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The Internet Is For Porn

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It’s not exactly a planned stop, and it does throw off their driving schedule a bit, but the sea is so blue and inviting that it doesn’t matter very much. They’re somewhere in the south-west of France, following the Atlantic coastline down from Bordeaux to Biarritz for a couple of weeks of doing absolutely nothing in the wake of their last European tour. It’s around ten in the morning on a hot July Tuesday, and though they see a few people scattered here and there along the miles and miles of beach as they drive past, finding a stretch of sand that’s completely their own isn’t hard once they park the car and start walking.

“Last one in is a total loser!” Brendon calls out from somewhere close behind him, and before Spencer’s had time to react, his three best friends all run past him in a sprinting match to the death, throwing off their shirts as they go, heading for the water. Ryan wins, because he’s freakishly fast like that, and Brendon—sore loser that he is—retaliates by pouncing on him as soon as they’re in deep enough, pulling Ryan with him into an under-water wrestling match. Jon catches up a few seconds later, joining the fray, and Spencer holds up a hand to shield his eyes, wondering if Jon is trying to help drown Ryan or pulling him and Brendon apart. With all the water splashing everywhere, it’s a bit hard to make the distinction.

He dumps his stuff into the sand and pulls out a towel to lie on from the bottom of his bag. The water looks really nice, but he has no intention of jumping in until Brendon has blown off some of his excess energy and things have calmed down a bit. Instead, he pulls off his shirt and kicks off his sandals, settling into a comfortable position on the ground and reaching for the suntan lotion in Ryan’s backpack. He’s done his legs and most of his arms when something large and wet suddenly comes up close to him, blocking the sun.

“Want me to help you with the rest?”

Jon is dripping wet and sandy, and when he shakes his head to get the hair out of his face, little droplets of cool water end up spraying all over Spencer’s face and chest. “Man, Brendon is just a crazy ball of energy today. I had to flee to escape with my life.”

In the distance, they hear a loud yelp, and Spencer can only shake his head and hope that their guitarist and lead singer won’t end up actually drowning one another. Jon could probably handle the vocals, but playing both drums and guitars at the same time would be pretty impossible. He leans to the side and looks at his friends around the contour of Jon’s body. Brendon is doing a rather believable imitation of a killer octopus, arms and legs wrapped tightly around Ryan, immobilising him as they topple over and fall backwards into the waves. “God, we just wrapped up the last tour forty-eight hours ago. How can they not be tired?”

Jon shakes his head as though to say ‘no idea,’ and drops down next to Spencer on the towel, taking the bottle of sunscreen out of his hands. “Lie down. Relax.”

Spencer turns over on his stomach and folds his arms under his head. Then he thinks better of it and stretches out in the opposite direction, head facing the ocean. He figures that if the need for sudden life guard duties arises, it’ll be better if he can actually see it. He might not exactly be Baywatch-material, but Ryan and Brendon are both tiny, not to mention extremely skinny, so he could probably drag them to the beach if he had to. By the leg or something equally humiliating, as punishment for being total retards who need to be rescued in the first place. From somewhere above and behind his head, he hears Jon pop open a cap, and then a warm and heavy kind of weight settles into place at the small of his back, wet surfer shorts clinging to his skin and making him shiver slightly. Jon starts to hum something quietly under his breath as he pours the lotion onto Spencer’s skin. It feels as though he’s writing something, or drawing maybe. Spencer would honestly not be surprised if it turns out he has a smiley face between his shoulder blades. And then he doesn’t care very much anymore, because Jon’s fingers are sliding through the creamy liquid, spreading it across Spencer’s skin, starting at the spine and working his way outwards. Spencer sighs and drops his head onto his arms, because really, this is a little bit like heaven after the last months of sleeping in bunks and drumming for hours every single day.

“Wow, you’re really tense,” Jon comments, almost to himself, and his hands turn from caressing to kneading, working the knots in Spencer’s back like he was born for the job. A low, needy moan reaches Spencer’s ears, and for a split second, he thinks he made it himself. That is, until Jon’s hands freeze on the right side of his neck and Spencer hears him clear his throat, as though it’s suddenly a lot drier than it was when he last spoke.

“Um, Spence? I think you owe me a hundred bucks.”

Spencer furrows his eyebrows in confusion, because what the fuck? That’s a really weird comment to make when giving someone a backrub. Jon doesn’t explain, just moves a hand to Spencer’s jaw, nudging a little to get him to look up. Spencer reluctantly opens his eyes, mentally calculating just how much Ryan will owe him if he turns out to be actually drowning and Spencer has to give up on Jon’s magical hands on his back in order to go save him. He turns his face towards the water, squinting a little in the sunlight.


Brendon and Ryan are still wrestling, still going in and out of the water like a pair of over-eager dolphins. Except they’re not struggling to push each other away or pull the other under anymore. Rather the opposite, in fact. He watches in half-fascination, half-shock as Ryan’s hands disappear into Brendon’s tangled hair, holding the other boy almost impossibly close as they kiss desperately, almost violently, like there’s some sort of dam inside of both of them that’s just collapsed and crumbled all of a sudden. Spencer catches the thought as it crosses his mind and realises that that’s probably more or less exactly what’s just happened. He blinks once. Twice. Three times. The image before his eyes doesn’t change, which probably means that he isn’t dreaming. Fuck.

“Remind me why those two aren’t together again?” Jon chuckles softly into Spencer’s ear as they lounge on the couch at the current venue, watching their friends subconsciously lean into one another when the interviewer of the day starts to flirt a little too obviously with Brendon.

Spencer just shakes his head. “Because they’re emotionally retarded?” he suggests drily. “Face it, Jon, it’s not going to happen. They’ve been like this practically since the day they met. If they haven’t figured it out by now, they’re not going to.” Jon is silent for a beat, and then Spencer can feel a grin spread against his hair.

“A hundred bucks says they’ll crack before the start of the next tour,” he challenges. Spencer does a mental calculation of the dates involved, weighing his chances. The next tour will begin in September, and they’ll wrap up the current one in July, which is less than a month away. After five years of watching Ryan dance around the issue of what he might or might not be feeling for Brendon, the odds of the two of them figuring things out in the coming couple of months seem very unlikely. He turns his head and smiles at Jon, grabbing his hand for a covert little shake.


So, yeah. Fuck.

Then again…

“About fucking time,” he murmurs, pressing his chin to the back of his hands as a pleased little smile spreads across his face. “I mean, God, finally.”

Jon chuckles and starts moving his hands again, loosening the tension in Spencer’s neck with long, warm fingers. Spencer can feel the blood circulate faster in his shoulders, flowing under his skin, making it hot and flushed as the muscles relax and stretch out, a pleasant, tingling feeling spreading slowly outwards from under Jon’s hands. He makes a contented sort of sound, wiggling a little to make himself more comfortable. Jon’s hands press down a little harder, and then he slides down, moving to sit at the top of Spencer’s thighs so he can continue his massage down the lower back and sides. He adds a little more lotion, decreasing the friction of skin against skin and making every slide smooth and slick and easy against Spencer’s sore muscles. The sun is adding heat from above, but Jon’s hair is still wet, and the little drops falling from it down onto Spencer’s back every now and then are kind of completely wonderful as far as contrasts go. He’s starting to feel so relaxed he’s half-thinking of just falling asleep for a little while, when a loud, broken moan cuts through the pleasant, sunny haze in his mind. Frowning, he opens his eyes. And kind of ends up staring, because holy shit.

Brendon is lying on his back in the sand, only half-way out of the water, as though that was as far as he and Ryan got before their legs gave out and they couldn’t move anymore. His head is thrown back against the wet beach, eyes closed and mouth open in shallow, panted breaths, and Ryan’s hands are on his chest, stroking and teasing before sliding down to Brendon’s hips, tugging at his soaked-through swimming shorts to get them out of the way. They have sand everywhere; even from where he’s lying, Spencer can see it clinging to hair and skin, but either Brendon’s shorts protected his hips from the worst of it or Ryan is too turned on to care, because he doesn’t even hesitate to lower his head and take Brendon’s cock into his mouth as soon as the offending piece of fabric is no longer between them. Brendon’s answering groan is low and loud and desperate, and Spencer swallows thickly, forcing himself to close his eyes and put his head back to rest on the top of his hands.

Not having the visual doesn’t help that much when he can still see them on the back of his eyelids, however—or when he still has the full audio experience readily available. Especially as it turns out that Brendon Urie getting head is apparently one of the loudest and least inhibited things on the planet as far as sexual soundtracks go. And Ryan making muffled little needy moans in the back of his throat as he swallows Brendon down isn’t exactly helping matters. Fuck.

“You okay there, man?” Jon asks, and there’s a slight breathless quality to his voice, even though Spencer can tell that he’s doing his best to sound completely casual. The fingers on Spencer’s back have moved to the sensitive skin just below his ribs, stroking little circles there before dropping lower, a couple of fingertips dipping just below the elastic of Spencer’s shorts at the hipbone. Spencer bites his lip and counts slowly down from five before answering, because there’s no way that touch was not deliberate.

“You’re right here with me, what do you think?” he deadpans. Or tries to—it comes out as more of a groan than anything else. Jon’s hands still for a moment, and then he tilts his hips slightly, and fuck… Spencer increases the pressure on his lower lip almost to the point of drawing blood, squeezing his eyes firmly together, because that’s Jon’s dick against his ass. Jon’s very hard, very obviously aroused dick. Against his ass. Jesus.

Oh, God,” he breathes as his hips move back of their own accord, grinding helplessly against Jon’s to try and relieve some of the tension that’s suddenly burning hot and bright in the pit of his stomach. “Fuck, Jon. Please…” Jon groans and thrusts against him, leaning down to press his upper body against Spencer’s back, arms coming around his shoulders for more leverage. Down by the water, they hear Brendon’s gasps and moans turn into a litany of fuckryanryanohdeargodryan, and the raw need of it seems to travel directly into Spencer’s bloodstream, making him nearly dizzy with want. Jon’s breaths come hot and fast against the skin of Spencer’s shoulder, and he’s so close. Just a small turn of head to catch those lips and Spencer would be kissing Jon Walker, drinking down the words spilling from the back of his throat, the muffled cries that escape when Spencer grinds back extra hard against him.

“Jesus, Spence, your hips,” Jon moans above him, thrusting fast and slightly erratic now, as though he’s slowly losing the grip on his self-control. “I just want to grab them in both hands and fuck you into next week.” Spencer chokes on a breath, white light going off in his mind, drowning out everything except the sound of Jon’s voice, and he twists desperately to get his hand down his shorts, pulling the orgasm from his weeping erection until everything is a black swirl of ohgodyesyesplease all around him. In the middle of it all, he feels Jon’s teeth sink into his shoulder, throwing the swirl for another spin with the sharpness of sensation it brings, and then Jon’s whole body sort of shudders and jerks against him, hips coming to an abrupt stop as he grinds his dick against Spencer’s ass in one last, long, needy push.

When it’s clear that lying in a collapsed heap on top of one another is not very conductive to breathing, Jon manages to roll a little to the side, falling off Spencer’s back and curling up next to him on the rumpled—and now very sandy—towel. For a minute, they just look at each other, neither knowing what to say. Everything is silent now, the sound of waves breaking against the shore the only thing marring the stillness.

“Fuck, Spence,” Jon whispers, raising a hand to move some of the hair out of Spencer’s face with gentle fingers. “Are we really as blind as them?” Spencer swallows and reaches out, watching Jon’s eyes flutter closed momentarily as he slides his hand up the older boy’s stomach to rest just above the heavy beating of his heart.

“I didn’t think we were?” he replies, and the sudden doubt in his chest twists the statement into more of a question. “Maybe?” Jon looks at him intently, as though searching for something in his face, and then he leans in, kissing Spencer with a lot more passion and heat than Spencer would have expected, even in the light of recent events. Jon’s lips are soft and sure, and Spencer can’t help but smile a little as they break away from each other, wetting his lips to feel the lingering contact there. “Possibly.”

“Possibly?” Jon echoes sceptically, kissing him again, longer this time.

“Okay, plausibly, then. Maybe even probably.”

Jon grins, and Spencer threads a hand through his hair, pulling the other boy back towards him. The kisses taste slightly of salt and sea, and a little bit of sand where a few grains have got stuck to the corner of Jon’s mouth. Spencer doesn’t care and simply deepens the kiss, revelling in the feeling of Jon until the sun on his back and side becomes a little too hot and a little too scorching.

“Come on, let’s go for a swim,” he says, sitting up and trying to brush the worst of the sand from his legs and arms. Jon nods in agreement and gets to his feet, and together they walk down to the water, passing Ryan and Brendon’s still kissing (and seemingly half-way to sleeping) forms on the way.

Chapter Text

“Ryan, hi. Listen, man, I need a favour.”

Ryan narrows his eyes, taking in Bill’s innocent face and a-little-too-casual stance as he voices the request. It doesn’t bode well. With Bill, it never does.


If it were Brendon, there would have been pouting at this point. With Patrick, there would have been a slight frown of annoyance and then some sort of sarcastic comment. With Bill, there’s a smile. A very disturbing smile if you happen to know him. Which Ryan unfortunately does.

“Okay, please let me rephrase that: hell no, Bill.”

William Beckett leans forward, head tilting slightly to keep the long hair out of his eyes.

“I haven’t even told you what it is that I want yet.”

“And you don’t need to,” Ryan insists, “because, no matter what it is, my answer is no. Go bother someone else.”

Bill’s smile widens. “Oh, come on, Ross. You know you’ll like it.”

Ryan just shakes his head, turning back to the sheets of music was working on before the interruption, hoping against hope that Bill will take the hint and actually walk away.

“So, anyway, Mikey and I have this little project on our hands and we’d like you to help us with some light camera work.”

Ryan’s eyes narrow even more. “What kind of camera work?”

“Oh, nothing special,” Bill grins. “Just some of your run-of-the-mill, homemade adult entertainment.” Ryan groans and drops his head into his hands, worst fears confirmed. He’s not even really listening when Bill adds ‘but, you know, in a totally classy—and completely legal—way.’

“No, Bill. No fucking way,” Ryan tries, doing his best to keep the slight edge of desperation out of his voice. Because Bill is smiling happy and wide now, and that has never gone well in the past. Ryan can practically feel his resolve crumbling. “Take someone else. Fuck, take Shane, or Tom, or—fuck—take Jon even. Just leave me out of this.”

“Shane is back in Vegas for the holidays,” Bill replies, completely insensitive to Ryan’s inner turmoil. “So is Tom, only less sun and more cold Chicago winter for him. And I actually asked Jon. Almost had him convinced, even, except Spencer kind of threatened to cut off my balls if I went through with that idea.”

Against his will, Ryan feels his lips tug upwards, because, yeah, he can actually see that. Jon Walker might be a weak man at times (Ryan has ample evidence of this), but Spencer Smith is someone you do not want to cross. He might be freakishly pretty and totally laid-back, but Ryan has seen what those blue eyes of his can do, and he’s pretty sure there’s a freeze-ray of death hidden in there somewhere. Too bad Bill didn’t push, really…

“Yeah, so, obviously, Jon was a no-go after that,” Bill continues happily. “And Patrick doesn’t even go on camera for photo shoots half the time, so that leaves you, and you’re the perfect choice. Come on, Ryan, it’ll be fun. This girl is totally hot.”

“I thought you said you and Mikey had a project?” Ryan mutters, still trying to find a way out of the situation he’s landed himself in.

“Oh, we do,” Bill confirms. “But there’s a girl involved too. Sort of the focus really. You see, I lost this bet to Frank one night when we were drinking—it was totally unfair, but whatever—and me and Mikey kind of posted this competition thing on my LJ, and this girl won. And she wanted us to bang her for a prize, and I though ‘yeah, man, I’m down with that.’”

Ryan just stares at him.

“You put your ass up for a prize in a competition on the Internet?” he repeats, dumbfounded. “Oh my fucking God, Bill, you really are a complete whore.”

Bill laughs delightedly, and all Ryan can think is fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I knew you’d come around,” he says, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his cell phone. “Now, the thing goes down tomorrow night and—”

“Brendon!” Ryan suddenly blurts, finally getting his brain back online enough to find an acceptable excuse to latch on to. “I can’t bang a groupie with you, Bill. It would totally count as cheating.”

Bill just snickers, and Ryan can practically feel his heart hit the floor.

“Oh, you’ll have to do way better than that,” he leers, fiddling with something on the phone in his hand. “Because you and Bden aren’t exactly exclusive, are you? At least not if the way Pete practically screamed your name when you gave him head in the back of Angels and Kings the other night is any indication.” He raises an eyebrow at Ryan from behind a curtain of soft, brown hair and gives another chuckle. “Mikey’s room at the Paramount tomorrow at eight.” He steps back, flipping his phone shut and giving Ryan a small salute. “Thanks, Ry.”

He walks off, whistling, and Ryan lets his face fall back into his hands, swearing softly under his breath.


“Ryan! Come right in, man.”

Bill practically drags him through the door. From the other side of the plush hotel room, Mikey Way calls out a greeting and gives him a small wave. He’s perched on the window sill, sitting close to an unknown girl with long, red hair flowing down her back. For someone about to enter into a debauched orgy with three of her (Ryan imagines) favourite celebrities, she looks surprisingly calm, serene even. She turns her head away from Mikey, and for a moment, Ryan looks straight into a pair of golden brown eyes, before his focus shifts to the rest of the girl’s face, stopping on a silver piercing right below her lower lip.

And… huh, Bill was right. She is pretty hot.

The girl smiles and leans forward to whisper something into Mikey’s ear, and Ryan watches how a blush spreads across the younger Way brother’s face all the way down his neck. The pair of them get off the window sill and cross the room, and Ryan can see Mikey slow his steps a bit, as though he’s having second thoughts about the whole orgy thing already. Bill obviously isn’t though, because he extends an arm and pulls the girl snugly against his side, eyes sparkling.

“Ryan, this is Ariel. Ariel, Ryan Ross.”

Ryan does a double take on the pale skin and red hair and tries very hard to act casual. As soon as Bill steers the girl away, though, he catches Mikey by the sleeve of his sweater, pulling him a little to the side.

“I’m not fucking the Little Mermaid,” he hisses, eyes almost pleading as he looks at Mikey. “Brendon will kill me! He’s still upset about me and Jon telling him the truth about the dirty lyrics in Aladdin, and that was like a year ago.”

Mikey pats his arm consolingly. “Then don’t think about it like that,” he murmurs back. “It might not even be her real name, I mean, who knows, right? And let me tell you, from the things she just whispered in my ear, I’d be very surprised if she’s anything like a virginal Disney sea princess.”

“Hey, Mikey, Ryan, get over here,” Bill calls, throwing himself down on the king size bed. “It’s impolite to keep a lady waiting, you know.”

Ryan almost replies something about how he’s sure Bill can take it, but the girl lets out a laugh and jumps onto the bed as well, straddling Bill’s hips with an easy grace about her.

“Good thing I’m not a lady then,” she says, grabbing Bill’s wrists in her hands and pinning them securely above his head. “Now, come on, William Beckett. Lose the pants.”

Bill grins. “I’d love to, but it seems I’m a little, oh, held up at the moment. Perhaps one of my friends could be so kind as to lend a hand?” Ryan looks at Mikey and shakes his head evenly. They stare each other down for a moment, measuring, but in the end, Mikey gives in, leaving Ryan to fiddle with the settings on the small video camera that has been set up in the middle of the room as he goes to join Bill and Ariel on the bed.

“Mikey!” Bill exclaims happily. “My white knight, here to liberate my mighty sword. I was hoping it’d be you.” From over by the camera, Ryan gives him the finger, mumbling something about opening acts. Mikey just looks at Bill. Then he turns to the girl.

“Can we gag him? Would you be down with that?” he asks innocently, ignoring Bill’s protest as he puts a hand over his mouth. “I mean, I’m sure Ryan would lend us his beloved scarf if it was for such a worthy cause.” The girl laughs.

“Oh, we can do better than that,” she replies, reaching over to grab her bag that’s ended up on the other side of the bed. She reaches inside and pulls out the inventory of a smaller sex shop, item after item falling into a pile next to Bill’s hip. Ryan’s eyes widen, and Mikey looks rather like he’s about to go into shock. Bill, on the other hand, lifts his head, takes one look at the pile of toys and then falls back against the pillows, groaning loudly in appreciation.

“God, yes,” he exclaims, looking at Ariel with something akin to worship in his eyes. “Fucking jackpot.” Mikey rolls his eyes and begins to sift through the pile, pulling out a pair of handcuffs and three long pieces of black silk.

“See no evil or speak no evil?” he asks offhandedly, as though addressing no one in particular. He pulls the silk casually between his fingers, contemplating. “Ryan?”

“Gag him,” Ryan replies without hesitation. “Come on, Mikey, how is a blindfold even an option here?”

“I could name a few different reasons,” Bill interjects, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Most of which include your cock, so you might want to take some time with that decision.”

“Okay, that’s enough.”

With a movement so smooth and practiced that Ryan really does not want to think about the story behind the skill, Mikey Way grabs a fourth piece of silk from the pile of toys, moves up the bed and fits one over Bill’s eyes, a second between his parted lips and the remaining two loosely around each of his wrists.

“To protect the skin,” he comments, feeling Ryan’s questioning eyes on his back. “I live on a tour bus with Frank and Gee, okay? You pick things up whether you want to or not.” He holds out his hand for the handcuffs, slinging them around a post in the bed frame and fitting them neatly around Bill’s wrapped wrists. He turns to Ariel, who is still straddling Bill’s hips, watching the proceedings with an amused look on her face. “Got any lip gloss? He has interviews scheduled all day tomorrow, and he’ll be a total bitch if his lips are chafed.”

Ariel nods and reaches into a smaller compartment of her bag, finding a small, pink tube. Instead of placing it in Mikey’s outstretched hand, however, she opens the cap and applies the shimmering liquid on her own lips, flashing a quick smile at Ryan before leaning down, pressing her lips to Bill’s over the gag, smearing the gloss over the dry and parted mouth. Bill groans (as much as he’s able with the silk in his mouth), and Ryan adjusts the camera, zooming in on the action, feeling the heat rise slightly in the room.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Mikey says suddenly, grabbing the hem of his sweater and pulling it over his head. He moves up onto the bed, straddling Bill’s thighs right behind where the girl is positioned and raises a hand, sliding warm fingers smoothly beneath the hem of her shirt. Ariel breaks away from Bill and sits up, reaching behind her, finding the back of Mikey’s head. The kiss is wet and loud—most of it for Bill’s benefit—and when it ends, there are two shirts on the floor and a black bra on top of them. “What do you want?” Mikey asks, mouthing the words into the girl’s ear, hands splayed on her stomach, each moving teasingly north and south respectively. “Anything in particular?”

“Rough,” she answers, a secret smile spreading across her lips. “And as kinky as you’re able to make it.”

Ryan nearly laughs at that, because with the situation they’re in, ‘kinky’ is pretty much a prerequisite. She’s about to fuck three complete strangers, one of them gagged and bound to a bed. They are eons away from conventional romance.

“Fine by me,” Mikey smiles, ignoring the way Bill is making rough little noises in his throat and pushing his hips up, searching for friction. “Ryan, how’s the camera doing?”

“Very badly,” Ryan deadpans. “It’s got dependency issues. Leave it alone for more than a minute and it just dies. Luckily, I can stay right here and look after it.”

Mikey snorts, presses a quick kiss to the girls shoulder and whispers something in her ear. She turns her head towards him and nods, reaching for the buttons on Bill’s shirt.

Ryan watches Mikey get off the bed and walk towards him, hands casually unbuckling the belt of his jeans as he goes. He stops right next to Ryan, a little behind him even, looking half-way over Ryan’s shoulder, pretending to assess the camera.

“You know, in a way it’s like we’ve already fucked,” he breathes, words hot and slow in Ryan’s ear. Warm hands come around his waist, starting in on the belt and buttons, undoing them one by one. Ryan swallows and focuses on the tiny screen before him, adjusting the zoom to wide angle, watching William Beckett squirm as his pants are taken off. “By proxy, you know,” Mikey continues. “Mirror experiences and all that.” On the screen, Bill’s legs are pushed apart, Ariel kneeling between them, something small and glistening in her hand, red hair obscuring her face as she leans down over Bill’s cock. “Remember that thing Pete likes to do with his tongue?” Mikey asks quietly, pulling down a zipper. “That little flick just behind your balls when he’s got two fingers deep in your ass and you could just kill someone if that’d mean that he’d fuck you already?” Ryan closes his eyes, leaning his head back against Mikey’s shoulder, fighting to keep his breathing normal. A low, buzzing sound starts up in the direction of the bed, and Bill’s moans take on a choked, desperate quality as he strains against he handcuffs, trying to… something—Ryan isn’t quite sure what. Also, he finds that he doesn’t care very much, because Mikey Way has his hand down his boxers, fist closing tightly around his hardening dick, stroking experimentally.

“Ever fuck him in the exercise room at his place in LA?” Ryan throws back, letting go of his reservations and reaching behind him to get his own hands into Mikey’s jeans. “With the—”

“—weight bench and mirrors everywhere?” Mikey supplies, panting in his ear as Ryan matches his own rhythm, stroke for stroke. “So fucking hot.” A wide smile breaks out on Ryan’s face.

“Jesus, Pete’s head would explode if he saw this,” he murmurs, moving his hand a little faster. “The two of us talking about him while jerking each other off? His ego would go through the roof.”

“True,” Mikey concedes, moving his other hand to Ryans chest, nails digging in. “Time to cut out the middle-man, do you think?”

Ryan answers by twisting around and pushing Mikey roughly into the wall a few paces behind them, attacking his mouth with heated kisses while doing quick work of the rest of his clothes. His own are pulled off almost as quickly, and they’re soon pressing against each other maddeningly, both of them trying to find just the thing that will cause the other to completely lose control.

A loud, muffled cry breaks through the heat around them, and their heads snap up and around, taking in the sight of Bill coming hard all over his stomach and the small, pale hand stroking him, fighting for air around the length of black silk.

“We should join them,” Mikey murmurs, loosening his hold on Ryan’s cock, sliding his hand around to cup his ass instead. “Come on, we’ll fuck her together. And make Bill watch as revenge for all the stupid shit he’s pulled in the last couple of months.”

Ryan nods, a rather evil grin touching the corner of his mouth. He saunters over to the camera, flips a button and closes the screen. Mikey smiles knowingly, and Ryan rolls his eyes.

“Whatever, man,” he says calmly. “Fuck Bill, I’m not ending up in a sleazy sex-tape on YouTube.”

“Now there’s a thought,” Mikey grins. “But let’s start with the girl, shall we?”

Ryan laughs and moves towards the bed.

Chapter Text

Being a band means that everyone has a role to fill. There's a formula that works, and as soon as the instruments are in their hands and they take that first step onto the stage, they all fall into them with perfect ease.

There is Brendon at the centre of attention, fuelling the rest of them, always moving, always gorgeous, making the crowd scream and the energy build.

There is Ryan, by his side, playing off Brendon's energy, pushing him further and making him shine in a way that speaks of years of learning every signal in Brendon's voice and body language, every little button to push to make them one, and make them better.

Then there is Jon, on Brendon's other side, following where the other two take things, keeping the music steady with slow, wandering notes. Watching, always, with a small smile on his face, as though he knows before the rest of them what will happen next, how they will do it, and how good it'll be.

And behind them all is Spencer, who sets the tempo. Who gives the cues and counts out the beat. Who can make things go slower or speed up according to what's needed and what the other guys want—what he wants—on any particular set; a driving rhythm that gives the music core and ties it all together.

It's not that different in bed.


Tonight, it's Brendon on his knees, tilting his head back a little, eyes locked with Spencer's and hands clasped behind his back. His hair is growing long again, perfect to grab and hold on to, and Spencer does his best to keep his rhythm steady, to give Brendon a chance to breathe between thrusts as he watches his dick slide between the perfect lips.


Jon moves up behind him, reaching around to caress Spencer's stomach while he bites lightly into a shoulder. “Can I fuck him?” he asks, voice low in Spencer's ear and tongue just tracing the earlobe. “Please?”

Spencer closes his eyes, pants, lets his head fall back for a minute while Jon continues to lick and suck, leaving a trail of marks along Spencer's throat.

“No. I want to feel you come. On me.” He looks down at Brendon, sees the heat in the dark eyes, the quiet plea. “On him. Both of us.”

“Fuck, Spence...” Jon gasps, and Spencer can feel movement against his back, feel Jon's hand as it moves over his cock.

Spencer removes one hand from Brendon's hair, grabs Jon's arm and pulls him around until they're side to side, just at the right angle for deep, dirty kisses. Jon puts a hand to Spencer's face, holding it still as he pushes deeper, and Spencer moans, feeling Jon's tongue against his tongue and Brendon's tongue against his dick, and it's the perfect combination and so fucking good, and he can't even—

“Where do you want me?”

Ryan moves in on his other side, not standing, but on his knees, right next to Brendon, looking up at Spencer with hopeful eyes.

“Kiss him.” It comes out almost reverent, and Spencer's throat follows it up with a low, whimpering sound as Ryan coaxes Brendon away, guiding his head back until only the very tip of Spencer's cock is still inside Brendon's mouth. Then he leans in and joins his lips to Brendon's, kissing him deeply around the head, tongues moving against each other.

“Fuck,” Jon breathes, his free hand holding on to Spencer's shoulder like a lifeline as he fists his cock, hard and fast. “Fuck, Spencer, I'm gonna come. Holy shit.

Spencer turns his head half-way around, grabbing Jon by the back of his head, swallowing the desperate groan that falls from Jon's lips. “On my dick and Brendon's face. Nothing on Ryan. I want him to lick it off.”

Jon gives a helpless kind of moan, and Spencer puts an arm around his waist, steadying him as Jon's rhythm falters and his breath hitches in his throat. Ryan backs away when white lines hit Brendon's cheek and paint his lips where they have parted again around Spencer's cock, sucking him down with long, practised movements. Another stripe hits the base of Spencer's cock, and immediately, there's a tongue there—Ryan's tongue, jesus fucking christ—languorously licking up the white drops.

Jon stills beside him, and Spencer looks down, takes in the sight of Brendon, perfectly in control as he swallows Spencer all the way down, stopping momentarily at the base on each down-stroke to let Ryan kiss his face, cleaning him up.


“Jon, on your knees. Get between Brendon's legs,” Spencer hears himself say, and Brendon moans around Spencer's cock, spreading his knees a little further. “Ryan, get those hands of yours to work. Right fucking now.”

Ryan pulls Brendon completely off Spencer's cock and moves his tongue in a slow swipe over Brendon's upper lip and cheek before kissing him deeply, sharing the taste. Brendon sags against him, only to arch away again as Jon slides to his knees and bends down, catching Brendon's cock with his mouth and starting to suck him off with long, hard pulls of his lips and hand.

Spencer lets his hands slide back into Brendon's hair, pulling him back down on his cock, barely giving him time to adjust the angle before thrusting deep. Brendon takes it, like he always does—takes it like a fucking pro—and Spencer can't help feeling a bit weak in the knees at the way Brendon's throat just fucking opens for him, swallowing him down to the hilt while Ryan drags a hand up the inside of Spencer's leg.

Ryan moves two fingers over the spot at the very top of his inner thigh, pressing down a little, just enough to make Spencer's eyes cross. He slowly manoeuvers himself around Spencer's left leg, kissing his way around the knee while his left hand circles Spencer's balls, cupping lightly. Spencer focuses on Brendon's mouth, wet and hot around him, and on the sounds Jon makes further below, hunched over Brendon's lap, spreading Brendon's legs even wider apart to give himself more room.

“Holy fuck.

Spencer closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself as he feels Ryan's tongue travel from the back of his thigh to the underside of his balls, and further back until it's pressed flat against Spencer's ass, long fingers spreading his cheeks to give better access.

Brendon moans around his cock, and Spencer hadn't even noticed he was fucking him harder, holding on to his hair and thrusting deep, without even trying to keep things light and even. Brendon unclasps his hands and moves one to Spencer's stomach, stroking desperately up and down even as he starts to shake.

Spencer pulls out, watching Brendon's face as he falls apart in front of him, shooting off into Jon's mouth with his head thrown back and a cry on his lips.

Ryan chooses that exact moment to thrust two fingers inside, twisting perfectly against Spencer's prostrate. And it's all too much. Too much sensation. Too much pleasure surging through him as Ryan pumps his fingers and eases the slide with sharp flicks of his tongue and Brendon gasps in front of him, lost in bliss as Jon sucks him through his climax.

Spencer falls to his knees, tipping forward and catching Brendon somewhere between standing and kneeling, kissing him roughly and pushing him back against the floor. Jon just barely manages to escape from between them before they crash, and Spencer grabs one of Brendon's legs, wraps it around his waist and grinds down hard, moaning into his mouth as Ryan replaces two fingers with three and up his rhythm a few thousand percent.

“Jesus, Ry, just fuck him already,” Jon breathes, reaching over to get the bottle of lube from a bag on the floor before molding his body to Ryan's back.

Spencer manages a few whimpering sounds that Ryan luckily interprets as the 'yes, please, god' they are meant to convey, because he withdraws his fingers and lets Jon slick him up, pushing forward as soon as he is able and sinking into Spencer with one long, smooth thrust.

Brendon wraps his arms and legs more firmly around Spencer's body, arching up with him to give Spencer more leverage, moaning into his mouth as Spencer grinds down against his hip.

Ryan fucks him steadily, hands on Spencer's hips, and Spencer pushes down against Brendon, and it's so fucking good, he can't even begin to describe it. Ryan guides them up until they're all in each other's laps, Brendon closing the circle, facing Spencer and offering one hand to Ryan, the other one to Jon.

They fuck for ages. Spencer lets himself get lost in the rhythm of it, the gorgeous pull-push-caress of hands and hips all over his skin. And just as it's starting to become too much—just as the muscles in Spencer's thighs begin to burn and protest—Ryan presses closer, kissing Brendon over Spencer's shoulder, hot and wet, and right fucking there, and that's all it takes. Spencer feels himself fall over the edge, nails digging into Brendon's back as Ryan pushes forward and everything inside him turns a blinding white. Brendon increases the friction by moving his hips up, already half-way hard again, and the wet slide of skin on skin as Spencer feels himself come between them is so fucking hot that he can't do anything but moan and surrender to it, letting the other three work him through the sensations.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, he feels Ryan's arms close around his chest, holding him tightly enough to cut off any kind of oxygen supply to his brain (which doesn't matter, because Spencer's brain seems to have fucking melted a good while back). Hips snap roughly against Spencer's as Ryan fucks him with everything he has, and Spencer senses Jon moving behind them, stroking his hands roughly up and down Ryan's thighs, whispering things in his ear that have Ryan losing every kind of self-control.

“Kiss him, Spence,” Jon breathes urgently from behind, and Spencer tries, he really does, but his whole body is shaking, and he can't seem to get his limbs to work.

Brendon comes to the rescue, surging up to capture Ryan's mouth and muffle the almost-scream that breaks from his throat as he pushes deep one last time and stays there, trembling through his orgasm. Spencer feels it spill over from Ryan's mind and body into his, spreading through all four of them like a wave, tying them together.

“Fuck,” Jon moans into Ryan's neck, hands coming around to rest on Spencer's hips.

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees, breaking away from Ryan's mouth to coax Spencer's face up into a kiss of their own.

Fingers tangle in Spencer's hair, and then Jon is there, pulling him away from Brendon and kissing him deeply over Ryan's shoulder until Ryan recovers enough to steal him for himself, breathing words that make absolutely no sense into Spencer's mouth as they fuse together.

Brendon's the first to break the embrace, leaning back against the floor and pulling Spencer with him until they're spooned together on the cream-coloured carpet.

“Maybe a bed would be better?” Jon suggests, smiling. “You know, seeing as there is one just in the other room and all?”

“'M fine here,” Brendon mumbles, tightening his grip on Spencer's waist, and Spencer can't help but agree with him. The room is warm, the carpet is reasonably soft and he himself is just so, so tired. Maybe they can move in a minute. A minute would be good.

“You guys are hopeless,” Ryan complains above them, but a second later, there's the feel of him and Jon rearranging themselves on the floor, Ryan climbing over Spencer to squeeze into his favourite position, which is spooned up against Brendon's front, legs all tangled together.

Jon curls up on Spencer's other side, front to front, hands clasped and foreheads touching.

Spencer smiles.

Being back on tour is fucking amazing.

Chapter Text

Brendon is a pleasure junkie. Spencer thinks that the ideal time for him to have lived would have been ancient Rome or Egypt—just lounging on a divan somewhere, with pretty slaves fulfilling his every desire.

Brendon always wants everything, loves being in the middle because it means that he doesn't have to choose between fucking and being fucked, or between blowing Ryan and getting rimmed by Jon and engaging in mutual handjobs with Spencer.

(Brendon is kind of insanely good at multitasking and making sure that he gets as much sex as humanly possible at any given time. Ryan says it's because Brendon used to be sexually repressed and is trying to make up for lost time. Jon just smiles and shrugs, and Spencer himself doesn't really care why Brendon is able to do what he does, as long as he doesn't stop doing it. Preferably ever.)

But, yeah, Brendon is kind of greedy in bed.

Spencer loves it.

And it doesn't stop there; Brendon is the kind of person who finds pleasure in everything: food, drink, the sun and water surrounding him when they surf and the feeling of sand between his toes when they get out of the water. So when his birthday rolls around, Spencer knows exactly what he wants to give him. Well, with the help of Ryan and Jon.

Jon and Ryan take Brendon to an arcade, letting him jump up and down in glee and challenge them to everything from dance mats to speed racing, getting his pulse up and the adrenaline pumping. Spencer meets them at the front door when they get back, pulling Brendon into a deep kiss, giving him a taste of the next part of the celebration.

“Is that saffron?” Brenodn asks, slightly breathless, when Spencer lets go of his neck. “Oh my God, Spence, are you making that shellfish pasta with wine and garlic and everything else that's good in the whole world?

Spencer nods and kisses him again. Slower this time, giving Brendon a chance to really chase the taste. Brendon moans.

They keep touching Brendon while they eat, hands on his back, deep kisses, fingers climbing up the insides of his thighs. Spencer's put together the menu from a list of aphrodisiacs found on Wikipedia and from what he knows are some of Brendon's favourite things. It's working; by the end of dinner, Brendon is positively shaking in anticipation, eyes closing with every touch and every new thing fed to him, like he's soaking up pleasure with every cell in his body.

Ryan leads him to the bedroom, and they take turns getting rid off his clothes. Ryan stretches out in the middle of the bed once they're all naked, pulling Brendon up on top of him while Jon gets to his knees behind Brendon's back. Spencer gets a bottle of tequila from his pre-prepared stash next to the bed and pours a shot into Ryan's bellybutton, a little bit of salt in the hollow of Ryan's collarbone and then places a slice of lemon between his teeth.

He leans in and kisses Brendon before letting him get started on the game, stroking a hand down his back as Brendon leans forward and licks off the salt. Jon starts kissing a path up Brendon's thighs, and Brendon moans louder, gasping against Ryan's skin.

Ryan's answering breath is too sharp, causing some of the liquor in his bellybutton to overflow and run down his sides towards the mattress. Brendon ducks quickly and catches it with his tongue, spreading his legs and arching his back to give Jon more space to work.

When all the tequila is gone, Brendon slides up Ryan's body, taking the slice of lemon, revelling in the mix of tastes in his mouth before kissing Ryan deeply, groaning at the double sensation of Ryan's hips and Jon's mouth pressing into him.

Spencer really wants to touch.

He takes a small, dark square from a plate and puts it on his tongue, letting the chocolate melt a little before leaning down and coaxing Brendon away from Ryan's mouth. Jon chooses that moment to push a first finger inside, and Brendon arcs into it, pleasured cries muffled against Spencer's mouth.

“More, Spence,” he begs, moving lower, kisses hot and wet along the line of Spencer's throat. “God, please, moremoremore.

Spencer reaches for another piece of chocolate, then a small bottle of sweet wine, taking some of the drink into his mouth and inviting Brendon to lick it out. Brendon does, more than eagerly. Jon adds another finger.

They make it through another few shots (Jon dripping tequila down Brendon's back and lapping it up with long strokes of his tongue; Ryan pulling himself half-way into a sitting position and taking the last of the Madeira from Spencer's mouth before passing some of it to Brendon), and then it all segues into a haze of hands and mouths and friction, cocks rubbing together and sliding between swollen lips, Jon fucking Brendon while Spencer keeps him steady, pleasure building until there is nothing left in Spencer's head except the throbbing awareness of how insanely good everything feels.

Afterwards, they cuddle together, with Brendon in the middle, sharing the last of the chocolate and finally popping open the bottle of champagne they never really got to earlier in the evening.

Brendon smiles—hand in Ryan's hair and Jon's head resting on his thigh—leaning over to kiss Spencer, who's curled up on the other side of him.

“Best birthday ever, guys,” he says softly, and they all hug him a little tighter. “Thank you.”

Spencer places a kiss on his shoulder, mumbling something along the lines of 'glad you liked it', while Ryan takes the opportunity to tease Brendon about how he'd better come up with something that measures up for his birthday, even though it's more than six months away.

Brendon just grins, slapping Ryan lightly over the head, and Jon helps him out, climbing up the bed until he can pin Ryan down beneath him, shutting him up with a kiss or ten.

Spencer smiles, and Brendon echoes it, cuddling a bit closer, letting himself be spooned from all sides.

Chapter Text

Ryan is the most comfortable in silent darkness, when there's nothing around to set off his overly active brain and he can just concentrate on letting every sensation flow right through him. There's an undercurrent of submission as well; unlike life, Ryan likes sex to be out of his control. Not knowing what will happen to him or how; moments of stillness in a head that spins too fast for him most of the time—

It's just easier that way.

He's spread out on his back, cool sheets beneath him and hot hands on his thighs. They started out with the blindfold this time, and after that the clamp on his nose, cutting off his sense of smell, another wall descending.

Someone—Brendon—is caressing his arms, fingers sliding down to his wrists, then his hands, mapping the lines in his palms. Ryan feels hot air against the insides of his wrist, then the barest hint of lips, ghosting over the skin and pulling a ragged moan from his throat.

“Enjoy,” Jon whispers, leaning in to kiss a trail down his neck. Ryan nods, breathing deeply as Jon pushes the earplugs firmly into his ears, covering them with a pair of noise-cancelling headphones.

Three out of five.

The anticipation of not knowing where he will be touched next makes his skin come alive, and the other three know exactly how to make the most of it. Knowing them by touch is different from knowing them by any other sense; it's stronger somehow; far more intimate. Ryan likes being able to distinguish between Spencer's fingertips and Jon's, even when they're just resting on his stomach.

They all have different ways to drive him crazy. Brendon likes to tease, likes for Ryan to know exactly what Brendon is planning to do to him. It's all about lines with him, uninterrupted trails of touch that go on forever before they reach their goal. Jon is the opposite; all about the shock factor and the way Ryan cries out when he's touched intimately without warning.

Spencer just likes to torture him. Any means to and end and all that.

Someone guides Ryan's arms over his head (Brendon), and then there is pressure on both sides of his chest (Spencer) and a hand in his hair (Jon), guiding his head up. Ryan parts his lips eagerly, reaching for contact, moaning low in his throat when Spencer pushes inside. They don't use condoms when they do this; the taste of latex is still a taste, and that's more than Ryan is allowed to have. Ryan doesn't know how Brendon came up with the idea of plastic wrap to replace them, but there's no question it works as Spencer pushes deeper, setting a slow rhythm to make sure that Ryan still has time to breathe.

Brendon lets go of Ryan's arms, trailing his index finger from palm to shoulder and continuing down Ryan's side to his hipbone. Ryan twists to get closer. He can practically see Brendon's smile as the pressure grows from a single finger to both hands, all attention focused on Ryan's skin.

The hands slide closer, one wrapping around Ryan's cock, the other one moving lower. Ryan tightens his lips around Spencer's dick, sucking faster as Brendon begins to stroke in earnest. If he makes Spencer come before Brendon starts fucking him, he will get Jon's mouth as well. And Jon's mouth is pretty much to die for. Ryan hollows his cheeks.

Jon's hands and mouth are currently working their way up Ryan's legs, lifting them up so that Spencer can hook his arms under Ryan's knees and keep him still when Brendon pushes a first finger inside, then a second. There's a tongue there as well, and Ryan is going out of his mind, sucking desperately while Spencer fucks his mouth, so close to getting exactly what he wants but running out of time to actually achieve it.

He puts his hands on Spencer's hips and drives him deeper, tilting his head back a little to be able to take him all the way down, moaning as the hard length presses on his tongue. A few more swallows and Spencer's cock begins to twitch, and then it's gone, leaving Ryan feeling strangely empty before there are fingers taking its place, covered up and tasteless, but pressing down perfectly, filling him up.

And then Spencer comes on his chest.

Ryan can see it happen on the back of his eyelids, the way Spencer forgets everything around him and his mouth falls open in involuntary gasps. He imagines what the room must smell like now, one layer of pure sex waiting for three other to complete it, and shivers, arching into the rhythm Brendon's perfecting between his legs.

Spencer moves off him, collapsing next to the three of them while Jon climbs up to take his place. Ryan moves his right hand to his chest, slides his fingers through Spencer's come, getting them slick and perfect before walking them up the inside of Jon's thigh. He can hear Jon's broken moan inside his head—the knowledge that it's there but not actually hearing it making it twice as intense.

He knows that both Brendon and Spencer are watching, can practically feel their eyes on his skin, making him want, so, so badly. Brendon withdraws his fingers as Ryan presses his first one inside Jon. There's a moment of awkward logistics when Jon pulls away to turn around, and then there's Brendon inside him and Jon's mouth on his dick, heat enveloping Ryan from every direction.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Everything is completely silent around him, the only sound he registers the rushing of blood in his ears and his own moans and whimpers that sound far deeper inside his head than he knows they are to the rest of the room.

Brendon fucks him steadily, and Ryan tries to synchronise his fingers with the movement of his hips. He wonders what they're doing with each other while they're fucking him. If Spencer has a hand around Jon's dick or if he's leaning over both of them, kissing Brendon while Jon rides Ryan's fingers like he was made for it. One of Spencer's hands lands on Ryan's hip, fingernails cutting into the inside of his thigh, and Ryan sees white in the blackness surrounding him. The mental image of Jon, sucking deep, with Spencer's hand on his cock and Ryan's fingers in his ass, combined with Brendon moving faster, tilting his hips like he only does when he wants Ryan to lose it (and lose it fast), pushes him over the edge before he has a chance to stop it.

He feels Brendon follow him, shaking through it with both hands clutching at Ryan's hips. Jon is only minutes behind, spilling hot and wet over Ryan's stomach, and then Spencer is touching Ryan's throat, jaw, mouth—breaking through the first wall with deep kisses that taste of him, and Jon, and—holy shit, Ryan—all at the same time.

Brendon is next, removing the blindfold. His hair is damp and tousled, like Spencer's been pulling at it again, and he looks so utterly happy that Ryan can't help pulling him down, wrapping his arms and legs around Brendon's body, not caring about the mess between them.

There's a hand on his nose, removing the clamp, making Ryan moan as the unmistakable smell of sex fills his nostrils. Jon removes the headphones and earplugs, and the mix of impressions from every direction is almost too much.

He reaches out, gets one hand around Spencer's neck and the other somewhere close to Jon's shoulder, gathering them to him. They cuddle close, a tangled pile of limbs in the middle of a bed, Spencer pulling the blanket up from the floor to cover them. Ryan watches the other three drift off to sleep, eyes closing and kisses slowing, soaking up the moment and wishing that he had the ability to stop time.

Chapter Text

It isn't really a thing at first. Jon just happens to notice one day that Brendon has really nice skin. Skin that would photograph really well, especially in the right light and contrasted with something dark. Like Brendon's hair, which, really, is just the next logical jump to make. No big deal.

Also, Brendon loves the camera. Possibly more than Ryan, even, so getting him to agree to play model for an afternoon isn't exactly hard.

They are all staying at Ryan's house for the month, preparing for an upcoming tour and getting some new songs together. Jon chooses one of the guest bedrooms to work in because of the dark wood panel and the giant window taking up nearly an entire wall. If there happens to be a big bed there as well, it is purely coincidental.

Brendon bounces through the door, takes one look at the 'set'—which, to be fair, isn't more than the room on its own and might be 80% bed—and gives a low whistle.

“Classy, Walker,” he says, grinning. “Want me to drop the pants straight away or do we have dialogue scenes to shoot first?”

“Very funny, dude,” Jon replies, fiddling with the settings of his camera. “Go stand by the window? I want to play with light and shadow a little, so I thought your neck would be a good place to start.”

“That's what all the boys say,” Brendon jokes, making a ridiculous kissy face when Jon raises the camera. “So, shirt off?”

Jon hasn't really thought about that, but now that Brendon is offering, it does seem like a pretty good idea. More skin to shoot. And stuff.

“Sure,” Jon says.

Brendon pulls off his shirt. “So how do you want me?”

“Lean against the wall, back to the window. Yeah, that's good. Tilt your shoulders a bit to the right? Good, now bend your head forward.”

All the way back since when Jon first joined the band, Brendon has been a natural model, holding poses well and moving easily with direction. Jon shoots a bunch of frames of his neck and then spreads out, getting a bare shoulder, Brendon's arm pressed against the dark wood of the wall, light curving down his back.

“Could you stretch a bit?” Jon says, moving to the side. “Like, cross your arms above your head and arch your back.”

“This good?”

Brendon straightens, spine curving in and muscles shifting as his arms go up over his head. Jon's eyes are drawn to the small of his back, creamy skin suddenly in sharp contrast to a pair of dark red boxers.

Jon swallows.

“Could you, um, lower your jeans a bit?” he hears himself ask. “Just, the red is really nice. Makes for good... contrast and such.”

Yeah, that doesn't sound creepy at all. Jon expects Brendon to laugh, or at least make a lewd comment. So when he simply moves his hands to the front of his jeans and pops the top button—enough to tug the fabric down an inch—Jon forgets what he's going to say next.

“Is that enough?” Brendon says, voice sounding somehow thicker than just a couple of minutes ago. “Do you need more?”

An image of Brendon's jeans sliding down another few inches—just past the curve of his ass—flashes across Jon's mind. His mouth feels very dry all of a sudden. “It's fine,” he says, relieved when the words come out sounding more or less normal. “Could you, um, arch a little bit more?”

Brendon does. Jon zooms in on the soft dip in the skin. The clicking of the camera sounds louder in the room this time around. Jon takes a couple of steps closer.

“Turn around.”

Brendon does. Slowly. Jon takes another ten frames, catching the way shadows play over Brendon's hip when he moves. Brendon tilts a little, leaning back against the wall, and light hits the open button hole of his jeans, making a shape on the fabric beneath. It looks almost like an eye. Jon shoots a few close-ups.

“What's next?” Brendon asks, and Jon tears his attention away from Brendon's... hip area (not groin, Jon is definitely not checking out anything groin-related).

“Some face shots, I think,” Jon says, looking around the room for ideas. The window is still the only real source of light. Also, glass. Good things to work with.

“Could you put your forehead against the window?” he says, raising his camera and taking a few shots when Brendon does. “Yeah, like that. Close your eyes? Relax your mouth a bit more.”

He gets a shot of Brendon's jaw, one of the hollow of his throat and then one of his whole face. Brendon looks relaxed, almost blissful, rubbing his forehead slowly against the glass, mouth half-way open.

“Wet your lips.”

Brendon does. Jon shoots another couple of frames.

“This is really good,” he says, flipping through the last series of pictures in his camera before putting it back up to his face. “What are you thinking about?”

Brendon bites his bottom lip. “Promise to keep the camera on my face?”

“Um... sure?” Jon says, taking another picture. “Anything specific you wanted to try?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a shoulder shift, which means that Brendon is probably moving his arm. Jon looks away from the camera, following the movement down Brendon's body, nearly choking on a breath when he sees Brendon's hand pop open another button in his jeans, then one more, continuing until he can push the denim down over his hips and press the heel of his hand against the front of his boxers.

“Yeah,” Brendon says, pulling Jon's attention back up to his face. “But you can only watch through the camera, and you can't shoot anything below my shoulders. You okay with that?”

Jon wets his lips reflexively and tries to remember how to speak. The afternoon sun is warm and golden now, playing across Brendon's face, skin in sharp contrast to eyes that look almost black. Jon takes a deep breath to steady himself. Then he raises the camera.

Brendon closes his eyes, leaning his forehead back against the glass. Jon catches the moment when Brendon's hand slips into his boxers and curls around his dick—a soft gasp and a tightening in the muscles around his eyes, his whole face shifting a little. The camera clicks, loud in the space between them, and Jon adjusts the focus, zooming in on Brendon's cheek, chasing the colour when the skin flushes.

Brendon moans, and Jon presses his lips firmly together to stop himself from echoing it. He shoots a series of frames of Brendon's throat, pale skin exposed and put into relief when his head falls back. Brendon's breathing gets shallower, hot air fogging up the glass in front of his face. Jon moves a little closer still, gets some good back-lit shots before finally letting his focus wander to Brendon's mouth: soft lips full and parted, mouthing silent words into the window pane.

Jon lowers the camera, closing his eyes to get himself better under control. He doesn't look down. Doesn't need to. It is all there on Brendon's face, in the curve of his neck, the way his jaw slackens and then tenses again. In how his breath hitches when something feels especially good.

Jon desperately wishes for an extra hand. Preferably Brendon's. Hand or mouth, really. Jon would be totally cool with Brendon's mouth anywhere on his body.

“Jesus, Jon, don't stop,” Brendon gasps. It takes Jon a couple of seconds to understand what he means. Then he takes another shaky breath and raises the camera back up to his face. The shutter goes off in a rapid series of new pictures taken. Brendon moans.

God, Jon is so, so hard.

“Eyes to me,” Jon says, getting another gorgeous shot of Brendon's mouth. Brendon makes a whimpering sound in his throat and tilts his head, eyes opening slowly.

Jon almost forgets to press down.

“Good,” he manages, voice rough and far too affected. He clears his throat. “Hold that.”

The camera snaps.

Brendon gasps and bites down hard on his lower lip, and Jon keeps shooting him as his eyes fall closed and Brendon's whole body seems to sag, left arm grabbing at the wall for support. Brendon lets out a shaky breath and moves away from the window, reaching for the crumpled shirt lying on the bed.

“Got what you wanted?” he asks, still with a tremor in his voice, even though Jon can tell Brendon is doing his best to hide it.

Jon blinks. “Um. Maybe?”

“Maybe?” Brendon says, looking up, a spark of... something flashing in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Jon replies, acutely aware of just how desperately his dick is straining against the zipper of his jeans and doing his best to ignore it. “Yeah, I think I got some really great contrast shots,” he says, improvising, “but I'd kind of like to play more with... texture, you know? I got a new lens that I think could be pretty cool.”

He holds his breath, waiting. Brendon ducks his head. Jon could swear that he sees a small smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, let me know,” Brendon says, sauntering over to the door like nothing of the ordinary just happened. Jon's mind does its best to process the words, trying to figure out what the hell is supposed to happen now. The camera is still in his hands, feeling heavier than usual between his fingers. He pictures Brendon against the door, pinned there with his hands above his head, head tilted to the side and someone's (Jon's) teeth scraping down over the skin, until—

“Hey, Jon,” Brendon says, half-way out the door, and when Jon manages to focus on his face this time, Brendon is definitely smiling. “Nice working with you.”

The door closes, and Jon is left standing at the back of the room, staring at the dark wood.

“Yeah,” he says—to the empty room essentially since Brendon is well out of hearing range by the time he manages to make his vocal cords work again. “You too.”

Part Two

It's almost a week later. Brendon still hasn't mentioned anything about anything with regards to their photoshoot, and Jon has spent most of his time trying to push the whole thing out of his mind.

And not jerk off to the pictures.

Or the memory of now knowing exactly what Brendon looks like when he comes. Which, really Jon did not need to know. It's bad enough that he's had the soundtrack readily available for years now. (Brendon's never been one for discretion. That, or he actually believes that the thin curtain that separates his bunk from the rest of the sleeping area in the bus is made of magic material that absorbs all sound.)

Problem is though, the pictures are gorgeous. From a purely artistic point of view, even. The light seems to almost dance over Brendon's skin in some of them, chasing shadows in dark greens and purples and reds over the edge of a collarbone or the curve of Brendon's spine.

Jon can't stop looking at them.

Unfortunately, this is not something that goes unnoticed by the rest of his band.

“Show me,” Ryan says, materialising out of nowhere and making Jon jump almost a foot into the air.

Jon practically slams the lid of his laptop shut, making up some kind of excuse about bad image quality that Ryan very obviously doesn't buy. He goes away though, so Jon thinks he's safe for the rest of the day at least—enough time to move the more incriminating pictures over to his secret flash drive and firmly deny their existence for the rest of eternity.

No such luck. Less than five minutes later, Ryan is back. And this time he has both Spencer and Brendon with him.

Jon looks at Brendon, expecting help and getting nothing but a small smile back. Like Ryan and Spencer are asking to see Jon's pictures of Dylan, or of random scenery—any of the normal stuff Jon shoots that are not Brendon's face when he jerks himself off, jesus fucking christ.

Jon does his best to convey all of this in a look and a raised eyebrow, just in case Brendon doesn't realise what pictures Ryan and Spencer are nagging Jon to show them.

Brendon just smiles wider. It feels very much like a dare.

“Okay, fine,” Jon says, opening the lid and clicking on the right folder. “Well, I'm getting kind of hungry, so I think I'll just—”

Brendon stops him with both hands on Jon's shoulders and then flings himself down, wriggling around on the couch until he's practically in Jon's lap.

Jon swallows.

Ryan and Spencer sit down as well, Ryan taking the laptop from Jon and opening the first file.
Jon very pointedly keeps looking at the screen as they go through the pictures, not meeting anyone's eyes. It's not that bad really. Not like they're photos of Jon being all hot and bothered. At least not in a way that anyone will ever be able to prove.

“They're... nice,” Ryan says at last. “Very, um, artistic.”

He's staring at one of the twenty billion frames or so that Jon shot of Brendon's lower back, dark red boxers in sharp contrast with creamy skin, jeans hanging dangerously low on his hips. Jon can't help but notice that Ryan's eyes are not entirely focused on the light-effect on Brendon's back. Not that he would call him on it.

“Yeah,” Spencer says, clearing his throat in a way that Jon imagines is supposed to be casual. “Good... angles and stuff. Nice composition.”

He's enlarged one of the pictures of Brendon's face, forehead pressed against the glass of the window and breaths coming so fast, you can practically see it in the split second captured on film.

“I like that one,” Brendon says, low in Jon's ear, like a secret. Jon ducks his head and convinces himself that the hot feeling spreading down his neck is just a very strong form of irritation.

“So, do you guys do this... often?” Ryan says weakly, when they've made their way through about two thirds of the pictures. Jon fumbles for a casual comment, something to make things normal again, or at least less tense than, well, unbearably awkward.

Brendon beats him to it.

“You wanna join us?” he says, causing Ryan's eyes to go wider than wide and Jon's heart to freeze up in pure shock.

“Wh—what?” Ryan stutters. Jon echoes the sentiment.

“Yeah,” Brendon continues, completely oblivious to the signals of shut the fuck up that Jon is desperately trying to send him. “I mean, it could be cool, right? You photograph really well, you know, with your... um.... eyes and stuff. And Spencer would totally—”

Spencer yelps.

Jon feels a lot like he's watching a train heading down the tracks far too quickly. Towards a cliff. The worst thing about it is that Jon seems to, at the same time, be on the fucking train, which is so, so not good.

“No, I mean,” Brendon hurries to say, turning to Spencer now, “Jon was talking about working with texture, right? And well, your beard... it's kind of... neat. To work with I mean. Totally would give great light effects, right?”

Brendon looks at Jon, like he wants Jon to back him up and say that yes, from a point of view purely of photography technique, Spencer has an awesome beard, and clearly he should therefore get naked with Brendon in Ryan's guest room.

And now there are images of that scenario in Jon's head. Fucking excellent.

“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “Yeah, Spence, totally. That could be... um... really cool.”

“Really?” Ryan says, and his voice still has that weak, almost breathless quality that does a lot of things to Jon's body that are not in any way convenient, since he's sitting in a friggin' pile of bodies with Brendon in his lap. “I mean, you're serious?”

Brendon smiles, wide and happy, like he's just won the fucking lottery or something. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, come on, why not, right? It'll be fun.”

Next to Jon, Spencer bites his lip and looks up at Ryan, who swallows heavily and then nods. For some reason, they all look at Jon for a final decision—which isn't really fair, because Brendon is fidgeting in Jon's lap, and Spencer's hand is somehow suddenly on Jon's knee, and how the hell do they expect Jon's brain to work in conditions like these?

Apparently, he doesn't need his brain to push Brendon out of his lap and walk over to the table to get his camera, though. Or to reach out and pull Ryan up from the couch, leading the four of them back to the guest room that he and Brendon used last time. It's possible that Jon might be a remote-controlled robot without having realised it. In which case, Brendon's probably stolen the control and is operating it entirely with the force of his eyelashes. Jon walks into the room, Spencer shuts the door behind them, and Jon kind of doesn't care whether he does have a brain anymore. He walks to the window and adjusts the camera, putting on his new lens and looking automatically for the best angles from how the light falls.

“I think Spencer should start,” Brendon says.

Jon looks up. Spencer looks, not scared exactly, but not comfortable with the situation either. Brendon walks over to him, mumbling something that's too quiet for Jon to pick up. It makes Spencer smile though, rolling his eyes to high heaven, so whatever it was, it obviously worked.

Spencer pulls off his shirt and walks around the bed to stand by the window. “This okay?” he says, and Jon nods, because a) oh god yes, so much more than okay, and b) he can't seem to make actual words right at this moment.

“Looking good, Spence,” Brendon agrees, moving back to stand next to Jon, peeking down at the camera over Jon's shoulder and putting a hand on his lower back.

From the other side of the room, Ryan draws a stuttering breath. Jon closes his eyes and raises the camera.


Spencer is not a natural model. Truth be told, he's a very stiff and uncomfortable model, and after about a hundred frames, it's pretty clear that he's going to stay that way.

“Relax,” Brendon says over Jon's shoulder, getting a glare from Spencer for his efforts. “You should enjoy yourself, okay? Just, don't think so much.”

“Easy for you to say,” Spencer grumbles. Jon looks at Ryan, who's looking nearly as tense as Spencer, arms crossed over his chest.

“I don't know, guys,” Jon says. “Maybe this was a bad idea. I mean, we could just—”

“Let me try something,” Brendon interrupts. He steps out from behind Jon's back and walks over to the window, pulling off his shirt as he goes. “It's cool, right? Jon—same rule as last time, okay?”

Oh god.

Jon flushes and brings the camera up to his face quickly, doing his best to hide behind it. He shouldn't have to, really, like, there's not a chance that Spencer will do what Brendon did, even with Brendon's... encouragement, so it shouldn't be a thing.


Brendon looks at Spencer, one hand trailing up Spencer's left arm, working its way up to knead the muscles in his shoulder. He has his body tilted to the side, carefully avoiding blocking Spencer's face as he adds the other hand, firm circles of his fingers over Spencer's skin.

The shutter clicks.

Spencer's head falls back, eyes closing. Jon zooms in on Brendon's fingers, the way they move to splay across Spencer's neck, massaging the back of his head.

Spencer moans.

“Good,” Brendon says, hands moving from massaging to stroking, sliding into Spencer's hair and giving Jon a few really excellent shots, all perfect shadows and contrasting textures. Which was totally the object of this photoshoot—the texture thing—so, yeah, totally valid.

Brendon moves one hand along Spencer's jaw, fingertips carding through the short beard before they continue to caress a path down Spencer's throat.

“Camera loves you,” he says quietly, stroking over Spencer's chest, pushing carefully to shift their bodies and give Jon a better angle. “Your skin is so smooth, seriously. And the way the sun hits it? Like fucking silk or something. Makes me want to just drag my lips all over it, kiss you everywhere.”

The last word is barely a breath and sounds incredibly like a promise. Spencer moans again, low in his throat, sound changing to a sharp gasp when Brendon moves both hands to Spencer's waist and then smoothly sinks to his knees.

“Oh god,” Spencer chokes out, eyes still closed and head tipping to the side, leaning into the glass of the window pane. “Fuck, Brendon, god, what are you—?”

“Relax,” Brendon says again, down from somewhere below where the frame Jon is obediently looking through cuts off. “This is fun, remember? Just let yourself go.”

Jon hears shuffling of fabric and a zipper being pulled down and tries to focus on Spencer's face, of capturing the way his mouth opens and his hair falls into his face when he hunches over, an almost pained groan filling the room.

“Lean back,” Jon says, clearing his throat to get better control over his voice. “Put your hand on the wall for me? Yeah, that's. Um. That's good.”

Spencer gasps again, and Jon clicks to catch it, zooms in on Spencer's throat, his mouth, the way his neck and shoulders seem to tense up to ten times what they were before, just, a different kind of tension, one that grows a little with every frame and has Jon's hands growing steadily warmer.

“You can put your hands in my hair if you want,” Brendon says. “Pull as hard as you want.” And then, lower, with a veiled sweetness that goes directly to Jon's groin, “Please?”

Jesus,” someone whispers—not Spencer this time, but Ryan, sounding like he's doing his best just to stay on his side of the room and not walk over, squeeze in between Spencer and the bed, add his own hands to Brendon's hair and keep them there, pants down and pressing himself against Spencer, helping him fuck Brendon's mouth and make Brendon make those little whines at the back of his throat. Like he wants more, wants them to just fucking take him, and jesus fucking christ, Jon needs to stop thinking things like that or he won't be able to keep up the game. And he wants to. Holy shit, he wants to see how it all ends.

Spencer's head snaps to the left, eyes opening and focusing on Ryan, who breathes out a few more words that Jon doesn't bother to try and make out. He focuses on Spencer's face, on the way his eyes are open but somehow clouded, like Spencer is off somewhere else, like he's struggling like crazy just to keep them open.

There's another sound of a zipper being pulled down, and Jon's hands begin to honest-to-god shake, because he knows the sound that comes after that—knows the strangled moan that falls from Ryan's lips—and he wants to turn around and see it, wants to move the camera to Ryan's face and lower, down Ryan's arm, catch the shape of his tattoos when the tendons in his wrists move under his skin to make Ryan's fingers squeeze tighter, stroke faster.


He takes a deep breath, tries to shift his focus back to Spencer's face, clicks off frame after frame of the way he tilts his head back, eyes closing again, biting his lip as the wet sounds of Brendon out of shot speed up.

Jon's eyes dart down. Not the camera, just his eyes, not even more than a glance—he's totally playing by the rules here, but jesus, Ryan gets to look. And touch himself. And Jon is barely holding it together from how much he wants to just throw his camera down on the bed and sink to his knees next to Brendon, help him get Spencer off or just duck his head lower and get Brendon off, so he needs to look, okay? Just a quick one, that's all.

Brendon's hands are on Spencer's hips, holding Spencer steady as he thrusts into Brendon's mouth. And jesus, Brendon's mouth. Jon knows it's a cliché—hell, everyone he knows has made a joke about Brendon's perfect, wet-dream-of-a-mouth at one point or another—but the cliché is there for a reason, and with the way that Brendon's lips slide, wet and perfect, over Spencer's cock, Jon can't not look at them.

And holy shit, Spencer's hands.

They're tangled in Brendon's hair, fisted there, knuckles going almost white from how hard Spencer is holding on to his self-control. It's inexplicably gorgeous, the way Brendon's dark hair weaves in and out from between Spencer's fingers, and Jon doesn't even realise that he's adjusting the camera focus until Ryan makes a strangled groan somewhere to the left and comes all over his hand.

Jon can't stop himself. He looks at Ryan, taking in the flush in his cheeks and the way his breathing is coming far too quickly, like he can't get enough air, no matter how hard he tries. Ryan meets his eyes, pupils blown, and then he tips his head to the right, rolling his eyes and smirking at whatever expression must be on Jon's face.

“Go ahead,” he says, shooting a meaningful look in Spencer and Brendon's direction.

Jon stares.

Spencer's eyes are still closed, but Brendon's aren't, head tilted back to be able to take Spencer in as deep as he wants and eyes fixed on Spencer's face. Jon sees the attraction. Spencer's face is beyond gorgeous the way it's opening up, lips parting in soft moans as Spencer gets closer and closer to the edge.

The camera clicks. Jon didn't even know he was still holding it.

Turns out he's not.

“Behind me,” Ryan says, taking a step forward and getting another shot of what Jon imagines is the side of Spencer's neck. “Watch my shirt though, I really like this one.” Jon almost comes then and there. From the muffled cry coming from somewhere in front of him, Brendon picked up on the change in setting as well.

Jon shoves his jeans down, not giving a shit about tearing at the fabric as he gets his shirt off and his boxers out of the way. The first touch on his dick is almost enough to push him over the edge again, and the second he makes contact with Ryan's skin, it's an even harder fight. He pushes Ryan's boxers down, just enough to get them off his ass, and presses himself tight against his back, one arm around Ryan's chest to keep himself upright, the other one working hard and fast between his legs.

“Don't look down,” Ryan says, and Jon realises that he was pressing his face into Ryan's shoulder, biting hard into the fabric of his shirt to keep from crying out.

“Look at Spencer,” Ryan says, and Jon groans helplessly. “See how close he is? Like, he's gonna lose it any second now, just pushing down Bren's throat and—”

Jon comes.

Judging from the sounds mixing with the frantic clicking of Ryan's camera, so does Spencer, and Brendon is not far behind. Jon straightens himself up once he feels like his knees aren't going to give out on him and reaches down for his discarded shirt on the floor, getting the worst of the mess he made off the skin of Ryan's lower back.

Ryan lowers the camera and turns his head to look at Jon. “My shirt okay?”

Jon wants to laugh. They've just crossed every single line between the four of them—and managed to get it on film, holy shit—and Ryan's only concern is whether his vintage paisley button down is safe from stains. A second later, he does laugh, and it feels good, feels fucking amazing, happiness bubbling up and mixing with the boneless feeling inside him, making everything so, so good.

“It's fine,” he says, still chuckling as Ryan pulls him in for a kiss. And hey, kissing Ryan feels pretty friggin' awesome as well.

“This was a really good idea,” Ryan whispers, and Jon nods, smiling against his mouth as Ryan kisses him again.

“Look at Spencer,” Ryan says softly the next time they break apart, and Jon does. Spencer is looking down at Brendon, one hand still in Brendon's hair, stroking the back of his head. Jon watches Brendon's whole face burst into a huge smile. A moment later, Spencer is pulling him to his feet, slipping his free arm around Brendon's waist and kissing him, slow and sweet, making Brendon moan quietly against him.

Ryan puts the camera back to his face, takes a few pictures. Spencer and Brendon break apart at the sound, Brendon smiling and Spencer blushing like crazy, like Ryan just caught him doing something a million times worse than, say, fuck one of his bandmates in front of a camera.

Ryan smiles back at him, wiggling an eyebrow. Spencer rolls his eyes in response, and Ryan laughs again, loud and happy, which, for some weird reason, has Spencer blushing even more.

“Um, I don't know about you,” Brendon says, and holy shit, is that even his voice? Jon and Ryan both look at Spencer, who looks rather alarmed. Brendon just smiles and shakes his head, points at the bed that's about two feet away.

It's a very good idea, Jon thinks as they all stretch out on top of the covers and cuddle together into a familiar pile. Cuddling is good. So is sleeping.

And when they wake up, they can all look at the pictures.

Chapter Text

It was no secret that Ryan had a bigger than average dick. Not like it was an easy thing to hide when he was in the habit of wearing skin-tight pants every day, after all. It used to be something Ryan was pretty smug about. Until he found out that, well, it caused quite a bit of problems when it came to actually having sex with someone.

His first girlfriend cried and asked him to stop. That was kind of really not how Ryan had pictured losing his virginity. (Not to mention that for the next couple of weeks, he wasn't really sure he had lost his virginity, with the whole thing coming to a screeching halt and all.)

One of the main problems was, of course, that Ryan liked his girls small and dainty. And, well, tiny girls meant tiny girl parts, meant Ryan never getting to fuck them as deep as he wanted to. Or getting a proper blow job.

Ryan really, really wanted a proper blow job.

It started out as just a fantasy and grew from there. He kept hearing stories about other guys getting them, kept seeing them over his Internet connection when he was alone and hiding out in the privacy of his room. Or his bunk. Or sometimes his hotel room if the person he was sharing it with went away for a longer period of time. He would zoom in on the girl's lips, watch her jaw work as she just went down, swallowing like it was nothing. On guys who were a lot bigger than Ryan could ever hope to be.

So he knew it could be done. Was done. But not to Ryan, which was obviously the bad part. A few of his girlfriends tried. Some even multiple times before they invariably gave up. And before Ryan started giving up.

It stayed in the back of his head, but it wasn't like he was obsessed or anything. Ryan liked regular sex just fine. Liked getting his dick sucked even if the girl couldn't take him further than half-way down. The head was the most sensitive part anyway, that's what everybody said. Ryan could totally manage.

And it wasn't like anybody knew about it, anyway, which made the whole thing a lot easier not to think about. Well, until the day when Brendon “borrowed” his computer and found out that Ryan's personal folder was nearly entirely composed of deep-throating porn.

It had been a complete accident. Ryan had left his computer on because he had a new game on download. And had sort of forgotten to close down his open tabs. And reset the password for his private folders after he forgot them that one time and had to go through a whole ordeal of getting help through online forums and finding people who could guide him through an administrator override to reclaim his stupid files.

The stupid naked, porny files with blonde girls acting like cocks the size of cucumbers were just another brand of cherry popsicles.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“So, is that, like, a thing for you?” Brendon had asked, all wide-eyed and innocent, like it was totally normal to ask people questions like that, holy shit.

Ryan had mumbled something unintelligible and fled to his bunk. And promptly stayed there for the rest of the day. Which should have ended the whole thing. Except.

Except Brendon cornered him after a show two days later and pushed him unceremoniously into a nearby supply closet.

“You never answered my question,” he said after finding the switch to a pale light fixed to one of the shelves. “I've been waiting for two days. Do you have any idea how bad a case of blue balls can get in that time?” He sounded kind of put out.

Ryan swallowed, trying to inch away from Brendon in the narrow space and ending up with his back pressed against the cool metal of the door. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Brendon answered by placing both hands on Ryan's belt, unbuckling it slowly before reaching for the button underneath, pushing it through the worn button hole. Ryan felt his pulse begin to race, heart beating far too fast in his chest as Brendon took a step closer, leaning in and mouthing lightly at the skin on Ryan's neck.

“What are you doing?” Ryan managed—far too late—doing his best to sound unaffected as Brendon pulled down the zipper and eased his pants down over his hips.

“Do you like to hold on to people's hair?” Brendon said, ignoring Ryan's question. “Because I'm kind of into that.”

He said it casually, like it was another normal thing to bring into a conversation. And before Ryan had a chance to process any part of what he'd actually said, Brendon sank to his knees in front of him.

Holy shit.

“Wait,” he tried breathlessly, because a small corner at the back of his mind kept insisting that he should probably voice some kind of objection to what Brendon was doing to him. “Brendon, stop.”

Brendon moved his hands to the elastic of Ryan's boxers and pulled, leaning in to kiss the skin that came into view. “Is that really what you want?”

He dragged Ryan's underwear down to mid-thigh and moved one hand up to close around Ryan's dick, giving it a few, easy pulls. Ryan closed his mouth.

Brendon took his time getting Ryan worked up, kissing his way up the inside of his thighs while letting Ryan thrust slowly into the fist of his hand. Ryan leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes and tried to keep quiet as Brendon's lips moved to the base of his cock, as his tongue came into play, pressing wetly against a spot just behind his balls.

Jesus fuck.

“Hey, Ry,” Brendon said quietly, and Ryan could practically hear the smug smile in his voice. “Keep your eyes open. You don't want to miss the show.”

He tightened his grip on Ryan's cock and used his other hand to pin Ryan's hips firmly to the wall. Then he parted his lips, taking the tip of Ryan's cock into his mouth, and started to work his way down, inch by inch.

Ryan stared, a soft moan travelling up his throat as Brendon slid about half-way down and started working his mouth and hand in tandem. Ryan's hips strained against Brendon's left hand, wanting to arch off the wall and get closer. Brendon didn't let them, and a familiar frustration started to flow through Ryan—a sense of being so fucking close and too far away at the same time, driving him a little crazy. His throat let out a small whine. Brendon tilted his head back.

And moved both his hands behind his back and clasped them firmly together.

The furthest any of Ryan's girlfriends had been able to take him without using their hands was two thirds down. Ryan held his breath when Brendon slid past that limit, swallowed hard when he felt the head of his cock press against the back of Brendon's throat and began to lose the feeling in his legs when Brendon just kept going, opening up and swallowing Ryan down until all Ryan could see was Brendon's eyes, closed in concentration as he worked his lips around the base.

Ryan gasped. Brendon moved up his length, working his tongue against the underside before going deep again, burying Ryan in tight, wet heat. Ryan's hips started to move, meeting Brendon with small, hesitant thrusts, afraid to go too fast or too far for fear of choking him—of doing anything at all really that might cause Brendon to stop swallowing him down like he was fucking made for it.

Oh God, those lips. Ryan would never make another joke about Brendon's mouth again. Jesus.

Brendon did something incredible with his tongue, and Ryan heard himself cry out, short and quickly muffled by one of his own hands. His hips thrust forward, hard this time, and Brendon made a surprised sound followed by a deep moan. He started to pull back, and Ryan cursed himself for ruining it—ruining this—after less than five minutes when he'd finally, finally found someone who was able and willing to do it right.

Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed the back of Brendon's head, stopping him before he had the chance to pull away completely. He curled his fingers instinctively, looking for something to hold on to, to ground himself with. Brendon stopped moving and held still. He didn't protest or make any kind of sound, and when Ryan looked down to meet his eyes, Brendon was so still that the only thing moving was the small puffs of careful breaths Ryan could feel against his skin.

“Please,” he said, figuring begging wasn't below anyone with half the chance of getting his dick sucked by someone like Brendon. “I'm sorry, I won't—God, please don't stop.”

The hand fall from Brendon's head. Brendon pulled off him the last of the way and sat back on his heels, looking up at Ryan with a pout on his face.

“You're not holding up your end of the deal.”

Ryan blinked. What deal?

“I'm on my knees,” Brendon complained, leaning back in to place a kiss at the top of Ryan's cock. “Giving you the best head you'll ever get in your life. The least you can do is fuck my mouth properly.”

Ryan stopped breathing. He might actually have just died altogether, because no way anyone could hear Brendon say what he just had and survive. Especially not when Brendon followed it up by taking the head of Ryan's cock into his mouth and wrapping his tongue around it in a way that should be very, very illegal.

“I want you to pull my hair,” Brendon whispered, going in for another slow lick. “Both hands, just push me down and fuck me. Please.”

He started inching his way down Ryan's cock again, going maddeningly slow, not applying nearly enough pressure.

Ryan knew an invitation when he saw one.

He wrapped both hands in Brendon's hair, pulling him down while pushing forward, feeling the same point of resistance again before Brendon's throat opened around him, vibrations going straight into Ryan's dick as Brendon moaned around him. Ryan pulled him back, then down again, and Brendon moaned louder, going willingly with Ryan's lead, practically melting into his hands. Ryan twisted the fingers on his right hand, pulling more sharply at Brendon's hair, eyes widening when Brendon fucking keened beneath him.

On his knees, getting fucked, mouth full of Ryan's cock, and Brendon looked like he was on the verge of coming right then and there. From Ryan pulling at his hair.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He did it again, just a slow pull, weaving his fingers into the longer hair at the back of Brendon's head and tightening his grip until his hand was clenched into a fist.

Brendon moaned.

Ryan lost control quickly after that, fucking Brendon's mouth—fucking his throat, God—as deep as he could, getting lost in the wet heat and the sounds that Brendon was making around, sending vibrations all the way up Ryan's spine. He tried to get some kind of warning out when he felt himself get close to the edge, flexing his fingers in Brendon's hair and letting them just rest there, giving Brendon the chance to pull off if he wanted to.

Brendon just whined, pushing his head back against Ryan's hands until Ryan got his grip back and started pulling him back down. And then Ryan was coming, hot and fast down Brendon's throat, feeling like his entire body was burning up from sheer, glorious heat around him. Brendon's throat kept swallowing him down, tongue and lips still working, drawing out the pleasure to a point where Ryan vision started to black out from sensory overload.

He tightened his grip on Brendon's hair. Tilted his head back a little and pulled hard.

Brendon came.

Chapter Text

Spencer loves Brendon's face like this, with his eyes trying to stay open but not managing it for the most part, his jaw slack and lips parted, swollen and wet from three mouths pressing against and licking inside, from teeth biting down. There's a light sheen of sweat gathering at his temples, seeping into his hair, and the skin is flushed and flawless, smooth under Spencer's fingertips.

Ryan thrusts deeper from where he's positioned on his knees behind Brendon's back, driving Brendon forward, deeper into Jon's mouth and onto Spencer's cock, causing all of them to moan in perfect synchronisation. Spencer looks away from Brendon's face and catches Ryan's eye over the top of the dark head.


It's the first warning of the night. Ryan's eyes snap open, meeting Spencer's. The brown eyes are almost black.

“Sorry, sorry. Just. God. He's doing that tilt thing, and I—”

Ryan trails off, forcing himself to pull back a little, make his thrusts shallower. Between them, Brendon moans in protest, trying to push back. The vibrations go straight from his throat into Spencer's dick, and Spencer clenches his jaw, looks down, does whatever he can to keep focus.

“Jon, go faster,” Spencer says, ghosting his thumbs over Brendon's cheeks. Jon makes an approving, muffled noise from somewhere underneath and ups his tempo. Spencer feels it right away in the way Brendon's eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back into his head. Spencer brushes over the long eyelashes with his index finger, loving how he knows every last movement of Brendon's face, how it tenses and opens up when they push him towards the edge.

“Ryan. Start fucking him properly.”

“Thank fucking God,” Ryan breathes out, tightening his hold on Brendon's hips and changing the angle, going deep.

Brendon cries out around the head of Spencer's cock, and Spencer pulls out, cradling Brendon's face with both hands, holding it up.

“Please, Spencer,” Brendon moans, eyes opening, dark with something that makes Spencer's chest tighten every single fucking time they do this. “Now. Please. Oh fuck, Ryan's—and Jon's tongue's—Jesus, I can't—Please, Spence, nownownow.”

“Close your eyes. Hands on your thighs.”

Brendon obeys immediately, arching his back and relaxing his face, offering himself up, lips parting. Spencer trembles as he bends down, brushing a kiss over Brendon's closed eyelids and moving lower, capturing his mouth in a kiss that makes both of them groan.

“Please, Spence,” Brendon whispers again. “Please.

Spencer straightens up, keeping one hand in Brendon's hair as he starts to fist his cock.

“You can come when you get the first taste on your tongue,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “And Jon will swallow you down, just the way you like. And Ryan—do you want him to come inside you or should I make him pull out?”

Brendon whimpers.

“Over his ass, Ry,” Spencer decides, moving his right hand faster. “Start coming inside him and then pull out. Spread his cheeks. Make it good for Jon for when he'll get to lick it up after.”

Twin groans overlap the last part of the sentence. Jon's sounds vaguely like someone being submitted to torture. Spencer feels himself start to shake.

He looks down at Brendon, runs his free hand back and forth over the beautiful face, trying to touch everything at once, holding back just a little while longer to have enough time to drink everything in.

Brendon parts his lips further, moves his tongue to rest lightly against his bottom lip.


The first stripe hits Brendon over the bridge of the nose, the second an inch lower, right across his upper lip. Brendon moans, straining his neck to get just a little closer, and the third one hits home, splattering come on Brendon's tongue and at the corner of his mouth.

Brendon comes apart, and behind him Ryan follows, gasping as he collapses with his forehead pressed between Brendon's shoulder blades, hands keeping Brendon open as Ryan comes all over his ass. Jon makes a choked sound beneath them, and everything goes white in Spencer's mind.

Everything except Brendon. Brendon's face painted with come, leaning into Spencer's hand like he wants to melt into him, eyes opening slowly as he comes back down.

Holy shit, Spencer is so fucking in love with him.

He falls to his knees, ordering Jon further back to clean up Ryan's mess and Ryan to get between Jon's legs with his mouth and fingers. Brendon blinks up at him, a smile spreading on his face, morphing into a moan when Jon gets his tongue going.

Spencer kisses Brendon's left cheek first, licks across his nose to the other one, cleaning him up. Brendon keeps moaning, jerking back with a gasp sometimes when Jon does something particularly dirty. Spencer cups his face in his hands, kisses the tip of the nose, the corner of the mouth, licks off the small splatter of come at the edge of Brendon's jaw.

Brendon chases his lips, catches them, reaching up to get his hands into Spencer's hair. They kiss deeply, sharing what's left of Spencer's taste between them, smiling ridiculously into each other's eyes as they break apart for air.

Beneath them on the floor, Jon cries out, and Ryan moans around him, swallowing smoothly as Jon spills down Ryan's throat. Jon collapses, flat on his back, moving one hand down to where Ryan's head is resting on his thigh, petting him awkwardly before the arm falls bonelessly to the side of his body.

Spencer gets unsteadily to his feet, helps Brendon up. “You guys gonna sleep out here?”

Jon makes a faint humming noise. Ryan manages a tired little wave. Spencer takes it as a yes and follows Brendon back to their bedroom.

Chapter Text

It's no secret that Ryan has a lace-kink. Or that Jon has a thing for people touching his feet. Or that Brendon is willing to get naked for practically anyone who comes near him with a bottle of chocolate sauce. They joke about it all the time, finding new ways of teasing each other and coming up with new dares in the on-going game of gay chicken that they have been at pretty much since the minute Jon joined the band.

Nobody has been able to figure out what Spencer's biggest kink is yet. And it's not like he's going to tell them.

He's not ashamed, exactly. As far as kinks go, Spencer's is pretty vanilla, but that in itself is a bit embarrassing as far as he is concerned. Especially after this long of his best friends placing their bets on everything from corset piercings to watersports, gradually finding more and more insane stuff online that they try to shock Spencer with.

And it's nowhere near the truth. Spencer likes ropes, scarves, leather wrist-cuffs that loop tightly around the skin right below his hands and holds him down, keeps him in place.

Basically, he wants to be tied down. Ryan would probably laugh in his face for how painfully unoriginal the idea is.

Spencer doesn't care.

He just really wants someone to do it.

It's not really the pressure he's into—not the way Ryan is with his bracelets and cuffs and fucking tattoos. It's about the feeling of being unable to move his arms and use his hands; Spencer spends a lot of time fixing things, lifting stuff, carrying whatever Brendon claims to be too weak to carry or taking down things from shelves that Brendon is too short to reach. Banging on stuff. Signing stuff. Even Spencer's fucking job is about what he can do with his arms, how fast he can rotate his wrists to get the last drum roll in.

He fantasises about letting it all go. Giving up control and just letting someone do whatever they want with him. In an ideal scenario, his feet would be bound as well, but until Spencer finds someone who'd like to be at the other end of that equation, he'll settle for what he can get. Even if it includes a pair of pink, fluffy handcuffs.

Which, thankfully, it doesn't. Not the first time it happens, at least.

It's another drummer who figures it out. Someone else who spends a lot of time trying to keep his bandmates from forgetting half their stuff in random hotels or smoking up too close to interviews.

Spencer never really thought of Patrick in a sexual way before, but somehow they end up at Patrick's house on a Wednesday night after Panic and Fall Out Boy play a show together in Chicago. And then Spencer is standing in Patricks's bedroom, watching him sort through the contents of a drawer while humming quietly under his breath.

“You wanna get on the bed?”

Patrick doesn't sound demanding. He sounds very much like Spencer feels, to be honest, which is a pretty even mix of increasingly excited and nervous as fuck.

Spencer pulls his shirt over his head, gets on the bed. Patrick blushes.

“Soft rope okay?”

Spencer nods, spreading out on his back and raising his arms, holding his wrists together over his head. Patrick moves to the side of the bed, takes one of his wrists, moves it away from Spencer's head and ties it tightly to one of the bed posts. Then he walks around to the other side, repeats his movements. Spencer checks the knots. The rope presses against his skin but doesn't cut into it. And the knots don't give even an inch when he pulls at them.

Spencer moans.

Patrick climbs into bed, positions himself between Spencer's legs and spreads them wider to give himself better room. He's still fully dressed, and something about that gets Spencer even harder than he already was. Patrick gets Spencer's jeans open, gets his cock out through the slit in Spencer's boxers, leans down.

Spencer arcs up beneath him and finds his hips pinned down by Patrick's forearms, holding him still as Patrick sucks another few inches of Spencer's cock into his mouth. Spencer pulls against the rope, straining to get closer. Finds out he can't.

Oh wow.

Spencer gives up on trying to hold back after a while. Patrick is setting whatever pace he finds most pleasurable, and all Spencer can do is follow his lead and give in to the embarrassingly loud sounds slipping past his lips. It lasts for a really long time. Patrick brings him right to the brink and then pulls back, does it again and again until Spencer is practically begging for Patrick to finish him off.

Patrick does. Spencer can't even feel his legs for the next couple of minutes.

Patrick collapses on his back next to Spencer on the bed, turns his head to look at him. Spencer blinks, tries to get his brain to cooperate. His hands are untied. He wonders when that happened.

Patrick smiles, hands Spencer the lengths of rope, gets himself more comfortable.

“Your turn.”

Chapter Text

It's almost Halloween.

Brendon's always been a big holiday junkie, but there's something about Halloween in particular that makes him giddy for weeks in advance. Especially since all his brothers and sisters started to have children all over the place and Brendon realised that nephews and nieces were totally valid reasons to be able to go out and trick and treat as a grown up.

Not to mention that there are games to play, more delicious food than even Brendon can eat, piles of candy, pumpkin lanterns that look like E.T. and great costumes.

Brendon kind of loves costumes. In several ways. Maybe even in slightly creepy ways according to some people's definitions, but whatever. There are people out on the Internet who claim to think pretending to be someone's furniture is hot. Wanting to play a little dress-up for your hot-as-burning drummer boyfriend is totally okay. Especially if you have more than half a clue that said boyfriend is likely to really appreciate the gesture.

Brendon has a plan.


He dresses up in his old vampire outfit to take his nephews and nieces out to trick and treat, since he doesn't want his family to flip their shit (again) and decide that Brendon is a bad influence with his unorthodox ways. (Brendon still hasn't officially told them about him and Spencer. He's pretty sure everybody knows, because after twenty-two years, Brendon still hasn't got any better at being subtle where his feelings are concerned. But no one's asked about it, so Brendon figures he can put off the telling for a while longer as well.)

He and Spencer are heading back to LA after their separate family dinners, planning to join up with a bunch of people at Pete and Ashlee's house. The flight from Mc Carran to LAX takes approximately forever, and when they get back to their house to drop off their bags and get changed, it's already pretty late.

This is luckily not a problem where parties at Casa Wentz are concerned, however, so Brendon heads upstairs, into his and Spencer's bedroom and digs a bag out of the back of his closet. He takes it into the bathroom, locks the door. From downstairs, he can hear Spencer moving around, probably looking for the Viking helmet Brendon was using to take Halloween pictures of the dogs with before they left for Vegas.

Brendon takes a deep breath and puts the bag on top of the toilet, trying not to think too much about what's inside as he gets into the shower. He soaps up his legs, then his armpits, reaching for the razor he already smuggled in and hid behind the forty thousand bottles of shampoo, and shower gels, and conditioner, and baby oil, and whatever else Spencer likes to use to make his hair and skin a fucking dream to touch.

He bends over, drags the razor carefully over his right ankle. Foam and hair come off, leaving smooth skin underneath. Brendon touches it experimentally, just stroking his fingers up and down, and feels his cock give a happy little twitch in anticipation. He moves the razor again, faster and with more confidence as more hair comes off and he doesn't accidentally cut off his own legs. The calves are tricky, but Brendon is eager and bendy, so it works out all right. He moves higher, over the knees and up his thighs, hesitates a bit at the very top of his legs before deciding that if he's going to do this, he might as well do it right, no matter how freakishly scary it is to actually put a sharp knife-like thing in the immediate vicinity to his most sensitive areas.

He manages to do a respectable bikini shave without cutting himself and breathes out a sigh of relief. The armpits and the tiny bit of hair on his chest goes easier, and soon Brendon is smooth and silky, just like the pink bottle of shaving foam promised him he would be.

He puts down the razor, hurries up to wash his hair and gets out of the shower, drying himself off without looking too much in the mirror. Outside, in their bedroom, Spencer has turned on the TV; Brendon can hear re-runs of Family Guy filter in through the bathroom door.

Time to get ready.

There are two bags in the bigger one. Brendon takes out the smaller of the two and turns it upside down on the counter. Purple lace falls out, thin and sheer and practically weightless. Brendon closes his eyes, runs the material between his fingers. It's fucking perfect.

He starts with the underwear, stepping into them unsteadily and pulling them up with hands that have started to shake a little. They're a girlier version of the boxers he likes to wear, hanging low on his hips but cut higher both in the back and on the sides. Brendon turns around, checks out his ass in the mirror. The lace covers about half of his cheeks, emphasising the curve and hugging his hips. Brendon carefully adjusts himself in the front, pressing his half-hard cock up to rest against his lower stomach without getting caught in the elastic of the waistband. There's more work to do.

He picks up the second item: a matching camisole in some kind of silk blend with the same type of lace as on the panties down the front and along the bottom hem. It stretches a little as Brendon pulls it on, re-adjusting itself to follow the smallest curve. There's some kind of stitching on one side, pulling at the material to emphasise the waist. Brendon stares at himself in the mirror. It's even better than he remembered.

He gets the garter belt on and pulls the stockings from their box. He rolls them on carefully, the way he's seen their dancers do on tour, praying that he won't rip the thin fabric with a nail or something. Getting the clasps to actually hold onto the stockings is harder, and it takes him at least ten minutes of bending himself into awkward angles before it finally works. By then, Spencer has called for him to hurry the fuck up three times. Brendon gives himself another once-over in the mirror and kind of doesn't care.

He takes out the second bag, carefully picking up the garment inside and smoothing it out with his fingers. It's a short white dress, low-cut in a v down the front, with a starched collar and short, puffed sleeves. It opens with little white buttons down the front, all the way from cleavage to the hem of the skirt, and Brendon slips it on with little difficulty, does up the buttons with trembling hands.

It fits like a glove. As it should, seeing as Brendon had it custom made for his exact measurements. He fastens the last button, puts on the little hat that came with the dress and steps into a pair of medium-heeled pumps.

Putting on make-up goes quickly, just a little bit of eyeliner and some gloss on the lips, same as he usually wears when he and Spencer go out. Costume aside, Brendon doesn't want to look too much like a girl. There's a difference between crossdressing and drag in his head, one being about underlining gender through contrast, the other about creating the illusion of a switch. Brendon and Spencer are both fans of the first version.

“Come on, Bren, Jesus!” Spencer calls from the other side of the wall. “It's one-thirty. The party will seriously be over before we get there at this rate.”

Brendon takes a last look in the mirror, meets his own, slightly nervous smile.



“You ready to go?”

Spencer looks up from where he's lying on the bed, and his entire face slackens in shock. Brendon puts a hand on his hip, leans on it a little, emphasising the curve. Spencer visibly swallows.

Brendon walks slowly through the room, careful not to stumble in his heels, letting his hips roll with the movements they way Amanda taught him back on tour, a lifetime ago. He reaches the door, opens it, looks back at Spencer who is still frozen on the bed, dressed half-heartedly in a quickly put-together Viking costume.

“You coming?”

He makes it about half-way down the hallway before Spencer catches up with him, pressing Brendon roughly into a wall and kissing him like they've been away from each other for weeks. Brendon moans into his mouth, grabbing one of Spencer's hands and putting it against the inside of his thigh, guiding Spencer's fingers up until he reaches lace.

“Fuck, Bren, are you trying to kill me?” Spencer whispers, hitching up the short skirt of Brendon's outfit with both hands, feeling his way across the garter belt and down to the edge of the stockings.

Brendon breaks the kiss, pushes Spencer's hands away and smooths down the skirt. “That would make me a pretty bad nurse, don't you think?” he says, grinning. “So, party?”

“Not a fucking chance,” Spencer says, pushing Brendon back against the wall and capturing his lips in another bruising kiss. “Bedroom. Right the fuck now.”

Brendon lets himself be distracted for a while, because, Jesus, Spencer is hot as hell when he gets like this—worked up past the point of caring how they get into each other's pants as long as it happens within the next couple of seconds. Spencer puts both hands on Brendon's waist, lifting him up so that Brendon will be able to wrap his legs around him and let Spencer fuck him through the wall.

Brendon wiggles free, regains his footing and breaks the kiss, pushing Spencer off.

“I have a better idea.”

“Yeah?” Spencer asks, grabbing Brendon's wrist this time, capturing them behind his back as he uses his other hand to tilt Brendon's head to the side, giving himself better access to drag his teeth down the side of his neck. “What's that?”

“First,” Brendon says, groaning low in his throat as Spencer starts sucking at the sensitive spot right below his ear, “we're going to Pete and Ashlee's party.” He pulls his hands free and uses the momentum of Spencer losing balance for half a second to inverse their positions and push Spencer's back against the wall. He leans in, kissing Spencer deep and dirty, letting one hand drop to Spencer's crotch.

Spencer groans, pressing his hips forward, into the touch. Brendon strokes him a few times through the loose pants, moves his mouth to play with Spencer's ear.

“Then I want you to watch me.”

He pulls away, gives Spencer's cock a last squeeze and escapes down the stairs. He puts on a jacket, doesn't zip it up, picks up his keys and walks out to Spencer's car, getting into the passenger seat.

Spencer shows up a couple of minutes later, sliding into the driver's seat like nothing is out of the ordinary, giving Brendon a pleasant smile.

Brendon crosses his legs, causing the skirt to ride up a little and one purple garter to come into view.

Spencer turns the key and speeds out of the driveway.


“Dance with me.”

Brendon is having the time of his life. Not only has Spencer not been able to take his eyes off him for more than a second since they arrived, but everyone else is watching them as well. Brendon thrives on the attention, makes sure to play it up. Right now, that means sliding his arms around Spencer's waist from behind and pressing him steadily into the kitchen counter, letting Spencer feel every inch of Brendon's erection as he drags it against Spencer's ass.

Spencer lets out a shaky breath and nods. Brendon takes his hand, leads him to the dance floor. There's a bluesy kind of song playing, slow and dirty, perfect for Brendon to grind up against Spencer to.

He does, loving the way the heels make him a few inches taller, allowing them to line up just right. Spencer's hands splay possessively across Brendon's lower back, pressing him closer. Brendon rolls his hips.

“My feet hurt.”

He whispers the words into Spencer's neck, rolls his hips again. Spencer's gives a low moan, tightening his grip.

“I think you should take me home,” Brendon continues, underlining each words with a slow grind. “Right the fuck now.” He smiles against the skin of Spencer's neck, presses a kiss right below his jawline. “Pretty please?”

Spencer practically carries him off the floor.


Any kind of control Spencer's displayed since Brendon stepped out of the bathroom dressed in a nurse's uniform vanishes the second they get through the front door. They stumble through the living room, kissing desperately, shedding piece after piece of Spencer's clothing until he's pressing Brendon back against the railing of the stairs, six feet of pale, naked skin sliding against the smooth cotton of Brendon's outfit.

Spencer reaches down, grabs one of Brendon's thighs, pushing his legs apart. He thrusts forward slowly, blunt head of his cock sliding easily against purple lace, pulling ragged breaths from Spencer's throat and making Brendon wish he could simultaneously get Spencer to fuck him into next week and somehow make the stage they're at now go on forever.

Fucking wins. It's barely even a contest.

They manage to make their way up the stairs, crashing into each other repeatedly during the short journey down the hallway. Brendon moans when Spencer grabs hold of his thigh again and just lifts him up, carrying him the last few feet into their bedroom and throwing him down on the bed.

Brendon looks up, painfully aware of the way his cock is denting the front of his uniform. He moves his hips back and forth, feels the sensitive skin rub against the lace of the panties.

Holy shit.

“How do you want it?” Spencer says, pulling the sheets down and getting to his knees in the middle of the bed. “Anything special? Because, fuck, I just want to move you around and have you everywhere right now.

Brendon nods, getting to his knees as well, kissing Spencer, deep and fast. Spencer moves his hands to the row of buttons down Brendon's front, popping them slowly with unsteady hands.

“Hard and rough,” Brendon murmurs in his ear as Spencer slides the dress off Brendon's shoulders and throws it to the floor. “I want to really feel it.”

Spencer obeys without a word, pushing Brendon down into the mattress and spreading his legs, pulling one up to rest against his shoulder and bending Brendon nearly in half. Brendon moans as Spencer kisses his way roughly down his leg, reaching the first clasp of the garter belt and gets it open with his teeth. He drags his mouth over to the other side, beard adding to the friction of the lace in a way that makes Brendon's vision black out a little. Spencer moves his hands around to grab Brendon's ass, digging his fingers in right beneath the edge of the panties.

Brendon arcs up. Spencer's mouth meets him, tongue coming out to press wetly against where Brendon's cock is straining against the thin fabric. The other two clasps snap, loud in the middle of panted breaths, and Spencer pulls away, sliding the stockings off and biting lightly into the side of Brendon's calf.

Brendon is so hard he's afraid to move. Every drag of the lace against his dick is pushing him closer to the edge, taunting him. Spencer bites his way back down the inside of his thighs, hands holding his legs wide apart, spreading Brendon open, and Brendon fists his hands in the sheets, desperate for something to hold on to as Spencer gives his cock another slow lick through the lace, pulling a ragged moan from Brendon's throat.

“Get on top.”

Brendon's arms and legs aren't really functioning anymore, but it hardly matters since Spencer grabs one of his legs and just flips him over, manhandling Brendon on top of him in a way that is really too hot to handle in the wrecked state Brendon is in, Jesus fucking Christ.

Spencer reaches into the bedside drawer, gets a bottle of lube out and slicks up a couple of fingers. Brendon lifts his hips, waiting for Spencer to lean over and push the panties down his legs.

Spencer doesn't.


The fingers dance along the edge of the lace before dipping inside, getting the material wet with lube and making it cling to the curve of Brendon's ass. Spencer uses one hand to push the material aside a bit while the other one works Brendon open, and Brendon does his best to concentrate on breathing, hips beginning to subconsciously ride Spencer's fingers as he tries to hold himself back.

Spencer stretches him for another couple of minutes—right to the point where Brendon is sure he's actually going to go insane—and then slicks up quickly, pushing inside in one, deep stroke.

Brendon fucking keens.

Spencer doesn't give him any time to recover, putting his hands on Brendon's hips and setting a fast, hard rhythm that Brendon does his best to pick up. Spencer's hands slide higher, in beneath the thin fabric of the camisole, feeling out the skin underneath as his thrusts become harder, more erratic.

Thank fucking God.

He doesn't even need to touch himself, just lean forward a bit, just enough so that the front of the panties tightens around his dick and the lace moves back a little. He comes with a shout, feeling wetness spread over his cock, seeping through the fabric where Spencer's hand comes up to stroke him through it.

Spencer comes inside him seconds later, pushing deep one last time and stilling with a groan, wrapping both arms around Brendon's back to keep them locked tightly together. Brendon collapses against Spencer's chest, squirming back and forth until Spencer reaches down and pulls the camisole over his head. The panties go next, pulled down Brendon's shaky legs and thrown in the same direction as the other clothes before Spencer pulls Brendon close again, kissing him deeply.

They drift off in a mess of sleepy kisses and tangled limbs, smiling into each other's mouths as their bodies start to melt together.

Happy fucking Halloween.

Chapter Text

It's five weeks after the first time they kissed, three since the second time it happened—which was also the first time they got each other off with hands shoved hurriedly down the fronts of baggy shorts. Twelve days since Ryan tried to give him his first blow job. Eleven since he actually managed to do it without Spencer coming before Ryan even touched him with his mouth.

Eight since Spencer made his first attempt to reciprocate. Five since they tried a sixty-nine. And two since the first time Ryan pressed a hesitant finger between Spencer's legs, tracing the rim of his ass before carefully slipping it inside.

Spencer could totally, totally get used to this new aspect of his and Ryan's friendship. Especially with the way Ryan is kissing his way up the inside of Spencer's legs, going steadily closer to where Spencer's cock is leaking against his stomach, wanting Ryan's mouth to just hurry the fuck up and get to where it's supposed to be.

Ryan stops at the junction of Spencer's thighs, pressing a light kiss against the side of his balls before sitting back up on his knees, looking down.

“Can I fuck you?”

Seeing how hard Spencer is right now, Ryan could probably ask him if he could hang Spencer upside down from a flagpole and Spencer would still say yes. He nods quickly, stifling a moan as Ryan presses another kiss against his balls and leans over the side of the narrow bed, starting to search through his back pack.

A bottle of lube is dropped next to them on the bed. Spencer feels something nervous contract in the pit of his stomach.

“Go slow, okay?”

Ryan nods, opening the bottle and coating a couple of fingers. The pressure is weird. It doesn't really hurt, not until Ryan tries to add a third finger to the mix, but it's definitely weird. Spencer's not sure he likes it.

Ryan is searching for something, moving his fingers around, keeping his eyes on Spencer's face, biting his lip in concentration. And then he finds it. And Spencer is suddenly a lot more into the idea of Ryan getting more than fingers into him. Oh wow.

“Can I?” Ryan asks, twisting his fingers against the spot he found again, making Spencer arch off the bed. “Please, Spence? Can I? God, I just want to—Now?”

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees, doing his best not to moan out loud as Ryan withdraws his fingers and wipes them a little on the sheets. “Do you have—?”

“Um,” Ryan says, flushing bright red. “I was—um—I was thinking, maybe we could—you know? Without? I mean, it's not like anybody could get pregnant. And I've kind of—um.”

“You've kind of what?” Spencer asks, feeling a blush spread over his face as well.

“Never done it like that,” Ryan says. “And since you—um—haven't. I mean, it would be safe, right?”

Spencer looks at him, considering. Ryan leans down, pressing a careful kiss at the top of his thigh, making Spencer shiver. His cock gives another impatient twitch. What the fuck.

“Yeah, okay.”

Ryan's eyes widen. He reaches between Spencer's legs, slips one finger back inside and moans softly when Spencer clenches around it. Spencer takes up the lube, fumbles a little with the bottle before getting the cap open, and pours some into Ryan's other hand, reaching down to stroke himself as Ryan slicks himself up and scoots a bit closer.

“Fuck, Spence.”

It takes time, and it burns like a son of a bitch before they figure out how to get more lube inside and how Spencer is supposed to press back to ease the friction. Once they do, though... Jesus fucking Christ. Spencer wraps his legs tightly around Ryan's back, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood to stop himself from coming apart and waking up his entire family. Ryan is balancing on straight arms above him, eyes closed and an expression of total bliss on his face as he moves his hips back and forth.

Spencer leans up, catches his lips. Ryan moans into his mouth, sounding lost and completely vulnerable, the rhythm of his hips faltering for a moment before he gasps and starts kissing back.

Spencer moves one hand to his cock, starts stroking himself quickly as Ryan gets louder and louder against his lips. Spencer feels the moment when Ryan comes, how his dick jerks a couple of times, making Spencer echo the muffled groan Ryan is pressing into his mouth and then gasp as he fucking feels hot wetness spill over inside him.

It's kind of the hottest thing he's ever experienced.

He moves his hips restlessly against Ryan's, trying to keep some of the feeling as he jerks himself off. Ryan kisses him through it, lips trembling against Spencer's and hips moving in tiny, erratic circles between Spencer's spread legs.

After it's over, Ryan collapses next to him, burying his head in the pillows before turning over to his side and taking a deep, shaky breath. “Jesus fuck.”

Spencer smiles, scooting a bit closer, moving carefully when his lower body protests and a dull pain travels up his spine. “That was pretty awesome.”

Ryan ducks his head, looking relieved and kind of ridiculously pleased with himself. Spencer wants to slap him over the head. Will. As soon as he's a bit less fucked out and his arms begin to work again.

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

Ryan cuddles close, makes himself as small as he's able to and curling his arms and legs all around Spencer's body. “You're kind of great, you know.”

He says it so quietly that it's barely more than a whisper, but Spencer picks it up anyway, smiles, lets Ryan burrow even closer.

“Yeah,” Spencer says, turning his head to press a kiss against Ryan's hair. “I kind of love you too.”

Chapter Text

“The bed is cold.”

Spencer looks up from what he’s doing and turns around. Brendon is standing in the doorway, wearing what he usually wears to bed, which is to say nothing at all. There’s a casual expression on his face, but also a flush in his cheeks and down his chest that makes Spencer’s heart beat a little faster. Brendon’s turned on and trying to hide it. Spencer resists taking a peek further down and raises an eyebrow at him instead.

“That’s probably ‘cause you’re naked.”

Brendon pouts and walks closer, putting one hand on Spencer’s shoulder and leaning against Spencer’s side. “Would be warmer if you came to bed.”

“Soon,” Spencer promises, ducking his head to give Brendon a quick kiss. “I just have to get these last things sorted, okay? Shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“I still don’t see why we need to make all this ourselves,” Brendon says, looking down with dismay at the bowl Spencer’s holding. “I mean, there’s this wonderful thing called catering. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

“Shut up,” Spencer says, grinning. “This is special, okay? Both our families will be here, and homemade food will make for a nice conversation starter.”

“What, you mean more so than ‘Hey, our sons are fucking, how about that?’,” Brendon jokes, then turns a shade paler. “Um, yeah. Maybe you have a point. So, what are you preparing now?”

“Chocolate fondant with wild berries, candied peacans and zabayonne,” Spencer says. “I found a recipe online. It looked good.”

“Well, this totally does at least,” Brendon says, reaching out to dip a finger into the bowl of cake batter. Spencer is quick to pull the bowl away and manages to give Brenodn’s fingers a playful rap with the whisk.

“Hands off.”

Brendon lifts his hand to his face with an impish smile. There’s batter all over the back of it from where the whisk hit him, and Brendon takes his time to enjoy it, cleaning off the chocolate with long, slow licks.

Spencer’s mouth grows a little drier. Brendon gives him a meaningful look and then lazily and very deliberately sucks two fingers into his mouth. Spencer feels himself harden, the tip of his cock starting to drag against the soft material of his sweat pants, push it out, away from his thighs. Brendon steps close, taking the whisk out of Spencer’s hand and bringing it up to Spencer’s mouth for a taste.

“Here, why don’t you—oops.”

Spencer looks down. There’s chocolate on his shirt. His white shirt. He gives Brendon a disapproving look. “Now look what you did.”

“I’m such a klutz,” Brendon agrees, giving Spencer his best innocent look. “Here, let me help you with that.”

He grabs the bowl from Spencer and puts in on the counter, then reaches down and takes the hem of Spencer’s shirt in his hands, pulling it up over his head and throwing it on the floor. “There, much better.”

Spencer reaches for him, pulling Brendon close and bringing their mouths together. Brendon tastes like dark chocolate and excitement, and—God, yes—that’s totally Brendon’s erection rubbing up against Spencer’s hip. Spencer brings his hands down to Brendon’s ass, guiding their hips together in a dirty, grinding movement. Brendon moans and wraps his arms around Spencer’s back.

A split second later, Spencer feels something cold and wet on both sides of his neck, quickly followed by Brendon’s hands, smearing handfuls of chocolate cake batter gleefully down his chest.

Spencer jerks back. “What the hell!”

“Got you,” Brendon says. His eyes are glittering with mischief as he advances on Spencer again, holding up his messy hands like he’s some sort of scary monster. “Gonna get you again. Get your face. All sweet and daaark, and you’ll taste soooo—fuck.

Spencer laughs, holding up the now half-empty pitcher of zabayonne sauce in front of him like a shield. Brendon shakes his head like a wet dog, trying to get the creamy liquid out of his hair and eyes. “Fuck, Spence, I’m blind. You’ve—aaargh!

Spencer’s still laughing when Brendon hurls himself at him, locking his arms around Spencer’s neck and rubbing off whatever mess he can on Spencer’s chest and arms. They wrestle against the counter, grabbing blindly for more stuff to attack each other with. Spencer gets blueberries in Brendon’s hair, which is promptly revenged through mashed strawberries down the side of Spencer’s face and the rest of the chocolate cake batter splattered down his front. Around the fifth attack (raspberry jam in Brendon’s ear), Spencer slips in a puddle of goo on the floor and they go down in a flailing mass of limbs, crashing down on the tiles and laughing so much they can barely breathe.

Two seconds later, they’re on top of each other, kissing desperately and trying to get their hands touching everywhere at once.

Spencer runs his hands down Brendon’s back, slick and dirty and sliding so easily against Brendon’s skin. Brendon moans and grinds against him, licking along Spencer’s neck before coming back up for more kisses. This time, he tastes like strawberries and vanilla. Spencer wants more.

He flips them over and gets Brendon on his back, then starts at his neck, licking over the skin with short flicks of his tongue. He tastes chocolate on Brendon’s chest and moves his mouth over to a hardened nipple, teasing it with his tongue and teeth as Brendon arcs beneath him and twists his sticky hands in Spencer’s hair.

Spencer smiles and goes down further, lapping up the zabayonne he spent friggin’ forever whisking until it was just right from the top of Brendon’s stomach, then following a trail of mashed berries and even more chocolate down to the top of Brendon’s thigh.

Brendon groans and lifts his hips, begging without words for Spencer to continue. Spencer pins him down with both hands, takes his time. Brendon’s messy, and Spencer lets himself be lazy when cleaning him up, little kitten licks to the inside of Brendon’s thighs that make Brendon squirm and pant above him. Spencer moves up a little, smears the chocolate on Brendon’s hip downwards, over his groin and down between his legs, then leans in and lets his tongue follow.

Brendon cries out, a litany of please and Spencer leaving his lips. Spencer moves his tongue deeper, then pulls back and licks a finger clean, pressing it against Brendon’s hole carefully, testing. They were fooling around in the pool earlier that evening, before Shane came over unexpectedly and they had to stop before being able to get each other off. Spencer knows how impatient Brendon is. Maybe...

“Fuck, Spencer, come on already,” Brendon whines, fighting against Spencer’s grip to push more firmly onto his finger. “We have a whole collection of porn, fuck. What did you think I would be doing when you left me alone in bed to go down and fucking cook?”

Spencer pushes the finger inside, tracing the inside of Brendon’s rim. Brendon’s wet with lube, and the muscle feels stretched and relaxed, ready for a whole lot more than just one of Spencer’s fingers.

Spencer fucking loves his boyfriend.

“Put your legs on my shoulders.”

Brendon is quick to follow orders, and Spencer hurries to get his pants down his hips, licking the rest of his hand clean and stroking his cock twice, adding a little extra wetness. He doesn’t think they’ll need it, not between Brendon’s prep and the fact that Spencer knows he likes it a little rough, but it feels good, and it makes Brendon’s eyes go dark before they flutter closed and he leans his head back with a desperate groan.

“Spence, come on.

Spencer positions himself and thrusts inside, pushing Brendon into the tiled kitchen floor and claiming his mouth for a searing kiss. Everything is slick and dirty around them, chocolate and vanilla and different kinds of mashed up fruit everywhere, putting a flavour on each kiss and a texture on every touch. They’re moving across the floor, sliding a little more into the cupboards with every push of Spencer’s hips until they’re crushed against the side of the stove in an odd angle, getting chocolate handprints everywhere and not caring in the slightest.

Brendon gets loud right before he comes, pushing back more violently against Spencer’s hips and fisting his dick with quick, shaky movements. Spencer cradles Brendon’s head in his hands when he feels Brendon’s muscles start to clench around him, stopping him from trashing too much and hitting his head against the oven door.

Brendon comes on a drawn-out moan, spilling between them and adding hothothot to the wetness on their stomachs. Spencer manages another few thrusts before he comes as well, gasping as he empties himself inside Brendon and trying not to collapse on top of him as he crashes down from the high.

He fails miserably, which makes Brendon laugh—a happy, carefree laugh that Spencer loves more than anything. Right now, he can’t do much but grin stupidly back, however, too heavy with pleasure to do more than let Brendon manhandle him to his back on the floor and throw his head back and breathe until his pulse starts coming down.

He almost falls asleep right then and there. Brendon stops him by getting up and pulling them both to their feet, wrapping his arm around Spencer’s waist so they can lean on each other.

“You’re disgusting,” Spencer mumbles, sex-stupid and happy. Brendon is a mess of things that should have been a cake and that now definitely won’t be. Spencer feels like giggling.

“You’re delicious,” Brendon replies, licking a long stripe up the side of Spencer’s neck. “Come on. Shower. Sleep. We’ll clean in the morning.”

Spencer nods and follows him down the hall. There are bakeries after all.

Chapter Text

“Spin the bottle? Really?”

Brendon felt a blush start at the back of his neck but forced himself to keep looking at Spencer all the same. “Yeah. I figured, you know—” Awesome, now the blush was spreading to his face too. Brendon bit his lip and pushed on. “—I don’t know what I’m doing. What I’d do. I don’t even know what I’d  like  to do, and—I thought, maybe this way, it’d come in steps or whatever. You know?”

He picked up the bottle he’d put on the floor between them, twirling it self-consciously between his hands. Spencer reached out, stilling his movements.

“I don’t know what I’m doing either. I mean. Yeah. A couple of girls at parties, but nothing—I mean, I’ve never—”

The hesitation in Spencer’s voice was almost soothing; it made Brendon feel a little less of a clueless spaz, at least, which, considering how hot his face felt, was something he’d definitely count as a win.

He leaned forward a bit, gently placing the bottle back down on the floor—on its side, this time—and swallowed hard. “So, you wanna—?”

Spencer looked away, biting his lip. Then he took a deep breath and raised his head again. He nodded.

“Let’s do it.”


“Spin it,” Spencer said, a smile spreading on his face—the slow, blinding kind that never failed to leave Brendon a little breathless.

He took the bottle and spun. It stopped, pointing at Spencer. 

“It’s, um—first spin’s usually a kiss on the cheek?” Spencer said, uncertainty in his voice making it sound like a question.

Brendon took a shaky breath and scooted a little bit closer. “Okay.”

He leaned in slowly, giving Spencer time to move away if he should change his mind and desperately hoping that he wouldn’t. He hesitated just before touching Spencer’s cheek, feeling almost dizzy just from being that close to him, and then leaned in the rest of the way, brushing Spencer’s cheek carefully with his lips.


Brendon pulled back reluctantly, meeting Spencer’s eyes and feeling like his entire face was on fire. He tried to smile but didn’t succeed very well, settling instead for ducking his head and paying close attention to Spencer’s hands as Spencer reached between them and spun the bottle again.

This time, it stopped pointing at empty space but sill mostly in Spencer’s direction. Brendon bit his lip.

“What’s the second spin?”

“Kiss,” Spencer said, sounding as breathless as Brendon felt. “On the, um, mouth. With, um—just a kiss. No tongue.”

He started leaning in before Brendon could, stopping in the middle and letting Brendon move the rest of the way. Brendon did, keeping his eyes open to the last possible moment to make sure he didn’t fuck it up by knocking their noses together or missing Spencer’s lips by accident. He could feel rather than see the tip of Spencer’s tongue dart out right before he made contact, leaving Spencer’s lips warm and wet when Brendon touched them with his own.

Spencer’s mouth was soft, pressing back carefully against Brendon’s, kissing back. He let out a shaky breath that Brendon felt against his lower lip, and then Spencer’s lips parted a little, kissing Brendon back with more certainty.

One of them made a choked sound—Brendon honestly had no idea if it had come from him or not—and the kiss grew deeper and more intense. Brendon kept his eyes firmly shut, thinking having a feeling that if he could look at Spencer now, in addition to kissing him like this, it would be too much to handle.

When Spencer finally broke the kiss, Brendon reached out on instinct, putting one hand on Spencer’s neck, keeping their foreheads together.


“Yeah,” Spencer said, more a breathless laugh than a real word. “Um, it’s—your turn."

Brendon could feel his hand shake as he reached down between them again, grabbing the bottle and spinning it.

Spencer barely let it come to a stop before leaning in and kissing him again.

“Tongues this time,” Spencer managed between kisses. “Please, Brendon, can I—?”

Brendon parted his lips on a moan, wrapping both arms around Spencer’s neck to have something to hold on to. Spencer scrambled closer, pushing Brendon back, and a couple of glorious (if rather awkward and somewhat painful) seconds later, Brendon was on his back on the floor with Spencer on top of him, sharing deep, wet kisses and feeling that if he died right then, he wouldn’t even mind it.

Spencer moved against him, shifting his weight, and Brendon moaned helplessly into his mouth, hips pushing against the pressure involuntarily. Spencer broke the kiss, and Brendon could hear a breath hitch in his throat, before Spencer moved again, setting a slow, hesitant rhythm.

Brendon seriously would end up dying from this.

He tried to help out as best he could, pushing up when Spencer pushed down, curling his arms and legs around him tightly to assure himself that this was actually happening. Spencer started making gorgeous, choked-out noises above him, and Brendon pulled his face back down so they could kiss, swallowing every sound Spencer made and trying to give his own back in return.

He felt himself getting close much faster than he would have liked and had a momentary burst of panic, because they hadn’t got to that spin yet—if there even was a spin for that, Brendon wished he’d done his research a little better before suggesting this game to Spencer as a way to move their new and fragile relationship forward—and what if what was about to happen was not okay, or would somehow scare Spencer off or—

His fingers twisted themselves hard in Spencer’s hair, and he felt his whole body stiffen, pleasure shooting through him and bleeding out everywhere, making it impossible for him to do anything other than press his face to Spencer’s neck and squeeze his eyes shut, trying to keep himself conscious through the most intense orgasm he’d ever had in his life.

Somewhere in the rush, he was dimly aware of Spencer crying out as well, and then everything was a swirl of bright, white light until his body slumped and he felt like he could pull air into his lungs again.

“Holy shit,” he whispered, feeling a wave of insane happiness wash over him as he opened his eyes and looked into Spencer’s flushed face. Spencer looked  undone  in a way Brendon hadn’t even imagined possible, and he did so because what they’d—what Brendon had—

“I love you,” he breathed, unable to stop the words before they were already there, spilling from his lips and tumbling into the space between them.

Spencer’s eyes widened, and Brendon felt sick with fear suddenly, sure he’d done it then, that he’d ruined everything by moving to fast, and desperately began turning his brain around, looking for a way to take it all back.

Spencer kissed him. Hard.

“You’re amazing,” Spencer whispered when he finally pulled back, raising a hand to Brendon’s face and looking at him with eyes so dark, they almost looked black. “I love you. Too, I mean. I love you too.”

He leaned in again, chasing Brendon’s lips with his own. Brendon met him willingly, feeling his heart beat far too hard and fast in his chest.

Spin the bottle was the best game  ever .


Chapter Text

“No way,” Spencer says.

“Oh, come on?” Brendon says “ Please?

“It’s  winter ,” Ryan says, huddling closer to Jon. “There’s snow outside. And that lake is  frozen .”

“They’ve cut up a hole,” Brendon insists. “And, look, there are little fires around it and everything. And we’ll be warm from the sauna. Come on, it’s a cultural experience! Jon? You’ll go with me, right?”

“Er, yeah, about that,” Jon says, shuffling a little closer to the fire.

Brendon looks between the three of them and pouts. “You guys suck.”


“Gah gah gah! Move! Ryan! Gah!”

Spencer and Ryan pull apart from a lazy kiss and practically throw themselves out of the way as Brendon squeezes in between them.

“Fuck, you’re cold,” Ryan gasps, climbing quickly up a level in the sauna to get as far away from Brendon as possible. “No! Hands off. No hands!”

“So how was the water?” Jon asks, smiling smugly from his place in the opposite corner.

Brendon shivers, moving himself closer to Spencer, who sighs and puts a thick towel around him. “It was awesome,” he says, smiling as Spencer starts to rub his back. “You guys really missed something.”

“Sure we did,” Ryan drawls, moving carefully back down, still keeping a safe distance. “Holy shit, you’re so cold I can barely even see your dick anymore.”

Brendon glares. “It’s being practical,” he says, wrapping the towel protectively around his hips. “Or, could be it realised you were in the room.”

“And got intimidated?” Ryan says, leaning back, putting himself on display. “So sorry.”

“You are such an ass,” Brendon says. “I’ve just been out battling an icy lake. You should be nice to me and warm me up again.” He says the last sentence with a hint of a pout. Jon smirks and starts scooting over to the rest of them.

“We’ll warm you up,” Jon says, reaching out and touching Brendon’s shoulder lightly. “Where are you cold?”

“Everywhere,” Brendon says quickly, shrugging off the towel and leaning back on his elbows excitedly. “Ooh, especially on my stomach. And my lips. And my dick. Like Ryan said, my dick is really cold.”

“Then we’ll just have to work on that,” Spencer says with a chuckle, helping Jon press Brendon back, laying him out on his back on the towel. “Ryan, are you gonna help?”

“Let me get this straight,” Ryan says. “He jumps in a frozen lake—all on his own—and ends up getting a blowjob. How is that fair?”

“It’s awesomely fair,” Brendon argues, arching his back and stretching out his arms like a lazy cat in a patch of sun. “God, yes, Jon, right there.”

“Throw that bucket of cold water over your head and I’ll finger you,” Spencer teases, leaning in to kiss a wet path up the inside of Brendon’s left thigh.

Ryan looks at the bucket standing by the door and then back at the three of them, hesitating for a moment before climbing down to sit next to Jon. “Move over."

Jon presses a last kiss to Brendon’s chest and moves in closer, pulling him up until Brendon is practically sitting in his lap. Ryan leans in over Jon’s shoulder, catching Brendon’s lips in a kiss while one of his hands finds its way into Spencer’s hair. Brendon moans.

Jon grabs one of Brendon’s hands, bringing it to his mouth and sucking two fingers into his mouth, curling his tongue around them. Once they’re warm, he takes the next two, then the thumb, and lastly, he turns the hand over to blow warm air at Brendon’s palm.

“There,” he says. “No more cold hands.”

Brendon breaks the kiss with Ryan and tips his head back, smiling into it when Jon places an upside-down kiss on his lips. His now-warm hand finds its way down Ryan’s side, across his hip. Ryan still gasps when Brendon’s fingers wrap themselves around his dick, but all four of them know it’s more for show than anything. Brendon smiles and squeezes a little harder, earning a low groan as well as he starts moving his hand.

“That’s good,” Ryan says, getting a little breathless as Jon puts his hand over Brendon’s and starts stroking as well. “A little harder, come on.”

He tangles his fingers more firmly in Spencer’s hair, pressing Spencer down, making him go deeper as he blows Brendon, knowing Spencer gets off on being pushed around during sex more than he’d ever admit to anyone who isn’t part of their strange little world. He keeps controlling Spencer’s rhythm until Brendon starts babbling, begging Spencer to go faster, just give him a little more, at witch point he pulls hard at Spencer’s hair, making him let go of Brendon’s cock and holding him steady right above it, just far enough away that Brendon can’t touch the head of his dick against Spencer’s lips when he thrusts his hips forward.

“Tongue,” Ryan says, smiling as Jon takes it as a cue to muffle the sound Brendon makes with a deep kiss. “Hold out your tongue, Spence.”

Spencer does, pointing the tip and flicking it slowly over the slit at the top of Brendon’s dick, pushing a little, making Brendon squirm. Ryan lets go of Spencer’s hair, reaching down lower to play with Brendon’s balls while Jon keeps kissing him, hands moving down to stroke over Brendon’s ass.

Brendon starts to shake and Spencer parts his lips, taking in the head with sharp, shallow pulls. Brendon nearly shouts when he comes, shuddering through it as he fills Spencer’s mouth, trying to push back into Jon’s hands and down into Ryan’s all at the same time. Spencer swallows neatly and gets off his knees, pulling Brendon down to lie on his back again and climbing up to sprawl on top of him. 

Brendon makes a happy, satisfied sound and wraps both arm around him.

“Seriously,” Ryan huffs, still thrusting into Jon’s hand, which is now working sadly alone. “You’re just gonna leave it there?”

“We’re tired,” Brendon protests, giving Ryan his best puppy-eyed look. “And I’m all warm and toasty now.”

“See if I ever fuck you again,” Ryan says bitchily. “Jon, you feel like sleeping too?”

Jon tilts his head like he’s considering it, failing to hide a smile as Ryan narrows his eyes. “Nah. Wanna hit the showers?”

Yes, ” Ryan says fervently, getting to his feet and dragging Jon out of the sauna, practically by his dick. Spencer and Brendon watch them go, waiting exactly five seconds after the door slides shut before they both start to snicker.

“You are evil,” Spencer says, pressing a slow kiss to Brendon’s chest and looking up to smile at him.

“Yeah, well,” Brendon says, straining up to catch Spencer’s bottom lip, “He kind of deserved it.”

“Never insult another guy’s dick if you want him to suck yours,” Spencer agrees solemnly.

Brendon laughs and kisses him again. “Exactly So, where were we?”

Spencer moves his hips in reply, grinding them down in a slow circle against Brendon’s thigh. Brendon’s hands slide down his back, urging him on, and Spencer feels the heat pooling in his stomach coil a little tighter as he finds Brendon’s lips in a long, lazy kiss.

Chapter Text

It started in the living room sometime in the afternoon. Ryan has no idea how much time has passed since then, but judging from how low the sun is on the horizon as Spencer’s hand pushes him forward against the side of the tub in the master bathroom, they’ve been at it for a while.

When Spencer called him up, saying that he and Brendon were coming over to throw him a house warming party (“Just the four of us. Kick Eric and they guys out for the night.”), this is not what he imagined would happen.

The beer, yes. The pot too. Sex, well... old habits die hard, after all and it had been a while (six weeks, three days; too fucking long).

Ryan will bet his favourite guitar that turning the whole thing into a must-christen-every-available-surface-in-the-house aspect was Brendon’s idea.

In front of him, said marathon sex mastermind is humming to himself, playing around with what looks like every bottle in Ryan’s bathroom cabinet, adding this and that as the tub slowly fills up with hot water. Ryan sags against the side of the tub (old-fashioned, standing on gilded feet and just the right height for him to lean against) breathing in the scents of lavender and vanilla, the mere thought of getting to sink his body into a warm bath almost enough to put him right to sleep.

“Not yet.”

Ryan feels rather than hears a groan break from his throat as Spencer nudges his feet a little wider apart, stroking steadily up and down Ryan’s back before reaching lower, grasping Ryan’s hips in both hands and easing himself inside.

It’s an easy slide after so many rounds, and even though Ryan’s muscles immediately protest against the friction (too sore, too fucking sore), another part of him rejoices in it, making him arch and push back, desperate to take Spencer in deeper.

He hears a soft splash, and then someone is standing in front of him (Jon—he knows them all so well by now), reaching for his hair and pulling Ryan’s face up a bit. Ryan opens his mouth automatically, letting his jaw go slack as Jon pushes inside, letting himself be fucked from two directions.

More movement, and then Brendon is crawling into the space between Ryan and the tub, stroking Ryan’s thighs, kneading the muscles there when they start to tremble from exhaustion. Ryan cries out—a muffled sound around the weight of Jon’s cock—as Brendon takes him into his mouth, coaxing his dick to get hard for god knows what time that day.

Spencer takes it as a hint to up the tempo, fucking Ryan hard and deep, relentless stimulation that’s guaranteed to get Ryan off fast, even though he has no idea how his body will physically manage another orgasm. The movement drives him deeper into Brendon’s mouth and harder onto Jon’s cock, and both of them take Spencer’s change of pace as a cue to increase their own efforts, leaving Ryan writhing between them.

He can feel Jon getting close, hands tightening in Ryan’s hair as he pulls him faster up and down his cock, tilting Ryan’s head back a fraction more so that Jon can slide into his throat. Ryan does his best to keep sucking, lips raw from too much use, moaning helplessly. Jon pulls Ryan’s hair hard when he comes, holding him close as his hips work through his orgasm in tiny, hitched thrusts. Ryan swallows greedily (a more than easy feat this late in the game) keeping his lips around Jon until Jon pulls back. Jon sinks down into the bath, groaning happily, and Ryan opens his eyes, watches him lean back into the water with a blissful look on his face.

He doesn’t manage to look at Jon for very long. A few more deep thrusts from Spencer, and Ryan is coming down Brendon’s throat, letting out a hoarse shout as every nerve ending in his body suddenly feels like it’s on fire. The pleasure-pain of it is blinding, making Ryan feel like he’s being honest-to-god fucked apart, leaving nothing but a wobbly panting mess between Spencer and Brendon’s bodies.

He might black out for a second, he’s honestly not sure anymore, and the next thing that really registers with him is the feeling of Spencer spilling inside him, followed by unsteady arms pulling him up, helping Ryan stand.

Ryan cranes his neck, reaching blindly behind him until he finds Spencer’s lips, letting Spencer hold him up as they share a deep, exhausted kiss. Spencer guides him carefully forward, and Jon and Brendon help him lift his legs, climb into the tub.

The water is simultaneously torture and bliss against his skin, and Ryan hisses as he sinks lower, letting Brendon guide him until he’s resting in Jon’s lap, head falling back against Jon’s shoulder. There’s a bit of commotion as Spencer climbs in as well (and some good-natured bickering between him and Brendon over who gets to play with the other’s hair) but they all make it somehow.

Ryan stretches his legs, feeling them tangle with those of his bandmates and thinks that, yes, this place is definitely home.

Chapter Text

“You still sure you wanna do this?” Brendon asks.

Spencer lets his head fall forward, bracing himself a little more firmly against the tiled wall he’s pressed up against. They’re in the shower--have been for a long time by now. Brendon’s taken his time, fingering Spencer until he was begging for more, fucking him until he was just begging. Spencer shifts his weight, spreads his legs a bit wider. He feels loose and relaxed, warm from the water. If they’re going to try this, now seems like a good time.

“Do it.”

Brendon leans forward, kissing his neck. Spencer leans into it, closing his eyes when Brendon’s hands move down his back to his hips. Brendon’s hands fit perfectly there, always knowing just how hard to grip to give Spencer exactly what he needs. Right now, they’re settling on his hipbones, ten points pressing down just on the side of too hard. Spencer moans and presses back, spreads his legs even more.

“I’ll start slow,” Brendon murmurs, and Spencer wants to protest, because they’ve fucked for what feels like forever at this point. Then again, he thinks, shuddering as Brendon works first one finger and then a second one into him, slow’s probably a good idea if they’re going to get to the end of this exercise without Spencer coming all over himself.

Brendon works in a third finger, spreading them inside Spencer’s body. Spencer ducks his head lower, biting his lip to keep himself from telling Brendon exactly how fucking amazing it feels.

(As much as Brendon loves it when Spencer talks, he loves it even more when he has to fight Spencer for it, and Spencer’s determined to keep himself together for as long as he can.)

Brendon works a fourth finger into him, and Spencer bites down around a groan. Brendon’s fingers are fucking him slowly, stretching him to the point where Spencer’s dizzy with it, pain and pleasure melting together until all he can think about is how fucking full he feels.


Brendon twists his fingers sharply, making Spencer fumble desperately for the base of his cock. He can’t come yet. Not now. Not when they’ve got this far and he’s so fucking close to getting what he wants. He pushes his ass back against Brendon’s hand.

“I said more.”

He feels Brendon’s thumb brush against the back of his balls, sliding towards his hole and stroking the rim of it. Spencer holds his breath, waiting, unable to keep a whining sound from escaping his mouth, because this is fucking it. Another couple of seconds, and Brendon’s going to be completely inside him.

The thought is enough to push him right up to the edge again, and Brendon must sense it, because he stops moving and takes a step back, pulling his fingers out, steady and torturously slow.

“Breathe,” Brendon tells him, stroking the base of Spencer’s back in a way that’s probably meant to be consoling but that mainly just manages to make Spencer want to cry in frustration. “Trust me, okay?”

He reaches for something behind them, and Spencer hears the familiar sound of a condom wrapper being opened.

“I’ve been thinking about this since I saw it at the store,” Brendon says. “The way it’s perfectly shaped and I can barely fit my hand around it. I haven’t been able to take a shower in weeks without imagining how fucking hot it would look pushing into you, stretching you so fucking wide...”

Spencer cranes his head, looking back over his shoulder, breath hitching in his throat when he sees what Brendon’s holding.

The shower at Brendon’s house is a study in decadence, with a huge overhead shower head as well as two hand-held ones, massage features and a thing that creates hot steam. About a month ago, Brendon switched one of the hand-held pieces, claiming the old one didn’t supply enough water and replacing it with a huge, silver thing about the size of his lower arm.

Spencer swallows.

“Relax,” Brendon says, pressing up close to Spencer’s back. “Just push back and breathe, okay?”

Somehow, Spencer manages a nod, and then there’s pressure against his hole, Brendon pushing the shower head into him, slow and unrelenting.

The muscles gives and Spencer feels the warm metal push inside, splitting him open and making him scramble for something to hold on to. His legs feel like they’re going to give out, every single nerve in his body feeling like it has relocated to his ass. It’s complete sensory overload, the pain and pleasure almost too much to bear and not enough at the same time.

He’s never been a size queen. Never even knew he liked being fucked until Brendon came along, and yet here he is, stretched to the breaking point by a fucking metal shower head, letting Brendon fuck him into the wall with it and loving every second.

He barely notices when he comes, the orgasm taking him over between one thrust and the next, and it’s only when Brendon pulls the metal out of him, replacing it with his hand—his entire hand, holy fucking shit--that Spencer realises that his body is cramping down around it.

Hd doesn’t know what he says or does (or moans and shouts, more like it), just lets himself go boneless in Brendon’s arms and let him fuck him through it. Brendon eventually slows down, withdrawing his hand carefully, and Spencer whines at the loss, pushing back against Brendon until Brendon relents and gives him two fingers back.

The water keeps running down their bodies, still hot and soothing. Spencer is vaguely aware of Brendon jerking off behind him, feels Brendon’s fingers twitch inside him and the movement of his fist on his cock against Spencer’s back. He’s too tired to do much more than moan encouragingly, happy the wall is there for him to lean against when Brendon collapses against him, adding his own dead weight to Spencer’s own.

“That was awesome,” Brendon mumbles, sounding blissful and fucked out. Spencer doesn’t need to turn his head to know that Brendon is smiling.

He manages a nod, angling his head just enough to meet Brendon’s lips for a soft, lingering kiss.

Spencer loves his fucking life.

Chapter Text

It’s the sixth song of their fourth show as a band, and Patrick is slowly going mad.

Pete’s been in his space more than he’s been out of it for the last fifteen minutes, pressing himself against Patrick’s back, breathing the words of the song hotly into his neck. More than once, he’s also let go of his bass to run his fingers through the sweaty hair at Patrick’s nape, tugging firmly.

Seriously, how the fuck is Patrick supposed to sing like this?

His voice breaks twice during their next song—fucking Pete and his fucking teeth digging into Patrick’s shoulder—but the audience doesn’t seem to take notice, and those who do definitely don’t seem to mind. To be fair, they’re playing in someone’s basement, and most people were seriously drunk before they made it on stage. Still, Patrick doesn’t know what to make of it when Pete invades his personal space again and at least ten people cheer.

“Come on, Patrick,” Pete breathes into his ear, making Patrick choke on the next word he’s supposed to be singing. “Let’s give them what they want.” Pete’s lips leave his ear and wander down his neck, and Patrick feels his heart like a too-fast, heavy beat in his chest. He doesn’t know what the audience wants, or what Pete thinks they want; he just knows that there are lips and a tongue against his skin, the hot pressure of Pete’s body against his back and girls in front of the makeshift stage, yelling their approval. He tilts his head, leaning into Pete’s touch without thinking, focusing on the words of the song to keep his head from spinning. The girls in front of the stage get louder, and Patrick counts the measures in his head until Joe’s solo, a full-body shudder running through him as Pete moves his mouth back up his neck, teeth grazing teasingly along Patrick’s jaw line.

He belts out the last note before Joe and his guitar take over and swallows hard before turning his head. Pete is still mouthing along his jaw, lips so close that Patrick can almost taste them, and Patrick doesn’t know what he’s doing, or how the fuck he’s going to manage this—having his first kiss, on stage, with a guy that is so far out of his league it’s not even funny—without making a total ass of himself.

He wets his lips when he feels Pete’s nose drag across his cheek, cranes his head a bit more and decides he doesn’t give a fuck that the entire room is watching. Pete’s lips find the corner of his mouth, pressing a kiss there, just out of reach. And then—

And then he pulls away, taking his warmth and hands and fucking lips with him over to Joe’s side of the tiny stage. Patrick stares after him, and Pete winks—fucking winks at him like they’re in on some kind of joke together and he didn’t just wind Patrick up to the point where he’s practically aching.

Pete saunters back to his own side of the stage after that, throwing Patrick another mischievous smile, and Patrick almost misses his cue for the last chorus.

Pete comes back to him again, three more times before their gig is over, and Patrick’s frustration grows to the point where he doesn’t know if he wants to grab Pete and kiss him or grab him and punch him in the face. They finish their last song, and Patrick ignores the way Pete tries to keep him at his side, fleeing the basement as fast as he can and finding an empty bathroom where he’s able to splash some well-needed cold water on his face and get his breathing back under control.

When he comes back out, the rest of his band has joined the party. Joe and Ben are sitting on the edge of the stage, talking to a couple of guys and gesturing at their instruments. And Pete is—

Patrick wishes he could blame the sick feeling surging up inside him on shock, but seeing Pete as he is now, curled up in a chair with an unknown girl in his lap, has been depressingly routine in the short time Patrick’s known him. Tonight, the girl in question is thin and leggy with long, brown hair, making Patrick feel even shorter and stouter than he is by comparison. He watches Pete’s hands stroke teasing paths up and down the girl’s back and wants to kill the world a little bit.

This stupid fucking crush of his really needs to stop.


Lifting a lot of heavy equipment into the back of a van does wonders for Patrick’s anger. Until Pete shows up with a satisfied slump in his step and a brand new hickey, that is.

“You know, there’s a party going on just inside,” Pete says, leaning against the side of the van in a way that shows off his hipbones in the most obnoxious way imaginable. “You should go be a rock star.”

Patrick throws another roll of cables into the van and maybe slams the door shut with a little more force than necessary. “We’re playing half-hour shows for pizza in some friend of a friend’s basement,” he says. “We’re not rock stars, Pete.”

Pete’s smile doesn’t fade in the slightest. “We will be. You will be.”

Patrick just huffs.

“I’m serious,” Pete says, moving closer, right into Patrick’s personal space. “You and me, we’re gonna rule the world.”

He leans in and presses a wet kiss to Patrick’s cheek, and, seriously, enough is fucking enough already.

“Stop fucking doing that!”

The shock on Pete’s face at being pushed back is priceless. “Doing what?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Patrick manages, hands curling into fists at his sides. He knows he’s sixteen and doesn’t have any experience, but walking around kissing people like it’s just that fucking casual isn’t normal, and Pete’s a fucking tease and an oblivious ass, and... Patrick just can’t take any more of it right now. “Just—whatever.”

He turns to walk away. Pete stops him with a hand on his arm. “Patrick.”


“Come on, man, what the fuck?”

The sound of Pete’s back hitting metal is incredibly rewarding. Patrick doesn’t think, just pulls back and then pushes again, letting his frustration bleed out through his hands as he shoves Pete harder. Pete shoves back, and Patrick feels a surge of finally going through him, because Pete fighting back means Patrick can push again, which he does, hard. Sharp pain shoots through his arm as Pete spins them around and Patrick’s elbow hits the handle of the van’s back door. It makes the itch that’s been under Patrick’s skin since Pete first invaded his personal space on stage finally fade a little, and Patrick pulls in a sharp breath of relief. He attacks Pete again, crying out as Pete trips him and they go down in a messy, writhing heap on the hard concrete.

The ground is wet from earlier rain, soaking through Patrick’s shirt the second he hits the ground. He twists as pain blazes through the back of his head and kicks out furiously. Seconds later, there is more cold water beneath his back, splashing around them as they fight each other. Pete just rolled them into a fucking puddle. Patrick doesn’t even care.

He doesn’t know what changes, just that one moment, Pete’s hands are holding him down and shoving him against the concrete, and the next they’re in his hair, and Pete’s mouth is crashing down on his, hard enough to bruise. Patrick freezes in shock, and then his whole body arches, pushing itself against Pete like a puppet on invisible strings. His mouth opens on a gasp, and the next thing he knows, Pete’s tongue is against his, turning Patrick into a hot, molten mess and setting his head spinning.

“Fuck, Patrick,” Pete whispers above him, his hands in Patrick’s hair tightening their grip even more. “I can’t—I want—have wanted for so fucking—God.” He tugs Patrick head back, lips and teeth going for his throat. Patrick fumbles for the edge of Pete’s shirt, needing to get his hands beneath it, to get at the skin on Pete’s back.

He digs his fingers in, pulling Pete down, and Pete groans, shifting his weight so that their hips line up, and fuck, that’s Pete’s dick, pushing down against him. Patrick can’t—he—oh, Jesus fuck.

“You have to tell me to stop,” Pete pants in his ear, grinding down and pulling an almost pained moan out of Patrick’s throat. “If you don’t—if this isn’t—Patrick.”

Patrick can’t reply. His mouth is too busy finding Pete’s again, biting down on his bottom lip as he pushes his hips desperately against Pete’s, one leg going around Pete’s thighs to get him even closer.

Pete groans and loses his rhythm completely, moving against Patrick erratically. Patrick tries to help as best he can, tightening his leg around Pete’s and letting him fuck both of them into the ground. He can feel himself starting to lose it and bites down hard on his lip to keep himself from shouting as his vision goes a blinding white. Pete grinds down against him, and Patrick comes harder than he ever has in his life, clinging to Pete with everything he’s got. Through the haze, he hears Pete’s breath change, coming heavier and faster with every thrust of his hips until he suddenly stiffens and collapses on top of Patrick with a broken moan.

It takes a while for Patrick’s brain to come back online, and when it does, his first impulse is to freak the fuck out and die of embarrassment—until he realises that Pete is still lying half on top of him, looking rather disgustingly happy.

“Hi,” Pete says, reaching out to push a strand of wet hair out of Patrick’s face. Patrick manages a disbelieving (and completely mortifying) whimper in reply.

“You have mud in your hair,” Pete continues blissfully. “It’s totally hot.”

Patrick has no idea what to say to that. Pete just smiles and leans in to kiss him, long and lingering, before pushing himself to his feet and helping Patrick off the ground.

“Let’s go,” Pete says, grabbing Patrick’s hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “We need a shower. And pancakes. I totally want pancakes. There’s an IHOP five minutes from my house. What do you say?”

“Huh?” Patrick manages, because Pete is making absolutely no sense to him right now. “What? Pete—”

“You don’t want pancakes?” Pete asks, opening the back of the van and pulling out a couple of blankets, handing one to Patrick. “Sure, okay. We can go for something else, I guess. Sandwiches?”

Patrick just stares. Then he blinks. Twice. Pete is still not making sense.

“What about that, you know, that girl you were all over earlier?” he asks, feeling some of his earlier frustration surge back up. Because the last time he checked, Pete was into pretty scene girls, not high school guys who look like Patrick, and the way Pete keeps looking at him is doing a serious number on Patrick’s head.

“What girl?” Pete asks absentmindedly. “Oh, the tall one?” he continues, a grin spreading across his face. “Did it work? It totally worked, didn’t it?”

“Did what work?”

“Making you jealous,” Pete says, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Patrick’s neck. “I’m sorry I went there, but you totally weren’t picking up on my hints, dude.”

He towels his hair dry and throws the blanket back in the van before holding out his hand to Patrick. “So, shower?”

Patrick wants to say no, wants to keep pushing until he gets Pete to explain what the fuck is really going on. Then again, Pete is standing there, holding out his hand, and Patrick’s already getting pretty used to jumping off cliffs with him.

He takes Pete’s hand. Pete beams at him and leads him around to the passenger side, opening the door for him with a small bow.

Patrick rolls his eyes and gets in the car.

Chapter Text

Gabe is sitting comfortably in the VIP section of one of Pete’s clubs, slightly drunk from second-hand alcohol and with a blissed out, gorgeous boy in his lap when a royal messenger walks up to him and clears his throat.

“The Queen of New York requires your presence, Your Majesty,” he says, bowing politely.

Gabe raises an eyebrow and makes no move to get up. “Does she now?”

The messenger looks appropriately intimidated, but manages a small nod. Gabe chuckles and reaches for the boy in his lap, biting his own lip and kissing him soundly before pushing him away. The boy sinks back into the couch they’re on, lost in the high of Gabe’s blood in his system. Gabe smooths down the front of his shirt and gets to his feet.

“Lead the way.”

There is a car waiting for him outside the club, driving him to a lavish townhouse on the upper East side. It’s almost dawn; Gabe can feel the sun’s approach in his bones as he walks through the gates and strolls casually up to the door. Armed guards stand aside to let him in, and a servant is quick to take his jacket. He’s shown up a wide marble staircase, and Gabe amuses himself with mentally taking note of the number of humans and vampires present in the house and calculating how long it would take him to take all of them out, should the need arise.

He figures he could manage it in less than a minute. He’s almost thirteen hundred years old, after all—not that anyone in the building would be stupid enough to attack him. As the king of both California and Nevada, he’s one of the most powerful vampires in North America, and the thought of another vampire summoning him like a simple subject is downright laughable.

Then again, his Victoria always was a sassy one.

The human leading him through the house stops in front of a pair of French doors, bowing deeply before drawing back. Gabe reaches out and pushes down the handle, stepping out onto a beautiful rooftop terrace with a panoramic view of downtown New York.

“Gabriel. Welcome.”

Victoria is lounging on a divan at the far end of the terrace, draped in, from what Gabe can see, nothing but a sheer robe and a beautiful human girl. The girl blushes a little as he lets his eyes wander over her naked body but makes no move to shield herself. Her hair is blonde and her skin pale to the point of looking almost translucent in the moonlight. One of Victoria’s hands is wrapped possessively around her stomach, the other resting comfortably against her inner thigh, where the mark of her fangs is faded, but clearly visible. Gabe draws in the scent of the girl and frowns. He tilts his head to the side and does it again, intrigued. Something about this one is different.

“I have a proposition for you,” Victoria says.

“Right to business as usual,” Gabe replies with a grin. “Is that a proper way to greet your maker?”

“Well, I did say welcome,” Victoria says. “And you are in my realm, after all. Most people bow to their queen before she deigns to even address them.” She sends him a sweet smile over the girl’s shoulder.

“Let’s hear it then.”

“I want you to appoint Z sheriff of Los Angeles,” Victoria says without preamble.

Gabe can’t help but laugh. “Now, what makes you think I would even consider that? Spencer is doing a flawless job.”

“He’s also held the position for two centuries,” Victoria argues. “You could give him Nevada.”

“Now I must admit I’m curious,” Gabe says. “What exactly do you think you can offer me that would convince me to split my kingdom and give away half of it?”

Victoria’s smile widens.

“Do you remember that little obsession of Sofie-Anne’s down in Louisiana?” she asks. “The Stackhouse girl?”

“The one who managed to cause Sofie-Anne’s death and practically start a war with Mississippi?” Gabe says with a smirk. “Who doesn’t?”

“Rumour has it she’s part faery. First one to appear on our plane of existence in four centuries or so. Drinking her blood allows you to walk in the sun. Well, for a couple of minutes, at least.”


“From what I heard, the Stackhouse girl is only one fourth faery,” Victoria says. “Greta here is half and half.”

Gabe feels his eyebrows rise in spite of himself. “This girl here?”

“Mm-hm,” Victoria confirms, smile turning positively wicked as she leans in and puts her mouth against the girl’s neck, fangs coming out to scratch the surface. The girl arches into the touch, tilting her head to the side to give Victoria more room. Gabe swallows.

“It’s almost dawn,” Victoria says. “Experiencing the sunrise for the first time in over a millennium is more than worth a simple sheriff’s appointment, don’t you think?”

Gabe narrows his eyes. “You know, as your maker, I could just order you to hand her over.”

“Try and you’re in for a nasty surprise,” Victoria counters. “She might look human, but her powers definitely aren’t. If you want a taste, you’ll have to convince both of us that we should let you have it.”

“Both of you, is it? Now, now, Vicky-T, it isn’t very nice to offer something you don’t have full power to give.”

“Well,” Victoria says, breaking the skin on the girl’s neck just enough for a single drop of blood to form, “I guess you have a point. But Greta likes to please me. I just think it’s fair you should please her in exchange.”

Gabe takes a moment to consider, more for show than because of any internal struggle. Some vampires claim you forget the feeling of what it’s like to walk in daylight when enough years have gone by, that the memory of sun against your skin becomes faded, like those of food and drink that you eventually stop missing.

They’re fools, all of them.

Gabe meets Victoria’s eyes and nods his head slightly, acknowledging his acceptance of the terms she’s set. He walks over to the futon and sits down next to the girls, moving his focus to Victoria’s lover.

“How may I please you, carida?” he asks, adding his most charming smile and a light touch along the girl’s arm. Victoria may have the appearance of an upper hand in their dealings so far, but Gabe is still the one who made her who she is and taught her to love everything about it. Including him. A human girl—even one claimed by another vampire—should be easy to seduce in comparison.

“Victoria says you have a wicked tongue,” Greta says, bending one of her pale legs and letting it fall open, just a fraction. “Care to show me?”

Gabe is more than happy to oblige. He leans in and captures the girl’s lips in a kiss, taking his time to learn what she likes. She tastes like Victoria, he realises, a faint trace of his Childe’s blood lingering at the back of her tongue. He deepens the kiss, then breaks it suddenly and pulls back. Victoria is looking down at them, eyes dark with want. Her fangs come out just for a second, biting into her lip and painting it a dark red. The invitation is more than clear.

The taste of Victoria’s blood in his mouth is heady the way it always is. He wraps a hand in her hair and tilts her head back, deepening the kiss, reminding her of the claim he holds on her. Victoria meets him eagerly, kissing back just as passionately as Gabe remembers. He feels Greta trace a hand up his thigh, inching closer to his groin. As her hand is about to stroke over his cock, he stops it and lets go of Victoria’s lips, unable to stop a smile at the show of impatience.

“Over-eager,” he says. “We have all night. Well, when I say all night...”

“Five minutes,” Victoria says, glancing at her watch and smiling sharply at him.

“All right, better get this show on the road then,” Gabe says, lowering his head in between Greta’s legs. She spreads and moans when Gabe flicks his tongue against her clit. He spreads his fingers wide over her inner thigh, feeling her pulse speed up as he licks in broad strokes. When she starts arching, trying to chase his tongue, Gabe licks a path down to the crease of her thigh. He can feel the pulse with his lips. His fangs comes out and, after a quick nibble, he bites down, letting her blood flood into his mouth and moaning at the taste. Victoria really knew what she was talking about when she said Greta’s blood was something else. The sensations are spinning through his body, flooding his senses and making him a little dizzy.

When he thinks Greta can’t take any more, he pulls his fangs back, licking over the bite to soothe it. Gabe sits up and turns to Victoria, sealing their lips together once again.

They lie together on the divan as the sky starts turning a lighter shade of blue. When Victoria takes his hand, Gabe lets her, watching as the sunlight hits their bodies.