Talk Like a Tease [Day 3 of Not The Sin (or, Brendon's 12 Days of Kinks)]

[behindthec]

Title: Talk Like a Tease [Day 3 of Not The Sin (or, Brendon's 12 Days of Kinks)]
Author: lolab  
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brendon/Pete
Kink du Jour: Dirty talk (with a side of sleepysex).
Word Count: ~2,380
Disclaimer: Fiction as far as I know.
Summary: "Everyone thinks it's Ryan I'm looking at, but it's not."  This was pretty much my inspiration. XD Never thought I'd like this pairing, but, not gonna lie, I totally adore how this turned out.
Notes: Vignette 3 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.

Being A Glamorous Rock Star Lesson One: Being a rock star is not glamorous.

It's madness, eighteen hours on a set with cameras shoved in your face every direction you turn, tiny poofy-haired make-up girls accosting you for touch-ups every twenty minutes; badly catered food and so many Evian bottles they start to melt into a big pink blur behind your eyes; and Bill Beckett trying to convince everyone that the artistic integrity of the scene would be better preserved if everyone were hammered.

But Brendon's okay with it, because he totally spent the past eighteen hours hanging out with Fall Out Boy and wearing vampire teeth, make-up and costumes and it's not even Halloween, while his old co-workers back home spent the day blending fruit and packing it into styrofoam cups.

Life? Good.

Really good, he thinks as he scrunches up his mouth to extract the fangs, setting them carefully down on the dresser in Pete's guest room. They've been in so long he feels weird without them, like when he got his braces off in tenth grade. He runs his tongue over his own stupid normal teeth and they feel slimy and incomplete.

"Aww, you're not gonna leave 'em in?"

He turns to find Pete in the doorway, smile brighter than ever in the dim glow of the room.

Brendon smiles back. "I kinda want to."

"They're totally sexy on you, man."

"Yeah?"

"Hell yeah, look-look-look," he says excitedly, hopping over to Brendon and holding out a stack of Polaroids.

Brendon shuffles through them, his grin widening to see candid shots of himself bearing his fangs, of Bill twirling him around in some dramatic ballroom dance between takes. He smiles, handing the stack back to Pete. Their fingertips brush and he's kind of amazed at how warm Pete is, how much energy still seems to be thrumming through him, when he clearly worked harder today than anyone else.

"Thanks," Brendon says suddenly, not even sure where it came from (as is too often the case when words leave his mouth). "For. Y'know. Letting me do this. And -- everything."

Pete smiles and shrugs. "It wasn't a favor, man. I wanted you. I knew you'd be perfect for it."

"Ah," Brendon narrows his eyes, "so I'm just your new plaything, huh?"

Pete's still smiling, but there's something new behind it, something shadowed that Brendon thinks he recognizes but can't pinpoint. He's still a little fuzzy from alcohol, but Pete didn't let Bill shove anything stronger than beer at him, so it's a weak excuse.

"Maybe," Pete jokes. "You could totally be my kept boy."

"Psh, you wish."

"Aw, come on!" Pete chuckles, falling backwards and bouncing a bit as he lands on the bed. "It'd be sweet. You could have all the candy you want."

"In exchange for sexual favors?"

"Obviously."

Brendon grins and flops down beside him, turning sideways to match Pete as he does the same. "Nah," he concludes with a sigh. "Ryan'd be jealous, and he's bitchy enough as it is."

Brendon's totally down with taking jabs at Ryan today; he was a bitch, all day, acting like he knew what was going on and had the right to give orders just because he'd been in a local hardwood flooring commercial when he was three.

Pete smiles again, and up close it's just blinding. "He has no reason to be jealous." There's a beat, and his face softens, like he's waiting for an answer. "Unless." He looks down at his fingers, fiddling with a loose thread before lifting his eyes back to Brendon. "Unless you want him to be."

And. Huh.

Brendon grins, playful, testing Pete's intentions, but Pete only smiles, and it's open, unintimidating but still shadowed.

"Everyone thinks it's Ryan I'm looking at, but it's not."

...Oh.

Pete smiles wider, less shadowed, and Brendon realizes he's said this out loud.

"I'm not -- " Pete laughs a little, averting his eyes, and fuck, that's adorable, hands down, okay, Pete Wentz, flushed and flustered and searching for words. "Like, I'm not hitting on you, man, this isn't where I try to get you to suck my dick and you do it 'cause you think you have to because I gave you a record deal, okay?"

"O-okay," Brendon splutters, a little lost since that bit about dick sucking, but there's still laughter in his voice. "Then, uh, what is it?"

"It's nothing. I'm tired and you're pretty."

"Oh."

No one's called him pretty before. Like, ever. He knows Ryan called him "dead sexy" (ver-fucking-batim, thank you) the first time he ever talked to Pete, but it wasn't serious; he was trying to sell the band. The closest he's ever gotten are the few girls who've told him he's cute.

And, y'know, Spencer going all desperate and writhing on him, but that was. Once. Awesome, but once.

"Sorry," Pete giggles into the silence, "that was like, no. Not like, girl-pretty. You're very manly. You're just. Ah, I suck."

He rolls over and buries his grinning face in his folded arm, the action inching him closer to Brendon, but Pete's warm and cuddly and smells all freshly shampooed, and Brendon doesn't mind at all.

"No, dude," Brendon assures him. "It's -- no."

Pete peeks up through his arm, underneath his emotastic flat-ironed fringe, eyes big and sparkly and puppy-like, and it's nothing else but that -- not his status, not a starry-eyed sense of obligation, nothing but that small, sparkly puppy look that makes Brendon do it, dipping his head until Pete meets him halfway and their mouths touch.

"We don't have to -- " Pete's quick to point out, the words forming against Brendon's lips.

"Want to."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And for a lyricist and a hyperactive kid with a hard-on for mindless chatter, words slip out of use pretty fast.

It's lazy for awhile, just a slow, sleepy melting of lips and tongues, nothing frantic. Their bodies stay largely detached from the activities except where their hands lift to stroke through hair or curl around necks. It's not until Pete scoots himself forward for a better angle, knee brushing idly between Brendon's legs, that something snaps.

Brendon bucks up into it, gasps into the hot mouth on his, because it's been too fucking long, and Pete's warm and awesome and nice and they're just here and everything is just, yes.

Pete takes it as go, inching his knee higher until his leg is between Brendon's, pressing up; the friction's easy and pleasant, and everything feels liquid when he pulls back to ask, "What do you like?"

Brendon's ridiculous and sleepy and says, "I like your words."

Pete snorts. "You sound like Ross. Suck-up."

"Mm. No," Brendon protests weakly between kisses, spreading his legs a little wider so Pete can slip his own between them, lining up their hips so they can grind together, lazy. "Ryan likes your words because he tries to make them mean more than they do."

Pete grins wide against his lips. "Is that an insult?"

"Maybe to Ross."

"HA! You're so mad at him today!"

Brendon shrugs, causing his hoodie to bunch up around his shoulders. "I just like they way they sound. Like. I love Patrick's voice, but sometimes I wish I could hear them coming from you."

Pete stops moving then, the small smile on his lips blissful, content. Somewhere inside, his ego is totally doing a little ego-dance, Brendon knows. He climbs off suddenly and Brendon's mind starts to panic even in its sleepy state, but Pete doesn't go far, just enough to poke at Brendon until he rolls over onto his stomach.

"Mph," Brendon says, too silly-tired not to grin. "Down to business, huh?"

"Shut up, dorkass," Pete chuckles into his neck, and Brendon realizes, okay, he's there, pressed up against him, hovering over him with his lips stationed right at Brendon's ear, brushing hot breath over the shell as his hand starts to creep underneath Brendon's hoodie, massaging his lower back. "You like words, huh?"

Brendon flips his head to one side, closer, but keeps his eyes shut. "Yeah."

"I knew I'd like you." His smile's so big Brendon can feel it on his skin, and it's gentle, relaxing enough that he could maybe fall asleep like this. But then the warmth on his back is gone, the same hand inching around until it's wormed its way between Brendon's hips and the bed, and he feels the jerky pop of his jeans button and the rough drag of the zipper before he even realizes what's happened.

"Shit."

"Stop?"

"God, no."

"Kay."

Brendon gasps sharp against the bedspread as he feels two hands on either side of his waistband, tugging gently. He gets the hint, lifts his hips as best he can, and Pete manages to shimmy his jeans and underwear off, down to his ankles where Brendon kicks flailingly until they're off. Pete laughs at him.

"You're so fucking cute."

"Thought I was pretty."

"You are, god. You're fucking hot," he whispers, lips back at Brendon's ear as he fits his body neatly against Brendon's side, his hand back on his skin, slipping down over his lower back to cup his ass. "I seriously thought I was gonna die the first time you guys auditioned."

"Yeah?"

"Dude. You were so fucking nervous, like. You kept blushing and stuttering and you went off-key and fucked up your chords and got all flustered... I just wanted to throw your stupid guitar off to the side and pin you against the stupid concrete wall."

"I -- shit."

Pete's hand dips a little lower, teasing between his cheeks, but comes back to rest at his lower back, rubbing softly, and Brendon finds himself making tiny, involuntary thrusts against the plush cotton of the bedspread.

"Yeah," Pete says like he's agreeing, but his voice is far-off and hazy. "Would you've let me? Not 'cause you thought you had to, but just 'cause you wanted it?"

"Fuck. I, yeah. Yes."

The hand dips down across his ass again, one finger tracing a line up and down the crease, stopping at his entrance. "Even with Ryan watching?"

"Pete, Jesus."

Pete presses his mouth to Brendon's neck again, just to let him feel the smile. "Thought so. Hell, you've had a hard-on for Ross longer than I have. You think maybe he'd like it if we let him watch?"

"Shit."

"He totally would... you look so fucking hot like this, all spread out and open... you keep pushing back into my hand, too, did you even realize it?"

No. No, Brendon did not.

"Maybe I'd stroke you a little first, just to get you going... get you whimpering... but I know that's not what you really want..."

As he says it, his finger's right back, and Brendon's heart skips a beat as he feels the blunt pressure at his hole, not pushing in, but promising.

"Maybe -- if you wanted -- I'd get you on your knees first. Not gonna lie, man, your mouth is fucking made for it. You'd look incredible, those lips stretched around me, and you're such a fucking daredevil I bet you'd take me all the way down and not even choke."

As he says it, Brendon feels two fingers tracing over his bottom lip and he opens up for it on a moan, drawing them deep into his mouth, sucking hard and swirling his tongue, and it's inelegant, unpracticed, but the efforts aren't lost as Pete's breath goes short.

"Show-off," he whispers. "That's what I fucking love about you. You'd be so good because you're so determined to be so good at everything." On the last word, his finger dips back between Brendon's legs and this time it's ready, wet and slippery and slides in like it's home.

Brendon doesn't even try not to moan.

"Fuck," Pete gasps, and that's maybe hotter than anything, knowing Pete's watching this, watching his finger disappear inside, and Brendon wants to scream at himself for not trying this sooner, but all he can do is push back on it, urge him on. "See, I know you wouldn't just take it. You'd fucking own it, man. You'd be so fucking eager for it I'd barely have to prep you... just line up and slide in, hold onto your hips and let you pull me in till I'm filling you all the way and you feel like you can't even hold yourself up. But you'd be fine, 'cause I'd hold you up. And I know you wouldn't want me holding back so I wouldn't... I'd just keep pounding into you until you can't even feel the rhythm over your own fucking heartbeat... and then, maybe, maybe I'd touch you."

"Oh god, fuck, please," Brendon whines, pushing back, and he gets his wish, the tight slide of the second finger, now cooled but still slick as it presses in beside the first.

"You wouldn't need it," Pete tells him. "I know you. I know you could get off just from this, that slow, sweet drag inside... but I'd touch you anyway 'cause I fucking want it, I want to feel you in my hand, want to feel you come, want to know what I do to you..."

Brendon whimpers pitifully, hips jerking into the mattress; Pete smiles into his neck before crooking his fingers half an inch, and some freakish, pathetic cry hits the air, but Brendon's too lost to be embarrassed.

Pete fits his lips loosely over the shell of Brendon's ear and whisipers, "Think Ryan's touching himself yet?"

And it's over, just like that.

Brendon realizes too late that he's just jizzed all over Pete's bedspread but hey, it's totally Pete's fault, and Pete's laughing low and silent against his neck.

"Did you just come?"

"I. Yeah. Sorry."

He laughs a little harder, rolling away and peeling off his own shirt, handing it to Brendon to clean off. "Nah, it's cool. I'm too tired to fuck you anyway."

Brendon smiles, rolling onto his back as Pete tosses him his pants and pulls himself off the bed.

He grins at Brendon's sleepy, post-orgasmic stupidness, one hand on the doorframe. "I'm totally writing a song about this."

"Ugh, I hate you!" Brendon squeals, throwing a pillow at him. Pete catches it, cackling gleefully, and throws it back before pulling the door open.

"Seriously. Vampire teeth." He waggles his eyebrows, jerking his head toward the dresser. "Bloodplay's hot."





[#4 tomorrow.]