Kinky Ryden Smut Oneshots

Roll Off Your Tongue

Written by longtime_lurker

  Brendon Urie is a big damn rockstar and plays eight different instruments and cannot for the life of him get this fucking hotel room door open.

Next to him, in the corridor, his guitarist is shaking with silent laughter. His guitarist, who is about to accompany Brendon into said hotel room and, if all goes well, significantly complicate their working relationship. Which is probably the reason why Brendon's hands are wobbling so badly that he can't get the stupid keycard into its stupid teeny slot in the first place.

Huh, he thinks. So this must be what stage fright feels like.

Ryan, still laughing, holds out a hand for the card with his patented I Am Taking Pity On Brendon face. "You know," he deadpans as he effortlessly unlocks the door, "if you have this much trouble getting tab A into slot B -"

Brendon tackles him, tumbling them into the suite, and it's nice, it's reassuring. It takes some of the tension off. They might do this any day, Brendon thinks. Any old day on which Ryan hadn't caught Brendon's wrist as the four of them came bounding out of the venue into the crisp December city air. Hadn't looked at Brendon with stage-flushed cheeks and snowflakes in his eyelashes, hadn't chewed on his lip and taken a step and kissed Brendon on the mouth right there in the parking lot as the snow fell around them.

Both of them are still wearing their heavy outdoor layers, but between the impromptu wrestling match and the well-heated hotel room, that needs to change. Plus Brendon would really like to touch Ryan's skin now, thank you. He toes off his shoes, reaches out and catches the end of Ryan's scarf, pulls; Ryan, answering Brendon's grin with one of his own, pushes Brendon's coat off his shoulders. And once they get down to indoor clothes, Brendon ...kind of sees no reason to stop, and he tips his head up to kiss Ryan again, tugs at the buttons of Ryan's vest. There's the spark of challenge in Ryan's eyes when he pulls away, leaving his vest in Brendon's hands, and moves to unbutton Brendon's shirt.

They're making out against the wall of Ryan's hotel room and it ought to be really surreal but it isn't, it feels weirdly familiar to Brendon, déjà vu or coming home. Ryan is all planes and angles under Brendon's touch, and there's snow melting in his artfully dishevelled hair and Brendon wants, no, needs to get closer. When he presses up against Ryan, the shirtless slide of skin on skin is utterly fucking fantastic. Ryan's cupping Brendon's face in both his hands, making small, pleased sounds as their tongues brush, and Brendon can recognize the warmth of arousal pooling low in his stomach. He crowds Ryan up against the wall, palms against the front pockets of Ryan's skinny jeans and Ryan breaks away again to mutter, "waitwaitwait, door, gotta lock the door."

Brendon rushes to do it, of course, because that counts as a request from Ryan and he'd really do whatever Ryan wanted at this point as long as it meant he'd get to feel Ryan's tongue swipe along his lower lip again. He even bends around the door to flip the sign on the handle to Do Not Disturb, and when he straightens up and turns around he's pretty sure that Ryan was just watching his ass.

"Were you just watching my ass?"

Ryan huffs, but he's smiling, and instead of answering he pulls Brendon to him again.

The bed in the middle of the room is big and white and piled with pillows and striking Brendon as extremely inviting right now, what with Ryan's open mouth and smooth chest and flat hips aligned oh so perfectly against his own. As he sucks on Ryan's tongue he considers the merits of the subtle approach versus just sort of dragging Ryan down onto the comforter, and is only distracted from his internal debate by Ryan's fingers fumbling with his zipper.

"Hold on, hold on."

Ryan jerks back his hands and says, "Tell me you're not freaking out now."