ryan’s fingers.
In retaliation, Ryan stopped stroking Brendon’s whole dick in favor of using the pads of his fingers to massage just the swollen head. Brendon whined, shifting his hips restlessly and trying to push the shaft of his dick into Ryan’s fist, despite the heavy weight of Ryan’s body over his thighs.
Instead, the fingers in Brendon’s mouth were pulled out with a pop. Ryan trailed them, shiny and wet with Brendon’s spit, down Brendon’s chin to trace over his collarbones.
Brendon squeezed his eyes shut. “You asshole, do it right. I need more. I need…your hand, Ryan. Come on, wrap it…wrap it around… I can’t take this.”
“Okay?” Ryan asked, sounding worried again.
“Oh god, oh god, so good,” Brendon confirmed, nodding frantically.
Ryan brought the hand on Brendon’s collarbone down, down, down to cup and massage Brendon’s balls. His thumb ghosted over the fine hairs there, and the shivery feeling was so cruel when all Brendon wanted was the tight circle of Ryan’s fist to thrust into.
It was that extra tease that ended up being exactly what he needed.
Brendon meant to shout, yes, yes, now! but it came out a long, throaty groan. He dug his heels into the mattress and pushed up the best he could as his dick pulsed again and again, coating his stomach and Ryan’s hands with come.
“Seriously, how are you not a professional?” Brendon asked when he stopped trying to swallow his tongue.
Ryan rolled his eyes and crawled off of Brendon to kneel beside him on the bed, but he was totally smiling. Instead of issuing a comeback, Ryan lifted one wet hand to his mouth, making Brendon’s breath catch. “You realize I’m going to use this against you forever, right?” he asked.
“So worth it,” Brendon answered honestly.