different names for the same thing; brendon/spencer; nc-17
different names for the same thing. brendon/spencer. nc-17.
3193 words.
sinuous_curve & chopsticknoodle.
a world wind romance?
Spencer's the one that kisses him first, but it's not like Brendon hadn't seen it coming. Spencer's been more tactile on this tour, crowding Brendon's space, and they'd been laying in the back lounge more, watching as the sun streamed in through the windows, Spencer's head perched on Brendon's shoulder.
It still manages to catch him off guard, though.
They're backstage after a show, and Brendon's just out of the shower, skin flushed and damp. Spencer's there, leaning against the sink, eyes smiling at the corners. "Hey," he says and Brendon's holding up his towel and tips his head to the side when Spencer leans in.
Spencer tastes fresh and clean, and Brendon hasn't really spent a lot of time thinking about how long he's wanted this, hasn't let himself. One of Spencer's hands is cupping Brendon's cheek, and that's all it is. There's nothing hard or aching between them, just the dry slide of their mouths.
They kiss, Spencer's hands skating paths up and down Brendon's back until Ryan pounds on the door, demanding to know what the hell is taking so goddamn long, some people are sitting in their sweaty costumes and stewing in bacteria. Spencer chuckles low in the back of his throat and pulls away.
it's not that they don't talk about it, it's not like they avoid each other -- it's not like there's space to, but it's that there's no need. Spencer slips out, and Brendon finishes dressing himself, and when he tumbles into the changing room, Spencer's already in his jeans and hoodie. He grins over at Brendon when he sees him, smiling, but only with his eyes.
That night on the bus, Brendon's almost asleep, headphones tucked into his ears, when the curtain eases back and Spencer crawls in. He's bare from the waist up, wearing wash soft, cut off pajama pants and he doesn't do anything, he just fits himself along Brendon's back and falls asleep with his breath ghosting out across his neck.
Brendon wakes to soft skin surrounding him everywhere, head burrowed against Spencer's chest. "Morning," he whispers, and Spencer snuffles against his neck, pressing a kiss against his forehead, more a press of his lips than anything else. "Morning."
It should be strange, but it's not and, three days later, when Spencer's hand ends up down the front of Brendon's pants, it still isn't. His palms and fingers are callused rough, skin warm and just right, and Brendon comes with an easy, contented sigh and falls asleep sated and looser.
They don't really act any different around each other than they usually do. Spencer and Ryan still hold entire conversations through eyebrow quirks, and Brendon still hangs off of everything with a pulse, but at night, Spencer's always the one that slides into his bunk, and Brendon can't actually remember the last time he slept alone.
It's not dating and it's not really fucking, just hands around each other's dicks, hips canting into the friction of each other's movements, sleeping tucked together. Brendon has a deep fear of being alone that writhes deep down in his gut and Spencer's eases that with the scratch of his bread against the back of Brendon's neck
Spencer blows him at a venue in Las Cruses. He doesn't really say much, just grabs Brendon's hand once they come off stage, muttering something to Ryan and Jon that sounds like, "There's this thing I just have to see," and Brendon explodes with giggles once they get to the bathroom and Spencer's falling to his knees, mouth opened wide. "Just had to see, huh?" he asks, and Spencer rolls his eyes, but it doesn't stop him from sucking the head into his mouth.
Spencer's good at it, which, Brendon doesn't let himself think about how he might have picked up that particular skill along the road, just tangles his fingers in Spencer's hair and tips his head back against the mirror, trying to keep at least a little quiet. Spencer's beard is rough against the skin of his thighs, hands tight around his hips, and when Brendon comes Spencer swallows neatly and smiles up at him through the sweep of his eyelashes
Brendon wants to reciprocate. He wants to reciprocate that very instant, but he doesn't. Spencer won't let him drop to his knees, hands tight on Brendon's light when he stands, pressing their foreheads together. "You don't have to, Bren. I just wanted." He doesn't say what he wanted, but he doesn't need to, content to just breathe Brendon's air.
Brendon doesn't quite understand the way Spencer's mind works, even after god knows how many hours spent together in confined spaces, but he knows something about Spencer's need to protect and take care of. It's not that he doesn't want, Brendon knows, it's that he won't ask and that night, Brendon shifts Spencer onto his back and hunches over and mouths, "I want," the skin of his pelvis.
Spencer lets him. The pads of his fingers light against the sides of Brendon's face, not forcing, not pushing, just accepting anything and everything Brendon can give him.
In the morning, Spencer brushes a kiss against Brendon's lower lip and brings him coffee. It's a thank you, which almost makes Brendon laugh; as though he hadn't wanted it just as much.
--
It's almost a shock when they get off stage after the last show. Tour has been less stressful than it could have been, but no one can complain about having solid ground under their feet. Spencer catches his wrist as they come off stage, rubbing his thumb against Brendon's pulse, and smiling just a little, lips and eyes this time, so Brendon knows it's special.
They have a hotel that night, a concession to it being the last, and even though every other hotel night they've had Spencer roomed with Ryan and Brendon roomed with Jon, somehow Brendon ends up with the card key that matches Spencer's and no one comments. Ryan looks at him sidelong, but it isn't anger in his eyes, or judgment, just careful consideration and Brendon ruffles his hair as he heads for the elevator.
Spencer throws his bags down, stretching out on one of the beds, eyes half lidded, grin playing across the curve of his lips. "You look comfy," Brendon says, and Spencer snorts, but doesn't push him away when Brendon settles down against him, pressing his face against the curve of Spencer's neck, breathing in deep.
"Do you want?" Spencer murmurs and they don't have to say anything beyond that. It's easy between them, not an outright commitment, but not just sex either; a gray area in between that fits them both and settles across Brendon's skin like it belongs there. "Yes," he sighs, pressing kisses to the slope of his shoulder. "I do."
Spencer settles deeper back against the starchy hotel pillows, and Brendon has this weird, out of body experience when he sees his hands flitting to Spencer's hips, his fingers pushing up the hem of Spencer's tee shirt. His skin starts to tingle when the offending cotton is pulled and tossed away, mouth watering at the sight of so much pale and creamy Spencer skin. The shirt lands with a soft thump against the wall and Spencer stretches out beneath him, soft and round, the curve of his stomach and the rounded jut of his hips smooth beneath Brendon's palms. They fly home in the morning, on an eleven thirty flight and suddenly, strangely, Brendon can feel the push of time ticking down on the back of his mind.
He doesn't want to go if it means losing this, this thing between them that neither has bothered to define. He doesn't want to leave this room if this is the only time he gets to have Spencer, if this is the only chance he'll ever get.
"Hey," Spencer says, voice low and tinged with a hint of roughness that sends sparks shooting along Brendon's spine. "It's okay." Brendon doesn't know if he believes that, if he can completely accept those words, but Spencer doesn't lie and, really, what will happen will happen, that much he knows for damn sure. He kisses the skin between Spencer's eyebrows, the tip of his nose, his lips, chin, throat, chest. Spencer's always quiet when their skin slides together, and Brendon's not expecting the noise that gets ripped out of Spencer's throat when Brendon's nips along his collarbone, like Brendon's actually doing something good, something right.
He goes still, hands spread out on Spencer's chest, feeling the distant echoing thud of Spencer's heart in his chest. "Don't stop," Spencer exhales and, brushing the tip of his finger against the swell of Brendon's lower lip. "It's good, Bren." They don't talk during, they haven't been, and the shift is odd and exhilarating, the way Spencer's voice dips and shakes.
They're both still in jeans -- Brendon's fully dressed, and it suddenly feels too much, like the stretch will take forever, snapping like an elastic against their skin. He wants to rush, wants to strip down at even rut against Spencer's skin if that's all he's allowed, but. But they haven't rushed anything so far, and he's not going to be the one who upsets their quiet balance.
He takes his time, working a path across the ridge of Spencer's collarbone, nipping and sucking, dragging his teeth. Spencer tastes like sweat and and the faint tang of shampoo, it shouldn't be good, maybe, but it is and it's only when Spencer's fingers catch at the hem of his tee shirt that Brendon pauses long enough to wiggle out.
"Bren," Spencer whispers, deft fingers working at Brendon's belt. "Bren, I -- " Words don't mean anything, they have no place in this thing that exists only between the two of them, and there's a curl of fear sliding up Brendon's spine at the tone in Spencer's voice. He doesn't kiss the words away, even though he wants to. "Brendon," Spencer's eyes are wide, and breathtakingly blue. "Brendon, I want you."
Brendon has never been very good at saying no people when they ask in earnest, not his mother when she asked him to pray as a child, not Ryan when he asked him if he would take over singing, and not Spencer, laid out beneath him. Brendon inhales and exhales, dragging blunt nails along the curve of Spencer's ribs and nods. "Yes."
Brendon's had sex before, it isn't as though he's completely inexperienced, but this is Spencer, this is Spencer and sex is messy, sex hurts, and Brendon has never in his life wanted to hurt Spencer.
The mechanics he knows, but sex has always been a thing that happens for release or for fun, with boys and girls who didn't look like they'd be the kind to call sobbing at two am about him being their one true love and every now and then a boy or girl who looked exactly like that, if only so Brendon could feel revered for a moment. But this, this is different and Brendon feels in his bones that they're standing at the lynch pin of what is and the different things that could be.
They have lube, Spencer has lube, he says so, letting out a shuddering breath as Brendon lets go of his skin, but no condoms, and Brendon knows his eyes are huge as he looks back at Spencer, because that's something they've never talked about either.
"I trust you," Spencer says and Brendon feels the weight of that settle on his shoulders, not uncomfortably, just simply there. Spencer doesn't trust easily, for all that he's unfailingly kind, and Brendon kisses him, splaying his hand out across Spencer's hips.
Brendon coats his fingers, and then coats them again for good measure. Spencer is tight, Spencer is tighter than Brendon would have imagined if he'd actually let himself think about it.
It hits him like lightening. "Spence, are you -- ?" He doesn't know how to ask questions that actually need answers when they've been doing this for months and never said the words. Spencer's eyes snap open, but they don't give him an answer either. "We don't have to," he whispers, dropping his head against Spencer's chest again, pressing a kiss against his sternum.
"I want to," Spencer grits out and Brendon can feel his chin move against the top of his head. "I've never done this before, Bren, but you don't have to stop," He lets out a shuddering breath. "Just. Just go slow." Brendon closes his eyes and counts a slow breath, one Mississippi two Mississippi three Mississippi, and flutters his eyelashes against pale skin. He's done this, fucked and been fucked, even though the words feel too tawdry in his mind, but Spencer hasn't and Brendon wants to make it right.
He doesn't crook his fingers up until he's eased the second in, and the line of Spencer's throat is gorgeous and pale in this light. Brendon wants to set his teeth into the skin there, mark Spencer and make him different, alter him somehow just to prove that when this is over, something had happened. He doesn't like to think about how much that thought hurts, that this -- whatever it is, could have an end.
Spencer's breath comes in a short pants, but they're not pained, just a little overwhelmed and Brendon understands that, he remembers it, from the night he slipped in a fucking Bible camp of all places, hands tangled in the thin cotton sheet on his cot with his counselor whispering tangled nonsense in his ear. He brushes against the nub deep inside and Spencer keens, hips canting forward as his mouth goes slack. "Bren," he exhales, "Brendon."
Brendon adds a third finger, grimacing at how tight Spencer is, thinking that if this hurts him, it can't be all that pleasant for Spencer, despite the noises he's making. "Brendon." he grits out, and Brendon eases his eyes closed so he can't see Spencer's face, lip red and bitten over. "Brendon, please."
Brendon shudders out a breath; he hears want in people's voice all the time, but he's never heard it from Spencer, never raw need laced in every dipped syllable and Brendon can't say no, even if he really wanted to. He pops open the fly of his jeans and peels them off, settling on his knees between Spencer's legs. "Promise me you'll say if it's too much," Brendon murmurs, kissing his knee. "Promise."
Spencer doesn't speak, won't, head thrown back in something that suspiciously looks like reckless abandon. Spencer doesn't speak, and Brendon's close, so close, Spencer's everywhere, Spencer's everything in this moment, but Brendon will move away if he needs to. Brendon will move as fast and as far as possible if Spencer isn't sure.
"Promise," Spencer whispers, and Brendon breathes something that feels like relief.
"Okay," he exhales, hands shaking just a little. "Okay." He lines up and honestly, Brendon stopped believing in God a long time ago, but he sends a thought, a prayer, a plea to anyone who might be listening that he's doing the right thing, that the culmination of so much good won't be a resounding failure of hurt and bone deep ache.
Spencer goes silent as Brendon starts to push in, so completely silent that he looks like he's not even breathing. Brendon knows better, can feel the short bursts of air against the underside of his chin, on his neck. "You're beautiful," he whispers when he's slid forward a few more inches, when Spencer's lip is bleeding and his eyes are shut tight. Brendon's got one hand braced against the mattress and the other pressed against the curve of Spencer's knee, holding him up and holding him open. "You're so fucking pretty like this, Spence, you don't even know."
Spencer's mouth is open, lips spit slick and shining in the dim light and Brendon's had sex before, he's done this, but it's never been like this before, never this tight, this hot, this wet, this overwhelming rush of sensation snapping along his nerves, firing and misfiring in his brain until he can barely breathe. He pushes in slow, inch by inch, muscles cramping and tensing with the effort to keep from giving into abandon.
When he's fully sheathed inside, he's close enough that he can press kisses to Spencer's chest, his cheeks, the underside of his chin. His lashes are wet, and Brendon's terrified until Spencer creaks an eye open, just looking at him. "I love you," he says, voice perfectly clear, and then he blinks, a pink haze exploding over his skin like rain. He closes his eyes again, teeth sinking into the bloodied flesh of his mouth. "Don't. Don't freak out, okay. That's just something people say during sex, isn't it? It doesn't mean anything."
Brendon feels his breath catch in his chest, hands tightening against Spencer's flesh until he knows he's going to leave bruises, there's no way he won't. Spencer's looking at him through the sweep of his eyelashes, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth and Brendon's mind feels like it's firing wrong as memories tumble forward; Spencer kissing him against the sink, Spencer's face lit up the light from Brendon's iPod screen, Spencer's palm sliding down his stomach.
"I -- " his voice is barely anything but an exhalation of air, and Spencer shakes his head, tipping it forward so that his hair falls into his eyes. "Don't say things you don't mean, Urie. Not like this." Brendon doesn't know how he wrecked it, doesn't know what to do with the fear clawing heavy in his stomach and he would take it all back, give the sensation of making Spencer his own if he could just get the easiness back.
It's almost funny, them being like this, as close as two people can physically be even as Brendon feels the distant between them begin to widen in a fucking chasm of misunderstanding. "I've always loved you," Brendon says softly, bowing his head at the truth of the words. "Spencer. Always."
"Brendon, you don't -- " Brendon's still inside of him, and Spencer is still tight, and he's close, he's so, so close, just from being near Spencer, just from the smell of his skin. "I love you. Even if." He closes his eyes and remembers Spencer at sixteen, round cheeked, and fiercely private. "Even if. It would have been from now. I love you, and you can't ask me to stop, Spence," he grins a little, just a corner of his mouth turning up, because Spencer sneaks his eyes open. "I wouldn't know how."
It's a cliche and they both laugh, but it's true, too and Brendon cants his hips just a little, enough to get that same slack look of bliss to slide back onto Spencer's features. He doesn't ask the questions that go along with that particular admission, what happens next, what are we, what do we do, because it's Spencer and Brendon has learned to trust.
3193 words.
sinuous_curve & chopsticknoodle.
a world wind romance?
Spencer's the one that kisses him first, but it's not like Brendon hadn't seen it coming. Spencer's been more tactile on this tour, crowding Brendon's space, and they'd been laying in the back lounge more, watching as the sun streamed in through the windows, Spencer's head perched on Brendon's shoulder.
It still manages to catch him off guard, though.
They're backstage after a show, and Brendon's just out of the shower, skin flushed and damp. Spencer's there, leaning against the sink, eyes smiling at the corners. "Hey," he says and Brendon's holding up his towel and tips his head to the side when Spencer leans in.
Spencer tastes fresh and clean, and Brendon hasn't really spent a lot of time thinking about how long he's wanted this, hasn't let himself. One of Spencer's hands is cupping Brendon's cheek, and that's all it is. There's nothing hard or aching between them, just the dry slide of their mouths.
They kiss, Spencer's hands skating paths up and down Brendon's back until Ryan pounds on the door, demanding to know what the hell is taking so goddamn long, some people are sitting in their sweaty costumes and stewing in bacteria. Spencer chuckles low in the back of his throat and pulls away.
it's not that they don't talk about it, it's not like they avoid each other -- it's not like there's space to, but it's that there's no need. Spencer slips out, and Brendon finishes dressing himself, and when he tumbles into the changing room, Spencer's already in his jeans and hoodie. He grins over at Brendon when he sees him, smiling, but only with his eyes.
That night on the bus, Brendon's almost asleep, headphones tucked into his ears, when the curtain eases back and Spencer crawls in. He's bare from the waist up, wearing wash soft, cut off pajama pants and he doesn't do anything, he just fits himself along Brendon's back and falls asleep with his breath ghosting out across his neck.
Brendon wakes to soft skin surrounding him everywhere, head burrowed against Spencer's chest. "Morning," he whispers, and Spencer snuffles against his neck, pressing a kiss against his forehead, more a press of his lips than anything else. "Morning."
It should be strange, but it's not and, three days later, when Spencer's hand ends up down the front of Brendon's pants, it still isn't. His palms and fingers are callused rough, skin warm and just right, and Brendon comes with an easy, contented sigh and falls asleep sated and looser.
They don't really act any different around each other than they usually do. Spencer and Ryan still hold entire conversations through eyebrow quirks, and Brendon still hangs off of everything with a pulse, but at night, Spencer's always the one that slides into his bunk, and Brendon can't actually remember the last time he slept alone.
It's not dating and it's not really fucking, just hands around each other's dicks, hips canting into the friction of each other's movements, sleeping tucked together. Brendon has a deep fear of being alone that writhes deep down in his gut and Spencer's eases that with the scratch of his bread against the back of Brendon's neck
Spencer blows him at a venue in Las Cruses. He doesn't really say much, just grabs Brendon's hand once they come off stage, muttering something to Ryan and Jon that sounds like, "There's this thing I just have to see," and Brendon explodes with giggles once they get to the bathroom and Spencer's falling to his knees, mouth opened wide. "Just had to see, huh?" he asks, and Spencer rolls his eyes, but it doesn't stop him from sucking the head into his mouth.
Spencer's good at it, which, Brendon doesn't let himself think about how he might have picked up that particular skill along the road, just tangles his fingers in Spencer's hair and tips his head back against the mirror, trying to keep at least a little quiet. Spencer's beard is rough against the skin of his thighs, hands tight around his hips, and when Brendon comes Spencer swallows neatly and smiles up at him through the sweep of his eyelashes
Brendon wants to reciprocate. He wants to reciprocate that very instant, but he doesn't. Spencer won't let him drop to his knees, hands tight on Brendon's light when he stands, pressing their foreheads together. "You don't have to, Bren. I just wanted." He doesn't say what he wanted, but he doesn't need to, content to just breathe Brendon's air.
Brendon doesn't quite understand the way Spencer's mind works, even after god knows how many hours spent together in confined spaces, but he knows something about Spencer's need to protect and take care of. It's not that he doesn't want, Brendon knows, it's that he won't ask and that night, Brendon shifts Spencer onto his back and hunches over and mouths, "I want," the skin of his pelvis.
Spencer lets him. The pads of his fingers light against the sides of Brendon's face, not forcing, not pushing, just accepting anything and everything Brendon can give him.
In the morning, Spencer brushes a kiss against Brendon's lower lip and brings him coffee. It's a thank you, which almost makes Brendon laugh; as though he hadn't wanted it just as much.
--
It's almost a shock when they get off stage after the last show. Tour has been less stressful than it could have been, but no one can complain about having solid ground under their feet. Spencer catches his wrist as they come off stage, rubbing his thumb against Brendon's pulse, and smiling just a little, lips and eyes this time, so Brendon knows it's special.
They have a hotel that night, a concession to it being the last, and even though every other hotel night they've had Spencer roomed with Ryan and Brendon roomed with Jon, somehow Brendon ends up with the card key that matches Spencer's and no one comments. Ryan looks at him sidelong, but it isn't anger in his eyes, or judgment, just careful consideration and Brendon ruffles his hair as he heads for the elevator.
Spencer throws his bags down, stretching out on one of the beds, eyes half lidded, grin playing across the curve of his lips. "You look comfy," Brendon says, and Spencer snorts, but doesn't push him away when Brendon settles down against him, pressing his face against the curve of Spencer's neck, breathing in deep.
"Do you want?" Spencer murmurs and they don't have to say anything beyond that. It's easy between them, not an outright commitment, but not just sex either; a gray area in between that fits them both and settles across Brendon's skin like it belongs there. "Yes," he sighs, pressing kisses to the slope of his shoulder. "I do."
Spencer settles deeper back against the starchy hotel pillows, and Brendon has this weird, out of body experience when he sees his hands flitting to Spencer's hips, his fingers pushing up the hem of Spencer's tee shirt. His skin starts to tingle when the offending cotton is pulled and tossed away, mouth watering at the sight of so much pale and creamy Spencer skin. The shirt lands with a soft thump against the wall and Spencer stretches out beneath him, soft and round, the curve of his stomach and the rounded jut of his hips smooth beneath Brendon's palms. They fly home in the morning, on an eleven thirty flight and suddenly, strangely, Brendon can feel the push of time ticking down on the back of his mind.
He doesn't want to go if it means losing this, this thing between them that neither has bothered to define. He doesn't want to leave this room if this is the only time he gets to have Spencer, if this is the only chance he'll ever get.
"Hey," Spencer says, voice low and tinged with a hint of roughness that sends sparks shooting along Brendon's spine. "It's okay." Brendon doesn't know if he believes that, if he can completely accept those words, but Spencer doesn't lie and, really, what will happen will happen, that much he knows for damn sure. He kisses the skin between Spencer's eyebrows, the tip of his nose, his lips, chin, throat, chest. Spencer's always quiet when their skin slides together, and Brendon's not expecting the noise that gets ripped out of Spencer's throat when Brendon's nips along his collarbone, like Brendon's actually doing something good, something right.
He goes still, hands spread out on Spencer's chest, feeling the distant echoing thud of Spencer's heart in his chest. "Don't stop," Spencer exhales and, brushing the tip of his finger against the swell of Brendon's lower lip. "It's good, Bren." They don't talk during, they haven't been, and the shift is odd and exhilarating, the way Spencer's voice dips and shakes.
They're both still in jeans -- Brendon's fully dressed, and it suddenly feels too much, like the stretch will take forever, snapping like an elastic against their skin. He wants to rush, wants to strip down at even rut against Spencer's skin if that's all he's allowed, but. But they haven't rushed anything so far, and he's not going to be the one who upsets their quiet balance.
He takes his time, working a path across the ridge of Spencer's collarbone, nipping and sucking, dragging his teeth. Spencer tastes like sweat and and the faint tang of shampoo, it shouldn't be good, maybe, but it is and it's only when Spencer's fingers catch at the hem of his tee shirt that Brendon pauses long enough to wiggle out.
"Bren," Spencer whispers, deft fingers working at Brendon's belt. "Bren, I -- " Words don't mean anything, they have no place in this thing that exists only between the two of them, and there's a curl of fear sliding up Brendon's spine at the tone in Spencer's voice. He doesn't kiss the words away, even though he wants to. "Brendon," Spencer's eyes are wide, and breathtakingly blue. "Brendon, I want you."
Brendon has never been very good at saying no people when they ask in earnest, not his mother when she asked him to pray as a child, not Ryan when he asked him if he would take over singing, and not Spencer, laid out beneath him. Brendon inhales and exhales, dragging blunt nails along the curve of Spencer's ribs and nods. "Yes."
Brendon's had sex before, it isn't as though he's completely inexperienced, but this is Spencer, this is Spencer and sex is messy, sex hurts, and Brendon has never in his life wanted to hurt Spencer.
The mechanics he knows, but sex has always been a thing that happens for release or for fun, with boys and girls who didn't look like they'd be the kind to call sobbing at two am about him being their one true love and every now and then a boy or girl who looked exactly like that, if only so Brendon could feel revered for a moment. But this, this is different and Brendon feels in his bones that they're standing at the lynch pin of what is and the different things that could be.
They have lube, Spencer has lube, he says so, letting out a shuddering breath as Brendon lets go of his skin, but no condoms, and Brendon knows his eyes are huge as he looks back at Spencer, because that's something they've never talked about either.
"I trust you," Spencer says and Brendon feels the weight of that settle on his shoulders, not uncomfortably, just simply there. Spencer doesn't trust easily, for all that he's unfailingly kind, and Brendon kisses him, splaying his hand out across Spencer's hips.
Brendon coats his fingers, and then coats them again for good measure. Spencer is tight, Spencer is tighter than Brendon would have imagined if he'd actually let himself think about it.
It hits him like lightening. "Spence, are you -- ?" He doesn't know how to ask questions that actually need answers when they've been doing this for months and never said the words. Spencer's eyes snap open, but they don't give him an answer either. "We don't have to," he whispers, dropping his head against Spencer's chest again, pressing a kiss against his sternum.
"I want to," Spencer grits out and Brendon can feel his chin move against the top of his head. "I've never done this before, Bren, but you don't have to stop," He lets out a shuddering breath. "Just. Just go slow." Brendon closes his eyes and counts a slow breath, one Mississippi two Mississippi three Mississippi, and flutters his eyelashes against pale skin. He's done this, fucked and been fucked, even though the words feel too tawdry in his mind, but Spencer hasn't and Brendon wants to make it right.
He doesn't crook his fingers up until he's eased the second in, and the line of Spencer's throat is gorgeous and pale in this light. Brendon wants to set his teeth into the skin there, mark Spencer and make him different, alter him somehow just to prove that when this is over, something had happened. He doesn't like to think about how much that thought hurts, that this -- whatever it is, could have an end.
Spencer's breath comes in a short pants, but they're not pained, just a little overwhelmed and Brendon understands that, he remembers it, from the night he slipped in a fucking Bible camp of all places, hands tangled in the thin cotton sheet on his cot with his counselor whispering tangled nonsense in his ear. He brushes against the nub deep inside and Spencer keens, hips canting forward as his mouth goes slack. "Bren," he exhales, "Brendon."
Brendon adds a third finger, grimacing at how tight Spencer is, thinking that if this hurts him, it can't be all that pleasant for Spencer, despite the noises he's making. "Brendon." he grits out, and Brendon eases his eyes closed so he can't see Spencer's face, lip red and bitten over. "Brendon, please."
Brendon shudders out a breath; he hears want in people's voice all the time, but he's never heard it from Spencer, never raw need laced in every dipped syllable and Brendon can't say no, even if he really wanted to. He pops open the fly of his jeans and peels them off, settling on his knees between Spencer's legs. "Promise me you'll say if it's too much," Brendon murmurs, kissing his knee. "Promise."
Spencer doesn't speak, won't, head thrown back in something that suspiciously looks like reckless abandon. Spencer doesn't speak, and Brendon's close, so close, Spencer's everywhere, Spencer's everything in this moment, but Brendon will move away if he needs to. Brendon will move as fast and as far as possible if Spencer isn't sure.
"Promise," Spencer whispers, and Brendon breathes something that feels like relief.
"Okay," he exhales, hands shaking just a little. "Okay." He lines up and honestly, Brendon stopped believing in God a long time ago, but he sends a thought, a prayer, a plea to anyone who might be listening that he's doing the right thing, that the culmination of so much good won't be a resounding failure of hurt and bone deep ache.
Spencer goes silent as Brendon starts to push in, so completely silent that he looks like he's not even breathing. Brendon knows better, can feel the short bursts of air against the underside of his chin, on his neck. "You're beautiful," he whispers when he's slid forward a few more inches, when Spencer's lip is bleeding and his eyes are shut tight. Brendon's got one hand braced against the mattress and the other pressed against the curve of Spencer's knee, holding him up and holding him open. "You're so fucking pretty like this, Spence, you don't even know."
Spencer's mouth is open, lips spit slick and shining in the dim light and Brendon's had sex before, he's done this, but it's never been like this before, never this tight, this hot, this wet, this overwhelming rush of sensation snapping along his nerves, firing and misfiring in his brain until he can barely breathe. He pushes in slow, inch by inch, muscles cramping and tensing with the effort to keep from giving into abandon.
When he's fully sheathed inside, he's close enough that he can press kisses to Spencer's chest, his cheeks, the underside of his chin. His lashes are wet, and Brendon's terrified until Spencer creaks an eye open, just looking at him. "I love you," he says, voice perfectly clear, and then he blinks, a pink haze exploding over his skin like rain. He closes his eyes again, teeth sinking into the bloodied flesh of his mouth. "Don't. Don't freak out, okay. That's just something people say during sex, isn't it? It doesn't mean anything."
Brendon feels his breath catch in his chest, hands tightening against Spencer's flesh until he knows he's going to leave bruises, there's no way he won't. Spencer's looking at him through the sweep of his eyelashes, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth and Brendon's mind feels like it's firing wrong as memories tumble forward; Spencer kissing him against the sink, Spencer's face lit up the light from Brendon's iPod screen, Spencer's palm sliding down his stomach.
"I -- " his voice is barely anything but an exhalation of air, and Spencer shakes his head, tipping it forward so that his hair falls into his eyes. "Don't say things you don't mean, Urie. Not like this." Brendon doesn't know how he wrecked it, doesn't know what to do with the fear clawing heavy in his stomach and he would take it all back, give the sensation of making Spencer his own if he could just get the easiness back.
It's almost funny, them being like this, as close as two people can physically be even as Brendon feels the distant between them begin to widen in a fucking chasm of misunderstanding. "I've always loved you," Brendon says softly, bowing his head at the truth of the words. "Spencer. Always."
"Brendon, you don't -- " Brendon's still inside of him, and Spencer is still tight, and he's close, he's so, so close, just from being near Spencer, just from the smell of his skin. "I love you. Even if." He closes his eyes and remembers Spencer at sixteen, round cheeked, and fiercely private. "Even if. It would have been from now. I love you, and you can't ask me to stop, Spence," he grins a little, just a corner of his mouth turning up, because Spencer sneaks his eyes open. "I wouldn't know how."
It's a cliche and they both laugh, but it's true, too and Brendon cants his hips just a little, enough to get that same slack look of bliss to slide back onto Spencer's features. He doesn't ask the questions that go along with that particular admission, what happens next, what are we, what do we do, because it's Spencer and Brendon has learned to trust.