fic: it's where it lives
The day before Yesterday was adellyna's birthday, you guys! YAY! (It may still be, you know, in… some timezone. Somewhere. Hush.)
Those of you not lucky enough to know her will just have to believe me when I tell you that she's funny and patient and generous and wonderful, and that she makes my everything brighter just by being a part of it. Hi Mandi, ILU so, so much, and I hope your day was filled with win and sparkles, just like you are. ♥ ♥ ♥
You told me you wouldn't be, like, opposed to Vicky/Spencer make-outs; this is not quite that, but, er, I hope you like it anyway.
Lightning-speed beta by girlintheband (♥) and title by Melissa Ferrick, because God forbid I ever have to come up with my own.
It's Where It Lives
3,264 words. Spencer/Vicky T. NC-17. None of this ever happened.
The call comes at a quarter to four, on a Tuesday. It takes Spencer about a minute to find his merrily chirping sidekick somewhere in the bundle of clothes at the foot of his bed, another twenty seconds to pull it out of a jeans pocket that really wasn't designed to hold anything bigger than a lipstick. He props his chin up on the mattress, thumbs the phone open, and says, eyes still closed, "I hope you have a really good reason to wake me up, asshole."
Pete's voice is inappropriately cheerful, even through a lot of cross-country phone line. "Is that a way to talk to your boss, Smith?" he asks, climbing stairs or working out or maybe having sex, judging by how breathless he sounds. With Pete, who really knows.
"Fuck you," Spencer says instead of an answer. He'd been in the middle of what had seemed like a very promising R.E.M. phase; his head is all spinny from the rude awakening. "You didn't actually buy our souls, you know, even if you like to pretend otherwise. There's no reason to wake me at..." He checks the time on his alarm clock and trails off in a pitiful groan.
Pete cackles. It comes through the speaker as vaguely ominous static. Spencer flips over on his back, or he tries to. What he actually does is roll right off the bed, unable to catch himself while he's all wrapped up in his sheets, and hit the floor with an impressive crash. The lamp on his bedside table gently sways from side to side while Spencer tries to force some air back into his lungs.
"Dude, are you all right?" Pete asks distantly into his ear. "Sounded like you got hit by an earthquake or something."
Spencer spits out a mouthful of fluffy rug and counts to six and a half. "Pete," he says very calmly, "what do you want?"
***
What Pete wants is to give them "a proper send-off" before they "run away to become rugged mountain men or whatever".
"You realize we're not going to Azerbaijan, right?" Ryan asks, as Pete hands him a drink of indefinable origin. "We won't even leave Nevada."
Pete, for reasons best known to himself, is wearing a sparkly green party hat. It sits at a jaunty angle above his left ear and wiggles when he moves. "Whatever," he says cheerfully. "So not the point. Drink up, Spencer Smith, how else am I gonna get you intoxicated?"
Spencer swishes the last bit of beer around in his bottle and glares. Pete seems largely unbothered. "Oh, look," he says instead. "Say hi to Vicky T, boys. She's new to the family." He slings a friendly arm around her hips and knocks their plastic cups together.
Vicky laughs and gives a small wave. She's taller than Pete. Her party hat is pink. Spencer tries not to stare at her very long, very pale legs. "Gabe told me to tell you the vodka is gone," she recites and wraps the end of one dark pigtail around her finger. "He said he suspects Patrick sold it to the Canadians, but, you know. Gabe."
Before Pete can answer, Ryan drags Spencer off into the next room, where Travis and William have started a game of Scattergories that seems to involve a lot of alcohol and nudity. Spencer sneaks out once everyone is sufficiently distracted and wanders around for a while. It's going on one, and the party has settled somewhat, people broken into little groups in the doorways and on couches. He spots Vicky again, in the dining room with the rest of the Cobras, leaning on Ryland's shoulder and laughing with her head thrown back. Her pink hat slides precariously far to the side, and as she reaches up a hand to fix it, she catches his eye, wide grin sliding into something smaller, more private. Spencer raises his chin and leans back against the wall, surprised by the tingle that goes up his spine.
"Here you are," Jon says, abruptly next to him, and Spencer jumps. He checks out of the corner of his eye, feeling color creep warmly up his neck, but Vicky isn't even looking in his direction. Spencer isn't sure whether he's relieved or disappointed.
Jon follows his gaze, wide-eyed; Spencer doesn't need to see the half-empty bottle in his hand to know that he is very, very drunk. Jon, when very, very drunk, is basically indistinguishable from a big stupid puppy, the kind you just can't bring yourself to whack with the newspaper even while he makes a mess of everything and tells a string of increasingly offensive Your Mom jokes.
"Oh, that's Victoria!" Jon says happily. "She's really pretty! Do you want her to come over here? Hey, Vic-" He breaks off with a groan when Spencer steps on his foot none too gently.
"I swear to God," he hisses. "I will put something very unpleasant in your bed."
"Okay," Jon says, but he looks so crestfallen that Spencer feels like an asshole and gives him the little packet of peanuts that's been in his jeans pocket since the plane.
***
It's another fifteen minutes before Spencer can get away - ten of which Jon spends trying to open the peanut bag - and he breathes a sigh of relief when he finally manages to find a place, just a door off the living room, that is completely, blessedly fucking empty.
He doesn't turn on the lights, just stands and breathes in the relative calm until his eyes have gotten used to the half-dark. There must be a streetlamp somewhere outside; the muted, yellow glow spills across the carpet and an armchair by the window.
The cushions exhale some dust when Spencer drops into it, armrest cover worn and soft under his hands. He can still hear laughter and music from next door through the wall, feel the vibrations in the floor, but it's distant enough not to feel oppressive. It's not that Spencer minds parties, per se, he just enjoys having a few minutes without people slapping sweaty palms on his back, or accidentally putting his hand in the sticky residue of something that Spencer really, really hopes was alcohol.
He starts when the door suddenly opens, a wave of noise rolling in and breaking against the walls. Spencer is not quite sure how, but he recognizes Vicky even while she's backlit in the doorway, and her stupid pink hat is gone. Something warm stirs in his belly.
"Hey," he says idly, and Vicky shifts, steps into the room. The door falls shut behind her.
She smiles when she recognizes him, a bright flash of teeth. Most of her body is in shadow, but it slips and slides away when she starts walking towards Spencer.
"This totally isn't the kitchen," she says, only stopping when the tips of her shoes brush his. Another smile. She has a smudge of glitter high on her cheekbone, and an empty plastic cup dangling from her hand. "Spencer, right?"
Spencer clears his throat. "Kitchen is on the other side. And, uh, yeah. Spencer Smith."
Which is... kind of a dumbass way to introduce himself to someone who's also on his label now, and probably older than him, but Vicky just nods and says, "I'm Victoria, I don't know if you remember," like her name hasn't been running on repeat in Spencer's head for the last hour.
There are a few inches of bare skin between the top of her stockings and the hem of her skirt, yellow with the light from outside. If Spencer moved his hand just a little, he could...
"Trying to get away for a bit?" Vicky asks, and Spencer quickly looks up at her face. If she noticed the way he was staring, she doesn't let on.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I... sometimes it's nice."
Vicky nods and says, off-handed, "You can touch me if you want, you know."
Spencer blinks, because... that can't really be what she said, right? She really didn't just... but then Vicky bends at the knees and slides into his lap in one fluid motion. The chair isn't that big and her thighs are snug on either side of his, breasts rubbing against his chest with a whisper-sigh of fabric on fabric when she stretches to put her empty cup down on the window sill behind his head.
She's warm, and surprisingly heavy, and she smells faintly like alcohol and soap. Spencer is instantly, embarrassingly half-hard.
"I guess I could do that," he says, trying to sound as casual as he can with a lapful of hot girl.
Vicky giggles and leans back, shifting her weight to somewhere near his knees. "I saw you looking," she says, and bites her lip. In the half-light, her eyes are dark and glossy, speculative. "I didn't mind," she continues softly, turning her hand so that her fingertips rest against the waistband of his jeans, where he still has that last stupid bulge of baby fat. "I was looking too."
Spencer can feel his cheeks getting hot, hopes the lighting is bad enough to hide his blush. "Like what you saw?" he asks.
Vicky smiles sweetly, and then, without warning, drags short, blunt fingernails down over his zipper, pressing hard enough for Spencer to feel it through the denim. He flinches in surprise, traps a moan behind his teeth when Vicky cups him through his pants.
She hums low in her throat and leans in. Their lips slide together at an awkward angle because Spencer turns his head the wrong way, but Vicky holds his jaw steady while her tongue licks into his mouth. She tastes like coke and something sweeter, sharper, that Spencer chases along her teeth, hand coming up to lay against her cheek.
She makes a breathless noise, not quite a moan, when they break apart for simple need of air. Spencer rolls the back of his sweaty neck against the headrest, trying to slow his pulse with willpower alone. It's not really working, especially not when Vicky turns her head and nips sharply at the pad of his thumb, tongue flicking out to soothe the small hurt.
Spencer's heart is pounding all the way into his fingertips, and it feels like her skin is buzzing when he drags his thumb across her lips, over her chin and down her throat. Vicky closes her eyes, black lashes fanning out against her cheek, and Spencer swallows hard before hooking his fingers under the strap of her tank top.
The fabric is stretchy and he can tug it down in the front without much effort, pushing at the silky cup of her bra until he can fit his hand inside. Her nipple is hard against his palm, dragging against skin with every breath she takes, and Vicky gasps, nails digging in just below his ear when Spencer squeezes it between two fingers.
She presses him back into the chair when she kisses him again, fast and open-mouthed, and Spencer's hand drops into his lap mostly by accident. His knuckles brush the inside of Vicky's thigh, skin so warm and delicate, and when Vicky wordlessly rests her elbows to both sides of his head and lifts up slightly, it feels only natural to slide his hand between her legs.
There's almost not enough room, but Spencer shakes his hair away from his sweat-sticky forehead and bends his wrist until he can feel her, damp and hot through the thin fabric of her panties. There's not a lot of pressure he can put into his strokes, but Vicky moans, soft and high-pitched.
Spencer is painfully hard, still caught inside his stiff jeans, and he wants to swear in relief when Vicky's fingers get to work on his fly. She thumbs open the button, unzips him halfway and then pauses, tracing the outline of his hard cock through his shorts. Spencer does swear this time, quiet but heartfelt, "Fuck," under his breath, closing his eyes, but he can hear Vicky laugh softly. Every last inch of his skin feels on fire.
"Come on, earn it," she mutters, scraping one fingernail over the head of his cock just this side of uncomfortable, and Spencer twists his wrist roughly to get past the barrier of underwear. He thinks he can hear the dry crack of a ripped seam somewhere, but, oh God, it's so worth it when Vicky's breath hitches. She whispers, "Yeah," pressing down against his cock in emphasis, and Spencer slides two fingers back and inside. She's hot and slick, and so tight that Spencer can feel her muscles fluttering around him with every tiny shift of her hips.
Vicky meets him halfway on every thrust, grinding down against the heel of his hand, leaving wetness on his wrist. Finally, finally she pulls the zipper all the way down, reaches inside his boxers and wraps her hand around his cock. Spencer groans, too loud, quickly muffles the sound against the side of her neck, perfume-scented and damp with sweat.
Vicky jerks him off slowly, rhythmically; their forearms rub together in the little bit of space between them, and Spencer's skin is tingling everywhere they touch. He can feel the armchair rocking under their combined weight and movement, and he stems his feet against the floor to stop the creaking, clenches the hand that's not fucking Vicky in the lumpy upholstery of the armrest like it's an anchor.
"Do you have," he pants, "you know," and it's not particularly eloquent, but then, most of the blood in his body really isn't going to his brain anymore, so Spencer thinks he should be forgiven.
And Vicky gets it, anyway. She says, "Right one," raises her leg as much as she can without either of them stopping. Spencer scrounges up all the coordination he can muster while Vicky's hand is still sliding up and down his cock, slippery and tight and perfect, and pushes his fingertips under the elastic at the top of her stocking.
The condom is right there, thank you thank you thank you, and even with unsteady fingers he manages to pull it out (mostly) without scraping the pointy edges against Vicky's skin. He gets another kiss for his efforts, before Vicky scoots back and climbs out of his lap.
Spencer's own heartbeat echoes in his ears deafeningly; his cock is aching and he shifts, desperate for Vicky's hands back on him, but when he catches her eye she just smiles, a slow quirk of her lips. "Go ahead," she says, honey-smooth, dragging her thumb back and forth on the serrated edge of the condom packet.
Heat flares up all over his skin. Ears burning, Spencer closes his hand around his cock and bites his lip, trying not to moan at the little bit of relief. He starts out slowly the way he does when he is alone, small twist on every upward stroke, never taking his eyes off Vicky's face. Her lips part when her gaze drops down, and Spencer senses more than sees her own hand sliding under her skirt, fabric riding up against her wrist.
He shudders, feeling more precome leaking out over his fingers, but he just can't look away from Vicky's flushed face, her eyes in shadow, and he probably should try to ignore the tiny sounds she makes, but, oh God, he can't.
He's so close to coming, and Spencer has to force himself to stop touching his cock, dropping his head back and taking deep, ragged breaths. He nearly jumps when Vicky's hands are back on him, but she's mercifully quick now, tugging his pants down to around his knees and rolling the condom on while Spencer chews on the inside of his cheek and tries to think about, like, leaf blowers and linoleum and his high school principal.
It's halfway effectual at best, and Spencer focuses really hard on Ms. Chancellor and her fuchsia pantsuit when Vicky straddles him again and sinks down onto his cock, so easily. She's shockingly tight, and he's so close already, and Spencer's knuckles hurt with how tight he grips the armrest. Vicky stills on top of him, just as something falls over next door with a dull thump. The music stops for a second, long enough for their labored breathing to explode in the silence, so loud he's sure everyone else must have heard it as well; but the song continues, and no one knocks or opens the door, and Vicky sighs and rocks her hips forward.
Spencer blinks his eyes open and tries to keep breathing, moves in time with Vicky as much as he can, every nerve ending in his body throbbing. He slides a hand between them and finds her clit, rubbing in circles; the angle isn't good, but Vicky stifles a whimper into his hair, clenching around him.
Spencer's legs are shaking with the effort to hold back, even as he feels the fine tremors starting in Vicky's thighs. He tries, fuchsia polyester, too tight in the waist, but Vicky is so close, nails sharp in his back, and her hair smells like apples. It's just not working.
Maybe he makes a noise, or Vicky can feel just how far gone he is, but she whispers against his lips, "It's okay, wait," and quickly moves one of her hands down to join his, sliding and pressing in the way he can't reach. Spencer tenses every last muscle in his body and thrusts hard and deep, one, two, three times, and as Vicky gasps in surprise and comes in quick little flutters, he finally falls to pieces with his hand fisted in her skirt and Vicky's tongue in his mouth.
Spencer has no idea how long it takes for him to become conscious again; all he knows is that there's a song change somewhere in between, thumping bass line replaced with strings, and that by the time the room floats back into focus, Vicky is standing in front of his chair, swaying on one leg while she slips her left shoe back on.
Spencer licks his dry lips, feeling abruptly self-conscious. Is there an etiquette for these things? Is he supposed to say "Thank you" or something?
Vicky looks up and grins, cheeks pink and pigtails a total mess. It takes Spencer a few seconds to identify the small bundle of fabric on the floor as a broken pair of panties, side-strap snapped.
"You owe me ten bucks," Vicky informs him cheerfully, and Spencer surprises himself by exhaling a laugh.
"I'll send you a gift card or something," he offers, the last part almost lost in a yawn.
Vicky laughs and slaps his knee. "I'm counting on it. Come on, let's get back before someone thinks to look."
***
They leave two hours later with Brendon hanging heavily off Spencer's shoulder, drunk and still exhausted from the flight. Pete insists on making sure they get into their cab all right, and as he practically shoos them down the front steps, Brendon turns his face to look up at Spencer.
"Don't think we didn't see you sneak off to hide," he says serenely, stumbling over his own feet. Spencer has to sling his arms around him to keep them both from going down.
"Oh, did you," he says neutrally, tipping Brendon over to lean against Jon instead while he gets the door to the backseat open.
Brendon nods, twice, and then once more for good measure. "Seriously, Spencer," he says, eyes drifting shut. "You just don't know how to party."
Those of you not lucky enough to know her will just have to believe me when I tell you that she's funny and patient and generous and wonderful, and that she makes my everything brighter just by being a part of it. Hi Mandi, ILU so, so much, and I hope your day was filled with win and sparkles, just like you are. ♥ ♥ ♥
You told me you wouldn't be, like, opposed to Vicky/Spencer make-outs; this is not quite that, but, er, I hope you like it anyway.
Lightning-speed beta by girlintheband (♥) and title by Melissa Ferrick, because God forbid I ever have to come up with my own.
It's Where It Lives
3,264 words. Spencer/Vicky T. NC-17. None of this ever happened.
The call comes at a quarter to four, on a Tuesday. It takes Spencer about a minute to find his merrily chirping sidekick somewhere in the bundle of clothes at the foot of his bed, another twenty seconds to pull it out of a jeans pocket that really wasn't designed to hold anything bigger than a lipstick. He props his chin up on the mattress, thumbs the phone open, and says, eyes still closed, "I hope you have a really good reason to wake me up, asshole."
Pete's voice is inappropriately cheerful, even through a lot of cross-country phone line. "Is that a way to talk to your boss, Smith?" he asks, climbing stairs or working out or maybe having sex, judging by how breathless he sounds. With Pete, who really knows.
"Fuck you," Spencer says instead of an answer. He'd been in the middle of what had seemed like a very promising R.E.M. phase; his head is all spinny from the rude awakening. "You didn't actually buy our souls, you know, even if you like to pretend otherwise. There's no reason to wake me at..." He checks the time on his alarm clock and trails off in a pitiful groan.
Pete cackles. It comes through the speaker as vaguely ominous static. Spencer flips over on his back, or he tries to. What he actually does is roll right off the bed, unable to catch himself while he's all wrapped up in his sheets, and hit the floor with an impressive crash. The lamp on his bedside table gently sways from side to side while Spencer tries to force some air back into his lungs.
"Dude, are you all right?" Pete asks distantly into his ear. "Sounded like you got hit by an earthquake or something."
Spencer spits out a mouthful of fluffy rug and counts to six and a half. "Pete," he says very calmly, "what do you want?"
***
What Pete wants is to give them "a proper send-off" before they "run away to become rugged mountain men or whatever".
"You realize we're not going to Azerbaijan, right?" Ryan asks, as Pete hands him a drink of indefinable origin. "We won't even leave Nevada."
Pete, for reasons best known to himself, is wearing a sparkly green party hat. It sits at a jaunty angle above his left ear and wiggles when he moves. "Whatever," he says cheerfully. "So not the point. Drink up, Spencer Smith, how else am I gonna get you intoxicated?"
Spencer swishes the last bit of beer around in his bottle and glares. Pete seems largely unbothered. "Oh, look," he says instead. "Say hi to Vicky T, boys. She's new to the family." He slings a friendly arm around her hips and knocks their plastic cups together.
Vicky laughs and gives a small wave. She's taller than Pete. Her party hat is pink. Spencer tries not to stare at her very long, very pale legs. "Gabe told me to tell you the vodka is gone," she recites and wraps the end of one dark pigtail around her finger. "He said he suspects Patrick sold it to the Canadians, but, you know. Gabe."
Before Pete can answer, Ryan drags Spencer off into the next room, where Travis and William have started a game of Scattergories that seems to involve a lot of alcohol and nudity. Spencer sneaks out once everyone is sufficiently distracted and wanders around for a while. It's going on one, and the party has settled somewhat, people broken into little groups in the doorways and on couches. He spots Vicky again, in the dining room with the rest of the Cobras, leaning on Ryland's shoulder and laughing with her head thrown back. Her pink hat slides precariously far to the side, and as she reaches up a hand to fix it, she catches his eye, wide grin sliding into something smaller, more private. Spencer raises his chin and leans back against the wall, surprised by the tingle that goes up his spine.
"Here you are," Jon says, abruptly next to him, and Spencer jumps. He checks out of the corner of his eye, feeling color creep warmly up his neck, but Vicky isn't even looking in his direction. Spencer isn't sure whether he's relieved or disappointed.
Jon follows his gaze, wide-eyed; Spencer doesn't need to see the half-empty bottle in his hand to know that he is very, very drunk. Jon, when very, very drunk, is basically indistinguishable from a big stupid puppy, the kind you just can't bring yourself to whack with the newspaper even while he makes a mess of everything and tells a string of increasingly offensive Your Mom jokes.
"Oh, that's Victoria!" Jon says happily. "She's really pretty! Do you want her to come over here? Hey, Vic-" He breaks off with a groan when Spencer steps on his foot none too gently.
"I swear to God," he hisses. "I will put something very unpleasant in your bed."
"Okay," Jon says, but he looks so crestfallen that Spencer feels like an asshole and gives him the little packet of peanuts that's been in his jeans pocket since the plane.
***
It's another fifteen minutes before Spencer can get away - ten of which Jon spends trying to open the peanut bag - and he breathes a sigh of relief when he finally manages to find a place, just a door off the living room, that is completely, blessedly fucking empty.
He doesn't turn on the lights, just stands and breathes in the relative calm until his eyes have gotten used to the half-dark. There must be a streetlamp somewhere outside; the muted, yellow glow spills across the carpet and an armchair by the window.
The cushions exhale some dust when Spencer drops into it, armrest cover worn and soft under his hands. He can still hear laughter and music from next door through the wall, feel the vibrations in the floor, but it's distant enough not to feel oppressive. It's not that Spencer minds parties, per se, he just enjoys having a few minutes without people slapping sweaty palms on his back, or accidentally putting his hand in the sticky residue of something that Spencer really, really hopes was alcohol.
He starts when the door suddenly opens, a wave of noise rolling in and breaking against the walls. Spencer is not quite sure how, but he recognizes Vicky even while she's backlit in the doorway, and her stupid pink hat is gone. Something warm stirs in his belly.
"Hey," he says idly, and Vicky shifts, steps into the room. The door falls shut behind her.
She smiles when she recognizes him, a bright flash of teeth. Most of her body is in shadow, but it slips and slides away when she starts walking towards Spencer.
"This totally isn't the kitchen," she says, only stopping when the tips of her shoes brush his. Another smile. She has a smudge of glitter high on her cheekbone, and an empty plastic cup dangling from her hand. "Spencer, right?"
Spencer clears his throat. "Kitchen is on the other side. And, uh, yeah. Spencer Smith."
Which is... kind of a dumbass way to introduce himself to someone who's also on his label now, and probably older than him, but Vicky just nods and says, "I'm Victoria, I don't know if you remember," like her name hasn't been running on repeat in Spencer's head for the last hour.
There are a few inches of bare skin between the top of her stockings and the hem of her skirt, yellow with the light from outside. If Spencer moved his hand just a little, he could...
"Trying to get away for a bit?" Vicky asks, and Spencer quickly looks up at her face. If she noticed the way he was staring, she doesn't let on.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I... sometimes it's nice."
Vicky nods and says, off-handed, "You can touch me if you want, you know."
Spencer blinks, because... that can't really be what she said, right? She really didn't just... but then Vicky bends at the knees and slides into his lap in one fluid motion. The chair isn't that big and her thighs are snug on either side of his, breasts rubbing against his chest with a whisper-sigh of fabric on fabric when she stretches to put her empty cup down on the window sill behind his head.
She's warm, and surprisingly heavy, and she smells faintly like alcohol and soap. Spencer is instantly, embarrassingly half-hard.
"I guess I could do that," he says, trying to sound as casual as he can with a lapful of hot girl.
Vicky giggles and leans back, shifting her weight to somewhere near his knees. "I saw you looking," she says, and bites her lip. In the half-light, her eyes are dark and glossy, speculative. "I didn't mind," she continues softly, turning her hand so that her fingertips rest against the waistband of his jeans, where he still has that last stupid bulge of baby fat. "I was looking too."
Spencer can feel his cheeks getting hot, hopes the lighting is bad enough to hide his blush. "Like what you saw?" he asks.
Vicky smiles sweetly, and then, without warning, drags short, blunt fingernails down over his zipper, pressing hard enough for Spencer to feel it through the denim. He flinches in surprise, traps a moan behind his teeth when Vicky cups him through his pants.
She hums low in her throat and leans in. Their lips slide together at an awkward angle because Spencer turns his head the wrong way, but Vicky holds his jaw steady while her tongue licks into his mouth. She tastes like coke and something sweeter, sharper, that Spencer chases along her teeth, hand coming up to lay against her cheek.
She makes a breathless noise, not quite a moan, when they break apart for simple need of air. Spencer rolls the back of his sweaty neck against the headrest, trying to slow his pulse with willpower alone. It's not really working, especially not when Vicky turns her head and nips sharply at the pad of his thumb, tongue flicking out to soothe the small hurt.
Spencer's heart is pounding all the way into his fingertips, and it feels like her skin is buzzing when he drags his thumb across her lips, over her chin and down her throat. Vicky closes her eyes, black lashes fanning out against her cheek, and Spencer swallows hard before hooking his fingers under the strap of her tank top.
The fabric is stretchy and he can tug it down in the front without much effort, pushing at the silky cup of her bra until he can fit his hand inside. Her nipple is hard against his palm, dragging against skin with every breath she takes, and Vicky gasps, nails digging in just below his ear when Spencer squeezes it between two fingers.
She presses him back into the chair when she kisses him again, fast and open-mouthed, and Spencer's hand drops into his lap mostly by accident. His knuckles brush the inside of Vicky's thigh, skin so warm and delicate, and when Vicky wordlessly rests her elbows to both sides of his head and lifts up slightly, it feels only natural to slide his hand between her legs.
There's almost not enough room, but Spencer shakes his hair away from his sweat-sticky forehead and bends his wrist until he can feel her, damp and hot through the thin fabric of her panties. There's not a lot of pressure he can put into his strokes, but Vicky moans, soft and high-pitched.
Spencer is painfully hard, still caught inside his stiff jeans, and he wants to swear in relief when Vicky's fingers get to work on his fly. She thumbs open the button, unzips him halfway and then pauses, tracing the outline of his hard cock through his shorts. Spencer does swear this time, quiet but heartfelt, "Fuck," under his breath, closing his eyes, but he can hear Vicky laugh softly. Every last inch of his skin feels on fire.
"Come on, earn it," she mutters, scraping one fingernail over the head of his cock just this side of uncomfortable, and Spencer twists his wrist roughly to get past the barrier of underwear. He thinks he can hear the dry crack of a ripped seam somewhere, but, oh God, it's so worth it when Vicky's breath hitches. She whispers, "Yeah," pressing down against his cock in emphasis, and Spencer slides two fingers back and inside. She's hot and slick, and so tight that Spencer can feel her muscles fluttering around him with every tiny shift of her hips.
Vicky meets him halfway on every thrust, grinding down against the heel of his hand, leaving wetness on his wrist. Finally, finally she pulls the zipper all the way down, reaches inside his boxers and wraps her hand around his cock. Spencer groans, too loud, quickly muffles the sound against the side of her neck, perfume-scented and damp with sweat.
Vicky jerks him off slowly, rhythmically; their forearms rub together in the little bit of space between them, and Spencer's skin is tingling everywhere they touch. He can feel the armchair rocking under their combined weight and movement, and he stems his feet against the floor to stop the creaking, clenches the hand that's not fucking Vicky in the lumpy upholstery of the armrest like it's an anchor.
"Do you have," he pants, "you know," and it's not particularly eloquent, but then, most of the blood in his body really isn't going to his brain anymore, so Spencer thinks he should be forgiven.
And Vicky gets it, anyway. She says, "Right one," raises her leg as much as she can without either of them stopping. Spencer scrounges up all the coordination he can muster while Vicky's hand is still sliding up and down his cock, slippery and tight and perfect, and pushes his fingertips under the elastic at the top of her stocking.
The condom is right there, thank you thank you thank you, and even with unsteady fingers he manages to pull it out (mostly) without scraping the pointy edges against Vicky's skin. He gets another kiss for his efforts, before Vicky scoots back and climbs out of his lap.
Spencer's own heartbeat echoes in his ears deafeningly; his cock is aching and he shifts, desperate for Vicky's hands back on him, but when he catches her eye she just smiles, a slow quirk of her lips. "Go ahead," she says, honey-smooth, dragging her thumb back and forth on the serrated edge of the condom packet.
Heat flares up all over his skin. Ears burning, Spencer closes his hand around his cock and bites his lip, trying not to moan at the little bit of relief. He starts out slowly the way he does when he is alone, small twist on every upward stroke, never taking his eyes off Vicky's face. Her lips part when her gaze drops down, and Spencer senses more than sees her own hand sliding under her skirt, fabric riding up against her wrist.
He shudders, feeling more precome leaking out over his fingers, but he just can't look away from Vicky's flushed face, her eyes in shadow, and he probably should try to ignore the tiny sounds she makes, but, oh God, he can't.
He's so close to coming, and Spencer has to force himself to stop touching his cock, dropping his head back and taking deep, ragged breaths. He nearly jumps when Vicky's hands are back on him, but she's mercifully quick now, tugging his pants down to around his knees and rolling the condom on while Spencer chews on the inside of his cheek and tries to think about, like, leaf blowers and linoleum and his high school principal.
It's halfway effectual at best, and Spencer focuses really hard on Ms. Chancellor and her fuchsia pantsuit when Vicky straddles him again and sinks down onto his cock, so easily. She's shockingly tight, and he's so close already, and Spencer's knuckles hurt with how tight he grips the armrest. Vicky stills on top of him, just as something falls over next door with a dull thump. The music stops for a second, long enough for their labored breathing to explode in the silence, so loud he's sure everyone else must have heard it as well; but the song continues, and no one knocks or opens the door, and Vicky sighs and rocks her hips forward.
Spencer blinks his eyes open and tries to keep breathing, moves in time with Vicky as much as he can, every nerve ending in his body throbbing. He slides a hand between them and finds her clit, rubbing in circles; the angle isn't good, but Vicky stifles a whimper into his hair, clenching around him.
Spencer's legs are shaking with the effort to hold back, even as he feels the fine tremors starting in Vicky's thighs. He tries, fuchsia polyester, too tight in the waist, but Vicky is so close, nails sharp in his back, and her hair smells like apples. It's just not working.
Maybe he makes a noise, or Vicky can feel just how far gone he is, but she whispers against his lips, "It's okay, wait," and quickly moves one of her hands down to join his, sliding and pressing in the way he can't reach. Spencer tenses every last muscle in his body and thrusts hard and deep, one, two, three times, and as Vicky gasps in surprise and comes in quick little flutters, he finally falls to pieces with his hand fisted in her skirt and Vicky's tongue in his mouth.
Spencer has no idea how long it takes for him to become conscious again; all he knows is that there's a song change somewhere in between, thumping bass line replaced with strings, and that by the time the room floats back into focus, Vicky is standing in front of his chair, swaying on one leg while she slips her left shoe back on.
Spencer licks his dry lips, feeling abruptly self-conscious. Is there an etiquette for these things? Is he supposed to say "Thank you" or something?
Vicky looks up and grins, cheeks pink and pigtails a total mess. It takes Spencer a few seconds to identify the small bundle of fabric on the floor as a broken pair of panties, side-strap snapped.
"You owe me ten bucks," Vicky informs him cheerfully, and Spencer surprises himself by exhaling a laugh.
"I'll send you a gift card or something," he offers, the last part almost lost in a yawn.
Vicky laughs and slaps his knee. "I'm counting on it. Come on, let's get back before someone thinks to look."
***
They leave two hours later with Brendon hanging heavily off Spencer's shoulder, drunk and still exhausted from the flight. Pete insists on making sure they get into their cab all right, and as he practically shoos them down the front steps, Brendon turns his face to look up at Spencer.
"Don't think we didn't see you sneak off to hide," he says serenely, stumbling over his own feet. Spencer has to sling his arms around him to keep them both from going down.
"Oh, did you," he says neutrally, tipping Brendon over to lean against Jon instead while he gets the door to the backseat open.
Brendon nods, twice, and then once more for good measure. "Seriously, Spencer," he says, eyes drifting shut. "You just don't know how to party."