kalpurna

Hey, look, it's a thousand words of filthy unbetaed 3 AM porn. Panic! at the Disco, Brendon/Spencer. Inspired by beingothrwrldly's request, and Brendon Urie's choice of song for Panic's iTunes Celebrity Playlist. Oh, Brendon.

Extra-special RPS disclaimer: Pete Wentz, please don't read this. For the sake of my sanity.

Lying Beside You, Here in the Dark


The air in the cabin is kind of funky-smelling, musty, like it hasn't been aired out in a long time.

"Hey," says Jon, brightly. "Home sweet home."

"There are only two bedrooms," says Ryan, and in the same breath, "I call Jon."

"NO," Spencer objects loudly. "You – that isn't fair, Ryan!" But Ryan and Jon are already disappearing into the first door on the left, and Brendon is clutching his bags and looking a little bit insulted. "It's not – you sing, Brendon," he says, rubbing his face. He can feel the beginnings of a headache forming behind his eyes already. "You sing all the time, and you're. Bouncy."

"I can be calm, I promise!" Brendon protests. He smiles in a way that's probably supposed to be reassuring, but it comes off as manic. If there aren't two beds, Spencer is seriously going to kill Ryan.

There aren't two beds. There's one, with a depressing sag in the middle. Brendon bounces on it experimentally, and it makes the noise an animated blender might make as it died.

That night, they're lying in the saggy bed of Spencer and Ryan's dead friendship. Spencer can't sleep, although it's hard to blame that on Brendon, who is quiet for once, breathing softly a few feet away. After a while, he notices that he's inexplicably, uncomfortably hard. He stares up at the ceiling, willing his erection to go away, because he's too damn tired to go to the bathroom and take care of it. And it would be fine, it honestly would, if Brendon didn't choose that particular moment to roll over so that the sheets move against Spencer's dick, making him let out his breath with this gaspy kind of moan.

There's a moment like two glasses clinking together, a sharp defined pause, and then the mattress creaks as Brendon shifts in the bed.

"Are you. God, Spencer, are you turned on right now?"

"No," Spencer says, quickly. Brendon ignores this obvious lie, and reaches toward him with a rustle of blankets. There's a moment when Spencer thinks about moving, about batting his hands away, but then –

his fingers are trailing down Spencer's hips, and Spencer has this sudden, horrible, slutty compulsion to get naked, to remove any barriers between himself and Brendon's hands. Fight it, he commands himself, silently. You don't want to do this. Or maybe not so silently, because Brendon makes a protesting noise, and moves his fingers toward the front of Spencer's boxers. Oh God, Spencer thinks. "Oh, GOD," he moans out loud, and wow, he's going to have to work on that mouth-brain barrier.

The furnace kicks in with a rattling sound, and Spencer moves a little against the bed. Brendon's hand is firm and warm through the thin fabric of his underwear, and he feels the blood surge in his cock. Maybe he's still technically a teenager, but he thought he was past this – this desperate, humiliating, unwanted rush of desire. He thought he'd outgrown it, and now he thinks that maybe he was an idiot for imagining he ever could, ever will. Brendon leans down to mouth at him through his boxers, and he makes a really embarrassing noise. He spreads his palms wide against the sheets, and tries not to hyperventilate.

Then the boxers are gone, thank God, and Brendon's gotten lube from – somewhere. Did he bring lube to the cabin? Who did he think he was going to be fucking? Spencer's torn between hoping it was him, and praying it wasn't, because, wow, it would be seriously humiliating if Brendon knew what was going on between them before Spencer did. He's, like, twelve years old, mentally. But oh, he's taking off his shirt, reaching between Brendon's thighs, and those are not a twelve-year-old's arms.

Spencer shifts his body to get a better feel of Brendon's fingers twisting inside him, slick and clever, and licks his lips. Brendon kisses him wetly, with tongue, and it feels almost as obscene as his fingers in Spencer's ass. That can't be normal. Spencer feels his breath hitch in his throat, and he pulls away to search for oxygen against Brendon's neck. His skin is hypersensitive, so that even the air moving in the room feels like a caress. The wetness drying on his mouth is like another slow kiss.

Leaning back, Brendon pulls his fingers out, and Spencer rolls his hips in protest against the retreat.

"Shhh," Brendon says, softly, his eyes gleaming in the darkened room, and he gives Spencer's stomach a reassuring pat. "Just, wait a minute." There's the crackling sound of a condom wrapper. And then he's back, looming over Spencer again in the dim light from the hallway, bracing himself with one hand against the mattress as he presses in where Spencer is warm and open for him.

Fuck, yes.

It sort of hurts, actually, and Spencer bites at Brendon's shoulder while he tries to adjust to the new sensation. He's been fucked before, but not often, and not recently. Brendon's hardly making any noise at all, just taking deep, shuddering breaths.

Then he's pulling out and surging back in, and holy fuck, it doesn't hurt anymore. The mattress is creaking underneath them, and Spencer's grabbing at his shoulders, the headboard, anything, because he's a rowboat on a lake in a storm and he needs something to hold on to. Dull waves of pleasure are rocking through his lower back and up into his arms, his stomach. Brendon gets a hand around his cock, and Spencer bucks clumsily, needing more sensation, more of everything.

Which is when the angle changes just a little bit, and Brendon's cock hits something inside him that makes him groan helplessly. All that pleasure turns abruptly sharp, like drumbeats in his body, in his cock, in his ass. He can literally feel his toes curling. He comes, without much warning, and it's, oh, it's drowning on dry land, it's fresh air after being under water. It's dying and living in one breath. He barely hears Brendon moaning out his own release, preoccupied with the orgasm still ricocheting through his body, sending aftershocks down into his legs, numbing the tips of his fingers.

Afterwards, Spencer lies in bed trying to remember how to make his tongue work. His muscles feel like putty, and he keeps smiling involuntarily. Faint snatches of warbled lyrics drift out from the bathroom along with the sound of running water. "We sailed on together... we drifted apart..."

Brendon pauses in the bathroom doorway, washcloth in hand, and flinging his arms wide like the melodramatic freak he is, bursts into full-out song: "So now I come to you, with open arms, hoping you'll see what your love means to me..." It's equal parts awful and wonderful. Spencer drapes his arm over his face so Brendon won't see him grin.