Present Progressive
Title: Present Progressive
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Summary: Ryan stops writing in online journals because he gets a real one.
Word Count: 10,136
Disclaimer: Fake, fake, fake.
A/N: Thanks to notshybutsly, jocondite, and castoffstarter for the terrific beta help.
For jzbell, happy graduation!
Ryan stops writing in online journals because he gets a real one.
It's a gift from Brendon, of course, like most things lately seem to be, and the thing is? It's a nice journal. It looks like it was fucking expensive, too, but money's not really a factor anymore, not for either of them. They're not about to go buy sports franchises, but they can certainly afford to buy nice almost-start-of-first-headlining-tour presents for each other.
The journal itself is loaded with thick cream-coloured pages, no texture at all, just smooth expanses of almost-white. It's actually a separate book in supple leather covering, like the paper dust jackets that hardcover books come with, only more beautiful. The leather case has a design of raised bumps and swirls and it's intricate and absolutely gorgeous. There's a silver knob at the front with a pair of interlocking Rs etched into it, and there's a leather lace attached to the back cover, which can be tightly wrapped around the knob, keeping the volume securely shut.
"Writers use journals, right?" Brendon had said when Ryan looked up at him quizzically. "What? It's not like the internet's the most reliable thing, anyway. This is more, like. What's the word? Portable. It'll fit in your carry-on, for, like, airports and stuff."
And he was right, Ryan gets tired of typing, his fingers get infinitely tired of following patterns that he can't properly look at (because Ryan needs to see what he's doing, he's always needed proof that his fingers are in the proper position on his guitar strings; Brendon's the one who can play the piano for hours without looking at his fingers, he accepts so much on blind faith) and sometimes it's just nice to see what he's doing.
It's a little more tangible, too, the idea that he'll need wite-out to even pretend that he can erase his thoughts and his feelings. The journal is becoming a kaleidoscopic tapestry of everything he's lived through in the last few years. He doesn't have a specific pen he uses; he'll just grab whatever he can find in a pinch and just go with it, and as a result there are blocks of solid black writing, and then variations of colour and thickness. A few entries even feature neon pink gel-pen because that's all Brendon could find in his knapsack.
Ryan presses down hard on the paper when he writes, likes the ache in his wrist afterwards, imagines it follows the spiky lines of his tattoo. He considers, every now and again, idly, teaching himself to write with his left hand. It's an idea that's flitted through his mind more than once, but he's still not sure that he wants to look through his journal and see a bunch of ugly, sloppy entries as he learns. Not that his writing is particularly graceful, anyway. He writes like a boy, he supposes, but at least it's legible and even though he has to squint and push his face up close to the page to read the gel-pen entries, he can still get through them.
He's not sure what to expect at first - more lyrics, maybe? But what comes from the journal is instead something a lot more personal than any lyrics he's ever written. Ryan's fairly certain that the story he's telling Brendon's pages is pretty unsuitable for Panic! At the Disco songs. It's a lot of observation, because it's been pointed out to him that he has a tendency to be self-absorbed and this is not necessarily the best quality, and not really one he feels like nurturing. There's a lot of philosophical rambling, but it's a good deal less pretentious than anyone might suspect. He still uses his heavy words, but that's just because he likes how they look. Dignified.
It takes a few months, but Ryan realizes that he's nearly filled up the first volume and that he's put more of himself into Brendon's pages than he's ever trusted anyone or anything else with. And though Brendon doesn't actually read the journal, Ryan's pretty sure that if he asked to, Ryan would let him. Sometimes, Ryan thinks that he wants Brendon to read the journal.
Sometimes, instead, he's just nervous about what he's written. A lot of it doesn't really make that much sense - there's a lot about his working relationship with Brendon, at turns frustrated and elated.
If Patrick and Pete are like Mozart, then we're like Beethoven, he writes one night. Mozart just blinked and produced music, he didn't re-write anything or whatever. Just picked up a pen quill and wrote. We don't do that. We have to fight the music to make it come out right. He can't really remember who articulated the difference between the two composers for him, but he remembers that his impression of Mozart is pretty firmly based on Amadeus, the only movie he and his father could ever really agree on. Brendon isn't much of a Mozart fan, but it's something he and Ryan don't really talk about, because Ryan doesn't know half as much about classical music as Brendon does and inevitably he'll dredge up something ridiculous and obscure to make his point. It irks Ryan, sometimes, that Brendon knows so much more about music than Ryan does. He supposes it comes from growing up in a family that kept a half-dozen guitars around the house, just because. He's been to Brendon's house. He's seen the baby grand in the living room and the fucking ridiculously huge CD rack with what looks like thousands of albums, all separated neatly by genre and then organized by artist. He knows that Brendon could read music before he could even recite his ABC's.
This is all beside the point, though, really. The point is: he's almost out of paper.
--
"Where did you get this, anyway?" Ryan asks Brendon, curled up at the kitchenette. They're back on tour already, and Ryan's almost relieved. He feels more at home when the ground beneath his feet is moving, strangely enough. He's also relieved that the second album is outperforming the first - critical and commercial response has been overwhelmingly positive, with the exception of certain outlets like Pitchfork. Ryan's finding he doesn't care, though, as far as he's concerned, Pitchfork Media can go fuck themselves. Brendon's staring blearily at a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, poking unenthusiastically.
"What?"
"My journal. I'm almost out of pages."
"Goddamn," Brendon yawns. "You write fast." He yawns again and pushes the bowl away, crawling under the table and surfacing to rummage through the cabinets for Pop-Tarts. "It took me, like, forever to fill my first one up."
Ryan's sort of. Stunned, actually. "First one?" he manages.
"Yeah," Brendon says, biting the foil package open. "I got it when I was sixteen, for my birthday. I didn't fill it up until a few weeks ago, actually. You can have my replacement book, if you want. It's the same size as yours, I haven't written in it yet."
"Thanks," Ryan mumbles, and Brendon flashes him a brilliant grin before attacking the pastry.
"No problem," he says brightly, wide awake now. "Fuck. We need some Pop-Tarts that aren't strawberry flavoured. This is just nasty."
"Sure," Ryan says distantly.
--
Brendon's true to his word and gives Ryan a replacement book, clean and unmarked the next time they're in a hotel room together.
Ryan starts writing right away, stretched out on his belly with his head at the foot of the bed and Brendon slides headphones in his ears, curling up against the headboard with a pillow, fingers resting lightly on the backs of Ryan's thighs, playing along with the music. Ryan has no idea what it is he's listening to and it's starting to bother him.
"What are you listening to?" he asks.
"Tchaikovsky, now shut the fuck up. I like this part," Brendon says, voice over-loud.
"You're listening to The Nutcracker?"
"Pathétique," Brendon answers, pinching him. "It's a symphony. He wrote more than Christmas ballets, you know."
"You would, anyway," Ryan mumbles, and he knows Brendon can't hear him. He goes back to writing, but he's lost his focus now, so he slams the journal shut (probably with more force than is strictly necessary, but he can taste inadequacy at the back of his throat now, and he's always had trouble dealing with that in particular).
"You okay?" Brendon asks, pulling the headphones from his ears and setting them aside.
"Yeah, sure, fine," Ryan mutters. Brendon rolls his eyes and climbs on top of Ryan.
"Come on," he sing-songs, and now he'll never shut up, Ryan knows, because now he's singing Peter Gabriel. "Taaaalk to me. Won't you please. Come taaaalk to me. Just liiiiike. It used to beee-eee-ee. Come on, come taaaalk to me."
"Shut up," Ryan tries anyway, and Brendon just giggles and launches into the second verse. Ryan grunts and manages to flip them over, wrestles his way to the top, straddling and pinning him to the mattress, and Brendon stops singing abruptly.
"Hi," he says cheerfully, and then he surges upward, pushing Ryan to his back and holding him there. "Hi, have you totally forgotten that I'm youngest? You should quiver before my wrestling skills, Ross."
"Should I really," Ryan says, keeping his tone dry, but his breath quickens, a little, pinned beneath Brendon like this with his legs pressed at awkward angles.
"You really, really should," Brendon says airily. He climbs off Ryan, then, about as graceful as a drunken elephant, and Ryan sits up slowly. "My skills, they are mad and are to be greatly feared. But, you know, I'm a really gracious person, so. I'm letting you go this time."
"Oh, thanks."
"Hey, don't mention it." Brendon glances at him and bites his lip. "I'm glad you're getting some use out of the journal."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "It was weird at first, hand-writing things."
"You type faster than you think," Brendon agrees. "Writing is slower."
Ryan shrugs. "I like it. So, you know. Thanks." Brendon nods, but there's something there. There's a gap between them that he wants to bridge, and Ryan wants to help, but he doesn't even know what it is Brendon's after. "So," he says again, just to fill the air.
--
They're the only two still awake, shut off by themselves in the back lounge, watching Moulin Rouge for the umpteenth time.
"We need more movies," Brendon says sleepily.
"Agreed," Ryan says with possibly a little too much emphasis. He's sitting on the couch with Brendon draped over his shoulders, nuzzling absentmindedly at his neck every now and again. The credits are rolling, now, and Ryan hits mute on the remote control, nearly recoils when silence covers them like a thick blanket. It's just on the edge of comfortable, slightly not, and Ryan is a little confused, again. There's something here that he's missing, a puzzle piece that's not lining up.
Brendon reaches up to trace along the smooth line of his jaw with gentle fingertips. "I'm glad you ditched the stubble." Ryan blinks.
"Yeah," he says, not sure what else there is to say. Brendon lets loose an explosive sigh, the scent of Skittles heavy on his breath as it washes over Ryan. He angles his head enough to look at Brendon properly and is a little surprised to see Brendon staring at him intently, eyes dark and serious.
"So," Brendon says, and Ryan knows that he's talking to make time move slower. Ryan's slipping - finally - into the strange head-space that he inhabits when they're working, when he and Brendon speak their own language, usually without even opening their mouths. They're forever drifting closer and farther apart, and it's high tide right now, with the tour and the album and a second video shoot coming up, and it's starting now, he's beginning to hear Brendon's thoughts and needs and wants in his head almost more clearly than he can hear his own, everything's lining up, and it's for this reason that he does not hesitate before dropping his chin, kissing Brendon softly. Brendon kisses him back, immediately, opening beneath him, flicking his tongue between Ryan's lips. Ryan shifts, falling to his back, tugging Brendon on top of him, keeping him warm.
Brendon pulls back, breathing hard, grinding down against Ryan, and Ryan arches up into him, bites his lower lip and tries to hold back his little whine, and Brendon just chuckles breathlessly before kissing him again, licking into his mouth and sucking on his tongue. Ryan lies back and lets himself be kissed, until Brendon pushes his weight into Ryan's wrists, making him gasp in wonder at the bright flare of pain. Brendon pushes a little harder and Ryan likes it a little more, maybe a little too much.
They lie like that for what must be hours, nothing more, and fall asleep with legs entangled and hearts beating in time.
--
Sharing hotel rooms should be strange but it isn't. Ryan curls up at the foot of the bed and writes about how surreal it all is. "Surreal" is his new favourite word. They're more than a one-hit wonder, they're getting recognition, and he might maybe possibly be falling for his singer. He gets a thrill, now, every night when Brendon sings his words. He always did, but now more than ever, he feels the great and terrible rush of it at the base of his spine, licking its way up his vertebrae.
They stumble offstage, sweaty and in disarray, and most nights Ryan ends up curled up with Brendon in his bunk, long languid kisses with bodies pressed together. Sometimes Brendon slides his hand up the back of Ryan's shirt, cups at his shoulder blades, and sometimes Ryan lets his fingers dip below the waistband of Brendon's jeans, stroking at the small of his back and moving lower, but they don't really do anything else, not yet.
It's fairly obvious what's going on, and even without a formal announcement it becomes common knowledge among the crew and everyone else. Nobody says anything, but it's not like it's because they're avoiding the issue out of shame. They just happen to be the right combination of people: they are quiet, and understand these things.
They are not, however, above the occasional practical joke, and that's where Ryan finds himself, sprawled out on their very first hotel room bed since the last one, snapping his journal shut as Brendon walks in.
"Hey," he says cheerfully, and flips a plastic box in Ryan's general direction. Ryan fumbles a little but manages to catch it. Brendon heads into the bathroom and starts running the water for a bath. Ryan just stares at the box: LUCID DREAMS! it proclaims in garish script. WATERPROOF AND NEARLY SILENT!
For some reason, Brendon has given him a vibrator.
He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and goes to the bathroom where Brendon is sitting in the tub, glaring at the faucet as though demonstrating impatience will make it fill faster. "Hey," he says again, grinning up at Ryan, who holds up the vibrator. Words have lost him because it's a vibrator. And it's bright purple and it might possibly be...sparkly. He squints. It is sparkly, what the fuck.
"Why did you buy me a vibrator?" he blurts out.
"I didn't," Brendon says neatly, poking the hot water knob with his toe, adjusting. "The crew did. They want us to know that they bless our union."
"...In those exact words?"
"Yep."
Ryan pauses, still a little shell-shocked, and sets the vibrator down on the bathroom counter, gingerly. "Well, then."
--
When Brendon's still sleeping the next morning Ryan goes into the bathroom and slips the vibrator into his bag, shoving it briskly to the bottom. You never know who's going to be cleaning up hotel rooms, and wouldn't that be a great thing to pop up in some interview down the line: So we hear you boys are fans of brightly coloured sex toys! Care to talk about that? Do you coordinate your makeup with your favourite toys? No thank you.
And it's not like he's keeping it to use it. He rambles on for a few paragraphs in his journal about the concept of vibrators and props during sex without noticing that Brendon's awake.
"Morning," Brendon mumbles sleepily with his eyes still half closed.
"You're up early. We don't have to go anywhere for another couple hours," Ryan says, not looking up.
"Mmfle," Brendon says, and rolls over to his back. "C'mere." Ryan shrugs but obeys, crawls over to him, tucking his head under Brendon's chin. Brendon reaches up and settles a warm hand at Ryan's hip, squeezes lightly before flipping them over, leaning his body weight into Ryan. Ryan manages to slide his leg between Brendon's, rolling his hips for friction. Brendon kisses him, gently at first but then harder, hungry and biting at his mouth. Ryan makes a pleased noise low in his throat as Brendon digs fingernails into his flesh, encouraging, and Brendon smirks, chuckles against him, grinds down against Ryan.
They stay like that, slow eager kisses, for a while, following their earlier patterns. Ryan can feel Brendon hard against him, knows Brendon can feel him too, and is struck with the sudden want to cross another line, push the boundaries a little and see where they end up, and he arches up into Brendon, trying to show him. He's not sure what he's doing, exactly - Brendon is the first and only boy he's ever even kissed, but he picks up the hint almost immediately, rolls off Ryan and tugs his pajamas down, curls a sure hand around Ryan's dick and starts stroking briskly.
"Okay?" he breathes, pressing wet little kisses against Ryan's throat. Ryan manages a sort of aimless moan, nodding, and Brendon grins, "Cool."
He's almost too good at this, twisting his wrist so fucking nicely, stroking the pad of his thumb over the head, teasing his fingertips up and down the length, tightening at the tip and loosening his grip at the base, and Ryan wonders if he's ever done this before. Brendon keeps kissing at his neck, nipping gently every now and again, flicking his tongue out, and it's almost like he's kissing with the same rhythm of his hand, and ohh, he is, and Ryan can't help the needful jerk of his hips upward into Brendon's hand. Brendon smiles against his skin and sucks and squeezes hard, and Ryan bites back a moan and comes. Brendon strokes him through it, smears the sticky splashes over Ryan's belly.
(Ryan sort of wants to be grossed out by this but really can't bring himself to bother with disgust, not with pleasant little tingly aftershocks still bouncing around his bones and Brendon's lips on him.)
"D'you want me to-" he asks, gesturing a little. Brendon bites.
"If you- if you would," he says, and, obligingly, Ryan sticks his hand down the front of Brendon's pants, taking a deep breath before squeezing the base and starting slowly.
"I just," he says, pausing. "I haven't ever. Not with."
"Me either," Brendon says tightly, eyes closed. Ryan's a little surprised at this, but doesn't dwell on it: Brendon, despite his goofy exterior is remarkably adept at picking up new things, especially ones that relate to Ryan.
"Okay," he says, biting his lip. "All right. Tell me if, like. I'm doing it wrong."
Brendon cracks one eye open. "Seriously? Just jerk me off, already." He thrusts his hips for emphasis, and Ryan snorts before getting to it, licking at the underside of Brendon's jaw, knowing he likes that, and Brendon lets out an appreciative moan as Ryan works up a quick rhythm, reasoning that Brendon had been moving at a pretty quick pace just a few minutes ago - he probably liked it fast. That would make sense, with Brendon, rushing to conclusions and happy endings. Brendon's hands are scrabbling at the sheets now, like he doesn't know what to do with them, and Ryan doesn't blame him. He can feel the tension in Brendon's body, knows it's not going to be much longer, tightens his fist around Brendon's cock, and kisses him hard. Brendon gasps into his mouth and sucks his upper lip before throwing his head back and groaning as he comes into Ryan's hand.
It's sticky and warm and a little weird, but Ryan just wipes his hand off on Brendon's thigh, squeezes reassuringly and keeps kissing him through the aftershocks.
"So, good morning," Brendon says, grinning, and Ryan sort of agrees.
--
The Vibrator, though. It's still hiding out in the bottom of his bag, and he and Brendon don't mention it to each other. He's fairly certain that Brendon knows he kept it, but for once he's exercising restraint and not bringing it up.
Ryan's thought about these things before, in passing during high school and then in greater detail later on, and the focus of his journal entries of late have focused on the topic of sex, how his thoughts have sort of drifted lately, thinking about things like what it would feel like, Brendon inside him, Brendon in his mouth, thinking about Brendon on his knees with full lips wrapped around his cock. There's more he wants, more that he wants to try, and he's grateful for the fresh new journal. It's helping him sort out his feelings on the matter.
One night Brendon falls asleep early, and Ryan crawls out of his bunk and back to his own, secures the curtains as best he can, and reaches for the bottle of lotion under his pillow. He considers for a moment, then arranges the pillow under his hips, lifts up enough to shimmy out of his pants. He squirts lotion over his fingers, slicks them up, probably more than is necessary, and takes a deep breath before reaching down between his legs, stroking around between his cheeks, hesitantly rubbing at just the outside. It feels nice, sort of, but nothing to get excited over, so he presses his forefinger inside.
Weird is the only thing that comes to mind, but it does feel better, interesting, and he works his finger in deeper, tilting his hips. He pulls out slowly before pushing back in, adding another tentatively. Which is better, even, and he lets out a shaky breath, spreading his fingers inside. The stretch of it is tantalizing, and the only thing he can think to do is push a third in, rushing a bit. He winces a bit at that, it hurts a little, so he gives himself a moment to adjust. He can't resist the feeling, though, full and fulfilled, even though it's a little painful he still likes it, wants more, so he doesn't wait any longer, starts working his fingers harder, stroking in and out. The rhythm of it is awkward at first, but it gets smoother as he finds his footing.
More confident now, Ryan angles his hand a little and has to bite back a gasp of pleasure, because that was pretty much entirely unexpected. He searches a bit, again, and practically bites off his own tongue as he finds that same spot, arching his back and whimpering as quietly as he can. The feeling of fullness hasn't abated at all and it's just good. So much better than he thought it could be, he didn't think he'd be getting off on this, but he's so hard it's practically painful so he palms his dick with his free hand, knowing that he's not going to last long at all, not like this, stretched full and fucking himself back onto his hand, up into his fist.
He barely gets in a few strokes before he's coming with a choked-out sob, trying to be as quiet as he can. Ryan lets his eyes slip shut, fumbling for an old t-shirt shoved up at the head of the bunk, wiping himself off. He pulls his fingers free, cleans them, and yanks his pants back up.
It's strange, being alone after an orgasm. That hasn't happened in a while, he and Brendon have been sleeping next to each other with regularity and Brendon's eager to get him off (and if he's honest, he's pretty eager to get Brendon off, too, he likes that he's good at it, he likes the way Brendon goes stupid and incoherent with appreciation whenever Ryan's hands tease beneath his thin t-shirts). Ryan shrugs and rolls to his feet smoothly, goes back to Brendon's bunk. When he slips under the blankets, Brendon shifts to make room and presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek. "You smell good," Brendon mumbles, probably barely aware of what he's saying.
"Thanks," Ryan whispers. Brendon smells pretty good too, he usually does. Soaking with sweat, even, after shows, but right now he smells soft and warm and clean, and that's comforting, it's soothing, accentuates the sense of being loose and open that Ryan's feeling right now.
"Wake me up next time, okay?" Brendon says sleepily.
"What?"
Brendon pulls him closer. "Wake me up next time, instead of jerking off by yourself. Or, do it here, whatever." He makes an odd sort of snarfle noise, and burrows his face into the crook of Ryan's neck. Ryan drifts off into a fluid sleep, contemplating.
--
He keeps it up, sliding fingers into himself when he showers in hotel rooms, relishing the stretch and tease of it, imagining Brendon pushing into his ass, fucking him. He watches Brendon play piano more intently now, imagining clever fingers working at his hole, maybe while Brendon's mouth is on him, sucking him off. When he's lying there in Brendon's bunk, thrusting up into the tight circle of Brendon's fist, he imagines himself on his hands and knees with Brendon perched behind him, sliding his cock in and feels vaguely dirty.
One night after a show Brendon's leaning against the wall of their hotel room, pulling Ryan in close and kissing him with one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, fingers of the other laced through Ryan's belt loop, rubbing his knuckles at Ryan's hip. Ryan pulls away, kisses him once more, and drops to his knees. He looks up at Brendon through his lashes, soft with residual makeup, "Can I?"
"Fuck, yes," Brendon says, wide-eyed. "Go for it, Jesus." Ryan's hands are shaking as he fumbles with Brendon's belt, and Brendon's nice enough to not say anything, for once he's patient. When Ryan finally gets his pants undone, he steels himself, takes a deep breath before wrapping his fingers around the base of Brendon's cock, leaning in and licking the head. Brendon swears but stays still, stroking Ryan's hair reassuringly.
Ryan takes the tip into his mouth and sucks experimentally. Brendon's heavy on his tongue, and he takes a moment to savour the weight of it before bobbing his head slowly, taking more. Brendon's fingers tighten in his hair, and he sucks a little harder. Brendon's hips buck, gagging him a little. Ryan chokes and jerks away.
"Sorry," Brendon gasps. "Just."
"It's okay," Ryan says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He thinks it's probably pretty fucking weird that he didn't mind that at all, but he leans in again and takes Brendon's cock back into his mouth, stroking in time with the movement of his head. Brendon moans but manages to stay still this time. Ryan goes down as far as he can before pulling off, pressing a kiss to the base, working his way back up, laving his tongue across the length.
"Ryan," Brendon grunts, "Fuck, fuck, you- shit, Jesus, Ryan, I-"
Ryan just sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks and sliding down further, taking Brendon deeper and reveling in it. He's surprised, a little, at how much he likes this, likes hearing the harsh hitches in Brendon's breathing, likes the dull growing ache in his jaw, likes the taste of Brendon's pre-come on his tongue, just likes this.
Brendon's fingers try to push him off and away, but Ryan bats them away, slides off so only the head is in his mouth and he sucks harder until Brendon cries out, something garbled and broken-sounding, coming in his mouth in quick hot bursts. "Ohh, shit, fuck," Brendon gasps, breathing hard and resting his head against the wall, eyes closed. "Jesus fuck." Ryan doesn't quite know what to do with his mouthful, it's a little gross - thick and salty, kind of bitter, but he swallows anyway, making a bit of a face. It's not that bad, but he can certainly see why the girls he's slept with weren't exactly thrilled with the idea. "So, um, if you want me to, like, return the favour, you're going to have to wait," Brendon tells him, smiling a little with eyes still closed.
"It's all right," Ryan says, pressing a kiss beneath his ear. Later he'll write in his journal that, like fingering himself, he hadn't expected to get off on it, not on sucking Brendon off, but after he stood up he felt weirdly close to release himself, body thrumming with unspent energy, feeling a strange mix of relief and pride and hesitation. All this fades into the background a few moments later when Brendon kisses him tentatively at first, tasting himself on Ryan, pushes him to the bed and grinds down against him, half-hard again already.
Ryan hitches his legs up around Brendon's hips, rubbing against him and he manages to hold out longer than Brendon before succumbing to the slick movement of their cocks together, sweat and pre-come easing their way as Brendon wraps his hand around the two of them, efficient and purposeful as he jerks them off. Brendon whines a little when he comes, spreads his come over Ryan's dick, kisses him with bruising force until Ryan lets out a harsh guttural moan and spills between their bodies pressed tightly together.
"I'll suck your dick another time, I swear," Brendon says with a breathlessly impish grin and Ryan shoves him away, laughing a little.
--
About a week later, Ryan's alone in their hotel room; Brendon's with Jon for now, doing - something. Drinking, probably; Ryan is trying to not let it get to him. Still, though, it's difficult to forget Brendon's heavy phase of getting absolutely wasted and puking, how useless he was. Ryan knows, intellectually, that it was a difficult time for Brendon, leaving home and having absolutely no rules for the first time in his life. He knows that the first rebellion is thrilling, addicting, knows that everything all at once was rather a lot for Brendon, and is grateful that after a few short weeks of reeling he found his balance and corrected his behaviour. He'll have a drink with Jon once in a while, now, but typically his proclamation that he doesn't drink holds true.
Ryan writes in his journal for a bit, but gives up on it. He wants - he's not sure what, not yet. Every time he pushes fingers into himself he breathes a little harder, wants moremoremoremore but isn't quite sure how to act, how to ask for it, isn't even sure what he'd be asking for. This is - it's so new, for both him and Brendon and he's not entirely certain that Brendon's not going to have some mad gay crisis and go running home for absolution any day now. He's reasonably sure that Brendon's okay with what they're doing, but there hasn't exactly been a lot of discussion.
(But then, they don't usually need words.)
He thinks of the vibrator, buried in his bag, still, and with a sudden decisiveness, he goes to his bag and retrieves lube and the vibrator, still in its plastic casing. He sits on the bed and takes it out, slowly, checks the back of the box before dashing down to the hotel's gift shop for AAA batteries. On a whim, he snags a water bottle and some Twizzlers for Brendon, paranoid that the cashier will see the batteries and know, somehow. He makes it back up to the room all right, though, no suspicious glances and even with his heart hammering he gets the keycard in the slot.
Ryan hesitates before ripping open the cardboard package, twisting off the cap at the base, slipping the batteries in. He bites his lip, then reconsiders. It's probably not a good idea, he reasons, to just lie back and - well.
So he heads into the bathroom and runs the shower, rationalizes it like this: Brendon is going to be out with Jon for a long time, probably, and even when he comes back, he is going to be too drunk to really bother with much of anything past a sloppy kiss or two, and Ryan's sort of gotten used to this sex kind of thing. Gotten greedy with touch and sweat and his back arching, muscles spasming. He can take his time, he can draw it out, and if what he wants is a shower, then he's going to take a fucking shower.
The shower is Ryan's favourite place to think, and he's always excited for hotel room nights for this very reason. He takes a long time, soaping himself, letting the spray rinse the lather from his skin before he wraps a towel around his hips and cleans the vibrator quickly, cheeks already flushed.
"Not weird," he maintains, digging in his bag until he finds the tube of KY he'd picked up at the last gas station stop, and lies back on the bed, spreading his legs. Not weird, he thinks, shifting his hips enough to slide a pillow underneath, not weird, he repeats, like a mantra. Ryan takes another deep breath, coats his fingers and lets his head drop back to the pillow, hair still dripping wet, beads of moisture trailing their way down his spine, wetting the sheets.
The first finger slides in easily; practice makes perfect, apparently. Ryan's impatient, he pushes a second in, twisting his wrist, letting himself enjoy it, biting his lip a little before he remembers that he's not tucked away in his bunk, he can make noise. He whimpers a little with the third finger, the stretch enthralling and all he can think about, really, is what's coming next, what he's going to do, drop his knees to the bed with legs still spread wide, pushing the vibrator inside, filling him up. Ryan wiggles his fingers inside a bit before drawing them out and coating the vibrator with more lube. It's a weird feeling, he decides, lubing up a fucking vibrator. A sparkly fucking vibrator, at that. "Fuck," he mutters, then laughs a little, shaky.
He lines it up at his asshole, feeling the blunt rounded head. His heartbeat quickens - Am I actually doing this? - he wonders wildly, but thinks of Brendon above him, weight pressing down, thinks of Brendon's cock, thinks of Brendon's fingers and pushes just a little, feeling it slide in, thicker than his fingers. He pushes it in nearly all the way, holding the base, letting out a soft sigh.
It's...full, is the only way he can think to describe the sensation. It's wide and heavy and filling him up, and he knows that Brendon's cock is thicker, can only imagine how good that's going to feel. Ryan bites his lip, pulls it out slowly, feeling the drag, moaning a little, quietly, before pushing it back in, letting his head drop all the way against the pillow; his eyes slipping shut.
He's whimpering softly, just a little, savouring the pressure and every time he manages to hit just the right spot a little shudder chases through his blood. It's strange, like this, on his own, feeling so fucking good and not needing to keep quiet about it. Ryan bites his lip hard and then just lets go, grinding down onto the vibrator and moaning. He's quiet at first, but he's getting louder, gradually, because this feels better than he thought it could, fucking himself with the vibrator. He hasn't even turned it on yet, because the feeling of being filled up and stretched is so delicious it hasn't occurred to him that there might be something else, something more, because he's pretty sure that this is it.
He keeps going like that for a while, just trying to stay in control, just pumping the vibrator out of his body smoothly, focusing on the sensation and not on the noises he's making when all of a sudden he feels something that makes him gasp and cry out, feeling the soft buzzing. Ryan's eyes snap open and he sees Brendon crouched between his legs, fingertips gently adjusting the base, tuning it like a radio and Ryan can't help but arch into it and cry out.
"Hi," Brendon says, and his voice is rough, sends shivers across the back of Ryan's neck. He manages to make some kind of garbled groan in response, and Brendon chuckles. "You should've just asked me, Ross," and his eyes are bright but not over-bright, and his breath is clean and he hasn't been drinking, and he ratchets up the vibrations right when he takes a firmer grip on the vibrator, twisting it inside, and Ryan practically screams when it rubs up against his prostate just right.
Brendon bats his hands away, then, and Ryan fists them in the sheets. Brendon rests one hand lightly at his hip, a contrast to the way he's fucking Ryan with the vibrator, now, pulling it out all the way to tease at his opening before shoving it back in almost viciously, grinding it up against his prostate, twirling at the base to vary the speed of vibration so at one moment it's low and quiet and the next it's practically thrumming inside him, making him choke back little gasps and squeaks. Brendon tugs the vibrator out slowly, keeping it on low so that it's almost a gentle mocking drone. There's a long pause, then, and Ryan tenses a bit, not sure what to expect but too enthralled by the suspense to open his eyes and ruin the surprise, and Brendon takes this moment to slam it back in harshly, vibration high and fast and hard, and Ryan practically screams, writhing and gasping.
"You make the sluttiest noises," Brendon tells him, and Ryan lets out a weak snort of laughter. Brendon sets the vibrator aside, and Ryan lets his head drop down to the pillow, thinking - is he done? fuck, Ryan hopes not - and then he feels something new and entirely different. Brendon's kissing between his cheeks, now, holding him open, pressing full lips to his pucker before licking once, and Ryan whimpers. Brendon blows gently, then leans in and presses his tongue in deep and Ryan's fingers scrabble at the bedsheets.
"Fuck," he gasps, and is almost astonished at the sound of his own voice, laced with gravel and need. Brendon twists his tongue, works it in deeper, keeps taking Ryan higher and higher. It's almost too much, now, and then Brendon fits his fingertips alongside his tongue, slips them in easily, works him open. He's licking around his fingertips and Ryan's going to lose it any second now, he's barely holding back his cries as it is, and Brendon pulls his mouth away but pushes his fingers in deeper, curls his free hand around Ryan's cock and sucks him halfway down in one go. Ryan moans, rolls his hips, and Brendon just goes with it, bobbing his head and sucking hard and fast, in time with his stroking fingers, pushes his tongue along the underside, working his hand over the length and the trio of sensations is enough to drive Ryan close to the edge, closer, closer still, and then Brendon dips his head down all the way, opening his throat and Ryan practically screams as he comes because his fingers are shoving at his prostate, right here, hard, thumb rubbing at his skin, and he tilts his head back as Ryan comes, keeps his mouth on him, and Ryan's practically thrumming when he finally pulls away.
Brendon curves his body around Ryan so that he can nuzzle at his throat with fingers still buried in his ass, twitching every now and again, reminding Ryan he's there, and Ryan's breathing starts to level out after a few minutes. Everything's sort of fuzzy around the edges, he feels sated and loose, Brendon's fingers still inside him, just sort of casually keeping him stretched, and Ryan looks over at Brendon, catches his eyes, and Brendon leans in and kisses him hard. Ryan opens his mouth for him, and feels something thick and viscous, feels Brendon's tongue pushing his own come into his mouth, making him taste himself. Brendon smirks up against him, "Swallow," he murmurs into Ryan's lips, and Ryan obeys immediately, feeling it slip down his throat easily, leaving a rough sort of feeling behind, acrid, almost, and he licks up into Brendon's mouth without instruction, lapping at the remainder.
He drops his head back to the pillow, exhausted and over-stimulated. Brendon wiggles closer, and Ryan can feel him hard, goes to slide down when Brendon pushes him to his back and straddles his waist in one swift move.
"You look pretty tired," he says softly. Ryan stays still, uncertain of the game right now, and Brendon takes his cock into his hand and starts jerking himself off quickly, and Ryan keeps placid, fixed in place, just watching as Brendon holds his gaze steadily until he tenses, tendons standing out in his neck and comes, hitting Ryan's chest and neck.
Brendon takes a moment then, breathing harsh and just admiring Ryan spread out beneath him. He smirks a little and reaches down, rubbing at his come decorating Ryan's skin, "You," he says smugly, "are such a little slut."
Ryan grunts and shifts, tipping Brendon off him. Brendon rolls easily to his feet and reaches out for Ryan, "What?" Ryan says, eyes already slipping shut.
"Shower," Brendon says cheerfully, and Ryan follows him.
--
It really should be weird, Ryan thinks absently that night while he's draped over Brendon, loose and sated, on the floor of the bus lounge. It should be weird that they were sort of co-workers and then sort of best friends, kind of, and now they're - something. Ryan wishes he had the words for it; he doesn't want to say "lovers" because that sounds stupid. Like something on the back of a tacky romance novel, for bored housewives. "Dating" is likewise wrong because they're not, really, they don't go on dates. They watch movies as a group, all tangled up together, the two of them, and sometimes they're tangled up in a big group and sometimes Brendon will practically be in Jon's lap, or whatever. The dynamic isn't fixed, not until they get to hotels and it's always BrendonandRyan and there's almost always sex, but he can't just define them as "fucking", because when there's not sex, there's sleeping together (even when there isn't sex) and Brendon always gets him little gifts when he goes off adventuring with Erik or Bart or whoever, dorky little things, and Ryan always makes sure there's Twizzlers and other various and sundry junk foods in his suitcase and on the bus for Brendon.
"Stop thinking so loud," Brendon says from beneath him, the rumbling in his chest buzzing nicely across Ryan's cheek.
"Sorry," Ryan mumbles, and Brendon huffs at him. Ryan bites at his collarbone and Brendon makes a strangled noise low in his throat. "I'm going to write," he tells Brendon, pulling away even when Brendon makes grabby hands at him.
"Cuddles, Ryan," Brendon says pitifully.
"Oh my God, you're six," Ryan grumbles, but stretches out close enough so that Brendon can wrap around him, can rest his head at the small of Ryan's back and trace fingertips over the bare skin of his ass, which really shouldn't be as distracting as it is.
"Well, you're a girl."
"...Right." Ryan keeps writing, scratching away at his journal. Brendon's right, he does write fast. A side effect of writing in his journal is that it's made writing lyrics a lot easier, because he's not so weighted down when he gets started. His head's clearer. It's almost like the journal's focusing him and he thinks briefly that it sort of makes sense - his favourite songs off Fever were those he wrote after Brendon came into the band, after he got over his initial shyness with contributing to the creative process.
"Seriously, a girl."
"Tell that to my dick. Which you just sucked," Ryan says, suppressing a shiver of pleasure as Brendon's middle finger plays lightly at his entrance, keeping his cheeks spread with his thumb and the heel of his hand.
"Specifics, specifics," Brendon murmurs, licking his finger, pressing it inside. Ryan bites his lip, pushes back against it - he's still a little wet from before, from Brendon fucking him. Brendon had come inside him, too quickly, and had apologized by way of contrite blowjob, slow and thorough while Ryan watched, enraptured. Brendon strokes at him, works another finger inside, and Ryan rocks back, taking his fingers deeper. Brendon bites at his ass, playfully, almost, and Ryan closes his journal, shoves it away.
"I'll never get anything done," he says with eyes lightly shut, breathing deep. This is good, fuck, he's never really gotten over how much he likes having his ass fingered, and Brendon's got such gorgeous hands, nimble, dextrous, and it just feels nice two of Brendon's fingers teasing at him.
"And yet," Brendon keeps working his fingers, pushing them deeper and drawing them out, scissoring them and rotating his wrist. Ryan pinches his tongue between his teeth and tries to not be so needful, grinding down against Brendon's hand, and Brendon just chuckles, speeding up a little.
"Fuck," Ryan gasps, "oh, Jesus, shit, ohh, Brendon, I-"
"Hm?" Third finger, fuck, now Ryan's hands are shaking because he just wants it so badly, wants whatever Brendon can give him (but right now he's especially focused on Brendon's fingers stretching him, the thought of Brendon's cock in his ass, longer this time), and Ryan rummages for another condom, trying his best to keep his hands steady. Ryan tries wriggling away and Brendon stills him with a hand on his hip, pressing him to the bed.
"Brendon, come on," Ryan says impatiently. "Get on with it."
"Get on with what, exactly," Brendon asks, faux innocence.
"Asshole," Ryan hisses.
"Still not clear on what you really want here, Ross," Brendon says, and Ryan can fucking hear his stupid smirk.
"Brendon," Ryan tries.
"You're going to have to ask," Brendon says, leaning in to bite at the back of Ryan's neck. Ryan shivers.
"Please," he whispers. "Please?"
"Please what?" Brendon asks softly. Ryan breathes out, harsh, ragged. Please, Ryan thinks, please just. Please fuck me again, don't make me ask for it, please.
"Thank you," Brendon breathes in his ear, and Ryan realizes that he was speaking aloud, flushes wildly, "I just wanted to hear you, Jesus, you just, stay still, okay?" Ryan nods and Brendon rips the condom open, rolls it over himself, slicks his cock up with a bit more lube and pushes into Ryan, fast and hard, rough like Ryan likes it.
Brendon works up a quick rhythm, fucking him into the mattress, thrusting hard and Ryan, he just lies there and lets Brendon fuck into him, feeling the stretch and the ache, he's getting sore but it's a good throb, heavy and hot and he didn't think that he'd be this close, this quickly. It's good, to be taken care of like this, to know that Brendon knows what he wants and what he needs and is, fuck, giving it to him, pounding away at him. But Ryan's hungry for it, he wants more, can take more, and makes a soft keening noise, pleading.
"Harder," Ryan gasps, back curving as Brendon pins his wrists to the bed, presses just a little too hard and the sparkles of pain that dance along his tendons and veins burn bright. Brendon obliges, pushing into him deeper, grinding down and Ryan moans, low, scratchy, clenches down around Brendon's cock, fuck, Brendon's cock in his ass, and Brendon just keeps fucking him, faster, sharp snapping pumps of his hips. He snakes a hand underneath Ryan's belly, hitches him up enough to wrap his fist around Ryan's cock, jerk him off as a perfect counterpoint to the rhythm in and out of Ryan's ass, and it's, Jesus, it's just too fucking much and Ryan shudders and comes with a strangled noise deep in his throat.
Brendon moves to slide away, and Ryan hooks his ankles around Brendon's calves, keeping him close, keeping him inside, "Fuck me through it," he begs, fighting his way through the haze of orgasm, and Brendon sucks in a harsh breath but does as requested, keeps going, swears loudly, leans harder into Ryan's wrists and pulls out harshly, ripping the condom off and jerking himself until he comes over Ryan's ass.
Ryan squirms a little, it feels kind of weird, this wet mess running across the curve of his ass, and then Brendon leans in and starts licking it up, and Ryan flinches. Brendon smiles against his skin, presses a tender kiss to the spit-slick flesh.
"You're such a freak," Ryan says, breathless, and Brendon lets out a soft laugh, and they somehow manage to drift off to sleep, just like that.
--
Ryan knows that Brendon got a replacement book for his journal, but he still hasn't caught him actually writing in it. It's not that he's really watching all that closely, he really isn't, but he's sort of mildly curious. Brendon's told him that the first journal was a gift from one of his brothers, but that doesn't change the fact that in the space of a few years, frenetic, hyperactive Brendon sat down long enough to fill up an entire journal. Without Ryan ever knowing. And so of course he's curious, he wonders if what he writes about is the same thing Brendon's written about.
It's hard to imagine Brendon propped up on his elbows, writing in his journal. The only time he really sits still is when there's music involved and it's sort of unsettling to think that Brendon may be filling up books full of lyrics, because. That's Ryan's job, and Brendon already does so much with the music - it's difficult, but Ryan's willing to admit to himself that he's kind of obscurely afraid of becoming. Superfluous. Unnecessary. He knows his stupid little inferiority complex is better left behind, but it's a little easier to tell himself this than it is to actually outgrow his insecurities.
Brendon's not usually particularly good at giving Ryan space when he's writing, but he doesn't go out of his way to interrupt the process, exactly. Ryan's slowly getting used to him hovering in the background, is almost sort of starting to appreciate the warmth of him curled around Ryan, he feel of his soft breath puffing out along Ryan's back. It's comforting, or is at least beginning to become so. Writing and Brendon have been mixed up in him for so long - it's becoming natural to let them share physical space.
One thing Ryan appreciates: Brendon never reads over his shoulder, like he's caught Spencer trying to do, and he never goes out of his way to let Ryan know that he isn't peeking, which Jon always does. Ryan almost wants to ask Brendon if he wants to read Ryan's journal, but is afraid of the answer - afraid that Brendon will want to and that it'll be. Embarrassing. Because he doesn't want to think about what it'd be like if he were the only one writing about...whatever they're doing. If it's more for him than it is for Brendon.
Most of the time, though, he knows he's just over-thinking things, and leaves them as is, lets Brendon take the lead.
--
They're stretched out on another anonymous hotel room bed, Ryan's on his hands and knees with three of Brendon's fingers in his ass, stretching him and he's moaning like a whore for it, because seriously? This is something he's never gotten over, the feeling of Brendon's fingers inside him, pushing back onto his hand, and Brendon knows just how Ryan likes it, how to tease and torture and prolong, spread his fingers inside Ryan so it's more intense, and Ryan's trying to stay as still as he can.
"More," he gasps, and Brendon kisses the small of his back, bites at his skin. "More, fuck, more, please," and Brendon bites harder, drags his fingers out slowly. When he presses back in, Ryan feels a fourth finger taunting him, wiggling in with agonizing laziness. "Do it," he urges, and Brendon complies, pausing when Ryan's breath stutters harshly.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Fine," he breathes, "come on, keep - I just. Don't stop."
"Sure," Brendon says and pushes his fingers in deeper, right up to the knuckles, and Ryan feels a dark thrill at the base of his spine, what if, and wriggles back. Brendon twists his hand a bit, and the first bulge of knuckles pushes against him.
"Brendon," he says, his voice raw. "I-I. I want."
"Yeah?" Brendon asks, stroking the back of his thigh. "Tell me."
"Brendon, come on," Ryan says, and Brendon twitches his fingers.
"I need - I don't. I'm not just being an ass," Brendon says throatily. "I don't know what you. I mean-"
"Fisting," Ryan says quickly, "I want. I want to try it, maybe?"
There's a long pause while Brendon tugs his hand free, and Ryan feels queasy, like maybe he - wanted too much? went too far? chose something too weird? - and he rolls over to his back to look at Brendon, who's biting his lip with his eyes closed.
"Yeah, okay," Brendon says suddenly. "I mean. Wow." Ryan looks at him, questioningly, and Brendon meets his gaze. "That's. A big deal. Like. A trust thing. So, um. I need you to, like. To tell me, you know, like, how this is supposed to go."
"I haven't ever -"
"Yeah, I figured," Brendon says, and he fumbles for the lube. "I think. I think we're going to need more." He gets up and heads to the other side of the room, where he's dumped his backpack and Ryan watches him rummage.
When he comes back and sits at the edge of the bed, Ryan takes the lube from him, kisses him lightly. "Thanks," he says, flushing a little.
Brendon cracks a wide grin and pushes him to his back, nudges at Ryan to raise his legs up. Ryan takes a deep breath and does so, watches Brendon slicking his fingers up again, pressing two at once to Ryan's entrance. "I should make you do this," Brendon remarks, scissoring his fingers. "I like watching you."
"Yeah?"
"Fuck, yeah," Brendon says, pushing a third in. Ryan sighs a little, rolling his hips downward, and Brendon smirks, bends down and kisses him, biting his bottom lip. Ryan squirms and Brendon chuckles, pushes a fourth in and grabs for the lube again. He pushes them in as far as he can, the knuckles pushing at Ryan's hole. He snatches the full tube of lubricant and squeezes a generous amount over his hand, nudging his thumb alongside his fingers. Ryan breathes heavily, feeling the stretch and burn of it, and whimpers a little at the harsh bulge of Brendon's knuckles.
"Almost there," Brendon whispers, and dribbles more lube onto his hand, twisting it in gently with his thumb folded along the line of his palm. "Fuck. You're doing so good, Ryan, Jesus, I wish you could see this, God, I just, I-"
Ryan cuts him off with a low groan, torn between pain and pleasure as the widest part of Brendon's knuckles press inside him, dropping his head back to the mattress and clenching his hands, because, ohh, the stretch, it burns and the bottom's dropped out of his stomach as he feels Brendon working his hand in deeper, folding his fingers into a fist inside Ryan and he moans harshly, low in his throat as Brendon grinds his knuckles against Ryan's prostate.
"Ohh, fuck, fuck, fuck," he whimpers, clutching blindly at Brendon.
"Are you-"
"Yes," Ryan gasps out, "ohh, fuck, if you stop, I just, I, ohh, God, fuck, you can't. This is. I, your hand, it's, move, Brendon, please."
"Okay," Brendon murmurs and pushes his fist in harder, rotating his wrist and twisting upwards. Ryan's back arches and he howls, bracing his feet against the bed.
This is - this is more than anything he could've ever thought of, it's. He's so fucking filled, overwhelmed and stretched further than should be physically possible, more than anyone should be able to take, but he's taking it and loving it, squirming on Brendon's fist, taking him deeper and harder, and Brendon's looking at him with wide eyes, pupils blown. And God, he can just imagine it, Brendon's hand inside him, stretching him wide and open, rubbing at his insides, and there's a harsh pull as Brendon draws his fist down, nudges it back upwards, and it's at this moment that Brendon wraps a hand around his cock, squeezes lightly and Ryan comes apart, falls apart, writhing and twisting, crying out - practically screaming - as he spills over his belly and Brendon's hand.
"Jesus," Brendon gasps. "Fuck. I'm gonna - get my hand out, I think. I think it's gonna. This might hurt."
And Ryan's just too loose and spent to say anything, he just nods and Brendon slowly, carefully, works his hand out gently. Ryan lets his legs drop, feels the throbbing pain between his legs, and Brendon climbs over him, straddles his chest, and Ryan's pretty sure what Brendon's going to do now, remembers this from before, Brendon stroking himself, remembers Brendon coming on him, and does his best to arch up into it, his muscles aching and sore.
Brendon thumbs at Ryan's chin, pulls his mouth open, "Ready?" he asks softly, and Ryan thinks, Ohh, that's what he wants, and opens his mouth wider as Brendon thrusts in, gently at first. He relaxes his throat, tries to suck around Brendon's cock, and Brendon shakes his head, "No," he grunts, "just, yeah, just like that, I, won't be long, fuck, you-", pushing himself in and out of Ryan's mouth, forcefully, and Ryan just lies there, practically mindless while Brendon fucks his face with brutal precision.
He reaches down and curves a hand around the swell of Ryan's skull, cradles his head and pulls back so only the tip is in Ryan's mouth, "Don't swallow," he groans, low and rough, and then he comes, thick and hot on Ryan's tongue.
Brendon slides down his body, presses their hips together, and Ryan winces at the ache of it as Brendon pushes him to the mattress, kissing him hard, and Ryan feels Brendon licking into his mouth, greedily swallowing his own come.
"Fuck," Brendon says, exhaustion and satisfaction evident in his voice. He rolls them over so Ryan's on top, keeping him close.
"Yeah," Ryan manages with his voice scratchy and raw. Brendon strokes up his back, kisses his forehead.
--
"Dude," Brendon says with a mouthful of Starburst. "Come over here, Ross, I need help folding these wrappers."
"What?" Ryan looks up from his journal to see Brendon sitting cross-legged on the floor of the green room with a neat pile of Starburst wrappers next to him.
"I found this thing," Brendon explains, "a how-to. Instructional, on how to make these bracelets, they're really cool looking."
"I see," Ryan says skeptically, but sits down next to him and follows Brendon's lead. The reporter lounging on the couch stops scratching furiously on his notepad.
"Candy jewelry big in the States, is it?" he asks with a smirk.
"Who the fuck knows?" Brendon says cheerfully. The reporter's eyes wander to Ryan's journal, left open on the couch. Brendon follows his gaze and stretches his arm out, slams the journal shut.
The reporter looks somewhat put out, and when he asks Ryan what he writes about in his journal, Ryan can't quite get out a coherent answer, stuttering a bit.
Brendon hands him an unwrapped Starburst - a pink one - and the reporter leans in. "Anything embarrassing? Private stuff?"
"No," Ryan says, finally, swallowing the cloyingly sweet mess, glancing over at Brendon. "We're pretty boring guys."
--
http://theaerosolkid.livejournal.com/91998.html
Author: Telis (theaerosolkid)
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Ryan
Summary: Ryan stops writing in online journals because he gets a real one.
Word Count: 10,136
Disclaimer: Fake, fake, fake.
A/N: Thanks to notshybutsly, jocondite, and castoffstarter for the terrific beta help.
For jzbell, happy graduation!
Ryan stops writing in online journals because he gets a real one.
It's a gift from Brendon, of course, like most things lately seem to be, and the thing is? It's a nice journal. It looks like it was fucking expensive, too, but money's not really a factor anymore, not for either of them. They're not about to go buy sports franchises, but they can certainly afford to buy nice almost-start-of-first-headlining-tour presents for each other.
The journal itself is loaded with thick cream-coloured pages, no texture at all, just smooth expanses of almost-white. It's actually a separate book in supple leather covering, like the paper dust jackets that hardcover books come with, only more beautiful. The leather case has a design of raised bumps and swirls and it's intricate and absolutely gorgeous. There's a silver knob at the front with a pair of interlocking Rs etched into it, and there's a leather lace attached to the back cover, which can be tightly wrapped around the knob, keeping the volume securely shut.
"Writers use journals, right?" Brendon had said when Ryan looked up at him quizzically. "What? It's not like the internet's the most reliable thing, anyway. This is more, like. What's the word? Portable. It'll fit in your carry-on, for, like, airports and stuff."
And he was right, Ryan gets tired of typing, his fingers get infinitely tired of following patterns that he can't properly look at (because Ryan needs to see what he's doing, he's always needed proof that his fingers are in the proper position on his guitar strings; Brendon's the one who can play the piano for hours without looking at his fingers, he accepts so much on blind faith) and sometimes it's just nice to see what he's doing.
It's a little more tangible, too, the idea that he'll need wite-out to even pretend that he can erase his thoughts and his feelings. The journal is becoming a kaleidoscopic tapestry of everything he's lived through in the last few years. He doesn't have a specific pen he uses; he'll just grab whatever he can find in a pinch and just go with it, and as a result there are blocks of solid black writing, and then variations of colour and thickness. A few entries even feature neon pink gel-pen because that's all Brendon could find in his knapsack.
Ryan presses down hard on the paper when he writes, likes the ache in his wrist afterwards, imagines it follows the spiky lines of his tattoo. He considers, every now and again, idly, teaching himself to write with his left hand. It's an idea that's flitted through his mind more than once, but he's still not sure that he wants to look through his journal and see a bunch of ugly, sloppy entries as he learns. Not that his writing is particularly graceful, anyway. He writes like a boy, he supposes, but at least it's legible and even though he has to squint and push his face up close to the page to read the gel-pen entries, he can still get through them.
He's not sure what to expect at first - more lyrics, maybe? But what comes from the journal is instead something a lot more personal than any lyrics he's ever written. Ryan's fairly certain that the story he's telling Brendon's pages is pretty unsuitable for Panic! At the Disco songs. It's a lot of observation, because it's been pointed out to him that he has a tendency to be self-absorbed and this is not necessarily the best quality, and not really one he feels like nurturing. There's a lot of philosophical rambling, but it's a good deal less pretentious than anyone might suspect. He still uses his heavy words, but that's just because he likes how they look. Dignified.
It takes a few months, but Ryan realizes that he's nearly filled up the first volume and that he's put more of himself into Brendon's pages than he's ever trusted anyone or anything else with. And though Brendon doesn't actually read the journal, Ryan's pretty sure that if he asked to, Ryan would let him. Sometimes, Ryan thinks that he wants Brendon to read the journal.
Sometimes, instead, he's just nervous about what he's written. A lot of it doesn't really make that much sense - there's a lot about his working relationship with Brendon, at turns frustrated and elated.
If Patrick and Pete are like Mozart, then we're like Beethoven, he writes one night. Mozart just blinked and produced music, he didn't re-write anything or whatever. Just picked up a pen quill and wrote. We don't do that. We have to fight the music to make it come out right. He can't really remember who articulated the difference between the two composers for him, but he remembers that his impression of Mozart is pretty firmly based on Amadeus, the only movie he and his father could ever really agree on. Brendon isn't much of a Mozart fan, but it's something he and Ryan don't really talk about, because Ryan doesn't know half as much about classical music as Brendon does and inevitably he'll dredge up something ridiculous and obscure to make his point. It irks Ryan, sometimes, that Brendon knows so much more about music than Ryan does. He supposes it comes from growing up in a family that kept a half-dozen guitars around the house, just because. He's been to Brendon's house. He's seen the baby grand in the living room and the fucking ridiculously huge CD rack with what looks like thousands of albums, all separated neatly by genre and then organized by artist. He knows that Brendon could read music before he could even recite his ABC's.
This is all beside the point, though, really. The point is: he's almost out of paper.
--
"Where did you get this, anyway?" Ryan asks Brendon, curled up at the kitchenette. They're back on tour already, and Ryan's almost relieved. He feels more at home when the ground beneath his feet is moving, strangely enough. He's also relieved that the second album is outperforming the first - critical and commercial response has been overwhelmingly positive, with the exception of certain outlets like Pitchfork. Ryan's finding he doesn't care, though, as far as he's concerned, Pitchfork Media can go fuck themselves. Brendon's staring blearily at a bowl of Cap'n Crunch, poking unenthusiastically.
"What?"
"My journal. I'm almost out of pages."
"Goddamn," Brendon yawns. "You write fast." He yawns again and pushes the bowl away, crawling under the table and surfacing to rummage through the cabinets for Pop-Tarts. "It took me, like, forever to fill my first one up."
Ryan's sort of. Stunned, actually. "First one?" he manages.
"Yeah," Brendon says, biting the foil package open. "I got it when I was sixteen, for my birthday. I didn't fill it up until a few weeks ago, actually. You can have my replacement book, if you want. It's the same size as yours, I haven't written in it yet."
"Thanks," Ryan mumbles, and Brendon flashes him a brilliant grin before attacking the pastry.
"No problem," he says brightly, wide awake now. "Fuck. We need some Pop-Tarts that aren't strawberry flavoured. This is just nasty."
"Sure," Ryan says distantly.
--
Brendon's true to his word and gives Ryan a replacement book, clean and unmarked the next time they're in a hotel room together.
Ryan starts writing right away, stretched out on his belly with his head at the foot of the bed and Brendon slides headphones in his ears, curling up against the headboard with a pillow, fingers resting lightly on the backs of Ryan's thighs, playing along with the music. Ryan has no idea what it is he's listening to and it's starting to bother him.
"What are you listening to?" he asks.
"Tchaikovsky, now shut the fuck up. I like this part," Brendon says, voice over-loud.
"You're listening to The Nutcracker?"
"Pathétique," Brendon answers, pinching him. "It's a symphony. He wrote more than Christmas ballets, you know."
"You would, anyway," Ryan mumbles, and he knows Brendon can't hear him. He goes back to writing, but he's lost his focus now, so he slams the journal shut (probably with more force than is strictly necessary, but he can taste inadequacy at the back of his throat now, and he's always had trouble dealing with that in particular).
"You okay?" Brendon asks, pulling the headphones from his ears and setting them aside.
"Yeah, sure, fine," Ryan mutters. Brendon rolls his eyes and climbs on top of Ryan.
"Come on," he sing-songs, and now he'll never shut up, Ryan knows, because now he's singing Peter Gabriel. "Taaaalk to me. Won't you please. Come taaaalk to me. Just liiiiike. It used to beee-eee-ee. Come on, come taaaalk to me."
"Shut up," Ryan tries anyway, and Brendon just giggles and launches into the second verse. Ryan grunts and manages to flip them over, wrestles his way to the top, straddling and pinning him to the mattress, and Brendon stops singing abruptly.
"Hi," he says cheerfully, and then he surges upward, pushing Ryan to his back and holding him there. "Hi, have you totally forgotten that I'm youngest? You should quiver before my wrestling skills, Ross."
"Should I really," Ryan says, keeping his tone dry, but his breath quickens, a little, pinned beneath Brendon like this with his legs pressed at awkward angles.
"You really, really should," Brendon says airily. He climbs off Ryan, then, about as graceful as a drunken elephant, and Ryan sits up slowly. "My skills, they are mad and are to be greatly feared. But, you know, I'm a really gracious person, so. I'm letting you go this time."
"Oh, thanks."
"Hey, don't mention it." Brendon glances at him and bites his lip. "I'm glad you're getting some use out of the journal."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "It was weird at first, hand-writing things."
"You type faster than you think," Brendon agrees. "Writing is slower."
Ryan shrugs. "I like it. So, you know. Thanks." Brendon nods, but there's something there. There's a gap between them that he wants to bridge, and Ryan wants to help, but he doesn't even know what it is Brendon's after. "So," he says again, just to fill the air.
--
They're the only two still awake, shut off by themselves in the back lounge, watching Moulin Rouge for the umpteenth time.
"We need more movies," Brendon says sleepily.
"Agreed," Ryan says with possibly a little too much emphasis. He's sitting on the couch with Brendon draped over his shoulders, nuzzling absentmindedly at his neck every now and again. The credits are rolling, now, and Ryan hits mute on the remote control, nearly recoils when silence covers them like a thick blanket. It's just on the edge of comfortable, slightly not, and Ryan is a little confused, again. There's something here that he's missing, a puzzle piece that's not lining up.
Brendon reaches up to trace along the smooth line of his jaw with gentle fingertips. "I'm glad you ditched the stubble." Ryan blinks.
"Yeah," he says, not sure what else there is to say. Brendon lets loose an explosive sigh, the scent of Skittles heavy on his breath as it washes over Ryan. He angles his head enough to look at Brendon properly and is a little surprised to see Brendon staring at him intently, eyes dark and serious.
"So," Brendon says, and Ryan knows that he's talking to make time move slower. Ryan's slipping - finally - into the strange head-space that he inhabits when they're working, when he and Brendon speak their own language, usually without even opening their mouths. They're forever drifting closer and farther apart, and it's high tide right now, with the tour and the album and a second video shoot coming up, and it's starting now, he's beginning to hear Brendon's thoughts and needs and wants in his head almost more clearly than he can hear his own, everything's lining up, and it's for this reason that he does not hesitate before dropping his chin, kissing Brendon softly. Brendon kisses him back, immediately, opening beneath him, flicking his tongue between Ryan's lips. Ryan shifts, falling to his back, tugging Brendon on top of him, keeping him warm.
Brendon pulls back, breathing hard, grinding down against Ryan, and Ryan arches up into him, bites his lower lip and tries to hold back his little whine, and Brendon just chuckles breathlessly before kissing him again, licking into his mouth and sucking on his tongue. Ryan lies back and lets himself be kissed, until Brendon pushes his weight into Ryan's wrists, making him gasp in wonder at the bright flare of pain. Brendon pushes a little harder and Ryan likes it a little more, maybe a little too much.
They lie like that for what must be hours, nothing more, and fall asleep with legs entangled and hearts beating in time.
--
Sharing hotel rooms should be strange but it isn't. Ryan curls up at the foot of the bed and writes about how surreal it all is. "Surreal" is his new favourite word. They're more than a one-hit wonder, they're getting recognition, and he might maybe possibly be falling for his singer. He gets a thrill, now, every night when Brendon sings his words. He always did, but now more than ever, he feels the great and terrible rush of it at the base of his spine, licking its way up his vertebrae.
They stumble offstage, sweaty and in disarray, and most nights Ryan ends up curled up with Brendon in his bunk, long languid kisses with bodies pressed together. Sometimes Brendon slides his hand up the back of Ryan's shirt, cups at his shoulder blades, and sometimes Ryan lets his fingers dip below the waistband of Brendon's jeans, stroking at the small of his back and moving lower, but they don't really do anything else, not yet.
It's fairly obvious what's going on, and even without a formal announcement it becomes common knowledge among the crew and everyone else. Nobody says anything, but it's not like it's because they're avoiding the issue out of shame. They just happen to be the right combination of people: they are quiet, and understand these things.
They are not, however, above the occasional practical joke, and that's where Ryan finds himself, sprawled out on their very first hotel room bed since the last one, snapping his journal shut as Brendon walks in.
"Hey," he says cheerfully, and flips a plastic box in Ryan's general direction. Ryan fumbles a little but manages to catch it. Brendon heads into the bathroom and starts running the water for a bath. Ryan just stares at the box: LUCID DREAMS! it proclaims in garish script. WATERPROOF AND NEARLY SILENT!
For some reason, Brendon has given him a vibrator.
He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and goes to the bathroom where Brendon is sitting in the tub, glaring at the faucet as though demonstrating impatience will make it fill faster. "Hey," he says again, grinning up at Ryan, who holds up the vibrator. Words have lost him because it's a vibrator. And it's bright purple and it might possibly be...sparkly. He squints. It is sparkly, what the fuck.
"Why did you buy me a vibrator?" he blurts out.
"I didn't," Brendon says neatly, poking the hot water knob with his toe, adjusting. "The crew did. They want us to know that they bless our union."
"...In those exact words?"
"Yep."
Ryan pauses, still a little shell-shocked, and sets the vibrator down on the bathroom counter, gingerly. "Well, then."
--
When Brendon's still sleeping the next morning Ryan goes into the bathroom and slips the vibrator into his bag, shoving it briskly to the bottom. You never know who's going to be cleaning up hotel rooms, and wouldn't that be a great thing to pop up in some interview down the line: So we hear you boys are fans of brightly coloured sex toys! Care to talk about that? Do you coordinate your makeup with your favourite toys? No thank you.
And it's not like he's keeping it to use it. He rambles on for a few paragraphs in his journal about the concept of vibrators and props during sex without noticing that Brendon's awake.
"Morning," Brendon mumbles sleepily with his eyes still half closed.
"You're up early. We don't have to go anywhere for another couple hours," Ryan says, not looking up.
"Mmfle," Brendon says, and rolls over to his back. "C'mere." Ryan shrugs but obeys, crawls over to him, tucking his head under Brendon's chin. Brendon reaches up and settles a warm hand at Ryan's hip, squeezes lightly before flipping them over, leaning his body weight into Ryan. Ryan manages to slide his leg between Brendon's, rolling his hips for friction. Brendon kisses him, gently at first but then harder, hungry and biting at his mouth. Ryan makes a pleased noise low in his throat as Brendon digs fingernails into his flesh, encouraging, and Brendon smirks, chuckles against him, grinds down against Ryan.
They stay like that, slow eager kisses, for a while, following their earlier patterns. Ryan can feel Brendon hard against him, knows Brendon can feel him too, and is struck with the sudden want to cross another line, push the boundaries a little and see where they end up, and he arches up into Brendon, trying to show him. He's not sure what he's doing, exactly - Brendon is the first and only boy he's ever even kissed, but he picks up the hint almost immediately, rolls off Ryan and tugs his pajamas down, curls a sure hand around Ryan's dick and starts stroking briskly.
"Okay?" he breathes, pressing wet little kisses against Ryan's throat. Ryan manages a sort of aimless moan, nodding, and Brendon grins, "Cool."
He's almost too good at this, twisting his wrist so fucking nicely, stroking the pad of his thumb over the head, teasing his fingertips up and down the length, tightening at the tip and loosening his grip at the base, and Ryan wonders if he's ever done this before. Brendon keeps kissing at his neck, nipping gently every now and again, flicking his tongue out, and it's almost like he's kissing with the same rhythm of his hand, and ohh, he is, and Ryan can't help the needful jerk of his hips upward into Brendon's hand. Brendon smiles against his skin and sucks and squeezes hard, and Ryan bites back a moan and comes. Brendon strokes him through it, smears the sticky splashes over Ryan's belly.
(Ryan sort of wants to be grossed out by this but really can't bring himself to bother with disgust, not with pleasant little tingly aftershocks still bouncing around his bones and Brendon's lips on him.)
"D'you want me to-" he asks, gesturing a little. Brendon bites.
"If you- if you would," he says, and, obligingly, Ryan sticks his hand down the front of Brendon's pants, taking a deep breath before squeezing the base and starting slowly.
"I just," he says, pausing. "I haven't ever. Not with."
"Me either," Brendon says tightly, eyes closed. Ryan's a little surprised at this, but doesn't dwell on it: Brendon, despite his goofy exterior is remarkably adept at picking up new things, especially ones that relate to Ryan.
"Okay," he says, biting his lip. "All right. Tell me if, like. I'm doing it wrong."
Brendon cracks one eye open. "Seriously? Just jerk me off, already." He thrusts his hips for emphasis, and Ryan snorts before getting to it, licking at the underside of Brendon's jaw, knowing he likes that, and Brendon lets out an appreciative moan as Ryan works up a quick rhythm, reasoning that Brendon had been moving at a pretty quick pace just a few minutes ago - he probably liked it fast. That would make sense, with Brendon, rushing to conclusions and happy endings. Brendon's hands are scrabbling at the sheets now, like he doesn't know what to do with them, and Ryan doesn't blame him. He can feel the tension in Brendon's body, knows it's not going to be much longer, tightens his fist around Brendon's cock, and kisses him hard. Brendon gasps into his mouth and sucks his upper lip before throwing his head back and groaning as he comes into Ryan's hand.
It's sticky and warm and a little weird, but Ryan just wipes his hand off on Brendon's thigh, squeezes reassuringly and keeps kissing him through the aftershocks.
"So, good morning," Brendon says, grinning, and Ryan sort of agrees.
--
The Vibrator, though. It's still hiding out in the bottom of his bag, and he and Brendon don't mention it to each other. He's fairly certain that Brendon knows he kept it, but for once he's exercising restraint and not bringing it up.
Ryan's thought about these things before, in passing during high school and then in greater detail later on, and the focus of his journal entries of late have focused on the topic of sex, how his thoughts have sort of drifted lately, thinking about things like what it would feel like, Brendon inside him, Brendon in his mouth, thinking about Brendon on his knees with full lips wrapped around his cock. There's more he wants, more that he wants to try, and he's grateful for the fresh new journal. It's helping him sort out his feelings on the matter.
One night Brendon falls asleep early, and Ryan crawls out of his bunk and back to his own, secures the curtains as best he can, and reaches for the bottle of lotion under his pillow. He considers for a moment, then arranges the pillow under his hips, lifts up enough to shimmy out of his pants. He squirts lotion over his fingers, slicks them up, probably more than is necessary, and takes a deep breath before reaching down between his legs, stroking around between his cheeks, hesitantly rubbing at just the outside. It feels nice, sort of, but nothing to get excited over, so he presses his forefinger inside.
Weird is the only thing that comes to mind, but it does feel better, interesting, and he works his finger in deeper, tilting his hips. He pulls out slowly before pushing back in, adding another tentatively. Which is better, even, and he lets out a shaky breath, spreading his fingers inside. The stretch of it is tantalizing, and the only thing he can think to do is push a third in, rushing a bit. He winces a bit at that, it hurts a little, so he gives himself a moment to adjust. He can't resist the feeling, though, full and fulfilled, even though it's a little painful he still likes it, wants more, so he doesn't wait any longer, starts working his fingers harder, stroking in and out. The rhythm of it is awkward at first, but it gets smoother as he finds his footing.
More confident now, Ryan angles his hand a little and has to bite back a gasp of pleasure, because that was pretty much entirely unexpected. He searches a bit, again, and practically bites off his own tongue as he finds that same spot, arching his back and whimpering as quietly as he can. The feeling of fullness hasn't abated at all and it's just good. So much better than he thought it could be, he didn't think he'd be getting off on this, but he's so hard it's practically painful so he palms his dick with his free hand, knowing that he's not going to last long at all, not like this, stretched full and fucking himself back onto his hand, up into his fist.
He barely gets in a few strokes before he's coming with a choked-out sob, trying to be as quiet as he can. Ryan lets his eyes slip shut, fumbling for an old t-shirt shoved up at the head of the bunk, wiping himself off. He pulls his fingers free, cleans them, and yanks his pants back up.
It's strange, being alone after an orgasm. That hasn't happened in a while, he and Brendon have been sleeping next to each other with regularity and Brendon's eager to get him off (and if he's honest, he's pretty eager to get Brendon off, too, he likes that he's good at it, he likes the way Brendon goes stupid and incoherent with appreciation whenever Ryan's hands tease beneath his thin t-shirts). Ryan shrugs and rolls to his feet smoothly, goes back to Brendon's bunk. When he slips under the blankets, Brendon shifts to make room and presses a sloppy kiss to his cheek. "You smell good," Brendon mumbles, probably barely aware of what he's saying.
"Thanks," Ryan whispers. Brendon smells pretty good too, he usually does. Soaking with sweat, even, after shows, but right now he smells soft and warm and clean, and that's comforting, it's soothing, accentuates the sense of being loose and open that Ryan's feeling right now.
"Wake me up next time, okay?" Brendon says sleepily.
"What?"
Brendon pulls him closer. "Wake me up next time, instead of jerking off by yourself. Or, do it here, whatever." He makes an odd sort of snarfle noise, and burrows his face into the crook of Ryan's neck. Ryan drifts off into a fluid sleep, contemplating.
--
He keeps it up, sliding fingers into himself when he showers in hotel rooms, relishing the stretch and tease of it, imagining Brendon pushing into his ass, fucking him. He watches Brendon play piano more intently now, imagining clever fingers working at his hole, maybe while Brendon's mouth is on him, sucking him off. When he's lying there in Brendon's bunk, thrusting up into the tight circle of Brendon's fist, he imagines himself on his hands and knees with Brendon perched behind him, sliding his cock in and feels vaguely dirty.
One night after a show Brendon's leaning against the wall of their hotel room, pulling Ryan in close and kissing him with one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, fingers of the other laced through Ryan's belt loop, rubbing his knuckles at Ryan's hip. Ryan pulls away, kisses him once more, and drops to his knees. He looks up at Brendon through his lashes, soft with residual makeup, "Can I?"
"Fuck, yes," Brendon says, wide-eyed. "Go for it, Jesus." Ryan's hands are shaking as he fumbles with Brendon's belt, and Brendon's nice enough to not say anything, for once he's patient. When Ryan finally gets his pants undone, he steels himself, takes a deep breath before wrapping his fingers around the base of Brendon's cock, leaning in and licking the head. Brendon swears but stays still, stroking Ryan's hair reassuringly.
Ryan takes the tip into his mouth and sucks experimentally. Brendon's heavy on his tongue, and he takes a moment to savour the weight of it before bobbing his head slowly, taking more. Brendon's fingers tighten in his hair, and he sucks a little harder. Brendon's hips buck, gagging him a little. Ryan chokes and jerks away.
"Sorry," Brendon gasps. "Just."
"It's okay," Ryan says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He thinks it's probably pretty fucking weird that he didn't mind that at all, but he leans in again and takes Brendon's cock back into his mouth, stroking in time with the movement of his head. Brendon moans but manages to stay still this time. Ryan goes down as far as he can before pulling off, pressing a kiss to the base, working his way back up, laving his tongue across the length.
"Ryan," Brendon grunts, "Fuck, fuck, you- shit, Jesus, Ryan, I-"
Ryan just sucks harder, hollowing his cheeks and sliding down further, taking Brendon deeper and reveling in it. He's surprised, a little, at how much he likes this, likes hearing the harsh hitches in Brendon's breathing, likes the dull growing ache in his jaw, likes the taste of Brendon's pre-come on his tongue, just likes this.
Brendon's fingers try to push him off and away, but Ryan bats them away, slides off so only the head is in his mouth and he sucks harder until Brendon cries out, something garbled and broken-sounding, coming in his mouth in quick hot bursts. "Ohh, shit, fuck," Brendon gasps, breathing hard and resting his head against the wall, eyes closed. "Jesus fuck." Ryan doesn't quite know what to do with his mouthful, it's a little gross - thick and salty, kind of bitter, but he swallows anyway, making a bit of a face. It's not that bad, but he can certainly see why the girls he's slept with weren't exactly thrilled with the idea. "So, um, if you want me to, like, return the favour, you're going to have to wait," Brendon tells him, smiling a little with eyes still closed.
"It's all right," Ryan says, pressing a kiss beneath his ear. Later he'll write in his journal that, like fingering himself, he hadn't expected to get off on it, not on sucking Brendon off, but after he stood up he felt weirdly close to release himself, body thrumming with unspent energy, feeling a strange mix of relief and pride and hesitation. All this fades into the background a few moments later when Brendon kisses him tentatively at first, tasting himself on Ryan, pushes him to the bed and grinds down against him, half-hard again already.
Ryan hitches his legs up around Brendon's hips, rubbing against him and he manages to hold out longer than Brendon before succumbing to the slick movement of their cocks together, sweat and pre-come easing their way as Brendon wraps his hand around the two of them, efficient and purposeful as he jerks them off. Brendon whines a little when he comes, spreads his come over Ryan's dick, kisses him with bruising force until Ryan lets out a harsh guttural moan and spills between their bodies pressed tightly together.
"I'll suck your dick another time, I swear," Brendon says with a breathlessly impish grin and Ryan shoves him away, laughing a little.
--
About a week later, Ryan's alone in their hotel room; Brendon's with Jon for now, doing - something. Drinking, probably; Ryan is trying to not let it get to him. Still, though, it's difficult to forget Brendon's heavy phase of getting absolutely wasted and puking, how useless he was. Ryan knows, intellectually, that it was a difficult time for Brendon, leaving home and having absolutely no rules for the first time in his life. He knows that the first rebellion is thrilling, addicting, knows that everything all at once was rather a lot for Brendon, and is grateful that after a few short weeks of reeling he found his balance and corrected his behaviour. He'll have a drink with Jon once in a while, now, but typically his proclamation that he doesn't drink holds true.
Ryan writes in his journal for a bit, but gives up on it. He wants - he's not sure what, not yet. Every time he pushes fingers into himself he breathes a little harder, wants moremoremoremore but isn't quite sure how to act, how to ask for it, isn't even sure what he'd be asking for. This is - it's so new, for both him and Brendon and he's not entirely certain that Brendon's not going to have some mad gay crisis and go running home for absolution any day now. He's reasonably sure that Brendon's okay with what they're doing, but there hasn't exactly been a lot of discussion.
(But then, they don't usually need words.)
He thinks of the vibrator, buried in his bag, still, and with a sudden decisiveness, he goes to his bag and retrieves lube and the vibrator, still in its plastic casing. He sits on the bed and takes it out, slowly, checks the back of the box before dashing down to the hotel's gift shop for AAA batteries. On a whim, he snags a water bottle and some Twizzlers for Brendon, paranoid that the cashier will see the batteries and know, somehow. He makes it back up to the room all right, though, no suspicious glances and even with his heart hammering he gets the keycard in the slot.
Ryan hesitates before ripping open the cardboard package, twisting off the cap at the base, slipping the batteries in. He bites his lip, then reconsiders. It's probably not a good idea, he reasons, to just lie back and - well.
So he heads into the bathroom and runs the shower, rationalizes it like this: Brendon is going to be out with Jon for a long time, probably, and even when he comes back, he is going to be too drunk to really bother with much of anything past a sloppy kiss or two, and Ryan's sort of gotten used to this sex kind of thing. Gotten greedy with touch and sweat and his back arching, muscles spasming. He can take his time, he can draw it out, and if what he wants is a shower, then he's going to take a fucking shower.
The shower is Ryan's favourite place to think, and he's always excited for hotel room nights for this very reason. He takes a long time, soaping himself, letting the spray rinse the lather from his skin before he wraps a towel around his hips and cleans the vibrator quickly, cheeks already flushed.
"Not weird," he maintains, digging in his bag until he finds the tube of KY he'd picked up at the last gas station stop, and lies back on the bed, spreading his legs. Not weird, he thinks, shifting his hips enough to slide a pillow underneath, not weird, he repeats, like a mantra. Ryan takes another deep breath, coats his fingers and lets his head drop back to the pillow, hair still dripping wet, beads of moisture trailing their way down his spine, wetting the sheets.
The first finger slides in easily; practice makes perfect, apparently. Ryan's impatient, he pushes a second in, twisting his wrist, letting himself enjoy it, biting his lip a little before he remembers that he's not tucked away in his bunk, he can make noise. He whimpers a little with the third finger, the stretch enthralling and all he can think about, really, is what's coming next, what he's going to do, drop his knees to the bed with legs still spread wide, pushing the vibrator inside, filling him up. Ryan wiggles his fingers inside a bit before drawing them out and coating the vibrator with more lube. It's a weird feeling, he decides, lubing up a fucking vibrator. A sparkly fucking vibrator, at that. "Fuck," he mutters, then laughs a little, shaky.
He lines it up at his asshole, feeling the blunt rounded head. His heartbeat quickens - Am I actually doing this? - he wonders wildly, but thinks of Brendon above him, weight pressing down, thinks of Brendon's cock, thinks of Brendon's fingers and pushes just a little, feeling it slide in, thicker than his fingers. He pushes it in nearly all the way, holding the base, letting out a soft sigh.
It's...full, is the only way he can think to describe the sensation. It's wide and heavy and filling him up, and he knows that Brendon's cock is thicker, can only imagine how good that's going to feel. Ryan bites his lip, pulls it out slowly, feeling the drag, moaning a little, quietly, before pushing it back in, letting his head drop all the way against the pillow; his eyes slipping shut.
He's whimpering softly, just a little, savouring the pressure and every time he manages to hit just the right spot a little shudder chases through his blood. It's strange, like this, on his own, feeling so fucking good and not needing to keep quiet about it. Ryan bites his lip hard and then just lets go, grinding down onto the vibrator and moaning. He's quiet at first, but he's getting louder, gradually, because this feels better than he thought it could, fucking himself with the vibrator. He hasn't even turned it on yet, because the feeling of being filled up and stretched is so delicious it hasn't occurred to him that there might be something else, something more, because he's pretty sure that this is it.
He keeps going like that for a while, just trying to stay in control, just pumping the vibrator out of his body smoothly, focusing on the sensation and not on the noises he's making when all of a sudden he feels something that makes him gasp and cry out, feeling the soft buzzing. Ryan's eyes snap open and he sees Brendon crouched between his legs, fingertips gently adjusting the base, tuning it like a radio and Ryan can't help but arch into it and cry out.
"Hi," Brendon says, and his voice is rough, sends shivers across the back of Ryan's neck. He manages to make some kind of garbled groan in response, and Brendon chuckles. "You should've just asked me, Ross," and his eyes are bright but not over-bright, and his breath is clean and he hasn't been drinking, and he ratchets up the vibrations right when he takes a firmer grip on the vibrator, twisting it inside, and Ryan practically screams when it rubs up against his prostate just right.
Brendon bats his hands away, then, and Ryan fists them in the sheets. Brendon rests one hand lightly at his hip, a contrast to the way he's fucking Ryan with the vibrator, now, pulling it out all the way to tease at his opening before shoving it back in almost viciously, grinding it up against his prostate, twirling at the base to vary the speed of vibration so at one moment it's low and quiet and the next it's practically thrumming inside him, making him choke back little gasps and squeaks. Brendon tugs the vibrator out slowly, keeping it on low so that it's almost a gentle mocking drone. There's a long pause, then, and Ryan tenses a bit, not sure what to expect but too enthralled by the suspense to open his eyes and ruin the surprise, and Brendon takes this moment to slam it back in harshly, vibration high and fast and hard, and Ryan practically screams, writhing and gasping.
"You make the sluttiest noises," Brendon tells him, and Ryan lets out a weak snort of laughter. Brendon sets the vibrator aside, and Ryan lets his head drop down to the pillow, thinking - is he done? fuck, Ryan hopes not - and then he feels something new and entirely different. Brendon's kissing between his cheeks, now, holding him open, pressing full lips to his pucker before licking once, and Ryan whimpers. Brendon blows gently, then leans in and presses his tongue in deep and Ryan's fingers scrabble at the bedsheets.
"Fuck," he gasps, and is almost astonished at the sound of his own voice, laced with gravel and need. Brendon twists his tongue, works it in deeper, keeps taking Ryan higher and higher. It's almost too much, now, and then Brendon fits his fingertips alongside his tongue, slips them in easily, works him open. He's licking around his fingertips and Ryan's going to lose it any second now, he's barely holding back his cries as it is, and Brendon pulls his mouth away but pushes his fingers in deeper, curls his free hand around Ryan's cock and sucks him halfway down in one go. Ryan moans, rolls his hips, and Brendon just goes with it, bobbing his head and sucking hard and fast, in time with his stroking fingers, pushes his tongue along the underside, working his hand over the length and the trio of sensations is enough to drive Ryan close to the edge, closer, closer still, and then Brendon dips his head down all the way, opening his throat and Ryan practically screams as he comes because his fingers are shoving at his prostate, right here, hard, thumb rubbing at his skin, and he tilts his head back as Ryan comes, keeps his mouth on him, and Ryan's practically thrumming when he finally pulls away.
Brendon curves his body around Ryan so that he can nuzzle at his throat with fingers still buried in his ass, twitching every now and again, reminding Ryan he's there, and Ryan's breathing starts to level out after a few minutes. Everything's sort of fuzzy around the edges, he feels sated and loose, Brendon's fingers still inside him, just sort of casually keeping him stretched, and Ryan looks over at Brendon, catches his eyes, and Brendon leans in and kisses him hard. Ryan opens his mouth for him, and feels something thick and viscous, feels Brendon's tongue pushing his own come into his mouth, making him taste himself. Brendon smirks up against him, "Swallow," he murmurs into Ryan's lips, and Ryan obeys immediately, feeling it slip down his throat easily, leaving a rough sort of feeling behind, acrid, almost, and he licks up into Brendon's mouth without instruction, lapping at the remainder.
He drops his head back to the pillow, exhausted and over-stimulated. Brendon wiggles closer, and Ryan can feel him hard, goes to slide down when Brendon pushes him to his back and straddles his waist in one swift move.
"You look pretty tired," he says softly. Ryan stays still, uncertain of the game right now, and Brendon takes his cock into his hand and starts jerking himself off quickly, and Ryan keeps placid, fixed in place, just watching as Brendon holds his gaze steadily until he tenses, tendons standing out in his neck and comes, hitting Ryan's chest and neck.
Brendon takes a moment then, breathing harsh and just admiring Ryan spread out beneath him. He smirks a little and reaches down, rubbing at his come decorating Ryan's skin, "You," he says smugly, "are such a little slut."
Ryan grunts and shifts, tipping Brendon off him. Brendon rolls easily to his feet and reaches out for Ryan, "What?" Ryan says, eyes already slipping shut.
"Shower," Brendon says cheerfully, and Ryan follows him.
--
It really should be weird, Ryan thinks absently that night while he's draped over Brendon, loose and sated, on the floor of the bus lounge. It should be weird that they were sort of co-workers and then sort of best friends, kind of, and now they're - something. Ryan wishes he had the words for it; he doesn't want to say "lovers" because that sounds stupid. Like something on the back of a tacky romance novel, for bored housewives. "Dating" is likewise wrong because they're not, really, they don't go on dates. They watch movies as a group, all tangled up together, the two of them, and sometimes they're tangled up in a big group and sometimes Brendon will practically be in Jon's lap, or whatever. The dynamic isn't fixed, not until they get to hotels and it's always BrendonandRyan and there's almost always sex, but he can't just define them as "fucking", because when there's not sex, there's sleeping together (even when there isn't sex) and Brendon always gets him little gifts when he goes off adventuring with Erik or Bart or whoever, dorky little things, and Ryan always makes sure there's Twizzlers and other various and sundry junk foods in his suitcase and on the bus for Brendon.
"Stop thinking so loud," Brendon says from beneath him, the rumbling in his chest buzzing nicely across Ryan's cheek.
"Sorry," Ryan mumbles, and Brendon huffs at him. Ryan bites at his collarbone and Brendon makes a strangled noise low in his throat. "I'm going to write," he tells Brendon, pulling away even when Brendon makes grabby hands at him.
"Cuddles, Ryan," Brendon says pitifully.
"Oh my God, you're six," Ryan grumbles, but stretches out close enough so that Brendon can wrap around him, can rest his head at the small of Ryan's back and trace fingertips over the bare skin of his ass, which really shouldn't be as distracting as it is.
"Well, you're a girl."
"...Right." Ryan keeps writing, scratching away at his journal. Brendon's right, he does write fast. A side effect of writing in his journal is that it's made writing lyrics a lot easier, because he's not so weighted down when he gets started. His head's clearer. It's almost like the journal's focusing him and he thinks briefly that it sort of makes sense - his favourite songs off Fever were those he wrote after Brendon came into the band, after he got over his initial shyness with contributing to the creative process.
"Seriously, a girl."
"Tell that to my dick. Which you just sucked," Ryan says, suppressing a shiver of pleasure as Brendon's middle finger plays lightly at his entrance, keeping his cheeks spread with his thumb and the heel of his hand.
"Specifics, specifics," Brendon murmurs, licking his finger, pressing it inside. Ryan bites his lip, pushes back against it - he's still a little wet from before, from Brendon fucking him. Brendon had come inside him, too quickly, and had apologized by way of contrite blowjob, slow and thorough while Ryan watched, enraptured. Brendon strokes at him, works another finger inside, and Ryan rocks back, taking his fingers deeper. Brendon bites at his ass, playfully, almost, and Ryan closes his journal, shoves it away.
"I'll never get anything done," he says with eyes lightly shut, breathing deep. This is good, fuck, he's never really gotten over how much he likes having his ass fingered, and Brendon's got such gorgeous hands, nimble, dextrous, and it just feels nice two of Brendon's fingers teasing at him.
"And yet," Brendon keeps working his fingers, pushing them deeper and drawing them out, scissoring them and rotating his wrist. Ryan pinches his tongue between his teeth and tries to not be so needful, grinding down against Brendon's hand, and Brendon just chuckles, speeding up a little.
"Fuck," Ryan gasps, "oh, Jesus, shit, ohh, Brendon, I-"
"Hm?" Third finger, fuck, now Ryan's hands are shaking because he just wants it so badly, wants whatever Brendon can give him (but right now he's especially focused on Brendon's fingers stretching him, the thought of Brendon's cock in his ass, longer this time), and Ryan rummages for another condom, trying his best to keep his hands steady. Ryan tries wriggling away and Brendon stills him with a hand on his hip, pressing him to the bed.
"Brendon, come on," Ryan says impatiently. "Get on with it."
"Get on with what, exactly," Brendon asks, faux innocence.
"Asshole," Ryan hisses.
"Still not clear on what you really want here, Ross," Brendon says, and Ryan can fucking hear his stupid smirk.
"Brendon," Ryan tries.
"You're going to have to ask," Brendon says, leaning in to bite at the back of Ryan's neck. Ryan shivers.
"Please," he whispers. "Please?"
"Please what?" Brendon asks softly. Ryan breathes out, harsh, ragged. Please, Ryan thinks, please just. Please fuck me again, don't make me ask for it, please.
"Thank you," Brendon breathes in his ear, and Ryan realizes that he was speaking aloud, flushes wildly, "I just wanted to hear you, Jesus, you just, stay still, okay?" Ryan nods and Brendon rips the condom open, rolls it over himself, slicks his cock up with a bit more lube and pushes into Ryan, fast and hard, rough like Ryan likes it.
Brendon works up a quick rhythm, fucking him into the mattress, thrusting hard and Ryan, he just lies there and lets Brendon fuck into him, feeling the stretch and the ache, he's getting sore but it's a good throb, heavy and hot and he didn't think that he'd be this close, this quickly. It's good, to be taken care of like this, to know that Brendon knows what he wants and what he needs and is, fuck, giving it to him, pounding away at him. But Ryan's hungry for it, he wants more, can take more, and makes a soft keening noise, pleading.
"Harder," Ryan gasps, back curving as Brendon pins his wrists to the bed, presses just a little too hard and the sparkles of pain that dance along his tendons and veins burn bright. Brendon obliges, pushing into him deeper, grinding down and Ryan moans, low, scratchy, clenches down around Brendon's cock, fuck, Brendon's cock in his ass, and Brendon just keeps fucking him, faster, sharp snapping pumps of his hips. He snakes a hand underneath Ryan's belly, hitches him up enough to wrap his fist around Ryan's cock, jerk him off as a perfect counterpoint to the rhythm in and out of Ryan's ass, and it's, Jesus, it's just too fucking much and Ryan shudders and comes with a strangled noise deep in his throat.
Brendon moves to slide away, and Ryan hooks his ankles around Brendon's calves, keeping him close, keeping him inside, "Fuck me through it," he begs, fighting his way through the haze of orgasm, and Brendon sucks in a harsh breath but does as requested, keeps going, swears loudly, leans harder into Ryan's wrists and pulls out harshly, ripping the condom off and jerking himself until he comes over Ryan's ass.
Ryan squirms a little, it feels kind of weird, this wet mess running across the curve of his ass, and then Brendon leans in and starts licking it up, and Ryan flinches. Brendon smiles against his skin, presses a tender kiss to the spit-slick flesh.
"You're such a freak," Ryan says, breathless, and Brendon lets out a soft laugh, and they somehow manage to drift off to sleep, just like that.
--
Ryan knows that Brendon got a replacement book for his journal, but he still hasn't caught him actually writing in it. It's not that he's really watching all that closely, he really isn't, but he's sort of mildly curious. Brendon's told him that the first journal was a gift from one of his brothers, but that doesn't change the fact that in the space of a few years, frenetic, hyperactive Brendon sat down long enough to fill up an entire journal. Without Ryan ever knowing. And so of course he's curious, he wonders if what he writes about is the same thing Brendon's written about.
It's hard to imagine Brendon propped up on his elbows, writing in his journal. The only time he really sits still is when there's music involved and it's sort of unsettling to think that Brendon may be filling up books full of lyrics, because. That's Ryan's job, and Brendon already does so much with the music - it's difficult, but Ryan's willing to admit to himself that he's kind of obscurely afraid of becoming. Superfluous. Unnecessary. He knows his stupid little inferiority complex is better left behind, but it's a little easier to tell himself this than it is to actually outgrow his insecurities.
Brendon's not usually particularly good at giving Ryan space when he's writing, but he doesn't go out of his way to interrupt the process, exactly. Ryan's slowly getting used to him hovering in the background, is almost sort of starting to appreciate the warmth of him curled around Ryan, he feel of his soft breath puffing out along Ryan's back. It's comforting, or is at least beginning to become so. Writing and Brendon have been mixed up in him for so long - it's becoming natural to let them share physical space.
One thing Ryan appreciates: Brendon never reads over his shoulder, like he's caught Spencer trying to do, and he never goes out of his way to let Ryan know that he isn't peeking, which Jon always does. Ryan almost wants to ask Brendon if he wants to read Ryan's journal, but is afraid of the answer - afraid that Brendon will want to and that it'll be. Embarrassing. Because he doesn't want to think about what it'd be like if he were the only one writing about...whatever they're doing. If it's more for him than it is for Brendon.
Most of the time, though, he knows he's just over-thinking things, and leaves them as is, lets Brendon take the lead.
--
They're stretched out on another anonymous hotel room bed, Ryan's on his hands and knees with three of Brendon's fingers in his ass, stretching him and he's moaning like a whore for it, because seriously? This is something he's never gotten over, the feeling of Brendon's fingers inside him, pushing back onto his hand, and Brendon knows just how Ryan likes it, how to tease and torture and prolong, spread his fingers inside Ryan so it's more intense, and Ryan's trying to stay as still as he can.
"More," he gasps, and Brendon kisses the small of his back, bites at his skin. "More, fuck, more, please," and Brendon bites harder, drags his fingers out slowly. When he presses back in, Ryan feels a fourth finger taunting him, wiggling in with agonizing laziness. "Do it," he urges, and Brendon complies, pausing when Ryan's breath stutters harshly.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Fine," he breathes, "come on, keep - I just. Don't stop."
"Sure," Brendon says and pushes his fingers in deeper, right up to the knuckles, and Ryan feels a dark thrill at the base of his spine, what if, and wriggles back. Brendon twists his hand a bit, and the first bulge of knuckles pushes against him.
"Brendon," he says, his voice raw. "I-I. I want."
"Yeah?" Brendon asks, stroking the back of his thigh. "Tell me."
"Brendon, come on," Ryan says, and Brendon twitches his fingers.
"I need - I don't. I'm not just being an ass," Brendon says throatily. "I don't know what you. I mean-"
"Fisting," Ryan says quickly, "I want. I want to try it, maybe?"
There's a long pause while Brendon tugs his hand free, and Ryan feels queasy, like maybe he - wanted too much? went too far? chose something too weird? - and he rolls over to his back to look at Brendon, who's biting his lip with his eyes closed.
"Yeah, okay," Brendon says suddenly. "I mean. Wow." Ryan looks at him, questioningly, and Brendon meets his gaze. "That's. A big deal. Like. A trust thing. So, um. I need you to, like. To tell me, you know, like, how this is supposed to go."
"I haven't ever -"
"Yeah, I figured," Brendon says, and he fumbles for the lube. "I think. I think we're going to need more." He gets up and heads to the other side of the room, where he's dumped his backpack and Ryan watches him rummage.
When he comes back and sits at the edge of the bed, Ryan takes the lube from him, kisses him lightly. "Thanks," he says, flushing a little.
Brendon cracks a wide grin and pushes him to his back, nudges at Ryan to raise his legs up. Ryan takes a deep breath and does so, watches Brendon slicking his fingers up again, pressing two at once to Ryan's entrance. "I should make you do this," Brendon remarks, scissoring his fingers. "I like watching you."
"Yeah?"
"Fuck, yeah," Brendon says, pushing a third in. Ryan sighs a little, rolling his hips downward, and Brendon smirks, bends down and kisses him, biting his bottom lip. Ryan squirms and Brendon chuckles, pushes a fourth in and grabs for the lube again. He pushes them in as far as he can, the knuckles pushing at Ryan's hole. He snatches the full tube of lubricant and squeezes a generous amount over his hand, nudging his thumb alongside his fingers. Ryan breathes heavily, feeling the stretch and burn of it, and whimpers a little at the harsh bulge of Brendon's knuckles.
"Almost there," Brendon whispers, and dribbles more lube onto his hand, twisting it in gently with his thumb folded along the line of his palm. "Fuck. You're doing so good, Ryan, Jesus, I wish you could see this, God, I just, I-"
Ryan cuts him off with a low groan, torn between pain and pleasure as the widest part of Brendon's knuckles press inside him, dropping his head back to the mattress and clenching his hands, because, ohh, the stretch, it burns and the bottom's dropped out of his stomach as he feels Brendon working his hand in deeper, folding his fingers into a fist inside Ryan and he moans harshly, low in his throat as Brendon grinds his knuckles against Ryan's prostate.
"Ohh, fuck, fuck, fuck," he whimpers, clutching blindly at Brendon.
"Are you-"
"Yes," Ryan gasps out, "ohh, fuck, if you stop, I just, I, ohh, God, fuck, you can't. This is. I, your hand, it's, move, Brendon, please."
"Okay," Brendon murmurs and pushes his fist in harder, rotating his wrist and twisting upwards. Ryan's back arches and he howls, bracing his feet against the bed.
This is - this is more than anything he could've ever thought of, it's. He's so fucking filled, overwhelmed and stretched further than should be physically possible, more than anyone should be able to take, but he's taking it and loving it, squirming on Brendon's fist, taking him deeper and harder, and Brendon's looking at him with wide eyes, pupils blown. And God, he can just imagine it, Brendon's hand inside him, stretching him wide and open, rubbing at his insides, and there's a harsh pull as Brendon draws his fist down, nudges it back upwards, and it's at this moment that Brendon wraps a hand around his cock, squeezes lightly and Ryan comes apart, falls apart, writhing and twisting, crying out - practically screaming - as he spills over his belly and Brendon's hand.
"Jesus," Brendon gasps. "Fuck. I'm gonna - get my hand out, I think. I think it's gonna. This might hurt."
And Ryan's just too loose and spent to say anything, he just nods and Brendon slowly, carefully, works his hand out gently. Ryan lets his legs drop, feels the throbbing pain between his legs, and Brendon climbs over him, straddles his chest, and Ryan's pretty sure what Brendon's going to do now, remembers this from before, Brendon stroking himself, remembers Brendon coming on him, and does his best to arch up into it, his muscles aching and sore.
Brendon thumbs at Ryan's chin, pulls his mouth open, "Ready?" he asks softly, and Ryan thinks, Ohh, that's what he wants, and opens his mouth wider as Brendon thrusts in, gently at first. He relaxes his throat, tries to suck around Brendon's cock, and Brendon shakes his head, "No," he grunts, "just, yeah, just like that, I, won't be long, fuck, you-", pushing himself in and out of Ryan's mouth, forcefully, and Ryan just lies there, practically mindless while Brendon fucks his face with brutal precision.
He reaches down and curves a hand around the swell of Ryan's skull, cradles his head and pulls back so only the tip is in Ryan's mouth, "Don't swallow," he groans, low and rough, and then he comes, thick and hot on Ryan's tongue.
Brendon slides down his body, presses their hips together, and Ryan winces at the ache of it as Brendon pushes him to the mattress, kissing him hard, and Ryan feels Brendon licking into his mouth, greedily swallowing his own come.
"Fuck," Brendon says, exhaustion and satisfaction evident in his voice. He rolls them over so Ryan's on top, keeping him close.
"Yeah," Ryan manages with his voice scratchy and raw. Brendon strokes up his back, kisses his forehead.
--
"Dude," Brendon says with a mouthful of Starburst. "Come over here, Ross, I need help folding these wrappers."
"What?" Ryan looks up from his journal to see Brendon sitting cross-legged on the floor of the green room with a neat pile of Starburst wrappers next to him.
"I found this thing," Brendon explains, "a how-to. Instructional, on how to make these bracelets, they're really cool looking."
"I see," Ryan says skeptically, but sits down next to him and follows Brendon's lead. The reporter lounging on the couch stops scratching furiously on his notepad.
"Candy jewelry big in the States, is it?" he asks with a smirk.
"Who the fuck knows?" Brendon says cheerfully. The reporter's eyes wander to Ryan's journal, left open on the couch. Brendon follows his gaze and stretches his arm out, slams the journal shut.
The reporter looks somewhat put out, and when he asks Ryan what he writes about in his journal, Ryan can't quite get out a coherent answer, stuttering a bit.
Brendon hands him an unwrapped Starburst - a pink one - and the reporter leans in. "Anything embarrassing? Private stuff?"
"No," Ryan says, finally, swallowing the cloyingly sweet mess, glancing over at Brendon. "We're pretty boring guys."
--
http://theaerosolkid.livejournal.com/91998.html