fic: Out Past the City, Part 1
Out Past the City by Beezus
Panic GSF | explicit | Part 1
Has the whole GSF thing been overdone yet? I warn you, this is my own played out version of events. It's been done before, done better, but I had to give it a go on my own. Posted in parts to ensure that I actually finish this bitch.
It was early. He had fallen asleep in Brendon and Jon's room, crashed out with Brendon on the bed closest to the television. The screen played images from a black and white sitcom, muted frames that flickered and danced on the periphery of Spencer's vision. The air conditioning clicked on with a violent hum. The noise startled Spencer wide-awake.
Brendon was sweating despite the cold air that churned though the hotel room. Spencer was cold, and Brendon was burning up. His hairline was damp with sweat, and Spencer imagined he could see waves of heat as they drifted up off his body like concrete on a hot summer day. He averted his eyes and breathed slowly though the impulse to drag his fingers though the film of damp that sheened Brendon's neck; a hand-print, a streak of fingers though the wet condensation of a car window.
When Spencer glanced at the clock, he realized it was later than he previously estimated. Just another handful of half hours and the light would start filtering silver-gray though the slats in the nylon blinds. Spencer exhaled noisily. He rubbed the soles of his feet against the hardy rough of the hotel sheets, the tough skin on his heels and toes scuffing on the material. They had reached that point in the tour where an idle restlessness set in. It colored the spaces between shows, building like a fine tension that would inevitably snap. It was only a matter of time before they all started bickering, seeking any kind of outlet for release.
But they hadn't reached the breaking point, yet. Ryan and Jon went out, and Spencer had chosen to stay behind with Brendon. He told himself it was a choice, instead of the both of them being too young to tag along to all the places that Jon and Ryan wanted to see. Nights like these weren't uncommon. Spencer didn't let himself think, stuck with each other. He didn't feel stuck.
Sleep hovered around the borders of his conscious thought. He must have drifted off again, because the next time Spencer woke to the mattress shifting beneath Ryan and Jon's combined bodies settling between him and Brendon on the bed. He had somehow missed the point where they'd come back. He'd missed the opening and closing slam of the door, missed the lead up to Jon's tongue in Ryan's mouth. Yeah, Spencer had missed something somewhere along the way. He applied pressure to his eyes with the heels of his palms until shooting stars swam beneath his eyelids. He could almost convince himself this was only a dream-- if it weren't for the small noises that Ryan and Jon fed into each other's mouths.
Spencer risked opening his eyes. Whatever small hope he'd held that they had stopped sometime between the space of his eyes falling shut and the exhalation of a breath shattered with the startling reality of Ryan's dark shape thrown in high contrast against the glow of the TV. Jon was beneath Ryan on his back. His head was down around Spencer's ribcage, his shins hanging off the edge of the bed. Spencer could see the gleam of Jon's lips illuminated by the flicker of the TV screen, where they had been kissed.
A quiet sort of hysteria blossomed within him, spreading though Spencer's skin and settling in a twisting ball between his sternum and navel. Brendon inhaled sharply on his right, and Spencer fisted his hands in the sheets, let his eyes go unfocused with want. He'd heard the term sensory-overload before, but his body hadn't known it until that moment.
Spencer looked back to Jon and Ryan, watched Jon unthread Ryan's leather belt from his pants with disbelieving eyes. Ryan arched his back. Jon paused his movement, dropped his hand to Ryan's inner thigh to massage the muscle though the thin material of his slacks. If this was a show, Spencer couldn't tell. The pale column of Ryan's throat, Jon's hands square and brown on his hips, felt nothing like a performance, at least not like one Spencer had seen before.
He floated, dimly noting the details as they flew past him; the sound of Ryan's zipper in the quiet, what Jon's hips looked like, straining up beneath the cage of Ryan's thighs. How Brendon sounded when he finally gave in and touched himself, his hand rasping wetly against his aroused skin. Finding himself not in control of his basic motor functions, Spencer's head lolled as if hingeless to the opposite side of the room. The other bed appeared as a pristine island in a sea of clutter, bags and clothes scattered haphazardly around the small space. Yet the comforter had somehow retained it's severe starch, all crisp folds and stiff pleats. He was glad. To have something that remained intact among the chaos.
Slowly, sensation returned to his limbs, a tingling awareness that chased though his nervous system, many children running lost though endless wet tunnels. Spencer cupped his cock protectively, shocked at himself when it twitched in the curve of his palm. The realization that he was hard shouldn't have come has as much of a surprise as it did. None of it should have come as a surprise.
Jon grunted his release, all cut off and harsh sounding in chorus with the sweet noises sounding out from Spencer's right side. The mattress groaned, then Ryan. Spencer squeezed his eyes shut and let go helplessly in his boxers when someone said his name, Spencer, traveling singular and suspended in the clammy dark.
Television turned off, the only light they had now came in through the blinds, bars of weak dawn that cut and divided the room in strips of dark blue and gray. The press of Ryan's pointer and index fingers at the crook of his elbow felt less like a question and more like the start of something Spencer wouldn't be able to stop.
Panic GSF | explicit | Part 1
Has the whole GSF thing been overdone yet? I warn you, this is my own played out version of events. It's been done before, done better, but I had to give it a go on my own. Posted in parts to ensure that I actually finish this bitch.
It was early. He had fallen asleep in Brendon and Jon's room, crashed out with Brendon on the bed closest to the television. The screen played images from a black and white sitcom, muted frames that flickered and danced on the periphery of Spencer's vision. The air conditioning clicked on with a violent hum. The noise startled Spencer wide-awake.
Brendon was sweating despite the cold air that churned though the hotel room. Spencer was cold, and Brendon was burning up. His hairline was damp with sweat, and Spencer imagined he could see waves of heat as they drifted up off his body like concrete on a hot summer day. He averted his eyes and breathed slowly though the impulse to drag his fingers though the film of damp that sheened Brendon's neck; a hand-print, a streak of fingers though the wet condensation of a car window.
When Spencer glanced at the clock, he realized it was later than he previously estimated. Just another handful of half hours and the light would start filtering silver-gray though the slats in the nylon blinds. Spencer exhaled noisily. He rubbed the soles of his feet against the hardy rough of the hotel sheets, the tough skin on his heels and toes scuffing on the material. They had reached that point in the tour where an idle restlessness set in. It colored the spaces between shows, building like a fine tension that would inevitably snap. It was only a matter of time before they all started bickering, seeking any kind of outlet for release.
But they hadn't reached the breaking point, yet. Ryan and Jon went out, and Spencer had chosen to stay behind with Brendon. He told himself it was a choice, instead of the both of them being too young to tag along to all the places that Jon and Ryan wanted to see. Nights like these weren't uncommon. Spencer didn't let himself think, stuck with each other. He didn't feel stuck.
Sleep hovered around the borders of his conscious thought. He must have drifted off again, because the next time Spencer woke to the mattress shifting beneath Ryan and Jon's combined bodies settling between him and Brendon on the bed. He had somehow missed the point where they'd come back. He'd missed the opening and closing slam of the door, missed the lead up to Jon's tongue in Ryan's mouth. Yeah, Spencer had missed something somewhere along the way. He applied pressure to his eyes with the heels of his palms until shooting stars swam beneath his eyelids. He could almost convince himself this was only a dream-- if it weren't for the small noises that Ryan and Jon fed into each other's mouths.
Spencer risked opening his eyes. Whatever small hope he'd held that they had stopped sometime between the space of his eyes falling shut and the exhalation of a breath shattered with the startling reality of Ryan's dark shape thrown in high contrast against the glow of the TV. Jon was beneath Ryan on his back. His head was down around Spencer's ribcage, his shins hanging off the edge of the bed. Spencer could see the gleam of Jon's lips illuminated by the flicker of the TV screen, where they had been kissed.
A quiet sort of hysteria blossomed within him, spreading though Spencer's skin and settling in a twisting ball between his sternum and navel. Brendon inhaled sharply on his right, and Spencer fisted his hands in the sheets, let his eyes go unfocused with want. He'd heard the term sensory-overload before, but his body hadn't known it until that moment.
Spencer looked back to Jon and Ryan, watched Jon unthread Ryan's leather belt from his pants with disbelieving eyes. Ryan arched his back. Jon paused his movement, dropped his hand to Ryan's inner thigh to massage the muscle though the thin material of his slacks. If this was a show, Spencer couldn't tell. The pale column of Ryan's throat, Jon's hands square and brown on his hips, felt nothing like a performance, at least not like one Spencer had seen before.
He floated, dimly noting the details as they flew past him; the sound of Ryan's zipper in the quiet, what Jon's hips looked like, straining up beneath the cage of Ryan's thighs. How Brendon sounded when he finally gave in and touched himself, his hand rasping wetly against his aroused skin. Finding himself not in control of his basic motor functions, Spencer's head lolled as if hingeless to the opposite side of the room. The other bed appeared as a pristine island in a sea of clutter, bags and clothes scattered haphazardly around the small space. Yet the comforter had somehow retained it's severe starch, all crisp folds and stiff pleats. He was glad. To have something that remained intact among the chaos.
Slowly, sensation returned to his limbs, a tingling awareness that chased though his nervous system, many children running lost though endless wet tunnels. Spencer cupped his cock protectively, shocked at himself when it twitched in the curve of his palm. The realization that he was hard shouldn't have come has as much of a surprise as it did. None of it should have come as a surprise.
Jon grunted his release, all cut off and harsh sounding in chorus with the sweet noises sounding out from Spencer's right side. The mattress groaned, then Ryan. Spencer squeezed his eyes shut and let go helplessly in his boxers when someone said his name, Spencer, traveling singular and suspended in the clammy dark.
Television turned off, the only light they had now came in through the blinds, bars of weak dawn that cut and divided the room in strips of dark blue and gray. The press of Ryan's pointer and index fingers at the crook of his elbow felt less like a question and more like the start of something Spencer wouldn't be able to stop.