She's steam

Black Sheep Boy

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 22:49:48 GMT

Title: Black Sheep Boy
Author: oldcrows
Rating: PG - for a reference to drugs and a little blood.
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
POV: 3rd, Ryan's
Words: 2k
Summary: They’ve been side by side for years now – they know so much about each other. Ryan thinks sometimes too much for their own good.
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened (unfortunately)
Author's Notes: Written for my darling rememberthedays who I promised Brendon/Ryan smut when she was sick ages ago. Well, this isn't smut, and I did almost abandon it but I got random inspiration and finished it this morning. nurikins was kind enough to look it over for me.

Inspiration drawn from the song Black Sheep Boy by Okkervil River.

To say Brendon acts like a child is a bit of an understatement.

Ryan doesn’t mind usually. He listens when Brendon goes on and on about that one episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles where Splinter did that “crazy move with his cane! It was so fucking sweet, Ry”. He watches Brendon school Spencer at Guitar Hero and Halo and everything else because he has immeasurable video gaming skills. He touches – soothing strokes on Brendon’s arm or cheek when he sleeps – listens to him murmur incoherently, breath evenly passing through his open mouth, drool staining Ryan’s skin. He doesn’t mind. He knows that being Brendon’s boyfriend comes with bursts of energy that can last into the wee hours of the morning, and that inactivity isn’t a word that comes to mind when you think of Brendon. It's the side of him that he lets everyone see - friends, fans, and the like. But for Ryan, that's just scratching the surface of who Brendon really is, after the games have been shut off and the curtains close.

There are things only Ryan sees.

It happens at least once a month or so. They’ll be on the bus, maybe breakfast in the kitchenette or smoking up in the back lounge, when Brendon’s phone will buzz, Ryan is the only one noticing his change in expression when he sees the caller id. Brendon will politely excuse himself, swiftly escaping to some other part of the bus. Sometimes he’ll come back when he’s done, a little quieter than he was before, but still animated, stealing the plastic guitar from Spencer and focusing his energy on the game or grabbing a real guitar to keep his fingers busy. Anything to keep his mind from spinning.

Ryan can handle that, can understand that Brendon doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to think about it. He lets him deal with it in his own way and he’s sure that Brendon is grateful for that. He empathizes. The only thing he has a hard time with is when Brendon shies away, but only from him. Its residual guilt from those calls, Ryan knows it is. Brendon eventually gets over it, sometimes in a day, sometimes two, rarely does it stretch longer than that but it’s the time during that kills Ryan. Brendon won’t touch, won’t talk, won’t acknowledge him, and it isn’t malicious or malevolent, but Ryan can’t help but hate how it seems to fall on him. How can he be expected to piece Brendon together when he falls apart, but is invisible after a ten minute phone call?

It’s late, somewhere around the time late switches to early when Ryan hears Brendon’s familiar voice, hushed as he passes, mumbling something about time zones before Ryan heard the door to the back lounge shut with a soft click. Ryan wants to stay awake, wait until Brendon is done to see if he is okay, to make sure he goes back to sleep. He closes his eyes and strains his ears to hear any snippet of conversation, even though Brendon always tells him what was said. The ‘hello’s, ‘how are you’s, ‘where are you now’s were all the same, albeit a bit forced from the other end of the line. Brendon would always be polite in response, then ask the responsible question, how they were, back home, had his niece been born yet? Then he may get a little bold, say that the guys all say hello, Ryan says hi, and that’s when the excuses are made, the ‘we all miss you’ is chopped up and the line is cut short.

The calls are never angry, always pleasant, but Ryan knows Brendon, knows how passive-aggressive his mother can be, and how the calls are only made out of guilt rather than love. And yet, Brendon still answers the phone, puts himself through the cruel cycle every single time, and there really isn’t anything Ryan can do but be there. Family is a touchy subject in general and Ryan knows it isn’t his place to say anything, remembers how quiet it was when his father passed away. Just pats on the back and hands on his shoulders, no words. And even if he did know what to say to Brendon, (it could be worse, they could be using him for money) the words wouldn’t even sink in, not when Brendon closes in on himself (it’s worse that they pretty much ignore his existence 10 months out of the year).

It’s the shattering of glass that opens Ryan’s eyes again, has him nearly rolling out of his bunk in surprise. After he realizes that he isn’t dying in a bus crash he listens, doesn’t hear Jon or Spencer stirring in their respective bunks, only hears Brendon cursing behind the thin door. He makes his way back as quietly as he can, his feet shuffling on the carpet until he pauses to open the door.

Ryan squints, the light harsh on his sleepy eyes, squeezes them shut for a moment before refocusing. Brendon is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch, hands in his lap with blood smeared on them. Jon’s favorite bong is scattered around, translucent blue glass catching on the light and casting a surrounding glow.

He takes in the view for a moment, tries to piece scenarios together in his mind, but before he can figure out what happened without asking he’s on his knees next to Brendon, wiping away the excess blood to see how deep the cut is. He holds Brendon’s hand in his, even as Brendon tries to tug it away, claiming “it’s nothing, I’m fine,” his voice hollow, his eyes closed.

Ryan tends to him in silence, knowing that pushing him with questions will just make him retreat farther into himself. Ryan can't imagine Brendon breaking it on purpose, because no matter how much he himself has been hurt, he would never intentionally do anyone harm. He just isn't built that way.

"It fell," Brendon says and Ryan can barely hear him over the thrumming in his ears, the concentration blocking everything else out as he works on dabbing the excess blood away with the edge of his t-shirt. Blood stains never come out.

"I'm fine." Brendon repeats suddenly, pulling his hand back to his chest, not looking at Ryan. He sighs harshly and pushes the heel of his uninjured hand against his eye.

Normally Ryan would stay quiet, or maybe even leave him with his mess, to let him deal with things on his own, but this had to be dealt with now. Neglect would undoubtedly lead to infection, which would lead to cancellations and Ryan was the responsible one of the two, always taking the logical steps to solve any problem. He doesn't get tangled in emotion like Brendon, doesn't take things to heart like he does.

"Let me clean it out," Ryan proposes, carefully crawling over the bits of cerulean glass to a low cabinet. Zack keeps a first aid kit especially for Brendon in there, knowing him well enough to see how much of a klutz Brendon is. Ryan pilfers a thick bundle of gauze, peroxide wipes and a roll of medical tape from the box and brings them back to Brendon who ducks his head, but doesn't pull away.

He extends his hand, only slightly, blood beginning to push out of the wound again, thick as it runs down the curve of his palm, pools over his lifeline. They sit in silence as Ryan, as gently as he can, disinfects and binds Brendon’s hand, applying pressure with his own palm when the cotton is secure, absorbing what blood hasn't yet clotted.

Ryan is surprised when Brendon looks up, makes eye contact with him and thanks him, voice warm and unwavering. Ryan doesn’t reply, stands up and takes another look at the mess that surrounds them. He’s trying to remember if they still had that little red broom and butler hiding in a cabinet when Brendon’s pushing himself up, standing next to him briefly before sitting back on the couch. His uninjured hand crosses over his body to encircle Ryan’s wrist, not pulling him down, just holding.

Ryan wants to pull away, can’t explain why. There hadn’t been a phone call in at least a few weeks, but Brendon had been distant still, reserved. The touch is what he needs, what he’s been missing. He doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t sit, either.

“She hung up on me again,” Brendon starts, rubbing circles with his thumb over the point where Ryan’s veins, blueblueblue against the translucent tint of his skin, are visible. His grip isn’t tight, but it’s strong, not willing Ryan to move. Ryan tries anyway, feet moving before his brain catches up, Brendon’s grip tightening instantly, “Please, Ry, stay,” soft but insistent when it leaves his lips.

The guilt, Ryan finds, can work both ways, but he won’t let it get to him. Won’t let the shame that seeps into Brendon’s skin affect him. Not tonight.

“You should clean this up,” He says, breaking free of Brendon’s grip to exit the lounge, and crawl into his bunk. He waits, eyes closed but still searching as his ears strain to hear any of Brendon’s movements. His breath stills in his throat when the door finally slides open, fingers twist and tangle in the loose sheet at his sides when he hears Brendon stop, hesitate.

Ryan turns over, faces the wall before Brendon can open the curtain, hike up his leg and pull himself inside the bunk, which is small enough without him crowding Ryan, pressing up against his back. Ryan feels suddenly exposed, cold when Brendon places a tentative hand on his arm, breath stuttering, stumbling on words he hasn’t said next to his ear.

The tips of his fingers are cold as they press into the curve of his shoulder, palm warm and scratchy where it’s covered with the gauze. He doesn’t press, doesn’t try to roll Ryan over, just touches, light, skimming across the exposed skin. Ryan can’t help but lean into the touch briefly, before curling in on himself more, eyes squeezed shut. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. Brendon sleeps alone, always does after those conversations, never with Ryan. Never with him.

“Hey,” Brendon whispers, breath hitting the shell of Ryan’s ear. The shiver that shoots down Ryan's spine is involuntary, though he doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge Brendon. He’s gotten so used to being cut off, that the itch, the need to console Brendon, has all since vanished over time.

Brendon moves his hand down Ryan’s arm, trailing fingertips light as a feather until he moves forward, splays it across Ryan’s stomach, pulling him in, keeping him close, closer than he has in recent weeks. Ryan can’t help but relax to the touch, exhale when Brendon presses his lips just below Ryan’s ear, the hollow of his throat, kissing apologies into his skin.

Ryan lets his eyes close and lets his mind wander. He remembers the first time, the first call, their first tour. Brendon’s raised voice from the other side of the thin dressing room door, the stomp of his feet as he paced back and forth, Ryan able to see the whole thing without needing to be in the room. He waited outside, patient, ready with open arms to catch Brendon as he came out. And he did, briefly, before Brendon pushed him away, eyes red-rimmed, sunken in. It was still hard for Brendon then – to feel like he had to make a choice - before Ryan was old enough to realize that it was never really a choice to begin with. No matter how hard you try, you can not replace someone’s family.

Brendon still stirs against him, knows that Ryan isn’t asleep. They’ve been side by side for years now – they know so much about each other. Ryan thinks sometimes too much for their own good. They butt heads at times, have their meltdowns, they push apart to come back together again. Ryan used to think it was all Brendon – the stresses from being the family outcast, the black sheep boy, spiking in petty arguments and nitpicking, driving the space between them - used to think that it always fell on him to stitch them back up, like an old wound that just wouldn’t heal, sutures battered and frayed. That was before he figured out there was a little piece of him in every breakdown, breakup, every fracture that broke them just a little more.

Brendon’s bandaged hand finds Ryan’s, fingers wiggle until they fit like missing puzzle pieces. Ryan gives in, presses their palms together, a dull pressure, just enough to feel the blood pulse underneath the gauze, the wound that is slowly healing itself, skin that will forge new bonds, though a scar will remain, a little reminder of a lesson learned. A resolution not to repeat the same mistake.

Ryan opens his eyes, turns over carefully, trying his best not to break the tangle of their hands. Brendon’s eyes are open, heavy and half-lidded, before they close and Ryan kisses him softly, sweetly, just for a second. A silent promise to himself, to count every scar, to remember that every single thing that has tried to keep them apart will only prove to keep them together in the end.

Friday I'm In Love

Sun, 14 Sep 2008 03:49:34 GMT

Title: Friday, I'm In Love
Author: oldcrows
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
POV: 3rd, Spencer's
Words: 8,192
Summary: The one thing Spencer doesn’t know (but would really like to) is why Brendon kissed him in the doorway of his apartment three days ago.
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened (unfortunately)
Author's Notes: So this was written particuarly for my amazing beta, xxlalaliexx who wanted pre-signed, first time stuff between Brendon & Spencer, so I tried my hardest to write something for her! She deserves it with putting up with my annoying ass when she's swamped with homework and betaing things for me. You're the best, bb! And of course, many thanks to my MFEO highhlikeplanes and my honk-honk, nurikins for cheerleading! -title taken from The Cure of course!-

It’s been three days.

Spencer sits in his car outside of Brent’s house, hands gripping the wheel though the engine cut off at least ten minutes ago. He just can’t seem to find the energy, actually, more the will to go inside. He sits, and he can hear a few random chords - the tuning of two guitars, and the low hum of a constant bass beat. They’re fooling around, the three of them, waiting for Spencer. He knows this, and still he sits, unable to move.

It’s ok, he thinks, it’s just practice. He doesn’t really have to talk to him. Besides, Brent hardly ever talks and no one says anything to him about it, so Spencer figures he’ll mimic Brent and take the sure and silent route. If he doesn’t talk he doesn’t have to talk about it and that’s the best plan he’s come up with so far.

Now if he could only stop thinking about it.

He’s taken out of his head by the buzzing of his phone in his pocket that reveals a text. Spencer can’t help but notice how his breath hitches when he sees Brendon’s name appear on the screen. He forces the trapped air out and reads; I know you’re outside.

Of course he knows. Brendon apparently knows everything – which is usually Ryan’s job. Brendon knows Spencer better than Spencer himself would like to admit, and he would like to think he’s gotten to know Brendon pretty well since Brent brought him to practice a few months ago and, well, kind of changed everything.

The one thing Spencer doesn’t know (but would really like to) is why Brendon kissed him in the doorway of his apartment three days ago.
He was ready to head home after hanging out with Brendon for awhile, watching some mindless TV shows when right before he was going to say goodbye, Brendon leaned in and closed his mouth over Spencer’s. Spencer had to admit it was a bit of a surprise, being that they had been friends for a few months now and had done nothing more than hug, since Brendon is big on touching. Going from hugging to kissing is kind of a big step and though Spencer doesn’t mind kissing boys at all, kissing your friend brings with it a whole lot of questions and feelings and Spencer wasn’t sure he could handle neither the questions or feelings with Brendon’s tongue in his mouth. So being entirely mature, Spencer pulled away, stuttered a goodbye and bolted, neither of them speaking a word to each other since.

He hasn’t realized a few more minutes have passed - another text waiting in his inbox. Where the fuck are you? That of course, is from Ryan.

Spencer sighs and pulls the key from the ignition.

“Glad to see you decided to join us!” Ryan drawls sarcastically from the middle of their practice space, which is actually the garage.

Spencer instantly decides to stick to his newly found vow of silence, managing his best eye-roll as he steps past Ryan and toward his kit that’s set up in the corner. He usually hates that they’ve shunned him to the back of the room like a kid with a dunce cap, but today he’s nearly grateful to have his little corner. What’s he’s not so thrilled about is Brendon sitting on his stool, fingers twirling one of his drumsticks nervously, eyes watching the motion, though noticeably strained when Spencer nears.

There isn’t silence, not when Ryan’s still tuning, painstakingly picking at every string until he’s satisfied. Brent’s talking on the phone now, probably to his girlfriend, hand idly plucking at one of the strings of his bass, sending a low thump through the room on every off beat.

Spencer looks down at Brendon, watching his face rather than his hand, the way his eyes are narrowed, focused on his task and the tip of his tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth. His mind strays for a moment, remembering their shared breaths, the press of lips and soft slide of tongue before Spencer’s mind woke up and ruined everything.

He could speak, could simply ask Brendon to move but he finds his mouth unable to open. Maybe it knows that there’s an apology sitting on his tongue that he isn’t sure he’s ready to say just yet. Mostly because he doesn’t know if he’s sorry. Maybe Brendon’s the one who should be apologizing. The more Spencer thinks about it, the more he doesn’t know who’s to blame - Brendon for making the move or himself for running from it. It’s not like the kiss was entirely unwelcome since he did kiss back…

“Can you guys stop dicking around over there? I have a thing later.” Spencer finds it amusing that Ryan refers to dates as ‘things’ because Ryan claims that only girls go on dates. Spencer sometimes wonders how he’s been friends with Ryan for so long.

Brendon looks up at Ryan’s words, his eyes wide and hopeful, and Spencer knows he’s waiting for him to say something, anything. He knows they have to talk about what happened but now is not the time or place, so Spencer temporarily lifts his vow, says “excuse me” and watches as Brendon lifts with a quiet “sorry” and shuffles to his rightful place beside Ryan.

Practice went smoothly enough – Ryan was thrilled that the changes he made to a couple of the songs worked well, Brendon kept his back to Spencer the whole time, not turning around for their usual in-between-song banter and no one questioned his silence.

When they were finished, Ryan and Brent bolted, both having their ‘things’ to attend, leaving Spencer and Brendon to make sure everything was cleaned up before they left. The room was silent, save for the shuffle of Brendon’s feet as he crosses the room to stand in front of Spencer, hands clasped together, fingers curling and twisting, looking like a boy who was about to be scolded by his parents.

“If you don’t want to drive me home, it’s ok,” he says quietly and turns to head toward the door.

Spencer moves before his mind can tell him to and he catches Brendon by the wrist, holding on for a moment before letting go, his palm warm from the contact.

“No, I will. I don’t mind,” Spencer says quickly, before adding, “We should probably talk anyway, right?” He winces at the last words, heart beating just a little faster without reason, tension threatening to tie a knot in his stomach.

“Yeah.” Brendon’s lips curve a little at the ends and it’s the closest thing to a smile that Spencer’s seen since three days prior.

They walk to the car in silence and Spencer wants nothing more than to throw an arm around his shoulders, or pat him on the back like he’d usually do but something stops him. He almost feels like it would scare Brendon off, though he isn’t sure why. He decides to play it safe and keep his hands to himself.

The radio has been busted in his car for weeks and Spencer’s dad really has no interest in fixing it, claiming it’s a luxury and he’ll fix it when he has time. The two boys sit once again in silence, the whirr of the engine and soft tapping of Brendon’s fingers against the arm rest are the only noise between them. Spencer’s glad Brendon can’t hear the thoughts racing through his mind, the words he isn’t sure he can say, and the thought that he maybe has been trying to deny – that he’d like relive that moment over and over – threatening to drive him right off the road.

The quiet is starting to tie that familiar knot in Spencer’s stomach as he slowly presses on the break to stop for a red light. His eyes wander out his window, nice houses lining the street, carbon copies of each other. He thinks of the future and how he knows, he just knows that soon he won’t have to drive through these suburban developments just dreaming of the day he won’t be tied to his hometown, that he’ll be traveling the world with his best friends.

He looks over at Brendon and knows that he’s thinking the same, how he can’t wait to move out of that shitty apartment on Lark and be able to really start his life, that there’s nothing left for him here. Spencer knows this and because he knows this, he breaks his vow again.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“Spencer lets his sentence cut off as the light turns green, not really sure of what he wanted to say next.

“No, it’s ok, I shouldn’t have, you know, done that.” Brendon’s looking at him, eyes watching his own as he watches the road. They’re almost to Brendon’s apartment now, two more right turns and Spencer’s pulling up to the curb, putting the car into park.

He isn’t sure if he should say anything more or just let Brendon leave and maybe they could talk about it some other time – or never again. Spencer is pretty sure now that he doesn’t want this to be something they forget or ignore as just something that happened way back when. He looks over at Brendon, his hand sitting on the door handle, and knows that Brendon will let this go if he doesn’t say something, doesn’t do something.

So he takes a quiet breath and asks, “Can I come up?” holding the air in his throat until he sees that same small smile grace Brendon’s lips as he nods and opens the passenger side door to Spencer’s relief.

Brendon’s apartment is on the second floor – a one room place that isn’t fancy by any standard but it has a futon, a toilet, a sink and his tiny ten inch TV. Brendon calls it home and Spencer has spent enough time there to know that he’s proud of his little apartment, even though the ceiling sometimes leaks and the tiles in the bathroom are cracked.

Brendon unlocks the deadbolt and lets them both in, tossing his keys on the counter next to the sink as he makes his way to the fridge.

“You want anything?” He calls over his shoulder before tugging open the door and leaning in. Spencer shakes his head as his eyes wander to the curve of Brendon’s back through his thin t-shirt, down to the swell of his ass in those painted on jeans he always wears.

“Spence?” Brendon asks, his head peeking out above the door, catching him outright staring and it’s then that Spencer realizes that if he doesn’t say something now, then he may not get the chance again.

Brendon straightens up, closes the refrigerator door and watches Spencer curiously as he uncaps a bottle of water and lifts it to his mouth, exposing the taught line of his neck as he gulps.

“Would you do it again?” Spencer asks bravely. If he’s going to do this, it’s going to be all or nothing.

Brendon swallows hard, fumbles with the cap as he twists it back on. His eyes are wide and look almost hopeful to Spencer, who steps forward into Brendon’s personal space (or what it would be called if he had any).

“Would I what?” Brendon’s voice is airy, his fingers grasping the bottle like it’s his lifeline.

“Would you kiss me again?” Spencer doesn’t break eye contact when he takes the bottle from Brendon’s hand and tosses it in the direction of the counter. It lands with a thud against the dish strainer.

“I…uhh…if you wanted me to?” Spencer can’t hold in the laugh that passes his lips, especially when Brendon’s smiling at him inquisitively, eyes studying his face, looking more relaxed than before.

Spencer could say the words if he wanted to, could flat out tell Brendon that he wants him to, but he knows that he doesn’t need the words, that they’re only a formality. Instead he takes a final step forward and brings a hand to Brendon’s cheek, thumb stroking his jaw as he leans in and brings Brendon’s lips to his own.

It’s tentative at first, mouths merely brushing as they share breaths. Spencer winds his hands into Brendon’s hair, keeping him close as he licks into his mouth. Their tongues touch and Spencer can feel Brendon sigh against his lips, his body far from tense as they stand, pressed against each other, and Spencer’s never done this. Sure, he’s kissed guys before, it kind of goes with being gay, but he hasn’t experienced…whatever this feeling is, the one that leaves him breathless.

Brendon tries to follow Spencer’s mouth when he pulls away, his eyes half-lidded and oh so dark as he licks his lips and smiles. Spencer’s smiling too, he doesn’t think his mouth can stretch any wider when he lets his hands fall, Brendon catching them with his own.

“C’mon, let’s go watch Cops and make out on the futon.”

It’s been one week.

“I can take Brendon home tonight if you want, Spence. You don’t always have to drive him."

Spencer isn’t looking at Ryan; he’s having a staring contest with Brendon, whose smiling back at him, switching off the amps across the room. Brendon licks his lips and Spencer looks away, trying not to blush, as if he didn’t look like a twelve year old girl with a crush already.

“I don’t mind.” He tries not to speak too quickly, not to look too eager, but he can’t help it. He’s spent pretty much every night with Brendon since they resolved their differences last week and Spencer couldn’t have been happier, or more confused.

Ryan sighs noncommittally and walks away, busying himself with his guitar case. It was late – they had just gotten into the groove of things and played until their muscles ached. Brent’s already gone; he has a “thing” to attend. Spencer doesn’t have any plans, other than to drive Brendon home, and that has now come to include them ending up horizontal on Brendon’s flimsy futon, lips attached with either Cops or Cheaters playing low in the background.

It’s slowly becoming a pattern, their nights with Spencer’s back digging into the metal bars of the makeshift bed, the sped up breathing and roving hands, but nothing more. Not yet. Though of course Spencer’s enjoying this, whatever it is, but what he’s unsure of is just that. What are they really doing? This was why he was so hesitant in the first place, the questions that come along with deciding to kiss his good friend.

He doesn’t want to question this, whatever it is, he just wishes he could go with the flow but he can’t help but think about it, especially when Brendon’s looking at him again, eyes dark, knowing that they’d soon be alone to align their bodies and forget the rest of the world for awhile. And Spencer wants that, he really does, but he can’t stop the red flags from popping up in his mind.

“Ready to go?” Brendon’s got a smile a mile wide on his face and Spencer can’t help but match it, stepping out from behind his kit to walk with Brendon to his car.

Those questions, those red flags, everything that Spencer doubts will just have to wait because Brendon’s got him pinned against the wall just inside the door of his apartment and his mind can’t seem to produce any cohesive thoughts other than yesyesyes.
Brendon’s got one hand gripping the back of his neck, keeping their mouths crushed together while his other hand lingers on the strip of exposed skin just above the waistband of Spencer’s jeans, a ghost of a touch that has his hips rebelling and pushing into the warmth of Brendon’s hand.

Spencer exhales what is left of the stale breath in his lungs when Brendon pulls away after what feels like hours of their lips repeatedly moving, licking, sucking, opens his eyes to see Brendon looking at him, eyes still dark and wanting. His mouth opens, as if to say something, but closes just as quickly, curling into a sly smirk that shoots a spark of something straight down Spencer’s spine.

Brendon’s mouth is on his again, and oh, there’s his dick, hard and rubbing against Spencer’s hip through their respective layers of denim (though Brendon’s is much tighter than Spencer has ever seen). Spencer is hard as well, achingly so, just noticing the dull throb between his legs that was fuzzed out of his mind by the lightheadedness caused by Brendon’s kiss.

Spencer gasps when Brendon shifts his hips just right, wishing he hadn’t, fearing he looks like an idiot because fuck, he hasn’t done this. After a week of sharing his mouth with Brendon, the thought of them moving to what could only be called the ‘next level’ had crossed his mind more than once, especially when he was attempting to sleep, heel of his hand pressed against his dick to ease the pressure.

The noise that Spencer makes when Brendon’s unbuttoning his jeans and dipping his hand below his boxers to take hold of his cock isn’t something he’s exactly proud of, but damn if it doesn’t feel good. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting with someone else’s hand on his dick but its different – different in a good way. Brendon’s palm is wider than his own, fingers calloused from being a guitar whiz and the texture of that skin is sending waves of heat through every appendage.

Spencer’s dick is already leaking, easing the way for Brendon as he jerks his hand quickly - no real finesse to his movements. He wants to pull away, just for a moment, just to ask Brendon if he’s done this before, if he’s in the same boat as Spencer. But he can’t, not when Brendon licks and then bites down on the tendon in his neck and he’s coming, most landing on Brendon’s hand, and the rest on his own shirt (luckily not one of his favorites).

Spencer isn’t sure what to do. His legs are barely holding him up, hands gripping Brendon’s waist to keep from sliding down the wall. Brendon’s breathing harshly into the hollow of his neck, stroking Spencer through the aftershocks before he backs away just enough to be able to look him in the eye.

“Okay?” Brendon asks, breathing slowing slightly.

Spencer nods, “Yeah” and can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Brendon’s swollen, shiny lips. Knowing that he did that was almost enough to make him hard again, though his body was screaming for sleep.

“Will you stay tonight?”

Spencer nods, like it was ever an option in the first place. He should probably call his mom, tell him he won’t be home, but decides against it. She’ll figure he’s at Ryan’s, old enough not to need permission to stay out anymore.

Brendon smiles and Spencer leans in, kisses him breathless, and holds him flush to his body, hands still on his hips. Brendon mimics his motions, grabs on to Spencer’s hips and when his hand lands on the bare skin between his shirt and (still) unzipped pants, Spencer winces and pulls away, feeling the wetness against his hip.

Brendon gives a low laugh, takes Spencer by the unoffending hand and walks him to the futon.

“Up,” Brendon says, gesturing to his arms.

Spencer concedes, raises his arms and closes his eyes when Brendon lifts his shirt up and over his head, the worn fabric tickling his cheeks as it passes. He feels suddenly exposed when he opens his eyes, shirt off, pants unzipped, while Brendon stands fully clothed, dick still straining in his skin tight jeans and Spencer wants to reach out and touch him, to return the favor, but Brendon is turned around and walking away just as he thinks he has the courage.

“I’ll be right back,” Brendon calls over his shoulder, stripping off his own shirt on the way and Spencer can’t deny that his eyes follow the curve of his back until it’s out of view.

“Okay,” Spencer says quietly to himself, shrugs and kicks his pants off, sits down on the edge of the futon. His mind tries to wrap around what just happened, how Brendon’s still hard, and how can he just walk around like that? Spencer figures he must have some self control because Spencer is sure that he wouldn’t be able to do that.

Then he realizes that Brendon has been in the bathroom for more than a few minutes and decides to investigate. He stands up and creeps toward the bathroom door, feeling oddly creepy doing so. Brendon could honestly just be sitting his ass on the toilet, but the walls in this place are paper thin and the muted grunts he hears aren’t his imagination.

The door isn’t closed, open just a crack and Spencer pushes it open softly, not making a sound (it’s the only thing in Brendon’s apartment that didn’t creak when moved).

Brendon has his jeans & briefs shoved down around his thighs, ass exposed and back curved as he’s hunched over - one hand gripping the sink while his arm jerks and Spencer can only guess what he’s doing.

He’s confused at first; curious as to why Brendon would want to hide. And then Spencer thinks maybe it’s because Brendon’s just as nervous as he is, doesn’t want to fuck any of this up, whatever ‘this’ is. But if Brendon could do it to Spencer, Spencer was sure he could do the same so he takes a deep breath, takes the two steps and slides his hands around his hips, letting them come to rest on the jut of his hipbones.

Spencer has the slight advantage of being a little taller than Brendon, hooks his chin over Brendon’s shoulder so he can see his hands, watches Brendon’s halt mid-stroke. Spencer crooks his neck to let his lips brush along Brendon’s neck, leaving an open mouthed kiss before he speaks, “Hey, let me.”

Spencer can feel Brendon tense, his chest pressed up against Brendon’s back, can see his mouth open like it did earlier, primed to say something, but close again, just as fast. His hand falls away from his dick, and Spencer immediately replaces it with his own, begins to tug slowly, trying to mimic what he usually does to himself.

The weight of Brendon’s cock, while familiar is also different than his own. A few strokes and Spencer has a even rhythm and Brendon is relaxed, his body leaning more heavily on Spencer, forcing Spencer to spread his legs just a little, just enough to keep them both standing.

“Have – have you ever done this?” Brendon’s voice cracks and it would be funny if Spencer didn’t find it so hot.

Spencer keeps his other hand on Brendon’s hip, rubbing his thumb in slow circles as he strokes, nipping and sucking on the hollow of his neck before replying.

“No I haven’t. Have you?” He asks, lips trailing over the shell of his ear. He smiles when he hears Brendon’s breath hitch as he twists his wrist on an upstroke.

“No,” Brendon’s voice is low now, gravely before he twists his neck to catch Spencer’s lips. Brendon’s pressing back harder and it’s giving Spencer’s knees quite the work out, trying to hold them both up as Brendon’s tongue invades his mouth. Spencer welcomes it, kissing back hungrily while trying to keep his rhythm going on Brendon’s dick, speeding up just a bit until Brendon tenses again, moaning into Spencer’s mouth as he comes undone.

Brendon pulls away, tugging on Spencer’s bottom lip, stretching it for a moment before he lets go. Their eyes lock and Spencer loses his breath for a moment. He can’t see past those dark brown irises. He isn’t sure he wants to.

“Okay?” Spencer asks, biting back, sucking on Brendon’s bottom lip for a hot second before retreating.

“Yeah,” Brendon smiles and it’s the kind of smile Spencer can feel, makes his heart twist and swell.

And yeah, whatever this is, it’s something. Spencer figures he should at least try to go with the flow. At least for now.

It’s been sixteen days.

Spencer rolls over, onto his back and holds in the curse that’s dying to rip from his throat at the awkward and very uncomfortable press of the metal bars of Brendon’s futon into his back. He stills, not wanting the audible creek of the rods to wake Brendon, who is breathing evenly beside him, arm slung over Spencer’s waist.

It’s late, or early, depending on how you look at it and Spencer can’t sleep. Sure his body is exhausted – spent and sated from their earlier activities, but his mind is alert, racing almost and he can’t seem to make it slow down, not even for a second.

He figured that their evening of eating greasy take out Chinese and watching Brendon’s favorite episode of Cheaters (the one where the host gets stabbed) would be enough to lull him to sleep. But of course the TV-watching turned into heavy petting which led to an exchange of blowjobs (something they had decided to attempt the week before which Spencer was surprisingly good at – according to Brendon, who was as much of an ‘expert’ on the subject as Spencer), which led them to doze off in each others arms, but now Spencer is awake. His eyes are open and he knows he won’t be able to convince them to close any time soon. There’s just too much on his mind.

Spencer has spent the past three weeks practically attached to Brendon’s lips. It was almost an unspoken understanding that after every practice Spencer would drive Brendon home and subsequently stay the night. Needless to say he’s been keeping extra clothes in his car. He can’t help but feel a bit withdrawn from the rest of the world when he’s tucked away with Brendon almost every night (regardless of practice or not). He’s declined when Ryan’s asked him over a few times now, citing that his mom needed him to babysit, when all it took was one text from Brendon to have him hopping in his car.

Spencer’s asked – he’s asked Brendon if he maybe wanted to catch a movie or meet up with Ryan at that little café on East Street, the one that had the most amazing peanut butter & nutella swirled scones, but Brendon would just shake his head, tell him that he ordered pizza and they’d stay in for the night. On that same note – neither of them had told Ryan what was going on between them. Spencer wanted to, he felt horrible keeping something so big from his best friend, trying not to smile too wide when Brendon would look at him from in front of his kit, even when he’d walk behind, press their palms together for a moment before Ryan would start bitching about another mistake, forcing Brendon back to his rightful spot.

Above all though, Spencer can’t deny that he hasn’t felt this happy in ages. He hasn’t smiled this much, for this long, in a very long time. He makes Brendon laugh and vice versa, talking for hours – from joking around to whispering promises of a future they’ve never discussed in the sunlight in each other’s ears, falling asleep to carefully worded lullabies. Though us and together are always mixed in, there still has been no mentions of dating and boyfriend anywhere. Spencer isn’t sure what Brendon wants. He isn’t even sure of what he, wants. What he does know is that he needs to find balance and clarity – something that isn’t so easy to acquire at 3 AM.

He shifts again, lifting his hips in the hopes that the metal bars will magically turn into a mattress. But as he lowers himself softly (but still with a squeak), he sadly accepts his reality. He freezes as Brendon stirs, arm tightening over Spencer’s torso, tugging to pull him closer. Spencer complies; hoping that he’s hasn’t woken him, trying to keep as still as possible when Brendon burrows his face into Spencer’s neck, hot breath tickling the sensitive skin.

It can’t be this easy, though, Spencer thinks, trying to ignore the pull in his stomach just from the warm stream of breath skimming his neck. The what-if’s are still in the back of his mind, dormant, but still there. What if they really do get together, make it known to everyone and then things just fall apart? That could put a serious fault in the band and Spencer isn’t sure if he wants to risk that.

“You awake Spence?” Brendon mumbles into Spencer’s neck before pulling back, clearing his throat.

Spencer turns his neck, smiles at Brendon’s sleepy eyes, face illuminated by the moonlight steaming in through the curtain-less window.

“Yeah,” he says, can’t resist running a hand through Brendon’s sleep-mussed hair.

“But it’s so late,” he sighs, hooking a leg over Spencer’s hips, pulling until he’s settled on top of him, dead weight on Spencer’s chest, hair tickling his chin.

“I know.” Spencer doesn’t mind the added pressure on his lungs, it’s almost soothing in a way he can’t seem to put his finger on.

Brendon lifts his head again, rests it on top of his forearms, looking Spencer straight in the eye. “Well if you’re awake, I’m awake,” he says with a drowsy smile.

“But I’m not the one who has to work at 8 am, so I think you should go back to sleep.” Spencer knows he sounds like his mom but he can’t help it – he inherited that nurturing gene.

Brendon shakes his head childishly, scrunches his nose. “I’m not going to dreamland without you, Spencer Smith. There’s obviously something on your mind, so spill.”

Spencer opens his mouth, hesitates, can’t decide whether to evade, roll Brendon off of him and tell him to go to sleep or to let his mind fall open and possibly terrify Brendon with his insane thoughts. His eyes roll to the side, watching the leaves on the tree outside the window rustle in the wind because he can’t think straight when Brendon is looking at him like that, all worry and concern, something too serious for his innocent face.

“Hey. Hey Spence, what’s wrong?” The unease in Brendon’s tone is what forces Spencer’s eyes back to his, the words dancing on his tongue, apprehensive, unsure of how exactly to be spoken.

“What are we…um.” Spencer swallows hard, closes his eyes for a moment when Brendon pushes the hair from his eyes.

“What are doing exactly?” He asks with his eyes still closed, cowardly, he knows. But if he’s going to mess this up with his insecure thoughts he doesn’t want to remember the look on Brendon’s face.

“What do you mean?”

Spencer opens his eyes and Brendon is still looking intently at him, eyes piercing his own, searching for any sign of distress.

“I don’t know, I just…what are we? I guess that’s what I’m confused about.”

“We’re Brendon and Spencer.” Brendon yawns, pokes Spencer’s chest and smiles. Spencer wants to smile back to agree and let them fall asleep together but it’s what he’s been doing for the past month and that just isn’t going to work anymore. He isn’t sure if Brendon is just trying to be cute to make him smile or maybe his brain is still sleep-addled.

“That’s not what I mean, Brendon.” The words have a bite to them that Spencer did not intend but his mouth, once it started, just couldn’t stop. “Are we dating? Are we just fooling around? We never leave your apartment and I haven’t spoken a word to Ryan because you don’t seem too keen on anyone knowing about us, and…I don’t know, are you my boyfriend?” Spencer finds he can close his mouth, though Brendon’s hangs open just a bit, a little in awe.

“I, uh, I…we’re…do you want me to be?”

Spencer turns his head, and Brendon rolls off of him without another word, letting him sit up and swing his legs over the side of the futon, quickly spotting his boxers next to his jeans. He gets dressed quickly in the dark, trying to block out Brendon’s quiet repetition of his name, his quiet demands that he come back to bed.

Spencer turns around, just for a moment, and Brendon is sitting up sheet riding low on his waist, face somber, bottom lip being chewed nervously by his teeth.

“Spence, don’t,” Brendon says in a soft, almost disbelieving tone, like it was impossible for him to be leaving.

“You should get some sleep.”

Brendon doesn’t say another word when Spencer leaves, not even when Spencer waits outside of the door for a good minute, just in case his courage returns. It doesn’t.

He drives home in silence. He can’t get back to sleep.

It’s been two days.

Spencer’s pacing. His hands are moving in conjunction with his mouth, trying to come up with some combination of words that don’t make him look entirely stupid (though he’s sure he looks like an insane rambling man to the people passing him on the sidewalk).

He knows he’s had enough time to think of what to say, and yet he has no clue how to say it. As if he doesn’t feel creepy enough standing outside of the smoothie place where Brendon works, just as he thinks he’s on the right path with his speech (with many ‘I’m sorry, I’m an idiot’s added), there’s a tap on his shoulder.

Brendon is standing behind him, smoothie in each hand, face slanted into a sort of half smile that just kills Spencer.

“Hey,” Brendon says cautiously, slowly extending the hand that holds a reddish purple concoction in it, as if it’s a peace offering.

“Thanks,” Spencer says, takes the drink and one long sip. It’s surprisingly delicious – mixed berries with whipped cream blended in.

“So I saw you pacing and um, talking to yourself? So I figured I’d, you know, come out and see if you’re okay. Are you okay?” Brendon rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, smiles tentatively, and oh god, has Spencer missed his face. You’d think they haven’t seen each other in months by the way Spencer just wants to drop the plastic cup, pull Brendon in by the ears and kiss him breathless.

Brendon licks his lips after a swallow of his own drink and Spencer stumbles over his words. “Yeah, I’m-I mean no! I’m not okay. I’m clearly an idiot for freaking out the other night, so I came here to apologize.”

He closes his eyes without thinking, a simple reflex to protect himself. He could handle words, but not hollow eyes.

“Spence,” Brendon sighs, and there’s a cold hand on Spencer’s cheek, thumb stroking his cheekbone slowly.

He opens his eyes to find Brendon’s lips curled upwards, a small smile, but a smile none the less. His mouth falls open but before the words can come out, there’s a man at the door to the shop, hollering that his break is over. Brendon’s smile quickly turns into a frown, apologies now falling from his lips as he turns on his heel and quickly heads inside.

Spencer stands for a moment, shuffling his feet, sipping his drink, cursing himself and Brendon’s boss for cutting their time short. He glances in the window, sees Brendon, face tight with concentration as he stuffs handfuls of blueberries in a blender.

Spencer sighs and walks down the street to where he parked his car, pauses at the door when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. A text from Brendon: Later? Please? Spencer can’t help but chuckle a little bit, thinking of Brendon probably hunched under the counter, texting furiously, trying to be invisible.

He quickly replies: Of course before hopping in his car and driving home, sucking down the smoothie with a smile on his face.

It’s been seven hours.

Spencer is sprawled across the couch in his living room, half watching some boring TV-movie, half sleeping. His parents and sisters left a little while ago to go to the movies, an outing that Spencer slyly slipped out of.

He’s somewhere between finding out if the mother really hired a hit-man to kill her husband and falling asleep when the chime of the doorbell snaps his eyes open. Spencer grunts, figures it’s the annoying old lady next door as he stands up and heads out of the living room. His mom feels guilty that she lives alone so she talk to her, shares gardening advice occasionally and sometimes the old woman shows up unexpectedly, blathering about roses or peonies or whatever she had just planted.

Spencer pauses at the door, turns the handle and starts with “Hey, Ms. Cottington, my mom isn’t-“ stops when he realizes it isn’t the old woman standing in front of him.

“Spencer Smith, would you be my boyfriend?”

Brendon is standing in front of him, hands clutching a plastic smoothie hut cup with some kind of purplish red flower sticking out of the top. His face is flushed red; he must have walked over, grasping that cup, the flower half-wilted in the sweltering heat.

Spencer’s jaw just kind of…drops. Words aren’t forming and its okay because before he has a chance to say anything; Brendon has his palm closed over his mouth, warm and a little clammy.

“Before you say no, or yes, or whatever, let me just say that I really have no idea what I’m doing, and that I’m sorry I wasn’t more clear in the beginning. I like you, Spencer Smith. Like you, like you. Like I kind of want to have you around all the time and I miss your stupidly cute pudgy cheeks when I’m at work and I didn’t – I didn’t really know what I wanted before. I wasn’t sure how to label us because just us was all I needed. But I do know that I want you and um, I brought you a flower? Is this what guys do when they ask other guys out? Because I don’t-“

Spencer lovingly shoves Brendon’s hand away to he can use his own to grab the back of his neck and pull him in, crushing their lips together, stealing the words right from Brendon’s mouth. Spencer can feel the splash of water as the cup hits the ground; he curls his bare toes into the puddle when Brendon grips his shoulders, pulls him closer.

When Spencer pulls back, licks his lips, glad to have the taste of Brendon back on his tongue, he can only grin stupidly. He grabs Brendon by the wrist and pulls him through the doorway, the flower lying forgotten on the concrete.

“But hey, hey!” Brendon resists, stops in his tracks, the door clicking shut behind him. “You didn’t answer my question,” He pouts, swinging his arm back and forth.

“Pudgy cheeks? Really, Brendon?” Spencer smirks and tugs on Brendon’s arm, getting him to follow as he leads them toward the stairs.

“You’re such an ass.” The words are playful and light, Brendon chuckles as they climb.

“No, I’m just your boooooyfriend.”

They both nearly trip upwards, half doubled over in laughter. Spencer slips his hand down and entwines it with Brendon’s, presses their palms together.

Spencer thinks maybe there wasn’t anything to doubt after all.

It’s been five days.

“Well, that movie sucked.”

Spencer sighs as he sits down on Brendon’s futon, crosses his arms and rests them on his knees as his eyes follow Brendon across the small space.

“Are you kidding, it was terrifying!” Brendon squeaks a bit, shudders at the memory of the supposed scary movie Spencer had picked. He sets a few dirty cups in the sink before turning around, facing Spencer.

“Yes, it was terrifyingly bad,” Spencer drawls sarcastically, sounding surprisingly (or unsurprisingly) like Ryan.

“I mean, when they took that guy’s head off with the machete!” Brendon rambles as he crosses the room to stand in front of Spencer, eyes wide and hands moving as he goes over the killing in glorious detail, as if Spencer wasn’t sitting beside him the entire time, holding his hand. He’s actually surprised Brendon could remember any details, since his head was buried in Spencer’s neck for a good portion of the movie.

Brendon settles himself on Spencer’s lap, legs straddled, palms and fingertips resting on Spencer’s chest, warm through the thin material of his t-shirt.

“You were very brave,” Spencer admits, remembering how Brendon would lift his head every so often, just to duck back down again, muffling curses into Spencer’s arm.

“I hate scary movies,” Brendon says against Spencer’s neck, breath tickling the skin, sending a shudder straight down his spine.

“It’s ok, I’ll protect you,” Spencer says under a laugh, moves his hands up and down Brendon’s back – slow, soothing.

Brendon pulls back, his eyes warm and wide, voice serious when he says, “I know you would.”

Brendon kisses him softly, eases Spencer onto his back. Clothes are shed piece by piece and before Spencer knows it he’s hard and naked, pushing until he’s on top of Brendon, their hips and dicks pressing against each other. His vision is blurred around the edges, everything radiating the softest glow. Brendon’s face looks almost angelic below him, pupils blown and lips swollen red, breath coming harshly as he writhes below Spencer.

Brendon grips Spencer’s shoulders, Spencer’s hands planted on either side of Brendon’s head, keeping him steady, eyes focused on Brendon’s face, watching his eyes flutter with every little movement.

“What do you want?” Spencer asks, presses an open mouthed kiss to Brendon’s jaw, smiles as he hears an “ah” escape Brendon’s lips. Spencer moves down a bit, anticipating Brendon to request that he suck him off, pushes his hips down to get another rise from him. Brendon grunts, pushes up, cocks sliding together perfectly for a moment.

“Spence, Spencer, can you please, ahh, can you fuck me?” Brendon’s voice is barely a whisper but it’s all Spencer can hear, ringing through his ears. He stiffens for a moment, moves up, and looks Brendon in the eye. Spencer wants to know that he’s sure, that he’s really okay with this.

“Are you sure?”

Brendon smiles, wide and full, runs a thumb across Spencer’s bottom lip.

“I trust you.”

Spencer dips down, connects their lips softly, before pushing up on his arms, scanning the familiar surroundings for what he can only describe in his mind as ‘supplies’ and that doesn’t sound very romantic. Luckily he doesn’t have to ask, Brendon’s turning over underneath him, slithering to the other side of the faux mattress and reaching between the frame and the wall, his hand magically reappearing with a small bottle of lube and a condom.

Spencer sits up on his knees, the cut of the bars underneath already making them ache.

“Boy scouts?” He questions, watches Brendon sit up on his knees as well, walking on them until they bump into Spencer’s. Brendon brings the foil up to his mouth, tears it open with one pass between his teeth, and says “What can I say? I like their motto.”

Spencer smirks, takes the open package from Brendon and rolls it on carefully, occasionally looking up to see Brendon watching his hands move, eyes wide.

“How do you, umm, which way do you want to?” Spencer can’t really bring himself to say ‘position’ without the twelve year old boy inside of him giggling uncontrollably, though the nerves that are rattling inside his stomach probably wouldn’t let him.

“Umm.” Brendon’s eyes fall, forehead furrowed in thought as his brain figures out logistics. This is new territory for both of them and may require some thought. Spencer’s mind hums with anticipation and nerves, but he nods when Brendon suggests on his back, so he can see Spencer. Spencer was hoping he’d say that anyway.

Brendon leans in, and kisses Spencer passionately, threads his hands through his short hair and tugs twice before pulling away, moves onto his back. Spencer can see his hands tremble just a little, coming to rest on his hips. Spencer nudges at his thighs with his knees, and Brendon spreads willingly, letting Spencer settle between them, nipping at the ivory skin before running his tongue over the shallow indents, then biting again.

He blindly reaches for the lube Brendon let fall onto the mattress when he whines, “Please, Spence.” He slathers two fingers in the cool, slippery substance before gently pushing in his index finger. This isn’t new territory for them – Spencer had asked Brendon if he could try a few days before, stimulate him with his fingers while he sucked him off. And while Brendon was a bit skeptical at first, the nearly animalistic noises he made during were enough to convince Spencer that it was something they were sure to do again (so he did it the next night, and the night after that).

Spencer wants to sit up, to see Brendon’s eyes roll in the back of his head as he lets his middle finger join his index, making slow passes and crooking just a little when they’re in as far as they can go. He wants to see but he stays low, focusing on his task, licks a stripe up the underside of Brendon’s cock to hear him groan in response.

“Spence, please, can you just?” Brendon pants, fingers lightly touching the ends of his hair. He scissors his fingers once more, removes them, drawing a whimper from Brendon.

Spencer spreads his knees, holds back the painful sigh attached to his movement. Cost be damned, he was going to get Brendon a real bed.

“Ready?” He asks shakily, one hand gripping the base of his own cock, watching Brendon’s twitch against his stomach when he nods furiously, lifting and spreading his legs even further as Spencer lines himself up, takes in a breath, and begins to push in.
He keeps his eyes trained on Brendon’s face, watches, because he knows that Brendon won’t say anything, won’t tell him to stop even if it hurts. Brendon’s eyes are closed, mouth slack when Spencer stills, all the way inside. He waits a moment before asking, “Okay?”, doesn’t move until Brendon tells him to, slowly, of course.

The consciousness of what he’s doing sends Spencer’s mind spinning. Brendon’s tight, so tight; he has to really concentrate so he doesn’t embarrass himself. As Brendon’s face relaxes and his grunts turn into moans and slurs of encouragement, Spencer picks up the speed, circling his hips as his knees scream in pain.

Before long, Spencer finds the right angle that has Brendon crying out; hands grasping the sheets, nearly pulling them clean off, hips lifting to meet his every thrust. Spencer’s eyes flutter somewhere between consciousness and complete elation as he pushes still, eyes opening fully when he catches Brendon stroking himself, eyes screwed shut.

Spencer tightens his grip on Brendon’s thigh, releases one to swat Brendon’s hand away, making a tight fist around Brendon’s cock, jerking it in time to his own movements, sloppier and more rushed as he can feel the weight pooling low in his abdomen.
Brendon comes first, hard and hot over Spencer’s hand, muscles clenching around Spencer’s cock, sending him straight over the edge as well. Spencer pushes in a couple more times as he comes down, legs trembling, fighting to keep him upright, knees still throbbing, angry. He pulls out slowly, and crashes down next to Brendon, tying off the condom and tossing it somewhere across the room.

His breathing has slowed down, normal now, but when he looks over to see Brendon staring back at him, nothing but dark brown pools of color, he can feel his heart palpitate.

“Come here,” Brendon quietly demands and Spencer obliges, muscles protesting as they shift to find a comfortable arrangement of limbs, Brendon’s head resting on Spencer’s chest. The room is quiet; nothing but the gentle sounds of breath coming from either of them. Spencer thinks he could lie like this forever and never need anything else.

He can feel Brendon’s heartbeat against his ribs and doesn’t have to think anymore. He knows.

It’s been one day.

“Brent’s gonna swing me by work on his way home, okay?”

Spencer nods, presses Brendon back against the doorframe long enough to steal a kiss before he’s pushing him out the door, ignoring the pout that crosses Brendon’s face as he drags his feet to Brent’s beat up station wagon.

Spencer watches as the car backs out and puts down the street, Brendon comically smashed up against the window, making faces until he’s out of sight. Spencer laughs as he turns back inside, Ryan watching him curiously from behind his acoustic guitar.

“So. You and Brendon, huh?” He asks, his tone non accusing, with a slight smirk attached.

Spencer can’t help but grin down at him.

“Yeah, me and Brendon.”

note: I probably won't be posting for awhile - I'm currently working on a rather large fic project so when I get the first part done, I'll make a giant post explaining the whole thing! :)

You're a Pretty Face, You Should Like Me (I Wanna Get Used by You) or Once Upon a Kitchen Table

Sun, 24 Aug 2008 14:41:56 GMT

Title: You're a Pretty Face, You Should Like Me (I Wanna Get Used by You) or Once Upon a Kitchen Table
Author: oldcrows
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
POV: 3rd, Brendon's
Words: 1,017
Summary: What they have is what they have - nothing less, nothing more.
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened (unfortunately)
Author's Notes: This is a pretty straight forward PWP kids, written for my MFEO, highhlikeplanes, who wanted sex on a kitchen table. And sex on a kitchen table is what she got! Special thanks to my superfuckingawesome beta, xxlalaliexx - I promise your Brendon/Spencer will be done soon! lovelovelove!

Brendon forces Ryan to sit back on the table, spreading his legs for better access, and ripping at the fly on his jeans open. Brendon unzips them just enough to pull out Ryan’s dick, and then he lets go, leaning over him to place his hands on his face, both thumbs at the corners of Ryan’s mouth stretching it before sliding them in and telling him to suck.

He pulls his thumbs out slowly, watching them slide against Ryan’s lips before kissing him once and replacing them with both of his index fingers. He lets Ryan work on them for a few minutes before withdrawing and flattening his palm against Ryan’s lips. He obliges, licking in broad stripes.

Brendon takes his hand away, brings it down to palm Ryan’s dick, watching him writhe on the table as he strokes languidly, slow to the point of excruciating. Brendon waits, knows that if he does so, Ryan will say the words he wants to hear.

“Please, Bren.” With that Brendon lets out a breath, brings his free hand to rest on the stiffness in his own jeans, the other picking up the pace just a little on Ryan’s cock, eliciting a guttural moan from the younger boy. “Please Bren, fuck me.”

“Is that what you want?” Brendon loves to push, loves to tease, to drive Ryan to the edge only to pull him back right as he’s about to go over.

“Ye-FUCK,” Ryan gasps, when Brendon dips down, slides his hand to the base of Ryan’s cock and sucks the head in between his lush lips.

Brendon quickly takes his other hand away from the ache between his own legs to throw his arm across Ryan’s hips before he can buck them. Ryan still tries though; tries to push up, only get slammed back down. Brendon isn’t sure if he entirely hates the pain by the way he seemingly groans with pleasure each time Brendon gives him a little leverage before pulling off and forcing him back down.

Ryan begins to babble, almost incoherently, a jumble of ‘pleaseohfuckbrenplease’ as Brendon continues to suck him off, working both his hand and mouth until he can feel Ryan tense a bit, knows he’s close to the edge. Brendon pulls off, grips the waistband of Ryan’s jeans and pulls both them and his boxers off in one swift tug, leaving a naked, vulnerable, nearly shaking Ryan on the table below him.

Brendon watches him for a moment, contemplates his next move. He knows Ryan will do anything, take anything that Brendon gives, that he’ll whine and cry and beg for more like a whore who enjoys what they do for a living.

Ryan watches Brendon with wide eyes, reaches his arms out slowly, cautiously, only for Brendon to tell him no, to clasp them together and stretch them above his head, and to keep them there.

Brendon stands with his thighs pressed against the table. Ryan’s knees fall open instantly, legs lifting, hovering until Brendon nods and Ryan settles them on his shoulders. Brendon slides his left hand up Ryan’s thigh, brings his right to his mouth. His index and middle fingers are still coated, albeit it barely, with Ryan’s saliva.

Brendon locks eyes with the boy below him, slides the digits in his own mouth, smiling around them as he watches Ryan’s jaw drop, a barely there moan escaping his lips.

Brendon considers himself to be a bit of an exhibitionist, closes his eyes as he works his tongue over his fingers for a minute, letting Ryan’s cries and pleading dance around his ears, making him show off more. He slides them out with a pop before quickly unfastening and removing his pants. He spits into his palm and begins to stroke himself idly, watching Ryan watch him with wide eyes, needful eyes, hands still grasping above his head, dick twitching against his stomach.

Brendon gives himself a couple more tugs before angling himself down, aligning himself with Ryan. He doesn’t prepare him, though he knows Ryan would probably grovel for just one finger. He doesn’t stretch him first because he knows Ryan loves the burn more, loves the blind resistance, the push that has him closing his eyes, biting back a scream as Brendon moves in slowly before dragging out and slamming back in, telling Ryan to look, to open his goddamn eyes and look at him.

Ryan’s eyes shoot open, strained and narrow as his arms try to stay still, locked above his head. Brendon sets the pace, hard and fast, but not sloppy. Every thrust is calculated, precise. Just the right amount of pressure and the perfect angle that has him hitting Ryan’s prostate on every push. Brendon breaks their eye contact, looks down to Ryan’s dick, flushed and leaking against the taut skin of his stomach. When Brendon looks back up, meets Ryan’s gaze, and knows exactly what he wants.

“Touch yourself.”

Ryan obliges in a flash, fisting himself and pumping rapidly, coming undone over his hand and onto his chest in mere moments. He relaxes back onto the table, body limp as Brendon continues to push, eyes still focused on Ryan’s face, taking in the little winces and lip-bites as his over-spent body tries to come down from the high of his orgasm and work with the sensations Brendon is still causing to shoot up his spine.

Brendon bends his knees, lifts his hips and goes as deep as he can, a couple more thrusts and he’s spilling inside of Ryan, thrusting shallowly until he pulls out and pushes Ryan’s legs from his shoulders, rubbing the sore skin as he turns to walk away.

“Bren?” Ryan’s voice is barely a whisper and Brendon can hear him push up on the table to sit, can feel his eyes on the back of his head.

Ryan doesn’t say another word and he doesn’t have to. Brendon knows what he wants and it’s something he won’t give him. What they have is what they have – nothing less, nothing more.

It was best for them if it stayed that way.

Meanwhile, Under Jon & Spencer's Blanket...

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 01:15:03 GMT

Title: Meanwhile, Under Jon & Spencer's Blanket...
Author: oldcrows
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Joncer
POV: 3rd, Spencer's
Summary: He doesn’t have to say anything to know what that look means. He has known Jon long enough, he’s been with Jon long enough to know that he’s looking for something very specific with that stretch of lips.
Words: 2,342
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened (unfortunately)
Author Notes: So this is nurikins birthday fic! She wanted Jon & Spencer making mischief underneath a blanket, and thus, blanket!porn was born. Shout outs to highhlikeplanes for the encouragment along the way and xxlalaliexx for taking some time off from watching Phelpsie to beta for me!

Spencer should have known he would be interrupted as soon as he settled into his bunk, book falling open on his lap. Its Ryan’s - some supposed masterpiece that Spencer suspects is chock full of allusions and poetic imagery that Ryan salivates over. Ryan wouldn’t stop praising it, bothering Spencer at every opportunity until he caved and decided to read it just to see what all the hype was about (and to shut Ryan up).

He’s barely 10 pages into the slow moving novel, tripping over the grandiose vocabulary and awkward phrasing when there’s a familiar hand curling around the edge of his bunk curtain, hesitating for a moment before slowly pulling it open. Jon’s face illuminated by the dim glow of the overhead light. Spencer finishes the paragraph he’s on before addressing him, unable to ignore the smirk set on his lips, curling up at the ends.

“Hey.” Jon’s voice is laced with suggestion as he leans into the small space, dropping a kiss against Spencer’s head, lips brushing against his hair.

Spencer doesn’t reply at first, returning the twisted grin as he rests the book on his lap, thumbs rubbing against the hardcover. He doesn’t have to say anything to know what that look means. He has known Jon long enough, he’s been with Jon long enough to know that he’s looking for something very specific with that stretch of lips.

“Can I help you?” Spencer asks, eyes darting down to where Jon’s slowly pushing the book from his lap into the crevice between the thin mattress and the wall.

“I was reading that,” he protests, knowing it won’t do any good when it comes down to that smirk.

Jon’s still stoically silent as he boots himself into the cramped space, swinging his leg over until he’s straddling Spencer’s hips, leaning down to nip at his neck, beard scratching against the hollow of his collarbone, forcing Spencer to swallow hard and slide the curtain closed.

“Don’t you have your own bunk?” It’s not that Spencer doesn’t want Jon’s hands, calloused and warm, pushing underneath his shirt, thumbs rubbing slow circles, dipping into the waistband of his jeans , he does. He just likes to play hard to get sometimes, just to keep it interesting.

“Yeah, but you’re not in it.” Jon’s right, he isn’t and he hasn’t been for months now (on or off tour). Spencer is stubborn and won’t leave his bunk for Jon’s. Lucky for him Jon is an easygoing guy and lets Spencer boss him around just a little bit.

Jon’s hands are moving up, dragging the worn fabric of one of his own t-shirts with it. Spencer shivers involuntarily as the air hits his skin, cool before the warmth of Jon’s breath washes over him, shifting down to press open-mouthed kisses down his sternum.

Spencer’s belt is undone before he can even realize it, and damn Jon’s fast. Jon’s lips are on his again, tongue probing in Spencer’s mouth, unyielding as his hand snakes down his pants to loosely grip his half-hard cock. He stifles a moan in Jon’s mouth, pushing his hips up even though it’s dry, too dry, not caring about anything other than the friction he so desperately craves.
Spencer’s bliss is short lived, a hollow knock on the panel of wood above his bunk forcing their lips apart. Jon releases his hold, pulling his hand away and resting it on Spencer’s hip with a sigh, grumbling into his neck.

“What?” Spencer snaps at the curtain, trying to think of how long it would take to find the book and throw it at whoever is on the other side.

“Whoa, Spence, I’d zip up if I were you. I didn’t peg you as an exhibitionist!” Brendon exclaims after he’s yanked the curtain open, peering in with wide eyes at the scene before him. Spencer would have gladly told Brendon that that’s basically the pot calling the kettle black if he wasn’t being crushed by Jon slumping on top of him in defeat.

“What do you want, Bren?” Jon asks, lifting his neck to speak as he zips and buttons Spencer’s fly one handed (the sign of a true pro). Spencer’s just glaring at Brendon, thinking of ways he can plot his revenge, with Jon’s help of course.

“Movie time and it’s my pick!”

Spencer fights off the sigh trying to rise from his chest. He had totally forgotten it was their weekly movie night (or as close to weekly as they could get it with their schedule). Yes, he had forgotten even though Brendon had hopped around all day trying to decide between The Goonies and Fraggle Rock (“That’s not a movie, Bren,” Ryan had protested).

“It’s not your pick,” Ryan simply states as he passes by, DVD case in hand.

“Wait, what?” Brendon exclaims, chasing Ryan into the back lounge.

Spencer shifts, slides out of the bunk, pulling his shirt down and smoothing his hair. He smiles when Jon reaches out, grabs his hand. “Later?” Spencer asks, a twinge of hopefulness in his voice as he slowly moves toward the lounge.

He hears Jon groan into the pillow as he passes through the door into the back lounge where Ryan and Brendon are bickering more like siblings than boyfriends.

“No fair! It’s my turn and you know it.”

“Well I gave you my turn last time so technically it’s my turn now.”

“Nuh-uh! Spence, it’s my turn isn’t it?”

Spencer lifts his hands, palms out and shakes his head as he crosses to sit on the far couch. “No way am I getting involved,” he says, leaning back and intertwining his fingers behind his head. He knew that they would both tire of arguing eventually and make up in one of their bunks, but they could go on and on for hours if no one stepped in to stop them.

“Cut it out you two.” Jon steps into the lounge, his face nearly covered by the mound of blankets cradled in his arms.

“But Jon,” Brendon whines, sitting down hard on the other couch, crossing his arms, and looking about as threatening as an angry puppy.
Brendon’s whining cuts out when Jon shoves one of the blankets , a Little Mermaid sleeping bag, faded and old , on Brendon’s head. He smiles smugly at Spencer, the smile that has shown triumph over many of Brendon’s hissy fits.

“Looks like we’ve got Strawberry Shortcake tonight.” Jon sits down next to Spencer, maneuvering until he has Spencer’s back pressed against his chest, head resting on his shoulder, Brendon’s other sleeping bag draped over them. Spencer leans back into the warmth, nuzzling his nose against Jon’s neck as Jon’s arm wraps around his middle, hand landing back on the waistband of his jeans, thumb idly flicking at the button.

Spencer tries to ignore the fluttering in his stomach, the pang of anger at Brendon for disrupting their earlier activities. “5 bucks says it’s a foreign film,” he bets, craning his neck to catch Jon’s eye, stomach tightening when Jon’s thumb dips beneath the denim, strokes the coarse hair beneath his boxer briefs.

“5 bucks says Brendon falls asleep 10 minutes in.” Jon’s voice is low, lower than he would use in normal conversation and Spencer can only blink at him, watching as Jon’s mouth curves into that familiar grin.

“Oh, stop pouting,” Ryan complains, standing in front of the television, eyeing Brendon as he pops open the DVD case, on which is a young woman holding an umbrella. “I promise this is full of pretty colors and lots of music. In fact, it’s entirely sung.”

Brendon’s eyes widen at Ryan’s last words, shuffling over to let him sit, fitting their bodies together almost like Jon and Spencer.

“In French,” Spencer points out, recognizing the movie instantly as one of Ryan’s favorites, one he doesn’t need subtitles to understand or enjoy anymore.

Ryan kisses Brendon quickly before his mouth can open to protest, pulling away to press play on the remote, the screen going black before the opening credits begin to roll.

It really is a gorgeous movie, Spencer thinks, but even after a half hour at least, he can hear Brendon’s breathing get deep and even, (leaning back over Jon’s shoulder to see him dozing on Ryan’s chest, Ryan’s hand threading gently through his hair) the reading does get to be a bit tedious, unable to hold his attention (not when Jon’s thumb is still twisting in circles, keeping his mind on anything but the movie).

The young woman, Genevieve, who in the beginning was spinning around on the rain soaked street, singing of her love for a man named Guy, is now sullen, clinging to Guy as he explains, in song, that he has been drafted. The colors on the screen are vibrant, illuminating the room, the light dancing across Jon’s face, his eyes trained on the screen, but not really watching. Spencer knows these things.

He stretches his neck to whisper in Jon’s ear, low enough so just he can hear. “What are you thinking about?” He can’t help himself, presses a feather-light kiss below his ear.

Jon’s hand freezes for a moment, stalls in its place before withdrawing and coming to rest back on top of his fly, thumb and forefinger now gripping the warm metal button. “How pissed I am at Brendon for interrupting us.” His voice is still low, gravelly, and thick with want. His thumb pops the button open.

“Oh yeah?” Spencer can’t help it if the words came out a bit breathy. It’s kind of hard to speak when Jon’s slowly unzipping his pants, breath hot on his ear, murmuring the ‘what ifs’ and ‘what could have beens’ if they had been left to their own devices, the words causing him to become hard, Jon’s hand palming him through the rough denim, lips moving against his ear.

Spencer lets his eyes slip shut, trying his best not to squirm, hearing Ryan’s low hum match the music on the screen, the words not making sense to Spencer’s ears, but they’re beautiful all the same.

Non je ne pourrai jamais vivre sans toi. Je ne pourrai pas, ne pars pas, j’en mourrai! Je te casherai et je te garderai. Mais mon amour, ne me quitte pas.

“Focus,” Jon says, voice still hushed, knee propped up to create a tent of sorts to mask his movements underneath the blanket.

Spencer’s eyes snap open. Jon’s palm grazes the tip of his cock, collecting pre-cum to use as a makeshift lube before curling his hand around the base and dragging it up slowly, nearly excruciatingly so. Spencer bites his lip, holds back the grunt trying to push pas this teeth, and tries to keep his eyes on the screen. The lovers sit at a table in a café, singing solemnly back and forth on how this can’t possibly work now, how she wants him, needs him to stay. How he won’t forget her. He promises. He’ll write every day.

“Jon,” Spencer breathes, bucks his hips up a little not enough to deter Ryan’s attention from the television. Jon places his other hand on Spencer’s hip, holding him down, in place. Spencer turns his neck, bites Jon’s in retaliation, moving his ass as much as Jon will let him, grinding down into Jon’s obvious hard on.

Jon shushes him in that inexplicably deep voice and picks up the pace, flicking his wrist on the upstroke, tightening and releasing, driving Spencer crazy. Spencer uses his heels for leverage, pushes down harder onto Jon’s lap, smiling smugly when he hears a quiet grunt pass through his lips.

There’s a train station – Guy standing with a suitcase, his last goodbye. They embrace on the platform, Genevieve letting the tears stream from her face as she sings “Ne me quitte pas, ne me quitte pas”. Don’t leave me.

It’s getting more difficult for Spencer to control his breathing, his arousal coiling like a spring low in his abdomen, muscles tensing, sweat beading on his forehead, damping the hair that hangs above it. His eyes clench shut when Jon’s hand moves up his cock, thumb catching on the head, sending him over the edge with a barely there shudder.

Spencer burrows into Jon’s neck, licking and biting at the flesh, shifting on his side to gain better access. He feels Jon wipe away most of the mess on the underside of the blanket, his other hand releasing Spencer’s hip, letting him turn to catch his lips in a passionate kiss.
It’s now winter and Genevieve is pregnant, alone while Guy is off fighting in Algeria. She’s closed off from the world and being pressured by her mother to marry an older, rich man, Mr. Cassard. She argues with her mother, says she will wait for Guy. “il peut attendre, je l'attendrai.”It can wait. I will wait for him.

“If you’re not going to watch the movie you can have the bunks. Just close the door on your way out,” Ryan says softly, hand caressing Brendon’s cheek, half watching the film, half watching him sleep.

Spencer detaches himself from Jon, licks his lips and raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t need an invitation. Spencer rolls onto his back, zips up his fly, throwing the blanket aside, stained spots safely tucked so they can’t be seen. Spencer stands up, turns around, and extends his hand to Jon, who jumps up quickly, grabbing Spencer by the hips to whirl him back around, pressing against him as they quickly move out of the lounge.

“Should we tell Brendon about the blanket?” Jon asks, swiftly and silently closing the door behind him as Ryan requested.

Spencer grins, placing his hands upon Jon’s chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken through his palms, walking him the two steps backwards until his back hits the door with a dull thud.

“It can wait,” he breathes against Jon’s lips, as the swell of violins is muffled through the door, a beautiful orchestration as he closes the distance between them.

Fin.

Under The Boardwalk (Part 2)

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 05:13:07 GMT

Title: Under The Boardwalk (Part 2)
Author: oldcrows
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ryden
POV: 3rd, Brendon's
Words:>: 6,980 (total for both parts)
Summary: The whole point of this getaway is to relax and be incessantly lazy because they can. But as soon as Ryan mentioned that it was on the ocean, Brendon couldn’t get the idea of spending all day, every day, frying in the sun on the private beach.
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened (unfortunately)
Author Notes: I'm back with part 2! I know, I know, finally, right? I have plenty of excuses though (coming home from vacation,warped tour, my adorable kitten, etc) but here it is! I hope you all enjoy. OH and stay tuned because I have a Joncer S/A (a birthday present for nurikins) as a WIP and a list of things I want to write :)

So again, a special thanks to my MFEO/highhlikeplanes for all the encouragement, my lovely nurikins for being my other cheerleader, and lastly, xxlalaliexx for being an AMAZING beta!

BACK TO PART 1

Brendon squirms, using his elbow to attempt a knock on the door to his room. The room that Ryan had trudged off to, leaving Brendon alone to carry everything by himself.

Needless to say he wasn’t thrilled with Ryan at the moment.

Of course Ryan has the only key to the room (being what he calls ‘the responsible one’), so here Brendon stands, arms dusted with sand and filled to the brim with his toys, Ryan’s umbrella, Ryan’s chair, Ryan’s blanket and Ryan’s book.

Brendon sighs, and elbows the door again when his first try goes unnoticed. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. Sure, he knew that it was pretty low to ask Ryan to go to the beach while he was sucking him off in that bathroom (especially since he knows how Ryan would rather admire the beach from afar), He figured it was only fair for the bruises he was sure to get from Ryan slamming him into that stall (fucking ow).

The door suddenly opens and by the time Brendon looks up, all he can see is the back of Ryan’s head as he retreats back into the room, bare except for the towel slung low on his waist, his forearms covered with gauze and medical tape.

Brendon feels that he still has a right to be angry with Ryan, not only for leaving him to carry all of his shit back up to the room (the sand had only gotten hotter since they first arrived), but for just putting a damper on the whole day. They only have one more day to relax until they hop a plane back to Vegas and from the looks of it; it was going to be a quiet one. Brendon knows Ryan doesn’t lift out of his moods easily, and that he should probably tread lightly, but he doesn’t want to back down. Not this time.

“Oh hey, thanks for helping me bring all this stuff back.” Brendon doesn’t attempt to sound anything but sarcastic, dropping everything on the floor, sand sprinkling the plush carpet.

Ryan turns, his face blank, save for his lips – pressed into a tight thin line, holding back what Brendon assumes to be any number of curses or insults – it’s what Ryan resorts to when he’s tired of being upset in his usual civil manor (condescending words, flippant looks, and rolling eyes). He glares at Brendon for a moment before turning away, making his way toward the bedroom.

“Oh, so we’re not talking?” Brendon shouts, brushing some stray sand from his arms and chest as he follows along, wanting to poke and prod at Ryan until he breaks, just like he had done to him earlier. He figures it’s only fair, right?

He expects more silence, because the silent treatment is what Ryan falls back on when he doesn’t get his way. He can be a petulant child when he wants to be, but Brendon loves him anyway. He doesn’t know how not to love him.

He anticipates silence, but he doesn’t get it. Ryan spins around, cocks his hip, and lets his copyrighted bitch face set in (Brendon seriously hates Spencer for teaching him that). He stares Brendon down for a minute, eyes falling from his face to his neck to his chest to his stomach, taking a moment to pointedly glare at his crotch before doubling back.

“You’re such a fucking kid, do you know that?” Ryan hisses, eyes flaring with something other than anger, something Brendon can’t quite put his finger on. He lets Ryan continue though, feeding on his frustration.

“You manipulate me into letting you go to the beach, so you can make fucking sandcastles; you pretty much put me on display and fuck me in front of that family, and then just walk away like nothing happened! So yeah, Brendon, I don’t think I’m talking to you right now.”

Brendon watches Ryan’s chest heave, skin stretching over his ribs, water that drips down from his hair is curling in rivulets on his chest and he can’t help but lick his lips. He tries to push all the things he’d like to be doing out of his mind (running his hands up and down Ryan’s sides, biting down on his collarbone until it bruises, marking the older boy as his). Ryan gives his usual overdramatic sigh and sits down hard on the bed, running a hand through his damp locks, pushing through the tangles.

Brendon considers giving in for a moment, breaking down and apologizing, kissing his wounds and coaxing him into bed (because as far as Brendon is concerned – cuddling fixes everything). However, he quickly decides against it. He can’t just let this argument die, he wants the yelling, the frustration, needs the adrenaline it gives him pumping through his veins.

“I can’t believe you’re calling me a fucking kid when you’re the one who’s complained the entire fucking day. I just thought, I don’t know, that maybe we could have fun.”

“What? I don’t know how to have fun now? Ow, my heart.” Ryan clutches his chest and falls back on the bed, mouth clenched shut to hold back his laughter.

“Well if you consider lying around the room all day and going to restaurants where I can’t pronounce anything on the menu fun, then there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

“Hey, that was a five star restaurant,” Ryan says, snapping his head to look up at Brendon. “I don’t know how to have fun,” He mumbles to himself, turning his head to look up at the ceiling. “I’ll show you how to have fun,” he snickers, smirking to himself, rubbing his arms to rid of the goose bumps that have taken over the delicate skin as he stands up, turning towards Brendon.

“Oh yeah, Ry, take me out to a nice dinner again and jump me in the bathroom.” Brendon attempts the sardonic tone again, but it just comes off as mildly amused.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you didn’t like that?” Ryan asks casually, stepping into Brendon’s personal space, hands coming to rest on top of the fluffy hotel towel. This of course grabs Brendon’s attention, his anger flittering away as his eyes move in time with Ryan’s thumb as it strokes his hipbone ever so slowly.

“I, uh, yes,” Brendon breathes, because if he’s being honest with himself, he really doesn’t mind being the submissive one. He knows Ryan thrives when he has control, when he can bend and twist things until they fit into the puzzle of his mind. Brendon knows that it’s why he’s such a pushover when it comes to everything else, why he said yes to the beach, because he doesn’t need control of everything, just most things. The bedroom is definitely Ryan’s domain.

“Are you going to apologize now?” Brendon’s eyes are still trained on Ryan’s hands, unblinking as his thumbs disappear beneath the fabric, pulling in opposite directions until the towel unravels and falls to the floor, exposing Ryan’s half-hard cock.

Brendon nearly forgets the question until Ryan has one of his fingers on his chin, tilting him up to meet his gaze. Brendon still has a tiny bit of fight left in him though, still wants to thrash and yell and feel, so he whispers, “no”, and smirks even if the one syllable came out a little shaky.

Brendon tries to hold his ground; he really does, but when Ryan presses against him, licks into his mouth with purpose and passion, he can’t hold on anymore. He lets it all go. He moans into Ryan’s mouth when their tongues meet, sliding and pushing against each other, struggling for domination – which Ryan of course gets.

Brendon shudders as Ryan’s hands ghost down his sides, thumbs flicking lightly over his nipples, the sensation sending a jolt straight to his cock, while their mouths are still locked together. Ryan moves his hands to Brendon’s back, his nails trailing upwards and Brendon suddenly remembers the one thing he forgot to do in his haste to get down to the water that morning.

He pulls back and winces. He doesn’t want to break away from Ryan’s grip, but he does want his skin to stop feeling like someone is holding a blow torch to it. Ryan gets a glint in his eyes that Brendon catches instantly as him having some kind of idea. This couldn’t possibly be good.

“Forget something?” Ryan asks slyly, deliberately pressing his fingernails into the sensitive flesh of Brendon’s lower back.

Brendon whimpers, burrowing his face into Ryan’s neck, his hands instinctively moving to Ryan’s wrists, barely touching the gauze before its Ryan’s turn to hiss, swiftly pulling away to reexamine his wounds. They both eye the intricately taped bandages, Ryan cursing under his breath before looking up to Brendon, the heat in his eyes intensified.

“Sure you don’t want to apologize now?” Ryan’s voice is low and intentional as his right hand gently traces one of the lines of medical tape on his left arm, eyes still locked with Brendon’s, waiting.

Brendon nods quickly, cradling Ryan’s face in his palms, brushing their lips together softly, chastely, mumbling a “sorry” against his mouth before pulling away, satisfied with his apology, though he knew it wasn’t what Ryan really wanted.

Ryan shakes his head, lips curling at the ends. He lifts his index finger and points it to the ground. Of course Brendon knew that’s what he wanted all along, him on his knees. Brendon of course complies, sinking gracefully, knees sinking into the soft white carpeting.

He looks up at Ryan, who’s looking down at him, eyes wide, expectant. He slides a hand through Brendon’s hair before grasping the sun-dried tresses and directing his attention to his cock.

Brendon licks the head tentatively, teasingly, before he folds his lips over his teeth and Ryan’s pushing in, pulling Brendon’s head toward him at the same time.
“Maybe if you’re good, I’ll rub some aloe on your back,” Ryan says breathlessly as Brendon starts up a rhythm, hollowing his cheeks and timing his breathing through his nose.

As strange as it may sound, Brendon treats going down on Ryan as if he’s playing a song. He times his motions, counting off in his head as he adds the little things that Ryan loves, like he’s creating a melody. He flattens his tongue and hums around his cock when Ryan starts to curse and pant (his way of praising Brendon), fingers tugging and pulling on his hair.

Just as Brendon’s really getting into his groove, changing up pressure and swallowing when Ryan pushes so he hits the back of Brendon’s throat, he pushes Brendon off his cock, jerking his head up so their eyes can meet again, both out of breath.

“Bed, hands and knees,” Ryan commands, leaving Brendon on the floor to go to his duffel bag and grab a condom and the bottle of lube they brought from home.

Brendon watches Ryan for a moment, transfixed by the way his back curves as he’s hunched over the black bag, before he snaps out of it and does exactly what Ryan says, quickly disposing of his trunks before crawling up onto the bed and situating his limbs, wincing in pain as his shoulder blades shift underneath his tender skin.

He straightens up when he hears Ryan approach, feels the bed dip behind him from the added weight. The room is silent except for Brendon’s audible breathing, the anticipation of Ryan’s fingers unknowingly making him widen his stance and stick his ass out. He can’t see Ryan, can’t hear him, but he wants to, needs to know what he’ll do next. His back aches with every breath, the tight skin stretching, making him grimace.

After a minute or two of quiet, Brendon dares it – twists his neck around to see what’s going on behind him. Ryan sits on his knees, index and middle finger of his left hand pointing straight up in the air, a look of contemplation and pure want peering out through his wide pupils. Brendon bites his lip, trying not to meet Ryan’s gaze, focusing on his fingers when he finally says, “Please, Ry.” It comes off a little breathy, needier than he would have liked, but he can’t help it. He hates when Ryan keep him waiting, and of course Ryan knows this and uses it to his advantage quite frequently to get the responses he likes out of Brendon.

Ryan smirks as he coats the two fingers with the slippery substance, rubbing them together quickly before pressing both in hastily and without warning, Brendon nearly falling on his elbows in surprise. His head hangs between his arms now, fingers curling into the pristine white sheets as Ryan pushes in and pulls out. Brendon unknowingly presses back as the pace quickens, not caring how pissed off he was because fuck, he needs this.

Brendon can feel the sweat begin to bead and pool at the dip of the small of his back as he notices Ryan’s movements become less and less. He’s pretty much fucking himself onto Ryan’s fingers now, using the weight anchored from his knees to drive himself backwards, straining for even a brush of Ryan’s fingertips on his prostate. He doesn’t have to look behind him again to know that Ryan’s enjoying this, that it’s his payback. As much as Brendon would love to crawl off the bed and just jerk off in the bathroom, he remembers the bandages on his arms and the guilt creeps up his spine, holding him in place, even when Ryan pulls his fingers away, leaving Brendon empty.

Silence again. Brendon wants to whine, wants to turn around and tell Ryan to hurry the fuck up, but his thoughts are interrupted by another one of Ryan’s commands, “Flip over.” Brendon nearly tangles himself up in the sheets as he spins and lands on his back, a little harder than he had intended, heat radiating from his skin.

Ryan doesn’t waste any time now, Brendon watching as he rolls a condom on and slicks his dick up with lube, eyes wide, but focused on his task. Brendon lifts his legs of his own accord, hooks them over Ryan’s shoulders when he moves in close, positioning himself at Brendon’s entrance. Brendon takes in a breath when Ryan pushes in, just a little, a wordless warning. Their eyes lock for a moment in agreement before he pushes in all the way, stilling for just a moment before pulling back out and slamming in, hands clamping around Brendon’s thighs.

He tries to keep his eyes open, tries to focus on Ryan, even though his back is screaming in pain as Ryan moves him farther up the bed with each thrust, the slightly starched sheets scratching against his skin with every push. Ryan’s eyes are closed, head thrown back only slightly, teeth bearing down on his bottom lip as he moves and Brendon thinks maybe he’s never seen him look as striking as he does now.

The thrusts are sloppy, rushed, nothing like what Brendon’s used to. Ryan’s usually all about timing and control – switching up from swift to excruciatingly slow movements, knowing exactly how to drive Brendon insane. Brendon still watches – sees the pained expression on Ryan’s face when his hands loosen the grip on his thighs, the thick white bandages contracting over the marred skin of his lower palms.

Ryan bites his lip as he opens and closes his fists, still moving inside Brendon, still pushing though Brendon figures his arms are probably in as much, if not more pain than his back. The guilt is still edging into his mind, clouding around the edges. He strains, lifts his upper body enough to pull Ryan down by the ears and catch his lips in a kiss. The rhythm falters as Ryan groans into Brendon’s mouth, the fall forward forcing his hands to hold his weight and steady himself on the bed as he corrects the fault in the tempo, breath becoming erratic as he drives in harder, burying his face into Brendon’s neck, teeth scraping against flesh.

With his cock trapped between his own abdomen and Ryan’s, Brendon can’t help but push up even more against him, craving more friction, bringing him that much closer to release. His bliss is short lived when Ryan pushes himself back onto his knees, shifting his hips to alter the angle. Brendon can’t help the whine that pushes past his teeth at the loss of contact, eyeing Ryan challengingly, his hands still clenching the sheets, stiff and unmoving.

Ryan meets his stare. “Touch yourself.” It’s not a command, not an order said in that infamous snarky tone. His voice is guttural, raw when it rips from his throat in little more than a whisper. Brendon doesn’t waste any time fisting himself, shuddering and coming quickly over his fist after a few pumps. His breathing starts to even out when Ryan stills above him, breath hitching as he climaxes, shoulders slumping, tension easing out of them as he slouches.

Brendon closes his eyes, sated and exhausted, as if the sun, water and manual labor hadn’t already left him drained of his usual abundant amount of energy. He tries to keep his breathing shallow, closing his eyes and straining to hear the crash of the waves on the shore from the open doors of the balcony on the other side of the room. He doesn’t hear Ryan, only feels movement on the end of the bed after he’s pulled out of Brendon, leaving him empty. He feels Ryan leave the bed, hears him walk around the room, hears a door close – he guesses it’s the bathroom.

Brendon isn’t sure if he drifted off when he feels the bed dip again, and Ryan’s hands, cold but gentle, pressing against his shoulder, nudging him to roll over. Brendon complies, lazily turning over, trying not to wince as he twists onto his stomach, the cold air slightly soothing the reddened skin. He lets a breath out into the soft pillow, hissing through his teeth when Ryan’s hands come down on him again, this time wet with some kind of lotion.

“Aloe,” Ryan supplies, fingertips gently smoothing over the expanse of Brendon’s back, dragging the thick white cream over the heated skin.

“Thank you.” The words are muffled against the fabric, though entirely sincere. His eyes flutter open to see Ryan kneeling next to him, bottle of aloe sitting by his side.

Ryan doesn’t respond right away, taking his time to carefully cover every inch of damaged skin, tending to him in a way Brendon hadn’t thought he could before sitting back against the headboard.

“We should start packing.” His voice isn’t harsh anymore, isn’t strained. It’s calm and even. Brendon nods into the pillow, eyes closed again, coasting towards sleep. He knows Ryan will make him move, but not just yet. He reaches an arm out blindly, gripping Ryan’s torso and pulling him down, twisting until they were nearly laying side by side.

“Not yet,” Brendon whispers, unrelenting in his grip. Ryan, stiff at first, gives in and shifts into place, pressing his back against Brendon’s torso. “Nap first, packing later.”

“What about tomorrow? What do you want to do before we fly out?” Ryan tries to stifle a yawn with his words but Brendon can feel him relax in his arms. He runs a fingertip up and down one of the strips of medical tape, slowly, methodically before he feels a smirk inch onto his face.

“Beach?”

Under The Boardwalk (Part 1)

Sat, 19 Jul 2008 04:45:30 GMT

Title: Under The Boardwalk (Part 1)
Author: oldcrows
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Ryden
POV: 3rd, Ryan's
Words:>: 6,980 (total for both parts)
Summary: The whole point of this getaway is to relax and be incessantly lazy because they can. But as soon as Ryan mentioned that it was on the ocean, Brendon couldn’t get the idea of spending all day, every day, frying in the sun on the private beach.
Disclaimer: Not real, never happened (unfortunately)
Author Notes: So I'm on vacation at the moment, and I sit my ass on the beach every morning. I had the funny thought of 'what would Bren & Ry do on the beach'. I told this thought to highhlikeplanes and...here we are!

So a special thanks to my MFEOOOOOO/highhlikeplanes for her encouragement/flailing/texting, my lovely nurikins for being my cheerleader, and xxlalaliexx for being an amazing beta!

OH and this is my first post in this journal! Welcome! Friend me, comment me, do whatever!

“BEACH DAY! BEACH DAY!”

“Ow, Bren, you’re crushing me.”

Ryan Ross is not having a good morning. The whole point of this getaway is to relax and be incessantly lazy, just because they can. As soon as Ryan mentioned that it was on the ocean though, Brendon couldn’t get the idea of spending all day, every day, frying in the sun on the private beach.

“Bren, how long have you been awake?”

“Only since seven. Now get up sleepyhead, let’s go,” Brendon groans, rolling off of Ryan and stretching out next to him.

Ryan follows him with his eyes and can’t help but notice the pure excitement radiating from his smile (the one that is almost as blinding as the sun outside with no clouds to hide it). He also notices a stray rice krispy adhered to the skin just above the swell of his upper lip. He leans in and flicks it into his mouth with the tip of his tongue, ignoring Brendon’s complaint that he was “saving it for later”.

Before Ryan can blink again Brendon’s up, hopping off the bed in all of his naked glory, hips inadvertently swaying from side to side as he walks over to his suitcase.

“Ross, stop looking at my ass and get your trunks on,” Brendon says, not needing to see Ryan to know what he’s doing.

Ryan flips over and groans into the pillow. He doesn’t know why he gave in to Brendon when he begged him the night before to let him have at least one day on the beach. Looking back on it now, it was probably a genius plan on Brendon’s part to ask Ryan while he was blowing him in the bathroom of the fancy hotel restaurant. Sure, Ryan was the one to initiate it, waiting a couple minutes after Brendon left the table to make his way across the restaurant, pulling Brendon away from the sink and shoving him into a stall. Then again, Ryan never really could say no to Brendon (especially when he was doing that special swirly tongue thing Ryan loved so much). One pout of those perfect lips and Ryan was putty in his hands.

“Bren, are you sure you want to go today? It’s hot out,” Ryan grunts, remembering the weather forecast as being skin-meltingly hot. He is not a fan of the sun, sand, or even the ocean actually (mostly because of the critters that live in it). However, he is a fan of Brendon’s and so here he is, rolling out of bed and pulling on his black swim trunks, cursing the day he first set eyes on his boyfriend.

Ten minutes later Ryan finds Brendon standing by the door to their room; donning his obnoxious purple swim shorts (Gabe gave them to Brendon for his birthday – the card mentioned something about ‘the magic of the cobra’).

As soon as Brendon catches Ryan’s eye he beams and opens the door, juggling the umbrella Ryan insisted on (no way was he letting his delicate skin fry), and a giant beach bag (filled with what else but towels, sunscreen, and every shovel, pail and sandcastle mold he could fit).

Ryan sighs and trudges out the door behind him.

Ryan hadn’t realized when the weather report mentioned how insanely hot it would be, even with the breeze coming off of the ocean, that they hadn’t exaggerated. Weathermen have no sense of humor.

He hasn’t stepped more than a foot onto the sand before he realizes his feet are on fire.

“HOLYFUCKINGSHITTHESANDISHOT,” Ryan yelps, lifting his knees and accidentally kicking the hot sand onto his legs.

“Well duh it’s hot,” Brendon yells over his shoulder, marching forward a few more feet before dropping everything and declaring it the perfect spot (a particularly sandy spot next to an old pier – close enough to feel the breeze off the water, but set back enough where the tide couldn’t reach them).

“Bren, there’s no one else here. Any spot could be the ‘perfect’ one,” Ryan grumbles, tugging at the wide brim of his floppy hat, figuring that if he pulls hard enough, he could disappear into it and end up back in bed, right where he wants to be.

“Yeah, where is everybody?” Brendon wonders out loud as he carefully spreads the yellow blanket out on the sand, smoothing the corners before grabbing the umbrella, fitting it into the hole in the middle and twisting it until it stands up straight.

Ryan stands back and admires the way the muscles in Brendon’s back twist and flex as he digs the umbrella into the sand. He frowns at the sand caked between his toes and wishes he weren’t such a pushover sometimes because if they were back at the hotel he’d be in a much more comfortable position – pushing into Brendon, fucking him nice and slow, hand on the back of his neck to keep him still, making him beg, plead to touch him (“God, Ry, please”). Yeah, Ryan thinks, taking a seat on the beach chair he dragged under the shade of the umbrella, that would have been nice.

Instead he’s watching Brendon, arms flailing, yelling for Ryan to “Come here! Dolphins, Ry, dolphins! Can you see them?”

It doesn’t take Brendon very long to decide he wants to go in the water. Before Ryan knows it there’s a mess of dark hair looming beneath the book he’s reading and a pair of sandy hands running dangerously close to the inside of his thighs.

“Bren, stop,” Ryan says flatly, like it will actually do anything.

“Hey, Ry?” Ryan rests the book on his stomach and looks down into the patented Brendon Urie puppy dog face.

“Can we go in the water now?” He asks in a hopeful voice, hands moving back to creep under his swim trunks.

“How about you go, and I’ll watch you?” Ryan suggests, swiftly removing Brendon’s hands before picking his book back up in an attempt to block him out.

“But Ryyyyyy,” Brendon sighs against his knee, warm breath hitting skin and sending a shiver through his whole body.

Ryan folds down his page, and sets the beat up old paperback down on the blanket. He cards a hand through Brendon’s hair and holds back a sigh. He just can’t resist that face, no matter what he does. The army should use it in peace talks. It would make things go a lot faster.

“Yeah okay, but just for a little while.”

Ryan swears he’s never seen Brendon smile so wide.

Ryan swears he doesn’t remember the pacific being this cold. He’s hugging himself, trying not to shiver (seriously, how can the water be so cold when it’s a million degrees outside?) as Brendon’s legs fly out of the water, attempting a handstand on the unstable ocean floor. His toes wiggle as his legs sway the slightest before crashing into Ryan’s shoulder, sending him flying back into the water.

They both rise at the same time, Ryan’s scowl not working as well as he planned with all the spitting he has to do to get the salty taste from his mouth.

Brendon doesn’t apologize, just gives a pout indicating that he’s more upset that he couldn’t get his legs up straight, and that was about the time that Ryan decided he had had enough of the ocean.

“Ry, where are you going?” Brendon calls out, trying to catch up to him as he tries to stomp out of the ocean (which as it turns out, is pretty impossible to pull off). Brendon lifts his knees to his chest to give him the right kind of momentum so he can catch up to Ryan, clapping his hands on his shoulders to stop him, but not before a wave breaks behind Brendon’s legs, sending them both toppling over.

“Well isn’t this romantic?” Brendon wiggles his eyes at the position they landed in, Ryan on his back and Brendon on his knees over him, dripping salt water everywhere.

“Ugh, no, it’s all sandy.” Ryan pushes back on the heels of his palms until he’s out from underneath Brendon, then lifts himself to his feet. He wipes his hands on his shorts, utterly disgusted at the amount of sand that’s stuck to his skin. If he had to pick one thing he hated the most about the beach, Ryan decides its sand. It gets everywhere, not to mention a bitch to get out. Sure it didn’t occur to him that he lives in a desert, but it’s a different thing he tells himself, totally different.

Ryan steps back into the surf just enough to bend down and wash the sand from his legs when the next wave comes to shore, grimacing the entire time.

“Oh, come on Ry. It’s not that bad,” Brendon says in a light voice, one that on a normal day might have been able to ease him out of a pissy mood, but not today.

Ryan scruffs his hands down his swim trunks harshly, trying to get any traces of sand to wash off before he stands up straight to face Brendon. He had to be kidding right? He asks Brendon to come away with him on what was supposed to be a week spent in bed and all he’s got at the moment is salt water in his eye and a cluster of sand stuck to the waistband of his trunks (which he promptly scrubs off).

Ryan doesn’t say anything to Brendon, though he has plenty he’d like to say (#1 – fuck you #2 – no seriously, fuck you #3 – could you please not look so damn hot right now? I’m trying to be angry). Instead, he turns and walks away, back toward the blanket, only to see that the wind managed to knock over his umbrella. Damn, there was no way in hell he was going to ask Brendon to put it back up (and he wasn’t going to do it himself – he has standards), so Ryan marches underneath the pier, leans against one of the old wooden poles, and crosses his arms. He’s as stubborn as fuck when he wants to be and they both know that.

Ryan figures he’ll stay under the pier for a few minutes, ten at most, then go back out and start packing things up. He’s had enough of the beach if not for today, then for the rest of the year at least. It’s too much sun, too much sand, just too much of everything Ryan dislikes for him to want to be here anymore.

He turns, rolling to the side against the cool, slightly damp wood and sees Brendon walking toward him, water dripping off him, sun shining on him, making his skin glimmer in the light and Ryan did all he could not to find that hot. He was ready for Brendon to come over and apologize, to say they never should have come down in the first place, and to make the promise of a long hot shower once they got back to the room (maybe accompanied with what Ryan had originally wanted to do earlier).

That wasn’t exactly what he got.

“Why are you being such an asshole?” Well, Ryan has to admit he didn’t see that coming. “If you didn’t want to go to the beach you should have just said so.” Brendon’s standing in front of Ryan, mimicking him, arms crossed against his chest.

Ryan can’t help but roll his eyes as he pushes off of the pillar with his upper back. “You know I hate the beach, Bren. Why bother asking if I wanted to go if you knew I hated it?”

Brendon didn’t look angry so much anymore…just sort of defeated.

“I thought it would be kind of nice, you know? Romantic maybe,” He says softly, eyes dodging Ryan to look at the sand.

Ryan knows this is where he should apologize, but the sand itching at his ankles won’t let him. “Yeah, well nice idea.” It comes out more sarcastic than Ryan would have liked, but it gets Brendon’s attention. “We could have just stayed in bed all day.” Now that, that is what makes Brendon snap.

Brendon lunges forward and pins Ryan to the wide column of wood by his shoulders. Ryan gasps, he can’t help it – his mouth falls open as Brendon leans in close, kissing him hungrily, attacking him with his mouth. When he pulls away, Ryan is gasping, stunned. He’s usually the dominant one in their relationship – well in the bedroom anyway. It’s usually the only place where Ryan will say no to Brendon. And Brendon knows his limits.

“Is this what you want, Ross?” Brendon breathes hot into his ear, flicking the tip of his tongue out to lick the shell before biting down, not too hard, but enough to make Ryan suck in a breath through his teeth, hissing.

Brendon moves down, trails his teeth down Ryan’s neck, tongue tracing a line to the hollow of his collarbone, mouthing “Say it, Ryan. Fucking say it.” against the paper thin skin, fingertips still pressing, digging into his shoulders, bruises forming deep in the tissue.

Ryan still can’t find words, taking in large; gasping breaths into his mouth as Brendon releases his shoulders moves them down Ryan’s chest, still pushing, though Ryan wouldn’t know how to move even if Brendon did let him go.

Brendon’s mouth trails lower, lips pausing to kiss and suck occasionally, fingers pinching and flicking at his nipples, and “oh fuck,” Ryan thinks as Brendon’s hand trials lower until it’s nudging underneath the waist band of his swim shorts, then gripping his cock, flushed and hard because fuck, he’s never seen Brendon like this. Ryan isn’t used to this, but he thinks it could be something he could go along with.

The strokes are smooth; though fast and rough, fingernails occasionally catching on the sensitive skin, forcing Ryan to cry out, his body already a mix of sea water and sweat from the heat. Ryan’s hands grip the wood, pressing into it, trying to keep his knees from giving out.

“I’m not going to tell you again.” Brendon full on growls before swiftly pulling his trunks down one-handed, the other still grasping his cock, wrist flicking on the upstroke, rolling Ryan’s eyes to the back of his head. Before Ryan can get his eyes under control, Brendon swiftly falls to his knees, takes the head of Ryan’s cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue rapidly, humming when Ryan curses in response.

Not asking, Ryan thinks, cautiously removing a hand from the splintering wood to thread through the salt-tangled locks of Brendon’s hair, not pushing, not forceful like he usually is, just there as a guide, though he knew Brendon needed no help in that department.

Ryan lets his head tilt to the side, catches a family of three walking down onto the beach out of the corner of his eye.

“We can’t – oh fuck Bren,” Ryan hisses, and Brendon’s moving down, down until he can’t go any farther, swallowing when he hits his limit and relaxes his jaw. Yes, deep-throating was one of Brendon’s many oral talents. Ryan was hoping he’d release the grip he now has on his hips, holding them still, to let him fuck his mouth like he usually would, but this was new territory, so Ryan didn’t hold his breath. Except that he literally is, especially when he notices the family taking up residence next to their ‘perfect spot’, not too far away from the pier.

Brendon pulls off with a lewd pop, looks up at Ryan, eyes heavy-lidded and pupils wide and dark (so dark). “Sure we can.” His voice is so low and liquid smooth that Ryan nearly looses his footing in the loose sand, head nodding toward the innocent family to their right.

“No, Brendon, seriously.” Ryan tries to express, but Brendon isn’t paying attention. He’s on his feet how, shucking off his own trunks, his leaking cock springing free, grabbing Ryan’s attention, so it comes as a surprise when Brendon’s grabbing his shoulders (fucking ow, Ryan thinks, feeling the bruises still forming under the skin), spinning him around and pushing him against the wooden support, forearms catching against the splintering wood, forcing the errant sharp edges under his skin.

Ryan bites down on his lip to keep from yelling out, his lips emitting a soft groan instead as Brendon presses against his back, hand slithering onto Ryan’s stomach, moving up and down teasingly, soothingly. Ryan tries to turn his head, needs to tell Brendon to stop so their vacation doesn’t end in jail time, but he’s met with two fingers and the command, “suck”.

Ryan obeys without resistance, sucking and slicking them with his tongue, silently loving the effect it’s having on Brendon, who has resorted to shallowly thrusting against the crack of Ryan’s ass, eyes half closed, mouth hanging open until Ryan pulls away, snapping him out of his daze.

Ryan decides to take this opportunity. “Bren, seriously, we can’t. There’s a family over there,” he whispers harshly, lucky to finish his sentence before Brendon’s widened his legs, and slipped the two digits swiftly into his ass without preamble, Ryan choking on a gasp. It’s been awhile since he’s been in this position, though every once in awhile Brendon will finger him as he sucks him off, but even so it’s been awhile since he’s done that and Ryan’s a bit out of practice.

“Well I guess you’re just going to have to keep your fucking mouth shut for once, Ryan. You’re not in control here.”

And really? Ryan has nothing to say to that, nothing he can say as he’s biting down on his forearm as Brendon scissors and stretches him, every movement still rough, still unforgiving and, “wow,” Ryan thinks, “am I like this with him?”

The thought quickly vanishes from his mind when Brendon presses the head of his cock against his ass and Ryan doesn’t even remember him removing his fingers, the stinging in his forearms is radiating down his arms now. It’s almost enough to distract him from his neglected dick, hanging heavy between his legs.

Again, without warning, Brendon pushes in suddenly, not slow enough for Ryan to relax, all the muscles in his ass seizing up and clenching around Brendon, hot and tight, forcing Brendon to nearly loose his footing. And yeah, maybe Ryan does still have some control over him, but it doesn’t mean he won’t let it go.

Brendon does pause for a moment (how considerate, Ryan thinks, controlling his breaths through his nose) before pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in, wet skin sliding together, sweat beading and dripping, unavoidable in the humidity.

He’s found his rhythm now, keeping the pace at a feverish one, one hand pressing against Ryan’s chest, the other still teasingly low on his abdomen. He’s hitting his prostate on pretty much every thrust now, sending sparks through all of Ryan’s extremities, heightening the feeling of the tiny pieces of wood jabbing into his skin. It’s pleasure and pain, the divine mix that builds pressure low in his stomach, though not quite enough to get him off. He needs Brendon’s hand, because using his own would do more harm than good at the moment.

He doesn’t want to beg, doesn’t even want to ask, but he knows that it’s his only option at this point.

“Brendon. Bren, please.” He turns his head to make sure his words are heard.

Brendon chuckles low, a vibration Ryan can feel radiate from his back into his chest and Christ it shouldn’t be as hot as it is. Brendon’s practically scoffing at him and Ryan only wants more.

“Please, what?” Brendon asks like he’s the asshole substitute teacher that won’t let you go to the bathroom unless you ask nicely.

Ryan wants to fight, wants to make it hard for Brendon, keep his goddamn mouth shut, but he finds that his cock overrules any rational thought in his brain.

“Touch me, Bren. Please? Can you just – fuck,” Ryan breathes as Brendon’s hand closes the distance and begins jerking him again, in time with his thrusts, quickening the pace until Ryan’s biting down against his arm again and Brendon’s panting open-mouthed against the back of Ryan’s neck, stoically quiet again except for the sound of his ragged breathing.

It only takes an extra twist of his wrist and Ryan’s coming hard, over Brendon’s hand, moaning into the abused skin of his arm that was sure to be three shades of purple the next day. One, two, three more thrusts and Brendon was coming as well, slumping against Ryan, shallowly thrusting through the aftershocks.

When Brendon finally pulls out after what seems like an eternity to the pain searing through Ryan’s forearms and palms, he simply pulls on his trunks and walks back out into the scorching sun, no words, not even a look between them.

Ryan controls his breath and slowly draws his arms away, wincing at the multiple pin pricks of ancient wood embedded in his skin. They sure were going to be a bitch to take out using tweezers and a magnifying glass and Ryan certainly wasn’t looking forward to it.

Pulling his own trunks back up, sweeping off the sand that attached to the slick black fabric when it was discarded, Ryan looks over at Brendon, who’s helping the child of the family that decided to brave the heat build a sandcastle, smiling and laughing leisurely like he hasn’t a care in the world.

Ryan looks down at the spots of ruby red blood forming on his arms.

“Yeah,” he thinks, “he’s going to pay for this.”

*PART 2*