Give Me a Sign (Brendon / Ryan)
Okay, so everyone who knows me or has read any of my sexier fics might have noticed that I have a slight kink for a certain body part. And with ‘slight kink,’ I mean ‘complete and utter obsession’ (naturally). There’s even unbiased, statistical evidence of this fact. So imagine my utter and complete joy when flimsy started a Let’s Objectify Ryan Ross’s hands-challenge. :-D
Title: Give Me a Sign
Summary: Sign language. Ryan Ross doing sign language. With those hands. In front of Brendon.
(Short (900 words) and sweet)
Give Me a Sign
It seemed like a good idea when Spencer came up with it. It really did. One of the techs who stayed with them on tour for over a month knew how to sign, and wouldn’t that just be a really-cool-skill-to-have-just-think-about-it-guys-we’d-never-have-to-scream-on-the-top-of-our-lungs-to-hear-each-other-in-clubs-ever-again?
And, yeah. It is useful. Brendon can totally see that. And when it’s just him and Spence, or him and Jon, or him and Jon and Spence and anyone else in the whole fucking world who isn’t friggin’ Ryan Ross, it’s totally cool. Really.
Problem is, of course, that they’re a band, and they tour together, and that means that Ryan is pretty much always in the exact same place as he and Spencer and Jon.
Signing. Moving his hands in graceful patterns in front of him, forcing Brendon to watch how the long fingers bend and stretch and curve until he’s ready to just explode on the spot, because Jesus.
It was bad enough when the secret objects of Brendon’s growing obsession were just waving at fans, or curled around a sharpie at meet-and-greets; when they were absentmindedly drumming a quick rhythm against a tabletop or moving over the strings of Ryan’s guitar-because at least then, Brendon could turn his head, look at something else, pretend he didn’t see those fingers slide against his skin every time he closed his eyes.
It was bad then, too, but as long as he could look away, it was at least manageable. Which it isn’t anymore, because looking away when someone is signing to you? Kind of like sticking your fingers in your ears and go la-la-la! when someone is talking. And Brendon doesn’t want to be rude.
On the other hand, he doesn’t especially want to come in his pants just from watching Ryan’s hands sign Seriously, Bden, don’t go there. The guy wears a picture of Celine Dion on his shirt, either. Especially as said guy is really pretty fucking cute (horrible t-shirt notwithstanding) and Brendon can’t even remember the last time he actually got some.
So Brendon flips Ryan off (a sign he knew well before the rest of the silent language started to make sense to him), and his friend replies with an Ooh, touchy! And it is probably a testament to Brendon having had one too many beers, because I could show you touchy, just say the word, is out of his hands (so to speak) before he even notices that his fingers are moving. Ryan raises an eyebrow from where he’s standing with Spencer across the room, and Brendon blushes, grabbing his beer from the bar with both hands so that the talkative body parts won’t be able to cause any more damage. Ryan looks at him for a long time, fingers playing with the leather bracelets on his wrists (seriously, don’t look, just don’t look…) before he lowers both hands to rest just in front of his belt and signs a slow and deliberate Wanna get out of here?
Brendon stares at the hands, then at Ryan’s face, uncomprehending, because there’s no way, no way Ryan meant what Brendon just thinks he did. Letting go of his bottle, he sends a shaky Don’t fuck with me, across the room. Ryan’s answering But what if I want to? is enough to take his breath away. It doesn’t exactly help that ‘want’ happens to be one of his absolute favourite signs from Ryan’s hands-all long fingers and graceful wrist movement. He swallows. Hesitates. And then decides to take the chance.
Then come over here and kiss me.
It’s a challenge, and if everything goes horribly wrong, it could still be laughed off as such, as a joke between two friends. No big deal. He takes another drink of his beer and tries to smile, watching Ryan’s hands begin to formulate an answer (something sarcastic, no doubt) and then sort of freeze in mid-air. The lost movement seems to bleed into Ryan’s body instead, to his back as he straightens and to his legs as he stands away from the wall and starts walking forward. Towards the bar. Towards where Brendon is standing, leaning against the bar.
Brendon tries to say something, or think something even, but his mind remains curiously blank, able to focus only on Ryan as the taller boy crosses the floor-which really isn’t very helpful. Ryan slides in next to him at the bar, and Brendon’s right hand subconsciously rises, index finger and thumb extending, moving in to press against his left shoulder in silent question. Ryan’s fingers close around his gently, and then the other hand is coaxing the beer bottle out of his grip. Holding on to both of Brendon’s hands, Ryan guides them to his chest, covering them with his own in a crossed-over sign, almost like a pair of wings against the moss green of Ryan’s shirt.
He holds their hands there, pressing steadily, and looks from their overlapping palms to Brendon’s face, meeting his eyes. Brendon blinks, breathes, blinks again, and Ryan smiles, soft and slightly trembling. His hands-those incredible, beautiful hands-let go of their grip and move to Brendon’s chest, sliding upwards until long fingers are on Brendon’s neck, against his jaw, weaving themselves securely into his hair.
Ryan leans in, strong hands adding the slightest bit of pressure at the back of Brendon’s neck, and Brendon follows, wants, parts his lips… And the world begins to spin.
THE END
A/N: The last two signs used in this fic can be seen here and here
other stories
Title: Give Me a Sign
Summary: Sign language. Ryan Ross doing sign language. With those hands. In front of Brendon.
(Short (900 words) and sweet)
Give Me a Sign
It seemed like a good idea when Spencer came up with it. It really did. One of the techs who stayed with them on tour for over a month knew how to sign, and wouldn’t that just be a really-cool-skill-to-have-just-think-about-it-guys-we’d-never-have-to-scream-on-the-top-of-our-lungs-to-hear-each-other-in-clubs-ever-again?
And, yeah. It is useful. Brendon can totally see that. And when it’s just him and Spence, or him and Jon, or him and Jon and Spence and anyone else in the whole fucking world who isn’t friggin’ Ryan Ross, it’s totally cool. Really.
Problem is, of course, that they’re a band, and they tour together, and that means that Ryan is pretty much always in the exact same place as he and Spencer and Jon.
Signing. Moving his hands in graceful patterns in front of him, forcing Brendon to watch how the long fingers bend and stretch and curve until he’s ready to just explode on the spot, because Jesus.
It was bad enough when the secret objects of Brendon’s growing obsession were just waving at fans, or curled around a sharpie at meet-and-greets; when they were absentmindedly drumming a quick rhythm against a tabletop or moving over the strings of Ryan’s guitar-because at least then, Brendon could turn his head, look at something else, pretend he didn’t see those fingers slide against his skin every time he closed his eyes.
It was bad then, too, but as long as he could look away, it was at least manageable. Which it isn’t anymore, because looking away when someone is signing to you? Kind of like sticking your fingers in your ears and go la-la-la! when someone is talking. And Brendon doesn’t want to be rude.
On the other hand, he doesn’t especially want to come in his pants just from watching Ryan’s hands sign Seriously, Bden, don’t go there. The guy wears a picture of Celine Dion on his shirt, either. Especially as said guy is really pretty fucking cute (horrible t-shirt notwithstanding) and Brendon can’t even remember the last time he actually got some.
So Brendon flips Ryan off (a sign he knew well before the rest of the silent language started to make sense to him), and his friend replies with an Ooh, touchy! And it is probably a testament to Brendon having had one too many beers, because I could show you touchy, just say the word, is out of his hands (so to speak) before he even notices that his fingers are moving. Ryan raises an eyebrow from where he’s standing with Spencer across the room, and Brendon blushes, grabbing his beer from the bar with both hands so that the talkative body parts won’t be able to cause any more damage. Ryan looks at him for a long time, fingers playing with the leather bracelets on his wrists (seriously, don’t look, just don’t look…) before he lowers both hands to rest just in front of his belt and signs a slow and deliberate Wanna get out of here?
Brendon stares at the hands, then at Ryan’s face, uncomprehending, because there’s no way, no way Ryan meant what Brendon just thinks he did. Letting go of his bottle, he sends a shaky Don’t fuck with me, across the room. Ryan’s answering But what if I want to? is enough to take his breath away. It doesn’t exactly help that ‘want’ happens to be one of his absolute favourite signs from Ryan’s hands-all long fingers and graceful wrist movement. He swallows. Hesitates. And then decides to take the chance.
Then come over here and kiss me.
It’s a challenge, and if everything goes horribly wrong, it could still be laughed off as such, as a joke between two friends. No big deal. He takes another drink of his beer and tries to smile, watching Ryan’s hands begin to formulate an answer (something sarcastic, no doubt) and then sort of freeze in mid-air. The lost movement seems to bleed into Ryan’s body instead, to his back as he straightens and to his legs as he stands away from the wall and starts walking forward. Towards the bar. Towards where Brendon is standing, leaning against the bar.
Brendon tries to say something, or think something even, but his mind remains curiously blank, able to focus only on Ryan as the taller boy crosses the floor-which really isn’t very helpful. Ryan slides in next to him at the bar, and Brendon’s right hand subconsciously rises, index finger and thumb extending, moving in to press against his left shoulder in silent question. Ryan’s fingers close around his gently, and then the other hand is coaxing the beer bottle out of his grip. Holding on to both of Brendon’s hands, Ryan guides them to his chest, covering them with his own in a crossed-over sign, almost like a pair of wings against the moss green of Ryan’s shirt.
He holds their hands there, pressing steadily, and looks from their overlapping palms to Brendon’s face, meeting his eyes. Brendon blinks, breathes, blinks again, and Ryan smiles, soft and slightly trembling. His hands-those incredible, beautiful hands-let go of their grip and move to Brendon’s chest, sliding upwards until long fingers are on Brendon’s neck, against his jaw, weaving themselves securely into his hair.
Ryan leans in, strong hands adding the slightest bit of pressure at the back of Brendon’s neck, and Brendon follows, wants, parts his lips… And the world begins to spin.
THE END
A/N: The last two signs used in this fic can be seen here and here
other stories