earlier in the apple fumes | Ryan/Spencer's mom | NC-17
earlier in the apple fumes
Ryan/Spencer's mom (unrequited Ryan/Spencer) | NC-17 | ~ 1500 words
FYI: Spencer's mom, apparently. Thanks so much to audreysrev for looking this over and elfiepike for *everything*. I love you to death.
woman-eyes of an hourglass
notice an inner birthday party
opened up earlier in the apple fumes
& if he died I would hold love
in the cracks below the heart, a caged
hand waiting to enfold its animal.
"One Half Shed as Though in Front" by Julie Doxee.
--
She says, "Open this for me," and passes him a jar of chunky tomato sauce.
Ryan bangs it on the counter and pops the seal easily.
"Ryan's stronger than you are," one of Spencer's younger sisters says from the kitchen table, looking up at them over her pile of paper and markers.
"He's just got big hands," Spencer's mom says.
--
She says, "Spencer's not going to be home from school for a couple hours."
"I know," Ryan says. He sits on the counter, watching as she scoops pumpkin out of a can. She cracks eggs, one after another and piles the shells in on themselves.
"You're lucky I'm on a flex day," she says. "Or you would have been waiting outside for a long time."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "Lucky."
She stirs with quick hands. The flex of her wrist, her hand holding the spoon, the tension in Spencer's forearm when he practices rolls on the snare.
She sets the bowl on the counter beside him. It's full and the filling flops over the edge, catching the white corner of Ryan's t-shirt.
Ryan pushes at the orange and smears it into the fabric.
Spencer's mother sighs at him and says, "That's going to stain."
He follows her to the laundry room and leans against the dryer while she reaches into the cupboard above the washer and pulls out a spray bottle.
"Give it to me," she says, and Ryan lifts his shirt over his head. It's soft and well-worn and one of the only shirts Ryan owns that he didn't buy at a concert.
She looks over at him when he passes it over. Ryan knows how he looks, the way that his skin thins around his ribs when he breathes in, the sharp line of his hipbones against the slim cut of his jeans. He rubs his hands over the rough denim and feels his nipples pebble. She turns away and says, "Go borrow a t-shirt from Spencer's room."
--
"Spencer said something happened with your girlfriend," she says. Ryan swallows his orange juice and rubs the condensation off the rim of the glass with his thumb.
(That's probably exactly what Spencer said too, that something happened with Ryan's girlfriend, because when Ryan climbed in through Spencer's window, smelling like sweat and the beer someone spilled over him when he was walking to the bathroom, all Spencer had done was click on the lamp on his bedside table and said, "Did something happen?"
Ryan hadn't said anything, just climbed into bed with him, under the comforter, under the sheet and pressed all the way against the length of Spencer's body. Spencer was only wearing boxers, and Ryan wished that he had taken his clothes off too, before climbing into bed. Spencer's hands were at his sides, but he didn't move when Ryan pressed his forehead to Spencer's shoulder. Didn't move when Ryan threw his leg over Spencer's so that their calves crisscrossed. Didn't move when Ryan flattened a hand across his breast bone. But, when Ryan lifted up, holding his head up with his free hand and looking down at Spencer, Spencer had rolled away and said, "Let's see if there's a repeat of CSI on TV.")
"Yeah," Ryan says again. "Something happened."
--
She's reaching for the casserole dish. It's blue and red and they never use it, so she keeps it in the cupboard above the fridge. Ryan comes up behind her, touches one hand to the small of her back and leans into her as he reaches up. His arm curls around her as he passes it over.
--
Ryan says, "You look good in light blue." Says, "I can see the line of your bra through the fabric." Says, "Do you know what you do to me?" low and soft and touches the backs of her elbows when she drops the sponge and grips the edge of the counter.
The breakfast dishes are in the sink, Spencer's cereal bowl and Ryan's too. Spencer's mom makes pancakes when he sleeps over on weekends, but there isn't time on weekdays.
Her neck tips forward and Ryan rubs his hand up the length of her arm to brush her hair away. The nape of her neck is smooth under his lips; her hair tickles his nose.
"Please," he says. "Please," and pulls her back towards him with a hand to her lower stomach.
She relaxes in increments, but it's a long time of him standing and breathing softly against her skin before she turns in his arms and lets him fold into her embrace.
The master bedroom in Spencer's house is different from the one in Ryan's (he knows this from the times that he's helped his dad up to bed, late at night. The room is huge, sparse, the bed always tightly made. It drives his dad crazy that he leaves his bedding in sloppy piles, drooping off the mattress and towards the floor. There's a picture of Ryan, just Ryan, from when he was young, on top of the dresser. A picture of his aunt and her kids. The closet's a walk-in, and his dad spaces his clothes out, noticeable gaps between the hangers, so that none of the bars are empty.) but it's been years since Ryan's had reason to be in it. Spencer's mother has pictures of the kids all over the walls, in lines across the dresser, the bedside table. Her bed is swimming with pillows and as Ryan walks her backwards across the room, their mouths still attached in a hard kiss, he wonders if she takes them off when she sleeps.
She's shorter than he is, just enough that when he gets her to the bed, he can lean over her until she lies back, can crawl up after her and cover her body with his own. There's a down comforter under the duvet, fluffy and light, and it compresses easily under the weight of Ryan's hands as he braces himself and kisses a line down her neck, all the way to where the first button of her blouse holds the fabric together.
He doesn't look up at her when he raises his fingers to the buttons, just skims his fingers down from the line of her collarbone to the line of the buttons and works them open slowly. She strokes a hand through his hair and doesn't stop him.
He gets her shirt off and traces his fingers over her breasts, lightly, lightly. Her bra is silk and cream-colored, with thicker lines where the pieces of fabric join together. Her nipples stand out noticeably and he leans down to tongue them through the fabric. Her fingers tighten in his hair.
The drapes are drawn but the blinds are still up, so the room is well-lit, though the light is a pale gold, filtered through the thin fabric. The window must be open, because Ryan can hear the sound of cars. Spencer's probably in math right now, from what Ryan remembers of his schedule. Spencer's not as good at math as he likes to pretend he is.
Ryan's hair is awkwardly long and sticking to his face, almost long enough to get caught in his mouth, but not quite. Her pants have two buttons along the waistband, before the zipper, one thick and black, the other a clear white and hidden from view. Ryan presses his forehead into her lower belly before pulling back when he feels the pressure of her hips, pushing up so he can tugs her pants down.
She takes off her own bra and Ryan nuzzles the skin between her breasts. She smells like skin and perfume and arches into it when he thumbs over her nipple. He cups her breasts, licks with just the tip of his tongue. He kisses the center of her stomach, where she's soft, almost, where there's a curve, follows it down and rubs his nose into her pubic hair. The other girls he's been with have always been bare, have always been tiny and pink, have never smelled as good as this. She parts for his finger, lets him inside, slick and easy, and he sucks at her clit. He uses his tongue, slides three fingers inside. Above him, she skims a hand down his shoulder. Says, "You're sweet." Says, "Come here."
When she rolls a condom over him, her fingers don't linger, and for that he's grateful. He grits his teeth and counts backwards from one thousand by threes until he's all the way inside, but it doesn't help much. She moves with him, rocks her hips, makes low noises under her breath.
She touches herself and Ryan can feel something rumbling in his chest. He thrusts in hard. Her thighs are soft and fleshy and catch the sharp motion from his hips, catches it and passes it back as she rocks up against him.
When she comes, she makes low crooning noises and digs her nails into his shoulder. He presses his cheek to her collarbone and breathes.
--
Spencer strips off his shirt one day in practice and Ryan watches sweat slide down his neck.
--
She says, "You want to bring the leftover's home for your dad?" and he says, "Thanks."
--
He catches her in the garage, carrying an armful of plastic jugs to the recycling bins.
"Spencer's in his room," she says. He follows behind her and pushes her up against the wall of the garage when her hands are empty. The dry-wall's flaking a little; there's a crack just above her head. He presses his lips to her cheek, her temple, the underside of her jaw. Her neck flexes as she twists her head to the side.
He cups her hips and she holds still under his hands.
Ryan/Spencer's mom (unrequited Ryan/Spencer) | NC-17 | ~ 1500 words
FYI: Spencer's mom, apparently. Thanks so much to audreysrev for looking this over and elfiepike for *everything*. I love you to death.
woman-eyes of an hourglass
notice an inner birthday party
opened up earlier in the apple fumes
& if he died I would hold love
in the cracks below the heart, a caged
hand waiting to enfold its animal.
"One Half Shed as Though in Front" by Julie Doxee.
--
She says, "Open this for me," and passes him a jar of chunky tomato sauce.
Ryan bangs it on the counter and pops the seal easily.
"Ryan's stronger than you are," one of Spencer's younger sisters says from the kitchen table, looking up at them over her pile of paper and markers.
"He's just got big hands," Spencer's mom says.
--
She says, "Spencer's not going to be home from school for a couple hours."
"I know," Ryan says. He sits on the counter, watching as she scoops pumpkin out of a can. She cracks eggs, one after another and piles the shells in on themselves.
"You're lucky I'm on a flex day," she says. "Or you would have been waiting outside for a long time."
"Yeah," Ryan says. "Lucky."
She stirs with quick hands. The flex of her wrist, her hand holding the spoon, the tension in Spencer's forearm when he practices rolls on the snare.
She sets the bowl on the counter beside him. It's full and the filling flops over the edge, catching the white corner of Ryan's t-shirt.
Ryan pushes at the orange and smears it into the fabric.
Spencer's mother sighs at him and says, "That's going to stain."
He follows her to the laundry room and leans against the dryer while she reaches into the cupboard above the washer and pulls out a spray bottle.
"Give it to me," she says, and Ryan lifts his shirt over his head. It's soft and well-worn and one of the only shirts Ryan owns that he didn't buy at a concert.
She looks over at him when he passes it over. Ryan knows how he looks, the way that his skin thins around his ribs when he breathes in, the sharp line of his hipbones against the slim cut of his jeans. He rubs his hands over the rough denim and feels his nipples pebble. She turns away and says, "Go borrow a t-shirt from Spencer's room."
--
"Spencer said something happened with your girlfriend," she says. Ryan swallows his orange juice and rubs the condensation off the rim of the glass with his thumb.
(That's probably exactly what Spencer said too, that something happened with Ryan's girlfriend, because when Ryan climbed in through Spencer's window, smelling like sweat and the beer someone spilled over him when he was walking to the bathroom, all Spencer had done was click on the lamp on his bedside table and said, "Did something happen?"
Ryan hadn't said anything, just climbed into bed with him, under the comforter, under the sheet and pressed all the way against the length of Spencer's body. Spencer was only wearing boxers, and Ryan wished that he had taken his clothes off too, before climbing into bed. Spencer's hands were at his sides, but he didn't move when Ryan pressed his forehead to Spencer's shoulder. Didn't move when Ryan threw his leg over Spencer's so that their calves crisscrossed. Didn't move when Ryan flattened a hand across his breast bone. But, when Ryan lifted up, holding his head up with his free hand and looking down at Spencer, Spencer had rolled away and said, "Let's see if there's a repeat of CSI on TV.")
"Yeah," Ryan says again. "Something happened."
--
She's reaching for the casserole dish. It's blue and red and they never use it, so she keeps it in the cupboard above the fridge. Ryan comes up behind her, touches one hand to the small of her back and leans into her as he reaches up. His arm curls around her as he passes it over.
--
Ryan says, "You look good in light blue." Says, "I can see the line of your bra through the fabric." Says, "Do you know what you do to me?" low and soft and touches the backs of her elbows when she drops the sponge and grips the edge of the counter.
The breakfast dishes are in the sink, Spencer's cereal bowl and Ryan's too. Spencer's mom makes pancakes when he sleeps over on weekends, but there isn't time on weekdays.
Her neck tips forward and Ryan rubs his hand up the length of her arm to brush her hair away. The nape of her neck is smooth under his lips; her hair tickles his nose.
"Please," he says. "Please," and pulls her back towards him with a hand to her lower stomach.
She relaxes in increments, but it's a long time of him standing and breathing softly against her skin before she turns in his arms and lets him fold into her embrace.
The master bedroom in Spencer's house is different from the one in Ryan's (he knows this from the times that he's helped his dad up to bed, late at night. The room is huge, sparse, the bed always tightly made. It drives his dad crazy that he leaves his bedding in sloppy piles, drooping off the mattress and towards the floor. There's a picture of Ryan, just Ryan, from when he was young, on top of the dresser. A picture of his aunt and her kids. The closet's a walk-in, and his dad spaces his clothes out, noticeable gaps between the hangers, so that none of the bars are empty.) but it's been years since Ryan's had reason to be in it. Spencer's mother has pictures of the kids all over the walls, in lines across the dresser, the bedside table. Her bed is swimming with pillows and as Ryan walks her backwards across the room, their mouths still attached in a hard kiss, he wonders if she takes them off when she sleeps.
She's shorter than he is, just enough that when he gets her to the bed, he can lean over her until she lies back, can crawl up after her and cover her body with his own. There's a down comforter under the duvet, fluffy and light, and it compresses easily under the weight of Ryan's hands as he braces himself and kisses a line down her neck, all the way to where the first button of her blouse holds the fabric together.
He doesn't look up at her when he raises his fingers to the buttons, just skims his fingers down from the line of her collarbone to the line of the buttons and works them open slowly. She strokes a hand through his hair and doesn't stop him.
He gets her shirt off and traces his fingers over her breasts, lightly, lightly. Her bra is silk and cream-colored, with thicker lines where the pieces of fabric join together. Her nipples stand out noticeably and he leans down to tongue them through the fabric. Her fingers tighten in his hair.
The drapes are drawn but the blinds are still up, so the room is well-lit, though the light is a pale gold, filtered through the thin fabric. The window must be open, because Ryan can hear the sound of cars. Spencer's probably in math right now, from what Ryan remembers of his schedule. Spencer's not as good at math as he likes to pretend he is.
Ryan's hair is awkwardly long and sticking to his face, almost long enough to get caught in his mouth, but not quite. Her pants have two buttons along the waistband, before the zipper, one thick and black, the other a clear white and hidden from view. Ryan presses his forehead into her lower belly before pulling back when he feels the pressure of her hips, pushing up so he can tugs her pants down.
She takes off her own bra and Ryan nuzzles the skin between her breasts. She smells like skin and perfume and arches into it when he thumbs over her nipple. He cups her breasts, licks with just the tip of his tongue. He kisses the center of her stomach, where she's soft, almost, where there's a curve, follows it down and rubs his nose into her pubic hair. The other girls he's been with have always been bare, have always been tiny and pink, have never smelled as good as this. She parts for his finger, lets him inside, slick and easy, and he sucks at her clit. He uses his tongue, slides three fingers inside. Above him, she skims a hand down his shoulder. Says, "You're sweet." Says, "Come here."
When she rolls a condom over him, her fingers don't linger, and for that he's grateful. He grits his teeth and counts backwards from one thousand by threes until he's all the way inside, but it doesn't help much. She moves with him, rocks her hips, makes low noises under her breath.
She touches herself and Ryan can feel something rumbling in his chest. He thrusts in hard. Her thighs are soft and fleshy and catch the sharp motion from his hips, catches it and passes it back as she rocks up against him.
When she comes, she makes low crooning noises and digs her nails into his shoulder. He presses his cheek to her collarbone and breathes.
--
Spencer strips off his shirt one day in practice and Ryan watches sweat slide down his neck.
--
She says, "You want to bring the leftover's home for your dad?" and he says, "Thanks."
--
He catches her in the garage, carrying an armful of plastic jugs to the recycling bins.
"Spencer's in his room," she says. He follows behind her and pushes her up against the wall of the garage when her hands are empty. The dry-wall's flaking a little; there's a crack just above her head. He presses his lips to her cheek, her temple, the underside of her jaw. Her neck flexes as she twists her head to the side.
He cups her hips and she holds still under his hands.