Those flashing lights come from everywhere.
Hey look, sometimes I'm a contributing member of fandom! Here is a fic, written for the DYW Fic Exchange. Hurrah!
Title: Except Under The Pale Light
Author: Sara
Rating: NC-17
Fandoms: Fall Out Boy/Panic! At The Disco
Pairing: Pete/Ryan, implied Ryan/Brendon
Summary: Later, Pete will make pancakes. Maybe he'll bring Ryan along to the studio, maybe he'll let Ryan talk him into eyeliner again.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Exchange: Sleepover princes for kaitoucheckers. Hope it's to your liking.
Notes: Subheadings thanks to Tim Finney, who might someday Google his name, find this, and be confused. Title from one of Pete's old Blogspot entries. Oh yeah, I went there.
This fic has a commentary right here, should you desire to read it.
the same chorus
"Ryan Ross is coming to stay here for a week," Pete announces, falling grandly onto the couch and startling Patrick out of a GarageBand daze. Patrick blinks at him, then takes his headphones off. "Like a sleepover. Eighties movie marathons. Doing each other's makeup. Talking about boys. It's gonna rule."
"I'll sleep with earplugs," Patrick says. "Also, when the eighties ended Ryan was four."
"Why are you assuming I'm going to fuck him?" Pete demands. "And Molly Ringwald is timeless."
"He has some sort of misguided hero-worship thing for you," Patrick says. "You're taking advantage."
"No, no," Pete says, "No, like. It's not like that at all. He's taking advantage of me."
"You," Patrick says.
"Yeah!" Pete nods, getting into it. "Have you seen his eyes? He blinks at me and I'm like, powerless to resist. They're like death rays. Kryptonite. I'm not even kidding. Sign his band? Sure. Fuck him? Okay!"
"So he's taking advantage of you by being pretty," Patrick says slowly.
"Exactly."
Patrick blinks at him, then puts his headphones back on.
Pete slumps further down onto the couch.
transformed
Ryan rolls up in his Mercedes, and steps out wearing a pair of oversized white sunglasses and head-to-toe black. He looks expensive.
"Jesus," Patrick says to Pete, "you created him out of your mind, didn't you."
"There is a god," Pete says, not taking his eyes off Ryan as he approaches. "He wants me to have gay sex."
from infatuation
"Strike a pose, pretty boy," Pete says, and Ryan rolls over onto his stomach on Pete's bed and raises an eyebrow. The camera flash of Pete's Sidekick goes off and Pete clicks save to device album.
"Buzznet?" Ryan asks.
"Private collection," Pete says. "You know what would be super-duper sexy? If you lost all the clothes."
Ryan stretches, fully, irritatingly not naked, and it's a tease, a terrible tease when Ryan says, as if there's never been a less interesting topic, "You can do better than Cruel Intentions."
"You saying I have to work for it?" Pete asks, raising an eyebrow, and god, they're going to fuck, he knows they are, Ryan's given it up for him before and he'll do it again every night this week if it's up to Pete. He will. It's inevitable. Pete resists the urge to spin around in his desk chair; that would be ridiculous, the way this is ridiculous, this dancing around each other like a waltz in Hell, when all Pete wants is for Ryan to slide to his knees easy the way he did three days in, in his bedroom in Las Vegas with schoolbooks on the floor and a Midtown poster right next to the window, right where Pete was looking as Ryan leaned in for the first tentative lick at Pete's cock, and from that stutter of breath on all Pete saw was Ryan.
(And on the seventh day, they - hold it, it's early yet for blasphemy, Pete wishes he could believe but all he has faith in anymore is music, Patrick, one and the same, and if Pete ever had a shot at Heaven he gave it up the day he moved to Los Angeles -
And seven days later, in the backseat of Ryan's car, Pete held Ryan down and fucked him hard against the worn interior, Ryan all long limbs and need that he tried so hard to hide from Pete, so hot and tight inside that Pete could barely focus on anything but taking Ryan, thrusting deep as Ryan trembled, young and overwhelmed and Pete wanted him so badly, couldn't help wanting him however he could have him.)
Ryan smiles, just the tiniest quirk of the corner of his mouth, and slides off the bed, looks over his shoulder at Pete and says, "I better get ready," artifice that Pete could crack like glass if he wanted to; for a second Pete imagines a glare sliding off Ryan like sun on a car window, but then Ryan's just a boy again, thin hips and a smile sometimes like he expects to get hit.
to the paranoid
Pete didn't sleep with Ashlee and he did sleep with Michelle (twice), but he could take a million pictures with Ryan Ross and write a hundred cryptically suggestive blogs and he'd still only get questioned about the starlet he talked to outside LAX for five minutes about her shoes.
"I like your shoes," Pete tells Ryan, and Ryan grins, slumped down in the seat next to him so Pete could fit an arm around his shoulders, talking over the music. "You wanna get out of here?"
"And go where?" Ryan asks, and Pete swears his eyelashes flutter; it's a fucking fortunate turn of circumstance that Ryan ended up here with Pete rather than working the streets, because Pete would seriously pay money right now to fuck Ryan and he knows he's not the only one. Half of babygay Hollywood's already been sniffing around, peeking out of their closets to make pointless small talk with Ryan. Pete would place bets that three-quarters of them don't know anything about Ryan except that he's a pretty demented China doll, but it's not like it matters - Ryan's going home with Pete.
"Back to my place, baby," Pete says, adding a lewd grin as an afterthought, even though he wasn't kidding and Ryan knows it. "Come on, I'll make you pancakes in the morning," he promises.
Ryan says, "Well, if there are going to be pancakes," and with Ryan's voice he could be joking, talking about the weather, or perfecting his monotone, fuck knows.
"And sausage," Pete says.
Ryan raises an eyebrow.
Pete leers.
and elegiac
The valet brings around Ryan's Mercedes (Ryan's because he drove, oh yes, and grinned at Patrick and said, "It's okay, I'll have him home by midnight," and Pete could barely hear Patrick's, "Please don't," over the rush-fast beat of his heart) and when Pete slides in he glances at the backseat and smiles at Ryan and Ryan says, "You have a whole house, you know," and Pete thinks about that, a whole house full of beds and tables and couches and other places where he can get Ryan down on his back and he says, "Drive fast."
He taps his fingers on the dashboard and he taps them on the window; when Ryan glances over Pete rubs his knuckles over Ryan's thigh and Ryan accelerates.
admission
In the hundred spaces in between Pete touches Ryan where he can, leaning in and stroking the back of Ryan's neck in the car, Ryan's breath speeding up. Pete doesn't kiss him, not there, not in the too many steps to his doorway. Ryan slips his car keys into his pocket and Pete slides his thumb along the edge of one, dull and serrated through the fine fabric of Ryan's pants. He can't quite hear the echo of Ryan's breath with each step he takes but he imagines he can, stops midstep so Ryan bumps into him, fingers curling around his shoulder, and Pete leans back and grins at Ryan's, "Hey, can we, please," his slight stuttering inhale when Pete laughs, and his heart stops at the flash of fear on Ryan's face, like he might - "No, yeah, let's go," Pete whispers, and it seems important suddenly that he take Ryan's hand and lead him the rest of the way.
The house is quiet when they get in, not quite empty for the week (it never is and Pete hopes it never will be) but it's late and the only light comes from outside, gold and grey and broken on the floor so Ryan's just smudged outlines when he looks back. Pete sees the soft line of his jaw, eyes wide in dark liner, and he touches Ryan's face, reaching for him but Ryan's already there, right where Pete wants him, and Pete's pulling him close before he really processes that he should ask Ryan if this is okay.
(Ryan kissed him first. Pete tells himself now that Ryan kissed him first. Pete kissed Ryan, and Ryan kissed back; it was just - something, friendliness, another practice gone by and Pete still couldn't quite believe this bunch of fucking teenagers could be so good at this, could be making this music that was somehow everything he'd ever wanted to hear, he was going to get this record played for everyone so they could feel it too and Ryan was telling him about all the different sounds they wanted to create, the lyrics he was writing, and Pete thought fuck, this kid is amazing, and then he kissed Ryan's cheek. He kissed the corner of Ryan's mouth, he kissed right below his lips, enough to catch Ryan's lower lip between his teeth but not quite, not quite, and Ryan looked startled, so-
"Oh," he had said, quiet, looking at his hands, and Pete stumbled over his words and what he meant was sorry, but then Ryan said, tremulous, "Okay," and Pete couldn't help himself, he had to have more, he had to, and Ryan tilted his head, just a little, just enough to let Pete back in again.)
But then he's kissing Ryan, and Ryan's kissing him back with a low moan, so eager, so ready for Pete, and Pete wants to push Ryan to his knees, watch him sink gracefully down, but there's time enough for that; he lets himself have a few more moments, just a few, and then he tugs Ryan toward his bedroom and Ryan follows, biting his lip, quiet.
He gets Ryan's clothes off. He gets Ryan under him. Ryan's skinnier than he remembered, and Pete doesn't kiss him on the way to his room, he doesn't kiss him in the doorway or in the middle of the floor or when he's pushing Ryan gently down onto the bed, Ryan's clothes scattered already so he's naked on his back, hands curling restlessly into the sheets like he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with them, what he's allowed to do with them.
Pete will make Ryan a fucking stack of pancakes tomorrow, covered in butter and syrup, but right now he just licks along the lower curve of Ryan's rib, fits his hands around Ryan's waist and rubs his thumbs along Ryan's hipbones, so stark and defined and Ryan squirms toward him, lifting his hips a little, raising a hand to tug at Pete's shirt because Pete's completely forgotten to get naked and his jeans are probably scraping Ryan's thighs. He raises an eyebrow and Ryan says, "Get - that's a fucking awful shirt," and Pete laughs, surprised, gets back on his knees so he can pull the shirt off, saying, "I wouldn't wanna, you know, offend you."
Ryan looks like he's going to come back with something, but then Pete looks at him, taking in the paleness of his skin, the sprawl of his body on the bed, and says, more quietly, "Spread your legs," and Ryan's breath audibly hitches in his chest as he does what Pete tells him to.
(He asked first. Maybe - maybe the question was implied. Pete said, "Let me," his fingers digging into Ryan's thighs as he pushed them to his chest, and Ryan didn't say no, he just bit his lip and turned his head to the side, facing the back of the passenger seat as Pete worked three fingers in and out of him, so unbearably tight that he wasn't even sure if Ryan could take it but Ryan had to take it, he had to. He pushed his fingers in deep and Ryan gasped, clenching around him, hot pressure that Pete needed to feel around his cock, he needed to be inside Ryan, god, "Please," he said, barely recognizing his own voice, gone raw with want.
When Ryan looked at him again Pete curled his fingers up, trying to make it good, and Ryan cried out, squirming back into him, until Pete scrabbled at his jeans, getting them open, saying, "It'll be good, I promise, it," his voice cracked, desperate as he positioned himself, taking his fingers out and pressing the head of his cock up right there, making Ryan moan, and when Ryan said, "Please," all Pete heard was yes, and he pushed forward, pushed his way inside Ryan, pushed in and didn't stop.)
There are bruises on the insides of Ryan's thighs, faded but visible even in the darkened room; Pete can't help but say, "Brendon doesn't go easy on you, does he," and Ryan's face shuts down a little, just enough that Pete touches his side and adds, clumsy, "Hey no, I didn't mean - it's none of my business," stroking his skin, cupping his face and leaning down to kiss him.
When Pete pulls back for breath Ryan says, "Please, just fuck me."
When Pete hesitates Ryan says, "Please, I need it."
(He tried to hold Ryan close, as close as he could in the confines of the car, Ryan's beat-up old Pontiac parked out in the desert where Ryan liked to go, "To think," Ryan had said, and Pete wanted to know every thought in his head, he wanted Ryan to tell him all his hopes and dreams and everything he wanted, but instead he ended up leaning over him in the backseat, thrusting hard into Ryan's ass as Ryan cried out underneath him, bent nearly in half on the ancient blue upholstery, sweating and gorgeous and clutching at Pete like he thought Pete might leave him at any second. When Pete shoved deep into Ryan and came inside him, stroking Ryan to climax along with him, he knew it hadn't been enough; when Ryan trembled under him, curling up into himself as Pete pulled out, he knew it had been too much.)
Pete fucks him.
He closes his eyes and kisses Ryan hard, slides wet fingers inside Ryan until he's thrusting back, begging for it, mumbling against Pete's lips, so different than when he needed without wanting; there's no divide there anymore. He holds Ryan's hips down, keeping him in place as he pounds into him, and he's still never felt anything as good as Ryan clenching around him, never heard anything as perfect as Ryan's cries. His fingers curl into Ryan's hair, tugging his head back so he can lick at Ryan's neck, not biting down, not needing to mark him that way, just tasting his skin, salt sweet and good as Ryan moans, takes each thrust like it's just what he's made to do.
Pete fucks him, giving Ryan what he needs, what Ryan asks for, what he's always asked for, and when he comes he pulls out and finishes on Ryan's stomach, Ryan still arching up, pleading for Pete to touch him, and Pete gets him off with one hand loosely gripping his cock and three fingers shoved inside him. Pete looks at Ryan for a long minute after, lying beside him on the bed until Ryan looks down at his body, slides his fingers through the come on his belly and licks it all off, slowly until he's all cleaned off, and only then does Pete tug him close, let Ryan huddle into him awkwardly like he isn't used to being held, and Pete just holds him tighter.
of an addict.
Pete wakes him with a blowjob, and Ryan stretches sleepily, letting him control the pace, sighing when Pete parts his thighs and fucks into him. He thinks of heat through glass windows and the way he would catch Ryan's lower lip trembling, just a bit, when he pulled Ryan close afterwards; he thinks of the first time he saw press shots from the last tour, Brendon's hand on Ryan's face, and he pushes Ryan down further so he can slam in until Ryan moans his name. He thinks of this week's schedule, all the stupid things he'd said they would attend, and a week doesn't seem like enough anymore. He's forgotten a time when it ever did.
Later, he'll make pancakes. Maybe he'll bring Ryan along to the studio, maybe he'll let Ryan talk him into eyeliner again. He's covering up Ryan's old bruises with new ones, pounding into him, and Ryan just shifts his hips and rocks up into it, willing, desperate, everything Pete ever wanted him to be but his alone.
(Pete didn't mean to do it that way, but Ryan's kisses were so tentative and Pete was so hard, up in Ryan's room with the door shut and Ryan so hot against him; his hand moved from Ryan's neck to his shoulder, the light pressure nothing at all but then Ryan pulled back a little, looked at him and swallowed, and Pete leaned in and kissed his throat and pushed Ryan down to his knees.)
Ryan says, "Please," and all Pete hears is yes.
Title: Except Under The Pale Light
Author: Sara
Rating: NC-17
Fandoms: Fall Out Boy/Panic! At The Disco
Pairing: Pete/Ryan, implied Ryan/Brendon
Summary: Later, Pete will make pancakes. Maybe he'll bring Ryan along to the studio, maybe he'll let Ryan talk him into eyeliner again.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
Exchange: Sleepover princes for kaitoucheckers. Hope it's to your liking.
Notes: Subheadings thanks to Tim Finney, who might someday Google his name, find this, and be confused. Title from one of Pete's old Blogspot entries. Oh yeah, I went there.
This fic has a commentary right here, should you desire to read it.
the same chorus
"Ryan Ross is coming to stay here for a week," Pete announces, falling grandly onto the couch and startling Patrick out of a GarageBand daze. Patrick blinks at him, then takes his headphones off. "Like a sleepover. Eighties movie marathons. Doing each other's makeup. Talking about boys. It's gonna rule."
"I'll sleep with earplugs," Patrick says. "Also, when the eighties ended Ryan was four."
"Why are you assuming I'm going to fuck him?" Pete demands. "And Molly Ringwald is timeless."
"He has some sort of misguided hero-worship thing for you," Patrick says. "You're taking advantage."
"No, no," Pete says, "No, like. It's not like that at all. He's taking advantage of me."
"You," Patrick says.
"Yeah!" Pete nods, getting into it. "Have you seen his eyes? He blinks at me and I'm like, powerless to resist. They're like death rays. Kryptonite. I'm not even kidding. Sign his band? Sure. Fuck him? Okay!"
"So he's taking advantage of you by being pretty," Patrick says slowly.
"Exactly."
Patrick blinks at him, then puts his headphones back on.
Pete slumps further down onto the couch.
transformed
Ryan rolls up in his Mercedes, and steps out wearing a pair of oversized white sunglasses and head-to-toe black. He looks expensive.
"Jesus," Patrick says to Pete, "you created him out of your mind, didn't you."
"There is a god," Pete says, not taking his eyes off Ryan as he approaches. "He wants me to have gay sex."
from infatuation
"Strike a pose, pretty boy," Pete says, and Ryan rolls over onto his stomach on Pete's bed and raises an eyebrow. The camera flash of Pete's Sidekick goes off and Pete clicks save to device album.
"Buzznet?" Ryan asks.
"Private collection," Pete says. "You know what would be super-duper sexy? If you lost all the clothes."
Ryan stretches, fully, irritatingly not naked, and it's a tease, a terrible tease when Ryan says, as if there's never been a less interesting topic, "You can do better than Cruel Intentions."
"You saying I have to work for it?" Pete asks, raising an eyebrow, and god, they're going to fuck, he knows they are, Ryan's given it up for him before and he'll do it again every night this week if it's up to Pete. He will. It's inevitable. Pete resists the urge to spin around in his desk chair; that would be ridiculous, the way this is ridiculous, this dancing around each other like a waltz in Hell, when all Pete wants is for Ryan to slide to his knees easy the way he did three days in, in his bedroom in Las Vegas with schoolbooks on the floor and a Midtown poster right next to the window, right where Pete was looking as Ryan leaned in for the first tentative lick at Pete's cock, and from that stutter of breath on all Pete saw was Ryan.
(And on the seventh day, they - hold it, it's early yet for blasphemy, Pete wishes he could believe but all he has faith in anymore is music, Patrick, one and the same, and if Pete ever had a shot at Heaven he gave it up the day he moved to Los Angeles -
And seven days later, in the backseat of Ryan's car, Pete held Ryan down and fucked him hard against the worn interior, Ryan all long limbs and need that he tried so hard to hide from Pete, so hot and tight inside that Pete could barely focus on anything but taking Ryan, thrusting deep as Ryan trembled, young and overwhelmed and Pete wanted him so badly, couldn't help wanting him however he could have him.)
Ryan smiles, just the tiniest quirk of the corner of his mouth, and slides off the bed, looks over his shoulder at Pete and says, "I better get ready," artifice that Pete could crack like glass if he wanted to; for a second Pete imagines a glare sliding off Ryan like sun on a car window, but then Ryan's just a boy again, thin hips and a smile sometimes like he expects to get hit.
to the paranoid
Pete didn't sleep with Ashlee and he did sleep with Michelle (twice), but he could take a million pictures with Ryan Ross and write a hundred cryptically suggestive blogs and he'd still only get questioned about the starlet he talked to outside LAX for five minutes about her shoes.
"I like your shoes," Pete tells Ryan, and Ryan grins, slumped down in the seat next to him so Pete could fit an arm around his shoulders, talking over the music. "You wanna get out of here?"
"And go where?" Ryan asks, and Pete swears his eyelashes flutter; it's a fucking fortunate turn of circumstance that Ryan ended up here with Pete rather than working the streets, because Pete would seriously pay money right now to fuck Ryan and he knows he's not the only one. Half of babygay Hollywood's already been sniffing around, peeking out of their closets to make pointless small talk with Ryan. Pete would place bets that three-quarters of them don't know anything about Ryan except that he's a pretty demented China doll, but it's not like it matters - Ryan's going home with Pete.
"Back to my place, baby," Pete says, adding a lewd grin as an afterthought, even though he wasn't kidding and Ryan knows it. "Come on, I'll make you pancakes in the morning," he promises.
Ryan says, "Well, if there are going to be pancakes," and with Ryan's voice he could be joking, talking about the weather, or perfecting his monotone, fuck knows.
"And sausage," Pete says.
Ryan raises an eyebrow.
Pete leers.
and elegiac
The valet brings around Ryan's Mercedes (Ryan's because he drove, oh yes, and grinned at Patrick and said, "It's okay, I'll have him home by midnight," and Pete could barely hear Patrick's, "Please don't," over the rush-fast beat of his heart) and when Pete slides in he glances at the backseat and smiles at Ryan and Ryan says, "You have a whole house, you know," and Pete thinks about that, a whole house full of beds and tables and couches and other places where he can get Ryan down on his back and he says, "Drive fast."
He taps his fingers on the dashboard and he taps them on the window; when Ryan glances over Pete rubs his knuckles over Ryan's thigh and Ryan accelerates.
admission
In the hundred spaces in between Pete touches Ryan where he can, leaning in and stroking the back of Ryan's neck in the car, Ryan's breath speeding up. Pete doesn't kiss him, not there, not in the too many steps to his doorway. Ryan slips his car keys into his pocket and Pete slides his thumb along the edge of one, dull and serrated through the fine fabric of Ryan's pants. He can't quite hear the echo of Ryan's breath with each step he takes but he imagines he can, stops midstep so Ryan bumps into him, fingers curling around his shoulder, and Pete leans back and grins at Ryan's, "Hey, can we, please," his slight stuttering inhale when Pete laughs, and his heart stops at the flash of fear on Ryan's face, like he might - "No, yeah, let's go," Pete whispers, and it seems important suddenly that he take Ryan's hand and lead him the rest of the way.
The house is quiet when they get in, not quite empty for the week (it never is and Pete hopes it never will be) but it's late and the only light comes from outside, gold and grey and broken on the floor so Ryan's just smudged outlines when he looks back. Pete sees the soft line of his jaw, eyes wide in dark liner, and he touches Ryan's face, reaching for him but Ryan's already there, right where Pete wants him, and Pete's pulling him close before he really processes that he should ask Ryan if this is okay.
(Ryan kissed him first. Pete tells himself now that Ryan kissed him first. Pete kissed Ryan, and Ryan kissed back; it was just - something, friendliness, another practice gone by and Pete still couldn't quite believe this bunch of fucking teenagers could be so good at this, could be making this music that was somehow everything he'd ever wanted to hear, he was going to get this record played for everyone so they could feel it too and Ryan was telling him about all the different sounds they wanted to create, the lyrics he was writing, and Pete thought fuck, this kid is amazing, and then he kissed Ryan's cheek. He kissed the corner of Ryan's mouth, he kissed right below his lips, enough to catch Ryan's lower lip between his teeth but not quite, not quite, and Ryan looked startled, so-
"Oh," he had said, quiet, looking at his hands, and Pete stumbled over his words and what he meant was sorry, but then Ryan said, tremulous, "Okay," and Pete couldn't help himself, he had to have more, he had to, and Ryan tilted his head, just a little, just enough to let Pete back in again.)
But then he's kissing Ryan, and Ryan's kissing him back with a low moan, so eager, so ready for Pete, and Pete wants to push Ryan to his knees, watch him sink gracefully down, but there's time enough for that; he lets himself have a few more moments, just a few, and then he tugs Ryan toward his bedroom and Ryan follows, biting his lip, quiet.
He gets Ryan's clothes off. He gets Ryan under him. Ryan's skinnier than he remembered, and Pete doesn't kiss him on the way to his room, he doesn't kiss him in the doorway or in the middle of the floor or when he's pushing Ryan gently down onto the bed, Ryan's clothes scattered already so he's naked on his back, hands curling restlessly into the sheets like he doesn't know what he's supposed to do with them, what he's allowed to do with them.
Pete will make Ryan a fucking stack of pancakes tomorrow, covered in butter and syrup, but right now he just licks along the lower curve of Ryan's rib, fits his hands around Ryan's waist and rubs his thumbs along Ryan's hipbones, so stark and defined and Ryan squirms toward him, lifting his hips a little, raising a hand to tug at Pete's shirt because Pete's completely forgotten to get naked and his jeans are probably scraping Ryan's thighs. He raises an eyebrow and Ryan says, "Get - that's a fucking awful shirt," and Pete laughs, surprised, gets back on his knees so he can pull the shirt off, saying, "I wouldn't wanna, you know, offend you."
Ryan looks like he's going to come back with something, but then Pete looks at him, taking in the paleness of his skin, the sprawl of his body on the bed, and says, more quietly, "Spread your legs," and Ryan's breath audibly hitches in his chest as he does what Pete tells him to.
(He asked first. Maybe - maybe the question was implied. Pete said, "Let me," his fingers digging into Ryan's thighs as he pushed them to his chest, and Ryan didn't say no, he just bit his lip and turned his head to the side, facing the back of the passenger seat as Pete worked three fingers in and out of him, so unbearably tight that he wasn't even sure if Ryan could take it but Ryan had to take it, he had to. He pushed his fingers in deep and Ryan gasped, clenching around him, hot pressure that Pete needed to feel around his cock, he needed to be inside Ryan, god, "Please," he said, barely recognizing his own voice, gone raw with want.
When Ryan looked at him again Pete curled his fingers up, trying to make it good, and Ryan cried out, squirming back into him, until Pete scrabbled at his jeans, getting them open, saying, "It'll be good, I promise, it," his voice cracked, desperate as he positioned himself, taking his fingers out and pressing the head of his cock up right there, making Ryan moan, and when Ryan said, "Please," all Pete heard was yes, and he pushed forward, pushed his way inside Ryan, pushed in and didn't stop.)
There are bruises on the insides of Ryan's thighs, faded but visible even in the darkened room; Pete can't help but say, "Brendon doesn't go easy on you, does he," and Ryan's face shuts down a little, just enough that Pete touches his side and adds, clumsy, "Hey no, I didn't mean - it's none of my business," stroking his skin, cupping his face and leaning down to kiss him.
When Pete pulls back for breath Ryan says, "Please, just fuck me."
When Pete hesitates Ryan says, "Please, I need it."
(He tried to hold Ryan close, as close as he could in the confines of the car, Ryan's beat-up old Pontiac parked out in the desert where Ryan liked to go, "To think," Ryan had said, and Pete wanted to know every thought in his head, he wanted Ryan to tell him all his hopes and dreams and everything he wanted, but instead he ended up leaning over him in the backseat, thrusting hard into Ryan's ass as Ryan cried out underneath him, bent nearly in half on the ancient blue upholstery, sweating and gorgeous and clutching at Pete like he thought Pete might leave him at any second. When Pete shoved deep into Ryan and came inside him, stroking Ryan to climax along with him, he knew it hadn't been enough; when Ryan trembled under him, curling up into himself as Pete pulled out, he knew it had been too much.)
Pete fucks him.
He closes his eyes and kisses Ryan hard, slides wet fingers inside Ryan until he's thrusting back, begging for it, mumbling against Pete's lips, so different than when he needed without wanting; there's no divide there anymore. He holds Ryan's hips down, keeping him in place as he pounds into him, and he's still never felt anything as good as Ryan clenching around him, never heard anything as perfect as Ryan's cries. His fingers curl into Ryan's hair, tugging his head back so he can lick at Ryan's neck, not biting down, not needing to mark him that way, just tasting his skin, salt sweet and good as Ryan moans, takes each thrust like it's just what he's made to do.
Pete fucks him, giving Ryan what he needs, what Ryan asks for, what he's always asked for, and when he comes he pulls out and finishes on Ryan's stomach, Ryan still arching up, pleading for Pete to touch him, and Pete gets him off with one hand loosely gripping his cock and three fingers shoved inside him. Pete looks at Ryan for a long minute after, lying beside him on the bed until Ryan looks down at his body, slides his fingers through the come on his belly and licks it all off, slowly until he's all cleaned off, and only then does Pete tug him close, let Ryan huddle into him awkwardly like he isn't used to being held, and Pete just holds him tighter.
of an addict.
Pete wakes him with a blowjob, and Ryan stretches sleepily, letting him control the pace, sighing when Pete parts his thighs and fucks into him. He thinks of heat through glass windows and the way he would catch Ryan's lower lip trembling, just a bit, when he pulled Ryan close afterwards; he thinks of the first time he saw press shots from the last tour, Brendon's hand on Ryan's face, and he pushes Ryan down further so he can slam in until Ryan moans his name. He thinks of this week's schedule, all the stupid things he'd said they would attend, and a week doesn't seem like enough anymore. He's forgotten a time when it ever did.
Later, he'll make pancakes. Maybe he'll bring Ryan along to the studio, maybe he'll let Ryan talk him into eyeliner again. He's covering up Ryan's old bruises with new ones, pounding into him, and Ryan just shifts his hips and rocks up into it, willing, desperate, everything Pete ever wanted him to be but his alone.
(Pete didn't mean to do it that way, but Ryan's kisses were so tentative and Pete was so hard, up in Ryan's room with the door shut and Ryan so hot against him; his hand moved from Ryan's neck to his shoulder, the light pressure nothing at all but then Ryan pulled back a little, looked at him and swallowed, and Pete leaned in and kissed his throat and pushed Ryan down to his knees.)
Ryan says, "Please," and all Pete hears is yes.