Ryan pulls him along the corridor, his grip around Brendon’s bicep iron hard and bruising. The first two doors are locked, but the third opens easily and Ryan shoves him inside, catching the light switch and shutting the door behind them.

They’re in a dressing room. Not theirs, but a smaller, abandoned one; cardboard boxes piled in the corner, a thin layer of dust covering every surface.

Brendon walks backwards until he’s in the middle of the room, keeping his eyes on Ryan’s. This is where it gets good. He has Ryan’s attention and he knows how to keep it, knows what to do now that he has Ryan exactly where he wants him.

“I’m sorry, Ryan.” Brendon drops to his knees, graceful, making sure his head is lowered just right. “I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you.” He shuffles forward, still on his knees, leaving uneven tracks on the dirty floor.

“Please, Ryan. I’m so sorry.” But he’s not. Not really. Not when he can hear Ryan inhale, loud and stuttering, and it’s so good, so good to be able to make him do that, to make him give Brendon what he needs.

Brendon is close enough to smell him now; hotel soap and sweat and musk. He nuzzles the front of Ryan’s trousers, shameless, the hot line of his arousal pressing hard against Brendon’s cheek, and god, god, he needs this so much, needs Ryan to hold him down, push his cock inside Brendon’s mouth until he’s raw from it.

Brendon rocks forward, hands snaking up to cup the backs of Ryan’s thighs. He’s hard, can feel himself leaking, damp and desperate inside his own jeans, and when Ryan’s hands drop down to his belt Brendon is whining, mouth already flooding with saliva.

But Ryan isn’t reaching for his buckle. Instead, he grabs Brendon’s face, forcing him to look up, long fingers digging into his jaw. “You manipulative little bitch!”
Ryan’s thumb pushes in, pinning Brendon’s tongue down until he can barely breathe. “You think you can push me into sex? You think you need to? ”

Brendon feels his eyes widen. If Ryan was angry before, he’s livid now, and for the first time ever Brendon is not sure what’s going to happen. For the first time ever, he’s scared.

It’s not an entirely unpleasant feeling.

“Not only that, but to do it in public. To drag the band into it. All because you wanted my attention? Because you wanted to get your rocks off?” Ryan pushes more fingers into Brendon’s mouth, making him gag, eyes stinging with tears.

“You think you can play me like that, Brendon? You’re wrong.” Ryan pulls his hand out, twisting it in Brendon’s hair instead and yanking him to his feet.

It hurts like a sonofabitch and Brendon cries out, half-blind and stumbling. Ryan tilts Brendon’s head up and for a moment he thinks Ryan is going to kiss him, but he just looks at him for long silent seconds. Brendon wants to avert his gaze, but finds himself unable to move, trapped by the dark, unwavering heat of Ryan’s eyes.

“You’re not even sorry, are you?” Ryan finally asks. His voice is low, breath ghosting over Brendon’s upturned face.

Brendon doesn’t know what to say. What had been a harmless game suddenly feels wrong. He lied to Ryan, he lied, and the shame of it burns hot and acidic in his gut.

“You will be,” Ryan says and then Brendon is been walked backwards across the room, turned around and thrown over the rickety dressing table, the mirror shuddering from the impact.

It doesn’t even occur to him to resist. The wood under his cheek is rough, the dust clinging to his sweaty skin, the insides of his lips. Ryan’s hands are precise and methodological as he unbuckles Brendon’s belt, pulling down his jeans and underwear, leaving them bunched around his knees.

Ryan pulls Brendon’s head up until he can see himself in the mirror; the long stretch of his neck, eyes wide and black, his mouth an obscene red slit. He looks desperate. Needy. He looks like—

“A slut,” Ryan says. “You look like a slut.” He pulls Brendon flush against him.