behindthec | Somewhere in the Act [Day 2 of Not The Sin (or, Brendon's 12 Days of Kinks)]

Title: Somewhere in the Act [Day 2 of Not The Sin (or, Brendon's 12 Days of Kinks)]
Author:

lolab
Rating: R
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer
Kink du Jour: Role-playing
Word Count: ~1,900
Disclaimer: Fiction as far as I know.
Summary: "Who said I was fucking with you?"
Notes: Vignette 2 of 12; Bden's ~Sekrit Kink Series based on email/IM/comment requests from this fic (now #7 in the series). One a day through Christmas: here is my holiday gift to my friendslist. ;)

Please visit the master post for a list of all 12 vignettes. You can read them independently, but they are connected, so it's much better to read them in order.

"Dude, I don't get it. What is that, like how do people get off on that?"

Spencer's hand is gesturing as vaguely as humanly possible toward the old basement TV, but the words can't mask the slight color creeping into his cheeks.

On screen, Some Blonde With Tits is sauntering across the room in a slutty nurse's outfit toward a smug, anticipating jock. Brendon concedes; it's pretty lame, and probably the worst argument for what he's really, really trying to keep from spilling out right now.

He squirms a little on his square of couch, ignoring the way his hip brushes Spencer's in the process. Holding back speech never sits well with him, and his body's already protesting the restraint.

"I dunno," he shrugs, pulling his limbs tight against him, compacting himself to make the words seem quieter. "I mean. I think -- it might be all right."

Brain-voice transmission FAIL.

He feels Spencer's eyes on him, can imagine the you're-a-creeper glare already settled into place, but hell, he's already started digging himself into a hole here; might as well dig to fucking China. "I mean, not, like, that," he clarifies, jerking his head at the screen. "But y'know, the idea of it... might be cool. Not having to be yourself. Like. Freeing, or something. Being able to be whatever the fuck you want. Having total power over a character because it's yours, y'know, and..."

He doesn't stop for lack of oncoming words (he's Brendon), but for the slight tension that seemed to grip Spencer's body at the word power.

When he looks up, it's intense, whatever Spencer's face is. Brendon can't read him yet the way Ryan does, but he's pretty sure this is not his creeped-out look. That look he's seen plenty.

Spencer swallows (and hi, that's hot, since when?). "So, uh. What would, y'know... who would you be?"

Brendon shrugs. "I dunno." His eyebrows wiggle a little as he smirks. "I like powerplay." (Shut up, he totally would if he'd ever had sex, okay.) "I mean. Like. I'd be a totally awesome slave."

Spencer laughs, but it's not a laugh Brendon's ever heard, and it makes the air in the room suddenly thick and hazy, drowning the oxygen. "Yeah?"

"Oh yeah. Very obedient. Very restrained."

"Very everything-you're-not?"

Brendon grins, a little sly, a little shy. "Isn't that the point?"

Spencer grins back, shrugs a little, unable to argue. "So that'd make me, what, your evil master?"

"You totally would be evil, Smith."

"Fuck you, I'd be very diplomatic."

"Oh, yeah, slavemasters are all so fair and reasonable."

"Yeah? Try me."

It's that moment that Brendon can finally visualize a line drawn in the sand, watching them both teeter on it, in over their heads and stuck, totally unaware of which side they're supposed to step, whether this is the point where they fall back or forward, and Brendon's finding it near impossible to reconcile that fine-tipped point where, if, this stops being a joke.

He settles for throwing Spencer's words back at him, echoing, "Yeah?"

Spencer simply shrugs, unblinking.

Brendon reacts for the both of them, chuckling and ducking his head. "Don't fuck with me, man, it makes me look like a freak for even... whatever."

"Who said I was fucking with you?"

When Brendon looks up, Spencer's eyes haven't left him.

But Brendon, he's still got his guard up, still shaken from six months ago: the deer-in-headlights look in Ryan's eyes, the sickly baby-blue walls of the downstairs bathroom. He fucked up enough for one sexual lifetime, thanks. He smiles at Spencer, quick and casual, before making to pull himself off the couch and head upstairs for another soda.

"You'd never take it seriously," he offers as conclusion, but before he's fully standing he finds his forearm suddenly trapped in a hot, uncompromising grip, firm enough to stop him cold and have him spinning back around, the force of it drawing him so close to Spencer that by the time their eyes reconnect, he almost topples over from that determined ice-blue, closer than it's ever been.

"You're awfully... impudent."

Spencer's voice is eerily, painfully calm, like the eye of the storm, as his free hand reaches for the remote and presses the power button.

The TV sparks into blackness and Brendon sits the fuck down.

Spencer slides forward a bit, deliberately smoothing the movement out until a chill shoots down Brendon's spine, before he finds Spencer looming over him, nearly in his lap, the grip on his forearm still solid.

"So," he states softly, using his free hand to trail a finger down Brendon's chest (and okay, whoa), eyes dropping only to settle on Brendon's lips. "What's your name?"

Ohgodohgodohgod.

Brendon's voice is ahead of the rest of him, as usual, and he finds himself answering before he's given himself permission. "Whatever you decide it to be... my lord."

Spencer seems satisfied with the answer, and Brendon lets himself breathe.

"And what did you do for your last master?"

"I, uh. Worked mostly in the kitchens, my lord."

"Mm. Did the work... please you?"

Brendon might laugh, might, if Spencer didn't look so fucking hot right now.

"It was... fair, sir," he replies.

Spencer smiles, and it's real, it's Spencer, and maybe that should be enough of a jolt to Brendon to remind him ohgodwhatthey'redoing, but instead it just puts him at ease, lets him sink blissfully further into this mindfucking quicksand.

"Fair? Is that all you desire from your work?"

"My only desire is to please you, master."

Spencer raises an eyebrow, squeezes Brendon's arm a little tighter, leaning in to ghost his lips over Brendon's ear, and whispers, "Good answer."

Brendon can't tell if it's Spencer or alternate-universe-Spencer answering, but either way, a spark of electricity shoots straight down south. He can't stop the slight upward jerk of his hips, either, and it's not until Spencer's eyes trail down to his crotch that he realizes.

Shit.

Spencer just stares as Brendon's pants tighten uncomfortably, a tiny, triumphant smirk etching its way into his lips, and Brendon doesn't know whether he wants to slap him or beg for more.

His eyes are back on Brendon's when he whispers, "Have you been taught how to kiss?"

"I -- no, sir."

"Well then."

And Brendon doesn't even have time to react before Spencer's (a boy's) mouth is, hello, right in front of his, and he can feel the anxiety in Spencer's body as Brendon reaches up to curl his fingers around the younger boy's bicep before letting his eyes flutter shut.

But Spencer's ahead of him, slapping his hand away and jerking back, eyes fully returned to fiery ice. "I didn't say you could touch me."

Brendon swallows hard. "I -- I'm sorry, my lord."

"Should be," he mumbles, and there's just enough Spencery snark attached to the words to keep Brendon's heart from pounding straight through his chest as Spencer leans in, brushing their lips together.

Brendon lets him lead, but he's kissed before, and he loves kissing, and apparently, okay, he maybe loves kissing with Spencer better than anyone else ever, and Spencer obviously senses it because he pulls back just as their tongues fall into a rhythm.

His eyes are flashing, and Brendon thinks fuck. "You lied."

"I -- "

"You said you hadn't been taught."

"I -- I hadn't, my lord. I -- one of the other slaves in the kitchen," a name, any name, dude, come on -- "I -- Ryan..." -- not THAT ONE! -- "he and I. Uh."

Spencer smirks like he's getting paid for it. "I see."

"I'm sorry, my lord."

"Never apologize for being good at your work. We'll just have to move on."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you good with your hands?"

Brendon's eyes shoot to saucer-size, but Spencer's dead-fucking straightfaced. The little shit.

"I -- " And, no, okay, Brendon's not going to let him win this. "I've been told I make perfectly shaped meatballs, my lord."

Spencer chuckles, shamelessly breathless. "Not exactly what I had in mind. Your innocence is quite the turn-on."

And Brendon thinks, okay, this would be a good time to collapse in a pile of melted goo, but Spencer leans back, fingers flicking open the button on his jeans, and Brendon's transfixed. Utterly.

Their eyes meet again, and it all makes sense now, the way Spencer and Ryan rely on talking with their eyes, because the unspoken question is there, waiting for Brendon's answer. But Brendon's not used to this, doesn't know how to talk with his eyes, and settles for a quick, jerky nod, hoping it's enough, before his hands slowly lift to cover Spencer's, easing them away to slide the zipper down himself and, hi, Spencer's hard too.

Game, game, game, it's a game, it's a game, and no, okay, it's not, because now Spencer's dick is in his hand and it's too fucking good not to be real.

"Slow," Spencer breathes.

Brendon obeys to the utmost, dragging his fist loose and languid up the length, swiping his thumb over the head, soft and experimental, and is rewarded with a sharp inhale that shudders through Spencer's whole body.

Brendon holds his breath. "Good?"

But Spencer's eyes snap open, not missing a beat. "Good what?"

Jesus, and Brendon thought Ross was the fucking drama queen.

"Good, my lord?" he amends, unable not to smile.

Spencer's face softens, but he narrows his eyes and repeats, "Impudent."

"Apologies, master," Brendon whispers, tightening his grip and twisting his wrist in the way he likes for himself, and Spencer just keens.

His hand picks up the pace, dragging rough and messy down Spencer's cock, rhythm choppy and undefined. This he definitely hasn't practiced with anyone, but Spencer doesn't seem to give a shit, just jerks his hips forward into Brendon's hand and, fuck, his hips. Brendon feels himself slipping fast; Spencer's breath has turned ragged, and it seems they've both barely recognized what they've actually gotten into before Spencer goes still, jaw dropped and eyes shut, and Brendon's hand is suddenly wet and sticky, and it's not his. And that... is way new. And like, totally awesome.

When Spencer opens his eyes, they're twice as blue as Brendon remembers, watching him like he can't quite believe Brendon did it. Brendon kind of can't believe it either. But he also kind of can't stop grinning.

"Fuck it," Spencer huffs, lunging forward and trapping Brendon against the squishy sofa cushions, sealing their mouths together and reaching his hand between them until he's got Brendon's jeans open, shoving his hand inside and working him into a fast, uninhibited rhythm.

"Jesus, fuck, shit," is Brendon's opinion on the matter, and he feels the restraint practically rip itself from his body, leaving him a writhing, tangled mess beneath Spencer, arching up into his hand, too close to bother holding off. He lets go with stars behind his eyes and Spencer's tongue fighting his own, still making it perfectly clear who holds the power.

Brendon lets him have it. For now.

+++

Brendon's antsy; Ryan's bitching; Brent's Switzerland. Spencer takes Ryan's side, boring and predictable, and snaps at Brendon to go fetch them drinks.

Brendon looks up from behind his guitar and a dark fringe of bangs, raises an eyebrow and huffs, "I'm not your slave."

Spencer's face goes beet-red and Brendon has to turn to the wall to hide his grin.

For now.

[#3 tomorrow.]

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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

monamour-x.livejournal.com

F FUCKING C!!!!!!!!!!!!!

From:

bunniesontoast.livejournal.com

YOU STOLE MY FC but nvm because ily anyways! <3

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