fic: six are better than two (bandslash, P!atD, Spencer/Brent, 1/1)
You know, you start writing one ficathon story, and suddenly you have a whole new goddamn band in your brain, and they are not. Shutting. Up.
six are better than two
by Gale
SUMMARY: Just call him Spencer "Cthulu" Smith.
"Brent."
Brent smacked at the hand poking him in the shoulder. "Go 'way."
"*Brent*." Little more strongly, now.
"Spencer, seriously, go away," he said, raising his voice.
"Brent!" Spencer yelled, right in his ear, and Brent sat up straight in bed and yelled back, "WHAT?"
There was a little pause.
"Okay," Spencer said, and shit, he sounded *nervous*. Brent rubbed at his eyes in the dark. "I'm gonna show you something. But you have to promise not to freak out on me, okay?"
"Jesus," Brent muttered, "Spence, I've seen the Twilight Zone movie, okay? Where Dan Akroyd asks Albert Brooks if he wants to see something *really* scary, and he says no, like, a dozen times, but he finally says yes and Dan makes him pull over, and--"
"Brent!" Spencer yelled. "Now is not the time to be rehashing your childhood film trauma, okay? Just promise me."
Brent squinted at him as best he could. It was still pitch-black in the room, but Spencer did sound serious, and maybe even a little scared. And he was coming to *him*, not Ryan, or even Brendon, so he shrugged. "Okay," he said, "I promise."
Spencer switched on the lamp next to his bed.
Brent took one look at him and started screaming.
*
"You said you weren't going to freak out!" Spencer yelled from outside the bathroom door.
"I LIED!" Brent shouted back, and threw a shoe at the door.
*
Twenty minutes later, Brent flung the door open and said, "Okay. I'm listening."
"Maybe I don't feel like talking," Spencer sniffed, flipping through a magazine. "Maybe I just feel like going to bed and not talking about it."
Brent stalked over to the bed and carefully took the magazine out of Spencer's hands, then dropped to sit in his lap. "Bullshit."
Spencer kept the bored face up for all of ten seconds, then sighed. "I just got tired of not telling anyone, okay? Brendon would freak out, and I've known Ryan since we were kids, so if I told him he'd want to know why I didn't tell him sooner, so I figured I'd." He shrugged. "Test the waters, I guess."
"Spencer," Brent said, "you have tentacles."
"Not a lot!" Spencer said. "And I can hide them, so it doesn't have to be a big deal."
"Spencer. Tentacles."
"See, okay, you're freaking out. That's exactly what I didn't want."
"I just--" Brent sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Can I see them again?"
Spencer blinked at him. "You want to?" he said, suddenly wary.
"Yes," he said, "I really want to." He scooted back and waited.
Spencer looked at him for a long minute, then shrugged and started sliding off his sweatpants. "Okay."
It was sort of like looking at a science experiment, actually. There was Spencer's dick -- which he'd never seen before, come to think of it, because Spencer had almost as many public nudity issues as Brent did, and none of them were prone to walking around in their underwear or naked or whatever -- which looked like...pretty much every other dick Brent had ever seen, which meant it looked a lot like his own and the guys he'd had gym with, except maybe more pale.
But he was oddly hairless down there, and instead of there were. Well. Tentacles. They were twice the length of his middle finger, and moved slightly, like seagrass he'd seen on the Discovery Channel.
"Were you." Brent made himself look away. "Were you born this way, or has it been since, like, puberty or whatever?"
"Born this way," Spencer said, shrugging. "My parents know; so does my doctor. Remember how I got out of gym?" Brent nodded. "He wrote me a note, saying I had, like, a chronic hernia or something. It was just easier that way, meant I had less chance of someone noticing in the showers."
"But what about," Brent started, and stopped for a second. "I mean. Your girlfriends--"
"I've only had sex with a couple girls," Spencer said. "They knew. It's not just me, you know. I'm not just some genetic freak. I mean, I am, but I'm not the only one. The ones who didn't, I didn't--" He shrugged again. "You make excuses, you know? Go down on them, break up with them before you have sex."
Brent went back to staring at them. "Are your parents like this?"
"No," Spencer said, "but my mom's parents are, and they had a long talk with my dad before they got married, said there was a possibility it could happen in any kids they had. It skips generations, sometimes," he said, like an apology.
"How are they." Brent shook his head. "This is weird," he muttered. "I don't know what questions to ask, exactly."
"It's no different than any other dick you've ever seen," Spencer said. "It's just -- I don't have testicles, so the. um. tentacles -- God, it sounds so weird saying that out loud -- produce sperm. Same setup you have, just. Different accessories?" He coughed once and blushed pink.
"How?" Brent asked. He scooted a little closer, still staring.
"Nana used to tell me that we came from some tiny fishing village in Wales or something, and a couple hundred years ago one of our ancestors went out and mated with--" Spencer scratched his nose. "--that's not important. But that was in the 1500s or whatever, so now instead of, like, something really impressive, you get *this*." He nodded at his lap.
"Dread Cthulu, rising from the deep," Brent started, and Spencer shoved him in the arm. Brent grinned. "It's actually kind of cool," he said. "Sorry I freaked out, man. It's not every day one of your friend announces he's a supporting character in Legend of the Overfiend."
"Shut up," Spencer said, but he was grinning, too.
And really, it *was* kind of cool, sitting here and looking at Spencer, watching the tentacles move and sway. He reached out and stroked one with his finger, laughing when it wrapped around his finger. "Okay," he said, "*that's* unexpected," and looked at Spencer.
Spencer looked like his eyes were going to roll back in his head.
"Um." Brent froze, the laugh dying in his throat. "Do you. I can move, if you want."
"No," Spencer breathed, "don't, God, just -- do that again, okay?"
Brent looked at him, then took a shuddering breath and stroked it again, used his other hand to twine with a couple more. The ones he wasn't stroking were brushing against him lightly, very gentle caresses. "Are you," he said quietly, and watched Spencer's face go heavy-lidded and relaxed. "Is this. Oh, fuck, seriously, I can stop."
"Don't stop," Spencer said. He opened his eyes and fixed them on Brent's face. "It's been so long since someone just fucking touched me, Brent."
Brent didn't answer, just stroked the tentacles and let the others rub against him. This was so fucking weird, but the weird part was how weird it *wasn't*. He leaned down and kissed Spencer's inner thigh, skin as pale there as everywhere else on his body, and started whispering things: how pretty he was, how much he liked doing this, how he loved that *he* was the one Spencer trusted with this.
It was the whispering as much as the stroking, Brent figured, that made Spencer stiffen and give a low cry as he came, spilling all over Brent's fingers.
"Fuck," he whispered, blinking his eyes open. "That's just." He looked shaky and a little nervous. "Are you going to freak out again?"
Brent hesitated for a second, then started wiping Spencer clean. Nothing he hadn't done to himself a couple dozen times over the years, and every couple of seconds Spencer twitched when he touched him. "No," he finally said. "Not unless you don't let me do it again, preferably when it's not quarter to four in the morning and I can take the time to do it right."
Spencer blinked at him, then slowly smiled. "I can do that," he said, nodding.
"Okay." Brent finished cleaning him up, then reached down and yanked Spencer's sweatpants free of his legs. "Get the light, okay? We have to be up in a couple hours, and I want to get some sleep." He curled onto his back and closed his eyes, felt the light go off rather than seeing it. The bed dipped a little when Spencer climbed in next to him, turning on his side and spooning against him.
Maybe a minute passed. Then:
"Um." Brent cleared his throat. "Spencer?"
"Yeah?" he asked, sounding half-asleep.
"You're. Are you." He could feel something ease the side of his boxers down, touch feather-light. And it wasn't Spencer's fingers, since one hand was splayed across Brent's chest and the other was at his side; the angle would've been all wrong. "What are you doing?"
Brent shivered when they touched the thin skin of his hip, stroking almost as lightly as he'd stroked them a moment ago.
"What can I say?" Spencer murmured against his arm. "We like you."
six are better than two
by Gale
SUMMARY: Just call him Spencer "Cthulu" Smith.
"Brent."
Brent smacked at the hand poking him in the shoulder. "Go 'way."
"*Brent*." Little more strongly, now.
"Spencer, seriously, go away," he said, raising his voice.
"Brent!" Spencer yelled, right in his ear, and Brent sat up straight in bed and yelled back, "WHAT?"
There was a little pause.
"Okay," Spencer said, and shit, he sounded *nervous*. Brent rubbed at his eyes in the dark. "I'm gonna show you something. But you have to promise not to freak out on me, okay?"
"Jesus," Brent muttered, "Spence, I've seen the Twilight Zone movie, okay? Where Dan Akroyd asks Albert Brooks if he wants to see something *really* scary, and he says no, like, a dozen times, but he finally says yes and Dan makes him pull over, and--"
"Brent!" Spencer yelled. "Now is not the time to be rehashing your childhood film trauma, okay? Just promise me."
Brent squinted at him as best he could. It was still pitch-black in the room, but Spencer did sound serious, and maybe even a little scared. And he was coming to *him*, not Ryan, or even Brendon, so he shrugged. "Okay," he said, "I promise."
Spencer switched on the lamp next to his bed.
Brent took one look at him and started screaming.
*
"You said you weren't going to freak out!" Spencer yelled from outside the bathroom door.
"I LIED!" Brent shouted back, and threw a shoe at the door.
*
Twenty minutes later, Brent flung the door open and said, "Okay. I'm listening."
"Maybe I don't feel like talking," Spencer sniffed, flipping through a magazine. "Maybe I just feel like going to bed and not talking about it."
Brent stalked over to the bed and carefully took the magazine out of Spencer's hands, then dropped to sit in his lap. "Bullshit."
Spencer kept the bored face up for all of ten seconds, then sighed. "I just got tired of not telling anyone, okay? Brendon would freak out, and I've known Ryan since we were kids, so if I told him he'd want to know why I didn't tell him sooner, so I figured I'd." He shrugged. "Test the waters, I guess."
"Spencer," Brent said, "you have tentacles."
"Not a lot!" Spencer said. "And I can hide them, so it doesn't have to be a big deal."
"Spencer. Tentacles."
"See, okay, you're freaking out. That's exactly what I didn't want."
"I just--" Brent sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose. "Can I see them again?"
Spencer blinked at him. "You want to?" he said, suddenly wary.
"Yes," he said, "I really want to." He scooted back and waited.
Spencer looked at him for a long minute, then shrugged and started sliding off his sweatpants. "Okay."
It was sort of like looking at a science experiment, actually. There was Spencer's dick -- which he'd never seen before, come to think of it, because Spencer had almost as many public nudity issues as Brent did, and none of them were prone to walking around in their underwear or naked or whatever -- which looked like...pretty much every other dick Brent had ever seen, which meant it looked a lot like his own and the guys he'd had gym with, except maybe more pale.
But he was oddly hairless down there, and instead of there were. Well. Tentacles. They were twice the length of his middle finger, and moved slightly, like seagrass he'd seen on the Discovery Channel.
"Were you." Brent made himself look away. "Were you born this way, or has it been since, like, puberty or whatever?"
"Born this way," Spencer said, shrugging. "My parents know; so does my doctor. Remember how I got out of gym?" Brent nodded. "He wrote me a note, saying I had, like, a chronic hernia or something. It was just easier that way, meant I had less chance of someone noticing in the showers."
"But what about," Brent started, and stopped for a second. "I mean. Your girlfriends--"
"I've only had sex with a couple girls," Spencer said. "They knew. It's not just me, you know. I'm not just some genetic freak. I mean, I am, but I'm not the only one. The ones who didn't, I didn't--" He shrugged again. "You make excuses, you know? Go down on them, break up with them before you have sex."
Brent went back to staring at them. "Are your parents like this?"
"No," Spencer said, "but my mom's parents are, and they had a long talk with my dad before they got married, said there was a possibility it could happen in any kids they had. It skips generations, sometimes," he said, like an apology.
"How are they." Brent shook his head. "This is weird," he muttered. "I don't know what questions to ask, exactly."
"It's no different than any other dick you've ever seen," Spencer said. "It's just -- I don't have testicles, so the. um. tentacles -- God, it sounds so weird saying that out loud -- produce sperm. Same setup you have, just. Different accessories?" He coughed once and blushed pink.
"How?" Brent asked. He scooted a little closer, still staring.
"Nana used to tell me that we came from some tiny fishing village in Wales or something, and a couple hundred years ago one of our ancestors went out and mated with--" Spencer scratched his nose. "--that's not important. But that was in the 1500s or whatever, so now instead of, like, something really impressive, you get *this*." He nodded at his lap.
"Dread Cthulu, rising from the deep," Brent started, and Spencer shoved him in the arm. Brent grinned. "It's actually kind of cool," he said. "Sorry I freaked out, man. It's not every day one of your friend announces he's a supporting character in Legend of the Overfiend."
"Shut up," Spencer said, but he was grinning, too.
And really, it *was* kind of cool, sitting here and looking at Spencer, watching the tentacles move and sway. He reached out and stroked one with his finger, laughing when it wrapped around his finger. "Okay," he said, "*that's* unexpected," and looked at Spencer.
Spencer looked like his eyes were going to roll back in his head.
"Um." Brent froze, the laugh dying in his throat. "Do you. I can move, if you want."
"No," Spencer breathed, "don't, God, just -- do that again, okay?"
Brent looked at him, then took a shuddering breath and stroked it again, used his other hand to twine with a couple more. The ones he wasn't stroking were brushing against him lightly, very gentle caresses. "Are you," he said quietly, and watched Spencer's face go heavy-lidded and relaxed. "Is this. Oh, fuck, seriously, I can stop."
"Don't stop," Spencer said. He opened his eyes and fixed them on Brent's face. "It's been so long since someone just fucking touched me, Brent."
Brent didn't answer, just stroked the tentacles and let the others rub against him. This was so fucking weird, but the weird part was how weird it *wasn't*. He leaned down and kissed Spencer's inner thigh, skin as pale there as everywhere else on his body, and started whispering things: how pretty he was, how much he liked doing this, how he loved that *he* was the one Spencer trusted with this.
It was the whispering as much as the stroking, Brent figured, that made Spencer stiffen and give a low cry as he came, spilling all over Brent's fingers.
"Fuck," he whispered, blinking his eyes open. "That's just." He looked shaky and a little nervous. "Are you going to freak out again?"
Brent hesitated for a second, then started wiping Spencer clean. Nothing he hadn't done to himself a couple dozen times over the years, and every couple of seconds Spencer twitched when he touched him. "No," he finally said. "Not unless you don't let me do it again, preferably when it's not quarter to four in the morning and I can take the time to do it right."
Spencer blinked at him, then slowly smiled. "I can do that," he said, nodding.
"Okay." Brent finished cleaning him up, then reached down and yanked Spencer's sweatpants free of his legs. "Get the light, okay? We have to be up in a couple hours, and I want to get some sleep." He curled onto his back and closed his eyes, felt the light go off rather than seeing it. The bed dipped a little when Spencer climbed in next to him, turning on his side and spooning against him.
Maybe a minute passed. Then:
"Um." Brent cleared his throat. "Spencer?"
"Yeah?" he asked, sounding half-asleep.
"You're. Are you." He could feel something ease the side of his boxers down, touch feather-light. And it wasn't Spencer's fingers, since one hand was splayed across Brent's chest and the other was at his side; the angle would've been all wrong. "What are you doing?"
Brent shivered when they touched the thin skin of his hip, stroking almost as lightly as he'd stroked them a moment ago.
"What can I say?" Spencer murmured against his arm. "We like you."