That's Amore [2/3]
Title: That’s Amore [2/3]
Rating: NC-17
Summary: In which they have lots of sex. In Italy.
Warnings:Bondage, rimming. This is essentially 15 pages of porn. Blame Colin.
Brendon spends the rest of the day following wordlessly behind Ryan as they take a tour of a castle. Under normal circumstances, the guide and his broken English would be endlessly amusing, but these are not normal circumstances. These are circumstances in which his best friend recently touched his dick, so.
He was fine at first. But somewhere between dropping off their picnic basket at the hotel and walking the scenic mile to the castle, he thought about it. Now, it's taking all Brendon's concentration to not think about the rosy-red "O" Ryan's mouth makes when he comes. And then there's that jagged little moan, which, Jesus, fuck, so not thinking about that.
Okay, so maybe he is, maybe he can't help replaying that moan in his head every time Ryan speaks. Maybe he would give just about anything to hear it again. Maybe he's utterly screwed.
Ryan seems completely normal, asking the guide questions, making appreciative noises at the view from the top of the castle, slouching along with his hands in his pockets like nothing ever happened. Brendon…well. Confused doesn't even begin to cover it.
They eat dinner in town. Ryan seems perfectly content to spend most of the meal in silence, staring around him happily, occasionally asking Brendon an inane question about his food. Brendon's sure the spaghetti he's eating is the best he's had in his life, but he barely tastes it. He can't stop thinking. One-time thing? Better left forgotten? What the fuck? And, above all, want.
"This one's on me," Ryan says, when the check arrives.
"Huh?" Brendon asks, because they agreed at the beginning that they'd split all meals.
"Well, I figure if I'm going to get in your pants again, I should start treating you nicely," Ryan says. He looks up at Brendon, smirking.
Oh. Oh. Okay.
“Very thoughtful of you,” Brendon manages. Inwardly, he’s shrieking some odd combination of Yes! and Holy shit. and Cocky bastard.
“Shall we?” Ryan says, and leads the way out the door. Brendon takes a deep breath and follows.
The hotel is just two minutes away, thank god, because Brendon doesn’t think he could deal with another second of feeling Ryan smirk next to him. He fumbles with the key, fingers shaking, unable to focus on anything beyond the warmth of Ryan’s body at his back, the weight of that dark stare.
“Here,” Ryan says finally, and plucks the key away from him, leaning into Brendon’s personal space to unlock the door. Brendon can smell his cologne.
“Okay,” Brendon says awkwardly, once they’re safely inside and he realizes he has no idea how this is supposed to go. All he wants to do is tackle Ryan onto the bed and rip his clothes off, but he thinks maybe seduction would be a good tactic here, and, shit.
“Okay?” Ryan echoes back at him, but he’s smiling as he grabs Brendon’s hand and pulls him closer.
“Okay,” Brendon breathes, just before Ryan leans in and kisses him.
Ryan’s gentle but firm, tongue darting out to coax Brendon’s mouth open, long fingers molding around Brendon’s hips like they were made to fit there. Brendon melts into it, forgetting everything but the soft slide of their lips, and it’s only when his knees hit the edge of the bed that he realizes Ryan’s been slowly backing him up. He folds down onto the quilt and pulls Ryan down with him, clumsy and overeager so Ryan collapses on top of him in a tangle of legs and elbows, but at some point their hips collide and Ryan grinds down and Brendon arches up, and nothing else matters but that perfect pressure.
“Wait,” Ryan gasps. “Do we have…”
“Yeah,” Brendon says, doing a mental victory dance. Ryan rolls away and Brendon darts to his suitcase, all too aware of Ryan’s eyes on his ass as he rummages through his clothes to find what they need.
“Fuckin’ Boy Scout,” Ryan half-teases. Brendon just rolls his eyes, putting everything on the nightstand before reaching for Ryan’s shirt. He tosses it off to the side of the room and pulls off his own, and the first brush of their bare skin is electrifying as Ryan pushes him down against the bed.
It’s fumbling like all first times are, but it feels right somehow, intense enough that everything except want is forgotten. Ryan works Brendon’s belt buckle open as they kiss, knuckles brushing just above his dick to work his jeans down, and he whines into Ryan’s mouth, pulling him close again as soon as his pants are kicked away. He’s hard, has been since that first kiss, and he can feel Ryan’s erection pressed against his thigh as he grinds down.
“Pants,” Ryan observes, and he stands up to dispose of them.
And then (Brendon's mind goes blank for a second, visuals being way too much to process) Ryan's naked, and that is a lot of cock, and there is no way on earth it's fitting inside Brendon. Shit.
Ryan grabs the lube from the nightstand, and, okay, Brendon’s maybe a little freaked now.
He does his best to breathe, letting his eyes droop shut as Ryan moves between his legs, but he tenses right back up again when he feels one slick finger pressing against him, and this is weird.
"Relax," Ryan says.
"Easy for you to say," Brendon bites out indignantly.
"Point," Ryan concedes, but there's something about the familiarity of the bickering that actually does make Brendon relax, and before he can think about it any more, Ryan's index finger is inside him. He squirms a little and hopes to hell it gets better, because this is just as bizarre as he expected, nothing to complain about exactly but just an intrusion where it doesn't belong. And then Ryan moves a little, brushes that finger forward with a look of intense concentration on his face, and Brendon shudders, waves of heat radiating outward from wherever Ryan just touched.
"Do that again," Brendon says breathlessly, and Ryan smirks, slipping another finger in and pressing them both up, so that Brendon's vision goes hazy for a long moment. He’s left gasping, straining down against Ryan’s fingers to find that spot again, too desperate to feel remotely self-conscious. But when he looks up, trying to figure out if he should blush or not, Ryan’s looking down at him with something dark and intense and foreign in his eyes, like he’s never seen anything hotter than Brendon trying to fuck himself on his fingers. He scissors them slowly, working Brendon open, careful and methodic until he can fit a third. The stretch gets on the bad side of uncomfortable, but Ryan leans down to kiss his hipbone, the inside of his thigh, sliding his tongue along to lick a bead of pre-come off the tip of Brendon’s dick, and this isn’t so bad after all.
“Okay?” Ryan says softly, and Brendon surprises himself by nodding.
He makes himself focus on Ryan’s face, the red cupid’s bow of his lips, instead of the sudden blunt pressure at his entrance, and he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out when Ryan first slides inside. Ryan’s eyelids are fluttering half-closed, and the look in those eyes, something approaching awe as he looks down at Brendon, is the only thing that takes Brendon’s mind off the rough, burning stretch of it. This hurts, dammit.
Ryan tilts his hips up, whining low in the back of his throat like he can’t help but move, and Brendon doesn’t care about the hurt any more, not with Ryan’s dick pressed hard against that spot inside him. He gasps and arches up, and Ryan’s first movement inside him is painful, shit, but so, so perfect.
Ryan builds up a rhythm quickly, reducing Brendon to whimpers as his own breathing goes ragged, spilling out half-formed curses between harsh breaths. Brendon’s aching, wincing from the pain even as he twists up to meet Ryan, and at some point during it all he hears himself, hears his own broken little moans under Ryan’s low, growled not-quite-sentences. He sounds like he’s begging, and fuck, it’s hot even to his own ears, so much better than the theatrical groans his girlfriends (groupies, whatever) always made. So maybe he doesn’t have any experience to compare, but he’s pretty sure Ryan is damn good at this.
Ryan moans hoarsely above him and reaches down to touch Brendon, twisting his wrist in time with his hips. It’s like an assault on Brendon’s senses, sparks building in his stomach, so much to feelhearsee all at once, that he comes before he really realizes what’s happening, spilling hot and sticky over his own stomach. Ryan’s hips go jerky and urgent, in a way Brendon knows would hurt like hell if he wasn’t all orgasm-hazy, and when he comes, back arched so Brendon can admire every delicate line of his throat and jaw, he pants out Brendon’s name before collapsing down on top of him in a heap of sweaty sticky skin.
“Jesus,” he breathes against Brendon’s collarbone.
“Mmph,” Brendon agrees faintly, nose scrunching up as the first real ache hits his blissed-out consciousness.
Ryan gets up to throw away the condom and brings back a washcloth for Brendon to clean himself.
“Was that…I mean. Was that okay?” he asks quietly, slipping into the bed.
“Yeah. A lot more than okay,” Brendon replies breathlessly. He tosses the washcloth away and presses a quick kiss to Ryan’s temple.
“Good. It would suck if I was the only one who wanted to, like, continue doing that. Or whatever,” Ryan says awkwardly, with a little half-smile as he wraps himself around Brendon.
Brendon just yawns in response. He’s asleep before they can even get any good cuddling time in, but he does smile as he drifts off at the promise in Ryan's words.
When he wakes up, Ryan’s curled close against him, head nestled between Brendon’s neck and shoulder. It’s actually kind of nice, until Brendon realizes that his arm’s asleep.
“Get off, dick,” Brendon murmurs sleepily, extracting his arm and wincing.
“Uh-huh, holy shit, it’s about time…” Ryan sing-songs, shifting down so his head’s pillowed on Brendon’s chest.
“You did not just quote Gabe Saporta. That’s it, Ross, no more sex for you,” Brendon yawns. Ryan looks up at him owlishly. Brendon can’t help but laugh; it looks like the Ryhawk’s back again in full force.
“What if I give you a good-morning blowjob?” Ryan says, after a moment of what looks like deep thought.
“I might reconsider.”
“Cool.”
And he’s actually doing it, pulling back the covers to show that Brendon’s already hard, sliding down Brendon’s body to lick a delicate stripe up the underside of his cock. Brendon’s mind is still busy catching up (morning, blowjob, Ryan) when Ryan slides his lips over the head and sucks, and Brendon curses helplessly in surprise. Ryan’s mouth is sliding down farther, enveloping Brendon in wet heat, and he finds himself scrabbling for purchase in the sheets, trying his best not to thrust his hips up. Ryan pulls off to flick his tongue across the slit and mouth down the underside. He wraps long fingers around the base before flattening his tongue just under the head, and Brendon’s universe has narrowed down to one mind-bending point, everything falling away and leaving only that heat, the sight of Ryan sucking him in again, pink lips stretched tight. He threads one hand through Ryan’s hair just to have something to hold on to and Ryan’s eyes meet his, dark and amused, and that’s all it takes for Brendon to moan out a warning and come, arching back against the pillow as Ryan strokes him through it.
“Where the fuck did you learn that,” is the first thing Brendon thinks to say as his breathing slows. Ryan crawls up and kisses him before answering, tongue darting into Brendon’s mouth and bringing with it (whoa) the taste of Brendon’s own come.
“Pete,” he answers, and the “duh” goes unspoken if not unheard.
“So I have another thing to thank him for.”
“Yup. Okay, can we go back to sleep? It’s, like, ass o’clock,” Ryan says, and cuddles into Brendon’s side nonchalantly, like a morning blowjob is standard procedure.
If it is, the rest of this trip is going to be even better than Brendon thought.
They fall asleep again, and by the time they’ve properly woken up Brendon remembers his manners and jacks Ryan off in the shower. The fact that he’s just had lots of sex with his best friend doesn’t even enter his mind as they get dressed for the beach. Other than the slight ache, everything's pretty much like it's always been, complete with Ryan telling Brendon to “take it like a man,” when Brendon visibly winces as he stands up. They spend a good fifteen minutes bickering over whether that is actually a logical suggestion.
When they hit the beach, Ryan settles in with a book, laughing when Brendon announces his intentions to build “The most massively epic sand castle in the history of sand.” Of course, after ten minutes of pretending to read, he’s there right next to Brendon, instructing him as to which ratio of water to sand makes the perfect consistency for building. He even consents to be buried head-to-toe in the sand, although he draws the line when Brendon offers to give him a mermaid tail.
Ryan misses the tips of his ears when he applies sunblock, so that by the afternoon they’re bright red. But other than that small hitch, it’s pretty much a perfect day, and Brendon’s reluctant to go back to the hotel at four to pack and catch their train to Florence.
As they exit the train station a couple hours later, Brendon takes it all back. Italy keeps surprising him, finding some new way to be beautiful every time Brendon thinks he’s seen its best. It’s sunset as they follow Ryan’s map to their hotel, and they have trouble concentrating on street signs because they’re too busy starting at the way the golden-orange light hits the buildings.
Eventually, they reach the “albergo” and check in before heading right back out for dinner. They settle on a pizzeria with outdoor seating so they can watch the last of the pink-red light fade over the piazza. When twilight sets in and the patio is lit by candles and strings of miniature paper lanterns, it’s uncomfortably romantic, but Brendon still, somehow, feels like nothing has changed between them.
They walk once around the block to digest before going back to the hotel.
“Tomorrow we’re going to the bell tower, and the Pontevecchio, and a museum,” Ryan rattles off, before grabbing the condoms from Brendon’s suitcase.
“Yes mom. Sex now?” Brendon grins, hopping into bed. Ryan rolls his eyes and sets the alarm on his phone before leaning in to kiss Brendon hungrily.
“Fuck,” is the first thing Brendon hears the next morning.
“We already did that,” he yawns, and wipes his eyes blearily.
The cause of Ryan’s obvious pissiness, once Brendon wakes up a little more, is the rain. It’s pouring, coming down in buckets outside their window, and it’s impossible to tell what time it is thanks to the heavy grey clouds. Despite Brendon’s best puppydog face, Ryan’s determined to see this damn bell tower, so they set off into the slanting rain, sharing an umbrella. They’re soaked to the skin in minutes.
“Why can’t we get a taxi?” Brendon whines, wincing as he steps in an ice-cold puddle.
“It’s matter of principle. We’re in Europe, this is the only way to get the full benefit of the view,” Ryan snaps. Brendon thinks he’s an idiot, but knows better than to argue with that face.
Brendon thinks the bell tower would be impressive in daylight, but the rain’s getting in his eyes so he can’t really tell. They decide to climb to the top, which Brendon regrets within minutes; the stairs are more of a ladder, steep and winding and uneven, and he’s panting by the time they reach the top. The view is almost worth it, the red rooftops of Florence spread out beneath them under a heavy grey mist.
“Pontevecchio?” Ryan asks half-heartedly as they exit back into the downpour.
“No fucking way. Hotel, hot bath,” Brendon says firmly. They stop at a grocery store on their way and buy bread, cold cuts, and a bottle of wine.
When they get back to the hotel, soaked and shivering, Brendon barely has a second to complain before he’s efficiently silenced by Ryan’s lips and teeth and tongue.
“I know how we can warm up,” Ryan smirks in his ear, sliding cold fingers under Brendon’s shirt and nibbling at his neck.
“Sounds like a plan,” Brendon says breathlessly.
Ryan has them both naked within seconds, has Brendon pressed up against a wall and gasping after a few more seconds. He’s smiling what Brendon is coming to know as his want smile, a wicked teasing little grin that makes Brendon’s stomach swoop.
Sex with Ryan is like nothing Brendon’s ever done before. He knows, like no girl ever, has which spots make Brendon cry out and bite his lip, and Brendon realizes with a thrill that he knows what Ryan likes as well, because they have all the same equipment, all the same secret sensitive spots that girls are always too nervous or clueless to consider. When they finally end up in bed, Ryan fucks Brendon just roughly enough, rolling his hips at the perfect angle, and there’s still that feeling of being ripped open and exposed, but it’s so, so much better than it should be with Ryan panting his name and getting him off with those long, sure fingers.
And, sure enough, every hint of cold is gone by the time they’re done, skin sweat-slick and hot as they lie panting on the quilt.
They take a bath anyway. Ryan starts the water, Brendon makes sandwiches, and they slide into the steaming-hot water before they bother to start eating. They have to refill the tub twice when the water starts to go cold, talking lazily, drinking, letting their skin prune for what must be more than an hour.
Ryan’s hair goes curly and natural in the steam, his cheeks flushed, and Brendon flings a handful of bubble bath at him just to have something to do other than stare. Of course, it escalates until the entire bathroom is covered in bubbles and Ryan’s straddling him, taking both their cocks in one hand and jerking them off together, but he’s not complaining.
Brendon’s heavy-limbed and light-headed, dizzy from wine and heat, when they finally get out of the bath. He collapses happily in bed, laughing when he realizes it’s only three in the afternoon.
“We could find somewhere to go, I guess,” he says halfheartedly.
“Nah,” Ryan says, sprawling out next to him, still unabashedly naked and pink-cheeked. “We’ve got food, condoms, and wine. What else do we need?”
The rain doesn’t let up that night, or the next day. They spend a full thirty-six hours in the hotel room, calling up for room service, watching grainy black-and-white Italian movies on the tiny TV set, and having more sex than Brendon thinks he’s had in his entire life. Maybe not. But, seriously.
He feels like they should get sick of each other, spending that much time with just the two of them and no privacy. They tour together, yeah, but on tour there’s always your bunk to hide in, shows for a release, other band or crew members to hang out with. But he could imagine living like this, foodRyansleepsexfoodRyan, for…well, longer than should make sense.
He learns more about his best friend than he ever has, hears childhood stories that Ryan’s only ever told Spencer, as they lie in the grey half-light, talking without regard for time or schedule or responsibilities for, Brendon realizes, the first time since they met. He learns the sounds Ryan makes when he’s about to come, the prowling set of his shoulders when he sees Brendon across the room and spontaneously decides to push him against a wall and kiss him dizzy. He learns the soft snuffling noises Ryan makes in his sleep, the ones that aren’t audible through even the thin bunk curtains, but are actually kind of adorable when Ryan’s pressed against Brendon’s back, breath in his ear. He learns that Ryan’s knees are ticklish, and that he loves having his hair touched.
It’s a rude shock, in a way, to wake up on the third day and have to pack, clean the worst of the come off the sheets (and walls. And bathroom floor.) and make their way out into the persistent light drizzle to take a train to Milan.
It’s not so bad, though, when Ryan pulls him up halfway through the trip and fucks him against the sink of the tiny bathroom. When they emerge, sweaty and tousle-haired, the woman waiting for the toilet doesn’t blink an eye, just smiles and rolls her eyes. Europeans. Brendon really wants to move here.
“So what are we doing today?” Brendon says as they drop their bags at the hotel, expecting a long list that involves tourist traps and museums.
“Shopping,” Ryan says happily.
“No, seriously.”
“Brendon, Milan is the fashion capitol of the world,” Ryan explains patiently. “And I need more shirts.”
“Like fuck you do.”
Nonetheless, they spend the entire afternoon shopping, Brendon giving his opinion (or lack thereof) on flowered shirt after flowered shirt. It’s not as bad as he expected, although he liked Ryan’s fashion sense better in the eyeliner days.
At night, they eat in an artsy area by the river. They wander around for an hour, sightseeing and ducking into some of the more interesting-looking antique shops, as well as a chocolate shop that serves the thickest hot chocolate either of them have ever tasted. The streets are crowded with university students on mopeds, narrow cobblestoned alleyways full of tables for outdoor cafés, handmade jewelry shops, and thrift stores.
Brendon feels anonymous and free, overwhelmed yet again by a sense of gratitude for the escape. He’s never felt trapped in the life he leads, per se, but he wonders for maybe the first time in his life what would have happened if he had gone to college. Maybe he could have studied abroad, spent time here, learned his way around the maze of alleys and gone clubbing every night. He doesn’t regret a minute of it, except maybe the months where he worked at Smoothie Hut, but still. More time like this, to be just another face in the crowd, might be nice.
“Wait, I think that’s the word for bookstore,” Ryan says urgently, grabbing Brendon’s shoulder to make him stop. “Can we go in?”
“You’re going to buy books in Italian. Really? Your pretension astounds me sometimes, Ross.”
“Fuck you, I just want to get Spencer a card, it’ll be his birthday two days after we get back.” He rolls his eyes and leads the way inside.
Brendon meanders idly over to a display table while Ryan makes a beeline for a rack of greeting cards. And then, okay, double take. Because that right there, standing prominently on display, is a book that bears the title “The Big Penis Book.”
Interesting. Brendon tentatively flips to the first page, wondering if it’s a joke.
A gigantic cock stares back at him. He lets out a strangled sort of yelp in embarrassment, flailing in his effort to close the book as quickly as possible. He takes a deep breath, decides his dream superpower is not longer flying but invisibility, and makes a serious effort to stop his cheeks from going any redder.
Okay, so either Europe is just as sexually liberal as he always heard, or…
No. The book next to the (mental cringe) “Big Penis Book” has a picture of a man wearing a dog collar on the front. This is a gay bookstore. Oh, Jesus. Ryan and his stupid useless Italian dictionary.
Speaking of Ryan. Brendon practically sprints over to him, hissing, “Ross, do you realize where the fuck we are right now?”
Ryan turns around, holding a postcard that displays (what else) an inhumanly huge dick. “Think I should get this for Spencer?” he asks, grinning like this is all totally normal.
“No, no, a thousand times no, can we get the fuck out of here?” Brendon squeaks.
“Calm down, Bren, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Ryan says, and Brendon would give anything to wipe that wicked little smirk off his face.
“Jesus, I just want to like, cover my eyes and click my heels and be back at the hotel,” Brendon mutters, looking around furtively, half convinced paparazzi are going to jump out of nowhere and get this million-dollar shot.
“Speaking of the hotel,” Ryan says casually. “Can we try this?” He’s pointing at a picture, smiling innocently.
Brendon stops squirming long enough to take a good look. “I- guess,” he says hesitantly, eyes going wide.
“’Kay. Let me just pay for the card.”
“Seriously?” Brendon says.
“I can’t wait to see Spencer’s face,” Ryan says fervently. He has a point.
By the time they get back to the hotel, Brendon’s almost forgotten what he agreed to do. It comes back in a dark, heavy rush that hits the base of his stomach, a flare of nerves and anticipation all at once.
“So,” he says, and his voice comes out far more husky than he intended. “We gonna do this?”
Ryan’s mouth curls up, his eyes going predatory. Brendon swallows. He’s getting hard just from that look, for fuck’s sake.
“Strip,” Ryan commands. He turns to his suitcase and Brendon quickly slips out of his clothes, leaving them pooled on the floor and perching at the foot of the bed. When Ryan turns around, he’s holding two scarves. “Bedpost,” Ryan instructs evenly.
He watches, waits for Brendon to position himself, hands wrapped around the carved wood, before coming to join him. He doesn’t say anything, just moves Brendon’s hands until they’re slightly above his head and starts looping one of the scarves around Brendon’s wrists and the post, so Brendon’s tethered there, naked and completely helpless.
“Are the knots okay?” Ryan asks softly, the first hint of uncertainty that Brendon’s seen so far. He nods. Ryan picks up the other scarf and positions it over Brendon’s eyes.
“No noise,” Ryan whispers, breath ghosting over his neck, and a shudder goes through his stomach. He can hear Ryan slipping out of his own clothes, the thud of his belt buckle on the floor. That’s Ryan's body heat at his back, the sound of his breathing, which is almost a surprise when Brendon’s own heartbeat seems like it should be the loudest thing in the room.
He jerks in surprise at the first light touch, one cool finger trailing across Brendon’s collarbone and down, circling a nipple, flattening his palm out to press warm against Brendon’s stomach and dip even lower, to where Brendon’s hips are leaning forward into the touch. Ryan rubs his thumb against the dent below Brendon’s right hipbone, and he’s so close, so close to touching Brendon’s cock, and in all the surprise of being fucking tied to a bedpost, Brendon kind of forgot how hard he is. He can’t help the little whine that escapes his lips.
“No noise,” Ryan hisses, and his hand is gone, replaced by a sudden vicious sting on Brendon’s neck as Ryan bites down roughly on the sensitive skin there. Brendon arches back in pain, barely managing to hold back a cry. He’s panting by the time the throb starts to fade.
“Okay?” Ryan asks, and there’s a hint of genuine worry there. Brendon knows it’s his chance to back out. He knows it’s only going to get worse from here, because there’s no way he’s going to be able to keep quiet, not with the things he knows Ryan can do with his hands and his lips. And there’s still a part of his mind that thinks this is a Bad Idea, giving away control like this. But it’s not just someone,, it’s Ryan, and his head is spinning as he realizes, that really does make all the difference.
“I’m okay,” Brendon says, surprised and breathless and sure.
He feels Ryan’s body heat leave his back. A hand glides along the curve of his ass, another guiding his legs farther apart, and when he feels Ryan’s breath on his lower back, a little lightning bolt strikes up his stomach. He holds his breath, chest tightening in disbelief as he feels Ryan’s finger at his hole, circling gently, nudging his cheeks apart to give himself better access.
And here’s another item on Brendon’s list of things he never imagined doing, let alone enjoying, but the first brush of Ryan’s tongue against his skin makes his entire body tingle. Ryan licks slowly around Brendon’s hole, tongue darting out to press inside, hot and wet, and Brendon presses back against Ryan’s mouth, sparks shooting up his spine, biting his lip in an effort to stay quiet. Ryan pulls away for a second and Brendon almost moans, but then there’s a finger pressed up against his entrance, sliding inside easily. He pushes back against it, chest heaving, and Ryan traces a delicate line around his own finger with his tongue, breath tantalizing on the skin.
Ryan presses his finger forward, brushing against Brendon’s prostate, and he twists so hard against his restraints that he can feel the fabric cutting into his skin, but god, he can’t fucking help it. Every inch of him is on fire, like he can feel his blood thrumming under his skin. Ryan pushes forward again, harder, unrelenting and all-consuming, and Brendon tries to grind down against Ryan’s hand, so lost that he moans, loud and helpless.
Ryan’s free hand rakes down sharp against his ass, fingernails scraping roughly as he pulls out his finger. Brendon whimpers, overwhelmed by the sting and the burn and the near-painful throb of his dick, and Ryan slaps him right over the marks his nails just left, ruthless. Brendon’s writhing, pulling against his restraints, his whole body shaking with the effort of keeping quiet. It hurts and yet he’s never been this close without being touched, his dick hanging heavy between his legs, swollen and aching, and he might be drawing blood from his lip but he doesn’t give a shit, he just needs someone to touch him now, fuck it all, right fucking now.
His chest is heaving, something approaching panic beating against his ribcage, but Ryan is pressing gentle soothing kisses against his skin, and Brendon pictures the angry red lines that must be rising there. He feels Ryan standing behind him, and finally, finally, Ryan’s hand slides over his hip to curl around his dick.
“Fuck,” Brendon chokes, and just as quick as it appeared, the warmth of Ryan’s hand is gone, and there’s a blinding, breathtaking pain at his shoulder, coupled with a harsh tug at his hair. He’s close to tears now, ready to break down and fall to his knees and beg.
“Be good,” Ryan says against his ear, and it’s not so much commanding as promising, comforting. Brendon bites his lip again, tensing every muscle in his body, and it’s all that keeps him from screaming as Ryan strokes him slowly, so slowly, but as he strokes he moves closer, until he’s flush against Brendon’s back. His dick is pressing against Brendon’s ass, his breathing ragged in Brendon’s ear, and Brendon knows he’s just as close.
“Good,” Ryan says breathlessly, after just three light strokes, and Brendon doesn’t dare whimper again as he hears the rip of a condom wrapper and the snap of the lube bottle opening. Ryan slides in easily, hands gripping Brendon’s hips for leverage.
“Let go,” Ryan says shakily when he’s buried inside, and at his first thrust Brendon sobs, relief and pain and exhaustion coursing through him, shedding his throat on their way out his mouth. Ryan’s hands and the restraints are all that’s holding him up at this point. Brendon’s helpless, every muscle in his body screaming for release. Ryan reaches for him quickly, his movements jerky and desperate, and it’s three hard twists of his wrist before Brendon’s coming harder than he ever has in his life, arching back uncontrollably as his vision goes white, moaning so loud it’s practically a scream, and Ryan follows a half-second later with a broken string of curses, until they’re left panting against each other, Ryan’s arms wrapped tight around Brendon’s waist.
“God, you’re incredible, Bren, I’m sorry, I can’t…fuck, you were perfect,” he’s babbling when Brendon comes to, his mouth buried in the curve of Brendon’s neck, hastily pressing kisses there. He unties everything, and Brendon whimpers as blood flows back into his hands.
“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Ryan whispers frantically, guiding him until he collapses onto the bed, completely spent. Ryan ties off the condom and slides down next to him, lacing their fingers together and brushing his lips against the rubbed-raw skin of Brendon’s wrists. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I got completely carried away, you just looked…” Ryan murmurs earnestly, and Brendon reaches out to smooth away the worried crease between his eyebrows.
“No,” Brendon says softly. “No, that was incredible.” He means it.
Ryan lets out a deep breath. Brendon kisses him, slow and sweet, and Ryan smiles into it, curling a hand gently around Brendon’s neck and running fingers through his hair. They crawl (gingerly, in Brendon’s case) under the covers and kiss as they drift off, twined together comfortably
At first Brendon can’t remember why he’s so sore the next morning. His hiss of pain wakes Ryan, whose expression goes from sleepy to concerned as everything comes back to Brendon. He can’t help but blush as he meets Ryan’s eyes.
“So,” he says. “We’re not going to be sitting down much today.” Ryan’s lips tug up in a smile, and he leans in for a good-morning kiss.
Brendon assesses the damage in the bathroom mirror. His wrists are bruised and chafed beyond recognition, two livid bite marks stand out on the curve of his neck, and when he twists around, there are four distinct red lines emblazoned across the white skin of his ass. He doesn’t particularly care.
They stroll around for most of the day, taking pictures and ducking into every souvenir shop they find in search of the perfect souvenir.
“Then again,” Ryan muses as he turns over a miniature Italian flag, “the way this trip’s going, the best memento would be a dildo or something.” Brendon laughs loud enough to earn him a glare from the shop owner.
They tour the Milan Duomo, a gigantic cathedral that takes Brendon’s breath away. He can’t imagine the time or care necessary to produce every carved, twisted stone block, not to mention the intricate stained glass windows. He feels tiny, unbearably insignificant, as he stands in the center and stares up at the vaulted ceiling.
“Why can’t we build shit like this instead of ugly-ass skyscrapers?” he mutters angrily as they leave, and Ryan rolls his eyes.
“Because the only way they built these things was with slave labor. Plus, they took like a hundred years to build, I’m pretty sure nobody has the patience,” Ryan explains, as if to a child.
They get spectacularly lost on their way to find Santa Maria Delle Grazie, the church that houses Da Vinci’s infamous painting of the last supper. Once they find it Brendon’s not all that impressed, but Ryan seems appropriately awed, so he lets it slide.
It’s dark, and Brendon’s hungry, by the time they leave, so they find a tiny trattoria nearby. Brendon makes a pained face when he sits in one of the cushioned booth seats, which makes Ryan giggle. They order wine and spaghetti, and Brendon can’t help but smile as he remembers “The Lady And The Tramp.” It’s almost inappropriately romantic, sitting here in a quiet corner of the restaurant with Ryan’s smile cast golden in the candlelight.
“My ass hurts,” Brendon says, almost trying to break the mood.
“Have more wine,” Ryan suggests enthusiastically, already pink in the cheeks himself as he pours another glass for Brendon.
With that mentality, they’re more than a little (okay, they’re a lot) drunk as they stumble out of the restaurant and start walking. Brendon’s pretty sure they’re on the right road back to the hotel, but he can’t quite be sure, not with the wine fog blurring the edges of the street signs, not with Ryan pushing him into every dark corner to kiss him senseless. He sees a fountain that looks vaguely familiar, so he gives up and lets Ryan mold against him in the shadow of an alley.
“Bren,” comes Ryan’s voice, warm and slurred in his ear. “Bren, I want you to fuck me,” he says, and it’s breathless and low and Brendon’s hard faster than he thought was possible, hard and panting in the shadow of what he suddenly realizes is a church. “I want you to fuck me, Bren, I want you to feel how good it is,” Ryan husks, and, okay, yes, how could he possibly not say yes to that, how could he possibly think anything but yesyesyes with Ryan’s breath on his cheek and Ryan’s hand rubbing gently at his hip, and if he would just move that fucking hand two inches…
“Taxi,” Brendon manages to squeak out, and Ryan smiles, flushed and predatory, and Brendon just wants to shove him against the gritty stone wall and fuck him until he can’t see straight, but.
He manages to get his breathing mostly under control and wave down a taxi, but there’s still a five-minute drive, a five minute wait. And in some distant corner of his brain he’s wondering when it got this difficult to not be touching his best friend’s dick, but the rest of his brain is too preoccupied by thought of want to pay much attention.
He shoves a wad of bills at the cabbie, tugs at Ryan’s hand until he slides across the seat, pulls him breathlessly through the front door and past the receptionist before slamming him against the wall of the stairwell and sucking a deep purple bruise into his collarbone, and when did Ryan get so gorgeous. He’s biting at his lip and staring down at Brendon through lazy half-closed eyes, still flushed red from the wine, cheek hot when Brendon brushes his hair back and kisses him roughly. And it’s not until they manage to get through their door after an eternity of fumbling through hallways, not until Ryan takes a running leap and flops down on the bed, that Brendon takes a deep breath.
He just wants to look for a second, watch the way Ryan’s biting his kiss-swollen lip in concentration as he unbuttons his shirt, watch the pale curve of his neck and the spidery grace of his hands. Brendon’s lost for a moment, staring helplessly.
“Come on, my ass isn’t gonna fuck itself,” Ryan smirks, propping himself up on his elbows and looking up at Brendon through his lashes, and that’s just enough of a distraction that Brendon can forget his last half-formed thought: I’m in way over my head. He forgets just about everything, to be honest, as he remembers how hard he is, hard to the point of aching, and there’s Ryan, all hipbones and flushed cheeks, and the only thought that can possibly remain is yes.
He crawls slowly, hands and knees on either side of Ryan’s sprawled-out body, until they’re level, eyes and lips and hips lined up, and Ryan’s staring up at him with a familiar wicked half-smile, and Brendon can’t help but groan as he lowers himself into the kiss. Ryan snakes a hand up to the back of his neck, pulls him closer, until the heat and the pressure are enough to bruise. He’s still warmed from the inside from the wine, and Ryan’s skin is enough to make him start sweating.
“Fuck me,” Ryan gasps against his lips, and because it’s Ryan, he’s still demanding instead of asking. Brendon can’t resist rolling his hips a little, just to hear the desperate whine that escapes from Ryan’s throat.
“Say please,” Brendon laughs throatily, licking gently at the bruise he left earlier on Ryan’s neck.
He makes an undignified sort of squeak when Ryan flips him over suddenly, grinding down roughly and panting into Brendon’s ear.
“Brendon,” he breathes, low and silky. “If you knew how it felt, if you knew how hot and tight it is, how good your ass feels, you’d be the one begging me.”
Brendon whimpers, dizzy with want, and he lets Ryan roll them back over and pull off his shirt, barely able to focus for the throbbing between his legs. He manages to pull himself together enough to undo Ryan's belt buckle, and when they get Ryan's jeans off (it almost takes more coordination than they both possess together, with Brendon pulling and Ryan kicking) Brendon can't resist leaning down to take in the head of Ryan's cock, flushed dark and leaking against his stomach. Ryan chokes out a "Fuck," and arches up into it, but Brendon gives one hard suck and pulls off to undo his own jeans.
He’s had this done to him often enough, now, that he knows how it works. Ryan takes the first finger easily, the barest twist of his mouth showing his discomfort.
“More,” he whispers.
Brendon slides in the second finger and brushes them forward cautiously. Ryan’s lips part with a soft whimper, and Jesus. Brendon tries it again, harder, and watches as Ryan twists back against the sheets, biting at his lip, eyes half-closed. Brendon scissors his fingers and carefully adds a third, crooking them forward again, staring in fascination as Ryan lets his head fall back, exposing all the gorgeous lines and shadows of his throat and collarbone.
“Okay?” he whispers, and Ryan nods quickly.
He goes slowly when he first slides in, partly because Ryan’s wincing but partly because he’s not sure he could last if he went any faster. It’s…god, there aren’t words, just heat and pressure all around him, almost too much, leaving him gasping and lightheaded. He waits for Ryan to adjust, taking deep shaky breaths to keep himself under control, and when Ryan nods he rocks forward ever so slightly, shuddering at even that tiny movement.
“Bren, please,” Ryan groans, and what willpower he had disappears completely. He rolls his hips forward and this time Ryan gasps with him, arching up as Brendon starts to move in earnest. Every bit of movement, every groan from Ryan’s mouth, is making his head spin, blood deserting his brain in favor of his dick. He’s embarrassingly close already, whimpering each time Ryan’s hips surge up to meet his own. Ryan reaches between them to touch himself with long fast strokes, and the face he makes as he comes (cheeks flushed, swollen lips falling open, eyes fluttering closed) is enough to send Brendon over the edge with a choked moan.
“That was quick,” Brendon half-laughs, embarrassed, as he slides away to dispose of the condom. Ryan snorts, but his smile is wide and happy when Brendon turns back around.
“Don’t care,” he says, and pulls Brendon close.
Brendon’s half-asleep before Ryan speaks again, soft and nervous, voice barely penetrating Brendon’s sleep-hazy brain. “That was…I mean. You were the first. I’ve never,” Ryan trails off, and Brendon kisses his shoulder in response.
Way, way over my head, is his last thought before he drifts off.
He wakes up early the next morning, but he’s far too comfortable to really care. Ryan’s arm is curled over his side, hand resting on Brendon’s heart, and the golden morning light is barely filtering in through the curtains. He yawns and turns over, planning to fall right back to sleep. But there’s Ryan, and something about the absolute serenity in his face makes Brendon stare. His lips are curved up slightly, contentedly, a little pink arch against the pale white-peach of his skin, and Brendon can’t help but lean forward to kiss him gently.
Ryan’s eyes flicker open and he smiles, lazy and open. Something inside Brendon flutters.
“Hey,” Ryan sleepily. Brendon can’t breathe.
Oh. Oh, shit.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: In which they have lots of sex. In Italy.
Warnings:Bondage, rimming. This is essentially 15 pages of porn. Blame Colin.
Brendon spends the rest of the day following wordlessly behind Ryan as they take a tour of a castle. Under normal circumstances, the guide and his broken English would be endlessly amusing, but these are not normal circumstances. These are circumstances in which his best friend recently touched his dick, so.
He was fine at first. But somewhere between dropping off their picnic basket at the hotel and walking the scenic mile to the castle, he thought about it. Now, it's taking all Brendon's concentration to not think about the rosy-red "O" Ryan's mouth makes when he comes. And then there's that jagged little moan, which, Jesus, fuck, so not thinking about that.
Okay, so maybe he is, maybe he can't help replaying that moan in his head every time Ryan speaks. Maybe he would give just about anything to hear it again. Maybe he's utterly screwed.
Ryan seems completely normal, asking the guide questions, making appreciative noises at the view from the top of the castle, slouching along with his hands in his pockets like nothing ever happened. Brendon…well. Confused doesn't even begin to cover it.
They eat dinner in town. Ryan seems perfectly content to spend most of the meal in silence, staring around him happily, occasionally asking Brendon an inane question about his food. Brendon's sure the spaghetti he's eating is the best he's had in his life, but he barely tastes it. He can't stop thinking. One-time thing? Better left forgotten? What the fuck? And, above all, want.
"This one's on me," Ryan says, when the check arrives.
"Huh?" Brendon asks, because they agreed at the beginning that they'd split all meals.
"Well, I figure if I'm going to get in your pants again, I should start treating you nicely," Ryan says. He looks up at Brendon, smirking.
Oh. Oh. Okay.
“Very thoughtful of you,” Brendon manages. Inwardly, he’s shrieking some odd combination of Yes! and Holy shit. and Cocky bastard.
“Shall we?” Ryan says, and leads the way out the door. Brendon takes a deep breath and follows.
The hotel is just two minutes away, thank god, because Brendon doesn’t think he could deal with another second of feeling Ryan smirk next to him. He fumbles with the key, fingers shaking, unable to focus on anything beyond the warmth of Ryan’s body at his back, the weight of that dark stare.
“Here,” Ryan says finally, and plucks the key away from him, leaning into Brendon’s personal space to unlock the door. Brendon can smell his cologne.
“Okay,” Brendon says awkwardly, once they’re safely inside and he realizes he has no idea how this is supposed to go. All he wants to do is tackle Ryan onto the bed and rip his clothes off, but he thinks maybe seduction would be a good tactic here, and, shit.
“Okay?” Ryan echoes back at him, but he’s smiling as he grabs Brendon’s hand and pulls him closer.
“Okay,” Brendon breathes, just before Ryan leans in and kisses him.
Ryan’s gentle but firm, tongue darting out to coax Brendon’s mouth open, long fingers molding around Brendon’s hips like they were made to fit there. Brendon melts into it, forgetting everything but the soft slide of their lips, and it’s only when his knees hit the edge of the bed that he realizes Ryan’s been slowly backing him up. He folds down onto the quilt and pulls Ryan down with him, clumsy and overeager so Ryan collapses on top of him in a tangle of legs and elbows, but at some point their hips collide and Ryan grinds down and Brendon arches up, and nothing else matters but that perfect pressure.
“Wait,” Ryan gasps. “Do we have…”
“Yeah,” Brendon says, doing a mental victory dance. Ryan rolls away and Brendon darts to his suitcase, all too aware of Ryan’s eyes on his ass as he rummages through his clothes to find what they need.
“Fuckin’ Boy Scout,” Ryan half-teases. Brendon just rolls his eyes, putting everything on the nightstand before reaching for Ryan’s shirt. He tosses it off to the side of the room and pulls off his own, and the first brush of their bare skin is electrifying as Ryan pushes him down against the bed.
It’s fumbling like all first times are, but it feels right somehow, intense enough that everything except want is forgotten. Ryan works Brendon’s belt buckle open as they kiss, knuckles brushing just above his dick to work his jeans down, and he whines into Ryan’s mouth, pulling him close again as soon as his pants are kicked away. He’s hard, has been since that first kiss, and he can feel Ryan’s erection pressed against his thigh as he grinds down.
“Pants,” Ryan observes, and he stands up to dispose of them.
And then (Brendon's mind goes blank for a second, visuals being way too much to process) Ryan's naked, and that is a lot of cock, and there is no way on earth it's fitting inside Brendon. Shit.
Ryan grabs the lube from the nightstand, and, okay, Brendon’s maybe a little freaked now.
He does his best to breathe, letting his eyes droop shut as Ryan moves between his legs, but he tenses right back up again when he feels one slick finger pressing against him, and this is weird.
"Relax," Ryan says.
"Easy for you to say," Brendon bites out indignantly.
"Point," Ryan concedes, but there's something about the familiarity of the bickering that actually does make Brendon relax, and before he can think about it any more, Ryan's index finger is inside him. He squirms a little and hopes to hell it gets better, because this is just as bizarre as he expected, nothing to complain about exactly but just an intrusion where it doesn't belong. And then Ryan moves a little, brushes that finger forward with a look of intense concentration on his face, and Brendon shudders, waves of heat radiating outward from wherever Ryan just touched.
"Do that again," Brendon says breathlessly, and Ryan smirks, slipping another finger in and pressing them both up, so that Brendon's vision goes hazy for a long moment. He’s left gasping, straining down against Ryan’s fingers to find that spot again, too desperate to feel remotely self-conscious. But when he looks up, trying to figure out if he should blush or not, Ryan’s looking down at him with something dark and intense and foreign in his eyes, like he’s never seen anything hotter than Brendon trying to fuck himself on his fingers. He scissors them slowly, working Brendon open, careful and methodic until he can fit a third. The stretch gets on the bad side of uncomfortable, but Ryan leans down to kiss his hipbone, the inside of his thigh, sliding his tongue along to lick a bead of pre-come off the tip of Brendon’s dick, and this isn’t so bad after all.
“Okay?” Ryan says softly, and Brendon surprises himself by nodding.
He makes himself focus on Ryan’s face, the red cupid’s bow of his lips, instead of the sudden blunt pressure at his entrance, and he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out when Ryan first slides inside. Ryan’s eyelids are fluttering half-closed, and the look in those eyes, something approaching awe as he looks down at Brendon, is the only thing that takes Brendon’s mind off the rough, burning stretch of it. This hurts, dammit.
Ryan tilts his hips up, whining low in the back of his throat like he can’t help but move, and Brendon doesn’t care about the hurt any more, not with Ryan’s dick pressed hard against that spot inside him. He gasps and arches up, and Ryan’s first movement inside him is painful, shit, but so, so perfect.
Ryan builds up a rhythm quickly, reducing Brendon to whimpers as his own breathing goes ragged, spilling out half-formed curses between harsh breaths. Brendon’s aching, wincing from the pain even as he twists up to meet Ryan, and at some point during it all he hears himself, hears his own broken little moans under Ryan’s low, growled not-quite-sentences. He sounds like he’s begging, and fuck, it’s hot even to his own ears, so much better than the theatrical groans his girlfriends (groupies, whatever) always made. So maybe he doesn’t have any experience to compare, but he’s pretty sure Ryan is damn good at this.
Ryan moans hoarsely above him and reaches down to touch Brendon, twisting his wrist in time with his hips. It’s like an assault on Brendon’s senses, sparks building in his stomach, so much to feelhearsee all at once, that he comes before he really realizes what’s happening, spilling hot and sticky over his own stomach. Ryan’s hips go jerky and urgent, in a way Brendon knows would hurt like hell if he wasn’t all orgasm-hazy, and when he comes, back arched so Brendon can admire every delicate line of his throat and jaw, he pants out Brendon’s name before collapsing down on top of him in a heap of sweaty sticky skin.
“Jesus,” he breathes against Brendon’s collarbone.
“Mmph,” Brendon agrees faintly, nose scrunching up as the first real ache hits his blissed-out consciousness.
Ryan gets up to throw away the condom and brings back a washcloth for Brendon to clean himself.
“Was that…I mean. Was that okay?” he asks quietly, slipping into the bed.
“Yeah. A lot more than okay,” Brendon replies breathlessly. He tosses the washcloth away and presses a quick kiss to Ryan’s temple.
“Good. It would suck if I was the only one who wanted to, like, continue doing that. Or whatever,” Ryan says awkwardly, with a little half-smile as he wraps himself around Brendon.
Brendon just yawns in response. He’s asleep before they can even get any good cuddling time in, but he does smile as he drifts off at the promise in Ryan's words.
When he wakes up, Ryan’s curled close against him, head nestled between Brendon’s neck and shoulder. It’s actually kind of nice, until Brendon realizes that his arm’s asleep.
“Get off, dick,” Brendon murmurs sleepily, extracting his arm and wincing.
“Uh-huh, holy shit, it’s about time…” Ryan sing-songs, shifting down so his head’s pillowed on Brendon’s chest.
“You did not just quote Gabe Saporta. That’s it, Ross, no more sex for you,” Brendon yawns. Ryan looks up at him owlishly. Brendon can’t help but laugh; it looks like the Ryhawk’s back again in full force.
“What if I give you a good-morning blowjob?” Ryan says, after a moment of what looks like deep thought.
“I might reconsider.”
“Cool.”
And he’s actually doing it, pulling back the covers to show that Brendon’s already hard, sliding down Brendon’s body to lick a delicate stripe up the underside of his cock. Brendon’s mind is still busy catching up (morning, blowjob, Ryan) when Ryan slides his lips over the head and sucks, and Brendon curses helplessly in surprise. Ryan’s mouth is sliding down farther, enveloping Brendon in wet heat, and he finds himself scrabbling for purchase in the sheets, trying his best not to thrust his hips up. Ryan pulls off to flick his tongue across the slit and mouth down the underside. He wraps long fingers around the base before flattening his tongue just under the head, and Brendon’s universe has narrowed down to one mind-bending point, everything falling away and leaving only that heat, the sight of Ryan sucking him in again, pink lips stretched tight. He threads one hand through Ryan’s hair just to have something to hold on to and Ryan’s eyes meet his, dark and amused, and that’s all it takes for Brendon to moan out a warning and come, arching back against the pillow as Ryan strokes him through it.
“Where the fuck did you learn that,” is the first thing Brendon thinks to say as his breathing slows. Ryan crawls up and kisses him before answering, tongue darting into Brendon’s mouth and bringing with it (whoa) the taste of Brendon’s own come.
“Pete,” he answers, and the “duh” goes unspoken if not unheard.
“So I have another thing to thank him for.”
“Yup. Okay, can we go back to sleep? It’s, like, ass o’clock,” Ryan says, and cuddles into Brendon’s side nonchalantly, like a morning blowjob is standard procedure.
If it is, the rest of this trip is going to be even better than Brendon thought.
They fall asleep again, and by the time they’ve properly woken up Brendon remembers his manners and jacks Ryan off in the shower. The fact that he’s just had lots of sex with his best friend doesn’t even enter his mind as they get dressed for the beach. Other than the slight ache, everything's pretty much like it's always been, complete with Ryan telling Brendon to “take it like a man,” when Brendon visibly winces as he stands up. They spend a good fifteen minutes bickering over whether that is actually a logical suggestion.
When they hit the beach, Ryan settles in with a book, laughing when Brendon announces his intentions to build “The most massively epic sand castle in the history of sand.” Of course, after ten minutes of pretending to read, he’s there right next to Brendon, instructing him as to which ratio of water to sand makes the perfect consistency for building. He even consents to be buried head-to-toe in the sand, although he draws the line when Brendon offers to give him a mermaid tail.
Ryan misses the tips of his ears when he applies sunblock, so that by the afternoon they’re bright red. But other than that small hitch, it’s pretty much a perfect day, and Brendon’s reluctant to go back to the hotel at four to pack and catch their train to Florence.
As they exit the train station a couple hours later, Brendon takes it all back. Italy keeps surprising him, finding some new way to be beautiful every time Brendon thinks he’s seen its best. It’s sunset as they follow Ryan’s map to their hotel, and they have trouble concentrating on street signs because they’re too busy starting at the way the golden-orange light hits the buildings.
Eventually, they reach the “albergo” and check in before heading right back out for dinner. They settle on a pizzeria with outdoor seating so they can watch the last of the pink-red light fade over the piazza. When twilight sets in and the patio is lit by candles and strings of miniature paper lanterns, it’s uncomfortably romantic, but Brendon still, somehow, feels like nothing has changed between them.
They walk once around the block to digest before going back to the hotel.
“Tomorrow we’re going to the bell tower, and the Pontevecchio, and a museum,” Ryan rattles off, before grabbing the condoms from Brendon’s suitcase.
“Yes mom. Sex now?” Brendon grins, hopping into bed. Ryan rolls his eyes and sets the alarm on his phone before leaning in to kiss Brendon hungrily.
“Fuck,” is the first thing Brendon hears the next morning.
“We already did that,” he yawns, and wipes his eyes blearily.
The cause of Ryan’s obvious pissiness, once Brendon wakes up a little more, is the rain. It’s pouring, coming down in buckets outside their window, and it’s impossible to tell what time it is thanks to the heavy grey clouds. Despite Brendon’s best puppydog face, Ryan’s determined to see this damn bell tower, so they set off into the slanting rain, sharing an umbrella. They’re soaked to the skin in minutes.
“Why can’t we get a taxi?” Brendon whines, wincing as he steps in an ice-cold puddle.
“It’s matter of principle. We’re in Europe, this is the only way to get the full benefit of the view,” Ryan snaps. Brendon thinks he’s an idiot, but knows better than to argue with that face.
Brendon thinks the bell tower would be impressive in daylight, but the rain’s getting in his eyes so he can’t really tell. They decide to climb to the top, which Brendon regrets within minutes; the stairs are more of a ladder, steep and winding and uneven, and he’s panting by the time they reach the top. The view is almost worth it, the red rooftops of Florence spread out beneath them under a heavy grey mist.
“Pontevecchio?” Ryan asks half-heartedly as they exit back into the downpour.
“No fucking way. Hotel, hot bath,” Brendon says firmly. They stop at a grocery store on their way and buy bread, cold cuts, and a bottle of wine.
When they get back to the hotel, soaked and shivering, Brendon barely has a second to complain before he’s efficiently silenced by Ryan’s lips and teeth and tongue.
“I know how we can warm up,” Ryan smirks in his ear, sliding cold fingers under Brendon’s shirt and nibbling at his neck.
“Sounds like a plan,” Brendon says breathlessly.
Ryan has them both naked within seconds, has Brendon pressed up against a wall and gasping after a few more seconds. He’s smiling what Brendon is coming to know as his want smile, a wicked teasing little grin that makes Brendon’s stomach swoop.
Sex with Ryan is like nothing Brendon’s ever done before. He knows, like no girl ever, has which spots make Brendon cry out and bite his lip, and Brendon realizes with a thrill that he knows what Ryan likes as well, because they have all the same equipment, all the same secret sensitive spots that girls are always too nervous or clueless to consider. When they finally end up in bed, Ryan fucks Brendon just roughly enough, rolling his hips at the perfect angle, and there’s still that feeling of being ripped open and exposed, but it’s so, so much better than it should be with Ryan panting his name and getting him off with those long, sure fingers.
And, sure enough, every hint of cold is gone by the time they’re done, skin sweat-slick and hot as they lie panting on the quilt.
They take a bath anyway. Ryan starts the water, Brendon makes sandwiches, and they slide into the steaming-hot water before they bother to start eating. They have to refill the tub twice when the water starts to go cold, talking lazily, drinking, letting their skin prune for what must be more than an hour.
Ryan’s hair goes curly and natural in the steam, his cheeks flushed, and Brendon flings a handful of bubble bath at him just to have something to do other than stare. Of course, it escalates until the entire bathroom is covered in bubbles and Ryan’s straddling him, taking both their cocks in one hand and jerking them off together, but he’s not complaining.
Brendon’s heavy-limbed and light-headed, dizzy from wine and heat, when they finally get out of the bath. He collapses happily in bed, laughing when he realizes it’s only three in the afternoon.
“We could find somewhere to go, I guess,” he says halfheartedly.
“Nah,” Ryan says, sprawling out next to him, still unabashedly naked and pink-cheeked. “We’ve got food, condoms, and wine. What else do we need?”
The rain doesn’t let up that night, or the next day. They spend a full thirty-six hours in the hotel room, calling up for room service, watching grainy black-and-white Italian movies on the tiny TV set, and having more sex than Brendon thinks he’s had in his entire life. Maybe not. But, seriously.
He feels like they should get sick of each other, spending that much time with just the two of them and no privacy. They tour together, yeah, but on tour there’s always your bunk to hide in, shows for a release, other band or crew members to hang out with. But he could imagine living like this, foodRyansleepsexfoodRyan, for…well, longer than should make sense.
He learns more about his best friend than he ever has, hears childhood stories that Ryan’s only ever told Spencer, as they lie in the grey half-light, talking without regard for time or schedule or responsibilities for, Brendon realizes, the first time since they met. He learns the sounds Ryan makes when he’s about to come, the prowling set of his shoulders when he sees Brendon across the room and spontaneously decides to push him against a wall and kiss him dizzy. He learns the soft snuffling noises Ryan makes in his sleep, the ones that aren’t audible through even the thin bunk curtains, but are actually kind of adorable when Ryan’s pressed against Brendon’s back, breath in his ear. He learns that Ryan’s knees are ticklish, and that he loves having his hair touched.
It’s a rude shock, in a way, to wake up on the third day and have to pack, clean the worst of the come off the sheets (and walls. And bathroom floor.) and make their way out into the persistent light drizzle to take a train to Milan.
It’s not so bad, though, when Ryan pulls him up halfway through the trip and fucks him against the sink of the tiny bathroom. When they emerge, sweaty and tousle-haired, the woman waiting for the toilet doesn’t blink an eye, just smiles and rolls her eyes. Europeans. Brendon really wants to move here.
“So what are we doing today?” Brendon says as they drop their bags at the hotel, expecting a long list that involves tourist traps and museums.
“Shopping,” Ryan says happily.
“No, seriously.”
“Brendon, Milan is the fashion capitol of the world,” Ryan explains patiently. “And I need more shirts.”
“Like fuck you do.”
Nonetheless, they spend the entire afternoon shopping, Brendon giving his opinion (or lack thereof) on flowered shirt after flowered shirt. It’s not as bad as he expected, although he liked Ryan’s fashion sense better in the eyeliner days.
At night, they eat in an artsy area by the river. They wander around for an hour, sightseeing and ducking into some of the more interesting-looking antique shops, as well as a chocolate shop that serves the thickest hot chocolate either of them have ever tasted. The streets are crowded with university students on mopeds, narrow cobblestoned alleyways full of tables for outdoor cafés, handmade jewelry shops, and thrift stores.
Brendon feels anonymous and free, overwhelmed yet again by a sense of gratitude for the escape. He’s never felt trapped in the life he leads, per se, but he wonders for maybe the first time in his life what would have happened if he had gone to college. Maybe he could have studied abroad, spent time here, learned his way around the maze of alleys and gone clubbing every night. He doesn’t regret a minute of it, except maybe the months where he worked at Smoothie Hut, but still. More time like this, to be just another face in the crowd, might be nice.
“Wait, I think that’s the word for bookstore,” Ryan says urgently, grabbing Brendon’s shoulder to make him stop. “Can we go in?”
“You’re going to buy books in Italian. Really? Your pretension astounds me sometimes, Ross.”
“Fuck you, I just want to get Spencer a card, it’ll be his birthday two days after we get back.” He rolls his eyes and leads the way inside.
Brendon meanders idly over to a display table while Ryan makes a beeline for a rack of greeting cards. And then, okay, double take. Because that right there, standing prominently on display, is a book that bears the title “The Big Penis Book.”
Interesting. Brendon tentatively flips to the first page, wondering if it’s a joke.
A gigantic cock stares back at him. He lets out a strangled sort of yelp in embarrassment, flailing in his effort to close the book as quickly as possible. He takes a deep breath, decides his dream superpower is not longer flying but invisibility, and makes a serious effort to stop his cheeks from going any redder.
Okay, so either Europe is just as sexually liberal as he always heard, or…
No. The book next to the (mental cringe) “Big Penis Book” has a picture of a man wearing a dog collar on the front. This is a gay bookstore. Oh, Jesus. Ryan and his stupid useless Italian dictionary.
Speaking of Ryan. Brendon practically sprints over to him, hissing, “Ross, do you realize where the fuck we are right now?”
Ryan turns around, holding a postcard that displays (what else) an inhumanly huge dick. “Think I should get this for Spencer?” he asks, grinning like this is all totally normal.
“No, no, a thousand times no, can we get the fuck out of here?” Brendon squeaks.
“Calm down, Bren, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” Ryan says, and Brendon would give anything to wipe that wicked little smirk off his face.
“Jesus, I just want to like, cover my eyes and click my heels and be back at the hotel,” Brendon mutters, looking around furtively, half convinced paparazzi are going to jump out of nowhere and get this million-dollar shot.
“Speaking of the hotel,” Ryan says casually. “Can we try this?” He’s pointing at a picture, smiling innocently.
Brendon stops squirming long enough to take a good look. “I- guess,” he says hesitantly, eyes going wide.
“’Kay. Let me just pay for the card.”
“Seriously?” Brendon says.
“I can’t wait to see Spencer’s face,” Ryan says fervently. He has a point.
By the time they get back to the hotel, Brendon’s almost forgotten what he agreed to do. It comes back in a dark, heavy rush that hits the base of his stomach, a flare of nerves and anticipation all at once.
“So,” he says, and his voice comes out far more husky than he intended. “We gonna do this?”
Ryan’s mouth curls up, his eyes going predatory. Brendon swallows. He’s getting hard just from that look, for fuck’s sake.
“Strip,” Ryan commands. He turns to his suitcase and Brendon quickly slips out of his clothes, leaving them pooled on the floor and perching at the foot of the bed. When Ryan turns around, he’s holding two scarves. “Bedpost,” Ryan instructs evenly.
He watches, waits for Brendon to position himself, hands wrapped around the carved wood, before coming to join him. He doesn’t say anything, just moves Brendon’s hands until they’re slightly above his head and starts looping one of the scarves around Brendon’s wrists and the post, so Brendon’s tethered there, naked and completely helpless.
“Are the knots okay?” Ryan asks softly, the first hint of uncertainty that Brendon’s seen so far. He nods. Ryan picks up the other scarf and positions it over Brendon’s eyes.
“No noise,” Ryan whispers, breath ghosting over his neck, and a shudder goes through his stomach. He can hear Ryan slipping out of his own clothes, the thud of his belt buckle on the floor. That’s Ryan's body heat at his back, the sound of his breathing, which is almost a surprise when Brendon’s own heartbeat seems like it should be the loudest thing in the room.
He jerks in surprise at the first light touch, one cool finger trailing across Brendon’s collarbone and down, circling a nipple, flattening his palm out to press warm against Brendon’s stomach and dip even lower, to where Brendon’s hips are leaning forward into the touch. Ryan rubs his thumb against the dent below Brendon’s right hipbone, and he’s so close, so close to touching Brendon’s cock, and in all the surprise of being fucking tied to a bedpost, Brendon kind of forgot how hard he is. He can’t help the little whine that escapes his lips.
“No noise,” Ryan hisses, and his hand is gone, replaced by a sudden vicious sting on Brendon’s neck as Ryan bites down roughly on the sensitive skin there. Brendon arches back in pain, barely managing to hold back a cry. He’s panting by the time the throb starts to fade.
“Okay?” Ryan asks, and there’s a hint of genuine worry there. Brendon knows it’s his chance to back out. He knows it’s only going to get worse from here, because there’s no way he’s going to be able to keep quiet, not with the things he knows Ryan can do with his hands and his lips. And there’s still a part of his mind that thinks this is a Bad Idea, giving away control like this. But it’s not just someone,, it’s Ryan, and his head is spinning as he realizes, that really does make all the difference.
“I’m okay,” Brendon says, surprised and breathless and sure.
He feels Ryan’s body heat leave his back. A hand glides along the curve of his ass, another guiding his legs farther apart, and when he feels Ryan’s breath on his lower back, a little lightning bolt strikes up his stomach. He holds his breath, chest tightening in disbelief as he feels Ryan’s finger at his hole, circling gently, nudging his cheeks apart to give himself better access.
And here’s another item on Brendon’s list of things he never imagined doing, let alone enjoying, but the first brush of Ryan’s tongue against his skin makes his entire body tingle. Ryan licks slowly around Brendon’s hole, tongue darting out to press inside, hot and wet, and Brendon presses back against Ryan’s mouth, sparks shooting up his spine, biting his lip in an effort to stay quiet. Ryan pulls away for a second and Brendon almost moans, but then there’s a finger pressed up against his entrance, sliding inside easily. He pushes back against it, chest heaving, and Ryan traces a delicate line around his own finger with his tongue, breath tantalizing on the skin.
Ryan presses his finger forward, brushing against Brendon’s prostate, and he twists so hard against his restraints that he can feel the fabric cutting into his skin, but god, he can’t fucking help it. Every inch of him is on fire, like he can feel his blood thrumming under his skin. Ryan pushes forward again, harder, unrelenting and all-consuming, and Brendon tries to grind down against Ryan’s hand, so lost that he moans, loud and helpless.
Ryan’s free hand rakes down sharp against his ass, fingernails scraping roughly as he pulls out his finger. Brendon whimpers, overwhelmed by the sting and the burn and the near-painful throb of his dick, and Ryan slaps him right over the marks his nails just left, ruthless. Brendon’s writhing, pulling against his restraints, his whole body shaking with the effort of keeping quiet. It hurts and yet he’s never been this close without being touched, his dick hanging heavy between his legs, swollen and aching, and he might be drawing blood from his lip but he doesn’t give a shit, he just needs someone to touch him now, fuck it all, right fucking now.
His chest is heaving, something approaching panic beating against his ribcage, but Ryan is pressing gentle soothing kisses against his skin, and Brendon pictures the angry red lines that must be rising there. He feels Ryan standing behind him, and finally, finally, Ryan’s hand slides over his hip to curl around his dick.
“Fuck,” Brendon chokes, and just as quick as it appeared, the warmth of Ryan’s hand is gone, and there’s a blinding, breathtaking pain at his shoulder, coupled with a harsh tug at his hair. He’s close to tears now, ready to break down and fall to his knees and beg.
“Be good,” Ryan says against his ear, and it’s not so much commanding as promising, comforting. Brendon bites his lip again, tensing every muscle in his body, and it’s all that keeps him from screaming as Ryan strokes him slowly, so slowly, but as he strokes he moves closer, until he’s flush against Brendon’s back. His dick is pressing against Brendon’s ass, his breathing ragged in Brendon’s ear, and Brendon knows he’s just as close.
“Good,” Ryan says breathlessly, after just three light strokes, and Brendon doesn’t dare whimper again as he hears the rip of a condom wrapper and the snap of the lube bottle opening. Ryan slides in easily, hands gripping Brendon’s hips for leverage.
“Let go,” Ryan says shakily when he’s buried inside, and at his first thrust Brendon sobs, relief and pain and exhaustion coursing through him, shedding his throat on their way out his mouth. Ryan’s hands and the restraints are all that’s holding him up at this point. Brendon’s helpless, every muscle in his body screaming for release. Ryan reaches for him quickly, his movements jerky and desperate, and it’s three hard twists of his wrist before Brendon’s coming harder than he ever has in his life, arching back uncontrollably as his vision goes white, moaning so loud it’s practically a scream, and Ryan follows a half-second later with a broken string of curses, until they’re left panting against each other, Ryan’s arms wrapped tight around Brendon’s waist.
“God, you’re incredible, Bren, I’m sorry, I can’t…fuck, you were perfect,” he’s babbling when Brendon comes to, his mouth buried in the curve of Brendon’s neck, hastily pressing kisses there. He unties everything, and Brendon whimpers as blood flows back into his hands.
“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Ryan whispers frantically, guiding him until he collapses onto the bed, completely spent. Ryan ties off the condom and slides down next to him, lacing their fingers together and brushing his lips against the rubbed-raw skin of Brendon’s wrists. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I got completely carried away, you just looked…” Ryan murmurs earnestly, and Brendon reaches out to smooth away the worried crease between his eyebrows.
“No,” Brendon says softly. “No, that was incredible.” He means it.
Ryan lets out a deep breath. Brendon kisses him, slow and sweet, and Ryan smiles into it, curling a hand gently around Brendon’s neck and running fingers through his hair. They crawl (gingerly, in Brendon’s case) under the covers and kiss as they drift off, twined together comfortably
At first Brendon can’t remember why he’s so sore the next morning. His hiss of pain wakes Ryan, whose expression goes from sleepy to concerned as everything comes back to Brendon. He can’t help but blush as he meets Ryan’s eyes.
“So,” he says. “We’re not going to be sitting down much today.” Ryan’s lips tug up in a smile, and he leans in for a good-morning kiss.
Brendon assesses the damage in the bathroom mirror. His wrists are bruised and chafed beyond recognition, two livid bite marks stand out on the curve of his neck, and when he twists around, there are four distinct red lines emblazoned across the white skin of his ass. He doesn’t particularly care.
They stroll around for most of the day, taking pictures and ducking into every souvenir shop they find in search of the perfect souvenir.
“Then again,” Ryan muses as he turns over a miniature Italian flag, “the way this trip’s going, the best memento would be a dildo or something.” Brendon laughs loud enough to earn him a glare from the shop owner.
They tour the Milan Duomo, a gigantic cathedral that takes Brendon’s breath away. He can’t imagine the time or care necessary to produce every carved, twisted stone block, not to mention the intricate stained glass windows. He feels tiny, unbearably insignificant, as he stands in the center and stares up at the vaulted ceiling.
“Why can’t we build shit like this instead of ugly-ass skyscrapers?” he mutters angrily as they leave, and Ryan rolls his eyes.
“Because the only way they built these things was with slave labor. Plus, they took like a hundred years to build, I’m pretty sure nobody has the patience,” Ryan explains, as if to a child.
They get spectacularly lost on their way to find Santa Maria Delle Grazie, the church that houses Da Vinci’s infamous painting of the last supper. Once they find it Brendon’s not all that impressed, but Ryan seems appropriately awed, so he lets it slide.
It’s dark, and Brendon’s hungry, by the time they leave, so they find a tiny trattoria nearby. Brendon makes a pained face when he sits in one of the cushioned booth seats, which makes Ryan giggle. They order wine and spaghetti, and Brendon can’t help but smile as he remembers “The Lady And The Tramp.” It’s almost inappropriately romantic, sitting here in a quiet corner of the restaurant with Ryan’s smile cast golden in the candlelight.
“My ass hurts,” Brendon says, almost trying to break the mood.
“Have more wine,” Ryan suggests enthusiastically, already pink in the cheeks himself as he pours another glass for Brendon.
With that mentality, they’re more than a little (okay, they’re a lot) drunk as they stumble out of the restaurant and start walking. Brendon’s pretty sure they’re on the right road back to the hotel, but he can’t quite be sure, not with the wine fog blurring the edges of the street signs, not with Ryan pushing him into every dark corner to kiss him senseless. He sees a fountain that looks vaguely familiar, so he gives up and lets Ryan mold against him in the shadow of an alley.
“Bren,” comes Ryan’s voice, warm and slurred in his ear. “Bren, I want you to fuck me,” he says, and it’s breathless and low and Brendon’s hard faster than he thought was possible, hard and panting in the shadow of what he suddenly realizes is a church. “I want you to fuck me, Bren, I want you to feel how good it is,” Ryan husks, and, okay, yes, how could he possibly not say yes to that, how could he possibly think anything but yesyesyes with Ryan’s breath on his cheek and Ryan’s hand rubbing gently at his hip, and if he would just move that fucking hand two inches…
“Taxi,” Brendon manages to squeak out, and Ryan smiles, flushed and predatory, and Brendon just wants to shove him against the gritty stone wall and fuck him until he can’t see straight, but.
He manages to get his breathing mostly under control and wave down a taxi, but there’s still a five-minute drive, a five minute wait. And in some distant corner of his brain he’s wondering when it got this difficult to not be touching his best friend’s dick, but the rest of his brain is too preoccupied by thought of want to pay much attention.
He shoves a wad of bills at the cabbie, tugs at Ryan’s hand until he slides across the seat, pulls him breathlessly through the front door and past the receptionist before slamming him against the wall of the stairwell and sucking a deep purple bruise into his collarbone, and when did Ryan get so gorgeous. He’s biting at his lip and staring down at Brendon through lazy half-closed eyes, still flushed red from the wine, cheek hot when Brendon brushes his hair back and kisses him roughly. And it’s not until they manage to get through their door after an eternity of fumbling through hallways, not until Ryan takes a running leap and flops down on the bed, that Brendon takes a deep breath.
He just wants to look for a second, watch the way Ryan’s biting his kiss-swollen lip in concentration as he unbuttons his shirt, watch the pale curve of his neck and the spidery grace of his hands. Brendon’s lost for a moment, staring helplessly.
“Come on, my ass isn’t gonna fuck itself,” Ryan smirks, propping himself up on his elbows and looking up at Brendon through his lashes, and that’s just enough of a distraction that Brendon can forget his last half-formed thought: I’m in way over my head. He forgets just about everything, to be honest, as he remembers how hard he is, hard to the point of aching, and there’s Ryan, all hipbones and flushed cheeks, and the only thought that can possibly remain is yes.
He crawls slowly, hands and knees on either side of Ryan’s sprawled-out body, until they’re level, eyes and lips and hips lined up, and Ryan’s staring up at him with a familiar wicked half-smile, and Brendon can’t help but groan as he lowers himself into the kiss. Ryan snakes a hand up to the back of his neck, pulls him closer, until the heat and the pressure are enough to bruise. He’s still warmed from the inside from the wine, and Ryan’s skin is enough to make him start sweating.
“Fuck me,” Ryan gasps against his lips, and because it’s Ryan, he’s still demanding instead of asking. Brendon can’t resist rolling his hips a little, just to hear the desperate whine that escapes from Ryan’s throat.
“Say please,” Brendon laughs throatily, licking gently at the bruise he left earlier on Ryan’s neck.
He makes an undignified sort of squeak when Ryan flips him over suddenly, grinding down roughly and panting into Brendon’s ear.
“Brendon,” he breathes, low and silky. “If you knew how it felt, if you knew how hot and tight it is, how good your ass feels, you’d be the one begging me.”
Brendon whimpers, dizzy with want, and he lets Ryan roll them back over and pull off his shirt, barely able to focus for the throbbing between his legs. He manages to pull himself together enough to undo Ryan's belt buckle, and when they get Ryan's jeans off (it almost takes more coordination than they both possess together, with Brendon pulling and Ryan kicking) Brendon can't resist leaning down to take in the head of Ryan's cock, flushed dark and leaking against his stomach. Ryan chokes out a "Fuck," and arches up into it, but Brendon gives one hard suck and pulls off to undo his own jeans.
He’s had this done to him often enough, now, that he knows how it works. Ryan takes the first finger easily, the barest twist of his mouth showing his discomfort.
“More,” he whispers.
Brendon slides in the second finger and brushes them forward cautiously. Ryan’s lips part with a soft whimper, and Jesus. Brendon tries it again, harder, and watches as Ryan twists back against the sheets, biting at his lip, eyes half-closed. Brendon scissors his fingers and carefully adds a third, crooking them forward again, staring in fascination as Ryan lets his head fall back, exposing all the gorgeous lines and shadows of his throat and collarbone.
“Okay?” he whispers, and Ryan nods quickly.
He goes slowly when he first slides in, partly because Ryan’s wincing but partly because he’s not sure he could last if he went any faster. It’s…god, there aren’t words, just heat and pressure all around him, almost too much, leaving him gasping and lightheaded. He waits for Ryan to adjust, taking deep shaky breaths to keep himself under control, and when Ryan nods he rocks forward ever so slightly, shuddering at even that tiny movement.
“Bren, please,” Ryan groans, and what willpower he had disappears completely. He rolls his hips forward and this time Ryan gasps with him, arching up as Brendon starts to move in earnest. Every bit of movement, every groan from Ryan’s mouth, is making his head spin, blood deserting his brain in favor of his dick. He’s embarrassingly close already, whimpering each time Ryan’s hips surge up to meet his own. Ryan reaches between them to touch himself with long fast strokes, and the face he makes as he comes (cheeks flushed, swollen lips falling open, eyes fluttering closed) is enough to send Brendon over the edge with a choked moan.
“That was quick,” Brendon half-laughs, embarrassed, as he slides away to dispose of the condom. Ryan snorts, but his smile is wide and happy when Brendon turns back around.
“Don’t care,” he says, and pulls Brendon close.
Brendon’s half-asleep before Ryan speaks again, soft and nervous, voice barely penetrating Brendon’s sleep-hazy brain. “That was…I mean. You were the first. I’ve never,” Ryan trails off, and Brendon kisses his shoulder in response.
Way, way over my head, is his last thought before he drifts off.
He wakes up early the next morning, but he’s far too comfortable to really care. Ryan’s arm is curled over his side, hand resting on Brendon’s heart, and the golden morning light is barely filtering in through the curtains. He yawns and turns over, planning to fall right back to sleep. But there’s Ryan, and something about the absolute serenity in his face makes Brendon stare. His lips are curved up slightly, contentedly, a little pink arch against the pale white-peach of his skin, and Brendon can’t help but lean forward to kiss him gently.
Ryan’s eyes flicker open and he smiles, lazy and open. Something inside Brendon flutters.
“Hey,” Ryan sleepily. Brendon can’t breathe.
Oh. Oh, shit.