Email ficlet: Promises, for sunsetmog
So sunsetmog, harriet_vane, and I were talking about Bden's solo performance at ComicCon, and how probably Brendon is nervous to be doing this all by himself, and Spencer is being encouraging and supportive.
harriet_vane: Sex bribes, anyone?
AND THEN I WROTE IT.
Title: Promises
Author: elucreh
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
Rated: Adult
Wordcount: ~3000
Summary: In which, Brendon is nervous, and Spencer solves that
Notes: A bedtime pornlet for sunsetmog; written with the aid and abetment of harriet_vane. (Iow, the whole thing is her fault. Also she wrote the concert bit.) Warning for stupidly mild d/s?
Brendon is nervous.
It's stupid, he knows, but at the same time it is totally not stupid, what the fuck, he hasn't done anything like this since half of his band disappeared. He keeps pacing around the green room or whatever the fuck you call it at conventions, and Spencer sits in the corner and watches him, eyes worried like maybe he doesn't think Brendon can do it on his own either.
Oh, god, what if Spencer really doesn't think--Brendon stops dead and pivots on his heel, making for his hoodie in the corner. "I'm out," he announces, snagging the jacket by one sleeve and starting to tug it on. "You can do the solo performance, I'll be looking for Ninja Turtle merch in the Dealer's Hall if you need me."
"Brendon," Spencer says, sounding exasperated, and stands up to grab Brendon by the sleeve he hasn't put on yet. "You can do this. It's gonna be awesome."
"Shut up, Spencer, I'm ser--"
"And if it is," Spencer doesn't let him finish, "I have a surprise for you."
Brendon gives him a Look. "I'm not actually five, you know--" he starts.
"I should hope not," Spencer says, making a face. "It isn't really the kind of surprise you give a five-year-old."
"Wha--oh." Brendon hears his voice go small when this drops into place. They haven't actually been fucking very long, and it's kind of...this is the first time it's been, um. Premeditated. On Spencer's part. As far as he can tell. They don't talk about it.
They've been under a lot of stress and they're all each other has left and it's only natural they should fall into bed (or wall, or recording booth) together. Brendon hasn't been letting himself think Spencer's gone beyond seeing a warm, willing body who won't mind being fucked raw, beyond clutching at the small part of his life he hasn't lost yet.
"I booked a room at the hotel," Spencer goes on, his voice low and a little unsteady, and Brendon jerks in surprise. They were supposed to be staying with Zack. "Get through this--don't run away, don't let your stupid nerves fuck you up--and I'll make it worth your while."
Brendon bites his lip, not sure what to say. Spencer kisses him, slow and gentle and coaxing, and says, low and soft the way he is lying in bed after sex, "Trust me."
Brendon nods, wordless.
Brendon performs; it's still nervewracking, but he distracts himself by looking at Spencer lots. Spencer is standing on the sidelines with a stupid jacket and a little grin, and Brendon doesn't even babble like an idiot too much.
He bounces offstage and over to Spencer and says, "So? Well?"
Spencer shakes his head and says, "Later."
They have to hang out and gladhand with the other musicians and some fans, but finally they stumble up to their room, still laughing at the zombie joke somebody told them in the elevator.
When they get in, though, and the door clicks shut behind them, Brendon feels the laugh settle in his bones, leaving him buzzy and content. He grins at Spencer. "So?"
Spencer raises an eyebrow back. "So?"
"Spencerrrrrr..." he whines, and Spencer grins.
"I'm going to go in the bathroom for a minute," he says, grabbing his duffle. "You be naked when I get back."
"You're not going out the bathroom window and leaving me here, are you?" Brendon asks, mostly joking, but not quite.
Spencer gives him a long look, and then reaches out and pulls Brendon's mouth to his for a long, satisfying kiss. "Trust me," he says again, and goes into the bathroom.
Brendon takes a long, deep breath...and starts pulling off his clothes.
Brendon gets naked pretty quickly, because...well, because Brendon is good at getting naked quickly. He shoves his clothes into the corner behind a chair, where probably Spencer will find them and yell at him in the morning, and then he sort of looks around, fidgeting. Should he wait on the bed? Except that Pete likes to show him articles on things like how often the covers of hotel beds are washed, and ew. In the bed? Except Spencer...as far as Brendon has been able to tell so far, Spencer kind of really likes to look at Brendon, something soft and hungry in his eyes that Brendon is scared to think about in case he's wrong. So maybe getting under the sheets would be a bad idea. He thinks about striking a pose or something, maybe, but while he's trying to figure out how to show off his mouth and his ass at the same time, the bathroom door opens with a soft click, and Spencer's in the doorway smiling at him.
"Hey," Spencer says, softly, his eyes meeting Brendon's for a bright, endless moment before traveling down, over Brendon's slightly-open mouth and his funny Adam's apple and skinny ribs and independently-minded cock, which is already twitching toward Spencer like it recognises him, like it wants Spencer almost as much as Brendon does. His gaze goes down further, past Brendon's knees right down to his hairy ankles and back up again, and when he's looking into Brendon's eyes again his smile has become even brighter.
"--Hey," Brendon says back, way too late, his mouth dry and his pulse picking up. Spencer only leans over to peck him on the lips before turning to walk over to the bed, setting a paper shopping bag on the nightstand, turning back the covers like a set dresser at a photo shoot, inviting. He clicks the soft lamp next to the bed, and presses the other button that turns off the overhead light. The room is more dimly lit now, warm and intimate, and Brendon finds himself taking half a step forward before stopping, uncertain.
A little crease appears between Spencer's eyebrows. "No, hey--" he says, holding out a hand, and Brendon puts his own hand into Spencer's grip, still hesitating. Spencer pulls him close, puts their hands on the small of Brendon's back and uses his other one to tip Brendon's chin up. He kisses him softly, chastely, and Brendon shivers enough to make the cloth of Spencer's clothes rasp across his skin.
Spencer goes on kissing him gently, lips to lips, never opening enough to deepen the kiss, and Brendon can't help the small sound that escapes him. Spencer smooths his hand through Brendon's hair, soothing him, and Brendon arches up, skimming his sensitive cock against the rough denim of Spencer's jeans. He doesn't mean to be so responsive, to give so much away when he still doesn't know what this is, what Spencer wants with him, but Spencer keeps touching him in ways that are new and surprising and turn Brendon on so much he can hardly breathe.
"Lie down," Spencer breathes against Brendon's mouth, and Brendon's breath catches in his lungs. Spencer lets him go, takes a small, small step back, and clears his throat. "Lie down," he says again, hoarsely, and Brendon sinks to the mattress, unable to take his eyes from Spencer's, wide and dark in the soft light. Spencer lays his hand on Brendon's shoulder and pushes him gently down, and Brendon goes easily.
Spencer lets his finger trail down Brendon's side, just missing the side of his nipple, lingering on his stomach. "This is kind of for me," he admits, softly. "I--it's something I've wanted to try, with you. For...for a long time, actually."
Brendon's heart skips a beat. That doesn't sound like something that began only a few weeks ago, that sounds like Spencer has wanted him...
"I think--" Spencer hesitates again. "I think I can promise it will be good for you, though. And if not...we can try again. We can do something you like."
Brendon draws in a shuddery breath. "Yeah," he says, and hardly recognises his own voice drowning in Spencer's touch. "Yeah, okay."
Spencer's hand flutters purposelessly against Brendon's belly button. "Okay," he says, sounding like he could stand to take a deep breath himself. "Okay, so--I kind of wanted it to be a surprise."
"You said," Brendon says, and wiggles a little. He's not good at waiting for surprises, and Spencer's fingers are making him twitchy in his skin.
"No, I mean, like--close your eyes?"
Brendon frowns.
"Not--you don't have to," Spencer says, flustered. "I just--I'd like you to, you know? You can always open them if I'm freaking you out."
Brendon just lies there and looks up at him for a minute, considering, and then his eyes drop shut. He can hear Spencer's breath blow out in a huff.
The heat at his elbow moves away, and the bag on the nightstand rustles. He can hear the soft pop of a jar opening, the sccrrrape of the lid against the tabletop. For a long moment there's nothing and then--
not a sound, a sensation, something soft and cold against his skin, slightly sticky as it draws away. Brendon squeezes his eyes a little tighter against the temptation to peek, and waits.
“Okay?” Spencer asks, and Brendon nods hastily.
The soft, cold thing drops down again, on his stomach this time, and moves in a pattern familiar to Brendon, an assymetrical pentagram around his navel. Spencer is apparently fascinated by Brendon's freckles, particularly the ones on his stomach, and has been known to lie in bed after sex and trace paths between and around them, over and over and over again until Brendon slid into sleep. He's never thought of his stomach as particularly sexy, never been especially sensitive there, but he can feel his dick filling at this tactile reminder that Spencer, for whatever reason, is really fond of him. He bumps his stomach up a little into the whisper of pressure, and Spencer chuckles.
The soft thing lifts, and there's the soft chink of plastic against the insides of a jar-stirring?--and then another touch against his stomach, this time swift and graceful and swooping, and Brendon can't help the little yelp that escapes him, totally unmanly. Spencer soothes him with a warm finger reversing the movement. Spencer spends an unnecessary amount of time on Brendon's nipples, torturing him with the faint prickle hidden underneath the softness. Brendon writhes under the treatment, trying sososo hard to stay still, to let Spencer do whatever it is he's doing, but then Spencer drops suddenly to Brendon's thigh, and Brendon yells and bucks up, smearing the cold along his leg.
Spencer pushes Brendon's knee down sharply. “Hey,” he says, stern, and it's like sharp scissors cutting all of Brendon's strings; he goes still, a little shocked at himself, and at Spencer too.
“That's better,” Spencer says, a warning hint of rumble underlying the words. It isn't long before Brendon's regretting that impulsive reaction, because Spencer seems to want a matching stripe along his other thigh, and Brendon has to lie still as Spencer tortuously moves down the sensitive skin.
There's a quiet clunk beside Brendon's head, and another soft chink of plastic against glass. He can hear Spencer easing down to his knees beside the bed.
“Open your eyes, Brendon,” Spencer says softly, and Brendon obeys.
A soft little “oh” escapes his throat. Spencer has been painting him, with a soft rich red that brings out colors and tones in Brendon's skin that Brendon would never have dreamed existed. There are wide careless swoops across his ribs, five-petal kindergarten daisies around his nipples, and a swirling, glorified path around his five darkest freckles. Brendon has never felt so fucking worth looking at in all his life, but Spencer is looking at his stupid face like that's the only bit of him worth seeing.
Spencer rests his chin in the hollow of Brendon's hip, smiling smugly at the success of his surprise. “Want to know the best part?” he asks, still smirking.
Brendon lets out a strangled noise that he can only hope sounds affirmative.
“It's edible.” And with that, Spencer bends his head to the tail end of a broad stripe of red, his tongue hanging down to Brendon's skin, lewd, obscene. Brendon moans and lets his head thunk back onto the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut again in self-defense.
Spencer's tongue skates through the slick body paint, but rasps on Brendon's bare skin when he slips off the mark, which happens more often as Brendon's breath speeds up. Brendon's definitely whimpering now, there's no point in lying to himself about it, sharp high-pitched noises cutting themselves off every time he vacuums in another breath. A tiny part of his mind is terrified of the mockery he's earning here, but the swipes of Spencer's tongue are speeding up too, like the sounds are making Spencer want to devour him.
Spencer laps over Brendon's stomach and then spends an interminable amount of time on his nipples, licking the stupid silly flowers away petal by petal. There's a heart-stopping moment after that when he pulls away, and Brendon lets out an involuntary sob of denial. Spencer shushes him, drops a kiss on his nose, and clambers up onto the bed, straddling Brendon's ankles as he attacks Brendon's ribs on the far side. He comes to a stop just under Brendon's armpit, and Brendon heaves in a breath, thankful that it's over, that it's time for Spencer to do something else, to suck him or fuck him or something that will mean a little relief from Spencer's relentless tongue, from the cooling trails of wet over his torso.
Then he feels Spencer's weight lift off his ankles, feels firm hands on his knees, spreading his legs, and remembers. Oh, god. His thighs.
Spencer starts where he started with the paintbrush, and Brendon's body tries to jerk just the same way, but this time Spencer has his broad hands pushing Brendon's hips down and he doesn't go anywhere. Spencer swoops up the way the brush did, and then switches thighs, administering a thousand tiny kitten licks, inching his way up drop by drop of paint. Brendon keens under the treatment. It takes hours, days, ages and ages, for Spencer to get to the end of the stripe, and even then he keeps going, short rough swipes up and up and up to the spot so close to Brendon's balls he swears he can feel the air passing. Finally, finally, Spencer is there, Spencer is close, Spencer is going to--
stop, apparently. And, what? Brendon makes another noise, inquiring and unhappy.
“Roll over,” Spencer says, voice dry with swallowing the sticky paint. “On your hands and knees.”
What? What? Oh, god. He opens his eyes. “Spencer--” he says, voice cracking.
“Hands and knees,” Spencer repeats, letting go of Brendon's hips, and smacks the side of his ass lightly. “C'mon.”
“Spencer, I can't--”
“You can do this,” Spencer promises, “it will be awesome.” His voice slides into teasing. “I'll make it worth your while.”
Brendon chokes out a laugh. “God, that's what got me into this mess.” He forces himself over, though, negotiating with the muscles of his arms that are stiff from fisting the sheet. On his stomach, he stretches like a cat, trying to get the blood flowing again, and Spencer lays a hand on the roundest part of Brendon's ass.
“Stop,” Spencer breathes, and Brendon freezes, confused. “Like that,” he says, still just above a whisper. “Just like that, Brendon, just stay there,” and Brendon considers that, considers what he looks like, arms flung in front of himself, arched back thrusting his open ass into the air. He blushes so hard he's surprised the sheets don't burst into flame, but Spencer is touching him reverently, stroking along his back and ass, tracing the puckers of his asshole, and Brendon stays.
He nearly cries when he hears the clink of the brush against the inside of the jar again. “Spencer, please,” he begs, clutching the pillowcase like a lifeline.
“Shhhh,” is all Spencer says, attacking the thin, sensitive skin between Brendon's shoulderblades with a good deal less finesse-and a few more prickles-than he had used for his stomach and chest. Hasty, sloppy loops march their way down Brendon's back, and then Spencer stops and sits back for an endless moment, a low sound escaping his chest. Brendon shivers.
Spencer doesn't follow his marks with delicate swoops of the tongue, either, this time, only licks up Brendon's back in broad, hasty strokes that miss the corners of several lines and curls. It's a different sensation, almost randomized, roughsmoothstutteryslickrough, and somehow it makes Brendon want to squirm even more. Spencer licks his last with a satisfied swoop of his tongue and bites just above Brendon's shoulderblade. Brendon shouts, his fingers spasming in the pillowcase.
He hears Spencer scrabble for the jar on the nightstand. The ever-roughening brush strokes along the back of his thigh, one cheek of his ass and then heads for home. One swift prickle to his hole and Brendon is coming, can't help himself, with a sharp startled cry.
Spencer drops the brush. Brendon is dimly aware of warm, sweaty plastic bumping against the inside of his knee, but mostly he's drowning in the electricity that seems to be shocking to every place on his body Spencer has ever touched.
”Fuck,” Spencer breathes, sounding more turned on that Brendon has ever heard him. Brendon slumps a little farther forward, panting, and hears the soft pops of Spencer's button fly coming undone. ”Brendon,” Spencer says, desperately, and Brendon can't even do anything but lie there heaving gasps in and out as warm, sticky come splats on his skin.
Spencer falls forward, pressing Brendon into the sheet. He's breathing hard too. For a few minutes they just lie there like that, bent over Brendon's knees, Spencer's clothes scratchy against Brendon's skin.
Spencer kisses Brendon, a few small kisses behind his ear with teeth in them. Brendon moans and rolls his shoulders back, dislodging Spencer and realigning his spine. Spencer chuckles and sits up on his knees; Brendon can hear him rearranging himself in the sheets. In a moment the shirt-scratchiness is back, but in a bundle, swiping lazily at the mess on his skin. He snorts. “Lazy.”
“You got it,” Spencer says agreeably, dropping down beside Brendon and wiggling out of his jeans and underwear.
Brendon lets his legs collapse flat and groans contentedly. He rolls onto his side, facing Spencer, and grins. “Not bad, Smith.”
“Worth it?” Spencer asks, grinning sleepily. Spencer doesn't last long after orgasm, going agreeable and sleepy. Brendon has to dose him with caffeine afterward when they fuck in the studio.
“Kind of worth it,” Brendon says, and Spencer bites him as a reprimand before letting his eyes drop shut.
Brendon lies there for a moment, watching him, before he remembers that this isn't that kind of arrangement. He doesn't get to watch Spencer sleep, for god's sake. He sighs and rolls out of the bed; he wants a real washcloth and maybe even a shower.
The mirror shows faint traces of pink on his stomach and ribs, and he smiles at his reflection, wistfully. He touches the freckles Spencer highlighted, one, two, three, four, five, and then rolls his eyes at himself in the mirror. Mirror-Brendon looks kind of like he wishes that didn't deserve an eyeroll, too.
Brendon wets a washcloth and scrubs at the paint on his stomach, still faintly sticky, before trying to angle the door so the two mirrors reflect each other so he can get the worst of it on his back. He freezes when he sees the marks in the mirror. Twice-reflected, they're even the right way around, and he can hardly believe his eyes. The faint pink loops, still with splotches of red where Spencer's tongue missed, spotted with sticky white come, nevertheless are clearly not random. They spell out a word, in Spencer's big hasty handwriting.
Mine.
harriet_vane: Sex bribes, anyone?
AND THEN I WROTE IT.
Title: Promises
Author: elucreh
Pairing: Spencer/Brendon
Rated: Adult
Wordcount: ~3000
Summary: In which, Brendon is nervous, and Spencer solves that
Notes: A bedtime pornlet for sunsetmog; written with the aid and abetment of harriet_vane. (Iow, the whole thing is her fault. Also she wrote the concert bit.) Warning for stupidly mild d/s?
Brendon is nervous.
It's stupid, he knows, but at the same time it is totally not stupid, what the fuck, he hasn't done anything like this since half of his band disappeared. He keeps pacing around the green room or whatever the fuck you call it at conventions, and Spencer sits in the corner and watches him, eyes worried like maybe he doesn't think Brendon can do it on his own either.
Oh, god, what if Spencer really doesn't think--Brendon stops dead and pivots on his heel, making for his hoodie in the corner. "I'm out," he announces, snagging the jacket by one sleeve and starting to tug it on. "You can do the solo performance, I'll be looking for Ninja Turtle merch in the Dealer's Hall if you need me."
"Brendon," Spencer says, sounding exasperated, and stands up to grab Brendon by the sleeve he hasn't put on yet. "You can do this. It's gonna be awesome."
"Shut up, Spencer, I'm ser--"
"And if it is," Spencer doesn't let him finish, "I have a surprise for you."
Brendon gives him a Look. "I'm not actually five, you know--" he starts.
"I should hope not," Spencer says, making a face. "It isn't really the kind of surprise you give a five-year-old."
"Wha--oh." Brendon hears his voice go small when this drops into place. They haven't actually been fucking very long, and it's kind of...this is the first time it's been, um. Premeditated. On Spencer's part. As far as he can tell. They don't talk about it.
They've been under a lot of stress and they're all each other has left and it's only natural they should fall into bed (or wall, or recording booth) together. Brendon hasn't been letting himself think Spencer's gone beyond seeing a warm, willing body who won't mind being fucked raw, beyond clutching at the small part of his life he hasn't lost yet.
"I booked a room at the hotel," Spencer goes on, his voice low and a little unsteady, and Brendon jerks in surprise. They were supposed to be staying with Zack. "Get through this--don't run away, don't let your stupid nerves fuck you up--and I'll make it worth your while."
Brendon bites his lip, not sure what to say. Spencer kisses him, slow and gentle and coaxing, and says, low and soft the way he is lying in bed after sex, "Trust me."
Brendon nods, wordless.
Brendon performs; it's still nervewracking, but he distracts himself by looking at Spencer lots. Spencer is standing on the sidelines with a stupid jacket and a little grin, and Brendon doesn't even babble like an idiot too much.
He bounces offstage and over to Spencer and says, "So? Well?"
Spencer shakes his head and says, "Later."
They have to hang out and gladhand with the other musicians and some fans, but finally they stumble up to their room, still laughing at the zombie joke somebody told them in the elevator.
When they get in, though, and the door clicks shut behind them, Brendon feels the laugh settle in his bones, leaving him buzzy and content. He grins at Spencer. "So?"
Spencer raises an eyebrow back. "So?"
"Spencerrrrrr..." he whines, and Spencer grins.
"I'm going to go in the bathroom for a minute," he says, grabbing his duffle. "You be naked when I get back."
"You're not going out the bathroom window and leaving me here, are you?" Brendon asks, mostly joking, but not quite.
Spencer gives him a long look, and then reaches out and pulls Brendon's mouth to his for a long, satisfying kiss. "Trust me," he says again, and goes into the bathroom.
Brendon takes a long, deep breath...and starts pulling off his clothes.
Brendon gets naked pretty quickly, because...well, because Brendon is good at getting naked quickly. He shoves his clothes into the corner behind a chair, where probably Spencer will find them and yell at him in the morning, and then he sort of looks around, fidgeting. Should he wait on the bed? Except that Pete likes to show him articles on things like how often the covers of hotel beds are washed, and ew. In the bed? Except Spencer...as far as Brendon has been able to tell so far, Spencer kind of really likes to look at Brendon, something soft and hungry in his eyes that Brendon is scared to think about in case he's wrong. So maybe getting under the sheets would be a bad idea. He thinks about striking a pose or something, maybe, but while he's trying to figure out how to show off his mouth and his ass at the same time, the bathroom door opens with a soft click, and Spencer's in the doorway smiling at him.
"Hey," Spencer says, softly, his eyes meeting Brendon's for a bright, endless moment before traveling down, over Brendon's slightly-open mouth and his funny Adam's apple and skinny ribs and independently-minded cock, which is already twitching toward Spencer like it recognises him, like it wants Spencer almost as much as Brendon does. His gaze goes down further, past Brendon's knees right down to his hairy ankles and back up again, and when he's looking into Brendon's eyes again his smile has become even brighter.
"--Hey," Brendon says back, way too late, his mouth dry and his pulse picking up. Spencer only leans over to peck him on the lips before turning to walk over to the bed, setting a paper shopping bag on the nightstand, turning back the covers like a set dresser at a photo shoot, inviting. He clicks the soft lamp next to the bed, and presses the other button that turns off the overhead light. The room is more dimly lit now, warm and intimate, and Brendon finds himself taking half a step forward before stopping, uncertain.
A little crease appears between Spencer's eyebrows. "No, hey--" he says, holding out a hand, and Brendon puts his own hand into Spencer's grip, still hesitating. Spencer pulls him close, puts their hands on the small of Brendon's back and uses his other one to tip Brendon's chin up. He kisses him softly, chastely, and Brendon shivers enough to make the cloth of Spencer's clothes rasp across his skin.
Spencer goes on kissing him gently, lips to lips, never opening enough to deepen the kiss, and Brendon can't help the small sound that escapes him. Spencer smooths his hand through Brendon's hair, soothing him, and Brendon arches up, skimming his sensitive cock against the rough denim of Spencer's jeans. He doesn't mean to be so responsive, to give so much away when he still doesn't know what this is, what Spencer wants with him, but Spencer keeps touching him in ways that are new and surprising and turn Brendon on so much he can hardly breathe.
"Lie down," Spencer breathes against Brendon's mouth, and Brendon's breath catches in his lungs. Spencer lets him go, takes a small, small step back, and clears his throat. "Lie down," he says again, hoarsely, and Brendon sinks to the mattress, unable to take his eyes from Spencer's, wide and dark in the soft light. Spencer lays his hand on Brendon's shoulder and pushes him gently down, and Brendon goes easily.
Spencer lets his finger trail down Brendon's side, just missing the side of his nipple, lingering on his stomach. "This is kind of for me," he admits, softly. "I--it's something I've wanted to try, with you. For...for a long time, actually."
Brendon's heart skips a beat. That doesn't sound like something that began only a few weeks ago, that sounds like Spencer has wanted him...
"I think--" Spencer hesitates again. "I think I can promise it will be good for you, though. And if not...we can try again. We can do something you like."
Brendon draws in a shuddery breath. "Yeah," he says, and hardly recognises his own voice drowning in Spencer's touch. "Yeah, okay."
Spencer's hand flutters purposelessly against Brendon's belly button. "Okay," he says, sounding like he could stand to take a deep breath himself. "Okay, so--I kind of wanted it to be a surprise."
"You said," Brendon says, and wiggles a little. He's not good at waiting for surprises, and Spencer's fingers are making him twitchy in his skin.
"No, I mean, like--close your eyes?"
Brendon frowns.
"Not--you don't have to," Spencer says, flustered. "I just--I'd like you to, you know? You can always open them if I'm freaking you out."
Brendon just lies there and looks up at him for a minute, considering, and then his eyes drop shut. He can hear Spencer's breath blow out in a huff.
The heat at his elbow moves away, and the bag on the nightstand rustles. He can hear the soft pop of a jar opening, the sccrrrape of the lid against the tabletop. For a long moment there's nothing and then--
not a sound, a sensation, something soft and cold against his skin, slightly sticky as it draws away. Brendon squeezes his eyes a little tighter against the temptation to peek, and waits.
“Okay?” Spencer asks, and Brendon nods hastily.
The soft, cold thing drops down again, on his stomach this time, and moves in a pattern familiar to Brendon, an assymetrical pentagram around his navel. Spencer is apparently fascinated by Brendon's freckles, particularly the ones on his stomach, and has been known to lie in bed after sex and trace paths between and around them, over and over and over again until Brendon slid into sleep. He's never thought of his stomach as particularly sexy, never been especially sensitive there, but he can feel his dick filling at this tactile reminder that Spencer, for whatever reason, is really fond of him. He bumps his stomach up a little into the whisper of pressure, and Spencer chuckles.
The soft thing lifts, and there's the soft chink of plastic against the insides of a jar-stirring?--and then another touch against his stomach, this time swift and graceful and swooping, and Brendon can't help the little yelp that escapes him, totally unmanly. Spencer soothes him with a warm finger reversing the movement. Spencer spends an unnecessary amount of time on Brendon's nipples, torturing him with the faint prickle hidden underneath the softness. Brendon writhes under the treatment, trying sososo hard to stay still, to let Spencer do whatever it is he's doing, but then Spencer drops suddenly to Brendon's thigh, and Brendon yells and bucks up, smearing the cold along his leg.
Spencer pushes Brendon's knee down sharply. “Hey,” he says, stern, and it's like sharp scissors cutting all of Brendon's strings; he goes still, a little shocked at himself, and at Spencer too.
“That's better,” Spencer says, a warning hint of rumble underlying the words. It isn't long before Brendon's regretting that impulsive reaction, because Spencer seems to want a matching stripe along his other thigh, and Brendon has to lie still as Spencer tortuously moves down the sensitive skin.
There's a quiet clunk beside Brendon's head, and another soft chink of plastic against glass. He can hear Spencer easing down to his knees beside the bed.
“Open your eyes, Brendon,” Spencer says softly, and Brendon obeys.
A soft little “oh” escapes his throat. Spencer has been painting him, with a soft rich red that brings out colors and tones in Brendon's skin that Brendon would never have dreamed existed. There are wide careless swoops across his ribs, five-petal kindergarten daisies around his nipples, and a swirling, glorified path around his five darkest freckles. Brendon has never felt so fucking worth looking at in all his life, but Spencer is looking at his stupid face like that's the only bit of him worth seeing.
Spencer rests his chin in the hollow of Brendon's hip, smiling smugly at the success of his surprise. “Want to know the best part?” he asks, still smirking.
Brendon lets out a strangled noise that he can only hope sounds affirmative.
“It's edible.” And with that, Spencer bends his head to the tail end of a broad stripe of red, his tongue hanging down to Brendon's skin, lewd, obscene. Brendon moans and lets his head thunk back onto the pillow, squeezing his eyes shut again in self-defense.
Spencer's tongue skates through the slick body paint, but rasps on Brendon's bare skin when he slips off the mark, which happens more often as Brendon's breath speeds up. Brendon's definitely whimpering now, there's no point in lying to himself about it, sharp high-pitched noises cutting themselves off every time he vacuums in another breath. A tiny part of his mind is terrified of the mockery he's earning here, but the swipes of Spencer's tongue are speeding up too, like the sounds are making Spencer want to devour him.
Spencer laps over Brendon's stomach and then spends an interminable amount of time on his nipples, licking the stupid silly flowers away petal by petal. There's a heart-stopping moment after that when he pulls away, and Brendon lets out an involuntary sob of denial. Spencer shushes him, drops a kiss on his nose, and clambers up onto the bed, straddling Brendon's ankles as he attacks Brendon's ribs on the far side. He comes to a stop just under Brendon's armpit, and Brendon heaves in a breath, thankful that it's over, that it's time for Spencer to do something else, to suck him or fuck him or something that will mean a little relief from Spencer's relentless tongue, from the cooling trails of wet over his torso.
Then he feels Spencer's weight lift off his ankles, feels firm hands on his knees, spreading his legs, and remembers. Oh, god. His thighs.
Spencer starts where he started with the paintbrush, and Brendon's body tries to jerk just the same way, but this time Spencer has his broad hands pushing Brendon's hips down and he doesn't go anywhere. Spencer swoops up the way the brush did, and then switches thighs, administering a thousand tiny kitten licks, inching his way up drop by drop of paint. Brendon keens under the treatment. It takes hours, days, ages and ages, for Spencer to get to the end of the stripe, and even then he keeps going, short rough swipes up and up and up to the spot so close to Brendon's balls he swears he can feel the air passing. Finally, finally, Spencer is there, Spencer is close, Spencer is going to--
stop, apparently. And, what? Brendon makes another noise, inquiring and unhappy.
“Roll over,” Spencer says, voice dry with swallowing the sticky paint. “On your hands and knees.”
What? What? Oh, god. He opens his eyes. “Spencer--” he says, voice cracking.
“Hands and knees,” Spencer repeats, letting go of Brendon's hips, and smacks the side of his ass lightly. “C'mon.”
“Spencer, I can't--”
“You can do this,” Spencer promises, “it will be awesome.” His voice slides into teasing. “I'll make it worth your while.”
Brendon chokes out a laugh. “God, that's what got me into this mess.” He forces himself over, though, negotiating with the muscles of his arms that are stiff from fisting the sheet. On his stomach, he stretches like a cat, trying to get the blood flowing again, and Spencer lays a hand on the roundest part of Brendon's ass.
“Stop,” Spencer breathes, and Brendon freezes, confused. “Like that,” he says, still just above a whisper. “Just like that, Brendon, just stay there,” and Brendon considers that, considers what he looks like, arms flung in front of himself, arched back thrusting his open ass into the air. He blushes so hard he's surprised the sheets don't burst into flame, but Spencer is touching him reverently, stroking along his back and ass, tracing the puckers of his asshole, and Brendon stays.
He nearly cries when he hears the clink of the brush against the inside of the jar again. “Spencer, please,” he begs, clutching the pillowcase like a lifeline.
“Shhhh,” is all Spencer says, attacking the thin, sensitive skin between Brendon's shoulderblades with a good deal less finesse-and a few more prickles-than he had used for his stomach and chest. Hasty, sloppy loops march their way down Brendon's back, and then Spencer stops and sits back for an endless moment, a low sound escaping his chest. Brendon shivers.
Spencer doesn't follow his marks with delicate swoops of the tongue, either, this time, only licks up Brendon's back in broad, hasty strokes that miss the corners of several lines and curls. It's a different sensation, almost randomized, roughsmoothstutteryslickrough, and somehow it makes Brendon want to squirm even more. Spencer licks his last with a satisfied swoop of his tongue and bites just above Brendon's shoulderblade. Brendon shouts, his fingers spasming in the pillowcase.
He hears Spencer scrabble for the jar on the nightstand. The ever-roughening brush strokes along the back of his thigh, one cheek of his ass and then heads for home. One swift prickle to his hole and Brendon is coming, can't help himself, with a sharp startled cry.
Spencer drops the brush. Brendon is dimly aware of warm, sweaty plastic bumping against the inside of his knee, but mostly he's drowning in the electricity that seems to be shocking to every place on his body Spencer has ever touched.
”Fuck,” Spencer breathes, sounding more turned on that Brendon has ever heard him. Brendon slumps a little farther forward, panting, and hears the soft pops of Spencer's button fly coming undone. ”Brendon,” Spencer says, desperately, and Brendon can't even do anything but lie there heaving gasps in and out as warm, sticky come splats on his skin.
Spencer falls forward, pressing Brendon into the sheet. He's breathing hard too. For a few minutes they just lie there like that, bent over Brendon's knees, Spencer's clothes scratchy against Brendon's skin.
Spencer kisses Brendon, a few small kisses behind his ear with teeth in them. Brendon moans and rolls his shoulders back, dislodging Spencer and realigning his spine. Spencer chuckles and sits up on his knees; Brendon can hear him rearranging himself in the sheets. In a moment the shirt-scratchiness is back, but in a bundle, swiping lazily at the mess on his skin. He snorts. “Lazy.”
“You got it,” Spencer says agreeably, dropping down beside Brendon and wiggling out of his jeans and underwear.
Brendon lets his legs collapse flat and groans contentedly. He rolls onto his side, facing Spencer, and grins. “Not bad, Smith.”
“Worth it?” Spencer asks, grinning sleepily. Spencer doesn't last long after orgasm, going agreeable and sleepy. Brendon has to dose him with caffeine afterward when they fuck in the studio.
“Kind of worth it,” Brendon says, and Spencer bites him as a reprimand before letting his eyes drop shut.
Brendon lies there for a moment, watching him, before he remembers that this isn't that kind of arrangement. He doesn't get to watch Spencer sleep, for god's sake. He sighs and rolls out of the bed; he wants a real washcloth and maybe even a shower.
The mirror shows faint traces of pink on his stomach and ribs, and he smiles at his reflection, wistfully. He touches the freckles Spencer highlighted, one, two, three, four, five, and then rolls his eyes at himself in the mirror. Mirror-Brendon looks kind of like he wishes that didn't deserve an eyeroll, too.
Brendon wets a washcloth and scrubs at the paint on his stomach, still faintly sticky, before trying to angle the door so the two mirrors reflect each other so he can get the worst of it on his back. He freezes when he sees the marks in the mirror. Twice-reflected, they're even the right way around, and he can hardly believe his eyes. The faint pink loops, still with splotches of red where Spencer's tongue missed, spotted with sticky white come, nevertheless are clearly not random. They spell out a word, in Spencer's big hasty handwriting.
Mine.