FicWad

Originally posted at Slash! At The Disco on LiveJournal.


"Do you... Do you want to stop?"

Ryan looks Brendon in the eyes and shakes his head. His breath is labored now from their heavy kisses and there is just no way - absolutely no way - he wants to slink back to his bed and take care of the growing problem between his legs alone tonight. Again. Silently, Ryan wills Brendon to be okay with it, okay with this, as he tentatively reaches out for the waistband of Brendon's jeans. But there's no sign of motion behind Brendon's now closed eyelids as Ryan undoes the first button and then the second, or as his nimble fingers slowly tug down the zipper. Brendon is remarkably still, maybe frozen.

"Brendon?" Ryan asks softly.

Brendon inhales sharply. "Yeah," he chokes out, gasping and screwing his eyes shut more tightly. "Fuck, yeah."

Then Brendon's eyes flash open and Ryan instantly understands why he'd kept them so tightly sealed: the fiery lust inside threatens to boil over, and it's almost frightening. Their lips crash at a higher velocity and Brendon's reaching, clutching, pulling Ryan closer by the waist. His hands attempt no pretense as they slide along the curve of Ryan's ass and press their hips together.

Ryan can feel him through their tight jeans and, God, he needs this now. He wants it now. All of those times he told Brendon to stop, all of the times he was afraid of going too far, he should have just been doing /this/, because Brendon's hips thrusting up at him, even through all of this increasingly cumbersome fabric, feels so fucking good that Ryan thinks he might just have skipped over death and found the back way into heaven.

Ryan really isn't aware of what he's doing when his fingers hook through Brendon's belt loops and tug. It doesn't even register until Brendon moans into his mouth, and then Ryan realizes that, shit, he's suddenly got this cock in his hand that isn't his own and Brendon's pants have fallen around his ankles and when - how - exactly did this happen? And what the fuck does he do now?

A groan from Brendon, one that sounds more pained than pleasured, signals that Ryan, he better just hurry up and do /something/. Make this good. As his first timid stroke pulls a contented little sigh from Brendon's lips, Ryan thinks that he might just be doing this right. So, he's holding another man's penis. It's no big deal, he tells himself. It's just Brendon. It's just a hand job. It can't be too much different from jerking himself off and, with all of the time they spend on the road, Ryan's certainly gotten adept at that. Ryan tightens his grip just a little and tugs down again. The angle is different, awkward, but soon he's got a bit of a rhythm going and he has to hold down Brendon's hips with the flat palm of his other hand. Brendon's heavy brow is furrowed, his jaw is slackened, and he's breathing so shallowly Ryan wonders if any air is making it to his lungs at all. His hair is hanging in his eyes, his cheeks are flushed, and yeah, it's still a bit weird, but Ryan knows he'll do this again in a heartbeat just to see this look on Brendon's face one more time.

Abruptly, Brendon springs up and pulls Ryan's hand off of his dick.

"Brendon, what-"

"I want to fuck you," Brendon says emphatically. Quietly. "Please? Please, Ryan? I really want to fuck you." His breath hitches now as Ryan's eyes go wide.

"Brendon..."

"Please?" and this time it's breathy and comes out as more of a whine than before.

They've never talked about this before. Ryan's never even considered having sex with Brendon; he seriously didn't think they'd ever get this far. Up until now everything between them has happened painfully slowly: a lingering touch on the elbow in the airport, sitting a little too closely on the sofa while watching a movie, and those secret smiles they only exchanged when they thought no one was looking. Sure, there was the playful groping and the almost kisses that made the young girls scream at shows, but what they did on stage and off it had always been two entirely different things. Who they were on stage and off it were two entirely different people. Onstage they could be reckless. Onstage Ryan could say anything he chose, hiding behind Brendon's voice. Onstage Brendon could be a literal and figurative ring master, completely in control and able to fulfill everyone's dearest daydreams. But offstage... Offstage they had to be themselves; they had to be responsible for their actions. Offstage it was harder.

The first time Brendon kissed him, Ryan was sure it was going to be in front of a crowd of a thousand people with the white-hot stage lights raining down on them and Spencer and Jon still playing in the background. He couldn't have been more surprised when that first kiss was pressed to his lips in the dark behind the tour bus at a truck stop somewhere in Colorado, with no one watching but a pair of blackbirds sitting on an overhanging telephone wire. That had been two months ago. Since then the farthest they'd gone was a bit of tongue affably slipped in to a kiss and the occasional mischievous touch. It was the farthest either of them had allowed the other to go - until tonight. Ryan knows that he's the one who started this, but yesterday he would have bet that it would have been at least another month before their shirts even came off. Come to think of it, their shirts still weren't off and yet here he was, Brendon, asking for much more. For everything.

Ryan stares at the inch or two of Brendon's pink, rigid cock that peaks over the top of his boxers for a few, long seconds trying to decide whether he even thought that would fit inside him, trying to figure out just how this might work. To be entirely truthful, it's intimidating. He's never done this before. Not with a guy. Certainly not bottomed. Brendon wanted to fuck him...

Brendon, however, must have seen his staring and taken it as a good sign because soon a hand is on his chin, and lips are on his lips, and a pelvis is against his pelvis. Ryan allows himself to be pushed back onto couch they lay upon in living room of the apartment he leases when they're off tour. He allows Brendon to intertwine their legs and slide wantonly against him, hard cock against hard cock. Then Brendon pushes a little harder and "Mmm," Ryan moans into his boyfriend's mouth because this is really very, very good - especially when Brendon breaks their kiss to plunge his tongue, hot and soft, into Ryan's ear. Ryan does not want to know where the fuck Brendon had even learned that one.

After a few breathless moments, Ryan rips his lips away, gasping for air. "Okay," he hears and realizes the words are coming out of his own mouth. Yes, he wants this. Yes, he does. And fuck, just, "Yes."

Brendon looks him in the eyes, quickly registering his words, and smiles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Ryan agrees with a curt nod. "Fuck me."

The smile takes over Brendon's entire face.

Ryan even helps peel off his own pants because, really, they are ridiculously tight and Brendon is much too impatient (Brendon, he kicks his jeans and boxers all the way off as though they've caught fire). Their shirts are messily pulled off (in his haste, Ryan gets stuck momentarily in his sleeve) and cast aside.

This newfound sense of urgency is almost absurd - almost. And it almost makes Ryan mournful of the now bygone era when their relationship crawled along one fluttery baby-step at a time. He isn't though. He's really not, because taking these sorts of leaps and bounds isn't worse, it's just different. Forget whatever he anticipated was going to happen and when; Ryan doesn't want to wait until he's old and grey to do this. This is /Brendon/. Now is fine. Now is perfect. Carpe fucking Diem.

"Fuck me," he whispers again, and Brendon quirks an eyebrow and pulls down Ryan's boxer-shorts.

Brendon settles happily between Ryan's spread thighs. "I'm getting to that," he assures him with a playful smack to the side of his now bare bottom,.

And Ryan is embarrassed when he fails to stifle a heady gasp. What's more, he can see through to the churning gears behind Brendon's eyes that are eagerly filing away this information, for next time maybe, and his face flushes with a strange sort of exhilaration. There will be a next time. And a time after that. This is a beginning.

But all extraneous thought is driven off as Brendon's fingers reconnect with Ryan's aching flesh and teasingly trail a line along the cleft of his ass. The feather-light sensation is almost painful - painfully inadequate. Hips shift of their own accord, trying to increase the contact, and hands shoot out to grab at any part of Brendon they can manage. One makes contact with Brendon's elbow. The other gets tied up gracelessly in his hair.

"I want..." Ryan murmurs, tugging on the elbow to press Brendon's fingers down more firmly, closer now. Obligingly, the pads of Brendon's fingers dig into the taught skin and drag themselves down, toward the pink-rimmed pucker.

"What? What do you want, Ryan?" Brendon asks in a low, knowing voice and Ryan feels a shudder sweep through his body because, fuck, this boy is sex-on-legs and that rich, dulcet voice of his has always been Ryan's Achilles' heel, his undoing. The croon of that voice could make Ryan agree to nearly anything. It's probably for the best that this is something Brendon doesn't know.

"Don't fucking tease me, Brendon." Ryan makes an annoyed clicking noise with his tongue. "I want your cock."

Once upon a time Ryan knows he would never have been able to say such a thing aloud. Write it down, but never say it with his own voice. Yes, he could probably blame his father for this too, but he's blamed him for so many things already. Ryan had just never been good at being forward. He wasn't a Brendon. However, when your bandmate-cum-best friend-cum-boyfriend is about to slip his finger into your ass and you're about to lose a type of virginity that just a year ago you would never have guessed you even possessed, there's really no room for timidity.

Ryan feels Brendon's index finger poke gently at the opening and pastes on what he hopes is an encouraging smile. Brendon meets his eyes and smiles back weakly. His finger slowly crawls its way inside, until it's sunk in right to the knuckle. It feels good. It feels great. It feels strange, but seeing as things are usually going in the opposite direction, Ryan decides that strange is probably normal. And he vaguely wonders if this will be anything like childbirth before dismissing that thought as absolutely ridiculous and never-to-be-voiced-in-public.

As Brendon's second finger attempts its entrance Ryan realizes that, yeah, maybe childbirth wasn't such a poor analogy after all. Because this fucking /hurts/. It's a slow and tedious burn, as though he's being pulled apart where there is no seam. And the horror must have been evident on Ryan's face or maybe in the recoiling of his hips because Brendon takes out both fingers almost immediately.

"Ryan? Is this - Are you okay?" he asks, knowing the answer, and Ryan shakes his head.

"No, but just... Just put them back and give me a moment, okay? I don't have a great pain tolerance. I just need to get used to them, okay?"

"Right. Okay." And Brendon's fingers creep back into their former position as the pain creeps back up Ryan's spine, but it has already dulled which Ryan supposes is a good sign.

But Brendon, he looks positively conflicted, and Ryan has to wonder what is running through his head. He knows Brendon rather well - best - but that's only taught him that Brendon is nothing if not unpredictable. Ryan has no idea if Brendon is considering putting an end to their activities tonight full stop or if he's about to roll over and spread his legs instead, but he's almost certain it's the former as he watches Brendon begin to chew his lip anxiously.

Finally, Brendon shakes his head and hurriedly withdraws his fingers completely. Ryan's not sure if he's more upset because he really needs Brendon, like this, right now or because if he'd thought the morning after might be to be little awkward before, he couldn't imagine what it was going to be like now that they'd been too chickenshit to do anything worth being awkward over.

Ryan's so busy worrying about what he's going to say to Spencer when the band inevitably breaks up over this that he barely hears Brendon ask, "Do you have any lube?"

"What?"

"Lubricant. You know: KY, Vaseline, heck, even body lotion. Do you have any?"

Ryan marvels. Lube? "Cupboard under the sink in the bathroom," he finds himself saying in a bewildered voice, because, yes, he does have lube. He does! It's mango-flavored and was a gag gift from Pete for his twentieth birthday, but it's more than good enough. Why hadn't that occurred to him before? What kind of shitty gay male was he? (Well, bisexual male at any rate.) Shit, tomorrow he was going to have to send Pete a thank-you note or a bouquet of flowers or some sort of /something/. Lube... Go fucking figure.

Like a sprite on stimulants, Brendon dashes to the bathroom and back in record-setting time. "Mango?" he asks with an amused look in his eyes and Ryan can only shrug and nod.

He almost tells Brendon who it came from, when and how, but decides against it just before the words leave his tongue. There's no reason to plant any seeds of suspicion or jealousy unnecessarily in Brendon's head. Pete's not gay (not from the waist down) but Brendon isn't exactly prone to thinking before acting - an often tragic flaw - and Ryan rather likes his record deal and his boyfriend intact.

Ryan also likes how easily those two, generously coated fingers slip into him this time, and how the room is now flooded with the scent of the tropics. So when Brendon asks, "Better?" with a look of genuine concern on his face, Ryan can only nod enthusiastically and spread his thighs a little wider.

Brendon retracts his fingers slightly and pushes up again, brushing pleasurably against the Ryan's inner walls and scraping his nails against him gently. Then he thrusts his hand again. And then with a twist. And then with a shout (Ryan's), because this time he touches something, someplace that Ryan knows must be called the prostate but Ryan is rather certain should be called something else, something more accurate, something like, like...

Actually, Ryan's in no state to think up a suitable name because Brendon's other hand is somehow tugging at his cock, and there are now three - three! - fingers working him open, spreading him, and his toes are literally beginning to curl in the socks he hadn't bothered to remove.

Meanwhile, Brendon grins like the Cheshire Cat.

"Brendon, stop. Stop!" Ryan pants, pulling himself up onto his elbows and shimmying away from Brendon's devilish fingers. The boy really can play any instrument with those hands. No, unhelpful line of thought. "Stop."

Brendon gives him an awful, hurt look and removes his hands. "Did I-"

"No, no. It's just... If you really intend to fuck me, you'd better just, you know, get to it," Ryan grits out slowly.

"Oh." A startling moment of realization later, Brendon's shit-eating grin is back. He scoops the bottle up off the hardwood floor and flicks the cap. In a moment, the mango-flavoured lubricant glistens on his prick.

"I'm going to suck you off in the morning," Brendon promises as he lines up with Ryan's entrance. He punctuates the next sentence with tiny kisses. "I'm gonna eat you like a fucking mango-flavored lollypop."

"Yeah, okay. Okay, but fuck me now, Brendon" Ryan insists, pulling him in for a proper if sloppy lip-lock.

Brendon grasps one of Ryan's legs by the knee and hikes it up until Ryan whines at the stretch. Then his hips roll forward. The first few inches burn as Ryan's muscles spread to accommodate the girth and a hiss spills over his lips, but Ryan's hands cling firmly to Brendon's ass, pressing him closer, further inside. There are tears welling in his ducts, tears that Ryan swallows and blinks back, refuses to let Brendon see, because it's really not so bad. Yes, it stings as Brendon pulls back enough to push in again but there's some pleasure in it too: sharp-edged and fiery in his groin. Ryan can hear the change in Brendon's breathing, see the expression on his face, and imagines his must sound and look alike - some cross between ache and ecstasy.

"Fuck, you're tight," Brendon groans, forcing open his pleasure-glazed eyes and locking them with Ryan's. He rolls his hips again, pressing deeper and Ryan arches up to meet him. Brendon's cock slides heavily over his prostate, and Ryan's head snaps back uncontrollably with a low, rumbling moan. The pain has woven into the pleasure and it rolls up along Ryan's spine, has begun to fog his vision.

Brendon's taunting hands drag down Ryan's chest, seeking purchase along its plains as his teeth nip against the exposed flesh of Ryan's neck - just hard enough to draw Ryan's attention. Ryan laughs breathlessly as their eyes meet because even now Brendon demands his undivided attention. Demands proof of it. No, Ryan can't help but drop a tender kiss onto those pouty lips. Brendon grins and his rocking shoals as his fingers tease Ryan's nipples and dance down across his navel. When they reach his waist, Brendon allows his hands to pick up Ryan's hips, to circle around and cup him from behind. Then Brendon thrusts again. Hard.

The couch creaks. Ryan's back arcs up off the sofa. And some sort of strangled roar fills the room from ceiling to floor.

Ryan's hands pull firmly at Brendon's ass with the next thrust and his hips buck up violently; anything to deepen the contact. These sensations are overwhelming, intoxicating. Ryan's never been filled like this, never been pulled open, pulled apart, like this. He grinds against Brendon's pelvis wanting more. "Harder," he whispers.

Brendon grunts and thrusts again shallowly before trying to change his grip to oblige. He places his hands on the back of Ryan's sweaty thighs pushing them up higher and hooks Ryan's knees over his elbows. Raising himself up to a near-kneel to entire change the angle, add leverage, Brendon pulls back and thrusts again.

The couch fucking /moves/.

Ryan certainly does, his head hitting the armrest, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. The pleasure is coursing through his body in waves; shocks and aftershocks. He thrusts back just as aggressively. Through the pleasure-filed haze, a thought pushes into Ryan's mind: this is nothing like sex with girls. This is a battle for dominance. This is - eurgh - this is...

Brendon's hand curls around his cock and Ryan latches onto Brendon's nipple to keep himself from choking on the sounds he cannot bring himself to let out. When Brendon's lips finally find his face again, they share some messy kisses before Brendon moves his head to teethe at Ryan's ear.

"Fuck. I - you're a fucking... you..." Brendon stops trying to speak and gently scraps the head of Ryan's cock with his nails to communicate the message instead.

Ryan gasps through clenched teeth and against Brendon's shoulder where his forehead has found a perch. "Brendon. Brendon," he babbles a mantra of Brendon's name, spiking his hips in his never-ending fight to get closer, just get fucking closer. His hands glide along Brendon's broad shoulders to the base of his neck, where he tugs hard enough to force Brendon to lower his head, to curve his body more sharply and meet his mouth.

Their tongues wrestle fiercely between their parted lips. Ryan catches Brendon's between his teeth, tugs just hard enough to make Brendon cry out and releases it with a grin; he can just taste the metallic tang of blood before Brendon pulls the wounded muscle quickly out of his mouth. Ryan licks over Brendon's lips in quick apology but Brendon's hips pause and he stops to look down at Ryan with an indescribable look upon his face..

"You bit my tongue."

"Sorry," Ryan mumbles, a blush of embarrassment deepening the rose of his already flushed cheeks. It had been in the moment. It had been... "I didn't mean-"

His sentence breaks off into a sharp yelp as he feels Brendon's nails press into the underside of his cock, but any reprimand he could have given was quickly swallowed into the recesses of Brendon's mouth, decent upon him like a bird of prey.

Brendon's strokes are fast and hard now; his hands are everywhere tugging, pulling, grabbing at whatever part of Ryan they find. And Ryan, for his part, responds in kind, sinking his teeth into the elegant slope of Brendon's shoulder, biting and suckling, making a mark that will not fade with the night, that will peak out over a shirt collar, that Brendon will have to answer for tomorrow.

The sex before had been aggressive; now it's nearly violent in its intensity. But it suits them: Ryan who cannot get enough - cannot feel Brendon deep enough or close enough - to suffice, and Brendon who has only ever wanted to worm his way inside of Ryan (and not just like this) but has always been held at arms length. It makes sense that their first love-making would explode into grunts, and nails, and teeth, and blood pooling just beneath the surface of their skin - the only barrier left between them that they could not shed. It makes sense because of the lurking desperation, the half-corked lust and the tension that has hung between them since the moment Brendon first smiled at Ryan from across the room, guitar in hand.

Things like these have to be released; have to be exorcised, driven out. It's good that they didn't wait as long as Ryan had thought they would, he realizes; they might have destroyed one another then, taken each other out in a blaze of frenzied passion.

Ryan wonders when his thoughts grew so corny.

"Ryan, Ryan," Brendon says before Ryan silences him with his lips. He's close. Ryan knows it without a word passing between them. Knows it because Brendon's thrusts have grown less metered, shallower, unfocused. Knows it because it's the same for him when he's nearly there.

Ryan wraps a hand around himself, pushing Brendon's limp one aside and working quickly over his own cock. He wants to get there, wants to meet Brendon there.

But Brendon is already too far gone. With a jerk, he comes, mouth adhered to Ryan's, cock lodged deep inside. His body shakes and his arms give way, and his lanky frame collapses on top of Ryan, crushing the other boy's hand and cock together between them as Brendon pants, tries to catch his breath.

For a moment, Ryan lets him, until Brendon's no longer gulping down air like he's just finished a marathon. Then he shifts to roll him to the side, wedge him between Ryan's body and the couch back so that his flaccid cock slips out and Ryan can finish.

He pumps a few more times before a hand smacks his and he realizes Brendon's once again coherent. "Let me," Brendon insists and Ryan has no choice but to do just that. Brendon's arm and wrist bend at a slightly awkward angle as he arranges himself so that he can rest his head on Ryan's chest as his hand brings Ryan closer to the edge. Ryan's breathing deepens and it doesn't take much longer until he's spurting into Brendon's hand.

When Ryan's done, Brendon chuckles and cranes his neck up to peck the underside of Ryan's chin. And Ryan pulls him tighter into his embrace.

"I'm glad we did this," Brendon tells him, staring at the speckled stucco ceiling with his head lulled on Ryan's shoulder.

"Mmm," Ryan agrees.

Brendon laughs again and props himself up on his elbow so he can look at Ryan properly. "I fucked a boy," he says conversationally, his mouth pulled into that ridiculous puckered grin of his and his eyebrows comically arched.

"You did." Ryan smiles. "Your parents are going to kill you."

"Please don't ever bring up my parents during the post-coital cuddle ever again."

Ryan laughs and turns his head to catch Brendon's lips.

"Yeah," he promises. The afternoon light filters through his shudders and casts a strange pattern on the wall. It drenches them in sunlight. "Yeah, okay."