The coarse fabric of clothes against his bare skin makes Brendon moan and writhe. Ryan runs his hand over Brendon’s mouth, back and forth, and Brendon licks the palm on instinct.
“Count them out,” Ryan says and Brendon has maybe two seconds to think count what out, before Ryan’s hand comes down hard on his ass, the sound more shocking than the sensation.
Brendon jerks, but there’s nowhere to go, Ryan’s other hand gripping the back of Brendon’s neck, holding him down.
“I said: Count. Them. Out, ” Ryan grits from between clenched teeth, his face twisted with love and hurt and anger, all mixed up and terribly beautiful.
“One,” Brendon gasps. “Two.”
By the fifth he’s choking the words out, fingers fumbling for purchase as each slap pushes him further forward. “Six, seven, eight,” come fast and ruthless, giving Brendon no chance to even draw breath in between.
Number twelve lands across his right thigh, Ryan’s fingers catching the delicate skin on the inside, and Brendon’s spine curves from the pain.
“Tell me,” Ryan demands, hitting him again on the same place.
“Twelve, thirteen, please, please Ryan, I’m sorry.” His skin feels like it’s on fire, and when Ryan rubs hands over his ass, kneading the flesh, Brendon’s entire body feels like he’s being scalded.
By the twentieth Brendon can barely make out the separate slaps, everything melting together into one throbbing hurt that crashes over him in waves, salty and vast like the ocean. By the thirty-sixth he realises he’s crying.
Ryan switches hands somewhere in between, keeping up a steady litany of slut and don’t you ever again and mine. Brendon doesn’t lose the count, but he does lose all sense of time and space, floating in the sensation, weightless and torn open. He’s full of Ryan – yours, yours, I’m sorry – surrounded, submersed, suffocating, everything going grey around the edges. It’s like sliding under the water, except Ryan is right there with him, sliding too.
“I want to fuck you,” Ryan says and Brendon moans, spreading his legs acquiescently, feeling Ryan’s cock slip between his cheeks, his hipbones grinding against the sensitive flesh of Brendon’s ass.
Ryan hauls him closer, hand slipping under Brendon’s shirt, fingers twisting a nipple, making him cry out. “God, Brendon.”
“Please, please, I want you to. I want.” Brendon’s head lolls back and Ryan bites down on the exposed junction of neck and shoulder, right where the skin is stretched tight and thin over the tendons.
“Later. Fuck, later. Don’t have anything with me now.” Ryan tongues the bruise he made and Brendon bucks, a high-pitched whine bleeding out.
Ryan keeps rubbing himself against Brendon, the head of his cock smearing wetly against the overheated skin, their movements jerky and frantic. Brendon is moaning continuously now, tear tracks all over his face. Everything hurts. Everything feels good. He’s never been this turned on in his life.
Ryan’s hand sneaks down, wrapping around Brendon’s cock, and Brendon’s body goes taut like a bow string and then he’s coming, and even that’s not straightforward pleasure, his nerve-endings so tangled and raw it’s impossible to distinguish between one sensation and another. Brendon doesn’t feel good or bad anymore, he just feels.
Ryan chokes out Brendon’s name, face buried between shoulder blades as he shudders through his own orgasm.
They stay like that for a minute, breathing in synch, sweat and come cooling on their skin. Finally Ryan turns him around and it’s only then that Brendon realises he’s shaking. Ryan holds him steady, lets him clutch and cling, plant clumsy, reverent kisses over every available batch of skin. “I’m sorry,” Brendon whispers, and this time he means it. “I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m sor—”
“Ssshhh,” Ryan kisses him, gentle and shallow, until Brendon stills, his mind silent and calm. “I know you are. I know. It’s okay.”
Ryan fixes their clothes, quick and effective, and Brendon is grateful because he can barely stand up, suddenly exhausted. “Let’s go,” Ryan says, taking Brendon’s hand in his, leading him outside.
Aftermath 3/3 - Panic At The Disco - Brendon/Ryan - NC-17
“Count them out,” Ryan says and Brendon has maybe two seconds to think count what out, before Ryan’s hand comes down hard on his ass, the sound more shocking than the sensation.
Brendon jerks, but there’s nowhere to go, Ryan’s other hand gripping the back of Brendon’s neck, holding him down.
“I said: Count. Them. Out, ” Ryan grits from between clenched teeth, his face twisted with love and hurt and anger, all mixed up and terribly beautiful.
“One,” Brendon gasps. “Two.”
By the fifth he’s choking the words out, fingers fumbling for purchase as each slap pushes him further forward. “Six, seven, eight,” come fast and ruthless, giving Brendon no chance to even draw breath in between.
Number twelve lands across his right thigh, Ryan’s fingers catching the delicate skin on the inside, and Brendon’s spine curves from the pain.
“Tell me,” Ryan demands, hitting him again on the same place.
“Twelve, thirteen, please, please Ryan, I’m sorry.” His skin feels like it’s on fire, and when Ryan rubs hands over his ass, kneading the flesh, Brendon’s entire body feels like he’s being scalded.
By the twentieth Brendon can barely make out the separate slaps, everything melting together into one throbbing hurt that crashes over him in waves, salty and vast like the ocean. By the thirty-sixth he realises he’s crying.
Ryan switches hands somewhere in between, keeping up a steady litany of slut and don’t you ever again and mine. Brendon doesn’t lose the count, but he does lose all sense of time and space, floating in the sensation, weightless and torn open. He’s full of Ryan – yours, yours, I’m sorry – surrounded, submersed, suffocating, everything going grey around the edges. It’s like sliding under the water, except Ryan is right there with him, sliding too.
“I want to fuck you,” Ryan says and Brendon moans, spreading his legs acquiescently, feeling Ryan’s cock slip between his cheeks, his hipbones grinding against the sensitive flesh of Brendon’s ass.
Ryan hauls him closer, hand slipping under Brendon’s shirt, fingers twisting a nipple, making him cry out. “God, Brendon.”
“Please, please, I want you to. I want.” Brendon’s head lolls back and Ryan bites down on the exposed junction of neck and shoulder, right where the skin is stretched tight and thin over the tendons.
“Later. Fuck, later. Don’t have anything with me now.” Ryan tongues the bruise he made and Brendon bucks, a high-pitched whine bleeding out.
Ryan keeps rubbing himself against Brendon, the head of his cock smearing wetly against the overheated skin, their movements jerky and frantic. Brendon is moaning continuously now, tear tracks all over his face. Everything hurts. Everything feels good. He’s never been this turned on in his life.
Ryan’s hand sneaks down, wrapping around Brendon’s cock, and Brendon’s body goes taut like a bow string and then he’s coming, and even that’s not straightforward pleasure, his nerve-endings so tangled and raw it’s impossible to distinguish between one sensation and another. Brendon doesn’t feel good or bad anymore, he just feels.
Ryan chokes out Brendon’s name, face buried between shoulder blades as he shudders through his own orgasm.
They stay like that for a minute, breathing in synch, sweat and come cooling on their skin. Finally Ryan turns him around and it’s only then that Brendon realises he’s shaking. Ryan holds him steady, lets him clutch and cling, plant clumsy, reverent kisses over every available batch of skin. “I’m sorry,” Brendon whispers, and this time he means it. “I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m sor—”
“Ssshhh,” Ryan kisses him, gentle and shallow, until Brendon stills, his mind silent and calm. “I know you are. I know. It’s okay.”
Ryan fixes their clothes, quick and effective, and Brendon is grateful because he can barely stand up, suddenly exhausted. “Let’s go,” Ryan says, taking Brendon’s hand in his, leading him outside.
Brendon follows.