*crawls out from under rock*
So basically RL has been kicking my ass, and as a result I've been a Class A internet A-Hole. Sorry lj. I want to make sweet promises, like I'll be better in the future, but that would be a complete lie. And I don't want to lie to you, baby )))):
Not a lot has been up with me in the fannish sense, but I feel compelled to inform you that I have been keeping up with b.urie's twitter, and it is every bit as queer and magical as I imagined it would be. In the past, I've supposed that loving b.urie is like collective mental illness from which we all suffer. Keeping up with that metaphor, I must tell you that my sickness has advanced to a near-terminal level. So. Here's 1,600 words of Brendine in a dress. I hope you like it.
Tin Gods by Beezus
Brendon/Ryan | PATD | Adult
The manor is huge, like something out of a bedtime story or a dream. Seventeen foot high ceilings, cut crystal chandeliers, balconies, turrets, and corridors like latticework, woven throughout the house. It's nothing short of a fairy tale castle. That's what they wanted for the video, and that's what Shane found them.
Ryan was the first member of his band to fall head over feet love with the house and it's sprawling layout. But he's a little turned around at the moment, and he wishes, however briefly, they had picked a location with less square footage and fewer opportunities for Ryan to be lead astray. He stumbles across a hallway that looks vaguely familiar, but he can't remember if it leads back downstairs or if it will wind him further along through the maze of rooms he's been trapped in for the last half hour. Shane warned him this might happen when Ryan asked for his permission to explore the estate during their break. Ryan's stomach growls; he should have eaten lunch before he fled the scene.
The noise and bustle of bodies and camera equipment moving about the vast house sounds not too far off. If he strains his ears, Ryan can pick out the distinct pitch and timbre of Spencer's voice among the many. He contemplates the wisdom in yelling for help, knowing he'll never hear the end of it if it does indeed come to that.
Ryan got lost. Again. Ha ha ha.
He scowls at the imaginary taunts and tugs at the scratchy cravat that curls around his neck, stifling each breath. Ryan may have a higher tolerance than most when it comes to uncomfortable formal wear, but this borders on ridiculous.
Ryan sags against the wall, defeated, pulling unhappily at his jacket, which he's come to realize is the sartorial equivalent of wallpaper. Jon and Spencer had played it smart, choosing similar garments for the shoot; jackets and waist-coats with a loose fit, and flowing material that breathes.
Flowing material. A rich cream color, with the faintest suggestion of blues and greens and pinks woven through the patterned rosebuds, and.
Ryan had made his grand escape for one very, very good reason. There had been no anticipating -- no way of preparing himself for what Brendon looked like in a dress.
Ryan closes his eyes and exhales slowly through his nose. He sends out a silent curse to the person who thought trussing Brendon up in a gown like an 18th century courtier was an acceptable premise for a music video.
"Ross, what the fuck?"
Ryan startles and his eyes fly open. He's confronted with that which he was trying so hard to avoid.
Brendon stands a few feet away at the opposite end of the hall, head cocked in confusion. He's not wearing any more makeup than Ryan or the rest of them, subtle around the eyes and a faint blush at his cheekbones, although Ryan can't be sure if that's rouge or an actual blush staining his cheeks. Brendon's hair is on the longish side, falling into his eyes and curling softly at his ears the way it did in London when he let it grow shaggy and it curled in the damp English climate. The smallest arrangement of paper flowers are woven through the whorl of curls above his left ear and Ryan wants to kiss the pale white lobe of that ear, or possibly set his teeth in it.
"You look," Ryan trails off in amorous silence, knowing full well how ridiculous he sounds.
The dress on Brendon is as obscene as Ryan remembered. A quarter inch strand of silk ribbon is banded around Brendon's neck; a slash of yellow to break up all the indecently bare skin that starts at the lace-edged neckline of the bust, across Brendon's exposed collarbones, and the pale column of his neck.
Brendon laughs nervously and folds his arms across the ladder of bows marching up the front of the gown. Ryan wants to kiss him, but the thing about Brendon in a dress is that he's still Brendon, dress or no. Ryan loses himself for a moment. The next thing he knows, he's closing the space between them; cups Brendon's clean-shaven jaw and presses their mouths together, relishing the texture of Brendon's full lips under his own. Brendon makes a surprised noise, surging forward and knocking Ryan into the wall, nearly taking a painting down with him.
"Whoa," Ryan exhales between kisses, bringing his arms up to contain some of the restless energy that bleeds from Brendon's skin, hitting Ryan in the gut and amping each movement between their bodies, so the next time Ryan claims Brendon's mouth in a kiss, he almost chips a tooth. He tightens his arms around Brendon's corseted waist, pressing his palms down hard against the ribbed material. Arms full of Brendon, and Ryan has no idea what to do with him except hang on and open his mouth wider for the next kiss, sucking softly on Brendon's tongue as it invades his mouth.
Gentle, he thinks as Brendon starts to soften in his arms. Careful. Ryan maneuvers them so that Brendon's the one with his back to the wall, head tipped back to receive the soft kisses Ryan rains down on his mouth, his neck. Brendon laughs nervously under his attentions. Ryan ignores him in favor of sucking the pale skin above the ribbon tied around his neck.
"You always did have a thing for lace," Brendon chokes out, smoothing a hand down Ryan's back and tangling in his tailcoats.
"Hmmm," Ryan mouths agreement against Brendon's neck, kissing a trail down the pale expanse of his chest. He licks carefully at the skin above the neckline, and Brendon's pulse stutters beneath his lips.
"Hey," Brendon says, "Hey," his voice deep and urgent, tangling his fingers in Ryan's hair. "Come up here with me for a sec."
Ryan petulantly resists, happy in his current position with his face buried in soft skin. His tongue laps a path below the neckline of the dress and Brendon's fingers tighten in his hair, almost on the side of too-hard, the way Brendon is with almost everything except Ryan.
"Oh, I see how it is," Brendon says lightly. "Am I supposed to just stand here and let you maul me?"
"Admire you," Ryan corrects wryly.
Brendon snorts but he doesn't protest to any of Ryan's further ministrations, allowing himself to be arranged to Ryan's liking. Ryan tugs his leg up so he can grind against Brendon, but he's frustrated that his thrusts are met with only the rustle of material, a far cry from the jut of Brendon's pelvis he was aiming for.
"Can we take this off?" Ryan asks, tugging at the voluminous skirts.
"Dude, give it a try, by all means. I just spent ten minutes in the bathroom trying to find my dick."
Ryan scratches his head. He falls to his knees, taking the hem of the dress and lifting it up to Brendon's waist.
"Maybe... Hold this?"
Brendon looks down at him with a bemused expression, hauling the skirts up higher as Ryan gathers the material and draws it away from Brendon's pale, knobby legs. When the material reaches his waist, Ryan can't hold back a laugh, because Brendon's wearing marigold yellow cotton underpants underneath the bustle and petticoats and tulle.
"I like these," Ryan says, tracing the material where it cuts into Brendon's pelvis, making the muscles twitch beneath his hand. Ryan touches the outline of Brendon's cock through the cotton, cupping him companionably and leaning forward to kiss the thin skin stretched across his hipbone.
"Mmmm," Brendon sighs. He braces his shoulders against the wall supporting his weight while cocking his hips in an inviting gesture. His eyes are dark, watching Ryan from beneath his lashes.
"Found it," Ryan jokes and pulls his cock out through the leg of Brendon's briefs, tonguing the salty head.
Brendon's stomach muscles contract each time Ryan pulls back and concentrates suction at the tip. He places his hand square in the center of Brendon's abdomen -- thumb and pinkie fingers almost brushing each hip bone -- to feel that flutter of muscle like a wave breaking under his palm.
Sucking cock is far from Ryan's favorite activity, but he can man up and admit he appreciates the way Brendon reacts with his whole body each time Ryan passes his wet tongue under the crown of his dick.
With Ryan's concentration elsewhere, Brendon catches his unoccupied hand and brings it to his lips. Ryan groans around his mouthful when Brendon laps at the webbing between Ryan's pointer and index fingers, slicking the digits with saliva to smooth the way for Ryan when he brings that hand up to the crease of Brendon's ass, flirting with the sensitive pucker of flesh.
It's like setting a spark to kindling, the way Brendon lights up at that seemingly minor point of contact. His entire demeanor changes, going open for Ryan in so many more ways than the one, and Ryan would get down on his knees for Brendon every day of the week if it meant he could have Brendon like this.
Brendon groans low in his throat when Ryan pushes deeper, squeezing a third finger past Brendon's stretched hole to join the other two digits in the clenching heat of his ass. Brendon cries out, blunt fingernails raking across the sweaty nape of Ryan's neck, and Ryan wonders, on a scale of one to ten, how inappropriate it would be to ask Shane if they're allowed to keep the dress.
Not a lot has been up with me in the fannish sense, but I feel compelled to inform you that I have been keeping up with b.urie's twitter, and it is every bit as queer and magical as I imagined it would be. In the past, I've supposed that loving b.urie is like collective mental illness from which we all suffer. Keeping up with that metaphor, I must tell you that my sickness has advanced to a near-terminal level. So. Here's 1,600 words of Brendine in a dress. I hope you like it.
Tin Gods by Beezus
Brendon/Ryan | PATD | Adult
The manor is huge, like something out of a bedtime story or a dream. Seventeen foot high ceilings, cut crystal chandeliers, balconies, turrets, and corridors like latticework, woven throughout the house. It's nothing short of a fairy tale castle. That's what they wanted for the video, and that's what Shane found them.
Ryan was the first member of his band to fall head over feet love with the house and it's sprawling layout. But he's a little turned around at the moment, and he wishes, however briefly, they had picked a location with less square footage and fewer opportunities for Ryan to be lead astray. He stumbles across a hallway that looks vaguely familiar, but he can't remember if it leads back downstairs or if it will wind him further along through the maze of rooms he's been trapped in for the last half hour. Shane warned him this might happen when Ryan asked for his permission to explore the estate during their break. Ryan's stomach growls; he should have eaten lunch before he fled the scene.
The noise and bustle of bodies and camera equipment moving about the vast house sounds not too far off. If he strains his ears, Ryan can pick out the distinct pitch and timbre of Spencer's voice among the many. He contemplates the wisdom in yelling for help, knowing he'll never hear the end of it if it does indeed come to that.
Ryan got lost. Again. Ha ha ha.
He scowls at the imaginary taunts and tugs at the scratchy cravat that curls around his neck, stifling each breath. Ryan may have a higher tolerance than most when it comes to uncomfortable formal wear, but this borders on ridiculous.
Ryan sags against the wall, defeated, pulling unhappily at his jacket, which he's come to realize is the sartorial equivalent of wallpaper. Jon and Spencer had played it smart, choosing similar garments for the shoot; jackets and waist-coats with a loose fit, and flowing material that breathes.
Flowing material. A rich cream color, with the faintest suggestion of blues and greens and pinks woven through the patterned rosebuds, and.
Ryan had made his grand escape for one very, very good reason. There had been no anticipating -- no way of preparing himself for what Brendon looked like in a dress.
Ryan closes his eyes and exhales slowly through his nose. He sends out a silent curse to the person who thought trussing Brendon up in a gown like an 18th century courtier was an acceptable premise for a music video.
"Ross, what the fuck?"
Ryan startles and his eyes fly open. He's confronted with that which he was trying so hard to avoid.
Brendon stands a few feet away at the opposite end of the hall, head cocked in confusion. He's not wearing any more makeup than Ryan or the rest of them, subtle around the eyes and a faint blush at his cheekbones, although Ryan can't be sure if that's rouge or an actual blush staining his cheeks. Brendon's hair is on the longish side, falling into his eyes and curling softly at his ears the way it did in London when he let it grow shaggy and it curled in the damp English climate. The smallest arrangement of paper flowers are woven through the whorl of curls above his left ear and Ryan wants to kiss the pale white lobe of that ear, or possibly set his teeth in it.
"You look," Ryan trails off in amorous silence, knowing full well how ridiculous he sounds.
The dress on Brendon is as obscene as Ryan remembered. A quarter inch strand of silk ribbon is banded around Brendon's neck; a slash of yellow to break up all the indecently bare skin that starts at the lace-edged neckline of the bust, across Brendon's exposed collarbones, and the pale column of his neck.
Brendon laughs nervously and folds his arms across the ladder of bows marching up the front of the gown. Ryan wants to kiss him, but the thing about Brendon in a dress is that he's still Brendon, dress or no. Ryan loses himself for a moment. The next thing he knows, he's closing the space between them; cups Brendon's clean-shaven jaw and presses their mouths together, relishing the texture of Brendon's full lips under his own. Brendon makes a surprised noise, surging forward and knocking Ryan into the wall, nearly taking a painting down with him.
"Whoa," Ryan exhales between kisses, bringing his arms up to contain some of the restless energy that bleeds from Brendon's skin, hitting Ryan in the gut and amping each movement between their bodies, so the next time Ryan claims Brendon's mouth in a kiss, he almost chips a tooth. He tightens his arms around Brendon's corseted waist, pressing his palms down hard against the ribbed material. Arms full of Brendon, and Ryan has no idea what to do with him except hang on and open his mouth wider for the next kiss, sucking softly on Brendon's tongue as it invades his mouth.
Gentle, he thinks as Brendon starts to soften in his arms. Careful. Ryan maneuvers them so that Brendon's the one with his back to the wall, head tipped back to receive the soft kisses Ryan rains down on his mouth, his neck. Brendon laughs nervously under his attentions. Ryan ignores him in favor of sucking the pale skin above the ribbon tied around his neck.
"You always did have a thing for lace," Brendon chokes out, smoothing a hand down Ryan's back and tangling in his tailcoats.
"Hmmm," Ryan mouths agreement against Brendon's neck, kissing a trail down the pale expanse of his chest. He licks carefully at the skin above the neckline, and Brendon's pulse stutters beneath his lips.
"Hey," Brendon says, "Hey," his voice deep and urgent, tangling his fingers in Ryan's hair. "Come up here with me for a sec."
Ryan petulantly resists, happy in his current position with his face buried in soft skin. His tongue laps a path below the neckline of the dress and Brendon's fingers tighten in his hair, almost on the side of too-hard, the way Brendon is with almost everything except Ryan.
"Oh, I see how it is," Brendon says lightly. "Am I supposed to just stand here and let you maul me?"
"Admire you," Ryan corrects wryly.
Brendon snorts but he doesn't protest to any of Ryan's further ministrations, allowing himself to be arranged to Ryan's liking. Ryan tugs his leg up so he can grind against Brendon, but he's frustrated that his thrusts are met with only the rustle of material, a far cry from the jut of Brendon's pelvis he was aiming for.
"Can we take this off?" Ryan asks, tugging at the voluminous skirts.
"Dude, give it a try, by all means. I just spent ten minutes in the bathroom trying to find my dick."
Ryan scratches his head. He falls to his knees, taking the hem of the dress and lifting it up to Brendon's waist.
"Maybe... Hold this?"
Brendon looks down at him with a bemused expression, hauling the skirts up higher as Ryan gathers the material and draws it away from Brendon's pale, knobby legs. When the material reaches his waist, Ryan can't hold back a laugh, because Brendon's wearing marigold yellow cotton underpants underneath the bustle and petticoats and tulle.
"I like these," Ryan says, tracing the material where it cuts into Brendon's pelvis, making the muscles twitch beneath his hand. Ryan touches the outline of Brendon's cock through the cotton, cupping him companionably and leaning forward to kiss the thin skin stretched across his hipbone.
"Mmmm," Brendon sighs. He braces his shoulders against the wall supporting his weight while cocking his hips in an inviting gesture. His eyes are dark, watching Ryan from beneath his lashes.
"Found it," Ryan jokes and pulls his cock out through the leg of Brendon's briefs, tonguing the salty head.
Brendon's stomach muscles contract each time Ryan pulls back and concentrates suction at the tip. He places his hand square in the center of Brendon's abdomen -- thumb and pinkie fingers almost brushing each hip bone -- to feel that flutter of muscle like a wave breaking under his palm.
Sucking cock is far from Ryan's favorite activity, but he can man up and admit he appreciates the way Brendon reacts with his whole body each time Ryan passes his wet tongue under the crown of his dick.
With Ryan's concentration elsewhere, Brendon catches his unoccupied hand and brings it to his lips. Ryan groans around his mouthful when Brendon laps at the webbing between Ryan's pointer and index fingers, slicking the digits with saliva to smooth the way for Ryan when he brings that hand up to the crease of Brendon's ass, flirting with the sensitive pucker of flesh.
It's like setting a spark to kindling, the way Brendon lights up at that seemingly minor point of contact. His entire demeanor changes, going open for Ryan in so many more ways than the one, and Ryan would get down on his knees for Brendon every day of the week if it meant he could have Brendon like this.
Brendon groans low in his throat when Ryan pushes deeper, squeezing a third finger past Brendon's stretched hole to join the other two digits in the clenching heat of his ass. Brendon cries out, blunt fingernails raking across the sweaty nape of Ryan's neck, and Ryan wonders, on a scale of one to ten, how inappropriate it would be to ask Shane if they're allowed to keep the dress.