BS: S/B: Adult: Pour Yourself A Drink
Title: Pour Yourself A Drink
Author: gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash:Panic At The Disco
Characters: Spencer/Brendon
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 808
Warning: ( skip) Kink: Drugs/Alcohol
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about characters based, in part, on the images and histories of real people. If that bothers you and/or you are one of those people, you probably don't want to read this. No harm is intended; no profit is being made.
Summary: "When he's drinking it all feels a bit more urgent, a bit more real."
Author's Notes: This is a kink bingo story. This story is not properly beta'd. Please let me know if you see any errors.
He likes the anonymity of it, the feel of a warm, willing body pressed against his own, the way that the alcohol in his bloodstream makes him feel flushed and a little reckless, like in this moment he can do anything, be anything. That's probably why alcohol is so frowned on, it makes you feel a little too powerful, a little too all-knowing. But he likes it, it's just one more of the things he'd accepted when he'd walked away, that and the knowledge that the feeling of someone sliding up behind him, rocking their pelvis into his ass, the way that a strong hand slides over his hip and pulls him back into the line of the man behind him, was always going to turn him on.
He's going to Hell, but he's known that for a long, long time. At least he's going to enjoy the time he's got now.
He rocks his hips back and into the crotch of the man behind him, shivers a little as he feels the soft stubble of a well-worn beard brush the side of his neck.
Yeah, he can handle this.
When he's drinking it all feels a bit more urgent, a bit more real. Like he's viewing the world through a set of blinders, his vision focused only on the things he can feel and hear and see and touch and taste.
And he knows this body behind him, knows it almost as well as his own, knows the way it moves and tastes and feels. He rocks back into the hard cock pressing against his ass again, taking another drink from his beer as he does so, tilting his head to the side, inviting.
He loves it when Spencer bites his neck. Loves it when he bites and nibbles and marks. But he won't, he's too aware of what they can and can't do, what the line maybe and yes means to their fans. So he never bites there, never marks there, not unless it's only visible to the sea and the sun. But, sometimes, sometimes, when he's had just one too many, when the wall he's built between the coulds and shoulds starts to crumble a little, in that moment where the reckless invincibility of the beer overrides his caution, he'll bring his teeth down, white and sharp, against the skin of Brendon's neck and nibble, bite, mark.
Brendon loves that moment, loves the dark, wide, almost wild, look of Spencer's pupils overtaking his blue, blue eyes. When they've been drinking, drinking just enough, Brendon's just reckless enough to push, to agitate Spencer into doing the things that both of them want but neither is quite ready to ask for; and Spencer's just loose enough, careless enough to push aside his strategies and plans and communication and just claim Brendon for his own.
Brendon is going to get fucked tonight, fucked hard and fast, his hips held fast in Spencer's capable hands, Spencer's fingers digging in just enough to bruise, to mark, to leave an imprint on the pale skin of Brendon's pelvis and ass. Brendon's looking forward to that, to lightly pressing his own fingers against the oval bruises and feeling the faint tingle that reminds that he is Spencer's.
The alcohol makes everything hazy and indistinct, he's not going to remember this club, not clearly, not really going to remember the cab ride home or how they'll stumble and crash their way to the bedroom, but it also makes things crystal clear, sharper and more in focus than any other kind of moment. He's going to remember with stunning clarity this moment, the sting of Spencer's teeth against his neck, the vice-like press of Spencer's hand on his hip, the hard line of Spencer's dick against the line of his ass. He's going to remember the way he's got his head thrown back, wantonly, the way his own dick is a hard bulge in the too-small front of his jeans, his fingers reaching back and clutching at Spencer's thigh; he's going to remember all this, and he'll blush because this isn't Brendon: he's not accustomed to being quite this open, to wanting so openly, but the rules are different with Spencer.
It's all going to be sharp and clear when he wakes up in the morning, all the important parts anyway, and he'll roll over, still sore from a little too little lube and a little too much hard fucking, and it'll feel wonderful. He's going to wake Spencer up with a blowjob in the morning, is going to go down on him with his mouth still beer-sour and his head faintly throbbing, but for now he's going to turn in Spencer's arms and grind against him, waiting until Spencer's control breaks and he drags Brendon out of the club and into a taxi.
Author: gibson_fic
Fandom: Bandslash:Panic At The Disco
Characters: Spencer/Brendon
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 808
Warning: ( skip) Kink: Drugs/Alcohol
Disclaimer: This is a fictional story about characters based, in part, on the images and histories of real people. If that bothers you and/or you are one of those people, you probably don't want to read this. No harm is intended; no profit is being made.
Summary: "When he's drinking it all feels a bit more urgent, a bit more real."
Author's Notes: This is a kink bingo story. This story is not properly beta'd. Please let me know if you see any errors.
He likes the anonymity of it, the feel of a warm, willing body pressed against his own, the way that the alcohol in his bloodstream makes him feel flushed and a little reckless, like in this moment he can do anything, be anything. That's probably why alcohol is so frowned on, it makes you feel a little too powerful, a little too all-knowing. But he likes it, it's just one more of the things he'd accepted when he'd walked away, that and the knowledge that the feeling of someone sliding up behind him, rocking their pelvis into his ass, the way that a strong hand slides over his hip and pulls him back into the line of the man behind him, was always going to turn him on.
He's going to Hell, but he's known that for a long, long time. At least he's going to enjoy the time he's got now.
He rocks his hips back and into the crotch of the man behind him, shivers a little as he feels the soft stubble of a well-worn beard brush the side of his neck.
Yeah, he can handle this.
When he's drinking it all feels a bit more urgent, a bit more real. Like he's viewing the world through a set of blinders, his vision focused only on the things he can feel and hear and see and touch and taste.
And he knows this body behind him, knows it almost as well as his own, knows the way it moves and tastes and feels. He rocks back into the hard cock pressing against his ass again, taking another drink from his beer as he does so, tilting his head to the side, inviting.
He loves it when Spencer bites his neck. Loves it when he bites and nibbles and marks. But he won't, he's too aware of what they can and can't do, what the line maybe and yes means to their fans. So he never bites there, never marks there, not unless it's only visible to the sea and the sun. But, sometimes, sometimes, when he's had just one too many, when the wall he's built between the coulds and shoulds starts to crumble a little, in that moment where the reckless invincibility of the beer overrides his caution, he'll bring his teeth down, white and sharp, against the skin of Brendon's neck and nibble, bite, mark.
Brendon loves that moment, loves the dark, wide, almost wild, look of Spencer's pupils overtaking his blue, blue eyes. When they've been drinking, drinking just enough, Brendon's just reckless enough to push, to agitate Spencer into doing the things that both of them want but neither is quite ready to ask for; and Spencer's just loose enough, careless enough to push aside his strategies and plans and communication and just claim Brendon for his own.
Brendon is going to get fucked tonight, fucked hard and fast, his hips held fast in Spencer's capable hands, Spencer's fingers digging in just enough to bruise, to mark, to leave an imprint on the pale skin of Brendon's pelvis and ass. Brendon's looking forward to that, to lightly pressing his own fingers against the oval bruises and feeling the faint tingle that reminds that he is Spencer's.
The alcohol makes everything hazy and indistinct, he's not going to remember this club, not clearly, not really going to remember the cab ride home or how they'll stumble and crash their way to the bedroom, but it also makes things crystal clear, sharper and more in focus than any other kind of moment. He's going to remember with stunning clarity this moment, the sting of Spencer's teeth against his neck, the vice-like press of Spencer's hand on his hip, the hard line of Spencer's dick against the line of his ass. He's going to remember the way he's got his head thrown back, wantonly, the way his own dick is a hard bulge in the too-small front of his jeans, his fingers reaching back and clutching at Spencer's thigh; he's going to remember all this, and he'll blush because this isn't Brendon: he's not accustomed to being quite this open, to wanting so openly, but the rules are different with Spencer.
It's all going to be sharp and clear when he wakes up in the morning, all the important parts anyway, and he'll roll over, still sore from a little too little lube and a little too much hard fucking, and it'll feel wonderful. He's going to wake Spencer up with a blowjob in the morning, is going to go down on him with his mouth still beer-sour and his head faintly throbbing, but for now he's going to turn in Spencer's arms and grind against him, waiting until Spencer's control breaks and he drags Brendon out of the club and into a taxi.