Ryden Oneshots

Handcuffs

Warning: blood, death, murder, sex, lots of sex, backstabbing, lying, manipulating, drowning babies (I'm not even kidding).
Pay attention to the warning, I'm not even kidding!! But despite all that, its written so well and its pretty good.
PAY.ATTENTION.TO.THE.WARNING.OR.LEAVE.IF.YOU.ARE.UNCOMFORTABLE.PLEASE

Ryan’s eyes zeroed in on Brendon’s mouth, his, hot, wet, blood-drenched mouth, frozen open in a need to inhale that Ryan thought would never come. Though, if Brendon had his way, he’d prefer always remaining stuck in that place of high-sensitivity and irrationality that came from a brain cut off from oxygen. Asphyxiation was a dangerous sport, and they both loved it for that exact reason.

He kept watching as Brendon’s tongue slicked across his teeth, pink and white against a dark backdrop of shadows and thoroughly bathed in pure crimson. Hot, dark blood trailed down his chin as he brought Ryan’s hand up to his mouth. His full lips closed around two fingers, sucking the blood off of them, digging his teeth into flesh as if he wanted more. More blood. As if the ocean around them wasn’t enough. Ryan’s hands were shaking, and he let his head fall back, eyes finally falling shut.

When Brendon pulled away, leaving a wet mess of saliva and blood in his wake, he arched more into Ryan, giving a low whine in the back of his throat. His mouth and throat and lungs were fighting against him, finding no yield in Ryan’s grip.

His head lolled back a little with the desire to lose consciousness, and Ryan tightened his grip.

“Don’t,” he whispered, his mouth moving to Brendon’s. There was a sense of animalistic lust between them. Pure, homicidal, raging. Dirty, filthy, beautiful lust.

Brendon’s body shuddered under his grip, and a moment later Ryan released his throat, allowing him to take in the first breath in too long. He gasped in, sobbed, and came all in the same second. In the aftershocks of his orgasm, his forehead fell against Ryan’s shoulder and he panted against the bare skin, tasting the blood and the sweat.

“Fuck,” Ryan gasped, reduced to mere syllables as he rocked his hips forward against Brendon. “Come on,” he whispered. He snaked his fingers up Brendon’s neck, tangling them in his hair hard enough to evoke a tired gasp.

The sirens came. Slow, eerie, distant, they came, and the two of them exchanged a look, not of worry, but of excitement. Still shaking, Ryan felt Brendon’s nails digging into his back, numbed by the pleasure. He rocked his hips forward once more before shuddering and coming hard, his grip in Brendon’s hair tightening.

“So good,” he breathed a moment later. The smirk on his face was apparent in his tone as he leaned forward and pressed his lips against Brendon’s again, sharing the taste of blood, of sex, of death.

By the time the sirens reached their location, Ryan and Brendon were a block away, hand in hand, wiping the blood off of each other’s faces with the sleeves of their shirts.

**

The next night, same as every night, was filled with blood and sex and near-torture. They passed the time with each other, laying razors across skin and stealing air from chests. It ate at their insides, shuddered physical pain under their skin until they could finally get that release.

There was a car ride to nowhere, a town with streets signs of blurred letters and faces that shadowed out of sight. Just scenery for them.

Ryan stood before a home with white paneling and pretty shrubbery, shuttered windows and a bright red door that reminded him of the beautiful crimson of fresh blood. Brendon scanned the house's exterior with distant eyes. The red drew Ryan in, pulled him to it. He leaned against the wood and curled a smirk onto his lips. “Hellooooo,” he breathed near-silently, lapping his tongue lightly out. He was disappointed when the door tasted of only stale air, not the coppery warmth of blood.