behindthec | Room for Me Somewhere in You (1/1) | Jon/Spencer

Title: Room for Me Somewhere in You [1/1]

Author: lolab
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Jon/Spencer; implied Brendon/Ryan and GSF
Disclaimer: They belong to ~~Pete~~ ~~each other~~ themselves, not me. Fiction as far as I know.
Summary: Spencer always watches him, daring him to look away, and it's so fucking intense it kind of makes Jon feel like gravity's seeping out of the atmosphere and he's just floating, maybe on air, or maybe in some ocean vaguely the shade of Spencer's eyes. This is a short, fluffy sequel to Somewhat Shy of Definition and a companion piece to Still Unheard Though I Listen; you need to read both of those first -- but trust me, they're well worth your time.

Author's Notes:

falling_words made me write/post this. (Clearly it was just torture.) I just wrote it to indulge her, with no intention of ever posting, so it's not my best work, but oh well. There are a few more pieces in this 'verse that will be coming eventually too, so keep a look-out.

Title by "To Tell You" by April Smith, as are all titles in this 'verse.

Jon makes quite a show of shutting the door: deliberate, sharp click of the handle, the way he turns around, all slow and lazy, a tease to the core, like he could care less about what's seconds from happening; the way he flips the dark curtain of hair out of his eyes, leans against the door, hip cocked to the side in a way that would (and does) make Spencer proud. One eyebrow creeps upward, followed by a corner of his mouth as his eyes narrow seductively, tongue darting out to shine his lips while he leers at Spencer, who's standing in the middle of the room, hands stuffed innocently into his pockets.

"So I'm a better offer, huh?" Spencer coos, voice low and liquid.

Jon shrugs, smirk intact, stepping forward to place a few feet of distance between himself and the door. "Maybe."

"Maybe? Well shit, Walker, maybe I'll just go join the skinny emo kids next door -- "

He's just brushed past Jon with one hand on the door when Jon catches his wrist, the only movement he makes, not even turning around.

"Maybe," Jon whispers, "you're the best offer I've ever had."

And Jon's heart skips a beat then, because he thinks he really probably shouldn't have said that, and yet, maybe it only sounds so intense in his own head because he knows how much he means it. Spence could take it light, brush it off, see it as effected seduction, the kind they like to play at.

He feels Spencer squeeze his hand, but the younger boy's voice remains even. "Who says I'm offering myself?"

There's silence for several moments, building the halfhearted tension, ragged breaths assaulting their over-attentive ears.

A voice in Jon's head suddenly screams fuck it, and he swallows, hard.

"Then I guess I'll just have to take you," he hisses, spinning around and shoving Spencer up against the door.

It's way too satisfying, he thinks, the moan that spills from Spencer's mouth into his; it shouldn't feel so good, but fuck, it does, it does, knowing he can reduce Spencer to this; solid, unshakable Spencer Smith, letting Jon clasp a hand over the drummer's strong wrists, surrendering them without an afterthought as Jon pins them to the door above their heads, his other hand fast and nimble on Spencer's belt.

"Fuck," Spencer breathes, the word chopped and broken as it hits the air, Jon having released his mouth to trail along his neck, lips and teeth closing intermittently around the baby-soft flesh. Jon releases his wrists to get to work on the button and zipper, and Spencer jumps at the opportunity to touch, slipping his arms around Jon's neck and letting his head fall back, allowing better access as Jon continues along his neck, working lower, tongue tracing circles in the hollow of his throat.

"Still need the skinny emo kids?" Jon whispers against him, fingers sliding the zipper down on Spencer's jeans and ghosting over his hard-on, refusing (dying) to touch.

"Shut the fuck up, asshole," Spencer growls, head still dropped back, revealing the flawless white line of his neck and Jesus, how the fuck does Jon make it through every set, or any set, ever, being exposed to this?

"Mmm. Love you like this," he says against Spencer's skin, tries not to think of how good it feels to say it, love you, even if it's distorted, weakened by the rest of the sentence, not the way he wants at all. His tongue is sliding over the half-faded marks someone had left the night before, Jon can't remember who, but as his mouth moves over them, he makes them his, makes Spencer his (if only).

"Like what?" Spencer snaps, and Jon can hear the amusement even behind the annoyance. "Squirming and frustrated and about ten seconds from bashing your head in if you don't do something?"

"Mmm, yeah. 'Cause I know in about a minute I'm gonna have you begging."

"I hate you."

"Yeah?" Jon presses his face into the crook of Spencer's neck so Spencer can feel him smile, the only warning he gets as Jon finally reaches into Spencer's jeans and closes his hand around him, firm and certain, all traces of teasing gone.

"Fuck, fuck, Jon, just -- Jesus fucking shit."

"You want more than this?" Jon whispers, just scarcely breathing the words, letting the feel of his lips on Spencer's skin speak for him. "You want me to -- "

"I want you to shut up and fuck me, Walker."

A low, feral noise shoots from Jon's lips as his teeth close around a particularly sensitive spot on Spencer's neck (that spot, the spot Jon knows like the back of his own hand, the spot he found before anyone else), and he reaches his free arm around to pull Spencer roughly from the door, close against him, before shifting around to shove him right back against the nearest wall. Spencer's surprised little whimper crashes through Jon's body, sending shivers through his skin and down to his bones. He closes his fingers a bit tighter around Spencer as he feels a pair of hands through his own jeans, working them open, and a squeak, stupid and desperate, escapes him, shattering his center of control.

Spencer's breath hitches, his eyelids fluttering. "Barely touched you."

"Don't have to," Jon tells him, pumping his fist a little faster as he feels Spencer twitch in his hand, "I could get off just from touching you."

"Jesus."

And the game is over -- the power dynamics, the teasing, the testing, shattered; it's all wildly grabbing hands and fast fingers as they peel off t-shirts, lips colliding again while Jon leads them, stumbling, to the bed, kicking off jeans and underwear as they go, until they fall back, quickly adjusting until Jon's on top, not wasting a second as he grinds down, the first brush of their cocks sending sparks up his spine.

"Please," he hears Spencer whisper into his mouth. "Just. Jon, please."

He smiles. "Told you you'd be begging."

"Fuck you."

"Not what you said before."

"Oh my god, do you -- "

...have a death wish, Jon finishes in his head, hearing the words in Spencer's voice, as this isn't the first time his teasing has reduced Spencer to such empty threats. But now the threat remains in his head, never spilling from Spencer's lips, and it takes him a moment to notice Spencer's gone suddenly still.

He pulls back, refocusing his eyes on Spencer's electric blues. It always takes him a minute to focus, their intensity blinding him every time.

Spencer blinks. "Are. Are you stalling?"

And... fucking hell, because Spencer's got this creepy ability to make you realize things for the first time just by calling you on them, but now is kind of a bad time because. Fuck. Yeah. Jon's stalling, and what the fuck?

"I. I don't know," he concludes.

"Is." Spencer shifts a little until he frees one hand to cup Jon's face. "Is this okay?"

"I -- I guess that's it? Is it okay? I mean -- just the two of us? Is that..."

Spencer grins, a little too mischievously to put Jon at ease. "What d'you think they're doing, playing pictionary?"

Jon snorts. "Actually, knowing Brendon..."

"He'd be drawing his dick."

"Yeah, like eight times its actual size."

"With a smiley face."

"And arms."

"And he'd draw Ryan's like, right next to it -- "

"--Holding hands with his."

Spencer giggles, that full-body giggle that rumbles through him, his eyes wrinkling up and his smile stretching across his whole face, the giggle that makes something in Jon's stomach flip-flop in so many awesome ways.

He leans in, nudging Spencer's nose with his own as their eyes close. "Now that we've scarred ourselves for life with that image..."

A leftover giggle escapes Spencer before he pulls Jon in for a proper kiss, the first one all night that they've really been able to feel, take their time with, explore, and Jon's suddenly a little nervous at their lack of an audience, which he thinks is about the strangest, most unnatural thing in the universe, but hey, it's them, it's how they work, the four of them, and it's beautiful, it's fucking perfect, even in how it's not.

But this... this is different. They're all each other has now, and the intensity's concentrated between them, heightened; no one else to watch, no one else to interrupt, to jump in... it's not exactly more intimacy, Jon thinks, just a different kind.

A different kind that's making his head spin in a way it hasn't since the first night it started with him, Spencer and Brendon.

"Jon," Spencer whispers, snapping him back to the present, and Jon feels two small objects being pressed into his palm.

He looks down at the lube and condom. "Wh -- how did you -- where did these -- " Because seriously, did Spencer just pull these out of his ass, or what?

Spencer grins, wicked as the Witch of the West. "I have many skills."

"Whatever, Xena."

"Um, that would totally make you Gabrielle."

"Dude, the fact that you even know the characters worries me."

"Hey!" Spencer props himself up on his elbows in defense, clearly effective. "Xena was hot."

"Whatever, man, you totally wanted to be her."

"...I will put my pants back on, Walker."

"Wouldn't mind seeing you in that little leather dress, actually..."

"I hate you." But even as he says it, he's giggling, watching Jon twist open the little bottle and slick up his fingers.

Jon's little smirk from the moment they walked through the door is back, eyebrow quirked and eyes sparkling, before leaning back down and draping his body over Spencer's, as close as he can as he slips his hand between them, joining their mouths so he can swallow the moan that escapes Spencer when he presses one finger inside.

Spencer's hands are holding him firmly in place, one on his shoulder and one at his hip, trying to draw him impossibly closer. Jon loves Spencer's hands, more than he'll ever be able to say without blushing; loves the callouses, how they keep his hands in place, never slipping; loves how fucking ridiculously strong they are from his role in the band. It's a different kind of strong than he feels with Brendon or Ryan; not lanky, eerily flexible guitarist fingers, but a deep strength, radiating down from his arms where his movements start on stage, the energy shooting out through his fingertips, gripping tight, always tight, so that his drumsticks (so that Jon, or Brendon, or Ryan) can't get away from him (like they'd ever dream of it).

He silently adds a second finger, no warning, and is rewarded with a sensory overload: a tightened grip, sending a shiver straight to his cock; the hiss of breath and sharp exhale that strikes the skin of his neck; the way he pulls back just in time to see the blinding blue disappear behind trembling eyelashes; the drop of Spencer's jaw, swollen pink lips parted in a shape that spurs a thousand fantasies in what's left of Jon's brain.

No matter how many times they've done this...

He doesn't even need to finish the thought when Spencer opens his eyes a little wider, smiling shakily: he gets it.

"Go on," Spencer chokes out. "Need you, just fucking do it."

Backing off to rip open the condom wrapper, Jon flinches at the lack of Spencer's warmth against him, the sudden shock of air making him fumble a bit.

"Gimme," Spencer snaps, his brow wrinkling in annoyance as he makes a grab. "You're gonna rip it."

"Wouldn't want to get you knocked up, now would we?"

"Asshole," Spencer gasps, half grinning and almost surprised, like Jon's foreplay sarcasm isn't his fucking trademark, for fuck's sake.

But then Spencer's unrolling the condom right over Jon's cock and his hands are so fucking warm and oh yeah, they're on his cock, and Spencer's face is tight in concentration before he finally relaxes, settling back into the overstocked mass of hotel pillows and pulling Jon with him, guiding him into place, and Jon knows the jokes are done.

It always floors him, leaves him breathless, when it's the two of them like this: the way Spencer keeps his eyes wide open right through it, locked to Jon's, won't even go for it unless Jon's looking straight at him. It's so different from the others; Ryan's eyes drop shut, lost to the sensation, and Brendon kisses him straight through. But Spencer, Spencer always watches him, daring him to look away, and it's so fucking intense it kind of makes Jon feel like gravity's seeping out of the atmosphere and he's just floating, maybe on air, or maybe in some ocean vaguely the shade of Spencer's eyes.

They breathe again when he's all the way in, and Spencer's barely muttered "Oh, god" is the only sound for miles.

Jon has to close his eyes then, or he's sure Spencer will know, he's sure what's in his head can't possibly stay there through this, he's sure it'll all just come spilling out through his gaze somehow. He'll never know when he fell in love with Spencer Smith, just that it was long, long before any of this started; and all he knows is it can't come out. Not yet, not as long as this magic exists between the four of them, and it's enough, because really, they're all a little bit in love with each other, and it is enough -- hell, it's more than enough, it's fucking heaven -- for all its imperfections.

He can't bring himself to remember any of those imperfections now, though, with Spencer surrounding him tight and hot, muscles contracting around him as he slides out a few inches and pushes in for the first thrust.

"Jon."

The syllable is faded, wispy, like it had just been teetering on the edge of his lips and just fell out with his breath, involuntary. Jon starts to build a rhythm as he wills his senses into submission, feeling Spencer's hips meet his at every beat. This part is always overwhelming with Spence, his sense of rhythm, the way he can match whatever pace Jon sets, steady and certain and effortless, like it's just part of their music, and really, it is; this, thing, whether they even realize it, has seeped into their music, their writing, their performances, unbidden and electrifying.

Spencer's usually vocal, whether with words or incoherent syllables, but it's different now, no show to put on, and Jon lets the soft gasps wash over him, intoxicated by this quiet, submissive Spencer he's not used to but, fuck, could so get used to. And it's still surreal, wrapped up in Spencer's scent all on its own, a subtle vanilla not mixed with Ryan's fresh aftershave, or Brendon's peachy... Brendonness. It doesn't feel wrong, or better, only different, more concentrated, focused, like everything now.

They both let themselves fall to the edge insanely fast, with no need to keep up stamina for second rounds or hold out for anyone else, and it hits them like lightning, how they're just suddenly there, Spencer shooting hot, wet ribbons into Jon's hand, and everything going blank behind Jon's eyes as he spills into the impossibly beautiful boy beneath him, joining their mouths at the last moment to kiss him through it, taste the whimpers as their trembling bodies slowly begin to recover.

Jon curls up against Spencer's side when it's over, head on Spencer's shoulder, dragging his fingers along the smooth expanse of warmth before him, across a nipple, down over the velvet-soft skin of Spencer's stomach, coming to rest at his hip, squeezing gently as he nuzzles whatever he can reach, Spencer's arms strong and secure around him, urging him closer.

"It's so quiet," he whispers, feeling odd without Ryan or Brendon wrapped around him from the other side. "And my back is cold."

Spencer chuckles a bit brokenly, still finding his voice. "Yeah." He kisses the top of Jon's head. "It's kind of weird without them."

"Yeah." And as Jon thinks about it for a moment, he realizes, in love or otherwise, to whatever varying degrees, there's something missing. "I kinda miss them."

"Yeah... me too."

He looks up for a moment, meeting Spencer's eyes (even brighter after he's come, something Jon noticed right from the beginning). His face is flushed, sated, but something in his eyes is a little unsettled.

"Wait," Jon says before disentangling their bodies, however reluctantly, ignoring Spencer's whine of protest as Jon climbs off the bed and rifles through their luggage until he locates his laptop. He flips it open and on, waits for the desktop to load, and immediately pulls up iTunes. He can feel Spencer's eyes on him as he scrolls through the endless tracks, finally mumbling a triumphant "Ah," before clicking on a selection.

As he crawls back over to Spencer, settling back into the embrace, the opening chords to a recording they'd made a few weeks ago on the bus hum through the laptop's speakers. They'd written it, all four of them, out of the blue, recorded it so they wouldn't forget it, acoustic and clear and soft. Brendon and Ryan both sang, a first (a first of many, they'd realized, upon hearing how beautiful their voices meshed in harmony), and they'd working-titled it "Northern Downpour" off one of the opening lines.

Spencer's grinning as Jon climbs back into bed beside him, pulling the older boy close to him and burying his face in Jon's neck.

"Better?" Jon whispers, dropping a kiss to his forehead.

"Perfect," Spencer mumbles.

And it is. Despite all imperfections, it is.

[fin.]

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halighanawfulie.livejournal.com

This was amazing. I loved it :)

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