Comment Ficlet for the Kissing Not-Meme
For the Kissing Not-Meme
Panic GSF, rated PG-13
Ryan hates the last shower, water cooling and the towels a little damp with the steam of four previous showers, floor slippery beneath his feet.
He walks out into the dressing room still making faces at the cold little puddles his toes are splashing through, and stops dead when he realises that his band are waiting in a loose ring around the door, watchful, casually predatory.
He raises a hand to scratch at his stomach casually, as though he hasn't noticed, but his feet are shifting to find the perfect balance as he says, "Eric gone back to the bus?"
"Yeah," Jon says easily, getting up from the chair he was lounging in; Spencer smirks as he stops leaning against the wall, arms crossed and body language screaming power. Brendon's closer than they are, and he waits, one eyebrow raised, for them to get about the same distance from Ryan before he joins their prowl.
"There a reason you're still here?" But Ryan is about six notes too flat to sell the 'casual', and he gives up, hand rising to fiddle nervously with the hair over one ear. "Guys?"
"You were evil tonight, Ryan," Brendon intones, solemnly.
"Evil?"
"You know Brendon can't stop playing," Spencer admonishes him.
"Brendon is a professional," Jon adds sternly.
"So noooooooooow," Brendon drawls. "I think I'm owed a little payback."
"Payba?-aa!" Ryan's voice breaks off in an unmanly shriek as Brendon's hand makes a swift pass at the joint of his neck and shoulder. He flinches away instinctively, but Jon and Spencer have grabbed his arms and are holding him in place.
"Take your tickles like a man, Ross!" Spencer scolds him, grinning, and the next few minutes are a riot of Ryan squirming and choking and guffawing as Brendon rubs his fingers against the hollows between tendons and over the rounded planes of his muscles, seeking out each tender spot with the kind of expertise that only comes from years of tickle fights and epic blackmail-material exchanges with a traitorous childhood friend. He scrapes a nail along the inside of Ryan's elbow and wiggles his fingers behind Ryan's knees and ends up blowing a raspberry exactly one inch below Ryan's navel, in the precise spot that makes Ryan tear up, his giggles gone nearly to hysteria.
Spencer presses a kiss to Ryan's mouth, grinning, coaxing the spasms of laughter to a standstill, swallowing each slowing huff of laughter and giving back easy affection, methodical and lazy. Jon pats Ryan on the back, easing his breath back, and Brendon just leans back on his heels and waits, almost patiently, for Ryan to breathe normally.
Ryan puffs one final gasp of laughter against Spencer's lips and breaks away, smiling down at Brendon.
Brendon smiles back. "Anything else I can do, while I'm down here?" he teases, tugging at Ryan's towel.
Ryan wraps his hand around Jon's, raises their fingers to his lips. "I'm sure we'll think of something."
Panic GSF, rated PG-13
Ryan hates the last shower, water cooling and the towels a little damp with the steam of four previous showers, floor slippery beneath his feet.
He walks out into the dressing room still making faces at the cold little puddles his toes are splashing through, and stops dead when he realises that his band are waiting in a loose ring around the door, watchful, casually predatory.
He raises a hand to scratch at his stomach casually, as though he hasn't noticed, but his feet are shifting to find the perfect balance as he says, "Eric gone back to the bus?"
"Yeah," Jon says easily, getting up from the chair he was lounging in; Spencer smirks as he stops leaning against the wall, arms crossed and body language screaming power. Brendon's closer than they are, and he waits, one eyebrow raised, for them to get about the same distance from Ryan before he joins their prowl.
"There a reason you're still here?" But Ryan is about six notes too flat to sell the 'casual', and he gives up, hand rising to fiddle nervously with the hair over one ear. "Guys?"
"You were evil tonight, Ryan," Brendon intones, solemnly.
"Evil?"
"You know Brendon can't stop playing," Spencer admonishes him.
"Brendon is a professional," Jon adds sternly.
"So noooooooooow," Brendon drawls. "I think I'm owed a little payback."
"Payba?-aa!" Ryan's voice breaks off in an unmanly shriek as Brendon's hand makes a swift pass at the joint of his neck and shoulder. He flinches away instinctively, but Jon and Spencer have grabbed his arms and are holding him in place.
"Take your tickles like a man, Ross!" Spencer scolds him, grinning, and the next few minutes are a riot of Ryan squirming and choking and guffawing as Brendon rubs his fingers against the hollows between tendons and over the rounded planes of his muscles, seeking out each tender spot with the kind of expertise that only comes from years of tickle fights and epic blackmail-material exchanges with a traitorous childhood friend. He scrapes a nail along the inside of Ryan's elbow and wiggles his fingers behind Ryan's knees and ends up blowing a raspberry exactly one inch below Ryan's navel, in the precise spot that makes Ryan tear up, his giggles gone nearly to hysteria.
Spencer presses a kiss to Ryan's mouth, grinning, coaxing the spasms of laughter to a standstill, swallowing each slowing huff of laughter and giving back easy affection, methodical and lazy. Jon pats Ryan on the back, easing his breath back, and Brendon just leans back on his heels and waits, almost patiently, for Ryan to breathe normally.
Ryan puffs one final gasp of laughter against Spencer's lips and breaks away, smiling down at Brendon.
Brendon smiles back. "Anything else I can do, while I'm down here?" he teases, tugging at Ryan's towel.
Ryan wraps his hand around Jon's, raises their fingers to his lips. "I'm sure we'll think of something."