A Proportional Response, Ryan/Brendon (NC-17)
A Proportional Response | Panic! at the Disco | Brendon/Ryan | NC-17 | 1400 words | Entry in disarm_d's pornothon, based on this picture | Title stolen from The West Wing
So, yes, okay, he had a public sex kink. He was an attention whore, and besides, everyone had something, right? Still, it was totally unfair of Brendon to use it against him like this.
A Proportional Response
by iamtheenemy
Okay, yes, Ryan did drink the last Capri Sun on the way to the photo shoot, and, yes, he did do it maliciously, because Brendon wouldn't stop playing Guitar Hero II for five fucking minutes so that Ryan could think, but. This was so not a proportional response.
"You guys go ahead. We'll meet you in a few minutes," Brendon said.
Jon and Spencer exchanged a look which clearly conveyed, "Let's leave before all the gay sex." Ryan stared down at the guitar in his hands.
"You have twenty minutes," Spencer said. He and Jon left the room, presumably to change back into their regular clothes and head out to the parking lot. The photographer and his crew had gone a while ago, the set left intact for the next morning when they would finish up with some final shots.
When the door shut, Ryan stood up, balancing the guitar against the crazy, gigantic stuffed lion that Brendon had immediately taken a likening to upon entering the room.
"We can't do anything here," Ryan said firmly, telling himself as much as Brendon. So, yes, okay, he had a public sex kink. He was an attention whore, and besides, everyone had something, right? Still, it was totally unfair of Brendon to use it against him like this.
"Sure," Brendon said, smiling innocently in his stupid, beige sweater vest. "You can take off then. I'm just going to stay here for a while." He laid down on the bed, the leg farthest from Ryan bent and one hand splayed across his stomach. He closed his eyes and hummed to himself, something that sounded like a Fall Out Boy song.
Ryan crossed his arms over his chest, but couldn't bring himself to move away.
"Brendon, we can't do anything here," he said again, a little desperately.
Brendon opened his eyes and looked at Ryan, his tongue peaking out to trace his bottom lip. And, fuck, speaking of attention whores. Ryan was practically Patrick Stump compared to Brendon, who turned craving attention into an art form. "No, you're right," Brendon said. "I mean, after all, anyone could walk in on us."
Ryan's dick twitched in his expensive Dior pants at that image combined with Brendon's sly grin.
"Brendon, fuck," Ryan said. His throat felt thick, and the words came out heavier, deeper than he intended.
“In fact,” Brendon continued, unrelenting. “In fact, someone could be watching us right now.”
“God,” Ryan groaned. His knees bumped into the bed before he even realized he was moving.
“Come here,” Brendon said, stretching a hand up to him. His other hand moved lazily along the strip of stomach bared in the gap between his shirt and pants.
“You’re such an asshole,” Ryan said. He removed his jacket, took Brendon’s hand and let himself be pulled down on the bed. Brendon laughed and stretched up to kiss Ryan, sharp and deep and hot.
With the agility a person could only learn from growing up with fourteen brothers and, like, fifty-two older cousins, Brendon switched their positions so that Ryan was flat on his back, Brendon’s expensively-clad body pressed into his.
Ryan ran a hand under Brendon’s red shirt, feeling smooth, smooth skin as Brendon’s mouth moved lower, sucking hard on the sensitive place where Ryan’s neck met his shoulder.
“Our clothes,” Ryan said. Their borrowed, designer clothes that they were expected to wear again bright and early tomorrow morning. “We can’t…we can’t…”
“I know,” Brendon said, barely pausing in his attempt to give Ryan a hickey that was going to reduce the make up person to tears the next day.
“Take them off,” Ryan said. He hissed loudly, bucking into the heel of Brendon’s hand where it was pressed against his erection. “Brendon, we have to take them off.”
“No,” Brendon said. He wrapped his fingers around the outline of Ryan’s dick and stroked, the firm pressure driving Ryan crazy even through his pants.
“What?” The smart thing to do would have been to take care of the problem himself, but Ryan couldn’t take his hands off of Brendon - his back, his ass, the sweaty curve of the back of his neck - to try.
“The last Capri Sun, Ryan?” Brendon asked.
Ryan stared at him, his eyes at half-mast. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Brendon’s hand was focused now, on just the head of Ryan’s cock, fingers moving with short, rough flicks. Ryan’s underwear was damp already, and the slippery material felt painfully good rubbing against his sensitized skin. He let his eyes fall shut.
“Did you notice Spencer left his Sidekick here?” Brendon asked, out of nowhere. His mouth was next to Ryan’s ear, tongue lapping at the shell.
“What? No,” Ryan said, too focused on Brendon’s hand and his own hips thrusting in counterpoint to consider the question. “Clothes, Brendon.”
“What if he came back to get it?” Brendon asked, and that made Ryan still and then buck up hard into Brendon’s hand. “What if he’s outside right now, listening? What if he has his hand inside his jeans and his ear against door? What if Jon came to see what was taking Spencer so long and found him like that…?”
“Oh shit,” Ryan groaned. “Brendon, Brendon, Brendon. Come on, take them off, take my pants off. You have to…I’m going to…Brendon, come on, come on, please.” God, he was so fucked. The babbling only started if he was really turned on, really into it, and by the way Brendon was smiling into Ryan’s neck, he knew it. “Fuck, fuck.”
Ryan moved his shaky hands to his fly, intent on getting the damn things off himself, when Brendon grabbed both wrists and easily trapped them against the mattress. And god, that was hot too, so hot, and fuck Brendon Urie.
“Don’t,” Brendon said, increasing the pressure on Ryan’s wrists as he shifted his weight on the bed. Then suddenly his thigh was there, against Ryan, taking the place of his hand.
“Yes,” Ryan hissed, pushing up against the lean thigh before he could stop himself.
“Your clothes, Ryan,” Brendon reminded him, mouthing the thin skin behind Ryan’s ear. “You’d better tell me to stop. Tell me to stop, or you’ll have to explain to everyone what happened. You’ll have to tell them I made you come all over yourself. Tell me to stop, Ryan. Make me stop.”
Ryan sobbed and arched up against Brendon, jerking his hips harder against the pressure of Brendon's thigh and climbing inexorably closer to release. Brendon stayed still, biting Ryan's throat, giving him all the perfect friction he could want. “Brendon, Brendon,” he gasped, twisting his wrists between Brendon’s hands, loving the pull and burn of it. Then he was there, toes curling in his $400 shoes, one more hard jerk of his hips away from the brilliant, blinding relief of what was sure to be a bone-melting orgasm, and... “Stop,” he croaked, the words ripped out of him. “Stop now, I’m going to…”
Brendon moved off, falling beside Ryan on the bed and leaving him cold and aching. Ryan immediately undid the button of his pants, but a gentle touch to his elbow stopped him.
“Don’t,” Brendon said again, and Ryan’s breath caught at the dark, hungry look on his face. “Please.”
Ryan squeezed his eyes shut. It took all of his will power to take his fingers away from his pants and curl them into the sheets instead. “Don’t touch me. I can’t…”
Brendon took his hand off of Ryan’s elbow and pushed himself up until his back rested against the headboard. “You have no idea how hot you look right now. No idea. God, Ryan, you’re the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
Ryan took several slow, steadying breaths before he could speak with anything even approaching coherency. “The last Capri Sun?” he asked. He forced his eyes up to Brendon’s face and away from the noticeable tent in his pants.
Brendon snickered and shrugged his shoulders. “It was as good an excuse as any.”
“Such an asshole,” Ryan said with feeling. “I need to fucking come, Brendon.” One side of Brendon’s mouth tilted up and Ryan said, “Don’t make me get off on Simba.” He gestured towards the creepy, grinning lion, and at the half-interested expression that earned him, growled, “Brendon!”
“At the hotel,” Brendon said. The warm, promising look which accompanied that statement made Ryan’s heart thump hard in his chest and his dick twitch back to straining attention in his pants. “I’ll suck you off, and I swear I’ll make it so good for you. But wait, okay? Just a little longer.”
“Fine,” Ryan agreed, embarrassingly susceptible to Brendon’s pout, another secret he suspected Brendon knew. “I’d rather not be naked in front of the lion anyway.”
So, yes, okay, he had a public sex kink. He was an attention whore, and besides, everyone had something, right? Still, it was totally unfair of Brendon to use it against him like this.
A Proportional Response
by iamtheenemy
Okay, yes, Ryan did drink the last Capri Sun on the way to the photo shoot, and, yes, he did do it maliciously, because Brendon wouldn't stop playing Guitar Hero II for five fucking minutes so that Ryan could think, but. This was so not a proportional response.
"You guys go ahead. We'll meet you in a few minutes," Brendon said.
Jon and Spencer exchanged a look which clearly conveyed, "Let's leave before all the gay sex." Ryan stared down at the guitar in his hands.
"You have twenty minutes," Spencer said. He and Jon left the room, presumably to change back into their regular clothes and head out to the parking lot. The photographer and his crew had gone a while ago, the set left intact for the next morning when they would finish up with some final shots.
When the door shut, Ryan stood up, balancing the guitar against the crazy, gigantic stuffed lion that Brendon had immediately taken a likening to upon entering the room.
"We can't do anything here," Ryan said firmly, telling himself as much as Brendon. So, yes, okay, he had a public sex kink. He was an attention whore, and besides, everyone had something, right? Still, it was totally unfair of Brendon to use it against him like this.
"Sure," Brendon said, smiling innocently in his stupid, beige sweater vest. "You can take off then. I'm just going to stay here for a while." He laid down on the bed, the leg farthest from Ryan bent and one hand splayed across his stomach. He closed his eyes and hummed to himself, something that sounded like a Fall Out Boy song.
Ryan crossed his arms over his chest, but couldn't bring himself to move away.
"Brendon, we can't do anything here," he said again, a little desperately.
Brendon opened his eyes and looked at Ryan, his tongue peaking out to trace his bottom lip. And, fuck, speaking of attention whores. Ryan was practically Patrick Stump compared to Brendon, who turned craving attention into an art form. "No, you're right," Brendon said. "I mean, after all, anyone could walk in on us."
Ryan's dick twitched in his expensive Dior pants at that image combined with Brendon's sly grin.
"Brendon, fuck," Ryan said. His throat felt thick, and the words came out heavier, deeper than he intended.
“In fact,” Brendon continued, unrelenting. “In fact, someone could be watching us right now.”
“God,” Ryan groaned. His knees bumped into the bed before he even realized he was moving.
“Come here,” Brendon said, stretching a hand up to him. His other hand moved lazily along the strip of stomach bared in the gap between his shirt and pants.
“You’re such an asshole,” Ryan said. He removed his jacket, took Brendon’s hand and let himself be pulled down on the bed. Brendon laughed and stretched up to kiss Ryan, sharp and deep and hot.
With the agility a person could only learn from growing up with fourteen brothers and, like, fifty-two older cousins, Brendon switched their positions so that Ryan was flat on his back, Brendon’s expensively-clad body pressed into his.
Ryan ran a hand under Brendon’s red shirt, feeling smooth, smooth skin as Brendon’s mouth moved lower, sucking hard on the sensitive place where Ryan’s neck met his shoulder.
“Our clothes,” Ryan said. Their borrowed, designer clothes that they were expected to wear again bright and early tomorrow morning. “We can’t…we can’t…”
“I know,” Brendon said, barely pausing in his attempt to give Ryan a hickey that was going to reduce the make up person to tears the next day.
“Take them off,” Ryan said. He hissed loudly, bucking into the heel of Brendon’s hand where it was pressed against his erection. “Brendon, we have to take them off.”
“No,” Brendon said. He wrapped his fingers around the outline of Ryan’s dick and stroked, the firm pressure driving Ryan crazy even through his pants.
“What?” The smart thing to do would have been to take care of the problem himself, but Ryan couldn’t take his hands off of Brendon - his back, his ass, the sweaty curve of the back of his neck - to try.
“The last Capri Sun, Ryan?” Brendon asked.
Ryan stared at him, his eyes at half-mast. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Brendon’s hand was focused now, on just the head of Ryan’s cock, fingers moving with short, rough flicks. Ryan’s underwear was damp already, and the slippery material felt painfully good rubbing against his sensitized skin. He let his eyes fall shut.
“Did you notice Spencer left his Sidekick here?” Brendon asked, out of nowhere. His mouth was next to Ryan’s ear, tongue lapping at the shell.
“What? No,” Ryan said, too focused on Brendon’s hand and his own hips thrusting in counterpoint to consider the question. “Clothes, Brendon.”
“What if he came back to get it?” Brendon asked, and that made Ryan still and then buck up hard into Brendon’s hand. “What if he’s outside right now, listening? What if he has his hand inside his jeans and his ear against door? What if Jon came to see what was taking Spencer so long and found him like that…?”
“Oh shit,” Ryan groaned. “Brendon, Brendon, Brendon. Come on, take them off, take my pants off. You have to…I’m going to…Brendon, come on, come on, please.” God, he was so fucked. The babbling only started if he was really turned on, really into it, and by the way Brendon was smiling into Ryan’s neck, he knew it. “Fuck, fuck.”
Ryan moved his shaky hands to his fly, intent on getting the damn things off himself, when Brendon grabbed both wrists and easily trapped them against the mattress. And god, that was hot too, so hot, and fuck Brendon Urie.
“Don’t,” Brendon said, increasing the pressure on Ryan’s wrists as he shifted his weight on the bed. Then suddenly his thigh was there, against Ryan, taking the place of his hand.
“Yes,” Ryan hissed, pushing up against the lean thigh before he could stop himself.
“Your clothes, Ryan,” Brendon reminded him, mouthing the thin skin behind Ryan’s ear. “You’d better tell me to stop. Tell me to stop, or you’ll have to explain to everyone what happened. You’ll have to tell them I made you come all over yourself. Tell me to stop, Ryan. Make me stop.”
Ryan sobbed and arched up against Brendon, jerking his hips harder against the pressure of Brendon's thigh and climbing inexorably closer to release. Brendon stayed still, biting Ryan's throat, giving him all the perfect friction he could want. “Brendon, Brendon,” he gasped, twisting his wrists between Brendon’s hands, loving the pull and burn of it. Then he was there, toes curling in his $400 shoes, one more hard jerk of his hips away from the brilliant, blinding relief of what was sure to be a bone-melting orgasm, and... “Stop,” he croaked, the words ripped out of him. “Stop now, I’m going to…”
Brendon moved off, falling beside Ryan on the bed and leaving him cold and aching. Ryan immediately undid the button of his pants, but a gentle touch to his elbow stopped him.
“Don’t,” Brendon said again, and Ryan’s breath caught at the dark, hungry look on his face. “Please.”
Ryan squeezed his eyes shut. It took all of his will power to take his fingers away from his pants and curl them into the sheets instead. “Don’t touch me. I can’t…”
Brendon took his hand off of Ryan’s elbow and pushed himself up until his back rested against the headboard. “You have no idea how hot you look right now. No idea. God, Ryan, you’re the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
Ryan took several slow, steadying breaths before he could speak with anything even approaching coherency. “The last Capri Sun?” he asked. He forced his eyes up to Brendon’s face and away from the noticeable tent in his pants.
Brendon snickered and shrugged his shoulders. “It was as good an excuse as any.”
“Such an asshole,” Ryan said with feeling. “I need to fucking come, Brendon.” One side of Brendon’s mouth tilted up and Ryan said, “Don’t make me get off on Simba.” He gestured towards the creepy, grinning lion, and at the half-interested expression that earned him, growled, “Brendon!”
“At the hotel,” Brendon said. The warm, promising look which accompanied that statement made Ryan’s heart thump hard in his chest and his dick twitch back to straining attention in his pants. “I’ll suck you off, and I swear I’ll make it so good for you. But wait, okay? Just a little longer.”
“Fine,” Ryan agreed, embarrassingly susceptible to Brendon’s pout, another secret he suspected Brendon knew. “I’d rather not be naked in front of the lion anyway.”