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fan_flashworks2020-04-07 12:04 pm
dreamersdare) wrote in fan_flashworks2020-04-07 12:04 pm
Entry tags:
Panic! at the Disco: Fanfic: Play it now, shout it loud
Title: Play it now, shout it loud
Fandom: Panic! at the Disco
Characters: Brendon Urie/Jon Walker, Spencer Smith, Ryan Ross
Rating: Mature
Length: 1,912 words
Content notes: Contains swearwords, sexually suggestive situations, mild power dynamics, mild restraint.
Author notes: Panic v2 fic (after the departure of the original bassist, but before the band fractured into many constituent pieces, and long before it was just Brendon Urie). Purely self-indulgent ridiculousness :)
Summary: Spencer's stress is directly proportional to Brendon's boredom. Fortunately, Jon has a solution...
“I’m bored,” Brendon announces across the bus lounge.
His pronouncement doesn’t elicit quite the response he was hoping for. Ryan rolls his eyes, sinking impossibly deeper into his corner of the couch with his nose still buried in the pages of his book, and Spencer doesn’t even look up from his laptop. “No,” he says.
“But I am,” Brendon says, indignantly. “You can’t just deny me, Spencer Smith. My boredom is real and tangible and all-consuming.” He throws his arms out as wide as he can, just to prove his point, and smacks his fingers hard against one of the bus panels, a hot sting running across the line of his knuckles. “Fuck, ow.”
“If your boredom consumes anything on this bus, I will end you,” Spencer says, calmly, and Ryan snorts. “Same applies if you fucking break yourself. We have another three hours until we get to the venue and we have a show to play tonight. Find something to do.”
“I’ve tried that,” Brendon says, and he drops into the couch with a dramatic flop, catching Ryan with an elbow in the shoulder as he goes. It’s a hefty thwack of bone on bone that shocks uncomfortably up Brendon’s arm, and he hisses even as Ryan glares at him over the top of his book.
“For fuck sake, Bren, watch it,” he says, tucking his legs impossibly tighter in against his body, and Brendon rolls his head to one side against the cushions to watch. It’s an anti-Brendon strategy, he thinks sadly, leaving Ryan all closed off in a way that makes couch cuddles impossible. He knows, he’s tried before, and Ryan is surprisingly pointy when he’s all twisted up like a pretzel.
Not that Brendon wants couch cuddles right now, but he’s bored. He’s prepared to try anything. He slumps back against the couch cushions with a loud sigh.
“Now I’m bored and Ryan doesn’t love me,” he says, despondently, and Ryan rolls his eyes.
“I never love you,” he says, deadpan, “I put up with your pointy fucking elbows so I can use you for your vocal skills.”
“Lies,” Brendon gasps, and he twists across the couch, reaching out to poke Ryan hard in the thigh. “Filthy, filthy lies. You love me best.”
Ryan swats irritably at his hand. “I don’t love you at all right now,” he says, “God, Brendon, stop.”
“Never!” Brendon declares, because he can’t possibly let those kinds of falsehoods stand, otherwise Ryan will start getting ideas. Ryan is going down. He scrambles closer, the soft cushions giving unhelpfully underneath his knees, fully intent on wrestling Ryan onto the couch. Sure, Ryan fights dirty, but Brendon knows that. He’s totally confident he can get Ryan to admit the truth.
A wad of fabric hits him hard in the face, breaking his focus for a crucial second, and Ryan takes advantage of the distraction to wriggle himself off the couch.
“I’m going to the back lounge,” Ryan says, and he points his finger at Brendon pissily. “You’re not coming.”
Brendon shoots Spencer an aggrieved look, even as Ryan turns on his heel and heads toward the kitchenette. He’d been winning, whatever Ryan might have said to the contrary, before he took a faceful of Spencer’s dirty laundry. “The hell, Spence?”
“Some of us,” Spencer says, tightly, “have work to do. So shut the fuck up.”
“But-“ Brendon starts, and Spencer holds up one hand imperiously.
“If you bitch one more time about being bored, I’m going to punch you in the head,” he says, warningly. “I’m not joking. Go find something else to do.”
“Like what?” Brendon says, and Spencer’s mouth thins, his jaw tight and his eyes stony hard.
“I. Don’t. Care.” he grits out. “Just go.”
“But there’s nowhere to go,” Brendon says, perfectly reasonably he thinks, although from the way Spencer’s expression darkens, he’s going to guess Spencer doesn’t agree. “We’re on a moving bus, Spence, and you’re saying I can’t be in here, and Ryan says I can’t be in the back lounge so, really, you’re not leaving me a lot of options, and I’m bo-“
“Walker!” Spencer all but yells, and Brendon’s eyes widen because, oh yeah. He wasn’t that he had forgotten that Jon was on the bus, exactly. It’s just, well, Jon’s napping, and none of them ever get enough sleep on tour. Brendon tries really hard not to bug Jon when he’s napping, and he bites his lip, hard.
He hadn’t actually meant to make Spencer disturb Jon’s nap.
It only takes a minute for Jon to amble through from the kitchenette, pyjama pants hanging low on his hips, his hair adorably mussed in a way that makes Brendon’s fingers itch and Brendon can’t help but beam at him, bright and sunny. Fuck, he loves Jon. Jon grins back, sleepily, before he rubs his fingers slowly across his eyes and blinks a few times in quick succession. “S’up Spence?”
“Take him away,” Spencer’s tone is ominous, and he aims a pointed look at Brendon before he redirects it to Jon. “And I don’t care how you do it but shut him the fuck up.”
“Hey,” Brendon says, indignantly, because he is right there, and he thinks he should probably get a say in where he gets sent, but they both ignore him. Jon meets Spencer’s look with one of his own, thoughtful and considering, before his mouth quirks slightly and he nods.
“Okay,” he says, easily. “C’mon, B.”
“Hey,” Brendon says again, but Jon reaches out and wraps his fingers around Brendon’s wrist. His skin is sleep warm, with calluses rough against Brendon’s pulse point, and Brendon swallows against the sudden lump in his throat.
Jon’s smile is still sleepy, and molasses slow, and it makes something squirm low in Brendon’s belly. “C’mon B,” he says again, his voice low and his eyes half-lidded, and, okay, Brendon could argue, but.
Why the fuck would he want to?
“Okay,” he says, and he lets Jon tug him through the kitchens and into the bunks. Jon pauses in front of his own bunk, his eyes dark as he glances back over his shoulder, and Brendon’s pulse kicks.
“M’not tired,” he warns, and Jon grins, sweet but sharp, before he jerks on Brendon’s wrist, pulling him off balance. He wobbles on his feet for a second, and then Jon shoves him, not hard, but insistent and Brendon tumbles forward into the bunk. He scrambles around fast, but Jon’s already following him in, pushing Brendon back against the wall and pressing in close. He catches Brendon’s wrists, tugging his arms up above his head and pinning them there under one hand before he settles, an arm across Brendon’s waist and his leg slung over Brendon’s thigh.
Jon brushes his nose against Brendon’s, his breath a weird mix of sleep-sour and weed-sweet on his mouth. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Brendon says, a little more breathily than he’d meant to, and his fingers twitch erratically in the air. Jon squeezes lightly down on his wrists.
“Why is Spencer yelling at me?” Jon asks, and Brendon shrugs helplessly.
“He’s pissed at me,” he admits. Jon tilts his head questioningly, pushing himself up onto his elbow to lean over Brendon, and Brendon swallows at a sudden rush of want that floods through him.
He’s so fucking easy for Jon, it’s not even funny.
“Yeah, I got that,” Jon says, “Why?” Brendon scrunches his face up, twisting a little against the mattress, but Jon’s a settled weight against him, the wall is solid against his back and he has nowhere to go. He likes it, maybe.
“I was bored,” he says, although there’s a lift that makes it sound more like a question than an answer. Jon smiles down at him, eyes crinkling a little at the corners in that way that Brendon secretly loves, and he reaches up to brush Brendon’s hair away from his face with a light touch of his thumb. Brendon shivers.
“So, you were being a shit,” he says easily, and Brendon would object, but Jon doesn’t give him a chance, his fingers sliding over Brendon’s cheek to press hard against his lips. He hums under his breath, a low considering sound. “Alright. How long have we got?”
Brendon makes an unintelligible noise and Jon grins before the pressure of his fingers eases, leaving Brendon’s lips tingling. He darts out his tongue to lick carefully at them, and Jon’s eyes darken, which, okay, fuck. “Oh,” Brendon says, rougher than he’d expected. “Um, couple of hours? I think?”
Jon hums. “Got time then,” he says, “Want to play a game?”
Brendon scrunches his nose, because, well, no, not really. He wants Jon. Unless… “What kind of game?” he asks, carefully, and Jon’s lips twitch.
“I was thinking you could try and be quiet,” he says, nonchalantly and Brendon grimaces despite himself. Jon laughs a little, low and sweet, and rubs his thumb lightly over Brendon’s bottom lip. “Yeah, yeah, hear me out. Until we get to the venue, you try and stay quiet, and I try and make you scream.”
Brendon’s breath hitches in his throat, and he stares up at Jon, wide-eyed. Oh, oh, okay then. Jon does mean that type of game (and, okay, maybe Brendon had been a little hopeful, but they’re on the bus and Ryan and Spencer tend to have opinions about that kind of thing). “I… really?” he asks, and Jon shrugs.
“Unless you think you can’t,” he says, his hand trailing lightly down Brendon’s throat and over his chest. His nail snags against Brendon’s nipple through the thin fabric of his tee shirt, and Brendon’s next breath escapes as a hiss.
“But we’re on the bus,” he says, stupidly, and Jon smiles, a little sharp.
“Extra motivation for you to play to win,” he points out, and Brendon laughs, a little shakily, as Jon strokes smoothly across his stomach and pauses with his fingertips resting lightly against the waistband of Brendon’s jeans.
“What else do I get if I win?” Brendon asks, cautiously.
“Whatever you want,” Jon says. “Hotel night tonight,” he adds, unnecessarily, and Brendon’s head swims dizzyingly with the possibilities.
Fuck, fuck, he wants this. He wants to do this. He’s just… not sure if he can.
“What about if you win?” he says, an embarrassing croak edging the words. Jon’s answering grin is positively wicked.
“Whatever I want,” he says, and Brendon’s skin prickles hot. Jon’s an imaginative guy, and what he wants could be anything, but it almost always ends in the same way, with Brendon strung out, shaking and begging.
It’s… still not unappealing.
“You want to?” Jon asks, his expression intent, and Brendon sweeps his tongue out again deliberately across his bottom lip. Jon’s reaction is a sharp inhale which Brendon can admit is pretty fucking gratifying and, seriously, really, why is he thinking about this?
Of course he wants to.
“Game on,” he says, bright and defiant, and he folds his bottom lip over his teeth and bites down hard. The sharp sting is grounding, and he flexes his fingers as much as he can against Jon’s tight hold, his fingernails scratching against the wall at the head of the bunk. He can totally do this. Totally.
“Game on,” Jon echoes, a soft murmur that’s a promise and a threat all weaved into one, and he flicks open the button on Brendon’s jeans.
Brendon closes his eyes and holds on.
Fandom: Panic! at the Disco
Characters: Brendon Urie/Jon Walker, Spencer Smith, Ryan Ross
Rating: Mature
Length: 1,912 words
Content notes: Contains swearwords, sexually suggestive situations, mild power dynamics, mild restraint.
Author notes: Panic v2 fic (after the departure of the original bassist, but before the band fractured into many constituent pieces, and long before it was just Brendon Urie). Purely self-indulgent ridiculousness :)
Summary: Spencer's stress is directly proportional to Brendon's boredom. Fortunately, Jon has a solution...
“I’m bored,” Brendon announces across the bus lounge.
His pronouncement doesn’t elicit quite the response he was hoping for. Ryan rolls his eyes, sinking impossibly deeper into his corner of the couch with his nose still buried in the pages of his book, and Spencer doesn’t even look up from his laptop. “No,” he says.
“But I am,” Brendon says, indignantly. “You can’t just deny me, Spencer Smith. My boredom is real and tangible and all-consuming.” He throws his arms out as wide as he can, just to prove his point, and smacks his fingers hard against one of the bus panels, a hot sting running across the line of his knuckles. “Fuck, ow.”
“If your boredom consumes anything on this bus, I will end you,” Spencer says, calmly, and Ryan snorts. “Same applies if you fucking break yourself. We have another three hours until we get to the venue and we have a show to play tonight. Find something to do.”
“I’ve tried that,” Brendon says, and he drops into the couch with a dramatic flop, catching Ryan with an elbow in the shoulder as he goes. It’s a hefty thwack of bone on bone that shocks uncomfortably up Brendon’s arm, and he hisses even as Ryan glares at him over the top of his book.
“For fuck sake, Bren, watch it,” he says, tucking his legs impossibly tighter in against his body, and Brendon rolls his head to one side against the cushions to watch. It’s an anti-Brendon strategy, he thinks sadly, leaving Ryan all closed off in a way that makes couch cuddles impossible. He knows, he’s tried before, and Ryan is surprisingly pointy when he’s all twisted up like a pretzel.
Not that Brendon wants couch cuddles right now, but he’s bored. He’s prepared to try anything. He slumps back against the couch cushions with a loud sigh.
“Now I’m bored and Ryan doesn’t love me,” he says, despondently, and Ryan rolls his eyes.
“I never love you,” he says, deadpan, “I put up with your pointy fucking elbows so I can use you for your vocal skills.”
“Lies,” Brendon gasps, and he twists across the couch, reaching out to poke Ryan hard in the thigh. “Filthy, filthy lies. You love me best.”
Ryan swats irritably at his hand. “I don’t love you at all right now,” he says, “God, Brendon, stop.”
“Never!” Brendon declares, because he can’t possibly let those kinds of falsehoods stand, otherwise Ryan will start getting ideas. Ryan is going down. He scrambles closer, the soft cushions giving unhelpfully underneath his knees, fully intent on wrestling Ryan onto the couch. Sure, Ryan fights dirty, but Brendon knows that. He’s totally confident he can get Ryan to admit the truth.
A wad of fabric hits him hard in the face, breaking his focus for a crucial second, and Ryan takes advantage of the distraction to wriggle himself off the couch.
“I’m going to the back lounge,” Ryan says, and he points his finger at Brendon pissily. “You’re not coming.”
Brendon shoots Spencer an aggrieved look, even as Ryan turns on his heel and heads toward the kitchenette. He’d been winning, whatever Ryan might have said to the contrary, before he took a faceful of Spencer’s dirty laundry. “The hell, Spence?”
“Some of us,” Spencer says, tightly, “have work to do. So shut the fuck up.”
“But-“ Brendon starts, and Spencer holds up one hand imperiously.
“If you bitch one more time about being bored, I’m going to punch you in the head,” he says, warningly. “I’m not joking. Go find something else to do.”
“Like what?” Brendon says, and Spencer’s mouth thins, his jaw tight and his eyes stony hard.
“I. Don’t. Care.” he grits out. “Just go.”
“But there’s nowhere to go,” Brendon says, perfectly reasonably he thinks, although from the way Spencer’s expression darkens, he’s going to guess Spencer doesn’t agree. “We’re on a moving bus, Spence, and you’re saying I can’t be in here, and Ryan says I can’t be in the back lounge so, really, you’re not leaving me a lot of options, and I’m bo-“
“Walker!” Spencer all but yells, and Brendon’s eyes widen because, oh yeah. He wasn’t that he had forgotten that Jon was on the bus, exactly. It’s just, well, Jon’s napping, and none of them ever get enough sleep on tour. Brendon tries really hard not to bug Jon when he’s napping, and he bites his lip, hard.
He hadn’t actually meant to make Spencer disturb Jon’s nap.
It only takes a minute for Jon to amble through from the kitchenette, pyjama pants hanging low on his hips, his hair adorably mussed in a way that makes Brendon’s fingers itch and Brendon can’t help but beam at him, bright and sunny. Fuck, he loves Jon. Jon grins back, sleepily, before he rubs his fingers slowly across his eyes and blinks a few times in quick succession. “S’up Spence?”
“Take him away,” Spencer’s tone is ominous, and he aims a pointed look at Brendon before he redirects it to Jon. “And I don’t care how you do it but shut him the fuck up.”
“Hey,” Brendon says, indignantly, because he is right there, and he thinks he should probably get a say in where he gets sent, but they both ignore him. Jon meets Spencer’s look with one of his own, thoughtful and considering, before his mouth quirks slightly and he nods.
“Okay,” he says, easily. “C’mon, B.”
“Hey,” Brendon says again, but Jon reaches out and wraps his fingers around Brendon’s wrist. His skin is sleep warm, with calluses rough against Brendon’s pulse point, and Brendon swallows against the sudden lump in his throat.
Jon’s smile is still sleepy, and molasses slow, and it makes something squirm low in Brendon’s belly. “C’mon B,” he says again, his voice low and his eyes half-lidded, and, okay, Brendon could argue, but.
Why the fuck would he want to?
“Okay,” he says, and he lets Jon tug him through the kitchens and into the bunks. Jon pauses in front of his own bunk, his eyes dark as he glances back over his shoulder, and Brendon’s pulse kicks.
“M’not tired,” he warns, and Jon grins, sweet but sharp, before he jerks on Brendon’s wrist, pulling him off balance. He wobbles on his feet for a second, and then Jon shoves him, not hard, but insistent and Brendon tumbles forward into the bunk. He scrambles around fast, but Jon’s already following him in, pushing Brendon back against the wall and pressing in close. He catches Brendon’s wrists, tugging his arms up above his head and pinning them there under one hand before he settles, an arm across Brendon’s waist and his leg slung over Brendon’s thigh.
Jon brushes his nose against Brendon’s, his breath a weird mix of sleep-sour and weed-sweet on his mouth. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Brendon says, a little more breathily than he’d meant to, and his fingers twitch erratically in the air. Jon squeezes lightly down on his wrists.
“Why is Spencer yelling at me?” Jon asks, and Brendon shrugs helplessly.
“He’s pissed at me,” he admits. Jon tilts his head questioningly, pushing himself up onto his elbow to lean over Brendon, and Brendon swallows at a sudden rush of want that floods through him.
He’s so fucking easy for Jon, it’s not even funny.
“Yeah, I got that,” Jon says, “Why?” Brendon scrunches his face up, twisting a little against the mattress, but Jon’s a settled weight against him, the wall is solid against his back and he has nowhere to go. He likes it, maybe.
“I was bored,” he says, although there’s a lift that makes it sound more like a question than an answer. Jon smiles down at him, eyes crinkling a little at the corners in that way that Brendon secretly loves, and he reaches up to brush Brendon’s hair away from his face with a light touch of his thumb. Brendon shivers.
“So, you were being a shit,” he says easily, and Brendon would object, but Jon doesn’t give him a chance, his fingers sliding over Brendon’s cheek to press hard against his lips. He hums under his breath, a low considering sound. “Alright. How long have we got?”
Brendon makes an unintelligible noise and Jon grins before the pressure of his fingers eases, leaving Brendon’s lips tingling. He darts out his tongue to lick carefully at them, and Jon’s eyes darken, which, okay, fuck. “Oh,” Brendon says, rougher than he’d expected. “Um, couple of hours? I think?”
Jon hums. “Got time then,” he says, “Want to play a game?”
Brendon scrunches his nose, because, well, no, not really. He wants Jon. Unless… “What kind of game?” he asks, carefully, and Jon’s lips twitch.
“I was thinking you could try and be quiet,” he says, nonchalantly and Brendon grimaces despite himself. Jon laughs a little, low and sweet, and rubs his thumb lightly over Brendon’s bottom lip. “Yeah, yeah, hear me out. Until we get to the venue, you try and stay quiet, and I try and make you scream.”
Brendon’s breath hitches in his throat, and he stares up at Jon, wide-eyed. Oh, oh, okay then. Jon does mean that type of game (and, okay, maybe Brendon had been a little hopeful, but they’re on the bus and Ryan and Spencer tend to have opinions about that kind of thing). “I… really?” he asks, and Jon shrugs.
“Unless you think you can’t,” he says, his hand trailing lightly down Brendon’s throat and over his chest. His nail snags against Brendon’s nipple through the thin fabric of his tee shirt, and Brendon’s next breath escapes as a hiss.
“But we’re on the bus,” he says, stupidly, and Jon smiles, a little sharp.
“Extra motivation for you to play to win,” he points out, and Brendon laughs, a little shakily, as Jon strokes smoothly across his stomach and pauses with his fingertips resting lightly against the waistband of Brendon’s jeans.
“What else do I get if I win?” Brendon asks, cautiously.
“Whatever you want,” Jon says. “Hotel night tonight,” he adds, unnecessarily, and Brendon’s head swims dizzyingly with the possibilities.
Fuck, fuck, he wants this. He wants to do this. He’s just… not sure if he can.
“What about if you win?” he says, an embarrassing croak edging the words. Jon’s answering grin is positively wicked.
“Whatever I want,” he says, and Brendon’s skin prickles hot. Jon’s an imaginative guy, and what he wants could be anything, but it almost always ends in the same way, with Brendon strung out, shaking and begging.
It’s… still not unappealing.
“You want to?” Jon asks, his expression intent, and Brendon sweeps his tongue out again deliberately across his bottom lip. Jon’s reaction is a sharp inhale which Brendon can admit is pretty fucking gratifying and, seriously, really, why is he thinking about this?
Of course he wants to.
“Game on,” he says, bright and defiant, and he folds his bottom lip over his teeth and bites down hard. The sharp sting is grounding, and he flexes his fingers as much as he can against Jon’s tight hold, his fingernails scratching against the wall at the head of the bunk. He can totally do this. Totally.
“Game on,” Jon echoes, a soft murmur that’s a promise and a threat all weaved into one, and he flicks open the button on Brendon’s jeans.
Brendon closes his eyes and holds on.