(no subject)
Rather than working on my co-write with my wifey, I decided to write this (inspiration you are going towards the wrong thing! -_-'), don't worry darling I will have it soon ♥
Title: You Could Be Happy
Pairing: Spencer/(Anyone you want, no name mentioned)
I’m standing at the sink; elbow deep in hot soapy water, scrubbing, rinsing, washing. Outside the sun is shining, casting a warm glow over the yard, pouring through the windowpanes to fill the house with light. Music is playing somewhere, softly filtering through the air, a steady press of beat and rhythm as always. There are pictures everywhere, some yours, some Tom’s, celebrations and quiet moments, smiles and embraces, all captured in the frames lining the walls. This is contentment, perfection.
Your hands suddenly on my hips, your fingers pressing into the skin. I feel you against my back, warm and steady, your mouth on my neck, beard scritch-scratching at my shoulders. I smile and allow myself to be turned, pressed against the counter; I’m so easy for you. Your hands move slowly, lingering on every bit of skin they come across, and suddenly I’m being lifted up onto the counter, you pressing your way between my spread legs and capturing my lips with an open mouth. I groan and cling to your shoulders, feeling muscle and strength beneath your t-shirt.
You’re whispering in between sweet kisses, little phrases that you tell me daily, telling me that I am beautiful, how good I feel in your hands, how much you want me. They never get old to hear. You pull back and I’m mesmerized by your lips, red and swollen they look so kissable, “Spence,” you say, getting my attention, “Spencer, I lov-“
I open my eyes.
And turn to face someone else’s sleepy smile.
Title: You Could Be Happy
Pairing: Spencer/(Anyone you want, no name mentioned)
I’m standing at the sink; elbow deep in hot soapy water, scrubbing, rinsing, washing. Outside the sun is shining, casting a warm glow over the yard, pouring through the windowpanes to fill the house with light. Music is playing somewhere, softly filtering through the air, a steady press of beat and rhythm as always. There are pictures everywhere, some yours, some Tom’s, celebrations and quiet moments, smiles and embraces, all captured in the frames lining the walls. This is contentment, perfection.
Your hands suddenly on my hips, your fingers pressing into the skin. I feel you against my back, warm and steady, your mouth on my neck, beard scritch-scratching at my shoulders. I smile and allow myself to be turned, pressed against the counter; I’m so easy for you. Your hands move slowly, lingering on every bit of skin they come across, and suddenly I’m being lifted up onto the counter, you pressing your way between my spread legs and capturing my lips with an open mouth. I groan and cling to your shoulders, feeling muscle and strength beneath your t-shirt.
You’re whispering in between sweet kisses, little phrases that you tell me daily, telling me that I am beautiful, how good I feel in your hands, how much you want me. They never get old to hear. You pull back and I’m mesmerized by your lips, red and swollen they look so kissable, “Spence,” you say, getting my attention, “Spencer, I lov-“
I open my eyes.
And turn to face someone else’s sleepy smile.