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behindthec) wrote2008-12-19 07:32 am
Our Brilliant Disguise [Day 6 of Not The Sin (or, Brendon's 12 Days of Kinks)]
Author:
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lolabRating: R
Pairing: Brendon/Gabe
Kink du Jour: Cross-dressing. (Author's favorite. \o/)
Word Count: ~1,960
Disclaimer: Fiction as far as I know.
Summary: Brendon's first thought, incongruously, is how Jon, Tom, and Shane would all sacrifice limbs to photograph this moment.
Notes: Vignette 6 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. ;) (I'd like to say this kink was inspired by the recent Kerrang interview, but I wrote this days before that came out, so I guess Brendon's hacking my documents.)
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.
None of it was planned. Really, it wasn't.
It's there, sure, somewhere halfway down the list, but Brendon always thought it would be prearranged, both parties aware, and seeing as there's no other "party" involved now (bitter, what? Dry spell? Fuck off), Brendon figures he'll use his lonely miserable singleness to his advantage and indulge his curiosity in the privacy of his own beautiful, empty bus.
And hell; if he doesn't like it, he can cross it off the list. One less to bother with.
His fingertips have scarcely skimmed over the half-circles of lavender lace when he realizes that won't be happening.
It was easier than he thought, walking into the mall in the middle of Redneck Smalltown, USA, bullshitting all the sales clerks' stupid questions (Oh, she's about my size). It got messier when he realized he was going to have to leave with a bright pink striped bag recognizable the world round, that he was a ten minute walk from the venue, and there were no cabs in sight.
So he did what any self-respecting man secure in his masculinity would do: ducked into the mall bathroom, stripped, shimmied into the top and panties, put his clothes back on, tossed the bag in the trash and ignored his hard-on the whole walk home.
The bus feels unnaturally quiet when he returns -- never a good sign; usually means someone's about to pop out of their bunk when you least expect it. But Brendon checks every last one, even the crew's; the front lounge, back lounge, bathroom, every nook and cranny, and it's official. He's alone.
Alone and wearing women's lingerie.
What, okay. Ross wears a fucking bouquet on his vest and that pic of MikeyWay in the pinstripe dress, fishnets, and fuck-me boots is all over the fucking web (not that Brendon's ever run a search for it or anything). He's hardly the perviest of the lot, or even the girliest. He can bench-press more than Spencer, he's beaten all of Academy except Butcher at arm-wrestling, and he knows how to hotwire a car. But, y'know, shh. Point is, Brendon's a dude. Which would be pretty obvious to anyone staring at his crotch right now. Past the lacy ruffles, that is.
But he thinks it's a safe bet, slowly peeling off his outer layers in front of the full-length mirror in the back of the bus, that despite any genderbending experimentation, none of those guys ever drew quite this reaction from themselves.
His body's practically trembling from the onslaught of foreign sensations. And thongs, thongs are weird, okay, uncomfortable as fuck on the most basic level, but for Brendon it goes beyond that: the thin, teasing little string rubbing lightly against his hole, providing just enough stimulation to remind him that, hi, he has an ass, and it would be really sweet if someone would like to come along and fuck it sometime this year. The top isn't bad at all; silky, just the right side of snug, hugging his frame just enough to remind him of the fabric's presence. He tucks his thumbs under the straps and runs them along his shoulder before smoothing his hands down the front. His fingertips catch on the little bow in the v-neck, and it's a weird feeling, touching himself through the thin layer, softer than anything that's ever been in contact with his skin.
But it's the panties that do him in, and his cock is pretty much in full agreement of that.
It's already peeking out the top once he shoves his jeans down, pre-come dripping down over the lacy fringe. He lets his hands wander without much direction, and they slip over his hipbones, fingering the little rounded edges of the material, tracing the shape. He watches the mirror with intrigue, cocks his head to one side, shifts his weight to the other foot and the friction is just enough that his cock gives a surprised jump and he gasps, glaringly loud in the silence.
In a panic, he swears he hears activity at the front of the bus, but he knows it's just his paranoia setting in, and after a quick jerk of his head in the opposite direction, he turns back to the mirror.
It's a few more seconds of idle observation, trying to keep his hands off his dick because, hey, this is interesting -- when an out-of-nowhere shuffle sounds from not far off and draws closer, accompanied by footsteps and suddenly there's a second figure in the face of the mirror.
Brendon's first thought, incongruously, is how Jon, Tom, and Shane would all sacrifice limbs to photograph this moment.
Here's -- him, in, this, his face a blatant deer-in-headlights cliche, and there's Gabe motherfucking Saporta standing behind him, purple hoodie and eighteen-colored sneakers and his eyes the size of boulders.
Brendon doesn't move, just watches him in the mirror, like maybe it won't ever be quite real if he never turns around.
His mouth's so dry when he goes to speak that he only gets out one syllable.
"Dude." Warning.
"Dude." Shock.
"Dude." Panic.
"Dude." Awe.
Brendon can't tell if their minimalist, primitively masculine exchange of words is intentional or not.
"The fuck are you doing?" he asks, keeping his voice even, and he doesn't miss the irony of his statement, knowing in all fairness it ought to be directed at him.
Gabe swallows, blinking a couple times, looking away, and looking shamelessly back. "I -- Bill sent me to steal some of Jon's Best."
(That's just what it is, too, caps and all, because that shit is imported direct from Scimeca Industries, and Nick has secret, magical weed sources that no one can fathom and seriously who cares, now!.)
Brendon blinks back because this is not happening.
Gabe's eyes are suddenly flashing panic too, and he takes a step back. "Oh my god, is this a set-up?"
And just -- WHAT?! What demonic forces hate Brendon's guts so god damned much that they would set this up?!
He tells Gabe as much, and Gabe chuckles, breathless.
"I -- did Bill tell you I, uh, -- that I -- like -- " He makes a vague, embarrassed gesture towards Brendon's general direction, awkward as a kid pointing out boobies.
Also, hello brand new blackmail fodder. (Though he figures after this, Gabe's probably got him beat in the blackmail department for like the next sixty-eight years.)
Brendon draws in a steadying breath. "Um. No... no, I am pretty sure you are really, really definitely not supposed to be here right now."
"Yeah. Right. No. Sorry. I'll just."
He's stumbling over an amp as he backs up, and Brendon almost laughs because he's never seen Gabe like this, never knew Gabe could be like this, so definitively not smooth, and Brendon feels like he's stepped into the Twilight Zone, some really nightmarish episode where he's a chick and Gabe's an awkward blushing bundle of uncool.
"Yeah. Okay."
But even through the words, his eyes are glued to Brendon's crotch, only tearing them away out of necessity when he trips over Spencer's shoe and takes it as cue to bolt.
It takes Brendon a good thirty seconds before he's able to start breathing again, and already his mind is picturing the repercussions with a pessimism that would give Ryan a run for his money. He barely even has the chance to picture Pete's proud, blinding smile when the footsteps return and Gabe's suddenly back, and it's Real Gabe this time, cocky, self-confident smirk and twinkling eyes and all.
Brendon finally turns from the mirror's safety, mouth hanging open.
"Yeah, sorry," Gabe shrugs, the laughter in his voice making it perfectly clear he's not sorry at all, and drops to his knees.
"Holy fucking shit, what the fuck are -- oh god."
Oh god is basically the tip of the iceberg, because Gabe's got his hands on Brendon's hips and his nose nuzzling lightly at the soft fabric barely covering his dick, eyes closed and mouth open, hot breath seeping easily through the material, and this is really, seriously, unexpectedly fantastic.
Gabe smiles, and Brendon shudders when he realizes he can feel it. "Totally would've pegged Ross for the trannie."
"I'm not a fucking trannie, Jesus."
"No." His head lifts a few degrees, eyes and voice both soft, and he smirks. "You're just a pretty pretty princess."
"Oh, fuck you," but the threat is weak, breathy, negated by the tone, and only makes Gabe smirk bigger.
"Later, querido," he coos, slipping one hand from Brendon's hip to his dick, inching the panties down just far enough to get it out and curl his fist around the base, breath ghosting over the head, and Brendon almost wants to tell him don't fucking bother because he's pretty sure Gabe's warm hand and a few more Spanish endearments would be enough to get him off.
But when Gabe's tongue peeks out to trace over the head, Brendon's not gonna protest.
He's slow at first, teasing and taking every last drop of his sweet-ass time, only sucking the head into his mouth before letting it pop out, tonguing long stripes up and down the underside, but apparently Brendon gets off on teasing or frilly chick undies or both, because he's fucking close faster than ever. When Gabe finally gives in and takes him full into his mouth, it's such a rush of sensation Brendon practically falls back into the mirror.
"Fuck, shit," he splutters, his hands coming automatically to tangle in the curls atop Gabe's head.
Gabe pulls off in a flash, actually pulls off and shies away, gawking up at him with dark eyes as he uses his free hand to smooth down the offended curls. "Dude. Hair."
"Sorry, shit, just -- " But as Brendon's eyes focus, he sees Gabe's hand working inside his own pants, jerking himself in time with the rhythm he'd set on Brendon's dick, and holy shit, as if that's supposed to make the not-touching any easier.
He squeezes his eyes shut and clasps his hands together behind his back, silently begging for forgiveness.
Luckily Gabe's a forgiving dude, taking him in deeper and sucking harder until Brendon babbles out some warning he hopes is coherent enough, and Gabe leans back to finish him off with his hand. Usually Brendon thinks it's kind of anticlimactic, the sudden loss of hot-wet mouth at the most crucial moment, but it turns out Gabe's just as good with his hands and Brendon's spilling over onto his fingers, onto the pile of (thankfully) dirty clothes on the floor, and, most notably, onto his brand-new... outfit.
By the time he comes down and opens his eyes, Gabe's already cleaned himself up and Brendon too, pulling himself to his feet and tossing a soiled shirt into the pile of laundry, his smirk having returned -- if it ever left.
Brendon grins giddily. "Uh, I'll just, uh, show you where Jon keeps his stuff."
Gabe shrugs. "'S'okay. Don't need it anymore."
"What about Bill?"
Gabe grins. "I lied. It was for me."
+++
Two weeks pass and there's nothing, not a knowing leer from Pete, not curious glances from his bandmates or an excited interrogation from Bill. Gabe smiles a little bigger at Brendon when he sees him now, pays him a little more attention and affection, but otherwise it might as well have never happened -- and, nice as it was, that's just fine with Brendon.
Somewhere in the third week, he tosses aside his bunk curtain to find a tiara on his pillow -- a fucking tiara, he's totally going to thank kill someone -- with a folded scrap of paper underneath.
You're always a woman to me.
<3 G
*This is kind of what I pictured for Brendon, only in all black with lavender trim.
[# 7 is/was the original kinkfic that inspired the series, already posted; you can read it here and # 8 will come day after tomorrow.]
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