Ryden Oneshots

What He Had

He’s changed the people on his speed dial so he has to go to the contacts list, and he’s choking on his breath, squeezing his cock, trying to spread the pre-come on himself the best he can to help with the slide. Fuck, he’s absolutely wanton.

The phone starts ringing, taking too long, and it’s infuriating him. He presses the phone between his head and shoulder, using his free hand to shove his pants and boxers down. He manages to free his cock that now stands up proudly, flushed and shiny at the tip. He bites on his lip to muffle a groan.

“Hello?”

He almost gets pushed over the edge from the one word alone, but he doesn’t come. Instead his cock twitches in his hand, and he grips himself harder, calloused fingertips pressing hard against the sensitive skin.

“Hey,” he returns, breathing heavily.

“Ryan.” Brendon says it like he’s surprised, but that’s bullshit. It’s not like Brendon can’t read the ‘Ryan calling’ on his phone.

Ryan groans – he can’t help it, Brendon said his name – and he clutches the phone to his ear with one hand, with the other just touching himself, reaching down to cup his balls, squeezing and rubbing, chasing pleasure as he rocks into his hand.

Brendon says, “Fuck. Are you serious? Are you kidding me? You –”

“Bren, where are you?”

“At home, but I –”

“Good.” He is taking in air in large gulps, like he’s drowning. Only now is he taking in the narrow toilet he’s occupying, his Gibson leaning against the dirty sink, and he sees his reflection in the tiny, fractured mirror. His mouth is hanging open, his tie a bit crooked, and he can see how blown his pupils are. Whatever this is, it’s not normal, and it’s okay, really, that he’s calling Brendon now. He’s not himself. They haven’t talked in months and this isn’t him.

Brendon laughs a little at the other end, disbelief mostly. “It’s happening again, isn’t it?”

Ryan feels his cheeks burning – god, this is humiliating, but he doesn’t give a shit. “Yeah,” he manages, closing his eyes as his chest aches. “Fuck, I wish you were here right now.” Brendon in front of him, sucking his balls, mouthing his shaft, licking his slit, slipping his stupid fucking mouth over his aching cock –

“Ryan,” Brendon says in this annoying, stern, disappointed parent voice. Ryan’s amazed it doesn’t kill his erection.

“You think I don’t know?” he asks, frustrated. “Fuck, I just – I really need to get off right now, I –”

“From what I’ve heard, you’ve got someone helping you out with that.”

Ryan bites on the inside of his cheek and closes his eyes. He knows he’s got someone to help him out. Fuck, she’s right there at the venue with them, probably at the bar getting a bit drunk, and Ryan didn’t go to her. It’s still too soon. They’re at that point where the sex is meant to be polite and considerate, and Ryan can’t go to her with this. He wanted Brendon. Wants Brendon. Ryan doubts he has a single dirty secret that Brendon doesn’t know. And it’s amazing, really, that with all the shit they know about each other, they have the guts not to be friends. It’s the type of information you would never want your enemy to know.

But Brendon’s not hung up on him yet. Brendon knows what he’s doing, why he’s called from the other side of the damn country, and Brendon’s still listening to his ragged breathing.

“Are you hard for me yet?” Ryan asks, slowly stroking himself, back resting against the bathroom tiles. He feels blissed out already, fire burning in his gut. He thinks of Brendon on stage, Brendon singing, Brendon covered in sweat, Brendon always noticing his fucking stage hard-ons, Brendon always taking care of him later, with Ryan biting on Brendon’s collarbone and tears on his cheeks because he can’t take the pleasure.