Hard Hips and Biting Lips [Spencer/Jon standalone R]
Title: Hard Hips and Biting Lips
Author: silver_etoile
Rating: R
Pairing: Spencer/Jon
POV: Third, Spencer
Disclaimer: About as real as the pony I will be getting for my birthday today :D And the song lyric belongs to Something Corporate.
Summary: He remembers glasses being pressed into his hand - blue, red, yellow, green - another color for another drink. Some have olives, some have umbrellas, some have salt. Some are meant to be drunk off someone else, licked off their neck, their stomachs, their lips. Some are just meant to be drunk.
A/N: This is an early birthday present for our dear Spencer Smith, and my birthday present to me! Spencer and I will be the same age. :D Hope you enjoy!
*
Spencer doesn’t know why he does it. It’s such an obviously stupid thing and he wishes he had more control. He wishes someone would take away the drink when he starts laughing at Brendon and staring at Jon. He wishes people wouldn’t find it funny and let him have just one more. He doesn’t need one more. But they don’t know what happens after that next drink. And fuck, he’s glad they don’t.
He wishes he didn’t wake up in the mornings with a headache and only a partial memory of the night before. He wishes he didn’t recognize the room he wakes up in, because it means something he doesn’t want to admit to himself.
He wishes he didn’t dress carefully, biting his lip to keep quiet as he sneaks out of the room. It reminds him of a song.
She memorized the floor so she could leave without being detected.
He wishes his life wasn’t a song.
It happens every time he drinks. He tries not to drink a lot, but he can’t refuse when the rest of the band wants to celebrate some monumental accomplishment, like Ryan writing the last song on the album, or Brendon learning to tie his shoes. So he takes one and tells himself that’s all he’ll drink.
Then he laughs and another is in his hands, put there by God knows who. And when the night ends, and he wakes the next morning in the dark, he knows where he is and he sneaks out.
No one else knows, thank God. And Jon never says anything.
Spencer wonders what he thinks. They’ve never talked about it. Well, maybe they have but maybe Spencer was too drunk to remember. He doesn’t even know.
He isn’t gay. Or he wasn’t. He wasn’t when they started the band. But then Brendon had joined and introduced him to all things pink and sparkly, Disney, unicorns and fairy tales. And maybe Spencer wants to believe in those even though he tells Ryan he doesn’t.
He was fine, though. And then Jon joined the band. God, it’s hard to be straight with Jon around.
Not that Jon’s gay. Spencer doesn’t even know. They’ve never talked about it. Jon doesn’t talk about people he sleeps with, a trait that Spencer has come to greatly appreciate, more than he ever thought he would.
Spencer doesn’t really know how it started, or why he chose Jon. Okay, deep down, he knows why he chose Jon. It has something to do with how he’s probably the most relaxed person Spencer’s ever met, and he doesn’t know a lot of those people.
Ryan’s very high-maintenance, even though he’d kill who ever said that. Brendon’s a ball of energy that never seems to run out. The Energizer Bunny. That’s what Brendon is.
Jon’s… cool. He’s relaxed and likes to lounge on the couch. He doesn’t freak out when someone drinks his milk or uses his toothbrush. He lets Brendon use him as a jungle gym. He’s just awesome, and Spencer almost hates him for it. Almost.
He far from hates Jon, though. It’s obvious when he’s gathering his pants from the floor and grabbing his shirt off the dresser corner, slipping on his jumbled shoes and sneaking out the bedroom door, not daring to turn on the light or use the bathroom. He tiptoes down the front hallway, hoping the cats don’t wake up and meow at him. Dylan likes to greet him in the mornings.
Every time it happens, Spencer wakes up with a shooting pain in his forehead and a worse one in his ass. Jon’s never awake and he never wakes him. His heart cringes and his stomach hurts as he lays for half a second, pretending it might be okay if he stayed.
It only happens when he’s drunk. Spencer knows this. He’s figured out his pattern. It wasn’t hard.
So he uses his age as an excuse. He’s not twenty-one yet. He’s not legal. He can’t drink. This would work better if his boss wasn’t Pete Wentz, who doesn’t give a fuck about legality when it comes to alcohol. All his parties are full to the brim, overflowing, with alcohol of all shapes and sizes, and Spencer always finds one pushed into his hand by someone or other.
He drinks to be polite and says he’s only having one, but a second always follows the first, and then a third, and then things get fuzzy, and he wakes in a dark bed with a familiar body pressed up against him.
He’s not an alcoholic. Ryan would murder him. It’s just that when people give him alcohol, it’s always at a party where having one just isn’t okay. He’s a man; he should be able to hold his liquor. Never mind that he won’t be legal to drink for another month, week, a few days.
Spencer doesn’t remember much of the nights past the third drink. He remembers glasses being pressed into his hand - blue, red, yellow, green - another color for another drink. Some have olives, some have umbrellas, some have salt. Some are meant to be drunk off someone else, licked off their neck, their stomachs, their lips. Some are just meant to be drunk and that’s all.
He recognizes calloused fingers on his wrist and the last drink is pulled away. Most people are too drunk to see anything by then. He remembers stumbling over furniture, getting bruises he’ll examine later and not remember.
He remembers doors and rooms and hands. It’s always hot and wet, thick heat surrounding him as he’s pulled down into softness. It’s sticky, and the movements are desperate, brushing fingers, pressing hands, insistent lips. Legs tangle and bodies entwine, hot and slick, rutting together, a serpentine twist of alcohol-soaked kisses, liquor-stained lips trailing down hot skin.
His senses always overload and he can’t move, feeling the wet lips on his body, hands slipping where others don’t go, pushing and prodding, urging. Lips collide, bodies meld. It’s slick, sweat dripping down his skin, hot breath puffed against his skin, a tongue against his collar bone, licking off sticky tequila.
It’s a mess of body parts and he can’t distinguish which is his, but he never cares. It’s about how it feels to have someone inside him, filling him so much that he can’t think what it was like before, or how it’ll be after.
The heat engulfs him and he feels only it. The calloused fingers on his arm, brushing over his cheek, pushing back his sweat-soaked hair. His eyes shut and he sees nothing but black as the feelings surround him. The movement, fast, hard, desperate, inside him.
He hears gasps and curses, his name. He doesn’t know who says them. He thinks he does sometimes. He doesn’t remember this part in the mornings.
The heat explodes and the movement stops and silence falls. Quick pants in the dark, rustling sheets, shifting bodies, and then all goes black.
He wakes with a headache and a pit in his stomach.
Spencer’s determined it should never happen again. He doesn’t know what he feels, why he does it. He can’t explain it.
Jon says nothing in the mornings. They meet as a band and everything’s normal. Brendon steals the marshmallows out of Ryan’s cereal and hugs Jon so tightly he can’t breathe. Ryan doesn’t notice anything until he has his first cup of coffee.
Spencer clutches his cup and is sure they all know.
“Spencer,” Ryan yawns, barely swatting away Brendon’s hand as he reaches in for another marshmallow. “Your birthday is in, like, a week.”
“Yeah,” Spencer mutters, staring at the ripple in his coffee as Jon sets down his mug silently.
“Any idea what you want to do for it?” Ryan’s perking up now that he’s got coffee. Brendon’s pouting because it means no more marshmallows. He switches to Jon’s bowl instead.
Spencer shrugs. Luckily, they all chock his moodiness up to the morning in general, not what may or may not have happened the night before.
“Pete’s probably going to plan some party or something,” Ryan says, poking at his marshmallow-less cereal. “But we could just go out, just the four of us, if you want.”
Spencer just stares at his cup. He’s not sure which would be worse. Being at a party with copious amounts of alcohol and Pete Wentz, or being with only Brendon, Ryan, and Jon, and copious amounts of alcohol.
It’s evident there will be alcohol, no matter which he chooses. It’s his twenty-first birthday and it’s expected. Brendon’s twenty-first birthday nearly killed him. They’re still surprised he’s alive now.
Spencer stiffens slightly as he feels Jon’s hand on his shoulder. He determinedly doesn’t look at him.
“Come on, Spence,” Jon says, and Spencer can hear the smile in his voice. “Party with the boys or party with all the boys?”
Spencer shifts awkwardly, his gaze flickering from his coffee to Ryan’s cereal. Jon’s hand rests on his shoulder in a friendly manner and Spencer wonders if he’s doing this on purpose.
“I don’t know,” he mumbles finally. In reality, he’d like to keep himself far away from alcohol for a while.
Jon’s hand is gone then and Spencer feels relieved and a little empty at the same time. He takes a sip of coffee and listens to the silence that’s fallen around the table.
Brendon pushes at the mountain of marshmallows overflowing his cereal bowl. “Aren’t we going to get Spencer drunk? You made me drink a whole bottle of tequila and some other weird green thing. Are you ever going to tell me what that was?”
“No,” Ryan replies simply and Brendon pouts, stealing another of Ryan’s marshmallows for revenge.
Spencer’s silent as he thinks. He has to keep up appearances, and not going out on his twenty-first birthday would definitely seem weird.
But he’s afraid of what he’ll do. Scratch that. He knows what he’ll do. He’ll end up back at Jon’s place, falling onto his bed in some alcohol-induced haze that makes him forget that this is his bandmate and sleeping together is a bad idea. Especially since Spencer’s pretty sure he doesn’t just like Jon for sex.
“Well, we have to do something,” Ryan says finally, his spoon clinking against the bowl as he sets it down. His cereal is soggy now.
“Yeah, Spence,” Jon chimes in, and Spencer feels the throb somewhere deep in his stomach. “What’ll it be?”
Spencer has to decide now or be faced with whatever they decide to force upon him. And he knows Brendon and Ryan. They will choose something and force it on him.
Brendon’s hardly paying attention, pouring milk on his marshmallows and watching them melt.
“I…” Spencer doesn’t know what to pick. So he picks the lesser of two evils. “I guess whatever Pete has planned is cool.”
“Great,” Ryan says distractedly, watching Brendon’s progress with his marshmallow mountain. “I’ll tell Pete it’s a go.”
Spencer nods softly and looks back to his coffee cup. He chose Pete because at least this way, it’ll be less likely to be noticed when he somehow leaves with Jon, because he always does.
*
The party is loud and the alcohol flows freely, just what Spencer was afraid of. Everyone is there; the Academy, some of MCR, Cobra, the Hush Sound, other little bands that Spencer hasn’t really gotten to know yet. He takes the birthday congratulations from Gabe, Bill, Patrick. Gerard wishes him a happy birthday with a sort of leering smile that tells Spencer not to take any drinks from him.
Brendon and Ryan are around somewhere, probably talking to Pete or Patrick. The only thing Spencer’s sure of is that Ryan’s not talking to Gabe. Otherwise, he doesn’t know where anyone is in the throng of people that have invaded Pete’s house.
Pete appears by his side a little ways in, shoving a purple drink in his hand and telling him to drink up! He’s wasted too much of his life sober.
Spencer smiles but it falls the moment Pete’s bounded away to greet someone else. Sighing, he tries to set the drink down, but as he turns, he finds Frank behind him.
“Hey, Frank,” he greets him instead, quickly pulling the drink back to his chest and taking a sip. It’s sweet and he can barely taste the alcohol, but he’s sure there’s plenty in it.
Frank just nods at him, glancing at the drink. “You’re twenty-one now.”
“Yep.”
“Congratulations.”
Spencer’s not sure congratulations are in order, but he lets Frank say it. He supposes it’s an accomplishment to have made it this far.
“Thanks.”
Frank pauses, staring around the room. “The best way to get rid of a drink is pour it in a plant,” he mutters softly, turning to Spencer. “See you around.”
Then he disappears into the crowd and Spencer takes another involuntary sip of the purple drink. He has no idea what’s in it.
He doesn’t follow Frank’s advice and soon finds the glass empty. As always, he hopes this will be the last, but since it’s his birthday, it seems everyone has taken it upon themselves to supply him with endless amounts of alcohol. As soon as the purple glass is gone, a yellow one replaces it. He thinks he recognizes this one as tequila.
Someone pours a line of salt on his arm and he licks it off before taking the shot. A cheer rises in the room and Spencer feels a little better.
It doesn’t take much longer after that for Spencer to stumble as he walks through the crowd. Pete catches him and yells something to the group. They all laugh, most too drunk to even hear what Pete’s saying. Spencer even laughs, though he doesn’t know what Pete said.
Pete lets him go and he stumbles on, looking for someone, or something. He forgot what he was looking for halfway across the room. Instead, he trips over a chair and falls into it. Except there’s already someone in it.
“Jon,” Spencer breathes, struggling to turn over and gaze into Jon’s face. It’s blurry and goes fuzzy every few seconds.
“Hey, Spence.” Jon smiles. He is obviously not as drunk as Spencer. “Having fun?”
Spencer nods but stops as the room starts spinning. He laughs instead, trying to push himself up but failing and only sinking further into Jon’s lap.
Jon steadies him carefully. Spencer leans into him, his face buried in his neck and his eyes closing. He sighs.
“Jon,” he murmurs against his neck. He can smell the familiar scent of Jon’s soap and somehow trees. Jon always smells like trees.
“Hmm?” Jon asks, rubbing Spencer’s back softly.
Spencer shifts, his hand grabbing for Jon’s shirt. His body slides forward and his mouth presses against Jon’s neck. It doesn’t taste like tequila and Spencer kind of wishes it did. It would make this all so much easier to explain.
The music is still loud and raucous laughter is heard in every corner. Champagne fountains drizzle down crystal glasses and more bottles are popped open. Toasts are made to Spencer, even though he’s not near them.
Spencer breathes in deeply, his nose pressed into Jon’s hair. His fingers tighten over the thin cotton of Jon’s tee shirt. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows, he knows what’s happening. He can feel himself climbing into Jon, their legs, thighs, chests pressed together.
“Jon,” he mutters again, the cloud in his mind slowly fogging over what little clear thought he had left. He can still taste the lingering alcohol on his lips and licks it off. His hips move and he’s pressed against Jon, silently asking for something he’s never said.
This is where Spencer’s brain usually cuts out parts of the night and lets him wake up with fragmented memories of hands and lips, sheets and mattresses. But tonight, it’s sharper than usual, despite the many many shots he’s had, the lines of salt followed by limes, the brightly colored glasses of tangy, spicy, sweet drinks. He’s mixed so many he doesn’t know what color the sky is. If it’s blue, he’ll drink it.
Somehow, they make it to Jon’s place. Spencer doesn’t know how. Did Jon drive? Was he drunk at all? Maybe it’s just Spencer. If it’s just Spencer, why does Jon let him?
Jon’s bedroom is the same as always and Spencer maneuvers through it like he lives there. Even drunk, he misses the side table and pile of Jon’s dirty clothes on the floor. His own clothes soon join those scattered around and he’ll find them in the morning, wrinkled and wreaking of liquor.
Naked bodies fall onto the bed and Spencer can feel Jon’s skin against his. It’s under his fingertips as they brush down Jon’s shoulder, over his back, past the curve of his ass.
Hips collide in rushes of heat, feverish licks of fire all over his skin as he struggles to focus. Legs slide together, thighs rubbing and skin slick already.
The sheets are soft underneath him and Spencer will recognize the touch later when he wakes up warm and happy for the two seconds before he realizes where he is.
Jon’s whispering things into Spencer’s ear as they move together. It’s hot and slick, teeth and tongues, lips sliding, biting, teasing. Spencer doesn’t hear Jon. If he did, he might not want to leave in the morning.
“Spencer, Spencer, Spencer,” Jon murmurs against his skin as he slides down, his hands fluttering over his body, pressing each spot he knows makes Spencer moan and twist.
His lips are stained with alcohol and Jon tastes it. Spencer’s eyes flutter shut and he only feels. He feels the heat that encircles him, inside, outside. He feels the hot kisses pressed down his spine, over his shoulder, to his ear. He feels the stuttered breath of Jon on his shoulder and the overwhelming sense of fullness.
He lets himself feel and listens through his haze to Jon’s breath, so close to his ear, panting and gasping, his teeth gritting as he pushes in hard, faster.
“Spencer,” Jon whispers, as though he’s trying to memorize Spencer’s name, as though he needs to say it over and over again, like he needs Spencer to hear it, to know he’s the one saying it.
Spencer only moans, twisting back against Jon and knowing he’s close. The alcohol clouds his mind and he wishes it wouldn’t. He wants to feel this, to hear Jon as he comes, hips slamming forward and the heat overload that washes over his stomach, the warm, happy feeling that floods his senses when he comes too.
“Spencer,” Jon murmurs again when Spencer slumps forward on the bed. He usually falls asleep now. Jon’s hand slides over his shoulder and he shifts up behind him. “Spence, I love you.”
Spencer snuggles down into the soft sheets and Jon’s kiss pressed to his shoulder isn’t felt. “Happy birthday.”
There’s silence and Jon slides back down, falling asleep with his hand resting protectively on Spencer’s stomach.
*
Spencer wakes in the dark, as always. The warm feeling that is there when he first wakes flees immediately when he recognizes the slit of moonlight on the wall. He shifts, the two seconds of contemplation coming back when he wonders what would happen if he stayed.
Then it’s gone and he’s slipping out of the warm bed to pull on his jeans and search for his shirt amongst those on the floor. He searches vainly for his shoes, but finally comes to the conclusion that they’re not in the bedroom. He heads for the door but freezes at a noise from the bed.
The sheets are rustling and Jon’s sleepy voice penetrates the silence of the dark room.
“Spencer.”
Spencer’s heart shoots into his throat and he’s positive Jon can hear it. He doesn’t speak, though, hoping Jon will just fall back asleep.
“Spencer,” Jon says softly, turning his head on the pillow. “Come back.”
Spencer is sure this is a joke. Jon’s just playing with him. He’s just talking in his sleep is all.
“Spencer,” Jon says, a little louder and clearer. His hand stretches back on the bed as though searching for Spencer, who’s across the room at the door. “Come back here… please.”
Spencer can’t stop his feet as they carry him away from the door and back to the bed. Standing on Jon’s side, he stops, unsure of what to do. His heart still beats painfully in his chest as he waits.
Jon opens his eyes and stares up at Spencer. He rolls over and grabs Spencer’s wrist, pulling him down. Spencer sort of falls onto the bed beside Jon.
Jon’s still got his face pressed into the pillow, but he doesn’t release Spencer’s wrist. “Why are you leaving?” he mumbles into the pillow.
“I…” Again, Spencer has no answer. He leaves because he’s afraid of staying, of what talking about it would mean.
“You?” Jon echoes sleepily, his hand still on Spencer’s wrist. His fingers caress the skin softly and Spencer wishes it didn’t feel so good. He tries to pull away but Jon’s fingers tighten.
Spencer sighs, wishing he had some aspirin. Jon looks insanely cute lying on the bed, his eyes not open, but his grip is firm on Spencer’s arm. Spencer wishes he had more self-control.
“You what?” Jon repeats, opening his eyes slowly and looking at Spencer. He looks tired, and he doesn’t move to get up. There are marks on his face that the pillow has left. Spencer resists the urge to trace them with his fingers.
“I, I’m sorry,” Spencer says finally, the words barely coming out in more than a whisper.
“For what?”
“This,” Spencer says as though it’s obvious. Jon makes a tired noise and pulls him further down. Spencer is forced to climb on the bed next to Jon. He stares at the same slit of moonlight that told him where he was that morning.
“You shouldn’t be sorry,” Jon mutters, his fingers rubbing Spencer’s wrist and forearm.
Spencer doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t understand why Jon’s not upset.
“Spencer,” Jon says, groaning slightly as he shifts on the bed, “I like that you come to me. I like this. What I don’t like is waking up in the mornings with an empty bed, and then having to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“You like this?” Spencer’s not sure he’s hearing right. How can that be possible? He doesn’t even know what he feels.
Jon nods softly, finally releasing Spencer’s wrist completely. Spencer doesn’t move, doesn’t try to get up. Jon snuggles deeper under the covers.
“So you either stay now,” Jon mutters to the pillow, reaching out and sliding a hand over Spencer’s shoulder. “Or you go and don’t come find me next time you’re drunk.”
Spencer stares at the strip of moonlight as he thinks. Jon’s hand is warm on his shoulder and he can hear his even breathing next to him. He remembers the kisses the night before, his name repeated a hundred times. He remembers times before when he wanted to stay, just for a minute, just to see, just to find out what would happen. Now he knows what would happen.
Jon doesn’t say anything as Spencer thinks. Finally, Spencer takes a breath and slides down, resting his head on Jon’s pillow and scooting closer. As he watches Jon, he sees a smile spread across his face. His eyes are still closed, but he slides his arm over Spencer’s waist and pulls him closer.
“Happy birthday, Spence,” he whispers once he’s pressed against him, his mouth brushing against his temple.
Spencer pauses for a minute, then smiles softly and closes his eyes, his head nestled in Jon’s neck.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
**
FIN.
A/N: Well, I don't plan on getting drunk, but hey, can legally drink now! Now, I'm off to the casino! Hope you all enjoyed :D