twentysomething

Title: Can We Fast Forward

Fandom: Bandom, P!ATD

Pairing: AlwaysaGirl!Brendon/AlwaysaGirl!Spencer

Summary: "Spencer's only taking life drawing because her adviser is a sadist and decided she needed some "humanity" to round out her "portfolio of talent"- which is the biggest load of horsecrap, because nobody else in her program has been forced in here. Her professor has stood over her shoulder and clucked sadly at Spencer for the past three weeks, saying completely ridiculous things like "feel the sweep of the line" and "allow yourself to be free, Spencer." She can't help it- she's got the solid, inexpressive hand of a draftsman, not an artist. She hates this- she hates not being able to be good at this. She's thought about dropping the class more times than she can count.

But Spencer looks at the soft, curved lines that make up her body and Spencer wants to try harder."

Length: 4700 wordsish, plus 900 in extras.

Warnings: TROLOLOLOLO NUDE FIGURE DRAWING, LADIES, FORMAL DANCES COLLEGE AU MOTHERFUCKER

Notes: So, like most things, this is all about/for merelyn. I was like "You know what, I like girl!Brendon and I like girl!Spencer, but what I also like is girl!Brendon and girl!Spencer together." And she was like "Okay, so, write it." I don't really think she knew I was going to make it a college au, wherein there is nude figure drawing and a formal. I think it was predictable, but maybe, possibly unanticipated. Basically, this is like my id in a fic, which is sort of terrible. I was also thinking that after yesterday's genderbending, I should instead post the coffeeshop au, but again, I deferred to Mer, and really, if you aren't into genderbending, I don't really know what you're doing here. There are also two extras at the end of the fic, affectionately thought of as "Jon Walker is A Coward" and "Taco Bell Date". (There is also a call out to reni_days's Ten which is one of my favorite fics of all times of ALL TIMES.)



The model is carelessly beautiful.

Spencer would be envious- because of her dark hair and dark eyes, framed in thick, thick lashes, because of her long, graceful neck. But she thinks this girl really has no idea just how insanely beautiful she is- the lazy drape of her body across the platform, the sleepy cant of her eyelids, the faint restless twitching of her fingers.

Actually, the most irritating thing is how completely at ease she seems to be, naked in front of some fourteen strangers who are attempting to clumsily put her body onto the page.

Spencer's only taking life drawing because her adviser is a sadist and decided she needed some "humanity" to round out her "portfolio of talent"- which is the biggest load of horsecrap, because nobody else in her program has been forced in here. Her professor has stood over her shoulder and clucked sadly at Spencer for the past three weeks, saying completely ridiculous things like "feel the sweep of the line" and "allow yourself to be free, Spencer." She can't help it- she's got the solid, inexpressive hand of a draftsman, not an artist. She hates this- she hates not being able to be good at this. She's thought about dropping the class more times than she can count.

But Spencer looks at the soft, curved lines that make up her body and Spencer wants to try harder.

"Much better, Spencer," Professor Way says cheerfully in her ear, squeezing her shoulder.

They do a couple of quick studies that afternoon in changing light- hazy and luminous to start, stark and limned to finish- and Spencer sprays them quickly with fixative as they all start putting away their materials and packing out. They're the best things she's done for this class and she doesn't want them to get ruined by shoving them hastily in her flat file drawer. As she heads out of the classroom, she catches a glimpse of their model, wearing a really atrocious flannel dressing gown, sitting up and slowly rubbing at her eyes.

But because Spencer is an awkward human being who lives an awkward life, as she's trying to wash off the copious amounts of charcoal coating her hands, the model walks into the bathroom.

"Oh!" she says, half-sliding out of one of her beaten up flip flops. "Didn't mean to freak you out," She heads into one of the cubicles, carrying an armful of clothes.

"I know I think this bathroom looks like the set of a co-ed horror movie from the 70s," she says, totally cheerful. "I always feel like I'm going to look up into the mirror while I'm washing my hands and boom, Leatherface will be behind me."

Spencer is theoretically still washing her hands, because there's soap on them and they're under a stream of water, but she's sort of paralyzed with a bunch of weird feelings.

"Oh, I probably shouldn't have said that while you were washing your hands, huh?" she keeps going like Spencer is more or less unnecessary in the conversation, and Spencer's feeling pretty surplus, anyway. The model breezes back out in cuffed, tight jeans and a lavender hoodie, her- really- hideous robe over her arm.

"I'm Brendon," she says, sunny and bright eyed and Spencer doesn't even know.

"Uh, Spencer, Spencer Smith." Spencer replies, abstractly wishing her hands weren't wet and soapy, because then she could use them to smother herself. Brendon grins at her, too toothy by half and it's sort of super amazing.

"Thank you for drawing me naked today, Spencer Smith," Brendon chirps at Spencer, and wiggles her fingers goodbye as she breezes back out of the bathroom.

"I don't even know what just happened," Spencer says aloud to herself, because, what.

"You should hit that," Ryan says later, under the faux-wise mantra he's taken since they were 14 and he made it to second base with a girl before Spencer did. Spencer rolls her eyes.

"I would beat you, but we're in public," she sighs, picking at the cardboard sleeve on her cup. Ryan snorts, but really, Spencer's won all of their physical fights and 90% of their verbal ones, and she's really not above making him eat dirt again.

"It sounds like she's into you," Ryan murmurs, flipping back three pages in the mutant Moleskine he's cobbled together out of three or so individual staff-lined notebooks. Spencer frowns.

"We've had less than one conversation," Spencer protests. Ryan shrugs, crossing something out.

"It sounds like she's not into you," Ryan tries.

"This is completely counterproductive," Spencer mutters to her coffee. Ryan shrugs, writing something in.

"It sounds like she's into you."

"You are such a dick."

Life is further complicated in her photography lab that Thursday.

She's in the darkroom with Jon, her TA, fussily coddling her prints through developing because she decided to use real film for her midterm because she's an idiot, when she notices the prints Jon is developing in the tray next to hers. Under the intense red lights, in beautiful, luminous, black and white, Brendon is staring up at her, mischievous and sly. Spencer hastily reaches for her own prints with the tweezers as Jon comes over to get his.

"Um, they look great," Spencer says as she clips up her own amateurish shots of her dog and empty park benches. Jon smiles at Spencer.

"Thanks, Bden is my favorite," Jon replies, easy and calm, like usual, and Spencer abruptly wonders if Brendon is his girlfriend.

"She's a model," Spencer blurts out, and realizes that was not what she meant to say at all. "I mean, she's the model. For my life drawing class this past week. She uh, said hi. To me." Spencer feels like a) a lamer b) a major creeper. Jon tilts his head slightly to the side, and the look he gives Spencer is both considering and strangely amused.

"She mentioned something about that," he agrees, and doesn't say anything else and Spencer has never been this flustered in her whole life.

Unsurprisingly, her pseudo-preoccupation with Brendon carries into the next class. Professor Way is cooing over her work, but Spencer feels awkward and unsure of herself, and she can't imagine that's not coming across loud and clear on the page. It's not really mitigated by the way Brendon comes up behind Spencer as she's spraying them and hooks her chin on Spencer's shoulder.

"Spencer Smith, you are an artiste," Brendon whispers and Spencer doesn't know how she doesn't jump, shriek or have a heart attack.

"Um," Spencer says, tucking her too-long bangs behind her ear. "Thanks. I'm trying to think of a way to compliment you without sounding like a total weirdo perv." That was painfully way-too-honest.

Brendon blinks at her for a second before she breaks out in loud, ridiculously musical laughter. Spencer didn't even think real humans laughed like that.

"That's all the compliment I need," Brendon assures her. "And um, you have a smudge, right-" Brendon swipes the pad of her thumb over Spencer's cheekbone.

"There," Brendon says, and there's a long moment before Brendon grabs her clothes and like, teleports out of the room with a "later, Spencer Smith!"

Spencer's left feeling unaccountably turned on in the middle of the life drawing studio.

It's... not her favorite.

"Okay, seriously, though," Ryan says. Spencer started the conversation by taking his Sidekick and his music notebook. "Hit that." Spencer narrows her eyes at him.

"I know you think you're cementing your teachings in my mind or something, but really, you're just repeating the same thing that already won't happen," Spencer shoots back. Ryan rolls his eyes.

"Just ask her out. What's the worst that happens?" Ryan asks, strangely pragmatic. Spencer sort of thinks he suggested it for the opportunity to knit his fingers together in his stupid fingerless gloves.

"Jon Walker beats me to death for hitting on his girlfriend," Spencer mutters.

Ryan laughs for a lot longer than is polite.

"Okay, your worst case scenario is physical violence from Jon Walker," Ryan concedes. "Best case scenario, you quit sounding like an episode of The L Word I really want to delete off my TiVo." Spencer hates Ryan. A lot.

"You love me," Ryan reminds her, liberating his phone and book out from under her limp and unprotesting hands.

Next class, when there's a dude with a lot of really interesting tattoos- instead of Brendon's pale, smooth curves- sitting nakedly for them to draw, Spencer thinks maybe it's a sign.

Spencer's starting to feel like she's getting her equilibrium back until she gets to the dining hall and literally bumps into Brendon at the salad bar.

"Whoa, Spencer Smith, those hips don't lie, you'd better be careful with them," Brendon says, smiling wildly. Spencer is all kinds of unprepared for this. "Are you eating with anyone?"

Spencer, out of a sense of self-preservation, really wants to lie, say yes and hide in the bathroom until she's reasonably certain Brendon is no longer in the University Center.

"No," she says instead, because she's an idiot. Brendon's smile is more than a little distracting.

"Well, then, we should sit together!" Brendon cheers, and before she knows it, she's sitting at one of the ridiculous, small two-person tables with Brendon, who is earnestly pontificating on her love of Capri Suns.

"Basically, the only problem is portion- you get bigger, and yet Capri Suns do not," Brendon says direly. Spencer feels likes she's tumbled into some alternate universe.

"I was always more um," Spencer is desperately trying to make any attempt at conversation. "I liked Kool-Aid Bursts." Brendon's face lights up, manic and still too beautiful. She's constantly in motion as she commiserates, waxing poetic about trying to get the last drop out of the top tab, and Spencer absently wonders how Brendon managed to stay so still in the six hours worth of time Spencer drew her, because this Brendon is all frenetic motion- elaborate gestures and elastic expressions.

Brendon takes a pause to inhale half her meal and Spencer feels extremely pressured to further attempt conversation.

"So, uh, what's your major?" The sarcastic slow clap starting in her head sounds a lot like Ryan. But Brendon just beams and the relentless motion starts again.

"I'm a music major, it is the best, Spencer, they give me As and I play musical instruments and sing all day!" she pontificates, like she couldn't understand not wanting to be a music major. "That being said, cash is sparse on the ground because no one likes funding art professions departments, and I want to study abroad, so when Jonny Walker told me about the modeling thing, I jumped and that is how I met you," Brendon smiles at Spencer like that was the best part of it.

"But enough about me, Spencer Smith, I know you are an artiste," Brendon says it the same way, like it's a secret between them, "But I want to know everything about you." Spencer blushes, which she hasn't done since she was about 16.

"Well, I'm technically an art major, but it's really architecture," she explains, tucking her hair back, like she does when she's nervous, which is stupid. "My adviser is making me take the life drawing class." Brendon hums thoughtfully at her, her dark eyes unexpectedly serious.

"What do you like about buildings, Spencer Smith the Fifth?" Brendon asks dreamily and Spencer is so painfully entranced.

"I like-" Spencer trips over her usual discussion of form and function, and falls into something more truthful. "I like the way the great architects wanted to change people's lives with their buildings. Frank Lloyd Wright rebuilt the entire notion of the family home around the hearth, opened up office buildings. I like the art deco skyscrapers of New York, the way they soared above everything else- they were- they are-" Spencer breaks off, strangely shy all of a sudden, because this is stuff she's thought in the dead of night, totally alone in thought.

"Transcendent," Brendon supplies, and Spencer cannot help but smile, relieved and honest. Brendon sucks in a breath.

"Oh, wow, Spencer," she says, staring earnestly. "You're even more gorgeous when you smile." Spencer's entire brain shuts down.

"I, what?" Spencer barely manages. Brendon rests her chin on her hands.

"Like, totally- it's like sunshine, or maybe skittles. Or maybe sunshine that gives you skittles." Brendon says emphatically. "Spencer Smith, you are the prettiest." Spencer must be the color of a ripe tomato. Or some other fruit that suggests extreme mortification. But before Spencer can even attempt to figure out how to respond to that, Brendon is off and at it again, talking about acoustics and "how awesome would it be, Spencer, if you built concert halls and I played in them? Goals, Spencer!"

By the end of lunch, Brendon has programmed herself into Spencer's phone as "THIS IS BDEN" and makes Spencer call her so she can type in "SPENCER JANE SMITH THE FIFTH" in return.

That evening she breaks down and goes Facebook stalking.

Brendon's facebook picture is her hanging upside down off a jungle gym, wearing mirrored aviators and holding a guitar hero controller. Spencer is embarrassingly attracted to her, anyway.

Spencer's stomach plummets somewhere around the region of her feet- It's Complicated.

... wait.

It's Complicated with Gary Griffin.

Gary Griffin is the school mascot.

Spencer clicks the link, and sure enough, there's a dude in a bright, fuzzy costume. She doesn't whether to laugh or bang her head against her desk. Out of morbid curiosity, she looks up Jon Walker, and he's In a Relationship with Cassie Vandenboom.

"And I'm back where I started, only much more of a creeper," Spencer mutters.

Her phone chooses that exact moment to vibrate off the desk, on to the floor with a loud plastic thwack. Spencer curses quietly under her breath as she leans down to pick it up.

THIS IS BDEN
spencer spencer i'm bored lets watch a movie

Spencer spends ten seconds frozen in indecision and anxiety, but she sends back Empire Records?

YESYESYES WHERE ARE YOU I WILL BE THERE

Brendon is that much more overwhelming, curled up next to Spencer on the bed- the price of a single is limited floor space to have other seating- as Ethan Embry coos over Rex Manning Day.

"I wish Empire Records was real," Brendon sighs, tucking her feet under herself, the tips of her stockinged toes just nudging Spencer's thigh. "I would so work there."

"I think you'd fit right in," Spencer agrees, and Brendon gives her this pleased little look, before pursing her lips thoughtfully.

"Spencer Smith, do you play an instrument?" Brendon asks, reaching over to take one of Spencer's hands in hers, turning it this way/that way. Spencer tries not to stumble over her words.

"Uh, I played the drums, in like, high school jazz band, nothing serious," Spencer says, and Brendon moans.

"Oh my god, I bet that was the sexiest thing on the planet," Brendon groans. "I would kill to see you behind a kit." Spencer is too busy being tongue-tied to notice the speculative gleam in Brendon's eyes, but if she had noticed, it probably would have prepared her for busting into the music hall at 12:30 in the morning.

"What are we doing here?" Spencer whispers, even as Brendon rolls her eyes and calmly swipes them into the building with her student ID.

"It's not like we're actually breaking in, Spencer. I work here," Brendon reminds her, but there's still something about being in an academic building in the middle of the night that feels verboten.

"Yeah, that still doesn't answer my question," Spencer mutters. Brendon just waggles her eyebrows, and drags Spencer down some stairs and into a practice room with- oh no.

"I haven't played in years," Spencer cries out. "I don't even have-" Brendon produces a pair of drumsticks from god knows where and shoves them into Spencer's hand.

"Please," Brendon says, perching herself on a stool in front of the kit, making her eyes big and sad like a puppy left out in the rain.

Spencer is so screwed.

"C'mon, anything," Brendon pleads. Spencer just raises an eyebrow and sits down- she gives Brendon the rim shot- ba-dum cha. Brendon laughs, but rolls her eyes.

"No, Spencer, please," Brendon begs. "Pretty please."

Spencer starts out sort of cautious and boring, but Brendon just looks encouraging and pleased and before Spencer really thinks about it, she's slipping back into the familiar patterns of playing- of the things she and Ryan used to get up to in her grandmother's garage, fooling around with delusions of Blink 182 and Fall Out Boy. She hasn't played in almost a year, but it's comfortable and almost soothing to let her whole body to fall into rhythm.

She stops for a moment to catch her breath, and she suddenly remembers that Brendon is in the room with her- which is strange, because she never would have thought that she'd be able to block out Brendon.

"Spencer," Brendon breathes out, awed and starry eyed and Spencer feels- feels- wonderful.

"So, uh, worth breaking in?" Spencer asks, more cocky than she feels, and Brendon narrows her eyes at Spencer.

"Spencer Smith, you need to get out from behind there, because I'm going to jump you, and I can't afford to wreck that kit." Brendon says, completely deadpan.

"Um," Spencer says, eloquently.

"I'm not even kidding," Brendon crosses her arms.

Spencer practically runs around the kit.

And that's how Brendon Urie becomes her girlfriend.

Well, somewhere between the mind-meltingly hot making out and the babbling- "I wanted to climb you like a tree the first time I saw you, do you know how pretty you are, Spencer Smith?" and "Are you kidding me, you were naked, naked and the- shut up!"- Brendon says something like "And now I'm your girlfriend, Spencer Smith, I have dibs on you forever, dibs."

And that's how Brendon Urie becomes her girlfriend.

Two days later, Brendon barges in Spencer's door and goes, "Hey Spencer Smith, my girlfriend, you know that time I said I had dibs on you forever, I especially meant I had dibs on you for the dance, this Saturday." Spencer raises her eyebrows about as high as they'll go.

"The dance," Spencer says blankly. Brendon bounces to the bed where Spencer's been reading about Le Corbusier for the last hour and a half.

"Yeah, it's on Saturday, you dress up, you go, you dance. It's the dance." Brendon mock explains, reaching for Spencer's hands. "I have a pretty dress and I want you to go with me." Spencer rolls her eyes.

"I know what it is," she says, reaching over to push Brendon's bangs aside. "Okay." Brendon tilts her head.

"Okay?" Brendon repeats. Spencer kisses her softly. "Yeah, okay."

"I don't have a pretty dress, though," Spencer says thoughtfully. Brendon laughs before she kisses Spencer again.

"You can wear a burlap sack, I don't even care, you just have to dance with me and be my insanely hot girlfriend," Brendon assures her.

That being said, at about two am that night, after a truly epic bunch of fooling around, after Brendon heads back to her dorm because, "No, really, Spencer- fuck- I have to finish a paper-" Spencer texts Ryan.

I'M NOT EVEN KIDDING FASHION EMERGENCY

youve known me long enough to know i'm laughing at you text greta and tell her i'm stopping by her room youre the same size

Before she can text him back or text Greta, she gets another text.

well your rack is better but DO NOT tell her i said that

Spencer laughs for a whole minute.

When Ryan shows up, it's with two heaping armfuls of Greta's clothes and an extremely shit eating grin.

"I preemptively hate you for any and all things you're going to say about my hair and figure," Spencer says. Ryan rolls his eyes.

"Please, you're a hot ass. It's not my fault I usually look better in a dress than you do, though." Ryan tries to cross his arms over the clothes, but it doesn't really work.

By the fourth dress, though, Spencer's had it. They've all been either the completely wrong color, wrong cut or just... wrong.

"You might as well just wear a suit," Ryan says, throwing up his hands in despair.

"Huh," Spencer breathes out.

Spencer drags Ryan- by "drags" she means "forces him to drive her in his shitty old station wagon that he thinks is ironic"- to the thrift store the next morning.

Although, she should have known better, because she finds all the things she'll need in roughly fifteen minutes and has to spend the next hour and a half watching Ryan try on the whole store - including every totally fug paisley shirt- before he buys a scarf and a hat she could have sworn she saw at Forever 21 last season. But she's got a smoking- if she does say so herself- outfit for the dance.

Well, with one possible addition.

"Do I dare," she asks herself, looking at them, pristine in the box. Ryan shrugs.

"Are you going to get drunk?" he returns pragmatically, draping and re-draping his scarf in Spencer's mirror.

"No," Spencer answers, leaving off that it's mostly because she's kind of hoping that she and Brendon are going to have sex after, and she doesn't want to forget a single second of that. Ryan shrugs again, because that's his answer to almost everything.

"Then you might as well. Some day, you are going to have to take those shoes out of the box. Saturday might as well be that day." Ryan tips his hat ever so slightly to the side, like punctuation.

"There's a metaphor somewhere in there," she mutters.

Wednesday and Thursday pass in a haze of Spencer realizing she's actually a student and has reading to do, papers to write and stupid life drawing. She's willing to admit to a certain... defrosting of her relationship with life drawing since it did more or less drop Brendon into her lap- but it's rank sentimentality that only takes her so far. She still mostly hates it.

Well, maybe she mostly hates leaving her assignment to the last minute and needing to go across campus in the creepy dark between orange safety lights to make it to the even creepier art building.

since you mentioned it now whenever I'm in here, I can ONLY think of horror films Spencer texts Brendon, because she does feel weirdly vulnerable, with her back to the door as she sets up her easel to attempt to finish her sketches from the previous classes.

aw baby Brendon sends her back and Spencer tries to wipe the goofy smile off her face and focus, putting her earbuds in.

She's making some progress when she hears the door shut behind her above the bass line of her iPod and she's wondering what in her artist's box will help her kill a zombie when she realizes the person who walked in is actually Brendon.

"I thought since I creeped you out in the first place, I should at least keep you company," she says, holding out a Red Bull like a peace offering.

"You didn't have to," Spencer demurs, feeling weirdly shy, and Brendon just hops over and pecks her on the nose.

"I like being around you." Brendon reassures Spencer, putting the can down next to the easel. "Whoa, is that The Butcher?" Spencer blinks.

"Uh, I don't know, is it?" she returns, tilting her head and staring at the sketch. Brendon shrugs.

"It looks like him- plus the tattoos are pretty distinctive." Brendon drags a stool over to sit just outside of elbowing range. "You're actually really good at this, Spencer, you've just got to stop thinking you won't be good at it." Spencer snorts.

"You're the only person I've ever drawn who looks halfway right at all," she says. Brendon stares at her solemnly.

"I really, really want to make a "draw me like one of your French girls" joke, but you've actually already drawn me naked, so the thrill is gone." Brendon sighs. Spencer chokes on air. "Although, Spencer, I want to see them." Spencer blinks.

"The French girls?" Spencer asks, confused. Brendon laughs, but shakes her head.

"No, the drawings you did." Brendon says and it's not like Spencer has any delusions that she actually is an artiste or anything, but she's feeling weirdly vulnerable and sort of like a creep. Because she knows the shape of Brendon's body, the sweep of her spine, the curve of her ass, the suggested weight of her breasts and there's something that feels unfair about that.

"You saw them, remember, you appeared over my shoulder and gave me a heart attack." Spencer points out. Brendon shakes her head again.

"No, the stuff from the first day," Brendon wheedles. It's not like Spencer's been able to say no to Brendon about anything so far, so it's no surprise that she goes and gets them out of her flat file.

"Spencer," Brendon breathes out, her fingers tracing a half inch above the paper, reverently.

"It's not-" Spencer tries, but Brendon whips her head around to face Spencer, and kisses her, fiercely.

"Shut your mouth," Brendon tells her, kissing her harder. "You are totally amazing, Spencer Smith and I'm just going to have to kiss you until you get that."

Spencer has no problems with this.

However, it does mean The Butcher gets ignored in favor of Brendon's mouth for the better part of an hour. Spencer's a little foggy the next day when they do critiques, but Professor Way says something like "Spencer, you're really improving" and "this is so much more expressive" and Spencer wonders if "expressive" is just code for like, "not giving a fuck"-ness. She spends a lot of her afternoon taking a header straight into her bed. When she wakes up, there a couple of texts from Brendon, in reverse chronological order:

oh man one of the girls on my hall just had a major breakup meltdown. raincheck? xoxox

spence?

hey movie and pizza tonight and i will play 20 ?s with you because pretty much i want to know everything about youuuu

Spencer scowls loosely at her phone, which is apparently still on silent from class.

Hey sorry I was asleep go be with your friend though totally Spencer sends. She sighs and instead obsessively thinks about ironing her outfit for the dance again when her phone chirps.

YOURE THE BEST i wish i was eating ice cream with you instead shh thats a secret Spencer smiles into her pillow and wonders when she turned into such a sap.

Me too.

Spencer falls asleep again, texting Brendon off and on. She's never been this infatuated ever, and that's including her sixth grade librarian who had sort of looked like Bettie Page.

She wakes up the next morning and feels like a prom day cliche when the first thing she sees is the (still pressed, relax, Smith) outfit hanging on the back of her closet door.

Greta knocks on her door.

"Hey, did you pick something?" she asks, sticking her head in the door. Spencer winces.

"Sorry- I was totally going to bring your stuff back yesterday, I totally spaced," Spencer says, moving to grab the neatly folded pile on her desk. Greta waves a hand.

"Don't worry about it," Greta grins at Spencer. "So, you're dating Brendon?" Spencer feels the goofy smile forming on her face independent of her control.

"Yeah," Spencer says, quiet and happy. Greta squeaks.

"Spencer Smith, you are totally smitten," she cheers. "So, so, what are you wearing?" Spencer blinks.

"Oh, well, um-" She flails a hand at the door. Greta whistles, low and slow.

"Nice," she says approvingly. "You're going to sweep Bden off her feet tonight, aren't you?"

Spencer crosses her fingers.

After Greta leaves, her clothes in tow, Spencer idly watches a bunch of dumb tv and pretends like she's not waiting for Brendon to text her about their plans for the night.

thanks again for being an awesome girlfriend last night- i will be an awesome girlfriend tonight in return! meet there at 7? Brendon sends. Spencer sighs, weirdly relieved.

definitely she sends back, irrationally pleased when she gets <3 <3 <3 in return.

Spencer actually spends most of the day neurotically grooming, doing shit geisha probably didn't even do- freaking out about the arch of her eyebrows and moisturizing and moisturizing. All of this is completely ridiculous, because Spencer's never given this much of a shit about anything before, plus she feels almost like she's doing Brendon a disservice somehow- Brendon would probably like her even if she was a yeti underneath her clothes, but, well.

Spencer really wants to get laid tonight.

She sends the second stupidest text in the history of humanity to Ryan- I need makeup help.

Ryan shows up with a makeup case she's pretty sure he bought at Claire's and seriously, how does Ryan even exist.

He takes a deep, centering breath as he sits down next to her and Spencer just raises an eyebrow.

"I've been waiting for this day since we were 7, shh, let me enjoy it." Ryan says in a quick whisper. Spencer rolls her eyes but obediently sits still next to Ryan, since theoretically she's asking him for the favor.

"Just, please don't get experimental on me," Spencer qualifies, because Ryan has sported some truly unfortunate makeup designs through the history of their ridiculous under-21 clubbing days. Ryan just sighs, like Spencer is ruining his life.

"You have no spirit of adventure," Ryan says, flat and disappointed. Spencer holds in the laughter that's just simmering under the surface. Ryan sighs again, but pulls out a bunch of ridiculous looking bottles from his kit, staring intently at Spencer's face like he did the first time they ever got high, going "Spencer, I am not trying to get into your pants but your eyes are blue like the sky of oceans and I don't know cartography."

"Spencer, did you-" Ryan pokes at Spencer's face, turning her face from side to side. "Spencer, did you exfoliate?" Spencer scowls and she can feel her face heat up under Ryan's cold, bony fingers.

"Shut up," she mutters. She hasn't seen Ryan this delighted since Cosmo marked 60's Chic as a spring trend.

"Spencer Smith, you- you took off the ugly, chipped nail polish from three weeks ago," Ryan breathes out. "Oh my god, how badly do you want to get laid tonight?" Spencer jerks her face free from Ryan's hands so she can bury it in hers.

"So fucking badly, Ry," she moans. Ryan pats her back.

"You have been my wingman many, many times, Spence." Ryan says, with his attempt at a soothing tone, which actually is as flat as most of his other intonations, just a little more uncomfortable sounding. "And clearly you really, really, really like her, because you are insane right now. The least I can do is only make fun of you in the privacy of your room." Spencer chokes out a weird laugh, because she didn't really know she wanted or needed Ryan's blessing, but she feels like she has it- and yeah, it does sort of make her feel better.

"Just, do my makeup, Maybelline," she says, elbowing him- if gently. Ryan snorts, but he starts using weird wedges of sponge to put shit all over Spencer's face and she just sort of zones out, letting Ryan tip her chin up and down as he works. Some indeterminate point in time later- long enough to make Spencer wonder exactly how much makeup she needs to wear, here- Ryan cracks the tiniest little smile and shooes her to her mirror.

"Oh my god," Spencer whispers, turning her face constantly, surprised by almost every angle. "Ryan, I have cheekbones," Ryan rolls his eyes super dramatically.

"I can't give you facial features, I'm not actually a god," Ryan says, although he sounds so smug she knows he does think that, just a little bit. "I just accentuated what was already there." Spencer wants to hug Ryan, sort of, but she has the horrible feeling that if she does, she might get watery-eyed, and then Ryan would shiv her.

"Okay, I can't babysit you any more- can you get dressed on your own without ruining everything and freaking out?" Ryan asks, examining his nails. "I've got to get ready myself." Spencer frowns.

"I didn't know you were going," Spencer says. Ryan smirks.

"When I mentioned I was being your fairy godmother for the dance, Greta may have casually mentioned she hadn't yet acquired a gentleman to squire her." Ryan is freaking preening. Spencer just laughs.

"Go, go." she says, practically pushing him out the door. Someday, Ryan's faux-Clueless approach to getting girls is going to backfire, but until then, she supposes she's just going to have to watch all her female friends assume Ryan is gay until he sleeps with them. Spencer glances at her alarm clock. Deciding that it's finally time, she gets dressed and- taking a deep breath- pulls her pair of four-inch Christian Louboutin heels out of the box.

She's a ridiculous nervous wreck, waiting for Brendon, standing outside the huge event tent they've set up for the dance, stupidly staring at her nails, which- she missed a really tiny spot on her left thumb. She's picking at it when she hears a low gasp.

"Jesus, Spencer," Brendon says, this little breathy exhale of a sentence and Spencer quirks a smile that's a lot more confident than she feels. Brendon is perfect, in this pink concoction of a dress that's liberally bedazzled with multi-colored sequins. Spencer doesn't think any other human being on the planet could wear it, but on Brendon it's absolutely amazing. Her hair's spun up into this hilarious and great twist, and she's- she's wearing bright yellow chucks. Spencer wants to kiss her until they die from it.

"You're beautiful," Spencer puts it out there, first and foremost, because Brendon's eyes are so dark and wide and she seriously wants to kiss her, but there's a new weird height difference between them and Brendon just isn't close enough. Brendon finally takes that step, running her hands over the knot and slim sweep of Spencer's skinny black tie.

"Spencer Smith, you are a wet dream," Brendon says fervently and Spencer can feel herself blushing. She'd found a pair of wide black slacks and a trim little black vest, and she'd had to slap Ryan's hands away from the tie before he could grab it for himself. Her white sleeves are rolled up, deliberately casual, crisp cuffs resting over her forearms.

"Seriously, if my friends didn't think I'd made you up, I would drag you back to your room right now and do things that classics majors read about in naughty books of lesbian poetry." Brendon slips her hands over Spencer's neck, tracing where her collar and tie are ever so slightly loose. Spencer blinks.

"I can meet your friends some other time," she tries, but after a long moment where Brendon is really considering it, jesus christ- she finally shakes her head.

"We have to dance," Brendon says, but she sounds a little reluctant which kicks Spencer's body temperature up another three degrees. "But first!" Brendon threads her hands into Spencer's hair and stands on her toes to kiss Spencer, wet and a little dirty and Spencer's really regretting not pseudo-dragging it up before this.

"That was hello," Brendon explains. Spencer laughs, weakly.

"I liked it," she agrees, letting Brendon take her by the hand, dragging her into the tent. Brendon scans the room for a moment and then zeroes in like a heat-seeking missile on a group of people, dancing energetically, if not well.

"I told you she was real!" is Brendon's opening volley and Spencer wants to laugh, but she manages to keep a lid on it. She vaguely recognizes a couple of people from just being around here for three some years and she can just see Jon's head peeking over a really tall guy's shoulder.

"I mean this in the most respectful way possible, but did Bden make you out of a barbie doll like Weird Science?" the tall guy asks, scrutinizing Spencer for a long moment. Spencer sort of thinks it's a compliment?

"Oh my god, Dallon," Brendon moans, burying her face in her hands. "I totally regret telling Spencer we couldn't go have sex immediately because I wanted her to meet you guys." Spencer chokes on absolutely nothing and Brendon just crosses her arms and sighs.

"You look really nice, Spencer," Jon says sweetly, over Dallon- who is protesting loudly that it was "a testament to what you were saying about her, jesus, Brendon!"- and Spencer fights the urge to blush.

"Thanks, Jon," Spencer says and she's having some really awkward flashbacks to prom, but at least she's here with Brendon, and not Ryan and her mom didn't make them take twenty thousand pictures in front of the fireplace. Brendon introduces her friends in a whirlwind- Victoria is the otherworldly, lovely one, Dallon is Dallon, Jon, a couple of Alexes and Patrick, who may or may not be Ryan's Pete's Patrick. Spencer has about a nanosecond to attempt "nice to meet you all" before Brendon steals her away in a flare of tulle and sparkles.

"I didn't want you to leave me for Vicky T," Brendon says, mock-solemn. "I think about leaving myself for Vicky T, sometimes." Spencer leans down and huffs out a laugh that ruffles Brendon's bangs.

"I like you," Spencer reassures her, which is ridiculous, because Brendon is funny and talented and has no qualms about being seen naked by strangers. Spencer can't imagine her being insecure. Brendon beams up at Spencer.

"I like you too, Spencer Smith." she chirps, and then stands on her tip toes again to whisper in Spencer's ear. "Okay, so I think you met my friends and we're dancing, have danced, and I thought I would have some more self-control but really I just want to get you naked right now. Is that okay?"

Brendon giggles the whole way back to Spencer's dorm, Spencer's hand wrapped close around Brendon's wrist.

That being said, Spencer spends an awkward moment frozen in indecision the second the door closes, because how do you broach this kind of thing, really- which is conveniently solved by Brendon tackling her to the bed in a mass of rustling pink fabric.

"As hot as you are wearing clothes- and that is scorching, Spence- I would really like to put my hands all over you." Brendon tells her and Spencer groans some thing that must sound like assent- because it is- because Brendon grins, wicked and predatory, and Spencer has to kiss her. "Although, Jesus," Brendon contorts to try to reach the zipper of her dress.

"Somehow I don't think you're supposed to be able to remove these things in a sexy way," Brendon admits, scrambling back on to her feet, which Spencer's not really a fan of, because Brendon's out of range for touching. "Ah ha!" After a gravity defying second, the whole dress falls to the floor in a cascade of crinkling pink fabric, leaving behind Brendon in a lacy, white strapless bra and her panties are bright yellow, too, matching her chucks- which Brendon is eagerly toeing off, and it's maybe the sexiest thing Spencer's ever seen.

"Hi," Brendon says, easing her way back onto the bed, straddling Spencer's waist again.

"You're trying to kill me," Spencer groans, because she's still fucking fully clothed and Brendon is practically naked on top of her. Brendon grins, like Spencer being turned on beyond the point of functioning is the best thing ever- which, fair enough.

"Actually, I'm trying to get you naked," Brendon disagrees, but her eyes are sparkling and her hair's starting to come loose and Spencer wants to dig her hands in and shake all the bobby pins loose, but holy shit, Brendon is tugging at her tie, undoing the knot and whipping it around Spencer's collar.

"Yeah, okay," Spencer says, reaching for the buttons of her vest, but Brendon pouts, and slides the tips of her fingers under the edge of the vest, and Spencer can feel the heat of her hands through the thin cotton shirting.

"Let me?" Brendon asks, like she's begging a favor and Spencer's head falls back on her pillows.

"Like I'm going to say no to that," She rolls her eyes and Brendon's grin widens as she slowly slips the buttons free, running her hands up Spencer's stomach, parting the sides of the vest to fall against the mattress. Spencer would have thought Brendon would go fast, stripping Spencer like a Christmas present, but she's taking her time and it's making Spencer crazy. Brendon's fingertips pause on the undersides of Spencer's breasts, resting against the black satin under the thin shirt. Brendon's eyes are dark and thoughtful and Spencer is barely breathing.

"Wow," Brendon whispers, like getting to touch Spencer is a big deal, like she can't believe how lucky she is and Spencer wants to say no, that it's the other way around, but she can't really make her mouth work, or breathe, even. Brendon's touches are still feather-light, not hesitant, but careful, and the even weight of her across Spencer's hips is the only thing keeping her grounded as Brendon follows the curves of Spencer's breasts and her collar bone.

"Okay, fuck it, I was going to be really good, but I'm going to like, die," Brendon says, and like quick fire, Spencer's shirt is open and Brendon is putting hot, open-mouthed kisses across the line of Spencer's throat, trailing down to the top of her chest. "God, I want to compose, like, an ode to your rack, Spencer." Spencer laughs, because this is more what she'd expected, Brendon saying nonsensical and weirdly complimentary things and Spencer feels all of that too-intense paralysis fade.

"It's going to be epic," Brendon murmurs, right against Spencer's skin, vibrating with energy and Spencer wonders what Brendon will be like, sated and sex-languid and she abruptly realizes she can find out. She's- well, not used to, but- familiar with Brendon's body- the long stretch of her stomach, the gentle dip of her collarbones, and remembering she can touch is a giddy moment of oh god, where to start.

Spencer brings her hands up to frame Brendon's hips, letting her thumbs rest just along the edge of Brendon's underwear, oddly gratified by the way Brendon sucks this little breath in through her teeth.

"Seriously, get you naked," Brendon mutters. Spencer laughs, half because Brendon is unbuttoning her pants and the backs of her fingers are brushing up against sensitive, ticklish skin and half because she's just happy.

"You talk a big game, but I'm not seeing a lot of progress," Spencer teases, and Brendon just narrows her eyes at Spencer and- in one squirming fell swoop, Brendon has Spencer's pants off and she's trying to ease Spencer's arms out of her blouse. "I stand corrected." Spencer lets her feet stretch and feels her 400 dollar shoes fall to the floor, but there are more important things, like the fact that Brendon is kissing her and running a hand down her body with intent.

"How's this?" Brendon asks, right against Spencer's lips, and Brendon's hand is sneaking underneath the satiny and scarce fabric of Spencer's underwear, tracing along embarrassingly slick folds.

"Oh, god," Spencer mumbles, eyes practically rolling back into her head, because Brendon doesn't waste any time, she slips two slim fingers into Spencer's pussy and her thumb slips up to rub against Spencer's clit.

"Sorry, I think foreplay's kind of overrated," Brendon says, smoky and cheerful, this weird and perfect blend of dorky and way too sexy to handle, and Spencer's losing her shit as Brendon bends her neck to kiss at the top of Spencer's right breast, working her fast, crooking her fingers.

"I'm not complaining," Spencer moans, hoarse with want, slamming her hands against the sheets, scrabbling for purchase. Brendon presses a sharp little kiss against Spencer's collarbone, more teeth than lips and Spencer abstractly hears herself swearing. Brendon chuckles, and Spencer can feel it humming along her skin.

"That, and I really want to know what you look like when you come, Spence," Brendon whispers, just beneath Spencer's chin. "I've been thinking about it all week. I'm moving a little fast, but can you blame me? You're fucking gorgeous, Spencer. I'm so, so wet right now, because I want you so bad. You're amazing." Spencer's breath hitches and no one's ever made her feel like this, like she's perfect, and it's too much, Spencer gasps, and comes, hard.

"I should have guessed you'd be a talker," Spencer says, when she regains some semblance of coherent speech, what feels like years later, drifting off a near-chemical high. Brendon laughs, a little shyly, which is both incongruous and endearing.

"Sex sort of turns off my brain to mouth filter," Brendon admits, a little sheepish and Spencer feels like all her bones are made out of jelly, but she manages to flip them over fairly efficiently, Brendon looking curious and amused and Spencer sort of never wants to let her out of bed, ever.

"Yeah?" Spencer prompts, encouragingly, slowly sliding herself down Brendon's body, just to watch the way it makes Brendon's eyelashes flutter.

"Yeah, oh, Spence, that feels, you feel," Brendon mumbles. Spencer eases her way between Brendon's legs and the way Brendon's eyes go wide and so, so dark as she lets Spencer run her hands up the inside of her thighs is hot as hell.

"Tell me," Spencer says, brushing her knuckle against the soaked cotton over Brendon's pussy, leaning in to kiss her hip. Brendon's head drops back against the mattress, the pillows having ended up somewhere on the floor, which Spencer doesn't remember.

"Jesus, Spence, I want- I want your mouth," Brendon whines, winding her hands into her own hair and tugging, and fuck. Like Spencer's going to say no to that. Brendon shivers as Spencer pulls her panties down and off, little breathy ohs that make Spencer's skin feel too tight. Spencer doesn't have a lot of experience going down on anyone, but Brendon is practically writhing against the bed as Spencer does her best, which is more than a little gratifying.

"Fucking, god, Spencer, fas- I need more, I want you so fucking much, I can't even stand it, can you, your fingers, too, I just, I need you," Brendon babbles, and Spencer moans, taking a deep breath even as she starts fingerfucking Brendon.

"You can give me three, c'mon, Spence," Brendon begs and jesus fucking christ, Spencer can't even function. "Spencer, please," The words are almost a sob, and Spencer gives it to her, using her other hand to rub slickly against Brendon's clit so Spencer can see the way Brendon's whole body starts to shake the moment before she comes, clenching tight around Spencer's fingers.

"So good, baby, so good," Spencer murmurs against Brendon's stomach, pressing careful, light kisses against the soft skin as Brendon shivers randomly, aftershocks running through her, little full-bodied tremors. Brendon bites her lip, her chest heaving as she takes deep shuddering breaths.

"Spencer Smith, you are way too good at that," Brendon finally says, weakly tugging at Spencer's arm until Spencer pulls herself up and around Brendon, sweaty and sated.

"I'm glad," Spencer eventually decides on, kissing Brendon's shoulder. Brendon curls against Spencer, practically purring her contentment. Spencer's still wearing her underwear and Brendon's still got her bra on, but all Spencer's got in her is tugging the blanket up over them as they both drift toward sleep.

"When we wake up, we're going to have more sex," Brendon tells Spencer indistinctly, and Spencer smiles.

"Yeah, okay," Spencer agrees, and falls asleep.

In the morning, after more sex, Brendon mugs her for a t-shirt and flannel pajama pants and makes her go with her to the dining hall for pancakes.

Brendon's hair is a fluffy, sweet mess and Spencer's old band t-shirt is worn and falling away at the neck, showing just a glimpse of shadowed clavicles. The strong sunlight pouring in from the skylight is way too much for 11 am on a Sunday, but it limns Brendon's profile in golden light as she turns to point out sunglasses-clad, hungover classmates.

Spencer sort of wants to draw her- the sly hint of Brendon's smile, the questioning slant of her brows- she's perfect.

Instead, Spencer keeps Brendon for herself.











"This is the worst fucking thing you've ever asked me to do." Spencer crosses her arms across her chest and lets Ryan tips her face up. "And that includes that time when we were 14 and you showed me your dick because you were convinced that Tracey Morgan had given you the clap."

"We agreed to never talk about that again," Ryan hisses, pointing an angled brush at her menacingly. Spencer wants to roll her eyes but then that would smudge whatever fucking ass thing Ryan is painting on her face and then they'd have to start all over again.

Jon runs by, half-dressed.

"Seriously." Spencer says. Ryan just huffs something under his breath and goes back to work.

"Spencer, this is awesome!" Brendon chirps, poking her head in the door, flailing her arm into the sleeve of her ringmaster's jacket.

... Of course Brendon is having a great time.

Ryan had met some "amazing" girl (frequent story) and she'd been directing some show in the theater department and had asked Ryan to costume her show, and oh, Ryan, it's an absurdist play, maybe couldn't we have an intermezzo, like a macabre circus and do you think you know some people who could help and ohmigod, Ryan you're the best.

And that's why Spencer is dressed like a demented marionette, hair teased and curled into stupidity and seriously, she's wearing the slutty version of a toilet paper roll doll that tripped through a Hot Topic.

"Brendon likes her costume," Ryan says, deadpan. Spencer snorts.

"You dressed my girlfriend up like Britney Spears, circa 2009," Spencer argues. "You're a sick man, Ryan Ross."

"Keltie and I have a vision, okay," Ryan is attempting to look lofty, but really, there's no redeeming that sentence.

"You've got to stop smoking weed," Spencer tells him solemnly. Ryan just laughs.

"Get out of my chair, and make Jon come in here." Ryan adjusts his scarf. "By physical force, if necessary."

Spencer turns to look at herself in the mirror- her eyes look huge, framed with an absurd set of fake eyelashes, her mouth painted into a ridiculous red bow.

"You're a dick," she says, although it turns out fond rather than irritated. That happens a lot with Ryan. Ryan snorts, giving her a none-too-gentle shove toward the door. Predictably, Brendon is chatting cheerfully with a bunch of girls who are sort of dressed like zombie can-can dancers, and Jon Walker is probably hiding under the stage so that Ryan won't make him wear eyeliner.

"Bren, did you see which way Jon cowered?" Spencer asks, and Brendon turns, her face lighting up and that's still new enough that Spencer can feel her cheeks flushing beneath garish pink circles of blush.

"Spencer Smith, you look awesome," Brendon says faithfully. Spencer snorts.

"I look ridiculous and you're wearing hot pants." Spencer points out. Brendon grins and waggles her eyebrows.

"I knew you liked them. I can steal them," Brendon purrs, leaning in close, and Spencer nearly sneezes in her face because the stupid hat's ostrich feathers are tickling her nose.

"Thanks for the offer of petty larceny, but I'll settle for some makeup remover and sweatpants," Spencer counters. Brendon moans.

"Oh man, throw in some Taco Bell and you've got a date," Brendon says, low and pleased. Spencer wants to kiss her, but she'd fuck up Ryan's stupid makeup and he's her best friend so she can't, but she wants to.

"Later," Spencer promises. Brendon waggles her eyebrows again.

"Jon is in the lighting booth," Brendon offers.

Spencer kisses her quickly, anyway.

"I owe you one," Spencer calls as she races toward the stairs.

"Chalupas, motherfucker!" Brendon calls back, and Spencer grins the whole way up.




Brendon keeps staring at Spencer.

"I know, I know, I look super busted," Spencer says, rolling her eyes, self-consciously reaching for the hood of her shitty old high school track hoodie.

"No," Brendon blurts out. Spencer freezes. Brendon fusses with her nachos, shyly looking up at Spencer through her lashes, still long and curled, shadowed by smudged remnants of eyeliner. "I mean, I think you look kinda- hot."

Spencer turns to look at her reflection in the plate glass, which- Spencer abstractly wonders if anyone can look hot at midnight in a Taco Bell. Her hair- which is normally long and straight- looks like she went for a roll in the hay with a curling iron, her mouth is stained red and she sort of thinks she looks like a raccoon.

"...Really?" she finally asks Brendon, her cheeks heating just a little bit. She knows that Brendon thinks she's attractive, and they've had some really amazing sex to prove it, but it's kind of amazing when Brendon nods fervently.

"Spencer, you just have to accept that you're like, a painfully hot piece of ass." Brendon says, dead serious, and they've both been eating tacos, this is probably disgusting, but Spencer has to lean across the table and kiss Brendon.

"The ego stroking is unnecessary, but appreciated," Spencer admits, because she's never felt like "the hot chick"- well, not without a lot of effort, and never when she's feeling actively stupid. Brendon leers at Spencer good-naturedly.

"I'll stroke more than your ego," Brendon promises. Spencer just laughs and sips at her shitty fountain Mountain Dew, reaching out to take the hand Brendon's not using to eat a taco.

"Best date ever," Brendon coos.