(no subject)
Jon/Spencer, R, 1,674 words
His apartment was dark when Jon walked in, dark and musty, as Dylan mewled around his feet, eyes glowing from the light of the hallway. He let his bags fall just inside the door, and he heard Spencer snuffle behind him, hand warm on his back and he pushed him past the threshold.
“Good to be home.” Jon said, softly, not bothering to turn on the light as he shuffled towards the bedroom, bones weary and eyes almost closed. He grasped behind him blindly, reaching for Spencer’s hand, and he found it, twining their fingers together.
“Bed.” Spencer said, voice raspy and tired, and Jon smiled a little in the darkness, agreeing as he tugged him towards the bedroom, where they lay on the bed, fully clothed and on top of the sheets like two children having a sleepover, asleep before they could let go of each other’s hands.
***
The next morning came at about two in the afternoon for Jon, when his sidekick buzzed and almost gave him a heart attack from his pocket. He started, twisting, almost hitting Spencer in the head. It was Ryan;
(you guys made it in okay?), and Spencer started not a moment later, most likely from the same message. Jon leaned in, phone discarded next to his fingertips
(trip fine, dead tired) to press his lips to Spencer’s forehead, his lips, his cheeks, anywhere he could, in sleepy kisses that made Spencer smile and curl his hands around Jon’s waist, fingers sure and long against his skin.
He pulled Jon down, to lie beside him again, pulling him so their stomachs were just touching, their legs, their chests. They were drenched in the sunlight that came in through the thin blinds he’d been meaning to replace, and he felt like Dylan, warm and comfortable and ready to go back to sleep, curving his head to rest against the pulse in Spencer’s neck.
***
Spencer stretched and shook Jon out of sleep, as he untangled his legs and sat up, scratching a pleading Dylan behind the head.
“Morning, cat.” Spencer said softly, and Jon cracked one eye to watch Dylan butt his head against Spencer’s hand, soaking up every bit of love that Spencer was giving him like it had been years since anyone had touched him.
“Someone needed some love,” Spencer’s voice was pitched low, soft against Jon’s ears.
“Don’t believe a word he says. Bet my mom was here every day, giving him whole fish, caught fresh, milk out of a silver bowl.” Jon cracked his back, arms above his head and Dylan abandoned Spencer with an apologetic lick to his fingers, before stepping delicately onto Jon’s chest, little feet digging into his sternum. “Isn’t that right, Dyl? I know about all of your little kitty friends, the parties you threw every night.”
Dylan looked at him, hurt, and Jon sighed.
“Fine, you win. I’ll take you out next time. Just don’t be angry when Brendon decides to get you a different kind of food because the can looked cooler.” Dylan purred happily, and curled up on Jon’s chest. Spencer snorted softly from next to him, and Jon felt the bed shift as he stood up.
“Can’t even stand up to a cat, Walker.” He said, voice warm, as he left the room, wandering vaguely into the kitchen, hair sticking up in the most bizarre patterns in the back. Jon could just see him from the bed, opening the cabinet above the coffee pot. He’d only been here one time before, a stopover during Truckstops and Statelines; (which involved mostly hips and didn’t involve clothes at all, or coffee) but Spencer looked right, standing next to the fridge with the poetry magnets Bill had gotten him years ago, like he belonged.
“I could if I wanted to,” Jon said, loudly enough for him to hear, and he heard Spencer laugh, a clear, happy sound. Dylan just purred, placating, and Jon looked down, betrayed. Dylan wasn’t moved.
“What if I said I hated you all?” Jon asked the ceiling petulantly.
“I would call you a liar.” Spencer was back in the room, back on the bed, curled on his side. He petted Dylan slowly, and Jon met blue, blue eyes when he turned his head.
“Well, okay. Maybe I don’t hate the cat.” Jon says grudgingly, and Spencer rolls his eyes.
He moved closer, close enough so Jon could feel his breath on his neck, warm and a little stale. “Just the cat? Really?”
“Yeah. Just Dylan. Don’t hate him at all.” Jon smiled, and gently lifted Dylan up, a limp ball of kitty, putting him on his other side, so he could turn and face Spencer eye to eye.
Spencer leaned in, eyelashes dark, and kissed Jon softly, hand resting on his cheek, all chapped lips and soft skin.
“Still hate me?” Spencer says as he pulls away, lips red red and Jon pretends to ponder, slipping a hand under Spencer’s right where his shirt meets his jeans. He pets Spencer’s hip like he had been petting Dylan earlier, soft brushes of fingertips against softer skin, and he watches Spencer’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks.
“I don’t know, Spencer Smith. You going to convince me otherwise?”
“Well, Jon Walker, how do you suppose I do that?” Spencer shoots back.
“I think you can think of something. You’re a resourceful young man.” Jon says, and Spencer worries his lower lip between his teeth, every inch a seductive tart, but it breaks not even a minute later into a stream of giggles that Jon can’t help but join.
“We sound like a bad porn movie.” Jon sighs when they finally stop laughing, Spencer’s head tucked into the curve of Jon’s shoulder, hair prickling against his shirt.
“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Spencer says, a sparkle in his eyes, and he pushes himself onto his elbows and throws a leg over his, straddling Jon, leaning over so their noses are almost touching. “If this was a porno, I could do something like this.”
“No, no, I don’t think so. If this was a porno, I’d be fucking you already,” Jon says, softly, and notices the way that Spencer’s hips fit perfectly in his hands.
“True. I think I like this better.” The softness of Spencer’s voice matches Jon’s, like a secret, and Jon tilts his head up, kisses him firmly.
He moved his hands, thumbed open the button of Spencer’s jeans, watching his face carefully as he ran a finger over the elastic of his boxers, teasing.
“Hey baby, want to make our own porn?” Jon drops his voice two octaves, pushing his hips up into Spencer’s.
“Shut up, oh fuck you.” Spencer’s laughing, kicking and trying to get away, but Jon’s grip is tight and he just ends up on the bed again, Jon’s legs hooked over his. "I can't have sex with someone who thinks they're Barry White."
“What about someone who thinks they’re Jon Walker, amazing bassist who really, really, really wants to put his hand down your pants?”
“That, I think, I can deal with. But only if you don’t say anything else for the rest of the day.” But Spencer’s smile is real and bright, and all of a sudden his hands are on Jon’s zipper, pushing him back just a little bit so he can push them over Jon’s hips.
It’s a struggle for a minute, all tangled legs and jeans and then the jeans end up across the room and Jon is in between Spencer’s legs, and Spencer’s shirt is gone and Jon’s is too; how, Jon doesn’t even bother thinking about, because Spencer’s fucking grinning at him, all white teeth and flushed skin as he wraps a leg around Jon’s, pushing his heel into the back of his thigh. Jon’s fumbling for the nightstand, fingers reaching for the lube and knocking the phone off the hook while he’s at it.
“Good idea,” Spencer says, fingers already wrapped around the base of Jon’s cock, stroking gently and just enough so it makes Jon want to bite his neck, right at the juncture of his shoulder, so he does, making Spencer sigh and loosen his grip, just a little.
It’s slow and Spencer sighs against Jon’s neck when he pushes in. Spencer takes him in completely and totally and Jon is back in a hundred hotel rooms that smell like cleaning supplies in a hundred cities, and he presses his lips to Spencer’s neck and never wants to let go, never wants to leave again, because he’s home and Spencer’s still here.
They both come, and it’s still and quiet, Jon’s head in the crook of Spencer’s neck, Dylan almost yowling from the other side of the door.
“We should get cleaned up.” Jon said, but made no move to move, hand splayed across Spencer’s belly, under his belly button.
“We should feed Dylan.” Spencer said.
“Cat can miss a meal.” Jon huffs.
“I don’t really want to.” Spencer replies, and sits up. “I’m going to take a shower, and you can feed the cat. Also, you can see about feeding us.” Jon admires the muscles that twist under Spencer’s skin for a minute, running a finger down the center of his back before Spencer gets up and goes into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
The sun is lower in the sky, now, and food is sounding like a better idea every second. There’s a pair of sweatpants which haven’t been worn (or washed) in so long they’re almost clean again, hanging over the side of the chair, so Jon puts them on, opening the door and scooping Dylan up, which stopped his yowling in a second.
“So, Cat. Should we keep him? He said I should feed you.” Jon asks, padding out and grabbing a can of cat food, dropping Dylan on the floor next to his bowl.
Dylan rubs himself around Jon’s leg in agreement, and Jon can hear Spencer humming in the shower.