Let It Unfold [just like you're Told]

[mockturtletale]

Author: Clo aka mockturtletale  
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan.
Rating: NC-17.
Word Count: 10,133. [oh my god, that's half a big bang! I have to post this in 2 parts! What?]
Disclaimer: Pics or it didn’t happen!
Notes: I got sick of reading fiction where Brendon cannot contain his overwhelming lust for Ryan Ross. Who’s to say it’s not the other way around? Thank you to Lydia, choclitbunny  , who not only beta’d this for me but also helped me talk myself into writing it in the first place, calmed me down when I was having panic attacks about it and kicked my ass into gear when I was dawdling. I feel like this is a collaboration of ours! <3 [any ensuing mistakes are completely my own, and of course comments and con-crit are very much welcomed and appreciated]

Summary: Ryan’s familiar with want, less so with need, but this. This is the physical embodiment of both at once. It’s electric and exhilarating, but that makes it no less terrifying and Ryan feels betrayed by his own feelings. He has kept nothing hidden. He is print on paper to Brendon. And now that Brendon’s sure of that .. Ryan’s pretty sure he’s fucked.



The stage gay was not Ryan’s idea.

It was not Ryan’s idea by any stretch of the imagination. But he had agreed to it and he still hadn’t quite figured out who was more thrown by that curveball - himself or the others.

Because really who wouldn’t expect him to throw a hissy fit at being expected to not only endure but return Brendon’s ridiculous advances and to be totally honest, he doubted anyone would be fooled by this particular portion of the act, no matter how good Brendon was at slutting it up onstage and really when Ryan thought about it, Brendon was almost disturbingly convincing in his portrayal of a dude that totally wanted into his pants.

And perhaps some segment of Ryan’s brain should have picked up on this surprising accuracy, but Brendon had always been a born performer and Ryan’s brain was too busy trying to think of a metaphor for how he’s a puppet trapped in his own show, wait maybe he’s the puppeteer but he’s gotten his fingers tangled in the wires that are really a simile for complication or maybe... Ryan’s not sure, but there is one thing of which he is certain: he didn’t suggest it and he is thus exempt from any technically involuntary thought, urge or ill thought out action that may come as a result of it.

That’s his reassurance to himself anyway, the first time he catches himself forgetting that that’s what this is - stage gay. It’s an act, another tightly scripted part of their “artfully choreographed” performance. When he thinks about it, it’s really quite amusing. This will be the sort of thing that they’ll be horrified to learn has been forever framed in time by VH1 when they’re unexpectedly confronted by its existence on some horrendous Behind The Music special in thirty years’ time.

This really will be the sort of thing they’ll laugh about in years to come, Ryan’s sure of it. Emphatically so. But then one night they’re onstage before the roar of a faceless crowd in a nameless city, playing with their hands and their hearts, breaking themselves open for the audience to rebuild into something more, something better and something shifts.

Ryan forgets to catch himself this time, his face fails to form that mask of indifference and he can’t zone out quite in time.He’s acutely aware of every cell of Brendon’s body, pressed right up along his side. He feels Brendon’s hand rise to caress his cheek and he knows what’s coming next. He knows what’s going to happen, what’s supposed to happen.

This is the part where Brendon’s fingers slip across his jaw and beneath his chin. This is the part where Brendon gently tugs his face closer, where he pretends to place a kiss somewhere far enough from his mouth to be safe, but close enough to seem otherwise. This is the part where Ryan usually zones out and pulls away, playing coy.

But Ryan doesn’t know if he can be coy with Brendon pressed up against him like this, so close he can feel his chest rise and fall against his arm, shivers when he feels his sweat-thinned shirt fail to act as a barrier between his skin and the burning heat of Brendon’s hand. It’s easy to ignore when you shut yourself off from the feelings and sensations before you even begin to experience them. But when you fall into that first heady rush, trying to pull back from it is futile.

As the moment approaches, Ryan knows he should be pushing his concentration elsewhere, fears what might happen if he doesn’t.

If he allows his fixation to stay tuned in on the way every single one of his senses have become focused into one overwhelming awareness of Brendon - Brendon’s scent, the way Brendon’s breath is making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, Brendon’s fingers skimming his cheekbone, his thumb creeping along his jaw and oh god.

This is it.

Brendon’s going to turn his face toward him and Ryan doesn’t know if he can be held accountable for his actions. He honestly doesn’t know if he can make himself use the presence of thousands of fans as an excuse to not respond, because he’s pushed this feeling to the pit of his existence. He’s ignored every flare of want, mine, please to the point that he’d fooled himself into forgetting he’s ever felt it. But he has, and he does. He feels it now, in front of all of these people, under the glare of these spotlights, and he feels naked. He feels raw and exposed, and he can’t deal with these feelings here and now.

So he decides not to.

He feels Brendon’s fingertips reach their destination beneath his jawbone, and is surprised to find that mere seconds have passed. A strong hand begins to tilt his face from where it had been paying rapt attention to his fingers as they mold to his guitar and Ryan feels reckless.

He can get away with this.

He knows he can.

He’ll pass it off as a mistake, a misjudgment of distance, or a prank. It was ‘Just to see the look on Brendon’s face,’ he’ll say. Ryan flicks his fringe from his eyes and prepares a defiant gaze to meet Brendon’s performing mask.

But what his eyes meet instead is not a performance at all. Ryan’s gasp must meet Brendon’s ears above the rumbling thunder of sound because his smirk seems sharper in that instant. Ryan can’t kiss him now, he can’t get away with this twisted prank he’s elaborately planned in the last three seconds that have felt like a lifetime. Because Brendon sees right through him. His smirk has reached his eyes and they’re telling Ryan in explicit detail just how delighted he is to have made this discovery.

Except, it doesn’t feel like a discovery. It doesn’t feel new. Brendon’s entire persona is trained and fixated on Ryan. He can feel the energy tense and spike between their bodies, straining against the gravity that’s pulling them apart. Ryan’s familiar with want, less so with need, but this. This is the physical embodiment of both at once. It’s electric and exhilarating, but that makes it no less terrifying and Ryan feels betrayed by his own feelings. He has kept nothing hidden. He is print on paper to Brendon. And now that Brendon’s sure of that ... Ryan’s pretty sure he’s fucked.

_________________________________________________________________

They’re back on the bus after the show, and judging by the complete lack of reaction to tonight’s stage antics, Ryan’s undoing seems to have gone unnoticed by the rest of the band.

Brendon, on the other hand. Had a front row seat and backstage passes to what Ryan has temporarily classified as “That time we were onstage and Brendon got to the part of the script where he’s supposed to pretend to want to kiss me and I forgot to pretend that I didn’t want that for real. Bad. Real bad.” The title probably needs some work but Ryan’s too busy warily eyeing Brendon who is not so much looking back at him, but staring at him with such intensity that he can practically feel his gaze as it falls.

From the sidelong glance he’s getting, Brendon’s eyes are currently doing that stupid glinty thing that they do when either highly caffeinated beverages or fatally sweetened foodstuffs are in range. Ryan huffs out a breath and stops sneaking peeks at Brendon for long enough to realize that he’s actually pretty hungry. Maybe the rumbling protestations of his stomach should have tipped him off to that fact half an hour ago, but hey - Brendon’s sitting so close he can feel his heartbeat, and sometimes it’s easy to forget one’s nutritional needs when you’re pre occupied with trying to keep your hands to yourself and your thoughts rational. Ryan feels stuttered; he doesn’t know where he stands, what he should do, what he can say.

Because therein lies the current twist in this horrifying issue. Brendon seems to be aware of Ryan’s ... interest. And by interest, he means overwhelming need to kiss Brendon for real, to have Brendon push him up against any surface available and tongue him until he can’t remember which of them is which. To feel every single inch of Brendon pressed against him, forceful and demanding, taking from Ryan everything and anything he decides he wants from him, all hot skin sharp teeth straining muscle rough hands pushing taking owning …

Jesus, Ryan thinks he really needs to stop internally using words like “owning” if he wants to prevent external evidence of such from showing.

But like he said, that’s the thing. He’s even more thrown off by the fact that Brendon seems so unfazed by recent revelations than he was by the idea that he was going to have to enlist the services of some Yoko Ono type figure to help him break up the band before he did so himself by completely alienating his lead singer with his insatiable desire to have frantic mind-blowing sex with him and his complete ineptitude at hiding that problem.

Mercifully loose sweatpants hiding any lasting effects of that particularly creepy monologue, Ryan heads to the kitchen to forage for food.

He’s humming “Lying Is The Most Fun” and trying to make himself remember that he did in fact write the song about a girl when he feels rather than hears someone approach.

Since Jon and Spence are up front engaging in what Ryan fondly remembers as sane conversation, he assumes it’s Brendon. Plus you know, along with the admirable skill of making sense both in one’s own mind and when conversing with others, they seem to have retained a general sense of personal boundaries.

Ryan briefly longs for a time when he didn’t have to make conscious efforts to think normal, non-naked-Brendon related thoughts. Honestly, lately he feels like a deranged nympho, trapped inside his own sick and sordid imagination.

But hey, if such an existence leads to feeling Brendon Urie standing so close behind you that you can feel his heat along the entire length of your back and his hands slipping down your sides and around your hips to hold you in place while he pushes his own sharp hips forward, then self-inflicted-borderline-psychotic-homo-eroticism-based-mental-dillusionism is the life for Ryan Ross!

“I saw that earlier you know,” Brendon says, low in his ear, head bent to brush his mouth against Ryan’s bare shoulder. Ryan freezes, mug in hand, and tries to remember how to make things other than whimpers and moans come out of his mouth. Contraire to popular belief, Panic at the Disco may play it up for the cameras but behind closed doors they really aren’t that physically affectionate towards each other. At least half the band is straight, Ryan’s pretty sure, and the other half are either in constant turmoil over their sexual orientation or currently slipping their fingertips beneath the waistband of Ryan Ross’s sweats.

“… Saw … uh … what, Brendon? What do you mean? ... What are you doing?”

“I saw the way you looked at me. I felt the way you had to try. So. Hard to act like we do every night.” Brendon’s voice is low and rough, and he punctuates his sentences by dragging his teeth up the side of Ryan’s neck, full bottom lip catching his ear lobe and sucking it into his mouth before he continues.

“If this act has become so hard for you, maybe you should stop trying, Ryan.”

Now this is familiar territory. This is the part where Ryan gets ridiculed for thinking this was anything other than some cruel torment. This is Trevor all over again.

Ryan’s getting ready to say he has no idea what Brendon’s talking about when the hands bracketing his hips pull him back and flip him around. Brendon steps forward again, this time pushing Ryan so hard against the counter that he can’t tell what will bruise first - the counter itself or the fingers holding him against it. He’s afraid to meet Brendon’s eyes, he doesn’t know if he can stand to see that heartless mirth shape the strong features that surround them. But Brendon has other ideas.

His hand leaves Ryan’s side to slip beneath his chin and tilt his face to where he wants it. He leans in and Ryan tries so hard to keep his soft moan to himself when he feels Brendon’s mouth trace the curve of his jaw, from just below his ear to his chin where Brendon’s tongue slips out to lap softly at Ryan’s bottom lip. But then Brendon takes his lip between his teeth and sucks, and Ryan is only human [even though at this point he’s pretty sure his existence could be classified as “GUH”].

Brendon pulls back to look at Ryan, and even though his amusement is evident, it’s nothing compared to the sheer smug determination in his eyes. He looks confident and predatory and Ryan is surprised to find that just being looked at like prey makes his stomach jolt even harder than this sexy torturous game Brendon’s been playing with him. Ryan has never been the submissive type, he’s never even let himself be ordered around by his previous girlfriends, but Brendon has this ability to make you forget what you were like before you knew him.

Truth be told, Ryan’s having trouble remembering that he even existed before he knew him. Something about Brendon makes Ryan want to give him whatever he wants. Probably the same thing that makes Ryan want to sink to his knee’s right here and now and beg Brendon to fuck him until he cries.

“Maybe you should stop trying so hard, Ry. Maybe I want you just as badly as you evidently want me. Because you want me bad, don’t you Ryan Ross?”

Brendon leans in again, so close now that his thigh is shoved between Ryan’s, his hands are on the counter on either side of Ryan’s hips, his thumbs stroking the skin revealed beneath the hem of Ryan’s t-shirt. He’s just so fucking close, Ryan feels trapped in the best possible way.

Brendon finally slips his hands beneath Ryan’s shirt, and Ryan gasps at the contact.

“You want me so much that you’re shaking right now. You want me to get down on my knee’s for you, Ryan?” Brendon’s tone has turned teasing, but something much more than that at the same time. His voice is low and rough as it’s forced from his throat out of his mouth against his will. Ryan wants to taste those words, see if they’d feel as good on his tongue as they do in his ear.

“No, that’s not it. You want to be the one on your knee’s for me, huh? And you would be, Ryan. I’d shove you to the floor, wind my hands into your hair, and fuck your mouth until I came so hard you’d almost choke trying to swallow it all.” Brendon slides a hand around Ryan’s ribs and up between his shoulder blades to wind into his hair then, as if to show Ryan what it’d be like. He tugs, and Ryan’s head falls back against the cupboard with a thud. The dull pain he feels is more than soothed by Brendon biting at his adam’s apple and licking up his throat to finish whispering in his ear.

“You wouldn’t wanna waste a drop, though, would you Ross? Nah, you’d be such a slut for me.” Brendon pulls his teeth sharply across Ryan’s jaw as he slides his hands slowly down his arms until his and Ryan’s fingers are woven together. He pulls away from Ryan to push their hands above their heads and holds them there, bringing his hips back before grinding them forward. Ryan is quivering in places he didn’t know he had sensation left in.

“You’d beg for my cock. You’re thinking about it right now, aren’t you? Trying to stop yourself from begging me to fuck you right here and now, even though anyone could walk in and see you just taking it from me.”

Ryan can’t help it, he whimpers. The sound of Brendon’s voice, the things he’s saying, the way he’s pressed so tight against 
Ryan that he knows there’s no way Brendon can’t feel the way his cock is jerking against his stomach, pressed against Brendon’s cock ... which, oh God, is all Ryan Ross wants in the world right now. He whimpers again at the thought that he might actually get it.

Brendon laughs, and leans even closer into Ryan’s space, whispering right into his ear now, his soft full mouth brushing across Ryan’s cheek.

“If that’s what you want, Ryan. Maybe you should just ask for it. Because you would, right? You’d beg. Right now, you’d do anything I asked of you. I could push you back up onto this counter, wind your legs around my waist, and force my way inside you until you felt like you’d die if I ever pulled out, and you’d still beg me for more.” Ryan thinks that right here, standing in the cramped kitchen of their tour bus, pushed up against the sink by Brendon, held in place by his hips and his hands and his words, he’s on the verge of coming from just that.

“’Cause I’m under your skin now, aren’t I Ryan? I’m all you can think about. Can you imagine what it’d feel like to finally get what you want?”

Ryan can’t. He just can’t. He’s paralyzed by his need, and he’s still too scared to touch Brendon back just in case he doesn’t really mean this. But even he can’t contain the broken “…please” that falls from his mouth as his hips seek more friction. Brendon grinds forward against him once, and twists a hand into Ryan’s hair to pull his head back so he can lick a wet stripe up to his ear.

“…….no,” he whispers, and walks away.

________________________________________________________________

Ryan Ross is starring in his very own production of The Wizard of Oz. He’s the Tin Man. It’s a totally awesome show. Except for the part where there’s no-one else actually in it and it’s not really a show at all-it’s his fucking life. And if Brendon continues to mess with his head the way he has been, no amount of oil will break his limbs from their permanent state of tension.

Hmmm. Brendon and lubricant. Hmm. Ryan could totally think about that prospect in great and vivid detail for the next five years or so, if it weren’t for the fact that lately his fantasies mostly revolve around strangling Brendon in his sleep. And not even in a naked, sexy way.

Every day for the past six, Brendon has pushed Ryan further and further towards the point that he’s currently trying to figure out a way to temporarily blind himself because if he has to see Brendon make the most mundane daily activities look so fucking hot that Ryan has to physically pace his own breath for fear that the others will hear the way he’s practically panting, it will be the end of one of them.

He’s not sure which, because up until this escapade he hadn’t thought death by seduction possible, but if this last week is anything at all to go by, then anyone who says as much has clearly never seen Brendon Urie sitting astride a pliant but bemused Jon Walker, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers slung so low on his hips that one small tug could have them around his ankles, chewing on the lead of his headphones and almost making his moaning along to whatever song sound like humming. Fucking Britney Spears and her making-sex-noises-sound-like-music skills.

This particular occasion had been followed in quick succession by several more to test the boundaries of just how much being a general spazz meant you could get away with. Almost constant nudity: yes. [“We’re in the middle of an Indian Summer!”] Constant oral performances poorly hidden by the guise of eating popsicles: yes. [“They’re red, Ryan Ross! Red! You know it’s my favorite color!] Jerking off to the rough versions of Behind The Sea: almost. [“No I am not touching myself to the sound of your voice, Jon Walker. I’m merely … drowning out the noise with whatever is handiest. I’m a considerate band mate!”].

Brendon seems to have all of a sudden developed the completely useless yet torturous life skill of being able to turn the most tedious of tasks into the greatest act of obscenity you’ve seen since Haley leaked those pictures of Spencer’s sex face.

Ryan thinks maybe he would have been able to cope with this absurd debauchery if he only had visuals to contend with. Brendon, unfortunately, has always been a pretty hands-on sort of guy. Hands-on to the extent that Ryan has been mostly hard since Brendon had pushed him up against the sink. And the way he keeps cornering him and trying to drive him crazy with his words and his fucking mouth and his fucking hips and his just generally ridiculous state of Brendon-ness is really not helping matters whatsoever. Ryan’s skin is constantly thrumming. That’s what Brendon’s touches do to him. They make him feel like he doesn’t fit right inside his own body, and oh hey! They make him think like a prepubescent girl now apparently too.

He frowns until his face actually starts to hurt, and is just about to end this melancholic moping session in favor of hiding from his emo in the bunks when the very object of his woes appears. Right in front of him. In the “living room”. Of the bus. Where no-one else is except the two of them, because Jon and Spencer have gone to … do whatever it is that non-brooding people do. Warning bells start to sound in his head.

Brendon just stands in the door way, one hip cocked against the frame and arms crossed, watching Ryan like he’s been standing there for much longer than he has. Ryan swallows, and is it just him or is it suddenly really, really cold in here? He would have said “hot”, but he’s shivering, and his forearms are all of a sudden covered in goosebumps. Plus, hello. He’s Ryan Ross. He doesn’t deal in cheap clichés.

Speaking of cheap, Brendon crosses the room and splays himself along the couch, head landing in Ryan’s lap - how convenient. He just lies there, staring up at Ryan but not saying anything until Ryan sighs and gives in.

“Help you with something?” Brendon pretends to consider that, and after a minute or two of trying to make his exaggerated pout look like a genuine attempt at contemplation, replies.

“Well Ryan. I have this problem.” Ryan rolls his eyes but takes the bait anyway. Partly because he’s bored and partly because if recent events are anything to go by he evidently doesn’t know when to keep his fucking mouth shut. He sighs.

“I see. And what would that problem be, Brendon?”

“The thing is, I was just hanging out with those Cab kids and …”

“They’re like a year younger than you are, dude. Hardly gives you rise to call them ‘kids.’”

“Whatever dude, stop interrupting my tales of complicated moral dilemmas. Is that the plural of dilemma? Maybe it’s dilemmi? Does that sound right?”

“Not when it’s coming out of your mouth, Brendon, because your idea of a complicated moral dilemma is the daunting task of trying to decide which member of The Pussy Cat Dolls is most likely to have been a man at some point in their life. And we all know it’s the redhead.” Brendon is frowning up at him for real now, reaches up to flick him on the nose and continues like Ryan hadn’t spoken at all.

“So here’s the dilemma. I’m pretty sure both Marshall and Singer are into me, but do you think they’d go for a threesome? I can’t decide which one I want. I see Singer onstage, that pretty little mouth wrapped around the dirtiest words and I think the decision’s made. But then Marshall does that thing where he leans so close into the mic when he’s singing backup that when he pulls away, his lip like ... catches on it. And fuck. Have you seen his forearms? Man. Maybe I could get away with both? I wouldn’t even have to remember not to call them each other’s names!” Brendon seems genuinely thrilled by this convenient cognomen coincidence, but Ryan’s eyebrows have shot so far up his forehead that he’s thankful for this ridiculous fringe blocking their path, otherwise they might be lost forever in the untamed wilderness that somehow manages to pass as a hairstyle.

“Brendon! WHAT!? You can’t touch those boys! They’re just boys! Poor innocent children, oh my god!” Ryan pretends to be offended by the very suggestion that Brendon could think it acceptable to do … whatever it is that he’s planning to do.

“You say that now, Mr. They’re-A-Year-Younger. But I’ve seen the way those ‘children’ look at my apple bottom, they’re ready Ryan.”.

“Brendon, be reasonable! Nobody is ready for the apple bottom! It’s like when you’re a kid and you try and convince your parents that you can handle the task of eating some, like, ridiculously large ice cream sundae but two hours and a whole lot of vomit later, you’re proved wrong. You might think they’re ready but ….” Brendon sits up to interrupt.

“Ryan Ross, you think my apple bottom is like ice cream?” Ryan thinks he should maybe think about what he says before he says it, but when Brendon is talking about fucking pretty little boys who aren’t Ryan, well. Tough times and all that.

“Well. In the sense that … Um. I’ve heard it said that... Uhhh. See what it’s like is ...”

“That you wanna lick whipped cream off my apple bottom. That’s what it’s like.” Obviously that’s exactly what it’s like, because Ryan’s not dumb. But he realized a long time ago that admitting he wants something doesn’t mean he can just have it. He’s not really sure how to go about earning what it is that he covets currently, but he knows that any admission in situations like this can only lead to bad places.

“Oh please. I don’t know why you insist on calling it an apple bottom anyway. If anything, it’s more like … a pear maybe. A peach at best.”

Brendon is affronted. His sensitivities have been challenged, and he’s positively bristling for the offset of conflict. He crawls forward a few inches until he’s stretched right across Ryan’s lap and lies down again - propped up on one elbow with his bottom - apple or otherwise - tilted to allow the curve of his hip to sit snuggly between Ryan’s thighs. He reaches for Ryan’s hand, pulls it behind him to rest on the high curve of where his lower back begins to slope and wriggles around until Ryan’s palm for some reason follows that curve until his fingertips catch on the denim pocket of Brendon’s jeans and worm their way inside. He sits there, with his hand in Brendon’s back pocket, feeling the heat of skin even through his layers of clothes and wonders just what in the hell he is doing. Brendon seems anything but surprised by it though, he just leans into the touch and for a minute it feels nice. Comfortable and friendly and familiar.

Then of course, Ryan’s cock decides he wants in on this action. He could seriously spend like at least 2 hours writing emotionally charged lyrics about how even his own body has decided to betray him if it weren’t for the fact that his unoccupied hand had decided to pick this very moment to do just that. He can’t quite bring himself to make eye contact with Brendon as his left hand plays with the bottom of his t-shirt, slipping underneath the hem to trace patterns across his hip with just his fingertips brushing the skin they find. He’s thinking about how unfair it is that girls can be these mysterious beings who don’t have to reveal how they’re feeling about festivities right up until you slip a hand into their panties. Boys on the other hand-open book. It’s beyond unfair.

But Brendon doesn’t seem to mind it that much if the movement in his jeans and the interested look on his face are anything to go by. Ryan is getting seriously tired of this.

This is about the eighth time this week he’s been in this situation with Brendon. He’s making sure to crowd up against Ryan every time they pass in hallways, push his hand through his hair every time he walks past, lick whatever off Ryan’s fork anytime he happens upon him eating, even once shaping his warm body to the curve of Ryan’s and nipping the back of Ryan’s neck when he’s bent low over the sink of a cramped dressing room adjusting his headband. In full view of everyone else who’d been in the dressing room at the time, including those fucking Cab kids who’d spent the next two days looking at Ryan like he’d stolen their lunch money.

Unfortunately, nobody else seems that surprised by this strange change in Brendon’s behavior. Mostly because it’s not strange at all. Everyone is so used to Brendon being such a physically needy little bitch that they don’t even notice that he’s trying to seduce Ryan to death.

Every time he gets the chance he makes sure all Ryan can think about is the feel of his body pressed up close, the ghost of his touch across his skin, and it’s seriously getting beyond cute as far as Ryan’s concerned. Surely this is some variety of sexual harassment? He’d ask Pete for clarification on that if he didn’t think it would end in a demonstration.

He’s just about to send Brendon tumbling off his lap and onto the floor in retaliation when Brendon shifts suddenly, sitting up to throw a knee across Ryan’s lap, straddling him now. He leans forward to grip the back of the sofa, arms bracketing Ryan’s shoulders. He’s sure Brendon can feel the way he swallows thickly, knows that he’s shaking underneath him. It’s pretty evident to everyone involved that Brendon gets off on the way he can tease Ryan like this - to the point that every muscle and tendon in his body is straining and taut.

Unfortunately, he’s equally as sure that if this continues in the same vein as these incidents have been playing out lately, he will have no choice but to slap a bitch. He shoves at Brendon’s hips until he teeters backwards, sitting almost on Ryan’s knees now and evidently surprised by this loss of power. The uncertainty in his eyes and the way his hands clutch desperately at Ryan, like all the energy is ebbing now not spiking as before, makes something in Ryan twist sharply. He pushes again, firmer this time.

Brendon tumbles backwards onto the floor of the bus and Ryan wastes no time in falling forward to pin him to the carpet with the cage of his body.

Brendon’s fingers flex in the carpet and he starts to try and crawl away but Ryan takes a wrist in each hand and pins it above Brendon’s head, leaning all the way forward to peer into Brendon’s face. He likes the unease he finds there, likes the way he can practically feel how unsettled Brendon is now that the roles have been reversed and he’s the one in control. He noses underneath Brendon’s jaw and feels him tense beneath him. Laughing cruelly, he lets his mouth follow the line of Brendon’s throat down to where he meets his pulse and lets his tongue follow the hammering throb of the beat.

Brendon must think he’s distracted by this because he uses this moment to try and break free of Ryan’s hold. His wrists try to pull away from the floor and his hips seek to buck Ryan off of him. Stronger than he looks though, Ryan pushes Brendon’s wrists back to the floor hard enough to leave bruises and moves up to sit across his waist. He feels the tension in every inch of Brendon’s position and sees the way he’s lost in this spectator’s role, not knowing what’s going to happen next. He’s not really afraid, Ryan knows. They’re best friends, neither would do anything to hurt the other. This is so much more than physical at this point though. Ryan knows how much Brendon likes attention, control. Being confined like this, not manipulating every action. It must be killing him. The way he’s squirming against Ryan’s hold certainly seems to indicate so.

He tries to sit up again, and Ryan doesn’t hold back this time. He’s so sick of this dance they’re doing, sick of being constantly taunted with what he wants and then being denied it at the last second, and so sick of not being able to stop thinking about how Brendon’s mouth would feel against his, so he decides to stop wondering. Hands occupied, he uses his mouth to push Brendon back into the floor.

Their mouths meet in a clash of teeth and lips and it’s not gentle or sweet. Brendon kisses like Ryan feels - hard and dirty. Ryan responds with the sort of bite he usually reserves for his lyrics and ex-girlfriends and he can’t really tell whether they actually are kissing right now, or whether they’re genuinely trying to hurt each other. Brendon’s teeth are tugging on Ryan’s bottom lip in a way that’s just short of painful and although this is victory for Ryan, it could still be an offensive attempt on Brendon’s behalf.

But then he feels Brendon’s tongue slip out and across to taste the place where his lips meet at the corner of his mouth. He stalls for a second, waits to see where Brendon is going to take this and smiles into it when he feels Brendon’s hip lift off the floor in search of friction that Ryan isn’t going to give him. He sucks Brendon’s tongue into his mouth and starts to push his hips back to meet Brendon’s where they’re bucking against nothing. He feels Brendon gasp into his mouth when they make contact, both past hard in their jeans now. He grinds down, twisting his hips against Brendon’s in a rhythm that’s sharp and quick.

He pulls back when Brendon moans low in his throat, and sits up - cutting off the movement of their hips. Brendon opens his eyes and blinks up at him in confusion, breath coming in quiet little gasps.

“Ryan … what the fuck!?”

Ryan just grins, presses a little harder on his wrists. He feels Brendon squirm at the contact and leans in close again.

“How does it feel?” He asks, and pushes himself to his feet. He doesn’t even look back as he leaves Brendon lying wanting and panting on the floor.

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Part Two