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14 February 2010 @ 09:03 pm
[fic: bandom] anything you ask of me  
Title: anything you ask of me
Pairing: Jon/Ryan
Rating: R
Word Count: 3254
Warnings: light bdsm.
Disclaimer: Not.

Summary: There are some things Ryan doesn't know how to ask for. Written for bandomvalentine.

The moment Spencer enters the lounge, he makes a startled sound, and then a disgusted face when the scene in front of him fully registers. "This is a common space, you know. People might want to, I don't know, use the lounge for actual lounge-related things? Not watch you make out with your boyfriend, Ryan."

"Shut up, Spencer," Ryan says, a disgruntled note in his voice. Jon's hand, previously rubbing careful circles low on his back, stopped at the sound of Spencer's voice, and Jon pulled it out from under Ryan's shirt. Ryan pushes back into Jon's hand, but when Jon starts stroking lightly again, it's over Ryan's shirt, and it doesn't feel half as good as bare hand on skin. "Look what you've done," Ryan accuses, glaring.

Spencer ignores Ryan with the sort of ease that comes from years of practice. "Jon, can you please tell your boyfriend that there are certain lines between best friends, and watching him star in his own gay porn crosses ten of them. More, possibly."

Jon starts laughing, a low rumbly sound that sends shivers through Ryan, and if Spencer isn't here, Ryan would twist around and try to swallow Jon's laughter with a kiss. "Dude, you've obviously never seen gay porn before then, because what we're doing?" Jon points out. "Doesn't even come close."

"Why are you talking to him?" Ryan asks plaintively, pushing back unsubtly. Spencer will never let him forget the way he's basically whining now, but Jon is solid heat and intimate behind him, curved tight around Ryan's body on the couch and contrary to what Spencer is insinuating, they weren't doing much when Spencer walked in, and Ryan would like that to change in the very near future.

To Spencer, Ryan snaps, "Why are you still here?"

Spencer rolls his eyes and threatens, "You better not get any fluids on the couch, or you're paying for a new one," to which Ryan shoots back, "I can afford it, bitch," but Spencer does leave after his last comment, and Ryan relaxes a little.

Then Jon shifts his hand, fingertips fluttering across the curve of Ryan's ass, and a new tension floods him, sending anticipation curling deliciously in his stomach.

"So," Jon whispers, nuzzling behind Ryan's ear. It's one of the most sensitive places on Ryan's body, and Jon knows that very, very clearly. "Spencer's gone now."

"Yes," Ryan replies, more a sigh than a distinct word. "With our luck though, Brendon will barge in any minute, and offer to -" His voice hitches when Jon's mouth moves down Ryan's neck slowly, pressing gentle kisses against the soft skin. "Offer to join us, or something," Ryan says breathlessly. Jon loves Ryan's soap, loves how Ryan it smells, the vaguely floral scent that Ryan defensively identified as evening primrose and orange extract once. 

"Mm," Jon agrees without really listening. His attention is mostly occupied by licking along Ryan's collarbone, flicking his tongue insistently at the hollow of Ryan's throat until Ryan's head falls back with a broken sound. Ryan's arms come up around Jon almost blindly, and Ryan presses Jon close, arches into the warm space Jon's body creates for him, and Jon matches him groan for groan, thrust for thrust until they're both panting, heartbeat furious, racing towards the end with every hot, friction glide. Jon breaks first, his entire body tensing when Ryan lunges up and pushes his mouth hard against Jon, tongue slipping in and teeth catching Jon's bottom lip roughly as if by accident. Jon's grip on Ryan tightens, skirting the threshold of bruising, and he kisses back, harsh and desperate, scraping his teeth against Ryan's lips; when Ryan twists up in pleasure, hips rubbing against Jon's oversensitive groin, Jon makes a small sound and bites down involuntarily on Ryan's lips, a sudden shock of sensation. Ryan's eyes fly open in surprise, and comes with an explosive noise, entire body shivering in Jon's hold.

It takes a while for the room to settle around him properly, and Ryan slumps back against Jon's sweaty body for long moments until he hears Jon's muttered, "Oh, shit." Cracking open a lazy eye, feeling impossibly sated, Ryan sees Jon looking down at him with a worried expression.

"What?" Ryan asks, quite unconcernedly. He thinks he wouldn't be able to muster up enough annoyance even if Spencer, Brendon and Pete barge in this very moment.

"Fuck, I'm so sorry, Ryan," Jon says anxiously, lifting a hand up to Ryan's mouth, and only when he brings it down again, tips of two fingers smeared red, that Ryan registers the throb in his upper lip.

"Oh, ow," he says, amazed. He feels it like a jolt when he touches the swollen part. Jon looks impossibly guilty though, and he apologizes twice more even after Ryan tells him it doesn't matter at all, and it doesn't even hurt anymore. That's a lie, because Ryan is a little lightheaded from the way the wound keeps tingling, especially when he runs his tongue over it, and the fact that Jon did it. Jon still looks miserable, so Ryan leans in to kiss Jon, means to reassure him, and Jon hesitates a moment before skimming his lips lightly across Ryan's, trying his best not to exert pressure on the split.

The jerk of pleasure takes Ryan by surprise, and he gasps involuntarily at the contact, as light as it is, and Jon pulls back instantly, another apology ready on his lips. Ryan barely hears it though, because he's suddenly thinking about how good Jon's mouth felt on his, and how much better it'll be if Jon pressed harder, bit harder, held on tighter, and he rests his head on Jon's chest, breaths coming unevenly. He feels unsettled, the earlier satisfaction gone, slipping into something darker, itchier settling between his shoulder blades.

The brush of fingers down Ryan's jawline brings his attention back, and Ryan shifts just to see Jon leaning down to slide a sweet, impossibly soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he flushes. It startles him when he realizes he wants those lips somewhere else, somewhere that hurts.


"Here," Jon says. He's holding out an apple, and Ryan looks up distractedly from the song he's struggling to word in his journal.

"An apple a day keeps the doctor away," Ryan says automatically. The corner of Jon's mouth tilts up in an amused smile, and before he realizes, Ryan is anticipating Jon leaning down to touch his mouth to Ryan's lightly; it's sweet and fresh, and Ryan must make an inquiring noise because Jon pulls back, saying, "They're from a fan. Zack had one, and okayed them," he adds, even before Ryan's eyebrow can hitch upwards - experience has taught them this lesson hard - "I had one before I came."

The apple is speckled, unbruised; when Ryan bites into it, it's crisp and tastes the way Jon did, like harvest and apple orchards and the dry heat of summer, and every bite reminds Ryan of how badly he wants to be the apple Jon bit into earlier, crunched into tiny pieces, sucking at the juice, tearing through the soft skin. His pen trembles each word down on paper, scratching the surface hard, and Ryan leans shakily into the gentle heat of Jon folded on the couch next to him, watching a commercial for noise-canceling headphones.

This is just what Jon does, how Jon is. Apples for lovers and closed-lipped kisses and bruise-free grips. Ryan catches himself thinking, but I want more than that, and spends the night sleepless in his bunk; guilt makes for an uneasy bedfellow.


As it happens, one day everyone is at a party, some end-of-the-tour extravaganza wherein alcohol flow as loosely as inhibitions (no one actually knew exactly whose tour it is that's ended) and suddenly, the conversation moves from cheese fries and beer to how kinky their labelmates are in bed. The switch turns Ryan dizzy for a moment, and that's how he misses the first two, three names Pete lists, but he hears the next one loud and clear.

"Wait, who?" Ryan asks.

Pete glances at him oddly, and opens his mouth to repeat himself, but Tom beats him to it. Waving a half-empty bottle about, Tom slurs, "Jon fucking Walker, man. You wouldn't believe the shit he thinks up in bed," before cracking up. "Well, not shit, exactly, but. You know?"

Ryan really doesn't. There's a bitter note of envy in Tom's voice that could just be the aftertaste of liquor on Ryan's tongue, and Pete is laughing fondly, in agreement, and Ryan looks at the two of them and thinks of Jon's light touches, the barely-there brushes of his hands, only calluses alluding to his strength, all coiled up and packed away around Ryan. When he swallows, it's against the memory of Jon's fingers resting against his collarbone, never pressing, not even a little.

When he looks away, he's looking away from Tom's wrists and the way heavy bruises in the shape of Jon's hands might fit around them.  


"You want me to what?" Spencer stares at him disbelievingly, giving a short laugh, like he's misheard or misunderstood, but it's more dread, hope, than genuine incredulity. Unfortunately, he knows Ryan too well for him to be mistaken about Ryan's intentions.

"Please, Spencer, you know I need you to -" Ryan cuts himself off, looking away in lieu of flushing. He refuses to repeat himself; he's desperate, but the entire point of going to Spencer was so that he wouldn't have to.

"You're the only one," Ryan says. There's no way he's letting Brendon anyway near him with handcuffs and his second-best scarf. Brendon'll probably rip the latter in his eagerness.

It's one, two moments before Spencer huffs. "None of this wouldn't have happened if you'd just talk to Jon," he points out, infuriatingly accurately.

"Yes, I know," Ryan replies. He does - it's just his nature to do things the hard way. Spencer tells him as much, but the weary tone of his voice makes it clear that it's more to vent than say anything revelatory. He agrees though, which is what Ryan is most concerned with.

"You realize I'm going to hold this over your head for the rest of your life?" Spencer says, in the interest of full disclosure.

"It'll be the last thing I remember on my death bed. The first thing I think of when I see you, the defining feature of our relationship," Ryan agrees. He's already vibrating with tension; an itch is crawling up his spine.

"Just so we're clear." Spencer's incredulity is shifting into dark amusement. "Also, you're kind of an asshole."

Ryan agrees with that, too. The ride up in the elevator is a silent one; Ryan watches the display numbers increase as the floors fall below them and counts down the steps to his room.


Ryan fidgets against the restraints, tugs at it, testing, even though he knows exactly how tight they are, because he made Spencer fiddle with it for ten minutes before he was satisfied, despite Spencer's bared stifled snorts.

When he hears footsteps outside the door and the telltale swipe of the keycard in the slot, he stills abruptly. Apprehension and arousal mix in equal amounts in his stomach; Ryan tastes them on his tongue and in the back of his throat, and his hands are clenched tight around the scarves binding him to the bedpost, nails stretching the fabric.

Ryan sees the exact moment Jon notices him. Jon's mouth part on a gasp too soft for Ryan to hear, and his eyes widen, pupils dilating unmistakeably. Jon takes half a step forward, licking his lips once in an unconscious gesture that has Ryan's body straining up off the bed, before Jon stops short.

"What -" His voice is hoarse, disbelieving.

Ryan moans at the sound of Jon's voice; he can't help it. His arousal is obvious, his body twisting impatiently, and now that Jon is actually here, the need thrumming under Ryan's skin flares white-hot, and Ryan pulls mindlessly at his restraints, throwing everything to the wind, straining up shamelessly, like Jon's arrival ripped the vestiges of propriety from him.

"Jon, please, please," he pleads.

"I don't understand," Jon says, but he's taking one step, two, closer, stopping at the foot of the bed. It's a large bed, standard hotel queen, and Ryan's splayed open like a feast atop the quilt, in the middle of the white, and Jon's eyes are so dark that Ryan doesn't know how he's seeing anything. Jon's chest rises and falls rapidly; when he reaches out with a shaking arm, Ryan feels it as acutely as if Jon actually touched him, and he whines a little at the near-loss when Jon doesn't make contact. "What - what is this - Ryan." Jon's voice breaks when Ryan lifts his hips off the bed in a shaky invitation.

"Come on, Jon, please," Ryan says in lieu of a reply. Sweat is slicking up his neck, clinging his shirt to his back, and Ryan wants to feel air on his body, all over, now. When he tells Jon this, Jon shudders, eyes going blacker, and it's a week, ten days, six years of Jon just staring down at him, breaths coming out in harsh pants before he's saying, voice like water broken over jagged rocks, helplessly, "What do you want from me?"

It's obvious, it's so obvious that Ryan doesn't know what he can say, but when he pulls up, trying to reach for Jon, the restraints flatten him back, and he makes a frustrated sound. The words tumble out. "You. Jon - you, please, I want you to tie me up and push me into the bed and press me down and - fuck me until I can't say anything but your name -" A sharp intake of breath is the only response, and Ryan drops his gaze immediately, his cheeks burning. He feels like he's said far, far too much, offered an open husk as his heart up to Jon.

Then fingers brush his bound wrists, rubbing where they're already red, sore and Ryan can't help it. It's everything Ryan wants and has ever wanted from Jon and not nearly enough, and he arches clear off the bed, the simple touch sparking lines of electricity down his aching body, and moans.

"Fuck, fuck," Jon is muttering, as though he's distracted and running an inner monologue, and all of a sudden, Ryan's arms are released, falling to his sides, blood rushing back to his hands. Ryan is dizzy with disappointment, regret and fear sharp and acid on his tongue. He lets his head fall to a side, rests a cheek against the bed and tries to take deep breaths. He doesn't look at Jon. His arms feel out of place next to him.

"Hey, hey, Ryan," Jon says, voice tentative and low, soothing like cold water, and it trickles down Ryan's back like a sort of despair.

When Ryan doesn't reply, Jon settles onto the bed next to Ryan, and curls warm, gentle fingers loosely around Ryan's wrists. Ryan can't help the sound he makes when Jon brushes the abrasions, and there's a weighted pause before Jon presses harder with his fingers, pressure deliciously firm around Ryan's wrists, and Ryan whips his head around to look at Jon, eyes wide, the pleasure flaring heavy in his arms and legs.

"So," Jon says slowly, testing out the word. His voice is smooth gravel, heated under the sun, and Ryan wants to roll himself over it until he bruises. "I was thinking, instead of tying you up using your scarves, how about I just  - do this, instead?"

As he speaks, the hands around Ryan's wrists jerk suddenly, hoisting Ryan's arms up and over his head, and Ryan's breathing hitches with an audible snap, pulling out of him in a long, drawn-out sound.

Ryan flexes his hands reflexively, but there's no give at all in Jon's hands, large and secure around Ryan's wrists, and Ryan lifts shocked, wide eyes to Jon's dark, intent ones. "Is this what you want?" Jon asks. He shifts Ryan's wrists to a hand, and then strokes roughly down Ryan's arms, completely possessive. His fingernails catch carelessly on skin, and Ryan pushes closer to Jon, reveling in the thin, burning lines. "Tell me," Jon commands, voice sharp and demanding and Ryan is nodding wildly before he realizes.

Jon's eyes are wild when Ryan looks up at him helplessly, a fine tremor running along the edge of his skin, and if Ryan isn't so far gone, he'll realize that Jon isn't as much in control as he'll like to seem, but right now he's pushing Ryan doing and holding in him in place, grip tight and implacable, and that's what matters.

"Yes," Ryan is twisting restlessly now, heat spreading in a wave from Jon's hand curled easily around Ryan's wrists, and he's lost enough in the thrill of Jon's urgency, his utterly ungentle hands, that he doesn't register Jon shaking him, rocking his shoulders for attention until Jon swoops down suddenly, kissing Ryan hard and efficient until Ryan's eyes refocus on him; both of them are breathing hard when they break, and Ryan's staring up at him, eyes almost blind and lips wet with saliva, not all his.

"Are you -" Sure, sure you want this, Jon means to ask, but Ryan jerks up to bite at Jon's lips recklessly, pressing all along Jon's front, and their hips rub together in a glorious slide of friction and Jon loses it. "Okay, okay," he growls, and then all bets are off, and Jon's tumbling Ryan down onto the bed, fingers digging mercilessly into his shoulders while Ryan's mouth opens on a drugged, overwhelmed sound, and the rest of what Jon wanted to say, what Ryan might have said in reply, is lost to the static of their bodies coming together, not a homecoming but a furious collision. When Jon pushes into Ryan, almost harsh in his persistence, Ryan loses it on a shudder that wracks his entire body, but Jon is relentless, pushing in slowly as Ryan arches under his hands, and even before Ryan's caught his breath, Jon's started moving in inexorable, thorough thrusts that drags in and out of Ryan's shaking, wrecked body and Jon waits until he wrenches Ryan's second climax from him before letting go himself, furiously slamming into Ryan.

"Is this what you want, Ryan, is it," Jon demands. "Take it, take it then, you - you" and Ryan twists, moans yes, please, please like it's physically painful and so Jon breathes deeply, sweat stinging his eyes, and continues, "Take it, you whore, you want it rough and hard, you want me rough and hard, don't you -"


But his mouth, when he bends to take Ryan's mouth, is impossibly gentle, familiarly so, and Ryan's eyes fly open and that's what tips Jon over the edge; his fingers bite hard into Ryan's wrists as he rides it out, but the kiss is butter-soft, smooth like melted-water, and the fury evens out into a kind of ringing calm that falls into place easily like a blanket, and sleep comes as easy as a fresh spring night, settling right into place. Ryan falls asleep curled against Jon; Jon wipes them clean carefully, and sleeps with his hands secure around Ryan's, and thinks, all you needed was to ask.
Current Mood: cheerfulcheerful
Current Music: set yourself on fire - stars
Take the days as they come: holdinghandsrywalkpinkichan on February 14th, 2010 07:12 pm (UTC)
Ngh I love dominate Jon and I like the dynamic of their relationship and just everything!
allegedlykyleallegedlykyle on February 15th, 2010 05:34 am (UTC)
Me too :D Thanks for commenting!
IT'S SO HARD BEING *~SPARKLY~*: [ tyv - rr/jw ] happy stoners in lovespindlelimbs on February 14th, 2010 10:36 pm (UTC)
Hi! This is awesome \o/
And that was also my prompt so THANK YOU ♥♥♥
allegedlykyleallegedlykyle on February 15th, 2010 05:35 am (UTC)
THANK YOU for the awesome prompt! My brain exploded when I saw it; hope I did it justice (:

Also this may be creepy, but I've downloaded music off your music page before! Thanks for that too, btw :D
IT'S SO HARD BEING *~SPARKLY~*: [ tyv - jw ] this is jwalk approvedspindlelimbs on February 15th, 2010 05:40 am (UTC)
You did it justice, don't worry.

Haha! Totally not creepy! I'm glad it's useful \o/
allegedlykyle: d'awwallegedlykyle on February 16th, 2010 12:48 pm (UTC)
It actually got me fully into The Hush Sound, whom I adore now & was very disappointed to hear had gone on hiatus of some sort a few years ago. I mean, I knew they existed through bandom, but I never really listened to them before :D
skipstoomuch: myryiconskipstoomuch on October 20th, 2010 11:51 pm (UTC)
UNF, this was really fucking hot. I don't even usually read Jon/Ryan. *fans self*