Kinky Ryden Smut Oneshots

Present Progressive Part one

Written by theaerosolkid

  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.