Colin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
behindthec) wrote2008-09-29 12:54 pm
behindthec) wrote2008-09-29 12:54 pm
Rotation | GSF | NC-17 | ~840 words
Title: Rotation [1/1]
Author: ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lolab
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: GSF (Panic)
Word Count: ~840
Disclaimer: They belong toPete each other themselves. Fiction as far as I know (otherwise please send me the videotape).
Summary: He could die right now, twenty fucking years old with these three boys wrapped around him, and never wish for so much as another breath.
lolabRating: NC-17
Pairings: GSF (Panic)
Word Count: ~840
Disclaimer: They belong to
Summary: He could die right now, twenty fucking years old with these three boys wrapped around him, and never wish for so much as another breath.
Dedication: Those who are waiting for chapter 11. :P
Author's Notes: I wrote this as a drabble a few months ago and expanded it on my lunch break to make it post-able. I thought my ever-patient PWF readers deserved some sex by now. ;) Title from Cute's latest album.
The first time Ryan's tongue touches his, his initial thought is, fifteen years, seriously?? Because, yeah, seriously, they're morons. The end.
That also happens to be his last thought, as Brendon's mouth closes around his dick and Jon leans in, trailing fingers down Spencer's chest and lips over his ear.
"You need to see this," Jon whispers.
Spencer opens his eyes -- really bad idea if he's planning on holding off more than thirty seconds (fucking Brendon and his fucking mouth, Christ) -- because once his eyes adjust to the dim bulb burning far off in the wrought-iron lamp (someone's shirt landed atop it and yeah, fire hazard, who cares), the first thing he sees is Ryan, knees folded underneath him, seated near the edge of the bed beside Brendon with his body stretched taut and arched backward as Brendon's free hand strokes him off. The lines, planes, angles of Ryan's body are liquid sin, some kind of illegal geometric shape that keeps writhing, shifting, locked into a rhythm that rivals anything Spencer's ever accomplished on his kit. Ryan's jaw is slack, head dangling back, swollen lips still slick with come, and he's riding that fine line between artistic and complete street-whoredom, and Spencer thinks it's maybe the sexiest thing he's ever seen -- scratch that -- that's ever existed.
"Fuck," he chokes out, not even sure which bit of this has dropped him down to monosyllables. Brendon hums around him; Ryan gathers enough presence of self to open his eyes halfway and smirk at him, hungry as Spencer feels and twice as dirty, and Jon dips forward to nip at his neck. "Fuck. Fuck."
"Well, if you insist," Jon grins, and Spencer moans weakly, reaching out for Jon's cock before he's even given his own arm permission. That's how this tends to work, it seems -- bodies acting of their own accord, minds catching up later, hazy and slow. Jon backs away, which -- the fuck? -- is totally not what Spencer was going for -- and winks at him. "Not yet. I have work to do."
When Spencer's brain catches up, Jon's just retreating from a kiss stolen from Ryan, wet and open-mouthed as he'd licked the remains of Brendon's release off Ryan's lips, and holy fucking Jesus, Spencer figures he could probably come just from watching that, without ever being touched. (Not that the touching isn't good. The touching is awesome. The touching kind of makes him feel like he's swimming in hot chocolate -- at least that's the image his useless mind is conjuring.)
Jon's behind Brendon now, dropping the lube back onto the bed. He raises an eyebrow at Spencer -- a challenge, maybe, to see if he can hold out past this (the bastard; they both know Spencer can't) -- slips one finger into Brendon, and Brendon pulls off momentarily to accommodate the moan he can't hold back. His fingers tighten automatically around Ryan, and then Ryan's gasping and Spencer feels something hot, wet, oh god, splattering across his chest, and holy shit, his best friend just came on him and all he can think is fuck, and yes, and more.
Brendon takes him back in with renewed enthusiasm, right down to the base, sucks one long line back up to the head, and Spencer's gone.
Dynamics, roles... they switch, rotate; the four of them become each other, Spencer discovers, when they're like this. (Even just the words, like this, not remotely vulgar or specific but they make his head spin for the implications.) Jon, he learns very quickly, is the voice of this operation, spilling breath into his ear that alternates between utter filth just loud enough to make everyone's cock twitch, and sweet nonsense where all Spencer hears are words like love and so much and so, so fucking beautiful. Brendon's the quiet one (if you can imagine, and try, because it's breathtaking) -- all wide, watching eyes, waiting for his cue -- the ultimate team player, goes along with anything, will do. fucking. anything, as long as it'll draw out a moan, a gasp, a stutter of his name, an I love you, Bren. It doesn't take much, because they do.
And Ryan -- Spencer smiles inside at the thought (he thinks it's inside, at least; the laws of physics, nature, and his own consciousness seem to have blurred, faltered, crumbled to glorious ruins somewhere in all this and he hasn't managed to care) -- Ryan's the wild card, the joker, the one with the smirk at his lips and the childlike hunger in his eyes. It's Brendon who manages to break him down so beautifully, strip him of his inhibitions; it's Jon who puts the mischievous twinkle in his eye; and Spencer. Spencer's the one who makes him smile. He thinks of all those people, all the fans and photographers who tell Ryan he should smile more often and Spencer can only fight half-assed to conceal his grin, thinking, he does... god, he does.
Spencer hasn't figured himself out yet. He's always had plans to die in his sleep on his eightieth birthday, but this. Now. He could die right now, twenty fucking years old with these three boys wrapped around him, and never wish for so much as another breath.
[fin.]
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