fic: Fuck the Paradox
Fuck the Paradox
~1920 words
Jon/Spencer | NC-17 | For foxxcub's Porn Meme
UNBETA'D, JUST RANDOM PORN, GUYS, ANY AND ALL ERRORS AND SUCK ARE MINE. CRACKED OUT CONCEPT IS FOR FICKLISH
ETA Please to ignore how I confused Spencer's age and wrote him as 17 when he's actually 18. *jedi mind trick*
Spencer says he has stupid hair.
“I’m from the future,” Jon explains. “We all have stupid hair, in the future.”
“And beards?”
Spencer cocks his hips the same way he does now, in the present, in Jon’s now, but it’s different without the shoulders and the wide back, different when Jon doesn’t have to look up to see Spencer smirking at him. Actually, no, he gets to look down at Spencer. Like, a quarter of an inch, maybe, and only if he puffs out his chest and lifts his chin, but it totally fucking counts.
“And beards,” he confirms.
“Fat chance.” Spencer snorts. He slumps against the wall a little, and he’s so fucking little, it makes Jon want to break him. But not in, like, a violent way, no, more like he wants to fuck him in half.
Jon grins. “You, especially.”
“Especially?”
“With the beard.”
‘Yeah, ok.” Spencer’s eyes roll, and Jon can tell that he’s about to call him a liar again, but then he hears his own voice from the other side of the wall - tipsy, younger, shouting for Spencer - and Bill clambering after him, shouting, “Jon, Jon don’t hog all the pretty,” and Spencer’s eyes freeze, wide open. His mouth drops into a perfect O - and Jon wants to fuck it, would if he thought he could get Spencer on his knees right now - and then snaps shut, Spencer breathing, “Shit,” and dragging Jon further away from his past-self.
Jon hears Spencer muttering something about the Space-Time Continuum and paradox and sucking them all into a black hole alternate universe where he's in some sort of polka band called Panic! at the Squaredance, or something equally horrifying.
They wind up in a random section of the venue, high, high enough that Jon knows if he came up here tomorrow and watched the show, he wouldn’t see any of Spencer’s details. Not the blue eyes, or the smooth, pale skin, or the hands, callused, with too-long fingers, and definitely, definitely not the freckles. Jon loves the freckles, he can’t help but to lift his finger and trace them across Spencer’s nose, over his cheekbone, down over his shoulder - connecting dots Spencer won’t have for two more years into his own name.
“Ok,” Spencer says, once he’s knocked Jon’s hand off of his shoulder, and settled into one of the wide, upholstered venue seats. “So, you’re from the future. Why?”
“Why… am I from the future?”
“Why,” Spencer says, his voice twanging with impatience, “are you here from the future?”
“Oh.” Honestly, Jon had expected Spencer to be more impressed. Like, wowed, maybe. Possibly, when he’d played this out, there’d been swooning. Certainly not this interrogation. “I thought I’d visit,” Jon attempts.
“From, what, like two years in the future? Someone invents time travel, and you’re like, “Oh, hey, I’ll just go back a couple of years and say hi to the guys”?”
Well, no. “Don’t be silly,” Jon says. “I have a really good reason for coming back.”
Spencer folds his hands in his lap and looks up at Jon, equal parts bitchy and expectant, and Jon’s stomach whooshes away from him, back to this time, when every time he saw Spencer, saw his ridiculous hips and his fucking mouth, Jon’s stomach got so sickeagernervous that he’d spent literally the first three days on tour avoiding direct eye contact. It’s five days into the tour now, he knows, which means he’s just left that phase and entered the ‘following Spencer around in a totally cool and smooth way’.
Except that he hears himself again, stumbling half-drunk across the stage below, calling Spencer’s name, and he realizes he was neither cool nor smooth, but rather so fucking desperate to kiss a fucking eighteen-year-old boy that he hadn’t really cared who knew.
These days, he cares a lot less about who knows.
“You could get on with it,” Spencer says, eyebrow arched. “Telling me, anyway. Is it majorly important? Is there a plane I need to not get on, or maybe I should tell Ryan not to date that crazy fucking girl who keeps writing him, because she’s going to lie about her birth control and get pregnant with illegitimate triplets or something?”
Erm. No. “Well,” Jon says, drawing the word out until he can get in a seat next to Spencer, wrestle the arm rest up, and press their sides close together. “No. But, like, you said that when you were eighteen, you wouldn’t have fucked me.”
Spencer gapes.
Jon smiles winningly.
“I was right.” Spencer’s mouth finally starts working again, purses at Jon, somewhere between amusement and annoyance - Jon can read that now, he can read every single way Spencer’s lips bend, in either direction. “I wouldn’t.”
Jon smiles again, even brighter. “But you’re wrong, Spencer Smith. You want me.”
“Kind of don’t,” Spencer says, cheerfully, smiling with his whole face. “Sorry.”
“Really, really do.”
“No, pretty much don’t.”
Jon knows better, because Jon remembers two days from now (or then? Whatever, time travel is confusing), when he catches (caught?) Spencer staring at him, fresh out of the shower, and he knows that look now, there’s no way he’s misinterpreted it in retrospect. Spencer Smith wants him.
“Prove it.”
Spencer’s eyebrow goes up again, the corners of his mouth fighting to join it. “Are you confused? Did you mean to travel back to a time when I was eleven and that would work? Because seriously, Walker, that’s kind of pervy.”
“Ok,” Jon says easily. “I’ll prove it.”
He catches Spencer mid-eyeroll; he knows because his eyes are still open when their lips slide together, and then Spencer’s lashes flutter and fall half-shut, and yes, yes, Jon was totally right about this, because he has months and months of experience with the intricacies of Spencer’s breathing and he knows this one, this soft exhale, like the back of his fucking hand.
And considering how long he went before he finally, fucking finally kissed Spencer Smith, despite sleeping so close to him that he could smell his fucking shampoo through the bottom of the bunk, Jon’s really, intimately familiar with the back of his hand.
It’s probably not fair, the fact that Jon’s spent all of this time memorizing Spencer’s kinks, learning that fingertips ghosting in the bend of his elbow, or sloppy kisses that scrape his lower lip, or cold knuckles pressed against his stomach out in the open, where anyone can see, that all of that flips him on like a switch.
Jon exploits his knowledge shamelessly; he slips onto his knees in the arena. The seats are so close together that his feet bend back uncomfortably, the floor is concrete and uncomfortable under his knees, but Spencer’s mouth is shiny-wet and open above him, and he’s staring down at Jon in a way that he used to think was drowsy but now, now he knows it’s got nothing to do with sleep.
“Jon,” Spencer says urgently. “Venue, Jon. Anyone could-”
“I know.” He bites Spencer’s thigh through the seam of his jeans and Spencer interrupts himself, moans a little.
Moans a lot, once Jon gets Spencer’s zipper down and his mouth on Spencer’s cock, pulls off and licks the slit. It’s. It’s Spencer, it’s the same Spencer, the same taste, but the noises he’s making are higher, and his fingers are tighter in Jon’s hair, less schooled, less control, less stamina, and that’s why Spencer’s bucking into his mouth already- not just because Jon’s good at this, because he knows how to make Spencer forget his own name, but because he’s eight-fucking-teen.
He waits until Spencer’s leaking heavily, salty, hot, thick on Jon’s tongue - for all values of wait, where wait equals swallowing Spencer’s cock and pulsing his tongue against it, moaning, palming himself through his jeans - and then he pulls off with a slurp, licking the crease of Spencer’s thigh. “I’m gonna fuck you now,”
Spencer whimpers and pushes his hips up, and it’s tempting, but no. No. “No,” Jon says. “Up, Spence, get up.”
Jon already has the condom out of his pocket, the lube between his teeth, and Spencer’s maybe laughing at him, but he’s also struggling out of the seat in the few inches Jon’s left him, toeing off his shoes and wiggling out of his jeans. “Cocky,” he says, and yeah, he’s definitely laughing, but his voice is taut around the gusts of laughter, ends sharp on the y.
“Turn around,” Jon says. He grins up at Spencer, from the floor, condom on, lube pooling in one palm, and he feels ridiculous, yeah, but he’s also going to fuck Spencer, so. “Turn,” he says again, and presses on Spencer’s hip until he turns, then pushes him forward until Spencer gets it, climbs up onto the seat with his knees pressed into the fold and his elbows braced on the back.
Jon starts with one finger; it’s slick and easy, pressing in, just long enough that Spencer’s used to it, and then he adds a second and twists up, exactly right, and Spencer makes the same keening noise that Jon hears on his luckier nights two years in the future.
“You could’ve-” Spencer pants, choking out the words around the thick press of Jon into him (so tight, so fucking tight). “Told yourself. Past self. To, fuck.”
“No.” When he’s in, all the way in, out of his fucking mind with it, he’s close enough to curl over Spencer’s back and mouth at his ear. “Waited two years. Wanted to do it myself.”
Fucking Spencer at this age is. Well, he’s narrower, in the hips, through the shoulders; paler, with longer hair that brushes Jon’s wrists when he twines his fingers through it and pulls Spencer’s head back enough to scrape his teeth down Spencer’s neck. He’s quieter, or tries to be, choking back Jon’s name, failing on the hard, consonants at the end of curse words. He says please sooner, begging for Jon to touch him way more quickly than Jon’s Spencer would - Jon’s Spencer saves begging as a last resort, not giving in until he’s riding Jon, writhing, his wrists pinned hard to the ceiling of the bunk - pleading with Jon as soon as he stops savoring the slide and starts fucking Spencer hard enough to push his hips forward.
Jon does the math, fucks into Spencer hard enough to push Spencer’s cock against the vintage velvet of the seat back. He fucks, and savors, and maps out Spencer’s skin, every inch of it, and not until his hips are jerking erratically does he press his knee into the seat next to Spencer’s. It drives him even fucking deeper, so much it almost hurts, but Spencer’s pushing back against him, babbling nonsense and pressing up so he can get his own hand free, pry it off the seat back and wrap it around himself and stroke, but Jon’s not going to let that happen. He didn’t wait two years to miss this.
His palm almost spans the space between Spencer’s shoulder blades. He puts it there and presses down, bends Spencer over the seat and reaches around his hips and jerks him off, just right, he knows this rhythm like his own heartbeat, and he has Spencer clenching around him, whining his name just in time to come, slamming back in and burying his teeth and the instinct to say I love you into the back of Spencer’s shoulder.
NOW AVAILABLE: Future!Spencer/Baby!Jon in this same verse, by foxxcub, RIGHT HERE.
~1920 words
Jon/Spencer | NC-17 | For foxxcub's Porn Meme
UNBETA'D, JUST RANDOM PORN, GUYS, ANY AND ALL ERRORS AND SUCK ARE MINE. CRACKED OUT CONCEPT IS FOR FICKLISH
ETA Please to ignore how I confused Spencer's age and wrote him as 17 when he's actually 18. *jedi mind trick*
Spencer says he has stupid hair.
“I’m from the future,” Jon explains. “We all have stupid hair, in the future.”
“And beards?”
Spencer cocks his hips the same way he does now, in the present, in Jon’s now, but it’s different without the shoulders and the wide back, different when Jon doesn’t have to look up to see Spencer smirking at him. Actually, no, he gets to look down at Spencer. Like, a quarter of an inch, maybe, and only if he puffs out his chest and lifts his chin, but it totally fucking counts.
“And beards,” he confirms.
“Fat chance.” Spencer snorts. He slumps against the wall a little, and he’s so fucking little, it makes Jon want to break him. But not in, like, a violent way, no, more like he wants to fuck him in half.
Jon grins. “You, especially.”
“Especially?”
“With the beard.”
‘Yeah, ok.” Spencer’s eyes roll, and Jon can tell that he’s about to call him a liar again, but then he hears his own voice from the other side of the wall - tipsy, younger, shouting for Spencer - and Bill clambering after him, shouting, “Jon, Jon don’t hog all the pretty,” and Spencer’s eyes freeze, wide open. His mouth drops into a perfect O - and Jon wants to fuck it, would if he thought he could get Spencer on his knees right now - and then snaps shut, Spencer breathing, “Shit,” and dragging Jon further away from his past-self.
Jon hears Spencer muttering something about the Space-Time Continuum and paradox and sucking them all into a black hole alternate universe where he's in some sort of polka band called Panic! at the Squaredance, or something equally horrifying.
They wind up in a random section of the venue, high, high enough that Jon knows if he came up here tomorrow and watched the show, he wouldn’t see any of Spencer’s details. Not the blue eyes, or the smooth, pale skin, or the hands, callused, with too-long fingers, and definitely, definitely not the freckles. Jon loves the freckles, he can’t help but to lift his finger and trace them across Spencer’s nose, over his cheekbone, down over his shoulder - connecting dots Spencer won’t have for two more years into his own name.
“Ok,” Spencer says, once he’s knocked Jon’s hand off of his shoulder, and settled into one of the wide, upholstered venue seats. “So, you’re from the future. Why?”
“Why… am I from the future?”
“Why,” Spencer says, his voice twanging with impatience, “are you here from the future?”
“Oh.” Honestly, Jon had expected Spencer to be more impressed. Like, wowed, maybe. Possibly, when he’d played this out, there’d been swooning. Certainly not this interrogation. “I thought I’d visit,” Jon attempts.
“From, what, like two years in the future? Someone invents time travel, and you’re like, “Oh, hey, I’ll just go back a couple of years and say hi to the guys”?”
Well, no. “Don’t be silly,” Jon says. “I have a really good reason for coming back.”
Spencer folds his hands in his lap and looks up at Jon, equal parts bitchy and expectant, and Jon’s stomach whooshes away from him, back to this time, when every time he saw Spencer, saw his ridiculous hips and his fucking mouth, Jon’s stomach got so sickeagernervous that he’d spent literally the first three days on tour avoiding direct eye contact. It’s five days into the tour now, he knows, which means he’s just left that phase and entered the ‘following Spencer around in a totally cool and smooth way’.
Except that he hears himself again, stumbling half-drunk across the stage below, calling Spencer’s name, and he realizes he was neither cool nor smooth, but rather so fucking desperate to kiss a fucking eighteen-year-old boy that he hadn’t really cared who knew.
These days, he cares a lot less about who knows.
“You could get on with it,” Spencer says, eyebrow arched. “Telling me, anyway. Is it majorly important? Is there a plane I need to not get on, or maybe I should tell Ryan not to date that crazy fucking girl who keeps writing him, because she’s going to lie about her birth control and get pregnant with illegitimate triplets or something?”
Erm. No. “Well,” Jon says, drawing the word out until he can get in a seat next to Spencer, wrestle the arm rest up, and press their sides close together. “No. But, like, you said that when you were eighteen, you wouldn’t have fucked me.”
Spencer gapes.
Jon smiles winningly.
“I was right.” Spencer’s mouth finally starts working again, purses at Jon, somewhere between amusement and annoyance - Jon can read that now, he can read every single way Spencer’s lips bend, in either direction. “I wouldn’t.”
Jon smiles again, even brighter. “But you’re wrong, Spencer Smith. You want me.”
“Kind of don’t,” Spencer says, cheerfully, smiling with his whole face. “Sorry.”
“Really, really do.”
“No, pretty much don’t.”
Jon knows better, because Jon remembers two days from now (or then? Whatever, time travel is confusing), when he catches (caught?) Spencer staring at him, fresh out of the shower, and he knows that look now, there’s no way he’s misinterpreted it in retrospect. Spencer Smith wants him.
“Prove it.”
Spencer’s eyebrow goes up again, the corners of his mouth fighting to join it. “Are you confused? Did you mean to travel back to a time when I was eleven and that would work? Because seriously, Walker, that’s kind of pervy.”
“Ok,” Jon says easily. “I’ll prove it.”
He catches Spencer mid-eyeroll; he knows because his eyes are still open when their lips slide together, and then Spencer’s lashes flutter and fall half-shut, and yes, yes, Jon was totally right about this, because he has months and months of experience with the intricacies of Spencer’s breathing and he knows this one, this soft exhale, like the back of his fucking hand.
And considering how long he went before he finally, fucking finally kissed Spencer Smith, despite sleeping so close to him that he could smell his fucking shampoo through the bottom of the bunk, Jon’s really, intimately familiar with the back of his hand.
It’s probably not fair, the fact that Jon’s spent all of this time memorizing Spencer’s kinks, learning that fingertips ghosting in the bend of his elbow, or sloppy kisses that scrape his lower lip, or cold knuckles pressed against his stomach out in the open, where anyone can see, that all of that flips him on like a switch.
Jon exploits his knowledge shamelessly; he slips onto his knees in the arena. The seats are so close together that his feet bend back uncomfortably, the floor is concrete and uncomfortable under his knees, but Spencer’s mouth is shiny-wet and open above him, and he’s staring down at Jon in a way that he used to think was drowsy but now, now he knows it’s got nothing to do with sleep.
“Jon,” Spencer says urgently. “Venue, Jon. Anyone could-”
“I know.” He bites Spencer’s thigh through the seam of his jeans and Spencer interrupts himself, moans a little.
Moans a lot, once Jon gets Spencer’s zipper down and his mouth on Spencer’s cock, pulls off and licks the slit. It’s. It’s Spencer, it’s the same Spencer, the same taste, but the noises he’s making are higher, and his fingers are tighter in Jon’s hair, less schooled, less control, less stamina, and that’s why Spencer’s bucking into his mouth already- not just because Jon’s good at this, because he knows how to make Spencer forget his own name, but because he’s eight-fucking-teen.
He waits until Spencer’s leaking heavily, salty, hot, thick on Jon’s tongue - for all values of wait, where wait equals swallowing Spencer’s cock and pulsing his tongue against it, moaning, palming himself through his jeans - and then he pulls off with a slurp, licking the crease of Spencer’s thigh. “I’m gonna fuck you now,”
Spencer whimpers and pushes his hips up, and it’s tempting, but no. No. “No,” Jon says. “Up, Spence, get up.”
Jon already has the condom out of his pocket, the lube between his teeth, and Spencer’s maybe laughing at him, but he’s also struggling out of the seat in the few inches Jon’s left him, toeing off his shoes and wiggling out of his jeans. “Cocky,” he says, and yeah, he’s definitely laughing, but his voice is taut around the gusts of laughter, ends sharp on the y.
“Turn around,” Jon says. He grins up at Spencer, from the floor, condom on, lube pooling in one palm, and he feels ridiculous, yeah, but he’s also going to fuck Spencer, so. “Turn,” he says again, and presses on Spencer’s hip until he turns, then pushes him forward until Spencer gets it, climbs up onto the seat with his knees pressed into the fold and his elbows braced on the back.
Jon starts with one finger; it’s slick and easy, pressing in, just long enough that Spencer’s used to it, and then he adds a second and twists up, exactly right, and Spencer makes the same keening noise that Jon hears on his luckier nights two years in the future.
“You could’ve-” Spencer pants, choking out the words around the thick press of Jon into him (so tight, so fucking tight). “Told yourself. Past self. To, fuck.”
“No.” When he’s in, all the way in, out of his fucking mind with it, he’s close enough to curl over Spencer’s back and mouth at his ear. “Waited two years. Wanted to do it myself.”
Fucking Spencer at this age is. Well, he’s narrower, in the hips, through the shoulders; paler, with longer hair that brushes Jon’s wrists when he twines his fingers through it and pulls Spencer’s head back enough to scrape his teeth down Spencer’s neck. He’s quieter, or tries to be, choking back Jon’s name, failing on the hard, consonants at the end of curse words. He says please sooner, begging for Jon to touch him way more quickly than Jon’s Spencer would - Jon’s Spencer saves begging as a last resort, not giving in until he’s riding Jon, writhing, his wrists pinned hard to the ceiling of the bunk - pleading with Jon as soon as he stops savoring the slide and starts fucking Spencer hard enough to push his hips forward.
Jon does the math, fucks into Spencer hard enough to push Spencer’s cock against the vintage velvet of the seat back. He fucks, and savors, and maps out Spencer’s skin, every inch of it, and not until his hips are jerking erratically does he press his knee into the seat next to Spencer’s. It drives him even fucking deeper, so much it almost hurts, but Spencer’s pushing back against him, babbling nonsense and pressing up so he can get his own hand free, pry it off the seat back and wrap it around himself and stroke, but Jon’s not going to let that happen. He didn’t wait two years to miss this.
His palm almost spans the space between Spencer’s shoulder blades. He puts it there and presses down, bends Spencer over the seat and reaches around his hips and jerks him off, just right, he knows this rhythm like his own heartbeat, and he has Spencer clenching around him, whining his name just in time to come, slamming back in and burying his teeth and the instinct to say I love you into the back of Spencer’s shoulder.
NOW AVAILABLE: Future!Spencer/Baby!Jon in this same verse, by foxxcub, RIGHT HERE.