FIC: Who Needs the Shade (Spencer/Tennessee) 1260 words, R-rated.
Going through WIPs and... this is apparently finished? So. Hey. :D
Title: Who Needs the Shade
Summary: Spencer and Tennessee, baking on a summer day.
No commonly used warnings apply.
It's over a hundred in the shade, and Tennessee has gotten it into her head that today - of all days - is the day that she wants to spend baking.
Spencer isn't complaining all that much, because Tennessee is a fucking awesome cook, and her cookies never last more than a day or two because they're so good that everyone stuffs their faces and then complains that she's going to make them all fat, but. It's like a hundred and ten in the parking lot at Trader Joes when they have to go buy more butter and some of the fair trade chocolate that Tennessee prefers, and then it feels even worse when they come back out to the car, laden down with groceries and bodies fooled by the beautiful, beautiful air conditioning indoors into thinking it's not as stupidly hot as it is.
And Spencer's from the desert, he knows from hot. And this is ridiculous. He's not sure how Tennessee is so unruffled by it - she seems to be floating through the day in a cool white dress, cotton so thin and sheer he thinks he can see her underwear through it, which is not something he should be noticing in public - but she's calm and doesn't complain and even jokes around with the cashier who's ringing up their purchases before handing them the brown paper bags.
The chocolate is semi-liquid when they get back to her place -- Spencer really should get the aircon in his car fixed, like, before summer is over, and definitely before the next time he tries to drive back to Vegas to see his folks, shit -- but Tennesse just laughs, smearing it over her fingers as she measures it out, pouring into measuring cups and then finishing it up by eye.
Spencer leans on the bench and just watches - he doesn't mind helping, and she doesn't hesitate to give him orders if there's anything he can do to help, but mostly he just likes to watch her work. It's kind of like watching her drum, except when she's baking he never gets distracted by tallying up their differences, by figuring out how he might have done something in comparison, or by the sheer speed and grace of her. Of course, he does still get distracted by the curve of muscle in her arms and the smooth belling lines of her breasts and hips and waist; Spencer could look at Tennessee all day, and more than once has. Her hair is casually knotted at the back of her head, and little strands fall forward into her face. She brushes them out of her eyes with the back of one flour-dusted hand, streaking sugar and butter across her cheek.
Spencer slides around the kitchen island and grabs a rag, carefully wipes the smear of cookie mixture off her skin, lets his fingertips graze over the area ever-so-lightly, just because he can.
"You do realise they have these awesome things now that you can put in the freezer and just slice when you want cookies, right?" He teases, leaning back against the utensil drawer, hip cocked.
She hip-checks him out the way and digs out the spatula that she always forgets to get because the oven's pre-heated and everything's ready to go, the one she likes to use to scrape out the very ends of the mixture where it's sticking to the bowl. Spencer doesn't see what's any different about that spatula from any other - maybe the colour, but that's about it - but Tennessee gets notions, and that's that.
The oven's made the self-satisfied series of dings it gives when it's reached the set temperature, and even with the climate control inside Tennessee's very modern house, it's starting to bleed out into the kitchen, the temperature inching closer to three digits. Spencer can feel sweat beading on his forehead, gathering under his arms, and even Tennessee - unruffled as she is - is starting to look a little more limp. Her hair has gone darker where it frames her face, and she pours herself two, three glasses of water straight from the tap and drains them immediately. Spencer grabs the brita pitcher from the fridge - seriously, LA water, he doesn't even want to know what London tap water is like if Tennessee will drink this stuff - and pours himself a glass, too. He'd rather have a beer - it's the kind of day to curl up under a sun umbrella with a Corona and a pretty girl - but Tennessee wanted cookies, so Spencer's going to just have to wait.
Tennessee scrunches up the egg shells and tosses them into the trash, looking around for anything else that needs doing. The cookie mix is basically done, and she and Spencer spoon it out onto the trays, filling them up and probably crowding them too close, but neither of them want to bother with a third tray and they can only fit two into the oven at once.
She winces at the rush of hot air that spills out of the oven when they open the door to slide the trays in, and Spencer - standing well back - laughs.
"You are a terrible boyfriend," she tells him, trying to sound quelling but it really comes out more fond than anything else. "Laughing at me in my hour of need."
She sets the timer, and wipes her hands on the tea towel, leaning back to look at Spencer with deep satisfaction.
"Hey," Spencer says, with a little shrug, "I suggested we hang out by the pool, you were the one who insisted we had to have fresh cookies first."
"Hrm," Tennessee says, tilting her head while she considers this argument. "I guess. I do want the cookies, still, but we have about ten minutes. So...." she trails off invitingly. "Last one in the pool's a rotten egg?"
Spencer opens his mouth to point out he hadn't actually remembered to bring his trunks, and then his jaw drops, struck dumb, because Tennessee shoots him another grin, and pulls her dress straight off over her head, dropping it lightly onto the kitchen stool. She's stood there in the middle of the kitchen, in the middle of the day, just wearing ivory ruffled underwear and a shell-pink bra, and Spencer is pretty sure that his tongue is hanging out.
She dimples at him. "It's too hot." She reaches back, unclasps her bra, and lets that fall onto the tiles. "I'm all gross and sticky."
She steps out of her underwear, and then pivots, striding on those impossibly long legs out the sliding door and onto the deck surrounding the pool. She looks back over her shoulder, daring him.
"Want to help me out with that?"
Spencer shucks his clothing at record speed - holy shit, she's already diving into the water, surfacing giggling and dripping, standing in the shallow end looking like one of those renaissance paintings Spencer always felt vaguely dirty looking at when they got dragged into museums on tour.
He throws himself into the water, hoping somewhat desperately that the fence is actually high enough that none of the neighbours are getting a show, and Tennessee eels towards him as he surfaces, blinking hard. As she's running her hands down his sides, over his back and cheekily grabbing his ass, he just has time to hope that they will actually hear the oven timer go off from out there. It'd be a shame if the cookies went to waste after all this, after all.
This entry also posted at dreamwidth.
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Title: Who Needs the Shade
Summary: Spencer and Tennessee, baking on a summer day.
No commonly used warnings apply.
It's over a hundred in the shade, and Tennessee has gotten it into her head that today - of all days - is the day that she wants to spend baking.
Spencer isn't complaining all that much, because Tennessee is a fucking awesome cook, and her cookies never last more than a day or two because they're so good that everyone stuffs their faces and then complains that she's going to make them all fat, but. It's like a hundred and ten in the parking lot at Trader Joes when they have to go buy more butter and some of the fair trade chocolate that Tennessee prefers, and then it feels even worse when they come back out to the car, laden down with groceries and bodies fooled by the beautiful, beautiful air conditioning indoors into thinking it's not as stupidly hot as it is.
And Spencer's from the desert, he knows from hot. And this is ridiculous. He's not sure how Tennessee is so unruffled by it - she seems to be floating through the day in a cool white dress, cotton so thin and sheer he thinks he can see her underwear through it, which is not something he should be noticing in public - but she's calm and doesn't complain and even jokes around with the cashier who's ringing up their purchases before handing them the brown paper bags.
The chocolate is semi-liquid when they get back to her place -- Spencer really should get the aircon in his car fixed, like, before summer is over, and definitely before the next time he tries to drive back to Vegas to see his folks, shit -- but Tennesse just laughs, smearing it over her fingers as she measures it out, pouring into measuring cups and then finishing it up by eye.
Spencer leans on the bench and just watches - he doesn't mind helping, and she doesn't hesitate to give him orders if there's anything he can do to help, but mostly he just likes to watch her work. It's kind of like watching her drum, except when she's baking he never gets distracted by tallying up their differences, by figuring out how he might have done something in comparison, or by the sheer speed and grace of her. Of course, he does still get distracted by the curve of muscle in her arms and the smooth belling lines of her breasts and hips and waist; Spencer could look at Tennessee all day, and more than once has. Her hair is casually knotted at the back of her head, and little strands fall forward into her face. She brushes them out of her eyes with the back of one flour-dusted hand, streaking sugar and butter across her cheek.
Spencer slides around the kitchen island and grabs a rag, carefully wipes the smear of cookie mixture off her skin, lets his fingertips graze over the area ever-so-lightly, just because he can.
"You do realise they have these awesome things now that you can put in the freezer and just slice when you want cookies, right?" He teases, leaning back against the utensil drawer, hip cocked.
She hip-checks him out the way and digs out the spatula that she always forgets to get because the oven's pre-heated and everything's ready to go, the one she likes to use to scrape out the very ends of the mixture where it's sticking to the bowl. Spencer doesn't see what's any different about that spatula from any other - maybe the colour, but that's about it - but Tennessee gets notions, and that's that.
The oven's made the self-satisfied series of dings it gives when it's reached the set temperature, and even with the climate control inside Tennessee's very modern house, it's starting to bleed out into the kitchen, the temperature inching closer to three digits. Spencer can feel sweat beading on his forehead, gathering under his arms, and even Tennessee - unruffled as she is - is starting to look a little more limp. Her hair has gone darker where it frames her face, and she pours herself two, three glasses of water straight from the tap and drains them immediately. Spencer grabs the brita pitcher from the fridge - seriously, LA water, he doesn't even want to know what London tap water is like if Tennessee will drink this stuff - and pours himself a glass, too. He'd rather have a beer - it's the kind of day to curl up under a sun umbrella with a Corona and a pretty girl - but Tennessee wanted cookies, so Spencer's going to just have to wait.
Tennessee scrunches up the egg shells and tosses them into the trash, looking around for anything else that needs doing. The cookie mix is basically done, and she and Spencer spoon it out onto the trays, filling them up and probably crowding them too close, but neither of them want to bother with a third tray and they can only fit two into the oven at once.
She winces at the rush of hot air that spills out of the oven when they open the door to slide the trays in, and Spencer - standing well back - laughs.
"You are a terrible boyfriend," she tells him, trying to sound quelling but it really comes out more fond than anything else. "Laughing at me in my hour of need."
She sets the timer, and wipes her hands on the tea towel, leaning back to look at Spencer with deep satisfaction.
"Hey," Spencer says, with a little shrug, "I suggested we hang out by the pool, you were the one who insisted we had to have fresh cookies first."
"Hrm," Tennessee says, tilting her head while she considers this argument. "I guess. I do want the cookies, still, but we have about ten minutes. So...." she trails off invitingly. "Last one in the pool's a rotten egg?"
Spencer opens his mouth to point out he hadn't actually remembered to bring his trunks, and then his jaw drops, struck dumb, because Tennessee shoots him another grin, and pulls her dress straight off over her head, dropping it lightly onto the kitchen stool. She's stood there in the middle of the kitchen, in the middle of the day, just wearing ivory ruffled underwear and a shell-pink bra, and Spencer is pretty sure that his tongue is hanging out.
She dimples at him. "It's too hot." She reaches back, unclasps her bra, and lets that fall onto the tiles. "I'm all gross and sticky."
She steps out of her underwear, and then pivots, striding on those impossibly long legs out the sliding door and onto the deck surrounding the pool. She looks back over her shoulder, daring him.
"Want to help me out with that?"
Spencer shucks his clothing at record speed - holy shit, she's already diving into the water, surfacing giggling and dripping, standing in the shallow end looking like one of those renaissance paintings Spencer always felt vaguely dirty looking at when they got dragged into museums on tour.
He throws himself into the water, hoping somewhat desperately that the fence is actually high enough that none of the neighbours are getting a show, and Tennessee eels towards him as he surfaces, blinking hard. As she's running her hands down his sides, over his back and cheekily grabbing his ass, he just has time to hope that they will actually hear the oven timer go off from out there. It'd be a shame if the cookies went to waste after all this, after all.
This entry also posted at dreamwidth.
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