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As soon as John walked into the room, Smitty knew he was in for some kind of trouble.
It was just a flash of him in Smitty’s peripheral, nothing more than a glance, really. It was just a bit of color—rich sapphire blue and diamond white. Cocking a hip to the side, John leaned against the doorframe. The smell of pumpkin spice hit the air. There definitely wasn’t a mug in John’s hands, and he hadn’t been baking, so it was one of the soaps he had been using recently over anything else. Swallowing, Smitty quickly saved his work and then (hopefully casually) spun his chair around.
Slumped in a way that Smitty would describe as lazy in anyone else, but artful in him, John tilted his head slightly. His shirt’s collar had been cut at some point, widening the collar so it draped off of one shoulder. It’d been a recent thing—he’d been chopping his shirts up at random points, cutting off sleeves and sides to show off his flanks or cutting the collars to show off his shoulders. It worked, by the way. John’s wardrobe changing skills hit Smitty, too, turning his loose-fitted jeans into skinny ones at the waist. Metaphorically, not literally.
More importantly, he was wearing one of the more recent merch shirts Smitty had made and a pair of dark jeans belted at his navel. He might have been wearing eyeshadow, too, lids sparkling just a bit in the light of Smitty’s desk lamp. One hand hanging off the back of his neck, the other shoved in his pocket, he studied Smitty. “Working on something important?”
“Nothing I can’t pause. What’s up?” Smitty replied, turning to face him all the way.
Smiling, John sauntered forwards. His eyes continued to stay on Smitty. “Wanted to spend some time with you.” He spun Smitty’s chair around, looping his arms over the back of the chair and around Smitty’s neck. His nose pressed into Smitty’s hair. “Did you shower recently? Your hair smells nice.”
John knew when Smitty had showered last. They’d showered together. Still, he answered, anyways, “Last night. You?”
“Mmm, same time.” A hand traced down his chest, gentle. His breath hitched. John’s nose traced from his hair down behind his ear, then down his neck. Tilting his head to the side, Smitty closed his eyes. Lips traced over his skin. There was just a hint of teeth.
“John.” He murmured. “You’re doing this on purpose.”
When he replied, his voice was rough, rumbling. It sounded the way velvet looked, rich and soft and delicate all at once. There was heat swelling in his gut. Taking a breath, Smitty leaned into John’s mouth, let his boyfriend trace his mouth down to his collarbone. “Are you complaining?” John asked, softly.
“No.” Smitty turned his head further to the side. Hand running up his middle, John played his fingers over Smitty’s ribs. His fingers traced over Smitty’s neck, touched briefly but never tightened. “John.”
“What do you want?” John asked, softly. He let the tips of his painted nails brush Smitty’s skin. A chill ran up his spine. Gasping, Smitty straightened up in his seat. He grabbed his chair’s arms, digging his own nails into the soft leather.
Pulling away, John spun the chair around and grabbed the top of it, tilting Smitty like Rapunzel about to drop Flynn Rider on his ass.
Eyes wide, Smitty stared at him. His heart skipped a beat or two. Blue-gray eyes scanning him, John grinned. He had eyeshadow on, a hundred percent. Lip gloss, too, or something like that. There was a small smudge of pink at the corner of his mouth—Smitty wanted to kiss it away, knew John had picked one of the worse glosses he had on purpose, just so it would do that.
“John.” He repeated.
“That’s my name. What do you want?” When John smirked at him—genuinely smirked—Smitty’s heart skipped another beat. He was going to get a damn arrythmia if he wasn’t careful.
“You.” Blinking, Smitty shook his head like a cartoon character and spluttered, “Did I forget something? What’s today? Valentine’s?” He didn’t usually forget dates. It was Friday, wasn’t it?
He went to grab his computer mouse, but John stopped him.
“Nothing special. It’s Friday.” Oh, good, it was Friday. He hadn’t forgotten anything. He wasn’t neglecting—
John gently flicked him in the forehead. Blinking, Smitty yelped, “Hey.”
“Stop overthinking. This isn’t a puzzle.” Straightening up, one hand on his hip and doing this stupidly attractive slouch, John added, “Just in a mood.”
“A mood.” For once, Smitty’s many, many years of being a man failed him. “Do you want—”
With a loving roll of his eyes, John pulled him to his feet and said, “You’re such a fucking idiot. Come on, lover.”
He was pulled along, John’s hands gripping his. Shit, his boyfriend was attractive, the sun sparkling in his hair (he’d bleached and dyed it again, a soft blue that was beginning to fade to a more natural, light honey-brown now) as they walked through their kitchen and towards their bedroom. John could move through the house like a damn ghost, willowy and moving with a sort of grace Smitty just did not have these days. John could walk backwards and not hit a single thing. Smitty still got himself in the ribs on their counters at least once or twice a week.
When they got to their room, John switched their positions with care, kicked the door closed so Octavia didn’t wander in, and then shoved Smitty on the bed.
His back hit the mattress. Letting out a huff, Smitty stared up at John as his boyfriend climbed on top of him. “Hi.” He felt dumb. He felt really dumb. Still, anyone being straddled by their hot boyfriend in the bed would have the same reaction. He was only human!
Leaning over him, smiling, John replied, “Hi.”
Smitty gulped. His eyes flicked around John’s face. Fuck, he was pretty. And Smitty’s heart was kind of pounding in his chest. And he really needed John right then. “Please don’t make me beg.” He whispered.
“Maybe another time.” John leaned in and kissed him, fingers running around Smitty’s jaw to tangle in his curls. He tasted like apple tea and cinnamon and brown sugar. Eyes fluttering shut, groaning, Smitty pushed up into him, reached up and wrapped his hands around John’s wrists.
Blunt nails scraped across the nape of his neck, just above his hairline. John ended their kiss before they had to break off gasping. He was back for more a second later, though. Smitty’s hands landed on his cheeks. The smell of pumpkin mixed with the taste of his lip gloss. John’s hands traced down his body. His elbows were pressing into Smitty’s sides, pushing the mattress down as he kept the brunt of his weight off of Smitty. Not that he would have minded, but the hands running over his sides? Also great. He gasped into John’s lips, and his boyfriend didn’t seem to mind as he captured all the little gasps and soft noises he was making in his mouth. One hand slipped around his flank, finding the little strip of skin above his waistband.
John rubbed little circles into Smitty’s skin, knee slipping in between his legs.
Letting out a soft moan, Smitty squeezed his eyes tighter shut. His head tipped back, and John immediately switched tactics. He was pressing gentle kisses to the corner of Smitty’s mouth, running down his jaw and then his neck, over his pulse point. “Do you mind?” John asked. His breath fanned over Smitty’s neck.
Hands now on his boyfriend’s hips, Smitty choked out, “Fuck. Please.”
John’s lips were on his neck again, moustache scratching against his skin. Digging his shoulders into the mattress, Smitty groaned. His head was tilted to the side, giving John all the space he wanted. Teeth scratched his neck again. He pulled John’s hips down into his. There was a laugh, a tease.
Smitty was running his mouth between hitched breaths, anything and everything that came to mind. Mostly compliments. Almost entirely compliments, actually—about the pumpkin spice smell, the way John tasted—and everything else was just John’s name. Again and again and again. The whole time, John was grinning into his neck and marking him up.
“John.” Smitty said. Pulling back, John looked down at him. They shared a look.
The two of them could do that. Matt and the others hated it, they could have whole conversations that way (as if Matt and Smitty couldn’t do the same damn thing). Still, John just kissed him harder.
Fingers tangling together, Smitty inhaled pumpkin and cinnamon and apple, and lost himself in the taste.
Content and sore in all the best ways, Smitty sprawled out across the bed.
It wasn’t even late, but it was cold, and now they had their heater running nice and hot. He and John were cuddled up together. Was it perfect? Not even close—John’s knee was right back in between his legs, digging into his thigh, and Smitty was pretty sure he was taking up ninety percent of the bed and causing the problem. But whatever. He was comfy. Cozy.
Curled at the end of the bed, Octavia wagged her tail. The thump-thump-thump was a steady tempo. John had probably figured out how to pet her. Or maybe he was looking at her. Sometimes she just wagged her tail, anyways.
“Smitty,” John started, voice rumbling in his chest, “I’m hungry.”
Burying his face in John’s sternum, Smitty sighed instead, still content.