Tw: Large age difference, sex with a minor, and questionable consent and piss kink depending on your point of view
English is not my first language, please forgive any mistakes and let me know if there are any!
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Ryan felt a profound emptiness, believing that nobody truly cared about him. Social media, like Twitter, TikTok, Instagram, and Tumblr, was a constant reminder of comments about his former band, Panic! At The Disco. Sometimes, he would come across fan-made edits that made him feel even sadder and more insecure. He assumed that if people saw him on the street, they wouldn't even recognize him anymore.
Well, that's what he thought until the day he was at the supermarket, lamenting his decision to be there, when he heard "High Hopes" playing on the speakers. The song was a melancholic reminder of what he could have been if he hadn't distanced himself from Brendon.
You were at your part-time job after school when he stopped in front of the checkout to pay for your groceries. As soon as you saw him, your hands started to sweat and your heart raced. Your emo idol since you discovered Panic!, it was impossible not to feel like a bundle of nerves. You wanted to say something, but remained silent until the last item in your cart was scanned, a carton of milk. You couldn't help but giggle.
"Sorry, milk fic" you said, your voice choked with laughter, wanting to slap yourself at what you'd said, your face instantly red.
Ryan heard the words, his eyes widening before letting out an embarrassed laugh, his cheeks equally red. He spoke in a husky, hesitant voice, "I… This will haunt me for the rest of my life." He laughed again, trying to lighten the mood, lifting his head for the first time to look at you. Damn, clearly young and undeniably beautiful. He continued to make conversation, asking for your number and feeling guilty for having a seventeen year old teenager number written on the back of the receipt. He left thinking about it and texted you near midnight, when his wife was already asleep and he felt alone, like an idiot. She remembered the exact feeling of receiving messages from Pete when he was younger.
You talked for hours on end, you wasting your sleep before school to keep talking to him until dawn. A flutter in your stomach ran through you when he picked you up from school and took you out for the first time.
He stalled every time you asked to go to his house. He didn't want his wife to see you, didn't want her to know how disgusting he was, cheating on her with a teenager. But you insisted so much, so much, that he took you there when his wife was out and, to his dismay, this became frequent. You interpreted the visits to his house as a step in your relationship. You started dropping hints, rubbing against him while watching a movie and kissing his neck while he cooked for you, but he always insisted that it would be wrong.
You got tired of it. Every time you tried, he refused! My God, what was his problem with taking your virginity?! He was so sweet that it sometimes annoyed you.
Then, when you were comfortably seated on his living room couch, watching a teen romantic comedy you forced him to see, a painful reminder of the glaring age difference between you. Ryan was lying with you on top of him, stroking your hair and constantly commenting on the plot of the silly movie, until you decided to simply slide your soft little hand inside his pants, making him let out a startled groan and unconsciously grab strands of your hair.
The air grew thick between you, heavy with something Ryan had been trying to deny for months. He froze beneath your body, the groan that escaped his throat sounding like an open wound, pain and desire indistinguishably intertwined. His fingers tangled in your hair with an urgency that contradicted every word that came from his lips.
"You don't... you don't know what you're doing," he whispered, his voice faltering, hoarse from holding back emotions. His eyes, those huge, lovely eyes, widened, furrowing at the corners with furrowed brows. "I'm... fuck, I'm too old. I'm married, damn it."
You moved closer, feeling his insatiable heat through the thin flannel shirt, his three day stubble scratching his chin as he tilted his head to capture your lips in a kiss. He cried with pure guilt, letting the tears stream between your faces as he kissed you back with a hunger that deeply shamed him, a hunger he shouldn't feel, that should make him vomit just thinking about it.
"I'm eighteen in two months. I know exactly what I want."
He tilted his head back with a sigh mixed with a desperate sob, as his hands finally found your waist, pulling you closer to him, pressing your body against the hard evidence of his long-suppressed desire.
"You shouldn't want this," he cried, his forehead pressed against hers, his hands trembling visibly, he gently slipped his hand under your shirt, even though he knew he shouldn't, finding the warm skin of your back. His thumbs traced nervous, insecure circles, as if he were touching something sacred that could crumble. "I'm disgusting. I should have said no back at the market."
But he didn't stop. You moved your hand inside his jeans, finding his warm hardness, and he groaned your name like a curse, an act of complete surrender. "Please," he whispered, and you didn't know if he was asking you to stop or continue.
He continued to grope your skin under your clothes before sliding his fingers down, hooking his thumbs on the belt loop of your shorts as he cried guiltily against your neck, pressing kisses to your jugular, whispering "sorry" like a prayer.
He pulled down your shorts, letting out a loud groan of disappointment in himself. He forces your hips down, making you rub against him.
"I need you so badly, ryro," you whimper, desperately unbuttoning his pants. "Gods, I can't—... Fuck, I can't" he murmurs, though he's already pulling down your panties, squeezing the flesh of your ass hard enough to leave bruises.
You grab his penis, pulling down his underwear just enough to expose his dick to the air of the room. You guide it into your warmth, making Ryan let out a sob. He scratches your back, and you wonder if it shouldn't be the other way around, but you don't comment, thinking maybe porn movies aren't so realistic.
Ryan rests his forehead on your shoulder, tears streaming down his face like a child who's been punished. "You're so... So tight," he cries again, moving his hips and making you moan before you start to feel your nose running from crying so much. He feels like trash, the worst of all, he knows he's become what ruined his own life and now he's projecting that onto you, my god, he's a disaster.
He keeps thrusting into you, thinking about his wife, about his past self who thought his life would be better than this, and he just can't take it anymore. He curses softly, squeezing his eyes shut, making the tears stream down his cheeks even more. He forces himself to urinate inside you in an attempt to make you stop, trying to make you believe he had cumming.
"Is it over?" you ask, sitting upright on top of him with your hands resting on his chest and your eyebrows furrowed. "Sorry," he murmurs, looking away, gripping the side of your body with his nails digging into your skin, tears still streaming down his cheeks.
I didn't like Pete Wentz, but I'm spending so much time on Tumblr's Dead Dove de Fob that I'm developing something close to Stockholm syndrome with him, Maybe I'll write something for him🐕
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