Because you join DYW and then you write GSF
It's beingothrwrldly's birthday today! We've known each other for a while now, but it's been just over a year since we really started our shenanigans (AND FLANANIGANS) and hi, our group is the best ever. The end. Full stop. I love you like Elvis loves Nixon and biscuits. Like Pete loves Patrick. Like John (repressingly) loves Rodney's SWEATY DOUBLE CHINS. Like Ryan loves rosettes and Pete's cock. LIKE GLADYS LOVES NOT BEING A VAGINE. THAT IS A LOT, OKAY? ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
Happy birthday, Sarah. Have some porn.
Still Places I Haven't Been
Bandslash: Panic! At the Disco. Jon/Ryan, GSF. NC-17. ~3,300 words.
A/N: For beingothrwrldly who wanted some Jon/Ryan, though it's kind of light on the fingerfucking. Much thanks to kissingchaos9 for listening to me whine and stamp my feet and for the beta.
It's bright and blinding, the never-ending flash of cameras nothing compared to the searing heat of the spotlights. Jon feels the sweat drip down his back and they're only two songs in. It's been so long since Jon's been onstage, he doesn't really know what to do with himself. He plays, concentrating on every note because he doesn't have the muscle memory yet and he doesn't want to fuck this up. He watches Brendon slink between the dancers, between Ryan and Spencer and he waits.
***
As ridiculous and ugly as they are, Jon likes the roses. They help.
***
In rehearsals, Ryan just walks over to Jon's side of the stage and they smile and play at each other and make goofy faces and that's it. But for the live shows, when there's an audience and there's nothing but adrenaline and music in their veins, everything changes. Ryan leans close, breathless and sweaty, slides to his knees like he's looking for benediction and Jon can't help but follow him, press their foreheads together and his breath on Jon's skin feels like he's saying ours ours ours.
***
He'd known before, back when he was still a tech and Cameraman-Extraordinaire (as Bill had named him, capitals and all), mornings bearing coffee or food leading him to find Brendon and Spencer in Spencer's bunk, or Brendon and Ryan in Ryan's. It didn't seem all that abnormal at first, because they were just a touchy-feely bunch to begin with and god knows Jon was used to that. But then there were mornings where Brent wasn't around and the back lounge smelled more like boy than normal and there were ghosts of teeth marks on Spencer's neck.
He didn't know who else knew, who else had figured it out, but Jon was used to this too, keeping these kinds of secrets. They were still Spencer and Brendon and Ryan, it didn't change anything.
***
Only now he's on the bus with them every night and it does change things. Not that it happens every night, but he knows what Brendon sounds like when Spencer fucks him, the way Ryan's breath catches as he strokes himself, listening. Jon's seen them in the morning, eyes half-lidded and bruises peeking out at hips and wrists. He's started listening for the half-choked gasp, the faint rustle of clothes and the clink of a curtain sliding shut. He listens because he wants--
Well. Jon doesn't know what he wants.
But there are nights, with Ryan and Brendon in the bunk beneath him, or all three of them in the back lounge and Jon's so hard it hurts, that it only takes a few tugs, rough and quick, before Jon's coming, leaving him wrecked and gasping but not sated. Not by a long shot.
***
Preshow is a weird time for them. There's always tension; anticipation. Every word out of Brendon's mouth is a song without any discernable melody. Spencer does anything but think about the show, sending texts or wandering around the venue, waiting until the last second to slip into wardrobe, giving his nerves the least amount of time to get worked up before they walk onstage. Ryan spends the most time in that preshow headspace, fingers restlessly miming chords while he puts on his makeup; fixes his hair.
Jon finds himself spending a lot of time sitting and watching Ryan. He doesn't mean to, but it's calming, watching Ryan through the mirror. His eyes follow the sweep of the eyeliner and he fiddles with the camera in his lap, switching it on and off with a flick of his wrist.
(He'd asked, once before, if Ryan planned his makeup out in advance, it he did mental sketches or something. Ryan had frowned a little, a wrinkle appearing between his brows and said, "No," like he's never really thought about it before. "I just, go, kind of. I guess." And Jon would never understand it, how Ryan could just pick a color and go, somehow ending up with effortless delicate birds or rigid-beautiful spirals without ever having to stop and think ahead.
From the stories, that's how they wrote the album, pushing forward forward forward until something clicked, until the songs were great. Nothing left by the side, just turned and molded until it fit.
Jon tries hard not to think about Brent.
About Ryan's fingers.)
Ryan catches his eye in the reflection of the mirror and Jon can see him bite his lip, bite back a smile. Then he's turning, walking to stand over Jon, tapping the eyeliner in his hand like a weapon. Jon raises his eyebrow in question and Ryan purses his lips, taps his foot like he's thinking. "I think it's time. I think you're ready," he says, eventually.
"Are you sure?" asks Jon in a stage whisper, glancing at the eyeliner. "Seems like a big responsibility."
"Shut the hell up," Ryan says, rolling his eyes and bending close. Jon wants to laugh but he feels flush, every nerve alight when Ryan cups his chin, holds him steady and still. He catches himself trying to memorize the pattern of ridge and whorl on Ryan's fingers and it takes all of his concentration not to close his eyes. And it shouldn't be like this, because Ryan's barely in his space, barely touching. Backstage is full of people coming and going, tech and crew and security, but it feels like he and Ryan are the only people for miles. Jon's stomach twists in a way that's too familiar.
***
It's not something he dwells on. Really, it isn't. He's thought about it before, any guy who says differently is lying, but not in any kind of serious way. Even with the Chicago scene being the way it was, it just never really crossed Jon's mind. But late, in his bunk with a hand on his dick, he can't help but think about it. Wonder what it might be like, feel like; the weight above him and the harsh stretch.
His other hand moves restlessly on his thigh because he really hasn't ever tried this before. When he gets close, he let's it slip lower and even though the angle's all wrong and he can't actually-- the pressure; the push of his fingers; it's enough.
***
He's not drunk, but he's had more than he should, fingers and toes tingling whiskey-warm. Everyone on the bus is asleep except for Ryan, who's hunched and curled in over his book in the back lounge. He doesn't even look away from the page when Jon makes his way to the back, just shifts over on the couch, making room. Jon sits sideways, facing Ryan, one leg tucked under him and the other foot on the floor. He watches Ryan, slim fingers turning each page slow and careful, like Ryan doesn't want to crack the spine, like he wants to keep the book pristine.
If he's confused about why Jon's sitting there (staring, Jon realizes a little too slowly, tracing the long lines of Ryan's neck with his eyes) it doesn't show on his face. But Jon can only take the silence for so long. "Are Brendon and Spencer--"
He doesn't even have to finish his question and Ryan's looking up at him, eyes startled for a second before shifting to understanding. They've never actually talked about it, but Ryan knows that Jon knows. Ryan looks back down at his book again, squinting in a way that Jon knows he isn't reading a single word, tucks his hair behind his ear and says softly, "No. Not tonight, no." Jon thinks he might be blushing, just a little bit.
"It's okay. I mean-- It's not a big deal or anything," and Jon can feel his mouth start to get away from him but he just can't stop. "You're still you. You guys are still. You know. I still love you guys." Ryan lets his book fall shut without marking the page. "Even if you were, like, into tranny midget hookers or something, I wouldn't care."
"Jon--"
"Not that I think you're into tranny midget hookers or anything. Just. If you were--"
"Jon," Ryan insists, turning to face him and covering Jon's mouth with his hand. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"
Ryan's eyes are earnest and widewide brown and to Jon his skin tastes like paper and music and things Jon isn't sure he can have. He shakes his head because it's not enough to matter, not enough that he doesn't still feel this when he's wholly sober and he moves Ryan's hand and presses their mouths together, fingers ghosting over Ryan's jaw. It's clumsy and their teeth bump against each other, but Ryan doesn't pull away, just tilts his head and slips his tongue over Jon's lips.
Ryan tastes sickly sweet, like soda and pre-packaged pastries and artificial sugars and it's so different from the sour sharpness in the back of Jon's throat and-- shit. Shit.
"Sorry, sorry," hisses Jon, pulling away eyes shut because he doesn't want to know how Ryan looks like this. "Fuck." He covers his mouth with his fingers and he can almost feel the alcohol on them and it makes his stomach turn. "Ryan, I-- shit."
And Ryan's fingers are brushing Jon's hair back behind his ears and his voice is as gentle and firm as his touch when he says, "It's fine, Jon. It's. It's fine." He bites his lip and it's like Jon can feel it in his gut. "Whatever you want, it's fine." Only Jon is sure he hears disappointment around the edges of the words and he has to leave, sorrys falling from his mouth and following him into restless sleep.
***
For the next week, Jon forces himself to fall asleep early, headphones almost loud enough to keep him awake, but they drown out everything besides his own thoughts and that's enough for now.
Things don't really change, they still laugh and joke and get into fights over ridiculous shit. If Ryan's told Brendon or Spencer, they don't act any differently towards him.
He keeps reliving it in his head, every aching second, but he's not sure what he'd change. The alcohol, yes. And he wants Ryan, that much is clear, but he doesn't want to ruin what they (the band) (the three of them) have; doesn't want to ruin what he has, something he'd never thought he'd feel again. So maybe he should just forget about the whole thing (because he just doesn't know how to approach it other than to say I think I want to join your big gay orgy, I mean, I love you guys already and you seem to be able to handle the whole professional/private thing just fine, only I've never actually done anything with a guy before so if you could start with the tutorial, that would be great which is probably not the best way to start).
***
They switch up hotel rooms occasionally (when they have hotel rooms, which is not as often as any of them would like) just to keep everyone sane. This time, Jon's rooming with Ryan and there's a knot of anticipation and worry in the pit of Jon's stomach. After the show, once they've showered and eaten and goofed around, Jon and Ryan are sprawled on their respective beds, tired and flipping through the channels.
"Why is there never anything on?" sighs Ryan, turning off the TV and tossing the remote somewhere on the floor.
"I think it's a law of the universe or something," Jon says. "After midnight, there will never be anything good on that you haven't seen already."
Ryan chuckles, low enough that Jon can feel it under his skin. "Yeah. Yeah, that has to be it." Jon's staring at the ceiling, hands on his stomach but he can hear Ryan turn onto his side and breathe slow and steady, getting ready to say something. "What happened before," and Jon can't stop himself from frowning because he was committed to forgetting, he really was. "It's okay, Jon. Really."
"No, it wasn't." Jon covers his face with his hands. "Christ, Ryan, I--"
"Shut the fuck up for a second, okay?" Ryan spits out, harsh and when Jon moves his hands, Ryan's standing over him, arms folded and looking so fucking tiny haloed by the dim bedside table lamp. "I don't know if you think I'm some kind of fucking delicate flower or something, but I'm not. I'm a big boy, okay? I can take care of myself."
"That's not what I--"
"I said, shut up." Only this time the words aren't harsh, just tired and Ryan's rolling his eyes and sitting down next to Jon on the bed, long legs tucked up under his chin. "I meant what I said before, too. Whatever you want is fine. If you want to forget it ever happened, that's okay. If you want to do it again, that's good too. But I'm not playing this bullshit we're-not-gonna-talk-about-it game. I'm fucking tired of that." Ryan sighs and leans his head back against the headboard and all Jon can think about is kissing the underside of Ryan's jaw until the tension in his neck melts away.
"What about Brendon and Spencer? Aren't you guys..." Jon really has no idea how to finish that sentence.
Ryan turns his head, smiling softly like he does when Brendon's doing something to be intentionally annoying but Ryan manages to ignore him, and he shoves Jon's head to the side, murmuring, "Dude, you're an idiot."
"What?" pouts Jon, fixing his hair.
"We want you happy, Jon Walker," and his name on Ryan's tongue sends shivers down his spine. "We're friends first. Everything else will have to work itself out."
And Jon wants to say what if I fuck this all up, what if what if what if but Ryan is leaning down to kiss him, steady and sure. The angle's awkward and Ryan stretches out next to Jon, his hand moving restlessly over Jon's hip. Jon makes a soft noise, cups the back of Ryan's head and pushes closer. It's not exactly like kissing a girl, Ryan's all sharp edges under his hands and he's more insistent, pressing Jon down into the mattress with teeth and tongue. Not to mention the stubble, that's definitely different. But he still fits against Jon like he belongs there and when Ryan pulls away to breathe damply against Jon's neck, it still makes his stomach jump.
"This is okay, right?" Ryan says, lips against his collarbone and hand under Jon's shirt. He moves to straddle Jon's leg, rubbing his thigh achingly slow against Jon through his boxers and his moan is the closest Jon gets to saying yes. Ryan smiles and nips at Jon's throat before sitting back on his knees and pulling his shirt off. He's nothing but pale pale skin and endless torso and Jon has to press his thumbs into the groove of Ryan's hips where they peek out of his shorts. Ryan hisses out, "Fuck," and arches into the touch and Jon really needs to be naked right the fuck now.
He sits up and shrugs off his shirt and Ryan seems to get the idea, getting up to slide off his shorts before slipping Jon's boxers off, quick and efficient. He climbs back onto the bed, almost hovering over Jon as he reaches down to wrap his hand around Jon's cock. "You ever do this before?" Ryan asks, mouth at Jon's ear.
"No, not, uh," and Jon doesn't know how in the hell he's supposed to think let alone answer questions with Ryan stroking him slow and shudderingly good. "Not with a-- a, fuck," Ryan's thumb just under the head, "another guy." Jon can feel Ryan's smile, a wicked curve to his lips and Jon has to kiss him again, suck hard on his bottom lip until Ryan whimpers and he drags his fingers along Ryan's spine, thrusting up into the circle of Ryan's fist. It's going to be over so embarrassingly fast. Jon's been waiting for this for much longer than he's willing to admit, those gorgeous fucking fingers sweeping over his skin.
Then Ryan's pulling away and sliding down Jon's legs and oh, holy shit, that's Ryan's mouth. Warm and wet and perfect and Jon whines high in his throat. He grips Ryan's shoulder to keep from thrusting up and Ryan hums, moves into the touch. A swirl of tongue and Ryan takes the first few inches and sucks easy, like he's done this before. Like a lot. Ryan's hands are stroking over Jon's thighs and stomach and Jon wants-- Wants. He grabs one of Ryan's hands and pulls it to his mouth, letting his tongue dart out to trace a line along one of Ryan's fingers. And Ryan stops, lets Jon slip from his mouth and stares, eyes slitted, breath shallow. "You want it?" Ryan asks, quiet and Jon's grateful he doesn't have to do anything more than nod.
Ryan slips out of the bed to grab something from his bag and just as quick, he's back, fingers slick and sucking a bruise onto Jon's thigh. Jon breathes, trying to relax and he spreads his legs a little wider. Ryan grins against Jon's skin and presses slow, just one finger, knuckle-deep. Jon sucks in a breath and Ryan shushes him, moving forward to take the head of Jon's cock back in his mouth. Ryan pushes in a little more and it feels. Different. Weird. And then Ryan's curling his finger just so and sucking hard and Jon has to move his hips, up into Ryan's mouth, back onto his finger. He comes like he's coming apart, eyes shut to Ryan's hungry stare.
When Jon catches his breath and opens his eyes, Ryan's over him again, bending down to bite lightly at Jon's collar bone. Jon hisses, still shocky and coming down and he reaches between them to wrap a hand around Ryan's dick. It's a little weird, like masturbating in reverse, but Ryan's breathing harsh against Jon's neck, so he must be doing okay. "God, yeah. Like that--" And Jon's never seen him like this -- needy and panting for it -- only heard it faintly through curtains and doors. "Can't wait to fuck you." Ryan's voice is a low rasp, curling it's way up Jon's spine. "Have you fuck me. Shit, want to see you suck Spencer's cock." Jon shivers, grips tighter, twists his wrist. "Bet you'd be good at it too," and Ryan's pulls back just enough to look Jon in the eye, to fucking mean it. "We'd have to teach you though, have Brendon show you how--" And Ryan's mouth is fucking obscene, red and wet and Jon has to kiss; has to taste; savor the way Ryan's teeth bite into Jon's lip when he comes.
***
Later, in the quiet, in the dark:
"What if I had wanted you all to myself?"
"Yeah, I've seen the way you look at Spencer. I didn't think it was very likely."
***
Jon's leaning back against Ryan's chest, Ryan's mouth just behind his ear, dragging lines with teeth and tongue. Spencer's over him, hands tilting Jon's hips just so, pressing in blunt and thick. Brendon's next to them, hands and mouth everywhere, like he can't decide who he wants to touch first. One moment he's kissing along Jon's collarbone, hand carding through Ryan's hair and the next he's sucking on Spencer's bottom lip and stroking Jon's cock just slow enough to be torturous.
The first few seconds had been awkward, Ryan watching Jon from across the room, a pointed glare until Jon turned and kissed Brendon, right in the middle of a word. Brendon had made a surprised noise and Jon heard Spencer suck in his breath through his teeth. Jon had felt his heart beat butterfly fast and then Brendon had softened against him, reaching up to wrap a steady hand around the back of Jon's neck.
Now Jon's pulse races for an entirely different reason. Ryan's stroking over the curve of his shoulders, coaxing him through every shiver, every thrust of Spencer's hips and when he comes, Ryan's holding his head close, whispering, ours ours ours.
A/N: Title taken from "Storm Coming" by Gnarls Barkley. Cut tag taken from "Hysteria" by Muse.
Happy birthday, Sarah. Have some porn.
Still Places I Haven't Been
Bandslash: Panic! At the Disco. Jon/Ryan, GSF. NC-17. ~3,300 words.
A/N: For beingothrwrldly who wanted some Jon/Ryan, though it's kind of light on the fingerfucking. Much thanks to kissingchaos9 for listening to me whine and stamp my feet and for the beta.
It's bright and blinding, the never-ending flash of cameras nothing compared to the searing heat of the spotlights. Jon feels the sweat drip down his back and they're only two songs in. It's been so long since Jon's been onstage, he doesn't really know what to do with himself. He plays, concentrating on every note because he doesn't have the muscle memory yet and he doesn't want to fuck this up. He watches Brendon slink between the dancers, between Ryan and Spencer and he waits.
***
As ridiculous and ugly as they are, Jon likes the roses. They help.
***
In rehearsals, Ryan just walks over to Jon's side of the stage and they smile and play at each other and make goofy faces and that's it. But for the live shows, when there's an audience and there's nothing but adrenaline and music in their veins, everything changes. Ryan leans close, breathless and sweaty, slides to his knees like he's looking for benediction and Jon can't help but follow him, press their foreheads together and his breath on Jon's skin feels like he's saying ours ours ours.
***
He'd known before, back when he was still a tech and Cameraman-Extraordinaire (as Bill had named him, capitals and all), mornings bearing coffee or food leading him to find Brendon and Spencer in Spencer's bunk, or Brendon and Ryan in Ryan's. It didn't seem all that abnormal at first, because they were just a touchy-feely bunch to begin with and god knows Jon was used to that. But then there were mornings where Brent wasn't around and the back lounge smelled more like boy than normal and there were ghosts of teeth marks on Spencer's neck.
He didn't know who else knew, who else had figured it out, but Jon was used to this too, keeping these kinds of secrets. They were still Spencer and Brendon and Ryan, it didn't change anything.
***
Only now he's on the bus with them every night and it does change things. Not that it happens every night, but he knows what Brendon sounds like when Spencer fucks him, the way Ryan's breath catches as he strokes himself, listening. Jon's seen them in the morning, eyes half-lidded and bruises peeking out at hips and wrists. He's started listening for the half-choked gasp, the faint rustle of clothes and the clink of a curtain sliding shut. He listens because he wants--
Well. Jon doesn't know what he wants.
But there are nights, with Ryan and Brendon in the bunk beneath him, or all three of them in the back lounge and Jon's so hard it hurts, that it only takes a few tugs, rough and quick, before Jon's coming, leaving him wrecked and gasping but not sated. Not by a long shot.
***
Preshow is a weird time for them. There's always tension; anticipation. Every word out of Brendon's mouth is a song without any discernable melody. Spencer does anything but think about the show, sending texts or wandering around the venue, waiting until the last second to slip into wardrobe, giving his nerves the least amount of time to get worked up before they walk onstage. Ryan spends the most time in that preshow headspace, fingers restlessly miming chords while he puts on his makeup; fixes his hair.
Jon finds himself spending a lot of time sitting and watching Ryan. He doesn't mean to, but it's calming, watching Ryan through the mirror. His eyes follow the sweep of the eyeliner and he fiddles with the camera in his lap, switching it on and off with a flick of his wrist.
(He'd asked, once before, if Ryan planned his makeup out in advance, it he did mental sketches or something. Ryan had frowned a little, a wrinkle appearing between his brows and said, "No," like he's never really thought about it before. "I just, go, kind of. I guess." And Jon would never understand it, how Ryan could just pick a color and go, somehow ending up with effortless delicate birds or rigid-beautiful spirals without ever having to stop and think ahead.
From the stories, that's how they wrote the album, pushing forward forward forward until something clicked, until the songs were great. Nothing left by the side, just turned and molded until it fit.
Jon tries hard not to think about Brent.
About Ryan's fingers.)
Ryan catches his eye in the reflection of the mirror and Jon can see him bite his lip, bite back a smile. Then he's turning, walking to stand over Jon, tapping the eyeliner in his hand like a weapon. Jon raises his eyebrow in question and Ryan purses his lips, taps his foot like he's thinking. "I think it's time. I think you're ready," he says, eventually.
"Are you sure?" asks Jon in a stage whisper, glancing at the eyeliner. "Seems like a big responsibility."
"Shut the hell up," Ryan says, rolling his eyes and bending close. Jon wants to laugh but he feels flush, every nerve alight when Ryan cups his chin, holds him steady and still. He catches himself trying to memorize the pattern of ridge and whorl on Ryan's fingers and it takes all of his concentration not to close his eyes. And it shouldn't be like this, because Ryan's barely in his space, barely touching. Backstage is full of people coming and going, tech and crew and security, but it feels like he and Ryan are the only people for miles. Jon's stomach twists in a way that's too familiar.
***
It's not something he dwells on. Really, it isn't. He's thought about it before, any guy who says differently is lying, but not in any kind of serious way. Even with the Chicago scene being the way it was, it just never really crossed Jon's mind. But late, in his bunk with a hand on his dick, he can't help but think about it. Wonder what it might be like, feel like; the weight above him and the harsh stretch.
His other hand moves restlessly on his thigh because he really hasn't ever tried this before. When he gets close, he let's it slip lower and even though the angle's all wrong and he can't actually-- the pressure; the push of his fingers; it's enough.
***
He's not drunk, but he's had more than he should, fingers and toes tingling whiskey-warm. Everyone on the bus is asleep except for Ryan, who's hunched and curled in over his book in the back lounge. He doesn't even look away from the page when Jon makes his way to the back, just shifts over on the couch, making room. Jon sits sideways, facing Ryan, one leg tucked under him and the other foot on the floor. He watches Ryan, slim fingers turning each page slow and careful, like Ryan doesn't want to crack the spine, like he wants to keep the book pristine.
If he's confused about why Jon's sitting there (staring, Jon realizes a little too slowly, tracing the long lines of Ryan's neck with his eyes) it doesn't show on his face. But Jon can only take the silence for so long. "Are Brendon and Spencer--"
He doesn't even have to finish his question and Ryan's looking up at him, eyes startled for a second before shifting to understanding. They've never actually talked about it, but Ryan knows that Jon knows. Ryan looks back down at his book again, squinting in a way that Jon knows he isn't reading a single word, tucks his hair behind his ear and says softly, "No. Not tonight, no." Jon thinks he might be blushing, just a little bit.
"It's okay. I mean-- It's not a big deal or anything," and Jon can feel his mouth start to get away from him but he just can't stop. "You're still you. You guys are still. You know. I still love you guys." Ryan lets his book fall shut without marking the page. "Even if you were, like, into tranny midget hookers or something, I wouldn't care."
"Jon--"
"Not that I think you're into tranny midget hookers or anything. Just. If you were--"
"Jon," Ryan insists, turning to face him and covering Jon's mouth with his hand. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"
Ryan's eyes are earnest and widewide brown and to Jon his skin tastes like paper and music and things Jon isn't sure he can have. He shakes his head because it's not enough to matter, not enough that he doesn't still feel this when he's wholly sober and he moves Ryan's hand and presses their mouths together, fingers ghosting over Ryan's jaw. It's clumsy and their teeth bump against each other, but Ryan doesn't pull away, just tilts his head and slips his tongue over Jon's lips.
Ryan tastes sickly sweet, like soda and pre-packaged pastries and artificial sugars and it's so different from the sour sharpness in the back of Jon's throat and-- shit. Shit.
"Sorry, sorry," hisses Jon, pulling away eyes shut because he doesn't want to know how Ryan looks like this. "Fuck." He covers his mouth with his fingers and he can almost feel the alcohol on them and it makes his stomach turn. "Ryan, I-- shit."
And Ryan's fingers are brushing Jon's hair back behind his ears and his voice is as gentle and firm as his touch when he says, "It's fine, Jon. It's. It's fine." He bites his lip and it's like Jon can feel it in his gut. "Whatever you want, it's fine." Only Jon is sure he hears disappointment around the edges of the words and he has to leave, sorrys falling from his mouth and following him into restless sleep.
***
For the next week, Jon forces himself to fall asleep early, headphones almost loud enough to keep him awake, but they drown out everything besides his own thoughts and that's enough for now.
Things don't really change, they still laugh and joke and get into fights over ridiculous shit. If Ryan's told Brendon or Spencer, they don't act any differently towards him.
He keeps reliving it in his head, every aching second, but he's not sure what he'd change. The alcohol, yes. And he wants Ryan, that much is clear, but he doesn't want to ruin what they (the band) (the three of them) have; doesn't want to ruin what he has, something he'd never thought he'd feel again. So maybe he should just forget about the whole thing (because he just doesn't know how to approach it other than to say I think I want to join your big gay orgy, I mean, I love you guys already and you seem to be able to handle the whole professional/private thing just fine, only I've never actually done anything with a guy before so if you could start with the tutorial, that would be great which is probably not the best way to start).
***
They switch up hotel rooms occasionally (when they have hotel rooms, which is not as often as any of them would like) just to keep everyone sane. This time, Jon's rooming with Ryan and there's a knot of anticipation and worry in the pit of Jon's stomach. After the show, once they've showered and eaten and goofed around, Jon and Ryan are sprawled on their respective beds, tired and flipping through the channels.
"Why is there never anything on?" sighs Ryan, turning off the TV and tossing the remote somewhere on the floor.
"I think it's a law of the universe or something," Jon says. "After midnight, there will never be anything good on that you haven't seen already."
Ryan chuckles, low enough that Jon can feel it under his skin. "Yeah. Yeah, that has to be it." Jon's staring at the ceiling, hands on his stomach but he can hear Ryan turn onto his side and breathe slow and steady, getting ready to say something. "What happened before," and Jon can't stop himself from frowning because he was committed to forgetting, he really was. "It's okay, Jon. Really."
"No, it wasn't." Jon covers his face with his hands. "Christ, Ryan, I--"
"Shut the fuck up for a second, okay?" Ryan spits out, harsh and when Jon moves his hands, Ryan's standing over him, arms folded and looking so fucking tiny haloed by the dim bedside table lamp. "I don't know if you think I'm some kind of fucking delicate flower or something, but I'm not. I'm a big boy, okay? I can take care of myself."
"That's not what I--"
"I said, shut up." Only this time the words aren't harsh, just tired and Ryan's rolling his eyes and sitting down next to Jon on the bed, long legs tucked up under his chin. "I meant what I said before, too. Whatever you want is fine. If you want to forget it ever happened, that's okay. If you want to do it again, that's good too. But I'm not playing this bullshit we're-not-gonna-talk-about-it game. I'm fucking tired of that." Ryan sighs and leans his head back against the headboard and all Jon can think about is kissing the underside of Ryan's jaw until the tension in his neck melts away.
"What about Brendon and Spencer? Aren't you guys..." Jon really has no idea how to finish that sentence.
Ryan turns his head, smiling softly like he does when Brendon's doing something to be intentionally annoying but Ryan manages to ignore him, and he shoves Jon's head to the side, murmuring, "Dude, you're an idiot."
"What?" pouts Jon, fixing his hair.
"We want you happy, Jon Walker," and his name on Ryan's tongue sends shivers down his spine. "We're friends first. Everything else will have to work itself out."
And Jon wants to say what if I fuck this all up, what if what if what if but Ryan is leaning down to kiss him, steady and sure. The angle's awkward and Ryan stretches out next to Jon, his hand moving restlessly over Jon's hip. Jon makes a soft noise, cups the back of Ryan's head and pushes closer. It's not exactly like kissing a girl, Ryan's all sharp edges under his hands and he's more insistent, pressing Jon down into the mattress with teeth and tongue. Not to mention the stubble, that's definitely different. But he still fits against Jon like he belongs there and when Ryan pulls away to breathe damply against Jon's neck, it still makes his stomach jump.
"This is okay, right?" Ryan says, lips against his collarbone and hand under Jon's shirt. He moves to straddle Jon's leg, rubbing his thigh achingly slow against Jon through his boxers and his moan is the closest Jon gets to saying yes. Ryan smiles and nips at Jon's throat before sitting back on his knees and pulling his shirt off. He's nothing but pale pale skin and endless torso and Jon has to press his thumbs into the groove of Ryan's hips where they peek out of his shorts. Ryan hisses out, "Fuck," and arches into the touch and Jon really needs to be naked right the fuck now.
He sits up and shrugs off his shirt and Ryan seems to get the idea, getting up to slide off his shorts before slipping Jon's boxers off, quick and efficient. He climbs back onto the bed, almost hovering over Jon as he reaches down to wrap his hand around Jon's cock. "You ever do this before?" Ryan asks, mouth at Jon's ear.
"No, not, uh," and Jon doesn't know how in the hell he's supposed to think let alone answer questions with Ryan stroking him slow and shudderingly good. "Not with a-- a, fuck," Ryan's thumb just under the head, "another guy." Jon can feel Ryan's smile, a wicked curve to his lips and Jon has to kiss him again, suck hard on his bottom lip until Ryan whimpers and he drags his fingers along Ryan's spine, thrusting up into the circle of Ryan's fist. It's going to be over so embarrassingly fast. Jon's been waiting for this for much longer than he's willing to admit, those gorgeous fucking fingers sweeping over his skin.
Then Ryan's pulling away and sliding down Jon's legs and oh, holy shit, that's Ryan's mouth. Warm and wet and perfect and Jon whines high in his throat. He grips Ryan's shoulder to keep from thrusting up and Ryan hums, moves into the touch. A swirl of tongue and Ryan takes the first few inches and sucks easy, like he's done this before. Like a lot. Ryan's hands are stroking over Jon's thighs and stomach and Jon wants-- Wants. He grabs one of Ryan's hands and pulls it to his mouth, letting his tongue dart out to trace a line along one of Ryan's fingers. And Ryan stops, lets Jon slip from his mouth and stares, eyes slitted, breath shallow. "You want it?" Ryan asks, quiet and Jon's grateful he doesn't have to do anything more than nod.
Ryan slips out of the bed to grab something from his bag and just as quick, he's back, fingers slick and sucking a bruise onto Jon's thigh. Jon breathes, trying to relax and he spreads his legs a little wider. Ryan grins against Jon's skin and presses slow, just one finger, knuckle-deep. Jon sucks in a breath and Ryan shushes him, moving forward to take the head of Jon's cock back in his mouth. Ryan pushes in a little more and it feels. Different. Weird. And then Ryan's curling his finger just so and sucking hard and Jon has to move his hips, up into Ryan's mouth, back onto his finger. He comes like he's coming apart, eyes shut to Ryan's hungry stare.
When Jon catches his breath and opens his eyes, Ryan's over him again, bending down to bite lightly at Jon's collar bone. Jon hisses, still shocky and coming down and he reaches between them to wrap a hand around Ryan's dick. It's a little weird, like masturbating in reverse, but Ryan's breathing harsh against Jon's neck, so he must be doing okay. "God, yeah. Like that--" And Jon's never seen him like this -- needy and panting for it -- only heard it faintly through curtains and doors. "Can't wait to fuck you." Ryan's voice is a low rasp, curling it's way up Jon's spine. "Have you fuck me. Shit, want to see you suck Spencer's cock." Jon shivers, grips tighter, twists his wrist. "Bet you'd be good at it too," and Ryan's pulls back just enough to look Jon in the eye, to fucking mean it. "We'd have to teach you though, have Brendon show you how--" And Ryan's mouth is fucking obscene, red and wet and Jon has to kiss; has to taste; savor the way Ryan's teeth bite into Jon's lip when he comes.
***
Later, in the quiet, in the dark:
"What if I had wanted you all to myself?"
"Yeah, I've seen the way you look at Spencer. I didn't think it was very likely."
***
Jon's leaning back against Ryan's chest, Ryan's mouth just behind his ear, dragging lines with teeth and tongue. Spencer's over him, hands tilting Jon's hips just so, pressing in blunt and thick. Brendon's next to them, hands and mouth everywhere, like he can't decide who he wants to touch first. One moment he's kissing along Jon's collarbone, hand carding through Ryan's hair and the next he's sucking on Spencer's bottom lip and stroking Jon's cock just slow enough to be torturous.
The first few seconds had been awkward, Ryan watching Jon from across the room, a pointed glare until Jon turned and kissed Brendon, right in the middle of a word. Brendon had made a surprised noise and Jon heard Spencer suck in his breath through his teeth. Jon had felt his heart beat butterfly fast and then Brendon had softened against him, reaching up to wrap a steady hand around the back of Jon's neck.
Now Jon's pulse races for an entirely different reason. Ryan's stroking over the curve of his shoulders, coaxing him through every shiver, every thrust of Spencer's hips and when he comes, Ryan's holding his head close, whispering, ours ours ours.
A/N: Title taken from "Storm Coming" by Gnarls Barkley. Cut tag taken from "Hysteria" by Muse.