PATD ficlet: A Terrible Vulcan (Brendon/Spencer, R)
Title: A Terrible Vulcan
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer, with some Jon/Ryan, too
Rating: R
Summary: Couch snuggling. Silly Brendon repressing his feelings. Silly Star Trek references (believe me, if I understood where all that came from, I'd tell you, but I don't). 2400 words.
A Terrible Vulcan
The four of them are miraculously alone, heaped up on somebody's couch drinking beer and watching some disgusting horror movie. At one end, Ryan's tucked up under Jon's arm, half in his lap, in a way that frankly surprises Brendon despite the weeks the two of them have been together. But Ryan looks exhausted, and he always has been more prone to serious clinging when he's too tired to act like he doesn't care.
Spencer's in the middle, legs stretched out long in front of him, leaving Brendon wedged into the armrest on the other end. Happily wedged, given that he's sitting thigh to thigh with Spencer, close enough to smell the shampoo he uses not to mention his deodorant, which shouldn't be hot, but it is.
He thinks he's lost his mind. Really. What part of bandmate plus sex equals bad idea does his brain not comprehend?
Oh, yes-the Well, Ryan and Jon are fucking… part.
He gets up and goes into the kitchen for some more beer, clutching the necks of four bottles between his fingers on his way back to couch and the movie and Jon and Ryan cuddling so effortlessly it doesn't look like cuddling, and he's jealous and he hates it and it makes him itchy and he has to do something…
So he ceremoniously sits down sideways on the couch, lying back against the armrest and draping his legs over Spencer's lap, his ass resting against his hip and his toes poking Ryan's thigh. Ryan glares at him blankly for a second then returns his attention to the movie. Spencer just snorts and rests his hands on Brendon's knees and that is just…
God, he is so, so stupid.
He's stuck now, fighting the urge to diva himself into a comfier position, like Spencer's being a colossal asshole or something. But he's not. He's just watching the movie, ignoring his Brendonness without ignoring it at all. After a couple of minutes, Brendon flaps his hand at his beer on the table and Spencer hands it to him, taking it back when he's done with it. Then he puts his arm behind Brendon's shoulder, friendly-like, and Brendon imperiously allows him to.
Sometime during a particularly bloody scene, Brendon turns to see if Ryan's grimacing or gawking appreciatively and instead catches Jon's eye. Jon smiles, glancing down between them to Spencer's thumb rubbing at the inside of Brendon's calf, and he looks away just as he smirks.
Brendon takes that opportunity to get up again to fetch more beer, and when he comes back, he sits on the couch normally again, in that place beside Spencer. If Spencer leans into his shoulder a little, it's only because they're relaxed and sleepy and Spencer and Brendon. They've been that a lot of times over the years. That's all.
Later, long after Brendon's certain Jon's not even inwardly smirking at him anymore, he becomes aware of bodies shifting on the couch, of Ryan curling even more into Jon's arms, of his face pressed to Jon's neck. It seems like the most natural thing in the world when Jon turns his face down and his lips catch Ryan's.
Brendon watches. He always does-the kissing, that is. They don't mind. Hell, maybe they like the audience. In some ridiculous-ass girly part of him deep down, he loves them and hates them for it all at once. It looks so easy. Of course, it's not. Jon can be a picky, weird motherfucker. And Ryan is a right bitch to deal with sometimes. But Ryan looks like a fantastic kisser, and Jon's hands somehow touch and stroke him without at all making a show of it. One could sit on the other end of the couch from them and not be bothered at all.
Unless one were bothered more than he cared to admit.
Spencer doesn't watch. He doesn't seem to pay them any mind at all until Ryan makes this little sighing noise in the back of his throat, and then Spencer's arm comes out and he pokes his fingers into Ryan's ribs.
Spencer doesn't even take his eyes off the movie. "Get a room," he murmurs. "Preferably not this room."
Jon holds Brendon's gaze as he tilts Ryan's chin and kisses him again with a lot of tongue, but it's more sensual than vulgar. Maybe he's trying to annoy Spencer. Maybe he just wants to kiss his boyfriend. Whatever the case, Brendon cannot blatantly ignore them the way Spencer seems to be able to, so he's still looking at them when Ryan pulls out of the kiss and, noticing where Jon's eyes are, looks back at Brendon and gives him a wry grin.
After Ryan and Jon struggle up from the couch and shuffle off to the bedroom, Spencer doesn't move. Brendon doesn't either, not right away. When the movie's over, they flip the DVD player off and watch TV. They laugh at The Daily Show, and Brendon slouches down on the couch until his ass is almost hanging off. They chuckle at The Colbert Report and chatter through it, Brendon turning and pressing closer as they fall into heated conversation about the kind of bullshit they always find funny and nobody else seems to. By the time they flip channels for a while and finally stumble upon an old episode of Star Trek to mock, the kind with Captain Kirk and styrofoam boulders, he's half leaned against Spencer and half curling into himself, snuggling deeper and deeper into the couch as they do a passable Mystery Science Theater on the first half of the episode.
He gets up during a commercial and goes to the bathroom, and when he comes back, he sits where Ryan and Jon were, so cozy and comfortable with each other. Maybe it's infectious, or maybe he's just hoping it is, because he finds himself lying down, putting his head in Spencer's lap. There's an annoying scratchy throw pillow between his face and Spencer's legs, but that's not the point. The point is one of Spencer's hands falls to his head, making these whorls over his scalp, and he's happy. Really happy. Spencer's hand eventually strays to his neck, rubbing and soothing, and as warm and horny as it makes him, that's not the problem.
The problem? The so-good-it's-bad problem? Spencer's other hand, how it ends up on his stomach. At first it's just a warm, solid weight against his ribs. But it slips further and further until it's resting at his navel, his pinky bumping up against Brendon's waistband, which is already riding low enough to be pretty dangerous. But it shouldn't be dangerous. This is just Spencer, and he's been body to body with him for half the evening, for what feels like half his life now. It's just that it's Spencer's hand, and it's there and it's not moving-and if he wanted to, he could shift it just a little and have it down Brendon's pants.
What's more: Brendon knows it could happen. He knows somehow that if he moved just a little, squirmed or twisted a bit closer, maybe even make it look accidental, Spencer's fingers would slip, and Brendon would sigh, and he's pretty fucking sure-sure in a way that scares the living shit out of him-that Spencer's fingers would curl around his dick and they'd end up in a tangled mess of hands and mouths and then someone would regret or someone would freak out and…
So Brendon focuses on Spencer's other hand on his neck and lies quiet and still and listens to Spock explain the choice of logic over emotion like it's easy. Brendon thinks that he would make a terrible Vulcan.
After half an hour fighting an erection, he knows he would.
At the end of the episode after Spencer flicks off the TV, plunging the room into darkness, neither of them move.
Spencer says, "I think I'd make a good Vulcan."
If he was sitting up, Brendon thinks he would kiss him for that. He absolutely would, consequences be damned. But he's not, so he doesn't. Instead, he attempts to quiet his heart as he tries for logic over emotion, or as close as he can get. He aims for friendly banter.
"Okay, so you can be Spock. If I can be Captain Kirk."
Spencer doesn't take the bait. He just says, "Yeah."
An awkward sort of silence is beginning to settle in, but Spencer breaks it by moving, taking his hands back as he shifts and turns and lies down, resting his back against the armrest. Without much conscious thought, Brendon scoots up into place, waiting-and he doesn't wait long-for Spencer's arms to curl around him.
He snuggles back into Spencer's body, no longer able to entirely quiet anything inside him, which is funny because he's not talking at all now, just feeling the warmth from Spencer's body and listening to his breathing.
After a moment, Spencer says, "We should probably go to bed."
"Okay."
But neither of them moves. Somewhere, a clock ticks loudly. Brendon's sure it rivals his insistent heartbeat. Not that he can't feel Spencer's pulse pounding, too, at first in counterpoint with his and then in tandem.
Spencer's voice is quiet in his ear: "You know, if I could mind-meld with anybody, it would be you."
Brendon giggles silently, but a sudden wave of panicky joy comes over him. His voice shakes. "Why?"
"Shit," Spencer mumbles, breath hot on his neck. Hotter, closer. "Can I kiss you?"
Brendon can't answer. Hell, he can't even really breathe.
Spencer adds, "If I'm wrong, just-"
Brendon shifts back against him as he pulls his arms tighter to his chest. He turns his head and before he knows what's happening, Spencer's mouth is wet on his, the angle awkward at first; but Spencer raises his head enough to fix it and then it's so good, so good, Spencer's tongue thrusting into his mouth, the kiss slow and languid and sleepy and serious-serious enough that he can soon feel the bump of Spencer's erection against his ass. His own dick has been hard since the moment Spencer probed his tongue into his mouth.
Eventually, Brendon pulls out of the kiss and somehow manages to roll over without falling off the couch. Spencer draws him back into his arms instantly, and as he does, Brendon takes a chance and slips his leg into place between Spencer's. When they start kissing again, it takes no time at all before Spencer's pulling at his waist, lining up their hips and grinding into him.
Thankfully Spencer's mouth muffles Brendon's moans, not that his mouth does anything at all to stop the fire racing through his body, the ridiculous almost-too-much feeling of wanting to come, knowing he's going to come in his pants if he's not careful, trying to stop it but trying not to stop it, too. He slips his hands down between them and palms Spencer's dick through his jeans, making him grunt into Brendon's mouth and hold his waist even harder, thumbs digging in. He kisses him just as hard, mouth demanding and hot.
"Bedroom," Spencer says into his mouth between kisses.
"God," Brendon moans in his ear, resting his face against his neck. "Won't make it."
"Fuck. Fuck, they'll-"
"They're not coming out for a while. Christ, just… Hands. Please."
Brendon's already thumbing open Spencer's fly, so Spencer does the same to him. Their arms get tangled up, then their hands, as they pull each other free of their boxers. Somehow, they end up with each of their hands around both their dicks at once, and they jerk against each other as their mouths meet again, distractedly sucking and licking as they put all their effort into coordinating their hips and fingers.
"Not enough fucking room," Spencer mumbles into his mouth.
"Thank god we're not actually fucking, then," Brendon replies with a grin, panting.
"Shit," Spencer groans.
Brendon was right: there is no way in hell he would've made it to the bedroom. Another couple of deep groans from Spencer and Brendon's coming all over pretty much everything except the couch, but he doesn't give even half a shit because it feels too good and Spencer makes this whimpering sound as Brendon's thumb slips over his slit, and everything's hot and hard and awkward and pretty fucking perfect, and then Spencer comes, too, all over both their hands.
When they get their breath back, Spencer's face is against his collarbone, and he quietly grumbles, "I fucking hate it when they do that PDA bullshit. Makes me…" When he glances up and sees the look Brendon's giving him, he adds, "Hey, not that you weren't the one I wanted to be…you know…"
"Mind-melding with?"
"Aw, shut the fuck up," Spencer mumbles, and Brendon doesn't have to see him to know he's turning bright red. He can actually feel the heat coming over his face.
Brendon kisses his forehead, then his jaw, then his lips, finally finding his neck with his hands, leaving them there. "I hate them, too. I really do. And I like you."
"Yeah?"
The biggest understatement of the millennium. Really. Absurd, too, but somehow it still needed to be said.
Brendon adds, "Even if you're a tease."
"This from the guy who put his head in my lap."
"From that very guy," he says, smiling. "But this is…?"
"Yeah," Spencer replies, burying his face against his neck. "This is."
"Okay."
When they finally peel themselves off the couch, and they're drifting toward the bathroom, Spencer whispers, "I only meant I wished I understood your brain."
"I know exactly what you meant. And just so you know, Spence, you would be a terrible Vulcan."
He thinks he sees Spencer's grin even in the dim light from the kitchen. "Well, I think you already are a failure as Captain Kirk."
"Shut up."
"You shut up."
Since the house is quiet and dark and they're winding the halls giggling and engaging in more than a little PDA bullshit of their own, they decide shutting up might really be for the best. And, after all, there are so many other things they could be doing with their mouths.
~
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer, with some Jon/Ryan, too
Rating: R
Summary: Couch snuggling. Silly Brendon repressing his feelings. Silly Star Trek references (believe me, if I understood where all that came from, I'd tell you, but I don't). 2400 words.
A Terrible Vulcan
The four of them are miraculously alone, heaped up on somebody's couch drinking beer and watching some disgusting horror movie. At one end, Ryan's tucked up under Jon's arm, half in his lap, in a way that frankly surprises Brendon despite the weeks the two of them have been together. But Ryan looks exhausted, and he always has been more prone to serious clinging when he's too tired to act like he doesn't care.
Spencer's in the middle, legs stretched out long in front of him, leaving Brendon wedged into the armrest on the other end. Happily wedged, given that he's sitting thigh to thigh with Spencer, close enough to smell the shampoo he uses not to mention his deodorant, which shouldn't be hot, but it is.
He thinks he's lost his mind. Really. What part of bandmate plus sex equals bad idea does his brain not comprehend?
Oh, yes-the Well, Ryan and Jon are fucking… part.
He gets up and goes into the kitchen for some more beer, clutching the necks of four bottles between his fingers on his way back to couch and the movie and Jon and Ryan cuddling so effortlessly it doesn't look like cuddling, and he's jealous and he hates it and it makes him itchy and he has to do something…
So he ceremoniously sits down sideways on the couch, lying back against the armrest and draping his legs over Spencer's lap, his ass resting against his hip and his toes poking Ryan's thigh. Ryan glares at him blankly for a second then returns his attention to the movie. Spencer just snorts and rests his hands on Brendon's knees and that is just…
God, he is so, so stupid.
He's stuck now, fighting the urge to diva himself into a comfier position, like Spencer's being a colossal asshole or something. But he's not. He's just watching the movie, ignoring his Brendonness without ignoring it at all. After a couple of minutes, Brendon flaps his hand at his beer on the table and Spencer hands it to him, taking it back when he's done with it. Then he puts his arm behind Brendon's shoulder, friendly-like, and Brendon imperiously allows him to.
Sometime during a particularly bloody scene, Brendon turns to see if Ryan's grimacing or gawking appreciatively and instead catches Jon's eye. Jon smiles, glancing down between them to Spencer's thumb rubbing at the inside of Brendon's calf, and he looks away just as he smirks.
Brendon takes that opportunity to get up again to fetch more beer, and when he comes back, he sits on the couch normally again, in that place beside Spencer. If Spencer leans into his shoulder a little, it's only because they're relaxed and sleepy and Spencer and Brendon. They've been that a lot of times over the years. That's all.
Later, long after Brendon's certain Jon's not even inwardly smirking at him anymore, he becomes aware of bodies shifting on the couch, of Ryan curling even more into Jon's arms, of his face pressed to Jon's neck. It seems like the most natural thing in the world when Jon turns his face down and his lips catch Ryan's.
Brendon watches. He always does-the kissing, that is. They don't mind. Hell, maybe they like the audience. In some ridiculous-ass girly part of him deep down, he loves them and hates them for it all at once. It looks so easy. Of course, it's not. Jon can be a picky, weird motherfucker. And Ryan is a right bitch to deal with sometimes. But Ryan looks like a fantastic kisser, and Jon's hands somehow touch and stroke him without at all making a show of it. One could sit on the other end of the couch from them and not be bothered at all.
Unless one were bothered more than he cared to admit.
Spencer doesn't watch. He doesn't seem to pay them any mind at all until Ryan makes this little sighing noise in the back of his throat, and then Spencer's arm comes out and he pokes his fingers into Ryan's ribs.
Spencer doesn't even take his eyes off the movie. "Get a room," he murmurs. "Preferably not this room."
Jon holds Brendon's gaze as he tilts Ryan's chin and kisses him again with a lot of tongue, but it's more sensual than vulgar. Maybe he's trying to annoy Spencer. Maybe he just wants to kiss his boyfriend. Whatever the case, Brendon cannot blatantly ignore them the way Spencer seems to be able to, so he's still looking at them when Ryan pulls out of the kiss and, noticing where Jon's eyes are, looks back at Brendon and gives him a wry grin.
After Ryan and Jon struggle up from the couch and shuffle off to the bedroom, Spencer doesn't move. Brendon doesn't either, not right away. When the movie's over, they flip the DVD player off and watch TV. They laugh at The Daily Show, and Brendon slouches down on the couch until his ass is almost hanging off. They chuckle at The Colbert Report and chatter through it, Brendon turning and pressing closer as they fall into heated conversation about the kind of bullshit they always find funny and nobody else seems to. By the time they flip channels for a while and finally stumble upon an old episode of Star Trek to mock, the kind with Captain Kirk and styrofoam boulders, he's half leaned against Spencer and half curling into himself, snuggling deeper and deeper into the couch as they do a passable Mystery Science Theater on the first half of the episode.
He gets up during a commercial and goes to the bathroom, and when he comes back, he sits where Ryan and Jon were, so cozy and comfortable with each other. Maybe it's infectious, or maybe he's just hoping it is, because he finds himself lying down, putting his head in Spencer's lap. There's an annoying scratchy throw pillow between his face and Spencer's legs, but that's not the point. The point is one of Spencer's hands falls to his head, making these whorls over his scalp, and he's happy. Really happy. Spencer's hand eventually strays to his neck, rubbing and soothing, and as warm and horny as it makes him, that's not the problem.
The problem? The so-good-it's-bad problem? Spencer's other hand, how it ends up on his stomach. At first it's just a warm, solid weight against his ribs. But it slips further and further until it's resting at his navel, his pinky bumping up against Brendon's waistband, which is already riding low enough to be pretty dangerous. But it shouldn't be dangerous. This is just Spencer, and he's been body to body with him for half the evening, for what feels like half his life now. It's just that it's Spencer's hand, and it's there and it's not moving-and if he wanted to, he could shift it just a little and have it down Brendon's pants.
What's more: Brendon knows it could happen. He knows somehow that if he moved just a little, squirmed or twisted a bit closer, maybe even make it look accidental, Spencer's fingers would slip, and Brendon would sigh, and he's pretty fucking sure-sure in a way that scares the living shit out of him-that Spencer's fingers would curl around his dick and they'd end up in a tangled mess of hands and mouths and then someone would regret or someone would freak out and…
So Brendon focuses on Spencer's other hand on his neck and lies quiet and still and listens to Spock explain the choice of logic over emotion like it's easy. Brendon thinks that he would make a terrible Vulcan.
After half an hour fighting an erection, he knows he would.
At the end of the episode after Spencer flicks off the TV, plunging the room into darkness, neither of them move.
Spencer says, "I think I'd make a good Vulcan."
If he was sitting up, Brendon thinks he would kiss him for that. He absolutely would, consequences be damned. But he's not, so he doesn't. Instead, he attempts to quiet his heart as he tries for logic over emotion, or as close as he can get. He aims for friendly banter.
"Okay, so you can be Spock. If I can be Captain Kirk."
Spencer doesn't take the bait. He just says, "Yeah."
An awkward sort of silence is beginning to settle in, but Spencer breaks it by moving, taking his hands back as he shifts and turns and lies down, resting his back against the armrest. Without much conscious thought, Brendon scoots up into place, waiting-and he doesn't wait long-for Spencer's arms to curl around him.
He snuggles back into Spencer's body, no longer able to entirely quiet anything inside him, which is funny because he's not talking at all now, just feeling the warmth from Spencer's body and listening to his breathing.
After a moment, Spencer says, "We should probably go to bed."
"Okay."
But neither of them moves. Somewhere, a clock ticks loudly. Brendon's sure it rivals his insistent heartbeat. Not that he can't feel Spencer's pulse pounding, too, at first in counterpoint with his and then in tandem.
Spencer's voice is quiet in his ear: "You know, if I could mind-meld with anybody, it would be you."
Brendon giggles silently, but a sudden wave of panicky joy comes over him. His voice shakes. "Why?"
"Shit," Spencer mumbles, breath hot on his neck. Hotter, closer. "Can I kiss you?"
Brendon can't answer. Hell, he can't even really breathe.
Spencer adds, "If I'm wrong, just-"
Brendon shifts back against him as he pulls his arms tighter to his chest. He turns his head and before he knows what's happening, Spencer's mouth is wet on his, the angle awkward at first; but Spencer raises his head enough to fix it and then it's so good, so good, Spencer's tongue thrusting into his mouth, the kiss slow and languid and sleepy and serious-serious enough that he can soon feel the bump of Spencer's erection against his ass. His own dick has been hard since the moment Spencer probed his tongue into his mouth.
Eventually, Brendon pulls out of the kiss and somehow manages to roll over without falling off the couch. Spencer draws him back into his arms instantly, and as he does, Brendon takes a chance and slips his leg into place between Spencer's. When they start kissing again, it takes no time at all before Spencer's pulling at his waist, lining up their hips and grinding into him.
Thankfully Spencer's mouth muffles Brendon's moans, not that his mouth does anything at all to stop the fire racing through his body, the ridiculous almost-too-much feeling of wanting to come, knowing he's going to come in his pants if he's not careful, trying to stop it but trying not to stop it, too. He slips his hands down between them and palms Spencer's dick through his jeans, making him grunt into Brendon's mouth and hold his waist even harder, thumbs digging in. He kisses him just as hard, mouth demanding and hot.
"Bedroom," Spencer says into his mouth between kisses.
"God," Brendon moans in his ear, resting his face against his neck. "Won't make it."
"Fuck. Fuck, they'll-"
"They're not coming out for a while. Christ, just… Hands. Please."
Brendon's already thumbing open Spencer's fly, so Spencer does the same to him. Their arms get tangled up, then their hands, as they pull each other free of their boxers. Somehow, they end up with each of their hands around both their dicks at once, and they jerk against each other as their mouths meet again, distractedly sucking and licking as they put all their effort into coordinating their hips and fingers.
"Not enough fucking room," Spencer mumbles into his mouth.
"Thank god we're not actually fucking, then," Brendon replies with a grin, panting.
"Shit," Spencer groans.
Brendon was right: there is no way in hell he would've made it to the bedroom. Another couple of deep groans from Spencer and Brendon's coming all over pretty much everything except the couch, but he doesn't give even half a shit because it feels too good and Spencer makes this whimpering sound as Brendon's thumb slips over his slit, and everything's hot and hard and awkward and pretty fucking perfect, and then Spencer comes, too, all over both their hands.
When they get their breath back, Spencer's face is against his collarbone, and he quietly grumbles, "I fucking hate it when they do that PDA bullshit. Makes me…" When he glances up and sees the look Brendon's giving him, he adds, "Hey, not that you weren't the one I wanted to be…you know…"
"Mind-melding with?"
"Aw, shut the fuck up," Spencer mumbles, and Brendon doesn't have to see him to know he's turning bright red. He can actually feel the heat coming over his face.
Brendon kisses his forehead, then his jaw, then his lips, finally finding his neck with his hands, leaving them there. "I hate them, too. I really do. And I like you."
"Yeah?"
The biggest understatement of the millennium. Really. Absurd, too, but somehow it still needed to be said.
Brendon adds, "Even if you're a tease."
"This from the guy who put his head in my lap."
"From that very guy," he says, smiling. "But this is…?"
"Yeah," Spencer replies, burying his face against his neck. "This is."
"Okay."
When they finally peel themselves off the couch, and they're drifting toward the bathroom, Spencer whispers, "I only meant I wished I understood your brain."
"I know exactly what you meant. And just so you know, Spence, you would be a terrible Vulcan."
He thinks he sees Spencer's grin even in the dim light from the kitchen. "Well, I think you already are a failure as Captain Kirk."
"Shut up."
"You shut up."
Since the house is quiet and dark and they're winding the halls giggling and engaging in more than a little PDA bullshit of their own, they decide shutting up might really be for the best. And, after all, there are so many other things they could be doing with their mouths.
~