redorchids | Transition: Make-Out Confrontation -> Unspoken Vows (Reply)

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For a second, Brendon thinks the fear will win, that Ryan will push him away, scramble to do his jeans back up and never talk to him again, but then Ryan’s mouth falls open and he throws his head back, a broken whimper travelling up his throat, and Brendon grabs his chance, parts his lips and takes Ryan in as deep as he can, moaning in relief as thoughts of finally, Oh, thank God, finally fill his mind. He keeps his eyes closed, focusing all his attention on the way Ryan smells and tastes, how incredible the swollen flesh feels at it slides over his lips and tongue. He sucks Ryan in deeper, wanting more, wanting everything, wanting to fill himself up and have Ryan fuck him until there are no more barriers left to cross. The sudden wave of pleasure crashing into him takes him completely by surprise, making him gasp and moan around Ryan’s cock as his body shudders through the aftershocks. He removes his hand from inside his open pants (wondering briefly how the hell it’s even possible to be jerking yourself off without realising you’re doing it) and slides his wet fingers over the sensitive skin of Ryan’s inner thighs, guiding them further apart.

Ryan screams as Brendon pushes two fingers inside—honest to God screams—and Brendon is grateful that he already came, because otherwise that reaction would have had him lose it right then and there. Instead, he twists his fingers deftly, using the thumb to stroke soothingly across Ryan’s balls, feeling them tighten and starting to draw up under the gentle pressure. Ryan writhes against him, thrusting up into his mouth, and Brendon hollows his cheeks, takes a slow breath through his nose, relaxes his throat as much as he can. Mindless words spill from Ryan’s lips as he comes—moans and praise mixing with curses and filthy gasps and Brendon’s name in strangled groans of ohgodholyfucksogoodloveyoujesusbrendonloveyousomuch.

He stays on his knees for a while once it’s over, resting his head on Ryan’s thigh, trying to convince himself that a heated declaration carries just as little weight as a drunken one, trying to force himself not to let hope start back up in his chest.

Ryan doesn’t say anything either, just puts a hand around Brendon’s neck, urging him off the floor, kissing him deeply before moving to help refasten his pants.

“Let’s go,” he whispers, and Brendon hears the unspoken invitation there, the underlying longing of the short words. It’s enough to choke him; how is he even supposed to breathe with fucking hope clogging up every cell in his lungs?

He manages a nod and opens the passenger door, letting some fresh air wash through the car while he walks around the hood to the other side, getting back in behind the steering wheel. The drive to his house is as quiet as the drive from the hotel, but most of the oppressive tension is gone between them, replaced instead with lingering warmth and a dash of anticipation. Their hands ghost against one another on the armrest between them, and Ryan moves closer, tangling their finger’s together, leaning into Brendon’s space.

Brendon drives faster.

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