Bandom fic: The Breathings of Your Heart
More from redorchids's Crazy Elf Christmas Wish Exchange, this time porn. (I know, what?) ivesia19 asked for Something sensual. Like skin writing. Skin writing it is!
Title: The Breathings of Your Heart
Characters: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1400
Summary: College AU. Ryan likes being drawn on.
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. -- Willliam wordsworth
“This is not working,” Brendon says, after having prodded Ryan awake for the fourth time. “What did you do last night? Did you go out boozing with Jon again? Because you promised never to do that again the day before we do work together.”
“Uhn,” Ryan says. He's sprawled in one half of Brendon's sofa and has been yawning regularly since eight o'clock. The experiment they're doing together isn't for another week, but this is one of the only evenings they're both free and they agreed days ago to meet today and brainstorm solutions.
“That had better not mean yes.”
“I had an essay to hand in this morning, jerk,” Ryan manages, stretching out a long-fingered hand to prod Brendon's shoulder, managing on the second go. “Didn't get to bed until six.”
“Obviously not a good idea,” Brendon says, but he smiles, anyway. “Fine, this'll just have to be another thing that goes on your Not To Do-list.”
“Hm?”
“In fact, I'm going to make a note for you, to make sure you don't forget,” Brendon says, and before Ryan has time to protest, grabs his right hand.
“No,” Ryan whines, but he doesn't seem to be able to summon up enough energy to pull his hand away.
“I,” Brendon says cheerfully, writing the word on Ryan's palm, “will go to bed on time the day before an important meeting with my lab partner.”
The last word is written across Ryan's wrist, and Ryan shivers suddenly.
“Oh,” he says. “That feels really nice.”
Brendon pauses, looks at Ryan's closed eyes and lolling head and then puts his pen to Ryan's skin again, softly tracing the tattoo on his wrist, grinning when Ryan hums distractedly. He follows every curling letter and then, encouraged by the soft murmur of content, moves further up Ryan's arm. He reaches the crook of Ryan's elbow and rests there, drawing interconnecting spirals and blossoming tendrils of some strange plant.
“Hmm,” Ryan sighs, tipping his head back further. “That's good.”
Brendon bites his lip. Ryan's throat is exposed, pale and beautiful, and it's more than a little distracting. He forces himself to turn back to his drawings, continuing his path of discovery up the soft skin of Ryan's inner arm. He draws flowers and curls and tear drops, moving slowly upwards. Ryan's only wearing a singlet today, leaving as much skin as possible as a canvas. Brendon is pleased about this fact.
He's had to shift position to avoid twisting Ryan's arm off and is now sitting almost in Ryan's lap, facing the back of the sofa and cradling Ryan's arm to him. At some point, Ryan has put his left hand on Brendon's back, moving his thumb in small circles. His breath is getting heavier by the moment with what's probably sleep.
Probably.
Brendon reaches the shoulder and draws his last curling line, letting it brush the edge of Ryan's singlet, and then he stops.
“Why are you stopping?” Ryan asks. His hand has slipped lower on Brendon's back, his little finger resting just below the hemline of Brendon's T-shirt.
“Um. Because I'm out of skin.”
“That can be fixed,” Ryan says quietly, and his fingers press into Brendon's back suddenly.
“Are you sure?” Brendon asks, because he and Ryan may have been quietly flirting since the beginning of term, but he's starting to feel like he might be taking advantage of his sleep-deprived class mate, and that's-not good.
In large part because that would make Ryan less inclined to be taken advantage of again, to be honest.
Ryan opens his eyes and looks straight at him. His eyes are clear and not very sleepy at all. “Pretty sure, yeah,” he says, slipping his hand up the back of Brendon's T-shirt. “But maybe you should lock the door.”
Brendon nods dumbly and rises, letting his fingers linger as long as they can against Ryan's skin, then turns and crosses to the door and locks it with hands that are only shaking a little. When he turns back, Ryan has pulled off his singlet and is grinning at him.
“You, too,” he says, nodding at Brendon's T-shirt, and Brendon pulls it off before he sits down again.
“Where's the pen, then?” he asks, because he has to say something. Ryan shrugs.
“Think I dropped it. But how about-” He puts a hand on Brendon's chest and pushes him backwards, then puts a nail to Brendon's skin just above his nipple and scrapes downward.
“How about I do this?” he murmurs.
Brendon hisses in a breath and reaches up, but Ryan slaps away his hand and grins, shaking his head.
“My turn,” he says, and he scrapes his nails across Brendon's skin again, curling around his nipple and teasing at the sensitive skin. He adds his other hand as well and works lower and lower, fingers moving in elaborate patterns and leaving the memory of their path in reddened lines and faint echoes of delicious pain.
Brendon shifts uncomfortably. This is getting him really hard. And even if girl jeans are good in many ways-they make his ass look amazing, OK-they're not good for an aching hard-on.
“Please,” he manages, and then gasps as Ryan's hand swoops across his stomach and curls into the hem of his jeans.
“These are ridiculously tight,” Ryan says, and slowly pops one of the buttons. Brendon makes a noise somewhere in the back of his throat, throwing his head back against the sofa cushions.
“Fucking. Tease,” he grinds out between clenched teeth, and then Ryan's hand is pushing open his jeans, grabbing his cock.
“Want to rethink that?” Ryan asks, running his thumb over the head. Brendon is still working out some kind of clever reply when he feels hot breath ghosting over his cock, and in the next moment, Ryan's beautiful mouth is swallowing him down.
Brendon makes a keening noise he's not entirely proud of. “Nngh,” he says, works saliva into his mouth and tries again, shoving feebly at Ryan's shoulders, “No. I mean, yes. But. Want your hands.”
Ryan comes off him, and for a few moments Brendon really, really regrets having said that. Then Ryan stretches out beside him, all impossibly long limbs and pale skin, and he grins and plants a kiss right behind Brendon's ear.
“As you wish,” he says softly, closing his fingers around Brendon's cock.
They haven't even kissed yet, Brendon realises, and he twists his body, curling his fingers into Ryan's hair and bringing their lips together. When Ryan kisses him back, fingers tightening on Brendon's cock, Brendon lets go of his hair and moves his fingers to Ryan's jeans instead. He works the fly open clumsily and greedily, shoving both jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh in impatient, jerky movements.
When Brendon takes Ryan's cock into his hand, Ryan groans into his mouth, thrusting his hips forward. Brendon almost comes right then.
They jerk each other off, kisses melting slowly into hard breathing and choked noises, movements getting more and more sloppy until Ryan thrusts into Brendon's hand with a long moan, cock jerking and wetness spilling over Brendon's fingers and stomach. Brendon comes right afterwards, burying his face in Ryan's damp hair as Ryan jerks him through his orgasm. When the last of the shocks has passed Ryan finally lets go, ghosting his fingers across Brendon's stomach instead, light touches like butterflies or careful kisses. Brendon runs his own fingers through Ryan's hair, curling with sweat, then down across his face, brushing his thumb across Ryan's lower lip.
“We should probably get cleaned up,” he offers eventually, without much enthusiasm. Ryan makes an annoyed noise and presses a kiss to the corner of Brendon's mouth.
“I told you,” he says with smug grin, stretching luxuriously and pillowing his head on Brendon's collarbone, “I was up all night with an essay. I really can't be expected to do any hard work.”
Title: The Breathings of Your Heart
Characters: Brendon/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1400
Summary: College AU. Ryan likes being drawn on.
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart. -- Willliam wordsworth
“This is not working,” Brendon says, after having prodded Ryan awake for the fourth time. “What did you do last night? Did you go out boozing with Jon again? Because you promised never to do that again the day before we do work together.”
“Uhn,” Ryan says. He's sprawled in one half of Brendon's sofa and has been yawning regularly since eight o'clock. The experiment they're doing together isn't for another week, but this is one of the only evenings they're both free and they agreed days ago to meet today and brainstorm solutions.
“That had better not mean yes.”
“I had an essay to hand in this morning, jerk,” Ryan manages, stretching out a long-fingered hand to prod Brendon's shoulder, managing on the second go. “Didn't get to bed until six.”
“Obviously not a good idea,” Brendon says, but he smiles, anyway. “Fine, this'll just have to be another thing that goes on your Not To Do-list.”
“Hm?”
“In fact, I'm going to make a note for you, to make sure you don't forget,” Brendon says, and before Ryan has time to protest, grabs his right hand.
“No,” Ryan whines, but he doesn't seem to be able to summon up enough energy to pull his hand away.
“I,” Brendon says cheerfully, writing the word on Ryan's palm, “will go to bed on time the day before an important meeting with my lab partner.”
The last word is written across Ryan's wrist, and Ryan shivers suddenly.
“Oh,” he says. “That feels really nice.”
Brendon pauses, looks at Ryan's closed eyes and lolling head and then puts his pen to Ryan's skin again, softly tracing the tattoo on his wrist, grinning when Ryan hums distractedly. He follows every curling letter and then, encouraged by the soft murmur of content, moves further up Ryan's arm. He reaches the crook of Ryan's elbow and rests there, drawing interconnecting spirals and blossoming tendrils of some strange plant.
“Hmm,” Ryan sighs, tipping his head back further. “That's good.”
Brendon bites his lip. Ryan's throat is exposed, pale and beautiful, and it's more than a little distracting. He forces himself to turn back to his drawings, continuing his path of discovery up the soft skin of Ryan's inner arm. He draws flowers and curls and tear drops, moving slowly upwards. Ryan's only wearing a singlet today, leaving as much skin as possible as a canvas. Brendon is pleased about this fact.
He's had to shift position to avoid twisting Ryan's arm off and is now sitting almost in Ryan's lap, facing the back of the sofa and cradling Ryan's arm to him. At some point, Ryan has put his left hand on Brendon's back, moving his thumb in small circles. His breath is getting heavier by the moment with what's probably sleep.
Probably.
Brendon reaches the shoulder and draws his last curling line, letting it brush the edge of Ryan's singlet, and then he stops.
“Why are you stopping?” Ryan asks. His hand has slipped lower on Brendon's back, his little finger resting just below the hemline of Brendon's T-shirt.
“Um. Because I'm out of skin.”
“That can be fixed,” Ryan says quietly, and his fingers press into Brendon's back suddenly.
“Are you sure?” Brendon asks, because he and Ryan may have been quietly flirting since the beginning of term, but he's starting to feel like he might be taking advantage of his sleep-deprived class mate, and that's-not good.
In large part because that would make Ryan less inclined to be taken advantage of again, to be honest.
Ryan opens his eyes and looks straight at him. His eyes are clear and not very sleepy at all. “Pretty sure, yeah,” he says, slipping his hand up the back of Brendon's T-shirt. “But maybe you should lock the door.”
Brendon nods dumbly and rises, letting his fingers linger as long as they can against Ryan's skin, then turns and crosses to the door and locks it with hands that are only shaking a little. When he turns back, Ryan has pulled off his singlet and is grinning at him.
“You, too,” he says, nodding at Brendon's T-shirt, and Brendon pulls it off before he sits down again.
“Where's the pen, then?” he asks, because he has to say something. Ryan shrugs.
“Think I dropped it. But how about-” He puts a hand on Brendon's chest and pushes him backwards, then puts a nail to Brendon's skin just above his nipple and scrapes downward.
“How about I do this?” he murmurs.
Brendon hisses in a breath and reaches up, but Ryan slaps away his hand and grins, shaking his head.
“My turn,” he says, and he scrapes his nails across Brendon's skin again, curling around his nipple and teasing at the sensitive skin. He adds his other hand as well and works lower and lower, fingers moving in elaborate patterns and leaving the memory of their path in reddened lines and faint echoes of delicious pain.
Brendon shifts uncomfortably. This is getting him really hard. And even if girl jeans are good in many ways-they make his ass look amazing, OK-they're not good for an aching hard-on.
“Please,” he manages, and then gasps as Ryan's hand swoops across his stomach and curls into the hem of his jeans.
“These are ridiculously tight,” Ryan says, and slowly pops one of the buttons. Brendon makes a noise somewhere in the back of his throat, throwing his head back against the sofa cushions.
“Fucking. Tease,” he grinds out between clenched teeth, and then Ryan's hand is pushing open his jeans, grabbing his cock.
“Want to rethink that?” Ryan asks, running his thumb over the head. Brendon is still working out some kind of clever reply when he feels hot breath ghosting over his cock, and in the next moment, Ryan's beautiful mouth is swallowing him down.
Brendon makes a keening noise he's not entirely proud of. “Nngh,” he says, works saliva into his mouth and tries again, shoving feebly at Ryan's shoulders, “No. I mean, yes. But. Want your hands.”
Ryan comes off him, and for a few moments Brendon really, really regrets having said that. Then Ryan stretches out beside him, all impossibly long limbs and pale skin, and he grins and plants a kiss right behind Brendon's ear.
“As you wish,” he says softly, closing his fingers around Brendon's cock.
They haven't even kissed yet, Brendon realises, and he twists his body, curling his fingers into Ryan's hair and bringing their lips together. When Ryan kisses him back, fingers tightening on Brendon's cock, Brendon lets go of his hair and moves his fingers to Ryan's jeans instead. He works the fly open clumsily and greedily, shoving both jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh in impatient, jerky movements.
When Brendon takes Ryan's cock into his hand, Ryan groans into his mouth, thrusting his hips forward. Brendon almost comes right then.
They jerk each other off, kisses melting slowly into hard breathing and choked noises, movements getting more and more sloppy until Ryan thrusts into Brendon's hand with a long moan, cock jerking and wetness spilling over Brendon's fingers and stomach. Brendon comes right afterwards, burying his face in Ryan's damp hair as Ryan jerks him through his orgasm. When the last of the shocks has passed Ryan finally lets go, ghosting his fingers across Brendon's stomach instead, light touches like butterflies or careful kisses. Brendon runs his own fingers through Ryan's hair, curling with sweat, then down across his face, brushing his thumb across Ryan's lower lip.
“We should probably get cleaned up,” he offers eventually, without much enthusiasm. Ryan makes an annoyed noise and presses a kiss to the corner of Brendon's mouth.
“I told you,” he says with smug grin, stretching luxuriously and pillowing his head on Brendon's collarbone, “I was up all night with an essay. I really can't be expected to do any hard work.”