Kinky Ryden Smut Oneshots

Present Progressive Part Two

Written By theaerosolkid

  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."