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Spencer is trying desperately to not be nervous about Tommy being in his apartment.
This isn’t even the first time Tommy’s been here; many times over the years they’ve known each other, Tommy’s either been invited over, dropped something off for Spencer, or shown up of his own volition without asking first. The last one is rare; rare enough to be singular. Tommy once took an Uber to Spencer’s place instead of his own, deep into drunkenness and not thinking clearly. He slept on Spencer’s bed that night while Spencer took the sofa.
Tommy’s been to his apartment before, and Spencer knows exactly why he’s teetering on nervousness now, and it has everything to do with Tommy’s duffel bag of clothes and a toothbrush that Tommy is currently finding a home for in Spencer’s bedroom.
Spencer looks at his phone, watches the icon for their pizza delivery move across the map. He can hear Tommy snooping in his room, the distinct sound of someone else being in your space. He wonders if his room smells terrible. Would Tommy tell him if it did? Spencer wanted this—wants this, wants it more than anything he’s wanted in a while. Tommy kissed him after he walked into the apartment, and Spencer is close to realizing that he wants that for the rest of his life.
He wishes he could stop being neurotic about Tommy being in his apartment, it’s kinda ruining the vibe.
He thinks about kissing Tommy again, that usually helps whenever he starts getting too much into his own head. Of course, inevitably, that starts him on the next best thought exercise, which is thinking about touching Tommy and being touched by Tommy and letting Tommy take his clothes off slowly. Maybe he needs to stop thinking about kissing Tommy so often, the pizza delivery guy doesn’t need to be subjected to that shit.
Spencer is still trying to pretend he’s not turned on by his own imagination when he’s interrupted by Tommy asked “Why do you still have this?”
Spencer blushes as an automatic response—he never did that before Tommy, he doesn’t think. Tommy said once, whispered it, that he loved when Spencer got flustered. He doesn’t think he has anything to be flustered by this time, not yet anyway. The night is still young.
Spencer looks up to see Tommy in the doorway to his bedroom, holding up a familiar bunch of red and white fabric. Now Spencer has a reason to be embarrassed, actually.
Okay, look—look—Spencer meant to take the red and white polka-dotted apron back to the Smosh office ages ago. But at a certain point, sometimes when you steal something from the office, you pass the point of no return. If he takes it back now, even if he tries to hide it, he knows someone is going to notice and ask him about it, and then he’ll be subjected to jokes about wearing it in his spare time, and then he’ll laugh good naturedly and make the same jokes right back. It’s not a big deal, he just has other jokes at his expense he’s willing to put up with right now, and teehee-Spencer-likes-to-wear-dresses isn’t one of them.
Tommy isn’t teasing him. He’s smiling, and there’s laughter in his eyes, but there’s something about it. The laughter has meanings, levels of fondness that Spencer has been learning the intricacies of ever since they started dating. This particular flavor of laughter is you’re-so-stupid-how-did-you-keep-this-for-two-years?
If only he’d stop blushing, that’d help. “I wear it in my spare time. I like the airflow.” He tries for nonchalant, but his voice cracks in the middle of the sentence.
Tommy, understandably, zones in on it. He narrows his eyes at Spencer, studying him. There’s an entire room between them, but Spencer feels as though Tommy is crowding into his space and looming over him. It’s not the worst feeling in the world. “Do you?” Tommy asks genuinely.
With a dry swallow, Spencer tries to speak around the new nervousness in his throat. “No. It’s a bit.”
“I saw the selfie. From a few years ago.”
“You and a certain sect of the internet, yeah.”
“You like wearing it, don’t you?”
Spencer was afraid of this from anyone else, but coming from Tommy’s it’s…it’s almost a relief? A simultaneous conglomeration, relief and arousal and realization. Does he like wearing the apron?
Before he can figure it out, the doorbell rings.
“Pizza,” he offers lamely, walking towards the interruption of…whatever the hell is happening right now.
Unfortunately—fortunately?—Tommy cuts off his path, soft grip on Spencer’s bicep and a new expression that Spencer can’t quite parse. There’s a long second where they stare at each other, then Tommy says quietly. “I’ll get that. You put this on,” and pushes the apron into Spencer’s hand.
Oh. Oh that’s what’s going on. Spencer realizes very viscerally that this is something he wants badly and desperately.
He doesn't close the door after he enters his room, listening vaguely to the sounds of Tommy opening the door and making minor small talk with whoever delivered their pizza. Should it be embarrassing that he’s already hard? Maybe the more mortifying part is that he has to stop himself from moaning after he realizes it. He’s starting to understand what sensory overload means, because the feeling of his own clothing dragging over his skin makes his brain feel fuzzy and clouded. He’s still not sure what’s come over him, not positive on what’s going to happen after he puts on the apron—only the apron—and walks out to face whatever Tommy is planning for him, but he thinks he’s going to like it.
His hands shake as he ties the apron strings in a terrible knot. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror as he walks out.
They’ve traded places: Tommy is leaning against one of the kitchen counters, eyes immediately fixed on Spencer. There’s a glare from the overhead lamp on Tommy’s glasses, so Spencer can’t see his expression very well except for the smile. Without direction to guide him, Spencer does the only thing he can think of: jazz hands. “Ta-da.”
There’s a choked off laugh, which was the desired outcome, Spencer will always take an opportunity to either cut the tension in the room or add to it. Tommy walks towards him slowly, and both expression and intent become clearer the closer he gets. By the time Tommy is standing in front of him and looking down, Spencer thinks he understands a little better why he likes wearing the apron. Tommy lifts a hand, cups Spencer’s cheek. “If, at any point, I say something you don’t like, I want you to tell me, okay?”
Spencer nods, but there’s something in the question that makes him think he should also answer aloud. “Okay.”
“If I do anything you don’t like, I want you to tell me. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Tommy kisses him then. Like Spencer was ever going to not be okay with that. He should have known, suspected, that the kiss was only to calm him down, prepare him for whatever Tommy threw at him next. Tommy turns Spencer’s head with a gentle nudge and whispers in his ear “Are you a good girl?”
Fuck.
Yeah, okay. Yeah. Okay, yeah. Yep. Sure. Yep.
Apparently Spencer says all of that out loud, because Tommy is kissing him in interruption. “Breathe.”
Sometime during all of that, apparently Spencer’s hands grew minds of their own and planted themselves on Tommy’s biceps in a vice grip. He breathes. He loosens his grip, but doesn’t move his hands. He looks up at Tommy resolutely, maybe a little stubbornly. “I’m breathing.”
Tommy nods. “Good job.” He leans down again. “Tell me you’re a good girl.”
Well, okay, the reminder to breathe felt patronizing earlier, but it’s apparently necessary. Spencer takes in a breath, lets it out. He can’t stop looking at up at Tommy, taking up even his peripheral vision; an all-encompassing everything. “I’m a good girl,” he says, steady and unwavering.
Kiss, breathe, and Spencer can hear himself making new sounds as Tommy is suddenly all over him. Every day, every moment since Tommy first started kissing him, Spencer keeps on finding out new things about himself: sounds and words and experiences and sensations. It’s fascinating how you can live a life, think you’ve lived enough of it, and still be surprised by the unexpected. He doesn’t expect Tommy’s hands to curl into his hair, but they do, and Spencer doesn’t expect the gasp that escapes him unwittingly at it. He doesn’t expect one of Tommy’s hands to travel down, touching Spencer all the while, and land on hip. His palm is on the cloth of the apron, but his fingertips are on Spencer’s skin. They dig in there.
Spencer never wanted to be bruised before now.
Tommy stops kissing him to speak into his ear again. “You’re such a good girl. My good girl.”
Spencer never wanted to be wanted before now. Not like this.
“Tell me you’re my good girl.” Tommy’s still digging his fingertips into Spencer’s thigh. Base instincts kick in, or something like it, surely, and Spencer hikes his leg around Tommy’s waist. Tommy hums in approval, so apparently it was the right move to make.
He feels compelled to answer, has to before he loses any more mental functions. “I’m your good girl.”
It’s Tommy’s turn to moan, but he stays on task better than Spencer does. “Good, baby. You’re doing good.” Tommy grinds their hips together, and Spencer processes that Tommy is hard. Just from telling Spencer he’s a good girl? From seeing him in polkadot and lace? He’s still learning the intricacies of this.
Tommy moans again before pulling away, only enough so that he and Spencer can look at each other. He drops Spencer’s legs—Spencer is grateful, it was starting to cramp. Tommy’s glasses are askew. Spencer doesn’t even know where his went. Tommy takes a breath, and it’s Spencer’s cue to do the same. “I want you to bend over the table in the kitchen. Is that okay?”
Can sex change you fundamentally as a person? Signs point to no, and it’s probably for the better of the society that it doesn’t, but maybe Spencer is a special case. Maybe’s he’s allowed for his very being to change, to be written anew—it’s like Tommy’s reaching into him and rearranging every pre-conceived notion he’s ever had about sex and sensuality.
He kinda gets sex cults now.
In a daze, after Tommy moves out of his way, he walks toward his kitchen table. He doesn’t have room in his brain for inane questions like “can his kitchen table handle my body weight?” or “what the fuck is Tommy planning?” or “is the pizza on the table and will I have to move it out of the way?”
The table is bare. In the absence of more direction, Spencer lowers himself onto the table, bending at the waist and resting his head on his folded arms.
“Spread your legs.”
Spencer does.
“Don’t lock your legs, bend them a little. Otherwise you’ll pass out.”
Spencer does.
“You’re such a slut.”
Now Spencer knows what an agonized moan feels like as it escapes him unbidden.
He doesn’t know for sure that Tommy is smiling, it’s more like he can sense it in the air, maybe? Fuck if Spencer knows anything anymore. There’s a hand on Spencer’s hip again, gentler than earlier, a simple touch that lets Spencer know that Tommy is there, that he isn’t leaving. Tommy’s other hand is on his back, right above where the apron knot is tied. When he pulls at it, the dangling ribbons move against Spencer’s ass, teases a shiver out of him. “You are such a whore.” Tommy’s hands move, raking his fingernails down over Spencer’s ass to his thighs, and then making the same trail back up. “Say it.”
His face must be so red right now. Spencer clenches his fist, pushes his face further into his forearms. “I’m your whore,” he says quietly, and has no intention of arguing it.
“Oh, my whore.” Spencer missed when Tommy knelt, apparently, because Tommy’s mouth is suddenly biting where his hand just was. Spencer starts, and his cock drags against the underside of the table. Another moan. He’s glad he never met his neighbors. “That’s right, baby.” Spencer wishes he could fly out of his body and watch Tommy kneeling behind him, see what expression Tommy is wearing while he kisses and touches Spencer. Tommy speaks softly. “I’m going to eat you out, is that okay?”
“Yes,” he gasps out in consent, suddenly desperate for what Tommy is offering him.
Tommy is spreading him open then; Spencer’s done a lot of work over the months, over the years, to be comfortable with vulnerability. To undo the societal pressure to close himself off. Tommy has been an important part of that journey, there to help, but never to lead or insist on the growth. There’s something there, something in the back of Spencer’s mind, that makes him feel at ease with this. The comfort is compartmentalized together with the want, sharing the same space, the same soft glow of arousal.
“Oh, baby girl. You’re so pretty for me.” Tommy licks into him once, twice. “So wet for me.”
Spencer loses track of time and space and maybe everything corporeal and ethereal after that, save for a few exceptions. He can hear his own voice, gasping and moaning interspersed with Tommy’s name. He curses. “Tommy, babe, dude, fuck, oh, my god.” He can feel the concentrated wet heat of Tommy’s tongue around him, in him. Tommy’s fucked him before, Spencer insisted it on it desperately, but he feels more exposed like this, with Tommy’s mustache and beard scraping against his skin.
Spencer’s never wanted to be marked before now. He wants to itch with after effects. He wants to be filthy.
Tommy’s hands move, and one of them reaches between Spencer’s legs to take his cock in hand. Spencer had nearly forgotten it hadn’t been touched this whole time, and groans loudly. “Please,” he finds himself begging. “Please, fuck.”
Tommy moves, moans, and there’s hot breath against Spencer’s asshole. “Say you’re a good girl again.” There’s desperation in Tommy’s voice, it nearly breaks.
Spencer does as he’s told. “I’m a good girl,” he promises. Tommy is stroking him faster, tighter. On instinct, Spencer doesn’t even know where it comes from, he asks “Can I come?”
Tommy moans again. “Yes, baby. Good girl.”
Another open-mouthed kiss to Spencer’s hole, and he’s gone. He comes over Tommy’s fist, feels it smear against the fabric of the apron. He thrusts mindlessly, enamored with the feeling of his senses being overtaken. Dimly, distantly, he thinks about the concept of blacking out from pleasure. They should explore that in the future, maybe.
Tommy groans as he stands up, and if Spencer weren’t exhausted, he’d make a hilarious quip about Tommy being an old man. Tommy’s hands are on his sides now, gentle. “Bring your legs together, sweetheart. That’s it.” Spencer is moving very slowly, but he’s pleased at his doing a good job anyway. “I’m gonna help you stand. Do you want to sit on the floor, or do you think you can make it to the couch?”
It’s not even a choice, really. “Floor,” he answers. It’s significantly closer.
His arms shake as he uses them to lift himself up, resolutely tries not to let the rest of his body do the same. Tommy is there to hold him, support him. Somehow, Spencer isn’t too sure of how, he ends up on his kitchen floor, back supported by cabinets and his bare ass against the floor. Honestly, he can’t be bothered to care about how ridiculous he assuredly looks. Tommy is still standing, breathing his own deep breaths as he turns on the kitchen sink. He cups water in his hands, swishes it in his mouth, and bends to spit it back into the sink. He does this a few times, and Spencer is staring at him the whole time, unashamedly wide-eyed.
Tommy’s fly is undone—that’s weird.
Spencer pulls at Tommy’s pant leg. “Get down here. I wanna get you off.”
Tommy barks out a laugh, looks down at Spencer. “Desperate much?”
“I’m trying to get better at sucking dick, you gonna argue about it?” It’s amazing he has the energy to fake argue about dick-sucking at all.
Tommy laughs again, quieter. “No. But I, uh,” he fidgets. He’s not looking at Spencer.
Spencer gapes, finally understanding. “You fucking came from that?”
“Don’t do that,” Tommy says, and Spencer is finally allowed to see the blush on Tommy’s cheeks as he joins him on the floor, sitting beside him. “Don’t get a complex about it.”
“You fucking came from eating me out.” Spencer can’t stop staring at Tommy, who looks like he’s about three words from getting irritated. “That’s so cool.”
“It is so—“ Tommy interrupts himself to kiss Spencer. “It’s so fucking annoying how cute you are.”
Spencer isn’t even embarrassed about blushing anymore. He kisses Tommy back.
“Pizza’s getting cold,” Tommy says into Spencer’s mouth.
“It’s better that way anyway,” Spencer says back.