FIC: Restless
Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross.
NC-17.Ryan's just trying to write, but Brendon's restless and Ryan's really the only one who can do something about it.
*******
It takes them way longer than it should to get the guys off the bus.
This is partly because Brendon is too polite to say anything, and Ryan is... Ryan. They're only a week into their first headliner, and already they're forgetting what day it is (Saturday), where their next show is (Seattle), and any and all holidays approaching (Christmas). Brendon just ignores the pleading looks Ryan sends his way, and tucks his hands where his knees bend. Then he shifts, wraps them around his legs. He shifts some more, restless energy bleeding from his skin, touch, face, until Ryan reaches over and smooths the bunched up material of his shirt down.
It's somewhere between that touch and Brendon pushing up into Ryan's hand that Spencer gets the gist of the situation. He disappears for a bit, and just when Brendon's tightening his hands on Ryan's wrists, about to pull him closer, Spencer comes breezing through the lounge with Jon in tow.
If Brendon cared about anything but Ryan right now, he'd probably smile and throw something at their retreating backs, but as it were: not a single fuck was given. Brendon just drags his fingertips over the crest of Ryan's wristbone, and by the time the door has shut, he's unbuttoning Ryan's shirt.
When it becomes clear that Brendon's energy impedes his competence, Ryan bats his fingers away and shed his shirt on his own. Brendon's fingers on is skin helped to soothe the cold from the bus's outdated heater as it cranked into life with a whir of cold before rising in temperature.
While vaguely aware of Brendon's fingers at his belt, Ryan is inappropriately occupied with the expanse of skin between jagged cut line of Brendon's hair and the start of his shirt collar. It isn't until Brendon's fingers graze the front of Ryan's boxers that he actually says something.
"Fuck." Although always one for eloquence, Ryan feels he can let Brendon kiss his words, just this time. And Brendon does just that, winding himself around the planes of Ryan's body and connecting their lips to silence Ryan. The distraction doesn't last long though, because soon Brendon's lips are gone and his hands are stripping back Ryan's last layer of privacy, as well as his briefs.
Ryan closes his eyes when his head falls back, and his fingers clutch at his own leg to keep himself from turning the table and pinning Brendon down. He lets Brendon run his hands over his body and admire. Brendon's breath brushes over his collarbone, and Ryan gives a not totally masculine whimper when Brendon's lips close hot over his nipple. But then his touch is gone, and when Ryan goes to move his arm away from his eyes, Brendon lays a hand to it to hold him still.
Ryan holds his breath until he can feel Brendon again. He can't see Brendon's cocky grin, but he can imagine it clear enough from days spent playing rounds of Guitar Hero, Halo, Rock Paper Scissors, and the What On The Bus Can Brendon Fit In His Mouth Game. The memories of innocent Brendon with his completely innocent stupid face make it easier for Ryan to convince himself he's not going to come just from Brendon's mouth on his dick.
They haven't gotten time like this in so long, and it only makes sense for Brendon to go all out, sliding his lips wet along the side and opening his mouth as well as his throat. Ryan's threading his hands in Brendon's hair before he can even do anything fancy.
He feels like he needs to explain himself, because it's not often that Brendon actually forces him to do something like cover his eyes. "Wanted to see you. Needed to--" He breaks off as Brendon pulls off and braces his hands on Ryan's spread legs to lift himself to his mouth. When Brendon pulls back Ryan can see his totally goofy smile, the one he wears when he's being genuine, and it makes it easier to accept that he is totally head over heels for this fucking wild eyed man-child.
Brendon pulls away from him completely then, and pops his own fly. He does a slight shimmy in place, employing the help of gravity to get his pants off, and makes the least sexy face ever at Ryan while doing so. It makes him look like a pedophile, but the swaying of his hips and the stupid "getting my pants off, getting my pants off, la-la-la-la-la-la Ryan is gonna fuck me as soon as I get my pants off' song to the tune of Old McDonald he's singing covers Ryan's outburst of laughter.
Brendon walks naked to the cabinets above the sink, and comes back with the lube in his hands. He's all legs and skin, and Ryan can't help it when he bends him over the arm of the couch, swiping his palm down his back. Ryan warms the lube on his fingertips, and gives Brendon one swift smack on the ass when he wiggles it backwards in a silent plea to hurry up. Brendon only settles down, though, when Ryan's fingers slip in a pair of two into him.
Ryan doesn't get too agitated when Brendon thrusts himself onto them, because the animalistic noise he makes is too fucking hot to describe. He adds a third at Brendon's "pleasepleaseplease" but stops there. If he doesn't Brendon will come all over the couch like last time before he can even get Ryan's dick in him.
Ryan guides himself in with one hand, and lets his other one find it's place in the curve of Brendon's hipbone. Brendon gives a long moan; satisfied like a long drink of water. Ryan's hips snap forward, and Brendon drops his head onto his folded arms. When Ryan rocks forward again, Brendon makes a noise like he's swallowed his tongue. "There--Ryan fuck. Right there--" His words are peppered with heavy breathing and little twisting moans that sound like they hurt coming up.
Ryan's admittedly not doing much better, with his hands slipping all over the place through the light sheen of sweat on Brendon's skin. His hands finally settle on Brendon's breastbone, and he pulls him up from slumping. One hand across his collarbone and one at his waist keep him from falling, and Ryan presses his nose to the hollow under Brendon's nose. They're all pressed up along each other, Ryan's front at Brendon's back, and Ryan can feel when Brendon's breathing hitches at each thrust. Brendon's hand comes down to clamp onto the couch, and he throws his head back onto Ryan's shoulder.
Ryan slides his hand down Brendon's chest and brushes his fingers over Brendon's cock. Suddenly the relative silence is shattered with "Please oh god Ryan"s and "fuck yes RyanRyanRyan." Ryan gets in maybe two strokes of his hand and Brendon is coming.
Ryan says Brendon's name, and follows.
*
As per usual, he's the first one to recover.
Brendon tends to enjoy laying around in a post-coital bliss, but Ryan always gets restless after a few minutes to contemplate how dirty he is right after sex. So he drags himself off the couch and to the sink, wetting one of the dishcloths from the cabinets with warm water. He can feel Brendon's eyes on him the entire time, but it's cute how when he turns around Brendon's eyes flash closed like he wasn't looking.
He's careful with the rag, washing Brendon down and then himself. He helps Brendon into clean pajamas, and then pulls the pliable singer onto his lap. They're twenty minutes into a Dora The Explorer marathon ("She's Hispanic. And her friends are a map and a telescope thing. We have to watch, Ryan. I'm super serious right now.") when Spencer and Jon creep wearily back onto the bus, hands dramatically over eyes.
"Everyone clothed?" Spencer drops his hands when there's an answer in the form of a pillow hitting his chest.
Jon just rolls his eyes, laughing a bit at Brendon's blissed out smile.
Ryan taps his pen against his notebook, and for once the lyrics flow easily.