Title: If the Scene Were a Parish You'd All be Condemned
Author: Marianna [insunshine]
Rating: Hard R.
Characters: Ryan, Brendon, Spencer, Jon [Ryan/Brendon, Spencer/Jon]
Word Count: 1117
Summary: Brendon is maybe sort of an evil genius sometimes. But only maybe. And only on like. Wednesdays.
Disclaimer: Ha. Ha ha ha ha. If I thought I owned the boys. No, if I did own the boys, or had any sort of connection to them, do you honestly think I would be writing about them making out instead of, you know, making them do it?
Author Notes: Written for the lovely disarm_d's pornothon challenge, number six: Really really detailed making out. On that bed in really expensive clothes. Maybe even some heavy dry humping on that stuffed leopard cuz you KNOW Brendon Urie would be excited about that. Of course they would have to be careful not to come in the freaking Dior pants, so there could be some orgasm denial mixed in. And based off of this.




Brendon, at least, waits until the cameras are gone. At least. This is definitely something he should be getting points for. Ryan can't get mad at him if there is no photographic evidence.

Brendon is maybe sort of an evil genius sometimes. But only maybe. And only on like. Wednesdays.

"Are you going to stop staring at my hands, or am I going to have to break your face?" Ryan is cracking his knuckles menacingly [or, OK, come on, as menacingly as Ryan Ross gets. Brendon's not afraid. He's the one who took the new pictures with Hobo, alright? He knows how much of a pussy Ryan can be and there is photographic evidence of that], and Brendon presses his face against Ryan's shoulder to keep from laughing straight out.

Ryan growls.

"Wow, you guys, OK. Ryan are you actually chanelling the stuffed leopard? Is that what the two of you do in your spare time?" Spencer's on the floor now, in his not-so-shiny red sweatervest, leaning his head against Jon's shoulder. Jon mutters something like, "They are sexual fiends," And Spencer swats at his shoulder, but he misses by a mile. The poor thing seems tuckered out. Brendon sympathizes, and mirrors Spencer's movements, nuzzling his head into Ryan's neck.

Hey, hey now, he's tired too.

"Um, sort of? Ryan gets really--"

Spencer clamps his hands over his ears, and Ryan clamps his hand over Brendon's mouth, which, hey, touching, he is always ridiculously up for touching.

"Jon and I are going to go get changed. You two just--" Spencer waves his arm around in a vague motion which is probably the go ahead sign for, HAVE SEX! or more likely, we have an interview at the venue before the benefit show, so if you could be on time for that, it would be awesome.

Jon has remained silent, which, Brendon muses isn't really that surprising considering it's Jon, and Jon loves Spencer like Brendon loves peanut butter.

Were peanut butter a person, Brendon would have married it. Would have had little peanut butter babies. Would have--

"You are such an idiot sometimes," Brendon's ready to roll his eyes, except Ryan's hand is still over his mouth, and the door is closing behind Jon's back, and Ryan's words aren't as cutting as usual.

Which, hello. SIGN.

"You love me," Brendon says, which comes out just a little muffled. Ryan's moving his hand though, and leaning forward, and nipping at Brendon's lips just a little, and that was Brendon's plan all along.

Ryan tastes like chapstick, and plastic lip gloss [that looks shiny but tastes gross] and when Brendon licks into his mouth, he can taste the faintest hints of gummi bears. He smiles into the kiss, and he's leaning forward on his haunches, trying to get closer, trying to devour Ryan, because god, there is really nothing better than this.

When he loses his balance, his shirt is half untucked from his pants, his dick is straining against his fly, and Ryan is in his lap.

His lap. No one can blame him for his excitement, because Ryan is in his lap.

He can't be blamed for this.

They tumble a little bit, and then. And then. Ryan sort of hits the giant furry leopard. Brendon is afraid to look, because this could go one of about eighty-seven different ways, and they'd been doing so well with the making out and the hands in inappropriate places.

"Rawr," Ryan mutters, deadpan, and when Brendon looks at him, he's doing that smiling-but-not-with-his-mouth thing.

Brendon loves that thing.

"Rawr," He mutters back, and then he's crawling off the bed, and into Ryan's space, because seriously, there's like an expiration date on Ryan being in the mood, and seriously, Brendon has to take advantage whenever he can.

The skin at Ryan's throat actually tastes better than his mouth, and Brendon wouldn't mind staying here for a couple hours, getting reaquainted with the sinews.

Ryan's phone starts to beep just as he's starting to moan, and Brendon's getting really, really into the groove.

"Ignore it," Brendon mutters, and his voice is breathless, which doesn't make sense, because Ryan is the recipient of this completely awesome not vampiric neck sucking excercize, not him, and--

"Can't," Ryan mutters back, and Brendon feels better, because at least Ryan sounds breathless too. "It's Spencer. We have to be there in forty minutes."

Brendon's about to say that they can do a lot in forty minutes. He can certainly do many various and exciting things in forty mintues, and--

And.

"We have to be there forty minutes?" Because the there in question is a venue that's already twenty minutes away and they have to change and leave the freaking Dior pants down with Shelley the Clothing Caretaker, or whatever the fuck her job title is.

God.

"That doesn't really leave us much time," Brendon mutters, and he's not pissed. He's not. He just wanted to get Ryan off. And himself too, obviously. Duh.

"Duh." Ryan echoes, seemingly reading his mind, and god, Brendon doesn't know what he did to deserve this kind of torture, except for maybe turning his back on his religion and his parents to become a rockstar.

He's pretty sure that's it, but there was that one time when he was thirteen that he tried to look down Amanda Price's school jumper.

Brendon's track record isn't exactly spotless.

Whatever.

Ryan rocks forward, pressing their lips together, and Brendon is pleasantly surprised at the taste. Most of the plastic tasting lip gloss has worn off, and it's just lips, and skin and Ryan, and he can feel himself getting hard.

Harder. Whatever.

"Brendon." Ryan sounds appalled, which is pretty par for the course, really, and can't have anything to do with the fact that Brendon is maybe dry humping his leg a little.

"Brendon, Brendon, your pants." Brendon's doing the neck sucking thing again, because seriously, tasting Ryan's skin never gets old, and Ryan still sounds breathless, so his job is done. Sort of. "Your pants are Dior."

Ryan's biting down on his lip, and he looks like someone shot him in the foot, or cut off his dick or something, which doesn't make any sense, because Brendon can feel it, right there, pushing against his thigh. It's nice, and big and--

"Brendon. We can't do this."

Brendon really, really hates his life. He hates it even more, when Ryan actually stands up and starts to move.

"I hate you."

"Hate Spencer. I'm going to blow you in the car going over there." Ryan's voice is conversational and matter-of-fact, and there are birds chirping Zipa-Dee-Do-Da out the window.

Seriously.

Brendon loves his life.