Fic happens.
So, remember how I used to write a lot of fic? And then I stopped writing so much fic, and then I started writing a lot of fic again with fallintosilence and now I'm too lazy to write stuff on my own? Yeah, that has left with me a lot of WIPs I am unlikely to ever finish, so here are some of my favorites just so I can stop feeling like such a failure every single time I look at my google docs.
For Kink Bingo before I... gave up on writing my actual Kink Bingo to go play on the fake Kink Bingo we made that did not have enemas on it. La la la. I might actually finish this at some point, but because that will probably not actually happen, here we are. Set post-split during Brendon and Spencer's brohabitation.
"You are fucking disgusting," Spencer says the second Brendon pulls back the shower curtain.
"Look," Brendon replies, "it's the guest bathroom. I'm not a guest. I'm not responsible for what happens in here."
"It's your house, idiot," Spencer gripes, pushing past him and turning on the faucets. "Have you ever been in here?"
"Once," Brendon says, "To tell the plumber guys something when they were installing new pipes. I'm pretty sure Regan was here at some point, because there are fancy little soaps. She was big on fancy little soaps." Whatever, the tub's not that gross, just a little dusty.
"That's great," Spencer says, sounding like it's anything but. "Can you see if there are fancy big towels anywhere because I'm going to be even more pissed off if we have to track sand upstairs too."
"It's not my fault the beach shower wasn't working," Brendon reminds him. Because it's not his fault, and he's pretty sure Spencer thinks it's his fault.
"My car," Spencer says sadly, still fiddling with the water. "My car will never be the same."
"Not," Brendon says, straining to reach the cabinets without stepping too far off the bathmat, "my fault." And then, "Hah! Towels!"
"Come on then you sandy little fucker," Spencer says as he climbs in the tub, his fingers already tapping against the knob that turns on the shower.
Brendon shoves the towels on top of the rack, and steps in behind Spencer, pulling the shower curtain shut behind him. The bottom of the tub is already a little sandy, and Brendon drags his toes through it, only jumping a little when Spencer turns the spray on and an errant stream hits him directly in the eye.
"Take off your trunks," Spencer says, already pulling his over his hips. "And keep your dick away from me. I'm not in the mood for your dick right now."
"I wasn't going to put my dick on you," Brendon says defensively, yanking his trunks down. He was totally going to put his dick on Spencer, though. Shower sex is shower sex, sandy or not.
Spencer throws a smirk over his shoulder, and fine, maybe Brendon's transparent. Whatever. He's transparent and naked and also he's smart and pretty sure he can get Spencer to put out anyway.
He's not actually getting much water with Spencer in front of him, though, just little drops and random shoots that glance off of Spencer's shoulders and into Brendon's hair, onto his eyelashes. Brendon doesn't mind though, because Spencer's back is broad and freckled and a little pink from the sun and right in front of Brendon's face, so he fits his palms to the curve of Spencer's shoulders, fingers sliding through water and stray sand.
Spencer leans back into the touch, just a little, and Brendon rests his forehead between Spencer's shoulder blades. Spencer's skin is still vaguely warm from the sun and he smells like the ocean and Brendon breathes him in a little before he pulls back. "Soap?" he asks.
"Um," Spencer says. "There's a bottle of hotel shampoo in the corner?"
"Oh oh wait," Brendon says, steadying himself with a hand on Spencer's waist as he sticks his other arm out from the curtain, hand flailing around until he makes contact with the edge of the wicker basket on the counter. "Hah!" He says, grabbing a handful of little fancy soaps and brandishing them victoriously. To Spencer's back. Right. "Okay," he says, stretching up to his toes and reaching around Spencer's body to hold his hand in front of Spencer's face. "Flower, seashell, or. . . weird zombie hand? What the fuck?"
"I think that one's melted," Spencer says, plucking it from Brendon's hand. "Unless this was a really diverse collection of fancy soaps."
"I wonder if they actually make zombie themed fancy soaps," Brendon muses as he tosses the seashell into the soap cubby and swipes the flower across Spencer's shoulders. "We should look into that for the upstairs bathroom."
"It's not your worst idea," Spencer concedes, tipping his head to the side as Brendon slides the soap over his shoulders. Brendon grins and digs his free hand into the muscles of Spencer's shoulder because Spencer is a sucker for a massage and Brendon would still very much like to put his dick on Spencer at some point.
"Lower," Spencer mumbles, rolling his shoulders, the skin slippery under Brendon's hand. Brendon trails his fingers down, digging the fingers of one hand in under the curve of Spencer's shoulder blade. He's fighting dirty but Spencer doesn't call him on it, just rumbles out a happy little noise and goes slack under Brendon's hands. He trails the soap lower over Spencer's collarbones, across his chest, slides it down Spencer's stomach in a long line that has the muscles twitching under his hand.
"Brendon," Spencer grumbles as Brendon drags the soap through the hair above Spencer's cock, but he doesn't sound that upset and he's still leaning back against Brendon's body, his back warm from the sun and the shower where it's pressed along Brendon's front.
"Hmm?" Brendon responds as he swipes the soap back and forth above Spencer's dick.
"I think that part's clean," Spencer says, but his voice is a little tight.
"I like to be thorough," Brendon says as he wraps his free hand around Spencer's waist, pulling him back closer.
"You're still all sandy," Spencer grumps, squirming. "You're getting me sandy again. You're re-sanding me."
"Your babbling," Brendon breathes into his ear, because Spencer is. He tends to do that when he doesn't want to admit that Brendon is right about something. Like how awesome it would be if his dick was on Spencer. He shifts them anyway, though, because Spencer can and will continue to complain about this. "Look at that," Brendon says as he shuffles them sideways until the shower spray is hitting him too, running over his back and down between their bodies. "De-sanded!"
Brendon slides his hand over a little, trails the soap over Spencer's hip and down the crease of his right thigh, letting his knuckles brush against Spencer's dick which is, Brendon is pleased to note, already hard. He considers gloating, but that would probably be counter productive, so he just swipes the soap across Spencer's balls, pointedly ignoring both his dick and the way Spencer's hips push forward. Brendon runs the soap up Spencer's other thigh, his hip, the curve of his waist, over his stomach and to his chest, pressing in just a little so the ridges of the petals catch on Spencer's nipples.
"Oh fuck you," Spencer bites out. "I seriously hate you."
"No you don't," Brendon says, nosing behind Spencer's ear, nipping at his earlobe.
"I do," Spencer says, tilting his head to the side so Brendon can get at his neck. "I also seriously doubt that you're properly de-sanded. I can practically feel you. Abrading me."
Brendon snorts a little, right into Spencer's ear, because seriously? Abrading? "Shut up, Spencer," he says, going up on his tiptoes to reach around Spencer and fumble with the tiny bottle of shampoo. His cock catches and drags in the dip above Spencer's ass on his way back down, and once he's done grinning about the way Spencer presses back a bit, he uncaps the shampoo and squeezes some out into his hands. "That was an accidental dicking," Brendon clarifies as he rubs his hands together. "Now turn around."
"Accidental dicking," Spencer huffs. "Do you even listen to yourself?" He turns around anyway though, and tips his head back under the water when Brendon coaxes him, eyes shut and face slack as the water pours down over his scalp. Spencer's nose is a little red, Brendon notes, and he's about to reach out and touch it when he remembers his hands are still soapy.
And then Brendon puts his dick on Spencer, the end! \o/
I wrote this for fallintosilence in exchange for presents. I'm pretty sure she thought I wouldn't do it, but I did and now I have pretty necklaces and I am not ashamed at all. It's more like bartering than prostitution. I posted this under flock a while back and have apparently since lost whatever shame caused me to flock in the first place. IDK, man.
"Dude," Spencer says, swatting at Brendon. "Dude, I am trying to sleep, no jokes. Especially not stupid ones."
"I am not joking," Brendon says, his voice tight.
"Can't you be not joking at, like, noon?" Spencer yawns, hesitantly cracking one eye open before hissing and shutting it immediately when he encounters sunlight. "Curtains. We need better curtains."
"I opened them, you complete fucking idiot, so you would wake up and talk to me about how I am super fucking pregnant."
Brendon sounds a little hysterical.
"You sound a little hysterical," Spencer says. "Which, kudos, your acting has really improved and all, but sleep. I was doing it. It was awesome."
"Fine," Brendon says. "Fine, you know what then? Here." Spencer's hit in the face all at once by several hard plastic objects, which, you know, hurts.
"Oww," he grumbles.
"Fuck. You." Brendon says. "And you know what else? I peed on those. All over them. And one hit you in the mouth."
"I-- huh?" Spencer asks, finally forcing himself to sit up in bed. He opens his eyes just in time to see their bedroom door slamming shut, and then he looks down.
Which is when he sees the dozen or so pregnancy tests littering the comforter.
-
Spencer spends about an hour in the bathroom, carefully matching the pregnancy tests to the boxes that are spread out all over the counter and then even more carefully reading the instructions. Over. And over. And then one more time just to be sure. Every single test is positive.
Spencer sets them all out in a row on the counter and just stares for a few minutes, an entire row of pink plus signs staring up at him accusingly. Of all the benefits of the whole gay sex thing, Spencer thought that not worrying about pregnancy scares was pretty high up there on the list.
Although he’s pretty sure that thirteen positive pregnancy tests goes beyond the realm of scare and into the realm of terrifying reality. Which can’t be true. Because, you know, Brendon is a dude. And Spencer’s a dude. They are both dudes, and Brendon can’t be pregnant, and he is obviously playing some kind of really elaborate and really mean joke on Spencer.
Spencer pinches himself five times, slaps himself really hard in the face twice, and is rummaging under the sink and in the garbage for anything Brendon could have used to smuggle in pregnant lady pee when he realizes that maybe, possibly, he should talk to Brendon.
-
Brendon does not want to talk. Brendon really does not want to talk and Spencer tries his very very best to respect Brendon's boundaries and give him his privacy. He manages for all of thirty minutes, until he knocks on the door a seventh time and Brendon’s, “Go the fuck away, seriously,” comes out weak and watery.
That's when Spencer takes a running start and bangs into the door with his shoulder. It's also when he falls down. Hard.
"What," Brendon says, opening the door and staring down at Spencer with red, puffy eyes, "the fuck."
"I was going to break the door down," Spencer winces, rubbing his shoulder. "And comfort you."
"It wasn't locked, you dumb fuck," Brendon says, wiping at his eyes with his hand before reaching down to haul Spencer up.
"No, hey," Spencer says, "hey, you shouldn't be doing that, in, like, your condition."
"Wow," Brendon says, staring incredulously for a moment before sinking down to sit next to Spencer against the wall. "Wow."
"How did this even happen?" Spencer asks after a few minutes. "Like, I got an A in Biology. It was an A minus, but I know my stuff."
Brendon laughs, and then he laughs some more, and then he buries his face in his knees and laughs until he starts to cry.
"Hey, stop," Spencer says, wrapping his arms around Brendon's waist and tilting him over until he’s resting across Spencer's lap. "Hey, no, it's. Well, I don’t know if it’s okay or not, because I’m still not exactly sure what’s going on, but, I'm sorry. That I was a dickbag, and all," he clarifies, petting at Brendon's hair. "I just really didn't think that--"
"Yeah," Brendon says, sniffling. He wipes his nose on Spencer's pants, and sits back up, but Spencer lets it slide because, well. It's kind of the least of his concerns right now. "Yeah, me either," he finishes quietly. "I went to, like, six doctors who all told me I had eaten my twin in the womb or something, only when they did tests that's not what happened, and thank god they all assumed it was a tumor or something.
“Yeah, that’s great news,” Spencer says, rubbing at the small of Brendon’s back.
“But then,” Brendon continues pointedly, I went to this holistic healer I read about online and she told me that all signs pointed to yes but it was impossible, and then I got kind of desperate and I called Pete--"
"Oh god," Spencer says.
"--and he told me that the last time we all got high at his house we weren't smoking regular weed."
“What?” Spencer says, stilling his hand.
“Keep rubbing,” Brendon says, tilting his head onto Spencer’s shoulder once Spencer complies. “He said Dirty smuggled it back from Amsterdam a few years ago and he’s just been waiting for the right time and that apparently there was monkey paw in it or something--”
“Wait, what?” Spencer says. “I smoked a monkey?”
“Just the paw,” Brendon says, grimacing. “But that’s not the point. Pete said Dirty was pretty vague about things but the dude he bought it off told him some shit about dreams and wishes and Dirty thought the dude was just a fan of Cinderella or something, but apparently not.”
"Oh god," Spencer repeats. “So it’s like magical pregnancy weed? Oh fuck, Pete's not?"
"No," Brendon says, laughing hoarsely. "No, it’s not, like, pregnancy specific. Pete just grew a tail. He's actually super excited about it."
"What the fuck?" Spencer says, rubbing more firmly at the small of Brendon’s back. Brendon’s really tense, which Spencer guesses makes a lot of sense, given the current circumstances.
"Why does Pete get a tail and you get a baby?” Spencer asks. “Not that I'm not happy?" Spencer says, when Brendon shoots him a look.
"Because, apparently, you get whatever it is you're thinking about when you smoke up."
"And Pete was thinking about a tail?"
"This surprises you?" Brendon asks. Which, right. Point.
"Ashlee keeps finding chocolate cakes in the fridge every morning when she gets up, and you--"
"Right," Spencer says, blushing. "I was wondering what was up with that."
"Yeah," Brendon says. "Seriously. Not that I'm complaining because--"
"My dick was fine before," Spencer says. "Fine. It was bigger than yours."
"Please don't insult my dick, I'm pregnant," Brendon says. He glares at Spencer, and he keeps it up for about ten seconds before he starts laugh. "Oh my god," he says. "I'm pregnant."
"So you were thinking about..." Spencer says, not quite sure how to word that question.
"My mom," Brendon says, "mentioned it last time I came over for dinner. That I was the only kid who hadn't started a family of my own, and that we could always adopt, and I was just kind of thinking that it might be kind of nice if we could have a baby that was, like, ours, and." Brendon stops abruptly, glancing down at his lap.
Spencer follows his eyes, and blushes when he realizes he's resting his hand on Brendon's stomach.
"So," Brendon says, not-so-casually dropping his hand on top of Spencer's when Spencer goes to pull it back, holding their hands to his stomach. "I don't know, like, what our options are, or whatever, or if we even have options since I'm pretty sure--"
"Why do we need options?" Spencer asks. "We've got enough money that I'm pretty sure we can find a doctor who'll stay quiet about things, and then we can just, you know. Have a baby."
"Oh," Brendon says. "Just like that, huh?"
"Yeah," Spencer says, leaning over and kissing Brendon's nose because he knows that Brendon hates it. "Just like that."
"I'll lose my figure," Brendon says, rolling his eyes.
"Yeah, but, think of it this way," Spencer says, getting to his feet and carefully hauling Brendon up, kissing him softly before pulling back. "Your boobs are going to get giant."
"Oh shut the fuck up," Brendon says, punching Spencer's shoulder.
That happened.
Kink Bingo again. I was never super into this and now that Jon's quit the band and talked smack and quit his new band to write songs about growing beards and raise cats (which is a valid life choice) I will never finish it.
"Check this shit out," Brendon says, hopping up to grab the low hanging metal rail that stretches across one wall of their dressing room. His toes just brush the ground and he hangs there for a minute, face considering, before drawing his legs up toward his chest and swinging back and forth. "Kick ass," he says happily. "Built in jungle gym."
"When you fall and crack your head open I'm not even going to bother suing the venue," Zack says as he walks by. "I'm taking Spence and Ryan out on a food run, you coming?"
"Nah," Brendon says as he hops down and pulls a face at Zack's retreating back back. Jon chuckles, shaking his head at Zack and grinning back when Brendon turns to him and smiles bright and wide.
"Watch," Brendon says as soon as the door closes, his eyes shining. Jon does, watches as Brendon turns around and grabs the rail again, pushing off of the wall with his feet and into a backflip.
He narrowly misses crashing into the floor, sure, but it's still pretty impressive, and Jon gives him an easy grin when Brendon jumps back up to his feet with a, "TA-DA!"
"You're seriously going to kill yourself," Jon says fondly, wandering over to where Brendon's eyeballing the bar again. "You know I'm not good in a disaster, wait until Zack's here to mortally injure yourself. Or at least Spencer."
"Nah, I'm cool," Brendon says, darting in to drop a quick kiss to Jon's lips before stretching up on his tip toes to reach for the rail again. His shirt rides up, and his jeans are hanging low enough that Jon can see the sharp angles of Brendon's hipbones where they stick out above his ridiculous underwear, bright yellow today. The muscles in Brendon's stomach are pulled taut, standing out in stark relief and Jon knows a good thing when he sees it so he circles Brendon's waist with his hands, lets his thumbs dip down to rub over his hipbones.
Brendon makes a surprised noise, then wiggles a little in Jon's grasp. Jon lifts Brendon up a little, until Brendon's feet aren't touching the ground at all anymore, and he kisses at Brendon's throat, across his shoulders through his shirt. "How long do you think you could hold on?" Jon asks curiously.
"Oh," Brendon says a little breathlessly, tilting his head back when Jon stretches on tip toes to kiss under his jaw, "a while. I've totally got this."
"Yeah?" Jon asks. Because that sounds like a challenge. "Don't let go, then," and his hands are already working at Brendon's belt buckle as he sinks to his knees.
Then Jon blows Brendon and possibly has an orgasm himself and there's probably some snarky banter from someone the end!
I don't even know what the fuck was up with this. I don't do angst. I write okay porn and make dumb jokes. This has neither.
The first time Brendon hears from Jon after the band splits it's via text message. Their tour stint is over and he's curled up in an arm chair in the studio they've rented, his knees tucked into a hoodie he's borrowed from Spencer, stretching it out. Spencer's snoring on the sofa across the room and Brendon's about to wake him up, take him home, when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
"What was the name of that one place with the giant blue dog?"
Brendon blinks, looks around the studio for no real reason, and types back:
"Humphrey's Home of Ill Repute"
It is four a.m.
--
The next text comes a few days later, as Brendon's trying to decide if he wants to make pasta or a salad. Or maybe pasta salad. That's always an option.
"Ry just ate raw squid and I think hes gonna barf."
Brendon feels suddenly, irrationally angry.
He closes his phone and hollers at Spencer to get his shoes, they're going for subs.
--
He texts Jon back hours later, wide awake in the dark of his room.
"Remember when Spence and zack drank all that gatorade and puked?"
Jon's reply comes timestamped a minute and 23 seconds later.
"Zacks was purple."
--
The pictures start a few days later. Random shots of gravel, the grass, the sky, Jon's big toe with a ladybug crawling across it.
Jon doesn't send anything related to their recording, the closest he comes is a shot of Ryan's wrist reaching across a table that Brendon's pretty sure he recognizes from Ryan's makeshift studio.
He doesn't delete it, but it's a near thing. It's not until three days later that he scrolls past the picture and realizes that Ryan's wearing a bracelet he recognizes from a show in Connecticut. It says "reinvent !" and Brendon's stomach clenches up hot and angry.
He deletes the picture.
I have no idea where this was even going. Probably reconciliation and mended feelings and sunshine and rainbows and ~the starting of a brand new day. That's right. Paula Abdul lyrics. Deal with it.
Yep. I think I started writing this for fallintosilence but I am terrible girlfriend so I never actually finished it. Set post-split.
"Really, Ryan, can you focus, please?" Greta sighs.
"Right, focused, totally focused," Ryan says. He blinks up at her, eyes huge, but doesn't still the hand that's stroking slowly up and down Jon's side, mindlessly petting. Jon hums and pushes his body up into the touch without bothering to lift his head from where it's resting on the carpet.
"Jonathan," Greta says. "Jonathan, seriously."
"Mmm-hmm," Jon hums into the carpet. "Just a minute, totally in just a minute."
Ryan is stroking over Jon's face now, and he makes an inquisitive noise in Greta's direction, says, "Greta, come feel this. Does his beard feel more beardy than usual?"
"Maybe," Jon says thoughtfully, "maybe my beard has grown its own beard. Do beards do that?"
"Okay," Greta says decisively, rising from the couch. "Okay, this isn't going to work."
It's not the first time one or all of them have been too stoned and giggly to focus on sex but dammit this time she had plans. Greta likes to think she is generally a very giving and agreeable person. She's let Jon photograph her with Ryan and she's let Ryan blindfold her and keep up a running commentary on the things Jon was doing to him and now it is her turn. It's her turn and her request was even relatively simple. She wanted to watch Ryan fuck Jon, wanted to tell him how and when he could move. She's put a lot of thought into this and it was going to be a good time for everyone involved until the giggle twins decided it was the perfect time to smoke up to the point of distraction and that is not going to work for Greta.
Not at all.
She can hear them laughing in the living room as she digs through the box under the bed, combing through increasingly ludicrous sex toys bought when she and Ryan were going through that particular phase, until she finds what she's looking for.
Greta also likes to think that she's relatively self sufficient, and if she can't get Ryan to do things right, she has no particular problem with doing them herself. She paints on a smirk, dangling the harness from one finger, and steps back into the living room to find Ryan slumped over Jon's lap, Jon's fingers dragging through his hair. She suppresses the urge to find it adorable and instead says evenly, "Ryan, up."
Ryan's eyes snap open at her tone, widening more when he sees what's in her hand. "Hey, I was totally--"
"Taking a nap in Jon's lap instead of fucking him like I asked you to, so once again, up, please."
Ryan rolls his eyes and climbs to his feet shakily. "Help me?" She asks sweetly, holding out the harness.
Ryan seems agreeable enough as he reaches around her to pull down her zipper, folding her dress over the back of the nearest chair. He kneels down in front of her and holds the harness out, letting her step into it before pulling it up over her hips and securing the buckles. He leans into her hand when she smooths it over his cheek in thanks, and she almost forgets the game plan here until Jon says, idly, "You look pretty."
She glances over to see Jon leaning against the bottom of the recliner, palming himself through his boxers, eyes half-lidded and roaming slowly up and down her body. "Ryan," Greta says, unable to take her eyes off of Jon, "Why don't you go sit on the sofa, please?"
Ryan ambles over, moving slowly, and Greta can feel the weight of his gaze on her as she walks over to Jon, sinks her hands in his soft, soft hair. Jon looks up at her, eyes still a little cloudy and gazed from the pot, a big, warm grin on his face.
"Hi Greta," he says.
"Hi Jon," she replies. "I'm going to fuck you now."
"That seems like a plan," Jon says, shrugging.
Greta nods and settles into Jon's lap, his hands coming up to span her hips, warm and broad where they grip into her skin. He tucks the pinky finger of his right hand under one of the straps, rubs little circles into the skin that's hiding beneath, says, "You really do look pretty."
Greta grins, ducks down to kiss him warm and slow. She shifts in Jon's lap and he hisses as the dildo presses against his erection, rocking up against her as he kisses her deep and languid. She could do this for hours if she wanted. Jon loves kissing, puts everything he has into it, lets himself get distracted by the kissing and not where it's leading. Ryan's the opposite. Ryan, in fact, is making impatient noises from his seat on the couch, loud enough that Greta pulls away from Jon's mouth reluctantly and turns to glare at him.
"If you had done what you were supposed to in the first place, Ryan, you could be fucking Jon right now. But you didn't. So I suggest you stop whining and keep your hands out of your pants if you want your turn."
"You two are too slow, you waste too much time," Ryan huffs.
"Do I need to remind you that you were the one who failed to fuck him in the first place because you were too busy petting him?" Greta asks incredulously. "If you want to talk about slow--"
"Guys?" Jon says. "Maybe you could argue while someone fucks me?"
"While I fuck you," Greta says, throwing a glance at Ryan that hopefully conveys both "Ha!" and "I win!" in equal parts. Ryan rolls his eyes and grumbles, so Greta's pretty sure she got her point across.
"On your knees, Jon," she says, rising from his lap reluctantly. "Face the chair."
Jon nods, turns his back to her as he settles his crossed arms on the seat of the recliner. Jon's gorgeous, all broad bones and corded muscle stretched between, and she admittedly gets a bit distracted stroking over the expanse of his back, up and down his spine, over the drip and curve of his ass she pushes his boxers down.
"Now who's--"
"Shut the fuck up," Greta says, cutting Ryan off. He laughs a little, but she ignores him, reaches around Jon to grab the lube from the seat of the recliner. She pours a bit into her hand, warms it before dragging her fingers through the puddle in her palm. Jon's head is bowed, settled on top of his folded arms, his back one long arch in front of her. She drops to her knees and suppresses the urge to giggle when the dildo hits the carpet between Jon's knees and flops back up. Greta runs two wet fingers slowly over Jon's rim, rubbing circles, pressing into the skin, stroking over him until he's making low noises in his throat, pressing back against her touch.
Jon's approach to sex is pretty similar to his approach to life in general. Slow and lazy, taking things in, enjoying things as they come. She and Ryan both have a vested interest in pushing him, making him want it, getting him to stop taking what he's given and ask for what he wants, and when she glances over to the couch Ryan is looking at her, eyes hot, smirk lighting up one corner of his mouth.
Greta grins back and pushes her two fingers inside of Jon's body suddenly, making Jon buck up and then back, tearing a surprised gasp from his throat. Greta crooks her fingers and presses them in before stilling, letting Jon's muscles adjust around her as she strokes the small of his back with her other hand.
"Are you good, Jon?" she asks after a moment. Jon nods, pushes back against her hand as she twists her fingers, spreads them, rubs over him until he's gasping wetly into the air. He's ready, Ryan had fucked him last night, slow and lazy in front of the television while Greta painted her toenails, and he likes the stretch anyway. She likes when he asks for it, though, so she waits, keeps her fingers stiff and spread inside of him, holding him open while she lets her thumb dip in and rub around his stretched rim. He whimpers a little, pushes back against her again, and she asks, "Yes, Jon?"
"Can-- you can," he says, his voice a little strung out and rusty sounding.
"I can what?" she asks, turning to look at Ryan. Ryan loves this part. Ryan rolls his eyes at her pointedly while staring at his own hard cock, but Ryan loves this part.
"You can fuck me," Jon says, as conversationally as he can when he's open around Greta's fingers, waiting for her cock. "Please," he adds. It's an afterthought, but it almost always is with Jon and it's enough for her regardless.
Greta grins at Ryan one last time before dropping a quick kiss low on Jon's back as she reaches for the discarded lube. She slicks the length of the dildo with her free hand, her two fingers holding Jon spread open as she presses the head in, and Jon hisses, says, "Shit, Greta."
She pulls her fingers free as the head of the dildo pushes in, and then stills, watching as Jon clenches around it, feeling the phantom tugs between her own legs. "Greta," he says again, a bit more insistently. "Greta, Greta. Move. Move, come on." He's worked up now, she's been at this a while. She likes to go slow with Jon, likes to get him strung up and sweaty before they even really start.
"You can feel free to move anytime you'd like, Jon," Greta says. "I'm fine right where I am."
Jon groans, braces his hands on the seat of the recliner in front of him, pushes himself back onto the cock. "You," he grunts out, "are a frustrating woman."
Behind them, Ryan snorts. Greta lifts one hand from Jon's hip to flip him off over her shoulder.
She can feel the pressure as Jon fucks himself back on the cock, feel the base press against her where she's wet and swollen and she lets her eyes flutter shut for just a moment, lets her hips press forward toward Jon's body just a fraction. He's going slow, he likes it slow, likes to feel it and Greta knows what that's like, how it feels to be opened up by someone inch by inch. She slides her hand over to where he's open around the strap-on, lets her fingers rub over him, press down until she can feel the veins on the dildo moving beneath the thin, stretched skin.
"Jesus," Jon huffs out, "Fuck, Greta, come on, please."
Greta nods a little helplessly before remembering he can't see her, and snaps her hips forward in one long, sharp thrust, groaning with Jon when she bottoms out, when the base of the dildo presses against her. She holds her hips steady and grinds into him for a minute, closing her eyes against the sight of Jon's hair sweaty and sticking to his neck, the feeling of her clit dragging over the smooth plastic of the strap-on.
Then Greta pegs Ryan Ross because he should shut his mouth and know his place, and also because Greta should peg every boy, the end!
This was for... something. I honestly do not remember what. Ryan and Spencer are high school age in this, and there's sexy biting that draws blood.
Ryan's not paying attention when he trips over the bottle, and after that he's mostly focused on not splitting his head open on the sidewalk, so it doesn't even occur to him that there wasn't a rosebush between the Kramer's place and the Taylor's place yesterday. Once he's in the rosebush he's focused on the oww, fuck of approximately a zillion tiny thorns stabbing his flesh and the sting in his palms where they scraped across the curb. When he manages to fight his way out of the plant and back to his feet, he's pretty thoroughly covered in tiny scratches and shiny yellow pollen that's making his nose tickle and his eyes water a little, burning where it's mixing with his cuts. He considers turning around to go shower and change, but he's so close to Spencer's place. Spencer's place has a shower. Spencer's place has clothes. Spencer's place has Spencer and food and no parents for the weekend and decently unscrambled porn which will probably lead to more than decent making out. It's really a no brainer when he thinks of it that way.
Ryan limps his way through the two minutes it takes to get to Spencer's house. He's pretty sure he fucked up his ankle a little, but can't seem to make himself slow down, his steps coming out rushed even when he tries to tell his body to chill the fuck out. He feels kind of weird and restless, like his skin's on a bit too tight, and he doesn't even bother knocking when he gets to the door. It might take Spencer too long to hear him and it suddenly seems really, really important that he get inside and see Spencer.
Spencer's not in the kitchen, and he's not in the living room and he's not in the den, and Ryan is about to head up the stairs when Spencer starts walking down them. He feels oddly relieved to see Spencer, like something's loosened up inside of him a bit, and he shrugs it off, hurries up the steps until they meet in the middle, until Spencer says, "Ryan what the fuck, did you get in a fight with a fairy or something? Why are you sparkling?"
Ryan wants to respond, but Spencer's grabbed his forearm, and, well. Huh. It's like this warm rush of sensation travels through his body, radiating out from Spencer's hand and up his arm and curling through his chest and slithering down to settle in his gut. It's-- it's not entirely new but it's never been anything this immediate, never been this strong just from Spencer touching him. Ryan is going to focus, he is, he's going to clear his head and open his mouth and sounds that make sense are going to come out, but Spencer shifts, moves down a step until he's closer to Ryan, and the air shifts around him. Ryan can feel it, feel it displace from around Spencer's body and push into his, spread out, cover him, and it smells like--
"Did you just jerk off?" And. Well. That's not what Ryan was planning on saying. Spencer's eyes widen and Ryan can see his nostrils flare, sniffing the air, can see the flush that starts at the tips of his ears and spreads over his face. He has a wild, frantic thought that if he could just touch he could feel it, too, could feel the blood heating up under Spencer's thin skin, and he has his hand on Spencer's face before he even realizes he's moved.
He's pressed up close to Spencer now and the smell is even stronger, sweat and come, and Ryan was right, he can feel it, Spencer's face warm under his hand, the blood pumping under his skin, and Ryan does not know what's up, but something is very clearly up. Spencer is right there, though, and he's just looking at Ryan, confused and more than a little embarrassed, and Ryan's whole body is twitching, vibrating, shaking its way the last few inches until his mouth is on Spencer's.
Kissing Spencer isn't new, not really, but it's new enough like this. It usually takes them a little while to work up to it, is the thing. Spencer's mouth opens on a small, surprised sound that Ryan can feel rumbling over his lips and down his throat as he presses closer and closer until Spencer's back thumps into the wall hard enough to make the picture frames shake above them. It's not close enough but Ryan can't figure out how to get closer so he settles for pressing his thumb into the hinge of Spencer's jaw, getting his mouth open, licking over Spencer's lips and across his teeth, into his mouth. Spencer's bottom lip is heavy between his, and if he focuses Ryan swears he can feel Spencer's heartbeat in it, thumping through his body, and Ryan sucks it in, scrapes his teeth until Spencer makes a rough noise and raises his hand to clutch at the back of Ryan's head.
The air changes again, ripples the way it had earlier, and there's that smell again, that Spencer smell, and Ryan realizes that must be the hand Spencer had jerked off with. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurs to him that something is seriously weird. but it can't quite break through the haze surrounding everything, the one that's pushing against his body and trying to get out, the one that makes him pull away from Spencer's mouth, grab Spencer's hand and hold it up to his face.
Spencer tries again, says, "Ryan--" but he breaks off when Ryan nuzzles into the center of his palm, presses his nose in and sniffs before pulling back to lick a long stripe across the broad expanse of Spencer's palm where the smell is strongest, to weave his tongue between Spencer's fingers and lap at the webs, at the salt taste that's lodged there. It makes his blood hum, makes his cock twitch in his pants, and he doesn't realize he's bitten down until Spencer's yanking his hand back, yelping, and when Ryan licks his lip he can taste a faint tang of copper. There's a little smear of blood between Spencer's thumb and pointer finger, and Ryan tries to lean back down to lap at it, but Spencer's other hand settles in the center of chest and pushes him back hard until he's pressed against the opposite wall.
Spencer's eyes are dark and his hand is heavy on Ryan's chest. If Ryan presses just right, he can almost feel his bones shift under Spencer's palm, and it's strangely, darkly thrilling. He tries to get closer to Spencer, he's too far away, but Spencer just pushes harder, presses Ryan down against the wall, and Ryan's hips jerk up into the air helplessly at the thought of Spencer holding him down in bed, instead, holding him down and not letting him up, even if he tried, and--
"Ryan." Spencer's voice is strained and high, and when Ryan forces himself to focus Spencer looks scared, and, yeah. Ryan can see how Spencer might be scared, Ryan is kind of scared, now that he thinks about it, and he tries to pay attention, tries to listen. "Ryan, what-- did you take something?"
Ryan tries to answer, he does, but all that comes out is a groan and he struggles again, surges forward under Spencer's palm but doesn't actually get anywhere. "N-no," he manages. "You know I-- no." Spencer looks at him, long and considering, but all Ryan can see is how dark Spencer's eyes are, how heavy his hand feels and the way he can still smell Spencer, even sharper now, fresher, and Ryan's mouth actually waters a little.
Spencer nods to himself like he's decided something and slides his hand down to grab at Ryan's wrist, pulling him. Ryan arches mindlessly toward him, lets himself be tugged along behind Spencer, crowds in to press tight to Spencer's back and buries his nose in the hair at Spencer's nape. Spencer stumbles a bit, they both do, and they almost go tumbling right back down the stairs, but Ryan can't, he can't, he has to be close to Spencer. Spencer shuffle slides them up the rest of the steps and Ryan's so distracted at mouthing the soft, salty skin at the nape of Spencer's neck that he doesn't realize Spencer's gotten them both in to his bathroom until he's there, trying to fold down over Spencer as he bends to turn on the faucet.
They're still pressed together, Ryan's erection nudging right under Spencer's ass, but even the smallest movement makes something claw at his chest, makes his hands come up to scramble at Spencer's shoulders, pull him back up, plaster himself to Spencer's back. He can't smell Spencer as strongly when Spencer is all the way down there and right now that's the only thing making sense, the only thing cutting through the haze in his brain that he can recognize.
"Ryan, Ryan, hey--" Spencer grips Ryan's wrists and squeezes, hard, and it hurts, it's a sharp jolt that doesn't even really feel good but makes Ryan's hips snap forward all the same, makes his mouth drop open in a moan against the back of Spencer's neck. He can feel his bones moving under his skin, feel Spencer's thumbs displacing them, making room. He's rubbing against Spencer's ass now, pressing up and grinding down, and Spencer's not pressing back but he's not pulling away, either.
Well that was more fucked up than I remembered it being. Whoops! /o\
This was for Kink Bingo as well. I am a failure. I distinctly remember putting this on a flash drive to work on while flying out to see fallintosilence and then realizing I could not do that since the text editor on my netbook dispalyed the doc title really big and bold. And the doc title was "bb ot3 dp! aww yeah girl anal!" Not exactly airport appropriate. Brendon and Spencer are high school aged in this, Ryan's in his first semester of college.
It's late, Ryan is already snoring softly on the other side of Brendon's mattress, pressed between Brendon and the wall, but Spencer can't sleep. She's maybe, just a little, kind of fixated, so when she feels Brendon sigh behind her and shift a little, she figures it's now or never. "Hey," she whispers, turning over on her side to face Brendon.
"Mmm?" Brendon grumbles, voice rough with sleep. He slides an arm around her waist, pulls her in closer, and it would be so easy to just forget about it and press her face into Brendon's shoulder and go to sleep but she just can't fucking stop.
"Hey," she says again, squeezing her eyes shut in the dark and burrowing closer to Brendon's body. "Hey. What's it like when. When Ryan. What does it feel like?"
It takes Brendon a second, and Spencer can't decide if it's because he's half asleep or because she shouldn't have asked and just as her stomach is starting to twist up in tight knots, Brendon lets out a sound that's half laugh and half groan into her hair. "Shit, Spence," he says. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"Just tell me," she says, "Just. I want to know. You always look so--" she's blushing furiously and her words are getting stuck in her throat and she has never been more grateful for the dark. It's not new; they're not new, the three of them, but there's still a lot they haven't done, still a lot she's scared to ask for.
"So what?" Brendon asks, voice low, hand trailing over her hip.
"So-- like it feels so good. Like you like it."
Brendon laughs a little into her hair, says, “Well. It does, Spence. I do.”
Spencer just breathes, tries to think, tries to clear her head. Brendon's rubbing slow circles into the skin of her hip, trailing his fingers under the edge of her underwear, and she shivers almost reflexively, tries to squirm closer to his body. She has no idea what to say, and she tries saying nothing, but, well. Brendon is Brendon.
"Why?” he asks, his fingers more insistent now, less soothing, skating up and down the crease of her thigh. Spencer shakes her head because this was a bad idea. She has no idea what she's doing and Brendon's not helping because he's letting his fingers trail over her now, sliding under her underwear and across her skin where she's still wet.
"Fuck,” she hisses, because she's a little sore but also a lot turned on, and her legs fall open automatically so Brendon can fit his hand between them, can cup her while he slides a finger inside. The angle's awkward, it's probably hurting Brendon's wrist, but it's good, his palm presses against her clit, his finger moving inside.
Spencer almost forgets his question, until he pulls back to get at her mouth, kisses her sloppy and deep and asks her again, “Why?”
"Just. You-- the way you look." Brendon presses his nose into her cheek, nods against her face while he works his hand, pressing in. "Ryan, too, I-- it's not the same, I know, but I wanted." She's babbling, she can't seem to make herself complete a thought, but Brendon's got two fingers inside of her now, pressing up, rubbing in, and Spencer seriously can not believe how deeply Ryan sleeps.
"Wanted what?" Brendon asks, and his voice, fuck, she still likes it when she can do that to his voice.
"To try," Spencer gasps out into the dark when Brendon presses down hard with the heel of his hand.
"Fuck, Spence," Brendon says, his hips jerking helplessly forward, pressing his cock into her hipbone. The movement jars his hand, makes his fingers slip in deeper, and just like that Spencer's crying out, clenching around Brendon's fingers as she comes. "Jesus," Brendon says into the damp hair at her temple. "Spencer, Spencer, shit," and Spencer shifts forward, lets Brendon come hot and sudden across the soft part of her belly, cock sliding wetly against her skin.
Brendon drops his head to her shoulder, nuzzles into her neck, trails his lips across her throat. "Yeah?" he asks after a second, arms tightening around her. Brendon likes to be close, always, but he's especially clingy after he's come, likes to wrap himself around someone like a particularly wiggly vine. "All you had to do was say," he answers when she nods, not trusting her voice. "Always. Just say."
"Yeah," Spencer says, tilting her head up when Brendon noses at her jaw. Brendon kisses her clumsy and slow, wet, familiar presses of his mouth against hers. Spencer pulls away first, swipes halfheartedly at her stomach with the bit of sheet that's tangled between their bodies and grimaces. She's gross and she's going to feel like shit when she wakes up tomorrow, but at least they aren't her sheets this time. Brendon makes a low, happy noise when she settles back against him; already halfway back to sleep, but Spencer presses closer when he throws his leg over hers, hides her face under his chin and reaches across his body to find Ryan's hand already curled against Brendon's back.
-
She doesn't exactly forget, but they're all distracted with school and the band and a million other things, and it's so long before they get another night together that Spencer's honestly confused when Ryan wraps his arms around her waist one afternoon in her kitchen, whispers into her ear, "Tonight, yeah?"
"Hmm?" she asks distractedly, trying to remember if she's supposed to be doing the dishes or cleaning the counters.
"Tonight," Ryan repeats, skimming his hand up under the hem of her t-shirt. "We can try it."
"Try what?" Spencer asks, squirming a little. Her mom's in the next room and she really doesn't feel like getting caught right now. Plus, Ryan keeps brushing his fingers closer and closer to her sides, and the fucker knows she's ticklish.
"Try fucking you in the ass, Spencer, Jesus," Ryan says, not particularly quietly.
"Oh my god, shut the fuck up!" Spencer hisses, twisting in Ryan's arms, smacking his shoulder. "Are you out of your mind? My mother is in the next room."
"Well," Ryan says, shrugging a little. "You weren't getting it."
"Welcome to talking to you about anything ever, Christ," Spencer snaps. She knows she's overreacting, just a little. There's no way her mom could have heard anything, but. Still. She can feel herself blushing and she can see Ryan smirking out the corner of her eye, and it just pisses her off more.
"I hate you," she says. Ryan still hasn't let go of her and he just tightens his arms around her waist when she turns her back to him, trying to pull away.
"No, you don't," he says into her ear, hot breath puffing through the loose hair that's fallen out of her ponytail.
"I do," Spencer says resolutely, but she shifts back against him anyway when he settles his hand low and warm on her stomach.
"We've been talking about it," Ryan tells her, walking them forward, little shuffling steps until Spencer's hips hit the counter. "Me and Brendon."
"How nice for you," Spencer says, trying to keep her voice even. Ryan is rubbing little circles into the skin just under the waist of her shorts, letting his fingers dip lower and lower with each pass. "I'm glad you two felt fine discussing this without asking me."
"Do you want to say no?" Ryan asks, shifting his hips, and fuck she can feel him; hard in his pants, pressing in against her ass.
"Not the point," she says, huffing out a small noise when Ryan grinds his hips into her.
"It was a genuine question," Ryan says, nuzzling into the skin behind her ear as he tucks his fingertips inside the elastic of her underwear. "Do you want to say no?"
"No," Spencer gasps out. "I mean yes. I mean I don't want to say no. I mean fuck you," she ends on a whine when Ryan's fingers move down far enough to brush over her clit, just a light glancing touch that makes Spencer's belly coil up tight, makes her press her hips forward against the counter, against Ryan's hand.
Ryan chuckles low and throaty in her ear, and Spencer's getting ready to seriously mangle him when her mom calls out, "Spencer. Dishes. I don't hear the sink. And ask Ryan if he's staying for dinner."
Ryan jumps back guilty, almost pulling Spencer's shorts off in the process, making her stumble forward into the counter.
"Asshole," Spencer whisper-yells at Ryan as she straightens her shorts and turns on the tap. "Good luck hiding your boner from my mom."
Ryan blanches, and Spencer grins happily to herself as she rinses off last night's dinner plates.
-
"You are fucking insane," Spencer says evenly, "If you think you are putting that thing up my ass."
"It's not fair," Ryan counters, "I don't see why Brendon gets to do it just because he has a small dick."
"I have a smaller dick than yours, and who doesn't, fuck you," Brendon snaps from the foot of the bed, where he's sitting naked and cross-legged with his chin in his hands.
They've kind of reached an impasse, is the problem.
"I'm saying," Ryan continues, talking over Brendon, "That it's discrimination. Not to mention I knew you first and we were kind of technically dating first."
"Are you seriously trying to use playground rules to determine who fucks me in the ass?" Spencer asks incredulously. "Seriously?"
"Please note," Brendon says, "That I'm an impartial bystander. Totally impartial. And totally hard."
"Charming," Spencer replies, but it is, a little, and she nudges Brendon's knee with her bare foot, sticks her tongue out at him when he grabs at her toes.
And then Ryan Ross was going to shut up and deal with it, and there was going to be DP where Ryan was on bottom and complained the whole time until Spencer reminded him that she was having sex with him and if he didn't like it she could take her vagina and go home, and then he shuts up and everyone comes and they all live happily ever after, the end! \o/
For Kink Bingo before I... gave up on writing my actual Kink Bingo to go play on the fake Kink Bingo we made that did not have enemas on it. La la la. I might actually finish this at some point, but because that will probably not actually happen, here we are. Set post-split during Brendon and Spencer's brohabitation.
"You are fucking disgusting," Spencer says the second Brendon pulls back the shower curtain.
"Look," Brendon replies, "it's the guest bathroom. I'm not a guest. I'm not responsible for what happens in here."
"It's your house, idiot," Spencer gripes, pushing past him and turning on the faucets. "Have you ever been in here?"
"Once," Brendon says, "To tell the plumber guys something when they were installing new pipes. I'm pretty sure Regan was here at some point, because there are fancy little soaps. She was big on fancy little soaps." Whatever, the tub's not that gross, just a little dusty.
"That's great," Spencer says, sounding like it's anything but. "Can you see if there are fancy big towels anywhere because I'm going to be even more pissed off if we have to track sand upstairs too."
"It's not my fault the beach shower wasn't working," Brendon reminds him. Because it's not his fault, and he's pretty sure Spencer thinks it's his fault.
"My car," Spencer says sadly, still fiddling with the water. "My car will never be the same."
"Not," Brendon says, straining to reach the cabinets without stepping too far off the bathmat, "my fault." And then, "Hah! Towels!"
"Come on then you sandy little fucker," Spencer says as he climbs in the tub, his fingers already tapping against the knob that turns on the shower.
Brendon shoves the towels on top of the rack, and steps in behind Spencer, pulling the shower curtain shut behind him. The bottom of the tub is already a little sandy, and Brendon drags his toes through it, only jumping a little when Spencer turns the spray on and an errant stream hits him directly in the eye.
"Take off your trunks," Spencer says, already pulling his over his hips. "And keep your dick away from me. I'm not in the mood for your dick right now."
"I wasn't going to put my dick on you," Brendon says defensively, yanking his trunks down. He was totally going to put his dick on Spencer, though. Shower sex is shower sex, sandy or not.
Spencer throws a smirk over his shoulder, and fine, maybe Brendon's transparent. Whatever. He's transparent and naked and also he's smart and pretty sure he can get Spencer to put out anyway.
He's not actually getting much water with Spencer in front of him, though, just little drops and random shoots that glance off of Spencer's shoulders and into Brendon's hair, onto his eyelashes. Brendon doesn't mind though, because Spencer's back is broad and freckled and a little pink from the sun and right in front of Brendon's face, so he fits his palms to the curve of Spencer's shoulders, fingers sliding through water and stray sand.
Spencer leans back into the touch, just a little, and Brendon rests his forehead between Spencer's shoulder blades. Spencer's skin is still vaguely warm from the sun and he smells like the ocean and Brendon breathes him in a little before he pulls back. "Soap?" he asks.
"Um," Spencer says. "There's a bottle of hotel shampoo in the corner?"
"Oh oh wait," Brendon says, steadying himself with a hand on Spencer's waist as he sticks his other arm out from the curtain, hand flailing around until he makes contact with the edge of the wicker basket on the counter. "Hah!" He says, grabbing a handful of little fancy soaps and brandishing them victoriously. To Spencer's back. Right. "Okay," he says, stretching up to his toes and reaching around Spencer's body to hold his hand in front of Spencer's face. "Flower, seashell, or. . . weird zombie hand? What the fuck?"
"I think that one's melted," Spencer says, plucking it from Brendon's hand. "Unless this was a really diverse collection of fancy soaps."
"I wonder if they actually make zombie themed fancy soaps," Brendon muses as he tosses the seashell into the soap cubby and swipes the flower across Spencer's shoulders. "We should look into that for the upstairs bathroom."
"It's not your worst idea," Spencer concedes, tipping his head to the side as Brendon slides the soap over his shoulders. Brendon grins and digs his free hand into the muscles of Spencer's shoulder because Spencer is a sucker for a massage and Brendon would still very much like to put his dick on Spencer at some point.
"Lower," Spencer mumbles, rolling his shoulders, the skin slippery under Brendon's hand. Brendon trails his fingers down, digging the fingers of one hand in under the curve of Spencer's shoulder blade. He's fighting dirty but Spencer doesn't call him on it, just rumbles out a happy little noise and goes slack under Brendon's hands. He trails the soap lower over Spencer's collarbones, across his chest, slides it down Spencer's stomach in a long line that has the muscles twitching under his hand.
"Brendon," Spencer grumbles as Brendon drags the soap through the hair above Spencer's cock, but he doesn't sound that upset and he's still leaning back against Brendon's body, his back warm from the sun and the shower where it's pressed along Brendon's front.
"Hmm?" Brendon responds as he swipes the soap back and forth above Spencer's dick.
"I think that part's clean," Spencer says, but his voice is a little tight.
"I like to be thorough," Brendon says as he wraps his free hand around Spencer's waist, pulling him back closer.
"You're still all sandy," Spencer grumps, squirming. "You're getting me sandy again. You're re-sanding me."
"Your babbling," Brendon breathes into his ear, because Spencer is. He tends to do that when he doesn't want to admit that Brendon is right about something. Like how awesome it would be if his dick was on Spencer. He shifts them anyway, though, because Spencer can and will continue to complain about this. "Look at that," Brendon says as he shuffles them sideways until the shower spray is hitting him too, running over his back and down between their bodies. "De-sanded!"
Brendon slides his hand over a little, trails the soap over Spencer's hip and down the crease of his right thigh, letting his knuckles brush against Spencer's dick which is, Brendon is pleased to note, already hard. He considers gloating, but that would probably be counter productive, so he just swipes the soap across Spencer's balls, pointedly ignoring both his dick and the way Spencer's hips push forward. Brendon runs the soap up Spencer's other thigh, his hip, the curve of his waist, over his stomach and to his chest, pressing in just a little so the ridges of the petals catch on Spencer's nipples.
"Oh fuck you," Spencer bites out. "I seriously hate you."
"No you don't," Brendon says, nosing behind Spencer's ear, nipping at his earlobe.
"I do," Spencer says, tilting his head to the side so Brendon can get at his neck. "I also seriously doubt that you're properly de-sanded. I can practically feel you. Abrading me."
Brendon snorts a little, right into Spencer's ear, because seriously? Abrading? "Shut up, Spencer," he says, going up on his tiptoes to reach around Spencer and fumble with the tiny bottle of shampoo. His cock catches and drags in the dip above Spencer's ass on his way back down, and once he's done grinning about the way Spencer presses back a bit, he uncaps the shampoo and squeezes some out into his hands. "That was an accidental dicking," Brendon clarifies as he rubs his hands together. "Now turn around."
"Accidental dicking," Spencer huffs. "Do you even listen to yourself?" He turns around anyway though, and tips his head back under the water when Brendon coaxes him, eyes shut and face slack as the water pours down over his scalp. Spencer's nose is a little red, Brendon notes, and he's about to reach out and touch it when he remembers his hands are still soapy.
And then Brendon puts his dick on Spencer, the end! \o/
I wrote this for fallintosilence in exchange for presents. I'm pretty sure she thought I wouldn't do it, but I did and now I have pretty necklaces and I am not ashamed at all. It's more like bartering than prostitution. I posted this under flock a while back and have apparently since lost whatever shame caused me to flock in the first place. IDK, man.
"Dude," Spencer says, swatting at Brendon. "Dude, I am trying to sleep, no jokes. Especially not stupid ones."
"I am not joking," Brendon says, his voice tight.
"Can't you be not joking at, like, noon?" Spencer yawns, hesitantly cracking one eye open before hissing and shutting it immediately when he encounters sunlight. "Curtains. We need better curtains."
"I opened them, you complete fucking idiot, so you would wake up and talk to me about how I am super fucking pregnant."
Brendon sounds a little hysterical.
"You sound a little hysterical," Spencer says. "Which, kudos, your acting has really improved and all, but sleep. I was doing it. It was awesome."
"Fine," Brendon says. "Fine, you know what then? Here." Spencer's hit in the face all at once by several hard plastic objects, which, you know, hurts.
"Oww," he grumbles.
"Fuck. You." Brendon says. "And you know what else? I peed on those. All over them. And one hit you in the mouth."
"I-- huh?" Spencer asks, finally forcing himself to sit up in bed. He opens his eyes just in time to see their bedroom door slamming shut, and then he looks down.
Which is when he sees the dozen or so pregnancy tests littering the comforter.
-
Spencer spends about an hour in the bathroom, carefully matching the pregnancy tests to the boxes that are spread out all over the counter and then even more carefully reading the instructions. Over. And over. And then one more time just to be sure. Every single test is positive.
Spencer sets them all out in a row on the counter and just stares for a few minutes, an entire row of pink plus signs staring up at him accusingly. Of all the benefits of the whole gay sex thing, Spencer thought that not worrying about pregnancy scares was pretty high up there on the list.
Although he’s pretty sure that thirteen positive pregnancy tests goes beyond the realm of scare and into the realm of terrifying reality. Which can’t be true. Because, you know, Brendon is a dude. And Spencer’s a dude. They are both dudes, and Brendon can’t be pregnant, and he is obviously playing some kind of really elaborate and really mean joke on Spencer.
Spencer pinches himself five times, slaps himself really hard in the face twice, and is rummaging under the sink and in the garbage for anything Brendon could have used to smuggle in pregnant lady pee when he realizes that maybe, possibly, he should talk to Brendon.
-
Brendon does not want to talk. Brendon really does not want to talk and Spencer tries his very very best to respect Brendon's boundaries and give him his privacy. He manages for all of thirty minutes, until he knocks on the door a seventh time and Brendon’s, “Go the fuck away, seriously,” comes out weak and watery.
That's when Spencer takes a running start and bangs into the door with his shoulder. It's also when he falls down. Hard.
"What," Brendon says, opening the door and staring down at Spencer with red, puffy eyes, "the fuck."
"I was going to break the door down," Spencer winces, rubbing his shoulder. "And comfort you."
"It wasn't locked, you dumb fuck," Brendon says, wiping at his eyes with his hand before reaching down to haul Spencer up.
"No, hey," Spencer says, "hey, you shouldn't be doing that, in, like, your condition."
"Wow," Brendon says, staring incredulously for a moment before sinking down to sit next to Spencer against the wall. "Wow."
"How did this even happen?" Spencer asks after a few minutes. "Like, I got an A in Biology. It was an A minus, but I know my stuff."
Brendon laughs, and then he laughs some more, and then he buries his face in his knees and laughs until he starts to cry.
"Hey, stop," Spencer says, wrapping his arms around Brendon's waist and tilting him over until he’s resting across Spencer's lap. "Hey, no, it's. Well, I don’t know if it’s okay or not, because I’m still not exactly sure what’s going on, but, I'm sorry. That I was a dickbag, and all," he clarifies, petting at Brendon's hair. "I just really didn't think that--"
"Yeah," Brendon says, sniffling. He wipes his nose on Spencer's pants, and sits back up, but Spencer lets it slide because, well. It's kind of the least of his concerns right now. "Yeah, me either," he finishes quietly. "I went to, like, six doctors who all told me I had eaten my twin in the womb or something, only when they did tests that's not what happened, and thank god they all assumed it was a tumor or something.
“Yeah, that’s great news,” Spencer says, rubbing at the small of Brendon’s back.
“But then,” Brendon continues pointedly, I went to this holistic healer I read about online and she told me that all signs pointed to yes but it was impossible, and then I got kind of desperate and I called Pete--"
"Oh god," Spencer says.
"--and he told me that the last time we all got high at his house we weren't smoking regular weed."
“What?” Spencer says, stilling his hand.
“Keep rubbing,” Brendon says, tilting his head onto Spencer’s shoulder once Spencer complies. “He said Dirty smuggled it back from Amsterdam a few years ago and he’s just been waiting for the right time and that apparently there was monkey paw in it or something--”
“Wait, what?” Spencer says. “I smoked a monkey?”
“Just the paw,” Brendon says, grimacing. “But that’s not the point. Pete said Dirty was pretty vague about things but the dude he bought it off told him some shit about dreams and wishes and Dirty thought the dude was just a fan of Cinderella or something, but apparently not.”
"Oh god," Spencer repeats. “So it’s like magical pregnancy weed? Oh fuck, Pete's not?"
"No," Brendon says, laughing hoarsely. "No, it’s not, like, pregnancy specific. Pete just grew a tail. He's actually super excited about it."
"What the fuck?" Spencer says, rubbing more firmly at the small of Brendon’s back. Brendon’s really tense, which Spencer guesses makes a lot of sense, given the current circumstances.
"Why does Pete get a tail and you get a baby?” Spencer asks. “Not that I'm not happy?" Spencer says, when Brendon shoots him a look.
"Because, apparently, you get whatever it is you're thinking about when you smoke up."
"And Pete was thinking about a tail?"
"This surprises you?" Brendon asks. Which, right. Point.
"Ashlee keeps finding chocolate cakes in the fridge every morning when she gets up, and you--"
"Right," Spencer says, blushing. "I was wondering what was up with that."
"Yeah," Brendon says. "Seriously. Not that I'm complaining because--"
"My dick was fine before," Spencer says. "Fine. It was bigger than yours."
"Please don't insult my dick, I'm pregnant," Brendon says. He glares at Spencer, and he keeps it up for about ten seconds before he starts laugh. "Oh my god," he says. "I'm pregnant."
"So you were thinking about..." Spencer says, not quite sure how to word that question.
"My mom," Brendon says, "mentioned it last time I came over for dinner. That I was the only kid who hadn't started a family of my own, and that we could always adopt, and I was just kind of thinking that it might be kind of nice if we could have a baby that was, like, ours, and." Brendon stops abruptly, glancing down at his lap.
Spencer follows his eyes, and blushes when he realizes he's resting his hand on Brendon's stomach.
"So," Brendon says, not-so-casually dropping his hand on top of Spencer's when Spencer goes to pull it back, holding their hands to his stomach. "I don't know, like, what our options are, or whatever, or if we even have options since I'm pretty sure--"
"Why do we need options?" Spencer asks. "We've got enough money that I'm pretty sure we can find a doctor who'll stay quiet about things, and then we can just, you know. Have a baby."
"Oh," Brendon says. "Just like that, huh?"
"Yeah," Spencer says, leaning over and kissing Brendon's nose because he knows that Brendon hates it. "Just like that."
"I'll lose my figure," Brendon says, rolling his eyes.
"Yeah, but, think of it this way," Spencer says, getting to his feet and carefully hauling Brendon up, kissing him softly before pulling back. "Your boobs are going to get giant."
"Oh shut the fuck up," Brendon says, punching Spencer's shoulder.
That happened.
Kink Bingo again. I was never super into this and now that Jon's quit the band and talked smack and quit his new band to write songs about growing beards and raise cats (which is a valid life choice) I will never finish it.
"Check this shit out," Brendon says, hopping up to grab the low hanging metal rail that stretches across one wall of their dressing room. His toes just brush the ground and he hangs there for a minute, face considering, before drawing his legs up toward his chest and swinging back and forth. "Kick ass," he says happily. "Built in jungle gym."
"When you fall and crack your head open I'm not even going to bother suing the venue," Zack says as he walks by. "I'm taking Spence and Ryan out on a food run, you coming?"
"Nah," Brendon says as he hops down and pulls a face at Zack's retreating back back. Jon chuckles, shaking his head at Zack and grinning back when Brendon turns to him and smiles bright and wide.
"Watch," Brendon says as soon as the door closes, his eyes shining. Jon does, watches as Brendon turns around and grabs the rail again, pushing off of the wall with his feet and into a backflip.
He narrowly misses crashing into the floor, sure, but it's still pretty impressive, and Jon gives him an easy grin when Brendon jumps back up to his feet with a, "TA-DA!"
"You're seriously going to kill yourself," Jon says fondly, wandering over to where Brendon's eyeballing the bar again. "You know I'm not good in a disaster, wait until Zack's here to mortally injure yourself. Or at least Spencer."
"Nah, I'm cool," Brendon says, darting in to drop a quick kiss to Jon's lips before stretching up on his tip toes to reach for the rail again. His shirt rides up, and his jeans are hanging low enough that Jon can see the sharp angles of Brendon's hipbones where they stick out above his ridiculous underwear, bright yellow today. The muscles in Brendon's stomach are pulled taut, standing out in stark relief and Jon knows a good thing when he sees it so he circles Brendon's waist with his hands, lets his thumbs dip down to rub over his hipbones.
Brendon makes a surprised noise, then wiggles a little in Jon's grasp. Jon lifts Brendon up a little, until Brendon's feet aren't touching the ground at all anymore, and he kisses at Brendon's throat, across his shoulders through his shirt. "How long do you think you could hold on?" Jon asks curiously.
"Oh," Brendon says a little breathlessly, tilting his head back when Jon stretches on tip toes to kiss under his jaw, "a while. I've totally got this."
"Yeah?" Jon asks. Because that sounds like a challenge. "Don't let go, then," and his hands are already working at Brendon's belt buckle as he sinks to his knees.
Then Jon blows Brendon and possibly has an orgasm himself and there's probably some snarky banter from someone the end!
I don't even know what the fuck was up with this. I don't do angst. I write okay porn and make dumb jokes. This has neither.
The first time Brendon hears from Jon after the band splits it's via text message. Their tour stint is over and he's curled up in an arm chair in the studio they've rented, his knees tucked into a hoodie he's borrowed from Spencer, stretching it out. Spencer's snoring on the sofa across the room and Brendon's about to wake him up, take him home, when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
"What was the name of that one place with the giant blue dog?"
Brendon blinks, looks around the studio for no real reason, and types back:
"Humphrey's Home of Ill Repute"
It is four a.m.
--
The next text comes a few days later, as Brendon's trying to decide if he wants to make pasta or a salad. Or maybe pasta salad. That's always an option.
"Ry just ate raw squid and I think hes gonna barf."
Brendon feels suddenly, irrationally angry.
He closes his phone and hollers at Spencer to get his shoes, they're going for subs.
--
He texts Jon back hours later, wide awake in the dark of his room.
"Remember when Spence and zack drank all that gatorade and puked?"
Jon's reply comes timestamped a minute and 23 seconds later.
"Zacks was purple."
--
The pictures start a few days later. Random shots of gravel, the grass, the sky, Jon's big toe with a ladybug crawling across it.
Jon doesn't send anything related to their recording, the closest he comes is a shot of Ryan's wrist reaching across a table that Brendon's pretty sure he recognizes from Ryan's makeshift studio.
He doesn't delete it, but it's a near thing. It's not until three days later that he scrolls past the picture and realizes that Ryan's wearing a bracelet he recognizes from a show in Connecticut. It says "reinvent !" and Brendon's stomach clenches up hot and angry.
He deletes the picture.
I have no idea where this was even going. Probably reconciliation and mended feelings and sunshine and rainbows and ~the starting of a brand new day. That's right. Paula Abdul lyrics. Deal with it.
Yep. I think I started writing this for fallintosilence but I am terrible girlfriend so I never actually finished it. Set post-split.
"Really, Ryan, can you focus, please?" Greta sighs.
"Right, focused, totally focused," Ryan says. He blinks up at her, eyes huge, but doesn't still the hand that's stroking slowly up and down Jon's side, mindlessly petting. Jon hums and pushes his body up into the touch without bothering to lift his head from where it's resting on the carpet.
"Jonathan," Greta says. "Jonathan, seriously."
"Mmm-hmm," Jon hums into the carpet. "Just a minute, totally in just a minute."
Ryan is stroking over Jon's face now, and he makes an inquisitive noise in Greta's direction, says, "Greta, come feel this. Does his beard feel more beardy than usual?"
"Maybe," Jon says thoughtfully, "maybe my beard has grown its own beard. Do beards do that?"
"Okay," Greta says decisively, rising from the couch. "Okay, this isn't going to work."
It's not the first time one or all of them have been too stoned and giggly to focus on sex but dammit this time she had plans. Greta likes to think she is generally a very giving and agreeable person. She's let Jon photograph her with Ryan and she's let Ryan blindfold her and keep up a running commentary on the things Jon was doing to him and now it is her turn. It's her turn and her request was even relatively simple. She wanted to watch Ryan fuck Jon, wanted to tell him how and when he could move. She's put a lot of thought into this and it was going to be a good time for everyone involved until the giggle twins decided it was the perfect time to smoke up to the point of distraction and that is not going to work for Greta.
Not at all.
She can hear them laughing in the living room as she digs through the box under the bed, combing through increasingly ludicrous sex toys bought when she and Ryan were going through that particular phase, until she finds what she's looking for.
Greta also likes to think that she's relatively self sufficient, and if she can't get Ryan to do things right, she has no particular problem with doing them herself. She paints on a smirk, dangling the harness from one finger, and steps back into the living room to find Ryan slumped over Jon's lap, Jon's fingers dragging through his hair. She suppresses the urge to find it adorable and instead says evenly, "Ryan, up."
Ryan's eyes snap open at her tone, widening more when he sees what's in her hand. "Hey, I was totally--"
"Taking a nap in Jon's lap instead of fucking him like I asked you to, so once again, up, please."
Ryan rolls his eyes and climbs to his feet shakily. "Help me?" She asks sweetly, holding out the harness.
Ryan seems agreeable enough as he reaches around her to pull down her zipper, folding her dress over the back of the nearest chair. He kneels down in front of her and holds the harness out, letting her step into it before pulling it up over her hips and securing the buckles. He leans into her hand when she smooths it over his cheek in thanks, and she almost forgets the game plan here until Jon says, idly, "You look pretty."
She glances over to see Jon leaning against the bottom of the recliner, palming himself through his boxers, eyes half-lidded and roaming slowly up and down her body. "Ryan," Greta says, unable to take her eyes off of Jon, "Why don't you go sit on the sofa, please?"
Ryan ambles over, moving slowly, and Greta can feel the weight of his gaze on her as she walks over to Jon, sinks her hands in his soft, soft hair. Jon looks up at her, eyes still a little cloudy and gazed from the pot, a big, warm grin on his face.
"Hi Greta," he says.
"Hi Jon," she replies. "I'm going to fuck you now."
"That seems like a plan," Jon says, shrugging.
Greta nods and settles into Jon's lap, his hands coming up to span her hips, warm and broad where they grip into her skin. He tucks the pinky finger of his right hand under one of the straps, rubs little circles into the skin that's hiding beneath, says, "You really do look pretty."
Greta grins, ducks down to kiss him warm and slow. She shifts in Jon's lap and he hisses as the dildo presses against his erection, rocking up against her as he kisses her deep and languid. She could do this for hours if she wanted. Jon loves kissing, puts everything he has into it, lets himself get distracted by the kissing and not where it's leading. Ryan's the opposite. Ryan, in fact, is making impatient noises from his seat on the couch, loud enough that Greta pulls away from Jon's mouth reluctantly and turns to glare at him.
"If you had done what you were supposed to in the first place, Ryan, you could be fucking Jon right now. But you didn't. So I suggest you stop whining and keep your hands out of your pants if you want your turn."
"You two are too slow, you waste too much time," Ryan huffs.
"Do I need to remind you that you were the one who failed to fuck him in the first place because you were too busy petting him?" Greta asks incredulously. "If you want to talk about slow--"
"Guys?" Jon says. "Maybe you could argue while someone fucks me?"
"While I fuck you," Greta says, throwing a glance at Ryan that hopefully conveys both "Ha!" and "I win!" in equal parts. Ryan rolls his eyes and grumbles, so Greta's pretty sure she got her point across.
"On your knees, Jon," she says, rising from his lap reluctantly. "Face the chair."
Jon nods, turns his back to her as he settles his crossed arms on the seat of the recliner. Jon's gorgeous, all broad bones and corded muscle stretched between, and she admittedly gets a bit distracted stroking over the expanse of his back, up and down his spine, over the drip and curve of his ass she pushes his boxers down.
"Now who's--"
"Shut the fuck up," Greta says, cutting Ryan off. He laughs a little, but she ignores him, reaches around Jon to grab the lube from the seat of the recliner. She pours a bit into her hand, warms it before dragging her fingers through the puddle in her palm. Jon's head is bowed, settled on top of his folded arms, his back one long arch in front of her. She drops to her knees and suppresses the urge to giggle when the dildo hits the carpet between Jon's knees and flops back up. Greta runs two wet fingers slowly over Jon's rim, rubbing circles, pressing into the skin, stroking over him until he's making low noises in his throat, pressing back against her touch.
Jon's approach to sex is pretty similar to his approach to life in general. Slow and lazy, taking things in, enjoying things as they come. She and Ryan both have a vested interest in pushing him, making him want it, getting him to stop taking what he's given and ask for what he wants, and when she glances over to the couch Ryan is looking at her, eyes hot, smirk lighting up one corner of his mouth.
Greta grins back and pushes her two fingers inside of Jon's body suddenly, making Jon buck up and then back, tearing a surprised gasp from his throat. Greta crooks her fingers and presses them in before stilling, letting Jon's muscles adjust around her as she strokes the small of his back with her other hand.
"Are you good, Jon?" she asks after a moment. Jon nods, pushes back against her hand as she twists her fingers, spreads them, rubs over him until he's gasping wetly into the air. He's ready, Ryan had fucked him last night, slow and lazy in front of the television while Greta painted her toenails, and he likes the stretch anyway. She likes when he asks for it, though, so she waits, keeps her fingers stiff and spread inside of him, holding him open while she lets her thumb dip in and rub around his stretched rim. He whimpers a little, pushes back against her again, and she asks, "Yes, Jon?"
"Can-- you can," he says, his voice a little strung out and rusty sounding.
"I can what?" she asks, turning to look at Ryan. Ryan loves this part. Ryan rolls his eyes at her pointedly while staring at his own hard cock, but Ryan loves this part.
"You can fuck me," Jon says, as conversationally as he can when he's open around Greta's fingers, waiting for her cock. "Please," he adds. It's an afterthought, but it almost always is with Jon and it's enough for her regardless.
Greta grins at Ryan one last time before dropping a quick kiss low on Jon's back as she reaches for the discarded lube. She slicks the length of the dildo with her free hand, her two fingers holding Jon spread open as she presses the head in, and Jon hisses, says, "Shit, Greta."
She pulls her fingers free as the head of the dildo pushes in, and then stills, watching as Jon clenches around it, feeling the phantom tugs between her own legs. "Greta," he says again, a bit more insistently. "Greta, Greta. Move. Move, come on." He's worked up now, she's been at this a while. She likes to go slow with Jon, likes to get him strung up and sweaty before they even really start.
"You can feel free to move anytime you'd like, Jon," Greta says. "I'm fine right where I am."
Jon groans, braces his hands on the seat of the recliner in front of him, pushes himself back onto the cock. "You," he grunts out, "are a frustrating woman."
Behind them, Ryan snorts. Greta lifts one hand from Jon's hip to flip him off over her shoulder.
She can feel the pressure as Jon fucks himself back on the cock, feel the base press against her where she's wet and swollen and she lets her eyes flutter shut for just a moment, lets her hips press forward toward Jon's body just a fraction. He's going slow, he likes it slow, likes to feel it and Greta knows what that's like, how it feels to be opened up by someone inch by inch. She slides her hand over to where he's open around the strap-on, lets her fingers rub over him, press down until she can feel the veins on the dildo moving beneath the thin, stretched skin.
"Jesus," Jon huffs out, "Fuck, Greta, come on, please."
Greta nods a little helplessly before remembering he can't see her, and snaps her hips forward in one long, sharp thrust, groaning with Jon when she bottoms out, when the base of the dildo presses against her. She holds her hips steady and grinds into him for a minute, closing her eyes against the sight of Jon's hair sweaty and sticking to his neck, the feeling of her clit dragging over the smooth plastic of the strap-on.
Then Greta pegs Ryan Ross because he should shut his mouth and know his place, and also because Greta should peg every boy, the end!
This was for... something. I honestly do not remember what. Ryan and Spencer are high school age in this, and there's sexy biting that draws blood.
Ryan's not paying attention when he trips over the bottle, and after that he's mostly focused on not splitting his head open on the sidewalk, so it doesn't even occur to him that there wasn't a rosebush between the Kramer's place and the Taylor's place yesterday. Once he's in the rosebush he's focused on the oww, fuck of approximately a zillion tiny thorns stabbing his flesh and the sting in his palms where they scraped across the curb. When he manages to fight his way out of the plant and back to his feet, he's pretty thoroughly covered in tiny scratches and shiny yellow pollen that's making his nose tickle and his eyes water a little, burning where it's mixing with his cuts. He considers turning around to go shower and change, but he's so close to Spencer's place. Spencer's place has a shower. Spencer's place has clothes. Spencer's place has Spencer and food and no parents for the weekend and decently unscrambled porn which will probably lead to more than decent making out. It's really a no brainer when he thinks of it that way.
Ryan limps his way through the two minutes it takes to get to Spencer's house. He's pretty sure he fucked up his ankle a little, but can't seem to make himself slow down, his steps coming out rushed even when he tries to tell his body to chill the fuck out. He feels kind of weird and restless, like his skin's on a bit too tight, and he doesn't even bother knocking when he gets to the door. It might take Spencer too long to hear him and it suddenly seems really, really important that he get inside and see Spencer.
Spencer's not in the kitchen, and he's not in the living room and he's not in the den, and Ryan is about to head up the stairs when Spencer starts walking down them. He feels oddly relieved to see Spencer, like something's loosened up inside of him a bit, and he shrugs it off, hurries up the steps until they meet in the middle, until Spencer says, "Ryan what the fuck, did you get in a fight with a fairy or something? Why are you sparkling?"
Ryan wants to respond, but Spencer's grabbed his forearm, and, well. Huh. It's like this warm rush of sensation travels through his body, radiating out from Spencer's hand and up his arm and curling through his chest and slithering down to settle in his gut. It's-- it's not entirely new but it's never been anything this immediate, never been this strong just from Spencer touching him. Ryan is going to focus, he is, he's going to clear his head and open his mouth and sounds that make sense are going to come out, but Spencer shifts, moves down a step until he's closer to Ryan, and the air shifts around him. Ryan can feel it, feel it displace from around Spencer's body and push into his, spread out, cover him, and it smells like--
"Did you just jerk off?" And. Well. That's not what Ryan was planning on saying. Spencer's eyes widen and Ryan can see his nostrils flare, sniffing the air, can see the flush that starts at the tips of his ears and spreads over his face. He has a wild, frantic thought that if he could just touch he could feel it, too, could feel the blood heating up under Spencer's thin skin, and he has his hand on Spencer's face before he even realizes he's moved.
He's pressed up close to Spencer now and the smell is even stronger, sweat and come, and Ryan was right, he can feel it, Spencer's face warm under his hand, the blood pumping under his skin, and Ryan does not know what's up, but something is very clearly up. Spencer is right there, though, and he's just looking at Ryan, confused and more than a little embarrassed, and Ryan's whole body is twitching, vibrating, shaking its way the last few inches until his mouth is on Spencer's.
Kissing Spencer isn't new, not really, but it's new enough like this. It usually takes them a little while to work up to it, is the thing. Spencer's mouth opens on a small, surprised sound that Ryan can feel rumbling over his lips and down his throat as he presses closer and closer until Spencer's back thumps into the wall hard enough to make the picture frames shake above them. It's not close enough but Ryan can't figure out how to get closer so he settles for pressing his thumb into the hinge of Spencer's jaw, getting his mouth open, licking over Spencer's lips and across his teeth, into his mouth. Spencer's bottom lip is heavy between his, and if he focuses Ryan swears he can feel Spencer's heartbeat in it, thumping through his body, and Ryan sucks it in, scrapes his teeth until Spencer makes a rough noise and raises his hand to clutch at the back of Ryan's head.
The air changes again, ripples the way it had earlier, and there's that smell again, that Spencer smell, and Ryan realizes that must be the hand Spencer had jerked off with. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurs to him that something is seriously weird. but it can't quite break through the haze surrounding everything, the one that's pushing against his body and trying to get out, the one that makes him pull away from Spencer's mouth, grab Spencer's hand and hold it up to his face.
Spencer tries again, says, "Ryan--" but he breaks off when Ryan nuzzles into the center of his palm, presses his nose in and sniffs before pulling back to lick a long stripe across the broad expanse of Spencer's palm where the smell is strongest, to weave his tongue between Spencer's fingers and lap at the webs, at the salt taste that's lodged there. It makes his blood hum, makes his cock twitch in his pants, and he doesn't realize he's bitten down until Spencer's yanking his hand back, yelping, and when Ryan licks his lip he can taste a faint tang of copper. There's a little smear of blood between Spencer's thumb and pointer finger, and Ryan tries to lean back down to lap at it, but Spencer's other hand settles in the center of chest and pushes him back hard until he's pressed against the opposite wall.
Spencer's eyes are dark and his hand is heavy on Ryan's chest. If Ryan presses just right, he can almost feel his bones shift under Spencer's palm, and it's strangely, darkly thrilling. He tries to get closer to Spencer, he's too far away, but Spencer just pushes harder, presses Ryan down against the wall, and Ryan's hips jerk up into the air helplessly at the thought of Spencer holding him down in bed, instead, holding him down and not letting him up, even if he tried, and--
"Ryan." Spencer's voice is strained and high, and when Ryan forces himself to focus Spencer looks scared, and, yeah. Ryan can see how Spencer might be scared, Ryan is kind of scared, now that he thinks about it, and he tries to pay attention, tries to listen. "Ryan, what-- did you take something?"
Ryan tries to answer, he does, but all that comes out is a groan and he struggles again, surges forward under Spencer's palm but doesn't actually get anywhere. "N-no," he manages. "You know I-- no." Spencer looks at him, long and considering, but all Ryan can see is how dark Spencer's eyes are, how heavy his hand feels and the way he can still smell Spencer, even sharper now, fresher, and Ryan's mouth actually waters a little.
Spencer nods to himself like he's decided something and slides his hand down to grab at Ryan's wrist, pulling him. Ryan arches mindlessly toward him, lets himself be tugged along behind Spencer, crowds in to press tight to Spencer's back and buries his nose in the hair at Spencer's nape. Spencer stumbles a bit, they both do, and they almost go tumbling right back down the stairs, but Ryan can't, he can't, he has to be close to Spencer. Spencer shuffle slides them up the rest of the steps and Ryan's so distracted at mouthing the soft, salty skin at the nape of Spencer's neck that he doesn't realize Spencer's gotten them both in to his bathroom until he's there, trying to fold down over Spencer as he bends to turn on the faucet.
They're still pressed together, Ryan's erection nudging right under Spencer's ass, but even the smallest movement makes something claw at his chest, makes his hands come up to scramble at Spencer's shoulders, pull him back up, plaster himself to Spencer's back. He can't smell Spencer as strongly when Spencer is all the way down there and right now that's the only thing making sense, the only thing cutting through the haze in his brain that he can recognize.
"Ryan, Ryan, hey--" Spencer grips Ryan's wrists and squeezes, hard, and it hurts, it's a sharp jolt that doesn't even really feel good but makes Ryan's hips snap forward all the same, makes his mouth drop open in a moan against the back of Spencer's neck. He can feel his bones moving under his skin, feel Spencer's thumbs displacing them, making room. He's rubbing against Spencer's ass now, pressing up and grinding down, and Spencer's not pressing back but he's not pulling away, either.
Well that was more fucked up than I remembered it being. Whoops! /o\
This was for Kink Bingo as well. I am a failure. I distinctly remember putting this on a flash drive to work on while flying out to see fallintosilence and then realizing I could not do that since the text editor on my netbook dispalyed the doc title really big and bold. And the doc title was "bb ot3 dp! aww yeah girl anal!" Not exactly airport appropriate. Brendon and Spencer are high school aged in this, Ryan's in his first semester of college.
It's late, Ryan is already snoring softly on the other side of Brendon's mattress, pressed between Brendon and the wall, but Spencer can't sleep. She's maybe, just a little, kind of fixated, so when she feels Brendon sigh behind her and shift a little, she figures it's now or never. "Hey," she whispers, turning over on her side to face Brendon.
"Mmm?" Brendon grumbles, voice rough with sleep. He slides an arm around her waist, pulls her in closer, and it would be so easy to just forget about it and press her face into Brendon's shoulder and go to sleep but she just can't fucking stop.
"Hey," she says again, squeezing her eyes shut in the dark and burrowing closer to Brendon's body. "Hey. What's it like when. When Ryan. What does it feel like?"
It takes Brendon a second, and Spencer can't decide if it's because he's half asleep or because she shouldn't have asked and just as her stomach is starting to twist up in tight knots, Brendon lets out a sound that's half laugh and half groan into her hair. "Shit, Spence," he says. "I don't know what you want me to say."
"Just tell me," she says, "Just. I want to know. You always look so--" she's blushing furiously and her words are getting stuck in her throat and she has never been more grateful for the dark. It's not new; they're not new, the three of them, but there's still a lot they haven't done, still a lot she's scared to ask for.
"So what?" Brendon asks, voice low, hand trailing over her hip.
"So-- like it feels so good. Like you like it."
Brendon laughs a little into her hair, says, “Well. It does, Spence. I do.”
Spencer just breathes, tries to think, tries to clear her head. Brendon's rubbing slow circles into the skin of her hip, trailing his fingers under the edge of her underwear, and she shivers almost reflexively, tries to squirm closer to his body. She has no idea what to say, and she tries saying nothing, but, well. Brendon is Brendon.
"Why?” he asks, his fingers more insistent now, less soothing, skating up and down the crease of her thigh. Spencer shakes her head because this was a bad idea. She has no idea what she's doing and Brendon's not helping because he's letting his fingers trail over her now, sliding under her underwear and across her skin where she's still wet.
"Fuck,” she hisses, because she's a little sore but also a lot turned on, and her legs fall open automatically so Brendon can fit his hand between them, can cup her while he slides a finger inside. The angle's awkward, it's probably hurting Brendon's wrist, but it's good, his palm presses against her clit, his finger moving inside.
Spencer almost forgets his question, until he pulls back to get at her mouth, kisses her sloppy and deep and asks her again, “Why?”
"Just. You-- the way you look." Brendon presses his nose into her cheek, nods against her face while he works his hand, pressing in. "Ryan, too, I-- it's not the same, I know, but I wanted." She's babbling, she can't seem to make herself complete a thought, but Brendon's got two fingers inside of her now, pressing up, rubbing in, and Spencer seriously can not believe how deeply Ryan sleeps.
"Wanted what?" Brendon asks, and his voice, fuck, she still likes it when she can do that to his voice.
"To try," Spencer gasps out into the dark when Brendon presses down hard with the heel of his hand.
"Fuck, Spence," Brendon says, his hips jerking helplessly forward, pressing his cock into her hipbone. The movement jars his hand, makes his fingers slip in deeper, and just like that Spencer's crying out, clenching around Brendon's fingers as she comes. "Jesus," Brendon says into the damp hair at her temple. "Spencer, Spencer, shit," and Spencer shifts forward, lets Brendon come hot and sudden across the soft part of her belly, cock sliding wetly against her skin.
Brendon drops his head to her shoulder, nuzzles into her neck, trails his lips across her throat. "Yeah?" he asks after a second, arms tightening around her. Brendon likes to be close, always, but he's especially clingy after he's come, likes to wrap himself around someone like a particularly wiggly vine. "All you had to do was say," he answers when she nods, not trusting her voice. "Always. Just say."
"Yeah," Spencer says, tilting her head up when Brendon noses at her jaw. Brendon kisses her clumsy and slow, wet, familiar presses of his mouth against hers. Spencer pulls away first, swipes halfheartedly at her stomach with the bit of sheet that's tangled between their bodies and grimaces. She's gross and she's going to feel like shit when she wakes up tomorrow, but at least they aren't her sheets this time. Brendon makes a low, happy noise when she settles back against him; already halfway back to sleep, but Spencer presses closer when he throws his leg over hers, hides her face under his chin and reaches across his body to find Ryan's hand already curled against Brendon's back.
-
She doesn't exactly forget, but they're all distracted with school and the band and a million other things, and it's so long before they get another night together that Spencer's honestly confused when Ryan wraps his arms around her waist one afternoon in her kitchen, whispers into her ear, "Tonight, yeah?"
"Hmm?" she asks distractedly, trying to remember if she's supposed to be doing the dishes or cleaning the counters.
"Tonight," Ryan repeats, skimming his hand up under the hem of her t-shirt. "We can try it."
"Try what?" Spencer asks, squirming a little. Her mom's in the next room and she really doesn't feel like getting caught right now. Plus, Ryan keeps brushing his fingers closer and closer to her sides, and the fucker knows she's ticklish.
"Try fucking you in the ass, Spencer, Jesus," Ryan says, not particularly quietly.
"Oh my god, shut the fuck up!" Spencer hisses, twisting in Ryan's arms, smacking his shoulder. "Are you out of your mind? My mother is in the next room."
"Well," Ryan says, shrugging a little. "You weren't getting it."
"Welcome to talking to you about anything ever, Christ," Spencer snaps. She knows she's overreacting, just a little. There's no way her mom could have heard anything, but. Still. She can feel herself blushing and she can see Ryan smirking out the corner of her eye, and it just pisses her off more.
"I hate you," she says. Ryan still hasn't let go of her and he just tightens his arms around her waist when she turns her back to him, trying to pull away.
"No, you don't," he says into her ear, hot breath puffing through the loose hair that's fallen out of her ponytail.
"I do," Spencer says resolutely, but she shifts back against him anyway when he settles his hand low and warm on her stomach.
"We've been talking about it," Ryan tells her, walking them forward, little shuffling steps until Spencer's hips hit the counter. "Me and Brendon."
"How nice for you," Spencer says, trying to keep her voice even. Ryan is rubbing little circles into the skin just under the waist of her shorts, letting his fingers dip lower and lower with each pass. "I'm glad you two felt fine discussing this without asking me."
"Do you want to say no?" Ryan asks, shifting his hips, and fuck she can feel him; hard in his pants, pressing in against her ass.
"Not the point," she says, huffing out a small noise when Ryan grinds his hips into her.
"It was a genuine question," Ryan says, nuzzling into the skin behind her ear as he tucks his fingertips inside the elastic of her underwear. "Do you want to say no?"
"No," Spencer gasps out. "I mean yes. I mean I don't want to say no. I mean fuck you," she ends on a whine when Ryan's fingers move down far enough to brush over her clit, just a light glancing touch that makes Spencer's belly coil up tight, makes her press her hips forward against the counter, against Ryan's hand.
Ryan chuckles low and throaty in her ear, and Spencer's getting ready to seriously mangle him when her mom calls out, "Spencer. Dishes. I don't hear the sink. And ask Ryan if he's staying for dinner."
Ryan jumps back guilty, almost pulling Spencer's shorts off in the process, making her stumble forward into the counter.
"Asshole," Spencer whisper-yells at Ryan as she straightens her shorts and turns on the tap. "Good luck hiding your boner from my mom."
Ryan blanches, and Spencer grins happily to herself as she rinses off last night's dinner plates.
-
"You are fucking insane," Spencer says evenly, "If you think you are putting that thing up my ass."
"It's not fair," Ryan counters, "I don't see why Brendon gets to do it just because he has a small dick."
"I have a smaller dick than yours, and who doesn't, fuck you," Brendon snaps from the foot of the bed, where he's sitting naked and cross-legged with his chin in his hands.
They've kind of reached an impasse, is the problem.
"I'm saying," Ryan continues, talking over Brendon, "That it's discrimination. Not to mention I knew you first and we were kind of technically dating first."
"Are you seriously trying to use playground rules to determine who fucks me in the ass?" Spencer asks incredulously. "Seriously?"
"Please note," Brendon says, "That I'm an impartial bystander. Totally impartial. And totally hard."
"Charming," Spencer replies, but it is, a little, and she nudges Brendon's knee with her bare foot, sticks her tongue out at him when he grabs at her toes.
And then Ryan Ross was going to shut up and deal with it, and there was going to be DP where Ryan was on bottom and complained the whole time until Spencer reminded him that she was having sex with him and if he didn't like it she could take her vagina and go home, and then he shuts up and everyone comes and they all live happily ever after, the end! \o/