Every Sunday, Spencer gives Ryan a word.
Sometimes they're words from foreign languages, or words Ryan has never heard of. Sometimes they're not even real words, like "owlproof" or "antisanity." But usually they're just obscure English words that caught Spencer's eye.
They're never words that anyone might accidentally say, because saying Spencer's word is a command, and being told Spencer's word is permission.
Ryan never knows when he's going to hear it, whether Spencer is going to give someone the word right away or wait almost the full week before handing it out. He doesn't know how many people will get it, or who they'll be, or where they'll use it.
All Ryan knows is that when someone says the word, he drops to his knees and obeys.
This week's word is "jentacular." It means having to do with breakfast. Ryan knew the word before Spencer gave it to him, in the sense that he looked at a lot of lists of weird words in high school and remembered that one of them meant breakfast-related, although he wouldn't have been able to come up with it on demand.
Jon and Brendon get the words most often, since they're the most easily available. Most people just say the word when they want to use it, like a password, but sometimes Brendon likes to get cute and figure out how to drop it into conversation. Ryan spends a few apprehensive mornings waiting for him to announce what a jentacular meal he's having, but it doesn't come.
Spencer cracks a little grin every time he sees Ryan watching Brendon wolf down a Pop-Tart, because of course it isn't going to happen while Spencer is there. Spencer is Ryan's best friend. He doesn't want to see that shit.
It's Jon who corners Ryan after four days and says, "Jentacular," then twists Ryan's arms behind his back and holds them there while Ryan sucks him off no-handed. Jon clasps Ryan's thin wrists in one hand and uses the other to press down on the back of Ryan's skull as he comes down his throat. Jon is good at quickies, at using Ryan almost like a masturbatory aid. He never takes too long.
Ryan always has an urge to say thank you afterwards. He can see the sentiment hovering on Jon's lips, too. Neither of them say it. They know Spencer is the one they should thank.
That same afternoon, Brendon climbs into Ryan's bunk, straddles him, and whispers the word in Ryan's ear. Ryan doesn't kneel because he can't, but he lowers his lashes and lets Brendon kiss the remnants of come out of his mouth.
"Jon?" Brendon whispers. Ryan nods, and Brendon's eyes flash dark before he goes back for more.
It hasn't been happening quite the entire time that Ryan has been sexually active, but it's close. It didn't take many hookups for them to notice that Ryan was awful at picking sex partners. He just wasn't choosy enough, fifteen-year-old Spencer claimed, and sixteen-year-old Ryan rolled his eyes and said, "If you're so choosy, why don't you just pick them out for me?"
He didn't mean it seriously, but when Spencer took it that way, he didn't object.
Ryan is a slut, is the thing. He really, really likes sex, and he's attracted to a lot of people, and his judgment is terrible, and that combination makes for some impressively bad decisions. Spencer doesn't like seeing him get burned, so he protects Ryan from his own lack of common sense. Spencer is just enough of a control freak and Ryan is just lazy enough that it works beautifully.
One of the best parts of this arrangement is that sometimes people Ryan has admired wide-eyed his whole life, people he would never have had the balls to try to seduce on his own, end up handcuffed in a corner while their unbelievably hot wives fuck Ryan's mouth with a strap-on.
Ryan's taking the fake cock further down than he's ever taken a real one, partly because he's never sucked a real cock this big and partly because Lindsey has him in a position that opens his throat up wide. He's lying on his back on the bed--Gerard and Lindsey's bed, and that's hot enough in itself--with his head hanging off the edge, and she's standing over him, hand cupped under the back of his neck, choking him on ten inches of silicone.
Gerard stands facing the wall, hands cuffed behind his back, silent. He hasn't moved or said anything at all.
Lindsey pulls the strap-on out of Ryan's mouth and crawls onto the bed, leaving his head dangling. Ryan doesn't try to move it. If she wants him somewhere else, she'll put him there. He hears a bottle-cap snapping and tilts his knees apart, knowing what's coming next. Lindsey shoves them further out, stretching the limits of his muscles. He keeps them there as best he can while she starts lubing him up with her fingers, not quite painfully but not gently either.
Ryan has never needed much prep for anal sex. Usually a good dollop of lube and a slow entry are enough, without any fingering at all. He knows he's lucky, that a lot of people's bodies aren't as cooperative as his. But being so easily ready to be fucked means often missing out on this, deft fingers rubbing against his prostate with intent rather than the blunt pressure of a cock occasionally grazing it.
Lindsey clearly knows what she's doing. Ryan can see Gerard out of the corner of his eye, the glint of the cuffs standing out in the dim room, and pictures them doing this, right here on their bed. He wonders whose treat this is, whether they both really want him here or one of them is indulging the other.
Lindsey slides her fingers out and nudges her strap-on against Ryan's ass, looping an arm under one of his knees to keep his legs splayed wide. He's glad now that she spent so much time stretching him. The dildo is really fucking big for anal, and she's not going slow.
Ryan makes a sound, kind of a vocalized panting, and Lindsey grins at Gerard's back, like it's doing something to him and she knows it. Ryan can't see any reaction from Gerard, but he likes making her smile, so he does it again.
Lindsey slips the fingers of the hand that isn't covered with lube into Ryan's mouth. She hooks her fingertips behind his bottom teeth and her thumb under his chin as she fucks him harder, getting almost the whole length of the strap-on inside him. Ryan hasn't been told not to come, so he closes his eyes and lets the sensations overwhelm him, the grip on his jaw and the stretch of his leg just as much as the plastic cock in his ass.
She doesn't stop fucking him after he comes. He didn't expect her to. This isn't about him.
It's too much sensation, but he copes, because he doesn't have a choice. It's not until ten minutes later, when the discomfort of post-orgasm sex is just beginning to give way to real pleasure again, that she pulls out. She sits him up on the edge of the bed, positioning him like a gooseneck lamp, and then she grabs Gerard by the scruff of his neck and shoves him to the floor in front of Ryan. "Don't fucking breathe until he comes," she says, and drags Gerard's head to Ryan's crotch by his hair.
Ryan is actually worried for a second, because he's pretty sure he's still far enough from orgasm for Gerard to pass out before he gets there. Then Gerard swallows him down and the worry vanishes. The man's throat is a soft wet vice, and he shows no signs of gagging. It makes sense if he's been practicing on that dildo, Ryan would think if he weren't busy coming down Gerard's throat.
Gerard pulls back with a loud pop and gasps in air. "Please," he says as soon as he can talk, "Lindsey, please let me come, please, fuck."
"I don't think so," says Lindsey. "Maybe tomorrow, if you're good enough."
Gerard looks so disappointed that Ryan can't help saying, "That wasn't good enough? I think he earned it."
"I think your face should hit the floor until you remember who's in fucking charge here," Lindsey says coolly.
Ryan winces. He knows better than this. He gets off the bed and lies flat. Lindsey sets her bare foot on the back of his neck, crushing his nose into the carpet.
Gerard doesn't get to come. Ryan keeps his mouth shut.
Ryan's lack of common sense doesn't only apply to his sex life. It's the reason for the escalator-inflicted scar on his ankle, and for the multiple times he's gotten dizzy before realizing he hasn't eaten in days, and also for the extremely imprudent solo trip to Starbucks that has just landed him in the middle of a gang of very aggressive fans.
"I'm not signing your boob," he mumbles to one particularly eager girl as he tries to work his way through the endless sea of napkins and cardboard cup jackets crowding his vision. He's positive he's already signed more objects than there are people in the group. Maybe they're stocking up on autographs to sell on eBay or something.
"Move it," says a loud voice from the back of the crowd. Zack pushes through, scattering teenagers left and right. He grabs Ryan around the shoulders and ushers him away, ignoring complaints from the girls who haven't gotten their fourth autographs yet. They back off when he glares. Zack's glare is a scary experience, Ryan knows.
"What the hell?" says Spencer when they get on the bus and he sees Zack's face.
"Ryan's a fucking moron, that's what the hell," snaps Zack, and stomps outside again.
Spencer raises his eyebrows. Ryan shrugs. "I'm a moron," he says. "I went to buy some coffee and got mobbed."
"We're parked right next to the venue," says Spencer. "We have a show in four hours, of course the place is gonna be crawling with fans." He shakes his head. "Moron."
"Yeah," says Ryan. "Sorry."
They stop at a Denny's the next morning on the way to the next city, and Zack asks Ryan to stay on the bus. He comes back a few minutes later, presumably having checked the Denny's for mobs, and sits down on one of the padded benches in the lounge. Ryan comes in from the bunk area and waits. He doesn't know what's coming, but he knows something is.
Zack breathes out and says, "Spencer tells me that you'll let me hit you if I say 'recombobulate'."
Ryan's knees thud to the floor.
Zack gives him a long look. "Yeah, no, I'm going to need you to say something here," he says finally.
"If you don't do anything about it, it's going to happen again," says Ryan. "I'm bad at remembering to be careful. I'll keep doing it until something scares me enough to stop." He looks at Zack's hands and breathes deep. "I'd rather be scared by you."
Zack nods slowly. "Safeword."
Spencer must have given it to him already, he doesn't hand out the word without it, but Ryan says it anyway. "Kill."
Zack stands up and slaps Ryan across the cheek. Ryan closes his eyes just in time and keeps them closed for the next two strikes. They're hard, but more jarring than painful, more about grinding jawbone and displaced proprioception than stinging skin.
Zack hauls Ryan up by his arm and sits down again, throwing Ryan across his knees. The shitty upholstery is rough against Ryan's face. He focuses on it, on the cloth and the pressure, not on the hand yanking his pants down just far enough to expose his ass. Then Zack's hand lands for the first time and Ryan forgets about everything else.
It's not the kind of spanking that's about ritual, with rhythm and counting and a goal. It's fast and erratic and hard, and it clarifies in Ryan's mind that Zack really was freaked out when Ryan disappeared--not just because Ryan's safety is his job, but because it actually matters to him. Ryan just told him that this is how he can keep it from happening again, and the intensity of it tells Ryan that he's taking the opportunity seriously.
It's not enough, though, because Ryan is hard as a brick and enjoying himself way too much. This isn't a deterrent. "More," he says into the cushion. "It has to hurt more."
Zack grabs him by the hair and jerks his head back. "More? You need my belt?"
"Yes," says Ryan. He tosses his head a little, feeling hairs pop out of their sockets. "Please."
Zack shoves him off his lap onto the floor. Ryan hears his belt unbuckle and slither out of its loops. He nestles his head in his arms and raises his ass in the air, pants slipping down around his knees, waiting for it.
The belt snaps against his flesh, and it still feels fucking good, but it won't after a few more, when he's tender and sensitive and still taking hits just as hard. Ryan manages to stay quiet for a minute or two, but then the end of the belt nicks his balls, and that fucking hurts.
"Fuck," Ryan bites out. He can feel tears stinging the edges of his eyes.
Zack does it again, square on his balls this time, a little lighter but not much. "Better? Does that hurt enough for you?"
"Yes, fuck, it hurts." Ryan's eyelashes are wet.
"Turn over," Zack says, and kneels over him. Ryan squirms around until he's face-up. He's still a little hard, but the last blow to the balls almost dealt with that.
Zack takes the ends of the belt in his hands and lets it go slack, curving up in a shallow arch. He looks at Ryan, giving him a chance to safeword. Ryan closes his eyes and waits.
The belt snaps down, catching Ryan's cock and his balls, and Ryan screams. Zack does it one more time, and then Ryan is losing control of himself, curling up and begging, "No more, please no more, I promise I'll be careful, I promise, please."
Zack puts down the belt and pulls Ryan onto his lap. Normally Ryan doesn't ask for a whole lot in terms of aftercare, but right now Zack's arms are exactly what he needs. He folds himself up tight and lets Zack hold him.
"You're a pain in the goddamn neck, kid," Zack says softly, and doesn't let go.
Spencer clambers into Ryan's bunk and tugs the curtain closed behind him. "Hey," he says.
"Hey," says Ryan. He feels under his pillow until he finds a scrap of stretchy blue-green cloth. It was probably originally a headband for girls--Ryan doesn't know, Spencer was the one who bought it.
He hands it over. Spencer stretches it over Ryan's head and settles it snugly around his neck. Ryan can't wear a collar all the time, just to bed and in private, and the fancy ones with all the metal on them are kind of impractical. But it doesn't matter. They don't need spikes and D-rings to know who Ryan belongs to. They don't even need this, but Ryan likes it. It helps him sleep.
"Things go okay with Zack?" Spencer asks.
Ryan nods. Zack was good. Ryan kind of wants to try scening with him again when it's not about punishment, but that's up to Spencer and they both know it, so he doesn't bother saying anything.
"Anything else you want to talk about?"
"I think I'm good," says Ryan.
"Cool." Spencer smiles. "This week is 'sedimentary'."
"Better not let Jon get high," says Ryan. "He might start talking about rocks. You never know."
"I think you're thinking of you," says Spencer, grabbing the edge of the collar and snapping it gently against Ryan's neck. Ryan sticks out his tongue. Spencer sticks his out in retaliation, then slips out of the bunk. "'Night, Ryan."
Ryan falls asleep breathing deeply, focusing on the fabric hugging his skin.
Someone gets the word within a day this time. Ryan doesn't know who, because he never sees the guy's face.
He's sitting on top of the bus, smoking. The show ended long enough ago that there aren't any more fans waiting around, and it's late enough at night that there's no one else nearby. Ryan can hear the muffled clanks of someone else climbing onto the roof of the bus behind him, but he doesn't turn to look, just takes in another lungful of cigarette smoke and stares at the jagged line of sky where the city meets the stars.
"Sedimentary," whispers someone from behind him. "Don't turn around."
Ryan is pretty good at identifying voices, but the whisper is hard to place. He stays where he is while a hand strokes forward along his jaw and steals the cigarette from his mouth. He hears the guy take one drag and then watches the arc of the cherry as it's tossed off the bus.
"On your knees," whispers the voice. Ryan gets his legs under him, spreading them wide for easy access, but warm hands nudge his thighs until they're pressed together. Quick hands undo his pants--it must be easier from the familiar angle, Ryan thinks--and push them down to mid-thigh.
The bus door opens below them and they both freeze. It's Jon, flip-flopping across the pavement to the venue. He's probably going to use the bathroom. They're supposed to avoid shitting in the bus toilet as much as possible. Ryan watches his back disappear into the building, excruciatingly aware that his dick is exposed to the night for anyone walking by to see.
A hard-on nudges the crease of Ryan's thighs, already slicked up, but not with lube. Ryan guesses lotion, probably from a tiny hotel bottle. He tries to spread his legs again, but the guy behind him straddles his calves and keeps them together. He fucks Ryan's thighs, cock sliding teasingly past his asshole and nudging his balls. Ryan tenses his muscles and pushes back to meet each thrust.
The venue door opens again and Jon appears. Ryan can tell the second he sees them by the way he stops halfway through a step. He must be able to see who it is. Jon knows more than Ryan does about the sex he's having right now.
Jon steps back into the shadows to watch. Ryan shivers, a whole-body shiver that squeezes a moan out of the air behind his ear. His heart is pounding, because there are still people doing post-show work in the venue, and any of them could come out and join Jon in the audience. There could be people watching from darkened windows already. They might have been watching from the beginning, since he got to his knees and dropped his pants for someone he might not even know.
A hand closes around his dick, jerking in counterpoint to the rhythm of the cock fucking his thighs. Ryan can just barely see Jon massaging the front of his pants, like he can't help it, and that's what pushes him over the edge. He feels wetness dribble down the front of his legs a moment later, and the warmth behind and between him draws away.
"Good job," whispers the voice. A thrill quivers through Ryan's muscles. He stays there long after he's sure he's alone, half-naked and spattered with come, until Jon is finished watching him.
"That's gonna hurt like a bitch," warns the tattoo artist. Her name is Jin, and Ryan has never met her before, but Spencer knows her. "It's right over the bone, and you're so skinny you've got no padding there at all. You sure you don't want it somewhere else?"
"Right there," Spencer confirms, pointing to the top of Ryan's sternum. Ryan smiles his agreement at Jin. She shrugs and starts up the tattoo gun.
It does hurt like a bitch, in the best possible way. Ryan relaxes into it, focusing on the spot where the needle and Spencer's gaze hit his skin. He imagines it's the eye contact causing the pain, that Spencer is etching the marks directly into Ryan's skin with his eyes like laser beams. It's a tiny 18th-century-style silhouette portrait, done in ink slightly darker than Ryan's skin tone. Once it heals, it should look like just a weird birthmark at first glance. It's not for people to notice. It's just for Ryan and Spencer to know.
After it's done, and Jin has given Ryan the care spiel and let them leave, Spencer says, "You fucking pervert, you were getting off on that shit. That hard-on was, like, visible from space."
"She was hot!" protests Ryan.
Spencer snorts. "Was not."
"She was really good at what she was doing. Same thing." Ryan's been tattooed before, and he's seen a whole lot of his friends get tattooed, and this woman seriously knew her way around a needle.
"You'll get off on anything," says Spencer, his tone more impressed than mocking.
Ryan grins, a little abashed, a little proud. It's pretty much true. "I don't get off on you."
"You would if I told you to."
Ryan doesn't try to argue, because that's pretty much true, too.
The last night of the tour, Jon sucks a hickey into Ryan's skin as he fucks him. Ryan sees it in the mirror the next day, low on his neck, just above the collar of his T-shirt.
He sleeps for twelve hours when he gets home, then he wakes up and heads over to Spencer's house. Spencer is nowhere to be seen, probably either still asleep or off grocery shopping, but Brendon is there, flopped in the living room messing around on his phone.
He looks up when Ryan walks in, and his eyes immediately land on the hickey. He doesn't even say hello, just stares at the dark red mark almost wistfully, and Ryan is abruptly fed up with having to watch this.
"Are you ever going to do him yourself, or are you just planning on fucking him vicariously through me for the rest of your life?" he asks.
Brendon's face slams closed like a guillotine. "Shut the fuck up."
"You want me to?" Ryan tilts his head, displaying his neck. "Or should I tell you what it was like, getting this from him, so you can pretend it was you?"
Brendon drops his phone and grabs Ryan's shoulder. "Stop it," he says, and his voice is low and serious.
"Why?" says Ryan. "Afraid he might say yes?"
He's more surprised than he should be when Brendon slugs him in the stomach. He was expecting some kind of outburst, but physical violence isn't usually Brendon's style. Apparently Ryan hit a nerve.
Brendon's fist hits one too, somewhere in Ryan's gut, and Ryan doubles over. Brendon tackles him to the carpet while he's winded, limbs flailing and colliding with furniture on the way down. Spencer must not be here, or he'd have heard the noise and come to investigate.
Ryan fights back, but Brendon is on top and already pinning him down. "Don't talk to me about fucking Jon," he says, and "god, you're such an asshole," and then he's kissing Ryan and grinding down. He's hard, and Ryan isn't, but he will be if this goes on.
Ryan wrenches his head to the side. "No," he says.
"You can't say no," says Brendon. "I have the word, you know that, I already fucked you this week. Digamy. You're not allowed to say no."
"I have a fucking safeword," says Ryan.
"Are you going to use it?"
Ryan bites his lip.
"Didn't think so." Brendon rolls off Ryan and drags him up by his arm to kneel next to the couch. Brendon's not that strong, but Ryan isn't that heavy, even if he's not being cooperative. Brendon roughly picks apart the knot in the scarf around Ryan's neck and uses it to tie his hands behind his back. Ryan thrashes, but lets him do it in the end.
Brendon wraps one arm around Ryan's waist and his other hand over Ryan's mouth. Ryan sinks his teeth into it, and Brendon curses and shoves Ryan's face into the couch cushions, pulling his hair hard. Ryan bites the cushions instead, feeling Brendon's cock pressing against his ass through both their pants. He fucking wants it, even though Brendon is being stupid, even though all this is nothing but Brendon trying to distract himself, Ryan still wants it.
Brendon doesn't give it to him. He leaves their clothes on, just humps Ryan's ass, leaning his forearms on Ryan's back to keep him down. Brendon's shirt is hiked up just enough for Ryan to be able to twist one of his bound hands and scrape his fingernails sharply across Brendon's stomach. Brendon lets out a short, startled breath and yanks Ryan's arms up hard. It hurts his shoulders just enough to be good, not quite enough to injure.
Brendon comes in his pants, or at least that's what Ryan guesses is happening, because he stills and then sags down onto the edge of the couch. Ryan waits, kneeling with his face smushed into the couch, until Brendon catches his breath and unties the scarf.
He turns Ryan over, sitting him down on the floor, and takes off Ryan's shirt. Then he leans down, threading his hands through Ryan's hair again, pulling his head back to expose his neck so Brendon can give him another hickey directly opposite the one Jon left.
Ryan is barely dressed again when Spencer comes in the front door, lugging a double handful of plastic grocery bags. He stops just inside the door and looks at them, eyes lingering on Ryan's thoroughly marked skin and the wet spot on the front of Brendon's jeans, then cracks up.
"I looked up the word 'digamy' and, Smith, that is kind of a creepy choice of code word for a sex thing," Brendon tells him before scurrying off to change his pants.
Sometimes, when he hasn't gotten laid in a while, or when he's just feeling selfish, Ryan doms himself. Orgasm denial is a good solo kink--he can come up with a time frame of a few hours and keep himself on the edge the whole time, or just forbid himself from coming until the next time someone uses Spencer's word. Pain works too, as pure sensation play without the edge of uncertainty that comes along with a partner inflicting it.
Today Ryan is going to a party, a boring industry shindig, nothing interesting. He's wearing an obscure band T-shirt with a suit jacket, skinny slacks, ankle boots, a newsboy cap, and a light purple lace-and-satin thong.
Ryan's feelings about the thong are complicated. It doesn't turn him on, in itself. It's more the process of forcing himself to wear it, and the non-zero possibility that someone at the party will know the code word and end up seeing it. The unfamiliar configuration of fabric keeps him aware of his skin, increasing his sensitivity, and he spends a lot of the evening faintly aroused by casual brushes of bodies against his own as people make their way past him through the crowded room.
Ryan's phone rings while he's talking to a girl who's acting like she assumes he recognizes her, although he actually has no clue who she is. Relieved, he excuses himself to take the call, which the display says is from Pete.
"I want to have phone sex with you" is Pete's opener.
"Hold on," says Ryan, and searches out a bathroom. Once he's inside with the door closed, he says, "Okay, hi. What?"
Pete repeats himself.
"You should talk to Spencer," says Ryan.
"I did. He gave me a word and told me that if I say it to you before Sunday afternoon, you'll do whatever I want. He said you have some kind of kinky shit going on with secret passwords."
Ryan's pretty sure that's not how Spencer phrased it. He's actually kind of surprised that Spencer would let Pete in on this at all, but that's Spencer's call. "So tell me the word, then."
"If I do that, then you'll do what I want," says Pete. "If Spencer didn't lie. I don't think Spencer lied. But if you just do what I want, then I'm taking advantage of you, and if I don't take advantage of you, I can't get what I want. It's like. A catch-42."
"Uh-huh," says Ryan. "Are you drunk?"
"Dead drunk," confirms Pete. "More so than I've been in some time. Some time that is longer than a short amount of time. I would say, in fact, a long time. Can we have phone sex?"
"If you tell me the word, then yes."
Pete groans, and there's a loud thump that probably means he's thrown himself dramatically over some piece of furniture. "I shouldn't do that, though. It's abuse of our professional relationship. Power imbalance. Badness."
Ryan rolls his eyes at the bathroom mirror. "Well, I'm not having phone sex with you unless you say it, so make up your mind."
"Okay," says Pete. "Okay, okay, how about you be a phone sex line."
"I what," says Ryan.
"Don't be you, be some guy on a 900 number that I'm paying to pretend to be you. Can we do that?"
"If you say the word," says Ryan slowly, "I will do whatever you want. If you don't say it in the next ten seconds, I'm hanging up."
He's counted down to three when Pete says, "Ampersands."
That is in fact this week's word. Ryan was starting to wonder if maybe someone had just told Pete that there was a word, and he was trying to bullshit.
Now Ryan has to try to figure out what the hell a phone sex operator sounds like. "Hey there, what can I do for you?" he tries.
"Fuck, Ryan." It sounds like Pete has gotten a running start on the jerking-off part of the phone sex process.
"I can be Ryan," says Ryan. "What do you want me to do to you?"
"Your fucking mouth," says Pete. "I want it."
"You want me to suck you off?" Ryan unfastens his pants and slips a hand inside the thin scrap of cloth barely covering his rapidly-hardening dick. "I want it too," he murmurs. "Your cock in my mouth, that sounds so good." It does, actually. He leans back against the wall and slides down to his knees, picturing Pete in front of him, fucking his head against the tiles.
Pete's making a lot of noise. He sounds more like he's being paid for it than Ryan does. "Oh fuck yes, ahhh, fuck..."
"Harder," says Ryan. "Fuck my throat, I can take it." Pete's babbling gives way to incoherent gasps, and when Ryan says, "I want to taste your come," he makes a sharp sound and then starts breathing more slowly.
"Jesus," Pete says a moment later.
Ryan checks the screen of his phone. "Twelve minutes," he says. "It's $3.99 a minute, so that comes to $47.88. We'll charge the card we have on file for you."
"Yeah," says Pete. "Thanks." The line goes dead.
Ryan puts his phone in his pocket, finishes jerking off so as not to display his bulge to the entire party, and buttons his pants.
Mikey Way is waiting in the hall for the bathroom. He smiles at Ryan in greeting, then the smile turns into a smirk. "Your fly's unzipped," he says.
Ryan looks down quickly, hoping his underwear isn't noticeable, but no such luck. The folds of fabric on either side of the gap are bent outward, and the lavender lace is easily visible. Ryan can feel the blood rushing to his face as he hurriedly zips himself up. When he looks back at Mikey, all he sees is the bathroom door.
Ryan heads straight outside, intending to snag a cab. He has no desire to stay here after that incident. He pauses in the courtyard outside to take a few deep breaths, and that's where Mikey catches up to him.
"That didn't take long," says Ryan, looking away from him. "Did you wash your hands with soap?"
"Just had to blow my nose," says Mikey. He moves around so that Ryan has to look at him. "Don't worry, okay? I'm not gonna be a dick about it."
"Okay," says Ryan. His face is still burning. He's sure Mikey can see, even in the dim light from the house.
"I don't get the big deal," Mikey says thoughtfully. "If women can wear pants, you know? We all start out as girls, anyway."
"Before we're born," he explains. "All fetuses start out as female, then the dudes grow dicks later on."
The embarrassment is still overwhelming, but Ryan is kind of intrigued despite himself. "I thought the chromosomes determined gender from the beginning."
"Yeah, but you can't tell that right away. It doesn't matter, is my point." Mikey sticks his hands in his pockets. "I like it when people fuck around with that stuff. I'm most attracted to people when I can't even tell what gender they are. If you want to wear stuff with lace on it, that's..." He swallows. "That's cool."
Ryan can't keep from grinning at that. "It turns you on, doesn't it?"
Mikey nods silently.
"That's cool," says Ryan softly.
"Yeah?" Mikey shifts a little closer. "Are you... do you want to..."
Ryan would like nothing more than to take Mikey home right fucking now, but he can't. He sighs and says, "You should talk to Spencer."
When he gets home and checks his e-mail, there's a PayPal message waiting for him. It says he's gotten a payment for $47.88 from Pete Wentz. The message reads, "i'm sorry. i really shouldnt have done that."
Amanda Palmer is the only person who has ever said Spencer's word to Ryan and then walked away without fucking him. She did it three times while they were touring together, leaving him blue-balled and increasingly desperate. Six months after the tour ended, she showed up at Ryan's doorstep with the current word, relieved him of his keys, bundled him into his car, tossed her leg up on the passenger seat and made him give her road head on the highway. He hasn't heard from her since.
He gets two texts from her early in the morning (nine AM is early, okay, it doesn't matter what Spencer says). The first says resquiller, which is the word of the week, and the second instructs him to come to a hotel downtown.
He braves the L.A. traffic and submits to the exorbitant fee at a parking garage next to the hotel. The room number Amanda gave him is on the twenty-second floor. The elevator ride is smooth and shorter than it feels like it should be.
Ryan finds the right door and knocks. Amanda opens it almost immediately. He gets a brief glimpse of an unmade bed, papers scattered all over the floor, and what looks like a pile of rope before a strip of cloth obscures his vision. Amanda knots it behind his head.
"Ssshhh," she hisses, and starts taking off his clothes. He's not entirely certain she's closed the door yet.
Rope wraps around Ryan's wrists behind his back, and then keeps wrapping up his arms all the way up to the elbows. Amanda's foot presses against Ryan's calves until his knees give out and he stumbles to the floor.
There's a long silence, then the sound of a ukulele being strummed on the other side of the room.
Ryan stays there, kneeling naked with his hands behind his back, and listens to Amanda work her way through what feels like the entire discography of the Beatles. About half an hour in, when she starts in on "Hey Jude," he absentmindedly joins in on the chorus.
The music stops abruptly. Footsteps crinkle on paper, then a ball gag is unceremoniously shoved into Ryan's mouth. "Ssssshhhhh," Amanda emphasizes.
She doesn't secure the gag. Ryan grips it between his teeth to keep it from falling out. He can hear her walking back across the papers, then the ukulele music starts up again.
After a few minutes of "Yellow Submarine," she comes back. A coil of rope brushes against his thigh, and she unties his wrists to re-tie them to the front of his thighs.
Horrified giggles suddenly erupt from the direction of the hallway. A female voice says, "Oh my god," and the door slams shut. Amanda ignores it, continuing to wrap Ryan's torso, a web of rope squeezing his arms close to his body. It's tight enough that he can barely move.
Something nestles into his ear. It feels like a memory-foam earplug. His other ear gets one too, and then Ryan is floating in a haze of disconnect, unable to see or hear or feel anything except himself. He doesn't know how long she leaves him there, but his fingers are starting to tingle and go numb when he finally feels a tickle on his back. It's barely anything, but he's so hyper-aware of his skin that it makes him shiver all over.
Something cool and damp moves along the line of the ropes, outlining them and filling in patterns in the gaps. Ryan focuses on his breathing, keeping his inhales and exhales the same length, trying to fill his lungs completely before letting the air out.
Sssshhhhh, says the quiet roar in his ears.
"What does 'lalochezia' mean?"
Ryan kneels at the word. Jon shakes his head. "In a minute. Seriously, what does it mean?"
"Cussing to make yourself feel better, I think," says Ryan. It's a little disorienting to be expected to talk after hearing Spencer's word. Usually that marks the end of conversation.
"That's the best word I've ever heard," Jon says. "Why didn't I know that word? The world of touring techs needs to learn it. The world needs to learn it." He shakes his head in awe. "Man. Okay, so, how do you want to be fucked?"
Ryan rarely hears that question. Most people get that it's about what they want, that Ryan gets off on being used for other people's pleasure, and they tend to be fine with that. He thinks about it. What he really wants right now is that ten-inch cock of Lindsey's. Jon's dick isn't tiny, but it's not ten inches either, and it's not going to stretch him out like he's in the mood to be stretched right now.
An idea hits him. Brendon is very likely going to kill him for this, but he's pretty sure it'll be worth it. "DP," he says. "You should get somebody else who has the word over here and double-team me."
"Shit," says Jon appreciatively and pulls out his phone. Ryan can't see who he's texting, but of course it's Brendon. It's the end of the week, both of them almost always have the word by now.
"Awesome, he's on his way," says Jon, sticking his phone back in his pocket. He tugs off Ryan's shirt. "Whoa, what's all this about?" He traces a finger over the lines of Sharpie on Ryan's back.
Ryan shrugs. "Amanda Palmer is a strange woman."
Jon is fingering Ryan wide open when Brendon shows up. He hovers by the door like he's strongly considering fleeing. Ryan shoots him a shit-eating grin.
Jon is entirely oblivious. "I can't believe we haven't done this already," he's saying, almost wrist-deep in Ryan's ass. "It makes so much sense. Come in, take off your pants and stay a while."
Brendon mumbles something incoherent and strips like his clothes are made of poison ivy.
Jon rolls on a condom and flops onto his back, pulling Ryan to straddle him, and his cock slides into Ryan's ass easily. The mattress dips, and Brendon presses up against Ryan's back. "Word," says Ryan.
"Oh yeah," Brendon says. "Lalo... fuck. I wish he'd use normal words that I could actually remember. Lalochi... lalalala..."
Right when Ryan is starting to be concerned that his plan to force Brendon and Jon to fuck will be foiled, Brendon says, "Lalochezia, that's it! What does that even mean?"
"Dude, it's the best word," Jon begins, but that's when Brendon starts pushing his cock in, and the rest of the sentence is lost to a stream of obscenities.
"It means what Jon is doing right now," says Ryan, but Brendon is not listening in the slightest. Ryan can feel Brendon's breath against the back of his ear, already labored like he's at the end of a marathon sex session rather than the beginning of what will probably be more of a sprint, if Ryan's past experience with Jon's stamina is any indication.
Sure enough, they've barely settled into a good rhythm when Jon says, "Oh, fuck..." and slides out. "Sorry, give me a minute," he says, squirming out from under them with the condom pinched between his fingers. Brendon keeps fucking Ryan, but he's not paying attention to what he's doing, too busy sneaking peeks at Jon.
Jon crawls back onto the bed and says, "You should make him rim you."
Brendon pulls out and spreads his legs, clearly too far gone to say no to anything Jon wants. He's been too far gone to say no to Jon for a while now, really, but Jon hasn't noticed. Ryan spreads Brendon's ass cheeks with his hands and delves in with his tongue. If Jon doesn't notice after this, there will be no hope for him.
"Your ass is so fucking hot," Jon murmurs. He takes Brendon's head in his hands and tilts it back, kissing him upside-down. Ryan feels Brendon's entire body tense up, then relax as Brendon gets past the shock and starts kissing back.
Jon kisses slowly down Brendon's neck, leaning over him to lick at his nipple. Brendon arches his neck to touch his lips to Jon's chest, a little nipple sixty-nine. Ryan's cock throbs with the arousal he knows Brendon is feeling right now, can see in his dripping cock and the splotchy redness of his chest.
Ryan moves back, away from Brendon's ass. Brendon doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in his upside-down makeout session. Ryan stretches out next to them on the bed, watching Brendon get what he's been wanting for so long.
Jon's knee slips off the mattress, and he shifts to a more stable spot where he can kiss Brendon right-side-up. They end up kneeling face-to-face, with Ryan between them. He reaches up with both hands and strokes their cocks, watching their reactions. Jon gasps a little and takes his own cock in hand, apparently past his refractory period. Brendon does likewise, knocking Ryan's hand aside, and the two of them jerk off together, still kissing.
Brendon comes first, splattering on Ryan's neck and chin. They both look down, and Jon grins. He comes a few minutes later, aiming for the same spot, but misses and splashes Ryan's cheek and hair.
None of them move to wipe Ryan's face off. Brendon and Jon go back to kissing, and Ryan continues to watch them, feeling very pleased with himself indeed. He's like a fairy cockmother or something. He should order business cards.
"My laptop is all the way over there," Spencer says. He stares at it longingly. "My blanket is comfy and my feet are warm, but I want my computer."
Ryan leans over to grab the laptop from the table. He doesn't always do shit for Spencer like this, but sometimes he feels this weird need to be helpful. He doesn't examine it, just rolls with it.
The computer wakes up when he bumps the keyboard, and Spencer's e-mail inbox comes up on the screen. There's an e-mail from Mikey Way with the subject line "cootie verdict: clean" and an attachment.
"Cootie verdict?" asks Ryan, handing Spencer the laptop.
"STD results," says Spencer.
Ryan blinks. "Why is Mikey sending you his STD results?" he asks, even though the answer is obvious.
"He wants to fuck you," Spencer says. "Nobody gets a word until I see a clean bill of health. SOP."
Ryan digests this. He knew Spencer didn't hand out permission to everyone, of course, but he hasn't really thought about the criteria Spencer uses to determine who gets it. "Why?" he asks. He hasn't felt a need to question their arrangement in a long time, but suddenly it strikes him how much energy Spencer puts into his sex life. "You don't really get anything out of it. Why do you do it?"
Spencer's gaze immediately leaves his screen and fixes on Ryan. "Bullshit I don't," he says. "I get reassurance that you're safe and happy. I need that as much as you need cock."
Ryan scoots closer and rests his head against Spencer's arm. "Thanks," he says quietly. He smiles. "I'm glad you're vetting Mikey. I really want him."
"Keep your balls on, Don Juan," says Spencer. "You'll get what you want."