Warnings: Contains mild bondage and D/s content
Summary: don't stop push it now/and i will give it all to you
Disclaimer #1: This story is about real people in fictional situations. This never happened.
Disclaimer #2: If you found this by googling your name or your friends’ names, please hit the back button now. Seriously, Pete, this means you.
Beta by provetheworst and darksylvia, who helped put awesome gloss on this story and made jokes about subordinate clauses. They are awesome. Cheerleading and early encouragement by xnotalovesong. Summary from The Sounds.
Once, when Ryan was in high school, he was making out with his girlfriend in the back of her car. He was fifteen, or sixteen maybe. He was laid out on his back with his knees drawn up to fit, and she was straddling him, balancing on one knee and one foot on the floor.
He had his hands up her shirt, fumbling with the clasp of her bra, and she was scrabbling with the bottom of his t-shirt. When he finally managed to get her bra off and fling it in the direction of the front seat without taking his tongue out of her mouth, she pulled back and yanked his shirt over his head, then latched her mouth back on to his. His shirt stayed tangled around his forearms, trapping them above his head, against the window while she ground down against him.
It didn't take him three minutes to cream his jeans, gasping and speechless, his wrists straining against the fabric of the t-shirt.
It was years before he figured out what that meant.
Ryan knows that writing the album is going to be hard. He loves his bandmates, loves living with them, loves creating with them, but there's a lot of pressure. Ryan's feeling it more now than last time. He knows everyone's nervous, but Ryan sometimes feels it resting squarely on his shoulders. To write something worthy. Something successful. Something amazing.
It's stressful, and they're at the cabin, with no real way to relieve that stress. With barely anyone but themselves for company, Ryan is starting to get twitchy.
He can feel it building like a buzz underneath his skin, making him restless. He knows it in the way he sometimes finds himself clenching his hands into fists, then unclenching them, leaving little crescents in the skin of his palm. Knows it in the way he's having more and more trouble falling asleep, tossing and turning, unable to make his body relax. Knows it in the way he loses his patience sometimes, snapping at one of the guys with unusual venom in his voice. He always apologizes after.
He tamps it down viciously, telling himself not now and later. It even works. For a while. But it's building, and Ryan doesn't think sheer will power is going to hold it for much longer. Pretty soon, something is going to break.
And Ryan's afraid it's going to be him.
The first time was during the recording of "Fever."
Three and half weeks in and Ryan'd thought he might explode. Three and a half weeks of being in the studio fifteen hours a day, sleeping in cramped quarters, and no one thought they could do it, everyone thought they were going to fail, and Ryan wasn't sure how much longer he could take it. He was tense and jumpy and he was starting to get out of control.
Pete stopped by on a night he fought with Brendon and yelled at Spencer for real. They took a break so Ryan could calm down. But he couldn't. And it wasn't about Brendon or Spencer, he knew that, but he didn't know what it was about. He stood outside, wishing he smoked or something, anything that would make him stop feeling like this, like he was flying apart and nothing could hold him together.
Pete found him sitting on the curb with his knees pulled tight to his chest and gripping his elbows so hard he thought there would be bruises later. Pete just sat down and looked at him, unusually silent and serious for Pete.
"Patrick got here this afternoon," Pete said after a long silence. Ryan nodded, even though he had no idea what that had to do with him going insane. "Come see him with me, alright? I think he can help you."
Pete had this look in his eyes that Ryan had never seen before. A look he couldn't place. But he sounded so sure, so calm, that instead of asking questions Ryan just said, "okay."
Patrick took one look at him and said, "Oh," like he knew everything about Ryan and Ryan opened his mouth to ask, to scream, 'Oh, what? What the fuck is wrong with me?' but Patrick's eyes hardened and he said, "Go sit on the bed."
He said it with such calm authority that Ryan didn't even think about not doing as he was told. Patrick turned to Pete and said, "Go get my things from the car," in that same voice, and Pete just nodded and did it, without a fucking word.
That night Patrick took Ryan apart with his hands and his words, so skillfully, so confidently, like he was playing an instrument, and he was, Ryan remembered thinking at one point. Ryan was his instrument to do with as he wished. And after he finished he put Ryan back together and Ryan didn't think he'd ever felt so still inside.
The next day he wore a hoodie to cover the rope burns. He apologized to Brendon and Spencer, and got back to the business of making the record.
When Ryan freaks out, it's quiet.
It's easy to tell with the other guys. Brendon's hyperactivity goes into overdrive and he makes it a point to be as obnoxious as possible until someone yells at him and he hides in his room or his bunk and watches Disney movies until he's better again. Jon's eyes go wide and his breathing speeds up, his hands shake and all he really needs is some physical contact and someone to tell him it'll be alright. Spencer goes cold; his face shuts down and his words get clipped. Nobody knows what brings Spencer down, not even Spencer, maybe. Sometimes Hayley can do it, sometimes one of the guys or Zack. Once, it was Gerard Way.
Ryan does none of these things. He gets stiller. Quieter. His heart beats triple time, but he's afraid to move even an inch because he doesn't know what might happen. He could smash a window with his fist or scream or maybe just fall apart.
It happens at the most unexpected time. They're done for the day - no more rehearsing or writing until tomorrow. It's just them, hanging out after dinner. Jon is on the porch with his sidekick, talking to Cassie, telling her about the last few days. Spencer has the Wii set up and is bound and determined to reach 300 in bowling. Brendon is on his stomach on the floor, lazily trash talking Spencer's game.
Ryan's on the couch with his book when it starts.
He doesn't even notice at first, only that he's read an entire page and didn't comprehend a single word. He drags his eyes back to the top of the page and freezes. His heartbeat echoes loudly in his head. The words in front of him blur as his vision unfocuses. His skin sensitizes; he feels the smooth pages between his fingertips, the slide of his shorts across his knee. He can't tell if he's breathing or not. His mind is full of noise, loud and jumbled and confused. It's so noisy he can't hear anything at all he wants to scream but he can't move and he just wishes -
A voice cuts through the cacophony, and a steady pressure on his wrist startles his eyes into focus again.
"Ryan. Stop it."
It's Brendon. But that's not a voice Ryan has ever heard from him. It's rough and dark with a thread of steel Ryan didn't know Brendon possessed. Brendon's hand is around Ryan's wrist, squeezing hard, his thumb pressing into Ryan's pulse.
Abruptly Ryan relaxes, and his book slips out of his hands. Brendon presses harder.
"Okay," Ryan says before he even knows he's regained the ability to speak.
"Good," Brendon says, and then he's across the room again and telling Spencer he sucks, and he's normal again.
Ryan looks around the room with wide eyes. Spencer is still focused on the TV. Jon is telling the same story over the phone. Brendon is sipping a capri sun and kicking his legs in the air. Like nothing at all has happened.
Ryan looks back at his wrist. Already, the shadow of a bruise is forming in the shape of Brendon's thumb.
The last time Ryan spent a night with Patrick was a few weeks after they kicked Brent out of the band.
He was so wound up it took Patrick hours to break him.
“Just say the word and we’ll stop,” Patrick said at one point, his voice tinged with uncharacteristic worry.
“No,” Ryan gritted out. “Keep going.”
When it was done, the sun was peeking over the horizon and Ryan could do nothing but fall back onto the bed, wrung out, bloody, and sore, while Patrick and Pete moved around quietly, cleaning him up. They climbed into bed with him and Patrick stroked his hip and whispered reassurances into his ear. Pete just held him around the waist, kissed the bloody gouge in his wrist and said, mostly to himself, "Jesus, Ryan."
Ryan never wanted to be anywhere else.
After that, he knew it had to end.
Patrick was everything Ryan wanted. But Patrick was Pete's, and had his hands more than full with him. They'd been doing him a favor, sharing each other with Ryan, but Ryan had to start saying no. He was already too attached.
He looked. He did. The girls he dated thought it was a fun game to play once in a while, but never took it seriously. Ryan scared them when he did. He had a few one night stands that weren't entirely satisfying but helped keep him grounded, and one that went too far, and after that, he stopped.
He might have asked Spencer. Ryan thought Spencer could be that, if someone were to bring it out in him. But Ryan and Spencer had known each other too long, and even if Spencer had it, he couldn't be that for Ryan. Which was okay with Ryan, because honestly, it would just be weird.
For a while he thought it might be Jon. Jon, who had calmly stepped into Brent's place and held them all up, seemingly with no effort at all. He had a quiet confidence and inner strength that was promising and reminded Ryan of Patrick, a little. But Jon didn't have that in him, and he never understood the signals that Ryan sent him.
Ryan had resigned himself to the occasional game with a girl or boy. He stifled the semi-regular bouts of severe jealousy when he saw Patrick and Pete together.
Ryan never thought it would be Brendon.
Ryan watches Brendon.
In the morning he watches Brendon in glasses and pajamas, munching on cereal and tapping his foot, barely stopping himself from talking, because he's learned to be careful of Ryan and Spencer in the morning.
When they rehearse, Brendon is focused and argumentative, and afterwards he's twice as hyperactive to make up for it, tackling Jon and begging Spencer to jump in the lake fully clothed with him and grinning at Ryan when Ryan laughs.
Brendon acts like he's always acted, with no trace of the person who brought Ryan out of a panic attack with a word and a touch. Ryan would be sure he imagined it if not for the bruise on his wrist.
The thing is, Ryan thought that, if anything, Brendon was like him. He badgers people for attention and acts out, like he's just daring someone to take him in hand. But maybe Ryan was wrong. Maybe Brendon was something else.
After three days the bruise starts to fade, and Ryan is afraid he hallucinated it. Maybe the stress really is starting to drive him crazy. He picks up the phone to call Patrick, but puts it down again before he's finished dialing the first three numbers.
Now that he's watching, it's hard not to notice other things about Brendon. Like the way his tight jeans cling to his hips, or the way his t-shirts ride up and expose inches of skin on his waist. Like the definition in his arms, or the fullness of his lips.
Ryan jerks off thinking about Brendon's hips pressing into his and spends the next day angry at himself for falling in lust with his lead singer based on nothing more than one incident and his pretty face. He keeps to himself most of the day, hiding behind his book, trying not to look at Brendon. He doesn’t read a single word.
After dinner he offers to do the dishes, trying to shorten the amount of time he has to be around the others and pretend to be alright before he can reasonably claim exhaustion, go to bed, and try to get his rebellious emotions under control. The guys leave him to it and he relaxes a bit with the solitude and the mindless repetition of doing dishes. He doesn't even hear the footsteps.
Suddenly there's a hand gripping his right hip possessively.
"I've seen you watching me," Brendon says quietly into his ear. He's so close Ryan can feel him everywhere, but the only place he's touching is Ryan's hip. Ryan is torn between the desire to lean back into Brendon or to pull away completely and he ends up not moving an inch.
"Have you found what you're looking for?" Brendon asks. His breath against Ryan's ear might as well be a touch. Ryan shivers. "Let me know when you do."
Brendon is gone just as suddenly as he appeared. It's a long time before Ryan can finish the dishes.
Ryan doesn't know what else to do, so he calls Pete.
"How did you know?" Ryan asks.
"Know what?" Pete is eating something crunchy, and probably on his computer, because he's not really paying attention to the conversation.
"About Patrick," Ryan says. "How did you know it was him?"
Pete chokes on whatever he's eating.
"I didn't," he says when he's able to breathe again. "He told me. Well, not told, but you know what I mean." Yeah, Ryan's experienced Patrick's brand of telling. "Why do you wanna know? Wait, did you meet - how did you manage to meet someone when you're holed up in that motherfucking cab - oh." Ryan bites his lip. "Is it Brendon?" Pete asks quietly.
Ryan is really glad Pete's not here in front of him, because he's sure the face he's making is ridiculous.
"It is, isn't it?" Pete continues when Ryan doesn't answer. "Damn."
"How the fuck did you know that?" Ryan hisses. "I had no clue, and he's in my goddamn band. How could you possibly know that?"
"Patrick's always thought he was something, I just didn't know what."
"Thanks for warning me," Ryan says.
"He hasn't finished it yet, has he? You wouldn't be nearly this bitchy if he had," Pete says.
"Shut up," Ryan says, because Pete is right.
"So what is he waiting for?" Pete asks.
Me, Ryan doesn't say.
Ryan changes the subject, and Pete lets him.
Most days everything is perfectly normal. They hit their stride with the album and it's coming along well. Sometimes Ryan forgets completely about that other Brendon. When Brendon makes goofy faces for Jon's camera, when he decides they need to have a back flip tournament on the bed in the master bedroom, it's like no other Brendon exists.
But Brendon always finds some way of reminding him.
They're all horsing around in the water just off the dock, and it's Spencer and Ryan vs. Jon and Brendon in some kind of game that has no rules and mainly just involves a lot of splashing and trying to dunk each other. Brendon manages to sneak up behind Ryan and pull his wrists together behind his back. Ryan freezes and gets a face full of water from Jon. Brendon laughs softly against the back of his neck. He waits just a second too long before letting Ryan go.
After rehearsal Ryan stays in their music room fiddling with his guitar. They're having trouble with the bridge of this song and Ryan wants to get it right. But no matter how hard he tries, it just isn't coming. He loses track of time, just him and his guitar and the words. He gets frustrated and hits a loud discordant chord on his guitar before quickly silencing it. Some time after that Brendon returns.
"Jon made dinner," he says. "Come eat."
"I'm not hungry," Ryan says, not looking up from his notebook.
"You need to eat."
"I'll get something later. I want to finish this."
Brendon's quiet for a minute and Ryan thinks he's gone until fingers slide into his hair and pull his head back so he's forced to look Brendon in the eye.
"Ryan," Brendon says, and it's that voice, the one that makes a shiver slide down Ryan's spine. "Leave it and come eat."
Brendon's fingers tighten in Ryan's hair, pulling it just past the point of painful. Ryan wants to close his eyes, but he can't against the force of Brendon's gaze. He bites back a moan.
"Yeah, okay," he says instead.
Brendon releases Ryan's hair and strokes it back into place. "Good," he says. Ryan feels proud for pleasing him, and bites the inside of his cheek in irritation. But he closes his notebook and puts down his guitar, and follows Brendon into the kitchen for dinner.
One morning Brendon rubs his thumb across Ryan's chin and says, "You should shave. I like you better without the stubble."
Ryan bats his hand away. "Fuck off, Urie. Like you can talk."
But the next morning in the bathroom he finds himself picking up the razor and when Brendon smiles at him over breakfast, Ryan can't stop himself from smiling back.
It's the waiting that kills Ryan.
He keeps expecting Brendon to do something. To come to Ryan at night and finally finish it, or say to Ryan, Tonight. Come to my room.
Brendon is not, generally, known for his patience, so Ryan doesn't know what the problem is. And actually, it kinda pisses Ryan off, because Brendon started this, dammit. And if he's not going to finish it, then he's just playing with Ryan, which is unusually cruel for Brendon, and it makes Ryan mad.
So when Brendon bounces into Ryan's room as he's getting dressed, smoothes Ryan's hair into place and says, "You should wear the green shirt today. I like that one," and bounces out, Ryan deliberately puts on his red shirt. He doesn't look at Brendon over the breakfast table.
He tries not to bring it to the music, but he finds himself baiting Brendon at other times. Disagreeing with him on movies or food or activities, just for the sake of starting an argument. The lyrics he writes are bitter and frustrated and he only shows about a quarter of them to the rest of the band.
After four days of this, Spencer and Jon start looking tight around the eyes. Ryan feels bad about it, he does, but he can't stop himself.
Brendon is the only one who seems completely unaffected. It makes Ryan angrier.
After six days, Spencer looks ready to beat Ryan to death with his own shoes, so Ryan decides to go do laundry and avoid everyone.
That's where Brendon corners him, of course. He cups Ryan's face in his hands and looks at him seriously.
"You're not going to bait me, Ryan," he says softly, "so stop trying. If you want something from me, you're going to have to ask me. And you're going to have to say please."
There are a million responses on the tip of Ryan's tongue, from Fuck You to yes, please already, but the tips of Brendon's fingers are gently stroking behind his ears and all he does is nod.
"Alright then," Brendon says. He leans in and brushes a kiss high on Ryan's cheekbone, feather light. "We're gonna watch a movie later, if you want," he says over his shoulder as he walks out.
Ryan stares at the clothes spinning in the dryer until his cheek stops burning.
"So what's the problem?" Patrick asks when Ryan finally calls him.
Ryan kinda wishes people would stop asking him that. Ryan kinda wishes he knew the answer.
"It's Brendon," he says helplessly, as if that's an answer.
Maybe it is. Or at least, that's the only answer Ryan can come up with. Because it's Brendon and this is the one thing Ryan never expected of him. And maybe more unexpected is how much Ryan wants this. Not just what Brendon is offering, and God, he does want that, but wants Brendon. Brendon's hands, Brendon's mouth, Brendon's voice, Brendon's everything. How much he wants to give everything of his to Brendon. How he can't imagine giving it to anyone else anymore. Not even Patrick.
So surprising. And more than a little terrifying.
"Hmm," Patrick says. "I see what you're saying," even though Ryan hasn't said much of anything. "But I think it'll be okay."
"Why? Have you talked to him?"
"None of your business," Patrick says easily.
Ryan thinks that if they talked about him it is his business, but he won't win that argument with Patrick.
"You're really unhelpful," he pouts. Patrick laughs lightly.
"I can't make the decision for you," he says. "Now tell me how the writing's coming."
That night Ryan lays awake in bed and tries to convince himself to just get up and walk across the hall to Brendon's room, to say now and please and any other thing Brendon wants. But he can't.
It's so stupid. He wants this. He knows he does, so why can't he just do it? He closes his eyes and pulls the blankets over his head and doesn't fall asleep for hours.
He sleeps too late the next day and he's tired and fuzzy around the edges through the morning and into the afternoon. He ends up sitting at the kitchen table, watching Brendon make a sandwich.
"Brendon, I -" Brendon turns and Ryan can only say, "Sorry." Brendon smiles like someone just turned him loose in a Disney store and told him to have fun.
"Don't be sorry. I don't mind waiting, Ryan. I want you to be sure."
Ryan gapes. He's been going crazy waiting, and Brendon doesn't mind? "I mind," his mouth says without his permission, and he blushes. Brendon laughs.
"I'll still be here," he says. "Whenever you're ready, Ryan. I'll be here."
"Make me a sandwich," Ryan says.
"Make your own damn sandwich, Ross," but he's already pulling out two more slices of bread.
In the end there is no one thing that makes up Ryan's mind for him; that makes him sure.
Just one night, no different than any other, he finds himself turning left instead of right and then he's at Brendon's door. He takes a deep breath and knocks before he can talk himself out of it.
"Come in," Brendon calls. Ryan opens the door with a steady hand.
Brendon is sitting up in bed with his laptop across his knees. He's shirtless and wearing a pair of worn gray sweatpants that he's owned since Ryan has known him. He looks up when Ryan closes the door.
"I want -" Ryan says and stops because words are failing him when faced with the enormity of what he wants. Instead, he drops to his knees next to the bed and says, "Please. Brendon, please."
Brendon is on his feet in a flash, standing in front of Ryan, but Ryan doesn't look up. "Please what, Ryan?" His voice is low, soft, but implacable.
There are so many things Ryan could say: please help me, please fuck me, please make me, please hurt me, please please please. And Ryan wants all of that and more, so he just says, letting all of his desperation, his need, color his voice, "Please take me."
"Yes," Brendon says, and he sinks both of his hands into Ryan's hair. Ryan leans into the touch, lets his forehead rest against Brendon's hip. Already he feels lighter.
They stay like that for several minutes, Brendon gently stroking Ryan's scalp, Ryan breathing in the scent of fabric softener and skin.
Brendon's hands clench, pulling Ryan's hair tight. "I want you to suck me," he says. "Can you do that?"
Ryan tries to nod, but Brendon is holding his head still. "Yes," he says eagerly.
"Good." Brendon loosens his hands but doesn't let go completely. "Go ahead."
Ryan turns his face towards Brendon's crotch. Brendon's half hard already and Ryan knows there's nothing but skin underneath the sweatpants. He noses along the covered length, just breathing, dragging his lips along soft fabric stretched tight, and getting tighter. Brendon's fingers twitch, but he lets Ryan explore at his own pace.
When he can't take it anymore, Ryan reaches up and hooks his fingers in the waistband and pulls them down carefully. He's used up his reserves of patience so he takes the tip of Brendon's cock into his mouth and sucks. Brendon's breath catches and Ryan smiles. He goes slow, getting used to the taste, the weight of it on his tongue. Without warning Brendon's hips push forward, not too hard, but enough that Ryan almost chokes. He manages not to, to relax his throat enough and take it.
"Good boy," Brendon murmurs and warmth suffuses Ryan at the praise. "More?" Brendon asks. Ryan nods with the little leeway allowed between Brendon's hands and cock. Brendon doesn't wait, just thrusts his hips, harder this time. Ryan relaxes, lets his head rest in Brendon's hands, lets Brendon fuck his mouth, harder and deeper until Ryan can barely breathe, and he doesn't want to unless he's breathing Brendon. He lets Brendon's voice wash over him until he can't distinguish words, it's just a stream of instruction, encouragement, and praise.
Ryan floats there until Brendon's voice, tight and firm cuts through. "Swallow," he says, and comes. Ryan obeys without thought, throat working until there's nothing left to swallow. Even then he stays where he is, tonguing the underside of Brendon's softening cock. Brendon lets go of his hair and strokes his cheek. "That was so good, Ryan."
Brendon pulls Ryan away from his dick and with one last stroke to his cheek, steps back. "Undress and get on the bed, on your back," he says.
Ryan's been so caught up in Brendon that he only just now realizes how hard he is, aching and breathless with arousal. He leaves his clothes in a pile on the floor and lays back on the bed. Brendon spends a minute just looking, his gaze traveling up and down Ryan's body, a small, appreciative smile turning his lips. Any other time Ryan might be embarrassed, but he's too far gone for that now. Finally Brendon reaches out and folds his hand around Ryan's ankle. Ryan shivers.
"Hold on to the headboard," Brendon says. Ryan does. "I want you to stay like that. I don't want to tie you up this time. I want you to stay on your own, just because I asked you to. So I need you to hold on until I tell you to let go. Oh, and don’t come. Okay?"
"I will," Ryan promises.
Brendon slides his hand up Ryan's calf, his touch so light it's barely there at all. His leg trembles, seeking more contact, but Ryan forces it to stillness. Brendon hums his approval and digs his fingers into the muscle. Ryan can't stop the way his fingers clench around the headboard or the moan that escapes his lips.
"It's okay," Brendon says, settling himself between Ryan's legs. "Be as loud as you want. I want to hear you." His other hand lightly pets the thin skin behind Ryan's knee, and goddammit, Brendon knows he's ticklish there.
Brendon's hands move up Ryan's thighs, his touch alternating between feather light and bruising. His mouth follows his hands and he whispers into Ryan's skin, "Now that I finally have you all laid out for me, I want to take my time. That's why you can't come. I know you can do it, Ryan. God, I want to do so many things to you."
Ryan's teetering on the edge already, gasping and moaning and Brendon hasn't even touched his cock. Brendon's hands reach his hips and press them down into the mattress. Ryan calls up will power he didn't even know he had to keep himself from coming. Brendon's hands stay and his mouth continues its journey upward, licking, biting, and kissing his way across Ryan's stomach, his nipples.
Brendon sucks bruises into the base of Ryan's throat and holds his hips down when they try to buck, but he holds his body above Ryan's, not letting it touch except for his hands and mouth. Ryan's toes are curling, his heels digging into the mattress, and he thinks he's going to die, seriously die, if he doesn't come soon. He's babbling, "Brendon, Brendon, Brendon," and Brendon gives his throat one last lick before lifting up and saying, "Open your eyes, Ryan."
Ryan barely noticed he closed them, but he opens them at Brendon's command and Brendon holds his gaze for a long second before he ducks and kisses Ryan's mouth, hard. Ryan opens for him immediately, hips straining into Brendon's hands. Brendon digs his fingers in harder. Ryan's going to be so bruised and he can't wait, can't wait to trace them in the shower, see them in the mirror.
Brendon doesn't lift his mouth from Ryan's when he braces his hands on the bed and lowers his body so that he's pressed flushed against Ryan. He swallows Ryan's shout when Brendon's cock brushes against his. Brendon's hips are sharp where they're holding Ryan down and Ryan is close, so close he can't even kiss Brendon back anymore, only struggle to breathe while Brendon's tongue invades his mouth.
Brendon comes again and Ryan feels his release on his dick and his stomach. He nearly loses it right then and it feels like the hardest thing he's ever done, to not come at that moment.
Brendon's hips still and he moves his mouth to Ryan's ear to whisper, "Now. Come now."
When he comes back to himself Brendon is gently prying his fingers from the headboard, murmuring, "Hey, you can let go now. You did good. You did great, Ryan."
It's a few seconds before Ryan's hands will obey the command from his brain. "Ow," he says, surprised. Brendon huffs a laugh against his cheek. Ryan can't get his fingers to straighten, but Brendon takes his hands and starts massaging the cramps out of them.
"Thank you," Ryan says, and he's not just talk about his hands.
Brendon looks down and smiles. "That was amazing," he says. "You were amazing."
Ryan feels amazing. His body is heavy and satisfied, and his mind is light. He's sore in places, but it's a good soreness. He stretches, reveling in it, and lets Brendon take care of him.
He floats on the edge of sleep, blissed out, but unwilling to let the moment go. When there's not a hint of ache left in Ryan's hands, Brendon stops and curls his body around Ryan's, one hand carding through Ryan's hair, one hand tight and possessive on his waist.
"Go to sleep," he whispers in Ryan's ear.
"Don' wanna," Ryan mumbles.
Brendon pulls the blanket around them and tucks his nose behind Ryan's ear. He says, "Sleep. Spencer promised waffles in the morning."
"Mmkay," Ryan says.
He snuggles back into Brendon and sleeps.