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blue_soaringFor @RealAuntieMaim. You are a doll. Also, I am apologising to no one for the title, so there.
Your Black and White Needs a Little Bit of Red
Glamdom. Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~3000 words. D/s. Breathplay.
"Rules, baby," Adam says, breaking away from Tommy's mouth with a hand on his throat.
*
Your Black and White Needs a Little Bit of Red
"Rules, baby," Adam says, breaking away from Tommy's mouth with a hand on his throat.
Tommy slumps into Adam's hold, breathing hard. He's straddling Adam's lap on a wide black couch, Adam's shirt bunched up in his fists. Heavy music thuds through his chest, almost nothing but a pure bass line overlaid with all the club's noises, the crack of leather and breaking voices, the slap of skin on skin. More than the sights, though they're always something, he loves the sounds. A dirty, pornographic soundtrack to the curve of Adam's lips, the heavy dark light in his eyes.
"Fucking rules," Tommy mutters.
"You wanted to play, sweetheart." Adam runs a finger down Tommy's bare arm, nail tracing ink then the shining buckle on the thick cuff encircling Tommy's wrist. The cuffs, like the crazy mesh shirt layered with leather straps, the skintight leather pants Adam's stuffed him in, are for show, part of the outfit. On the rare occasion Adam ties him down, it's for nobody's eyes but Adam's.
Tommy's kinda glad it's not their usual thing. He likes to touch when they're fucking. Likes to dig his nails into Adam's broad back, hear Adam hiss and call him a vicious little kitty. It's weird and stupidly cliché and hot all at once. He cracks up every time Adam grins down at him, telling him purr, kitty, purr for me, but Tommy ends up groaning deep in his chest anyway, game for silly and weird if it makes Adam smile for him, fuck him harder.
"Rules," Adam reminds him.
Rolling his eyes, Tommy plants his hands firmly in his lap. Somewhere, somebody moans, probably grateful they're finally getting fucked. At least they're getting some action, because Tommy sure as hell isn't.
"The rules are," Tommy recites, bleeding attitude, "I only touch you when and where you tell me I can touch you. Every time I fuck up, it's another fifteen minutes before you'll get your fucking hand on my dick."
"And how long do you have to wait now?" the sadistic fucker prompts.
Tommy reaches around for the phone in Adam's back pocket. Strictly speaking, anything capable of recording video isn't allowed inside the club proper, but Adam's VIP. VIPs get to bend the rules everywhere, even inside a kink club where secrecy is supposed to be the thing. That's the risk in coming to places like these.
It's the cocky arch of Adam's eyebrow that clues Tommy in on what he's about to do. Tommy grinds a curse through his teeth. "Can I take your phone out?" he asks.
"Of course," Adam says, hiking his hips up to make it easier.
Tommy mumbles, "Bitch," under his breath and slides his thumb across the touchscreen. "God fucking damn it," he says as the time blazes brightly. "Thirty-six Jesusfucking minutes, fuck."
"You did it to yourself, baby," Adam says, taking his phone back to tuck away.
"You fucking cheated," Tommy accuses, crossing his arms to keep from slapping Adam in the chest. "You totally tried to yank me down by my fucking hair."
Adam shrugs. "So you should've fallen."
Like he doesn't give a shit either way, Tommy tosses hair back out of his face. He knows he should've fallen. He wouldn't have gotten far, anyway--Adam always catches him. But it'd been instinct to grab for a handhold, try to keep his feet. He kept his feet all right, and he fucking lost Adam's hand cupped big and warm over his cock.
"What're you gonna do now, fucking stare at me for the next half hour?" Tommy asks, picking at the flaking polish on one of his nails.
Thumb tracing beneath Tommy's eye, Adam says, "That's not a bad idea. I like the purple."
Tommy sits up a little straighter. "Yeah? Thought you would." Between watching Sutan work and experimenting on his own, he's gotten really good at this whole pretty boy thing. He still gravitates towards the goth look, deep dark shadows around his eyes and blood-black lips, but Adam loves the rich shimmer of jewel tones, purples and greens and blues. Tonight Tommy went with a compromise, shiny soft gloss on his lips, cat eyes in purples and blacks with a rhinestone glint at each corner.
"Gorgeous," Adam says, brushing the backs of his fingers over the shaved side of Tommy's head.
Pushing at the limits of the rules, Tommy turns his face into Adam's hand. "Gorgeous enough to knock ten minutes off my wait time?"
"Definitely," Adam says, and a fresh rush of blood surges south, triggering a shallow groan as Tommy's dick pushes against his fucking ball-strangling pants. There's seriously not enough room to get hard in these things without ending up a fucking cripple. "But no."
"Son of a bitch," Tommy says. "You suck, Lambert, you fucking suck, and your monster cock isn't getting anywhere near my asshole for a week after this."
Somebody says, "Your pet doesn't seem very fond of you."
Tommy twists around in Adam's lap, glare landing on a tall guy decked out in the usual black leather getup, the leash looped around his wrist connected to the collar of a girl sitting docilely at his feet, twin black star stickies covering her nipples and a tiny scrap of lace between her legs. Her head's bowed, curtain of hair hiding her face, but Tommy thinks she must be pretty. She feels pretty.
The guy's not half-bad, either, but Tommy doesn't much like that tone he's working. Joking and friendly, that comment's one thing; if it were said that way, maybe he wouldn't mind sitting down to have a drink with the guy and the girl, get to know them a little. Said like the guy said it, like an insult to Adam's skills or something, is another.
"Like, not that it's any of your business," Tommy says, "but his pet likes him just fine."
"Tommy," Adam says, a clear warning.
"He's the one being the asshole," Tommy says, ignoring it. People can think what shit they like about Tommy's ability to take orders. All that pliant, willing-to-be-led crap on stage aside, Tommy's not some posable doll, something Adam dresses up and trots around. The same as anybody else in here, they've got their thing they do, and Tommy doesn't give a fuck if he looks like he's supposed to be Adam's walking, talking sex toy. He does what he wants, and if what he wants is to do what Adam wants him to, good e-fucking-nough.
"Maybe you should put a collar on him," the guy says, the same as if Tommy hadn't spoken at all.
Tommy's eyes go really, really wide, and Adam's mouth thins down to a firm, unhappy line. It shouldn't be so surprising. There are assholes everywhere. That they haven't run into one before now in a place like this is probably just dumb luck.
"I don't need no fucking collar," Tommy snaps. "Fuck off."
Smiling like a snake, the guy says, "Put him in his place."
Adam's hand clamping to the front of Tommy's throat is the only thing that keeps Tommy from flying straight up off his lap into the guy's face. The usual endorphin kick he gets from the teasing threat of Adam cutting into his oxygen supply is dazed and muted, barely calming the anger thrumming through his veins. Fuck the rules. He curls possessively, protectively, against Adam's body, giving the guy his back in an invitation to get lost.
"Very pretty," the guy says, and helps himself to a seat on the empty chair kitty corner to their couch.
The girl crawls over, pressing against his legs, but he doesn't seem to notice. She rests her head on his knees, a clear plea for affection if Tommy's ever seen one, and he tugs on her leash, snapping it like a reprimand. Tommy sets his jaw. If that's their thing, fine, whatever gets them off, but he would beat Adam's ass if Adam ever denied him like that.
"Easy, baby," Adam says, untangling Tommy's fingers from his shirt, rubbing his thumb across Tommy's palm. To the guy Adam says, "Maybe it'd be better if you found somewhere else to sit."
Smiling, the guy pushes a hand into his girl's hair. She shivers, absolutely beautiful, and presses even closer against his legs, drinking down the touch. Her hair slides away from her face at last, and Tommy was right, she's pretty, gorgeously made up in classic Hollywood style, big dark eyes and sweet red lips. The look on her face is one Tommy's seen on his own often enough, pure grateful adoration. Maybe Tommy's reading things into it that aren't there, perception skewed by his instant and total dislike of the guy, but there's a desperate edge to it, like he doesn't give his touch often enough to satisfy her, or that he uses the lack of it as a punishment.
Tommy tries not to judge people. It's not cool, and definitely not flattering. He is so fucking judging this guy.
"Guy's a fucking tool," Tommy says to Adam. "Let's get out of here."
Adam's gaze moves from Tommy's face to the girl, then to the guy, back again. "You wanted to play," he says, that look in his eyes seeping into his voice. He's pissed. He doesn't get pissed easy--annoyed, frustrated, yeah, but the surefire way to seriously tick him off is tell him what he should and shouldn't do.
"You want to give this douche a show?" Tommy asks, kinda really fucking incredulous. "We got nothing to prove."
On Tommy's neck, Adam's hand slides up, thumb and forefinger light on the hinges of Tommy's jaw, palm pressing in hard enough Tommy really feels it, that strange, almost itchy feeling sparking in his throat making him swallow roughly. "Let me?" Adam asks.
Tommy swallows again, hard. "Can I touch you?"
Adam's gaze doesn't flick to the girl, stays firmly on his, but Tommy knows he gets it. "As much as you want," he says, and Tommy shivers with relief. The whole deprivation thing had been really getting to him, kinda fun, but seeing the girl like that, desperately wanting and so uncertain if she'd get what she needed, put him right on edge.
Sliding one hand under Adam's shirt, splaying it out over his belly, and hooking the other in the crook of Adam's elbow, holding on, Tommy nods.
"Baby," Adam murmurs, and he's the one with the grateful, reverent eyes, the one awed by Tommy's willingness to let him take. He sets both hands to Tommy's neck, thumbs stroking up from the hollow all the way under Tommy's chin and down again when Tommy lets his head fall back. Tommy wasn't just talking shit about having nothing to prove--the long, vulnerable stretch of his throat is all for Adam. Thanks to the asshole, Adam's the one who needs reassurances now.
The pressure comes in fractions. Tommy sways, firming his grip on Adam's arm. They've barely started, and his lungs are filling up just fine. This isn't about how much air he is or isn't getting. Something tells him the guy doesn't get that, but he can feel the girl's gaze heavy on his back, so maybe she does.
Before Adam's hold tightens enough to seal off his oxygen, Tommy uses what he's got to say, "Adam," low and rough, giving him permission.
And then Tommy's throat closes, and his eyes slip shut, and he listens to the beat of his heart echoing in his skull. It grows louder and louder as seconds tick by, only a handful of them, but by the time Adam eases up, Tommy's heart is racing along at a couple hundred thick, thudding beats per minute. He sucks down air, two big healthy lungfuls, and squeezes Adam's elbow, signalling him to go again.
This time, Adam holds on a few seconds longer. He murmurs soft, encouraging words, dirty praises, things Tommy can't quite hear over the noise in his head but can feel like something tangible, something for Adam to stroke lovingly over bare skin. When he starts to shake, he squeezes Adam's elbow again, asking him to wait a moment longer, then one more, letting the ache in his lungs hit a sharp, fiery peak, the pressure building in his head bringing brighter flashes of light, starburst colours, in the darkness behind his closed eyelids.
"Breathe," Adam says, allowing a sliver of air to kiss Tommy's lungs. It's used up the second it hits them, Adam's grip gone tight again, and then Adam says, "Breathe, baby," one more time, gives him another sweet scrap.
And on and on, long minutes eaten up as Tommy hangs in Adam's hold, breathing when Adam lets him, groaning when he's got both the breath and the chance to manage more than a needy gasp. He thought his cock was aching before, but now it's fucking killing him, trapped in too-tight pants without a bit of relief, both of Adam's hands on his throat and his own busy anchoring him to Adam. He grinds against nothing anyway, worked over so good he might come if he thinks about it hard enough.
Reading his face, Adam says, "Please don't, baby. Please, I want to fuck you first."
Tommy's hand skids up Adam's arm, clamping hard around his wrist. Two quick taps of Tommy's thumb mean yes, and Adam groans so hard his body shakes with it, relief and anticipation all in one. When his hold starts to loosen, air squeaking into Tommy's lungs, Tommy hurries to give him another single tap, a firm undeniable no.
"Baby, that's enough," Adam says, but he tightens his grip again, cuts off that thin stream of air.
Adam's hands stay steady, but the rest of him is quivering with the need to let go, offer comfort. Tommy's got three, maybe five seconds left to enjoy it before they both hit their limits, Tommy's purely physical and Adam's emotional. Tommy lets his hand slide heavily off Adam's wrist, giving up control, giving in completely to the blazing ache inside him, letting it wash over him like a brushfire and trusting in Adam to bring him back from the ashes.
Seven seconds later, each one sounding off in Tommy's skull like a gong, Adam releases his throat completely. He instantly sags forward, Adam's arms coming around his shoulders to stroke soothingly down his back, encourage him to slow down his frantic gasping before he does something like hyperventilate, pass out again like that one time Adam's probably never really going to ever get over.
"I'm good," Tommy croaks into the crook of Adam's neck, "baby, I'm so fucking good," and he kisses whatever skin he can reach, moaning appreciatively when Adam ducks down to give Tommy his lush and gentle mouth.
"Beautiful," the guy says, horning in on Tommy's warm, blissful glow. "Thank you."
"It wasn't for you," Adam says, fingers pushing through Tommy's hair, blunt scratch of short nails on his scalp.
"Of course," says the guy, his voice even. But he touches the collar the girl's wearing like he needs to reassure himself it's still there, that it still holds her. "Our pleasure above theirs."
"What?" Adam blurts, his body tense and unhappy under Tommy.
Tommy's not ready to move yet, not sure he can, yet somehow, he manages to stand up anyway. He tugs on Adam's arm, leaning on it heavily when Adam gets up, wraps it around his waist. He needs to get Adam out of here.
"He's the one who lets me do that to him," Adam says, resisting the firm hand Tommy's got between his shoulder blades trying to push him towards the exit. "He's the one in control. He's the one that owns me."
"Baby, come on," Tommy says, pushing harder. "Forget the fucker. Take me home."
About to let another one fly straight at the guy, Adam stops, pulls in a deep, heavy breath. "Okay," he says, "you're right. I'm sorry. Thanks," and lays a grateful kiss to Tommy's temple.
Taking on more of Tommy's weight, Adam lets Tommy lead him up through the long slanted hallway to the front entrance, out into the street. There are a few taxis in the stand across the road and Adam flags one over, tucking Tommy even closer against his side as they wait for it to swing around.
"I'm sorry he ruined your night, baby," Adam says, cheek pressed to Tommy's hair.
"Are you fucking kidding?" Tommy coughs a little, voice still a rasp, his throat aching. By morning, he'll have a ring of bruises where right now sits the hot red imprint of Adam's fingers. "That was so fucking good."
"Yeah?" Adam asks, happily, "I'm glad." He kisses Tommy's temple again, a lingering, affectionate nuzzle. "Want something hot for your throat when we get back? I'll even spike it for you."
"Because you're fucking awesome," Tommy says, cuddling into Adam's chest as he watches the cab jump across three lanes to skid to a halt in front of them.
Adam pulls open the door for Tommy to climb in first. "I love that you let me take care of you."
"Anytime, baby," Tommy says, lifting up on his toes, one hand braced on Adam's arm, to kiss him right there in the street. "Anytime."
Beaming, Adam bundles onto the seat with him and slams the door, tells the driver which direction they're headed, feather-light touches skimming Tommy's throat, up over his face, endlessly thankful, a mirror image of the warmth banked down low in Tommy's belly.
*
End
Your Black and White Needs a Little Bit of Red
Glamdom. Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~3000 words. D/s. Breathplay.
"Rules, baby," Adam says, breaking away from Tommy's mouth with a hand on his throat.
Your Black and White Needs a Little Bit of Red
"Rules, baby," Adam says, breaking away from Tommy's mouth with a hand on his throat.
Tommy slumps into Adam's hold, breathing hard. He's straddling Adam's lap on a wide black couch, Adam's shirt bunched up in his fists. Heavy music thuds through his chest, almost nothing but a pure bass line overlaid with all the club's noises, the crack of leather and breaking voices, the slap of skin on skin. More than the sights, though they're always something, he loves the sounds. A dirty, pornographic soundtrack to the curve of Adam's lips, the heavy dark light in his eyes.
"Fucking rules," Tommy mutters.
"You wanted to play, sweetheart." Adam runs a finger down Tommy's bare arm, nail tracing ink then the shining buckle on the thick cuff encircling Tommy's wrist. The cuffs, like the crazy mesh shirt layered with leather straps, the skintight leather pants Adam's stuffed him in, are for show, part of the outfit. On the rare occasion Adam ties him down, it's for nobody's eyes but Adam's.
Tommy's kinda glad it's not their usual thing. He likes to touch when they're fucking. Likes to dig his nails into Adam's broad back, hear Adam hiss and call him a vicious little kitty. It's weird and stupidly cliché and hot all at once. He cracks up every time Adam grins down at him, telling him purr, kitty, purr for me, but Tommy ends up groaning deep in his chest anyway, game for silly and weird if it makes Adam smile for him, fuck him harder.
"Rules," Adam reminds him.
Rolling his eyes, Tommy plants his hands firmly in his lap. Somewhere, somebody moans, probably grateful they're finally getting fucked. At least they're getting some action, because Tommy sure as hell isn't.
"The rules are," Tommy recites, bleeding attitude, "I only touch you when and where you tell me I can touch you. Every time I fuck up, it's another fifteen minutes before you'll get your fucking hand on my dick."
"And how long do you have to wait now?" the sadistic fucker prompts.
Tommy reaches around for the phone in Adam's back pocket. Strictly speaking, anything capable of recording video isn't allowed inside the club proper, but Adam's VIP. VIPs get to bend the rules everywhere, even inside a kink club where secrecy is supposed to be the thing. That's the risk in coming to places like these.
It's the cocky arch of Adam's eyebrow that clues Tommy in on what he's about to do. Tommy grinds a curse through his teeth. "Can I take your phone out?" he asks.
"Of course," Adam says, hiking his hips up to make it easier.
Tommy mumbles, "Bitch," under his breath and slides his thumb across the touchscreen. "God fucking damn it," he says as the time blazes brightly. "Thirty-six Jesusfucking minutes, fuck."
"You did it to yourself, baby," Adam says, taking his phone back to tuck away.
"You fucking cheated," Tommy accuses, crossing his arms to keep from slapping Adam in the chest. "You totally tried to yank me down by my fucking hair."
Adam shrugs. "So you should've fallen."
Like he doesn't give a shit either way, Tommy tosses hair back out of his face. He knows he should've fallen. He wouldn't have gotten far, anyway--Adam always catches him. But it'd been instinct to grab for a handhold, try to keep his feet. He kept his feet all right, and he fucking lost Adam's hand cupped big and warm over his cock.
"What're you gonna do now, fucking stare at me for the next half hour?" Tommy asks, picking at the flaking polish on one of his nails.
Thumb tracing beneath Tommy's eye, Adam says, "That's not a bad idea. I like the purple."
Tommy sits up a little straighter. "Yeah? Thought you would." Between watching Sutan work and experimenting on his own, he's gotten really good at this whole pretty boy thing. He still gravitates towards the goth look, deep dark shadows around his eyes and blood-black lips, but Adam loves the rich shimmer of jewel tones, purples and greens and blues. Tonight Tommy went with a compromise, shiny soft gloss on his lips, cat eyes in purples and blacks with a rhinestone glint at each corner.
"Gorgeous," Adam says, brushing the backs of his fingers over the shaved side of Tommy's head.
Pushing at the limits of the rules, Tommy turns his face into Adam's hand. "Gorgeous enough to knock ten minutes off my wait time?"
"Definitely," Adam says, and a fresh rush of blood surges south, triggering a shallow groan as Tommy's dick pushes against his fucking ball-strangling pants. There's seriously not enough room to get hard in these things without ending up a fucking cripple. "But no."
"Son of a bitch," Tommy says. "You suck, Lambert, you fucking suck, and your monster cock isn't getting anywhere near my asshole for a week after this."
Somebody says, "Your pet doesn't seem very fond of you."
Tommy twists around in Adam's lap, glare landing on a tall guy decked out in the usual black leather getup, the leash looped around his wrist connected to the collar of a girl sitting docilely at his feet, twin black star stickies covering her nipples and a tiny scrap of lace between her legs. Her head's bowed, curtain of hair hiding her face, but Tommy thinks she must be pretty. She feels pretty.
The guy's not half-bad, either, but Tommy doesn't much like that tone he's working. Joking and friendly, that comment's one thing; if it were said that way, maybe he wouldn't mind sitting down to have a drink with the guy and the girl, get to know them a little. Said like the guy said it, like an insult to Adam's skills or something, is another.
"Like, not that it's any of your business," Tommy says, "but his pet likes him just fine."
"Tommy," Adam says, a clear warning.
"He's the one being the asshole," Tommy says, ignoring it. People can think what shit they like about Tommy's ability to take orders. All that pliant, willing-to-be-led crap on stage aside, Tommy's not some posable doll, something Adam dresses up and trots around. The same as anybody else in here, they've got their thing they do, and Tommy doesn't give a fuck if he looks like he's supposed to be Adam's walking, talking sex toy. He does what he wants, and if what he wants is to do what Adam wants him to, good e-fucking-nough.
"Maybe you should put a collar on him," the guy says, the same as if Tommy hadn't spoken at all.
Tommy's eyes go really, really wide, and Adam's mouth thins down to a firm, unhappy line. It shouldn't be so surprising. There are assholes everywhere. That they haven't run into one before now in a place like this is probably just dumb luck.
"I don't need no fucking collar," Tommy snaps. "Fuck off."
Smiling like a snake, the guy says, "Put him in his place."
Adam's hand clamping to the front of Tommy's throat is the only thing that keeps Tommy from flying straight up off his lap into the guy's face. The usual endorphin kick he gets from the teasing threat of Adam cutting into his oxygen supply is dazed and muted, barely calming the anger thrumming through his veins. Fuck the rules. He curls possessively, protectively, against Adam's body, giving the guy his back in an invitation to get lost.
"Very pretty," the guy says, and helps himself to a seat on the empty chair kitty corner to their couch.
The girl crawls over, pressing against his legs, but he doesn't seem to notice. She rests her head on his knees, a clear plea for affection if Tommy's ever seen one, and he tugs on her leash, snapping it like a reprimand. Tommy sets his jaw. If that's their thing, fine, whatever gets them off, but he would beat Adam's ass if Adam ever denied him like that.
"Easy, baby," Adam says, untangling Tommy's fingers from his shirt, rubbing his thumb across Tommy's palm. To the guy Adam says, "Maybe it'd be better if you found somewhere else to sit."
Smiling, the guy pushes a hand into his girl's hair. She shivers, absolutely beautiful, and presses even closer against his legs, drinking down the touch. Her hair slides away from her face at last, and Tommy was right, she's pretty, gorgeously made up in classic Hollywood style, big dark eyes and sweet red lips. The look on her face is one Tommy's seen on his own often enough, pure grateful adoration. Maybe Tommy's reading things into it that aren't there, perception skewed by his instant and total dislike of the guy, but there's a desperate edge to it, like he doesn't give his touch often enough to satisfy her, or that he uses the lack of it as a punishment.
Tommy tries not to judge people. It's not cool, and definitely not flattering. He is so fucking judging this guy.
"Guy's a fucking tool," Tommy says to Adam. "Let's get out of here."
Adam's gaze moves from Tommy's face to the girl, then to the guy, back again. "You wanted to play," he says, that look in his eyes seeping into his voice. He's pissed. He doesn't get pissed easy--annoyed, frustrated, yeah, but the surefire way to seriously tick him off is tell him what he should and shouldn't do.
"You want to give this douche a show?" Tommy asks, kinda really fucking incredulous. "We got nothing to prove."
On Tommy's neck, Adam's hand slides up, thumb and forefinger light on the hinges of Tommy's jaw, palm pressing in hard enough Tommy really feels it, that strange, almost itchy feeling sparking in his throat making him swallow roughly. "Let me?" Adam asks.
Tommy swallows again, hard. "Can I touch you?"
Adam's gaze doesn't flick to the girl, stays firmly on his, but Tommy knows he gets it. "As much as you want," he says, and Tommy shivers with relief. The whole deprivation thing had been really getting to him, kinda fun, but seeing the girl like that, desperately wanting and so uncertain if she'd get what she needed, put him right on edge.
Sliding one hand under Adam's shirt, splaying it out over his belly, and hooking the other in the crook of Adam's elbow, holding on, Tommy nods.
"Baby," Adam murmurs, and he's the one with the grateful, reverent eyes, the one awed by Tommy's willingness to let him take. He sets both hands to Tommy's neck, thumbs stroking up from the hollow all the way under Tommy's chin and down again when Tommy lets his head fall back. Tommy wasn't just talking shit about having nothing to prove--the long, vulnerable stretch of his throat is all for Adam. Thanks to the asshole, Adam's the one who needs reassurances now.
The pressure comes in fractions. Tommy sways, firming his grip on Adam's arm. They've barely started, and his lungs are filling up just fine. This isn't about how much air he is or isn't getting. Something tells him the guy doesn't get that, but he can feel the girl's gaze heavy on his back, so maybe she does.
Before Adam's hold tightens enough to seal off his oxygen, Tommy uses what he's got to say, "Adam," low and rough, giving him permission.
And then Tommy's throat closes, and his eyes slip shut, and he listens to the beat of his heart echoing in his skull. It grows louder and louder as seconds tick by, only a handful of them, but by the time Adam eases up, Tommy's heart is racing along at a couple hundred thick, thudding beats per minute. He sucks down air, two big healthy lungfuls, and squeezes Adam's elbow, signalling him to go again.
This time, Adam holds on a few seconds longer. He murmurs soft, encouraging words, dirty praises, things Tommy can't quite hear over the noise in his head but can feel like something tangible, something for Adam to stroke lovingly over bare skin. When he starts to shake, he squeezes Adam's elbow again, asking him to wait a moment longer, then one more, letting the ache in his lungs hit a sharp, fiery peak, the pressure building in his head bringing brighter flashes of light, starburst colours, in the darkness behind his closed eyelids.
"Breathe," Adam says, allowing a sliver of air to kiss Tommy's lungs. It's used up the second it hits them, Adam's grip gone tight again, and then Adam says, "Breathe, baby," one more time, gives him another sweet scrap.
And on and on, long minutes eaten up as Tommy hangs in Adam's hold, breathing when Adam lets him, groaning when he's got both the breath and the chance to manage more than a needy gasp. He thought his cock was aching before, but now it's fucking killing him, trapped in too-tight pants without a bit of relief, both of Adam's hands on his throat and his own busy anchoring him to Adam. He grinds against nothing anyway, worked over so good he might come if he thinks about it hard enough.
Reading his face, Adam says, "Please don't, baby. Please, I want to fuck you first."
Tommy's hand skids up Adam's arm, clamping hard around his wrist. Two quick taps of Tommy's thumb mean yes, and Adam groans so hard his body shakes with it, relief and anticipation all in one. When his hold starts to loosen, air squeaking into Tommy's lungs, Tommy hurries to give him another single tap, a firm undeniable no.
"Baby, that's enough," Adam says, but he tightens his grip again, cuts off that thin stream of air.
Adam's hands stay steady, but the rest of him is quivering with the need to let go, offer comfort. Tommy's got three, maybe five seconds left to enjoy it before they both hit their limits, Tommy's purely physical and Adam's emotional. Tommy lets his hand slide heavily off Adam's wrist, giving up control, giving in completely to the blazing ache inside him, letting it wash over him like a brushfire and trusting in Adam to bring him back from the ashes.
Seven seconds later, each one sounding off in Tommy's skull like a gong, Adam releases his throat completely. He instantly sags forward, Adam's arms coming around his shoulders to stroke soothingly down his back, encourage him to slow down his frantic gasping before he does something like hyperventilate, pass out again like that one time Adam's probably never really going to ever get over.
"I'm good," Tommy croaks into the crook of Adam's neck, "baby, I'm so fucking good," and he kisses whatever skin he can reach, moaning appreciatively when Adam ducks down to give Tommy his lush and gentle mouth.
"Beautiful," the guy says, horning in on Tommy's warm, blissful glow. "Thank you."
"It wasn't for you," Adam says, fingers pushing through Tommy's hair, blunt scratch of short nails on his scalp.
"Of course," says the guy, his voice even. But he touches the collar the girl's wearing like he needs to reassure himself it's still there, that it still holds her. "Our pleasure above theirs."
"What?" Adam blurts, his body tense and unhappy under Tommy.
Tommy's not ready to move yet, not sure he can, yet somehow, he manages to stand up anyway. He tugs on Adam's arm, leaning on it heavily when Adam gets up, wraps it around his waist. He needs to get Adam out of here.
"He's the one who lets me do that to him," Adam says, resisting the firm hand Tommy's got between his shoulder blades trying to push him towards the exit. "He's the one in control. He's the one that owns me."
"Baby, come on," Tommy says, pushing harder. "Forget the fucker. Take me home."
About to let another one fly straight at the guy, Adam stops, pulls in a deep, heavy breath. "Okay," he says, "you're right. I'm sorry. Thanks," and lays a grateful kiss to Tommy's temple.
Taking on more of Tommy's weight, Adam lets Tommy lead him up through the long slanted hallway to the front entrance, out into the street. There are a few taxis in the stand across the road and Adam flags one over, tucking Tommy even closer against his side as they wait for it to swing around.
"I'm sorry he ruined your night, baby," Adam says, cheek pressed to Tommy's hair.
"Are you fucking kidding?" Tommy coughs a little, voice still a rasp, his throat aching. By morning, he'll have a ring of bruises where right now sits the hot red imprint of Adam's fingers. "That was so fucking good."
"Yeah?" Adam asks, happily, "I'm glad." He kisses Tommy's temple again, a lingering, affectionate nuzzle. "Want something hot for your throat when we get back? I'll even spike it for you."
"Because you're fucking awesome," Tommy says, cuddling into Adam's chest as he watches the cab jump across three lanes to skid to a halt in front of them.
Adam pulls open the door for Tommy to climb in first. "I love that you let me take care of you."
"Anytime, baby," Tommy says, lifting up on his toes, one hand braced on Adam's arm, to kiss him right there in the street. "Anytime."
Beaming, Adam bundles onto the seat with him and slams the door, tells the driver which direction they're headed, feather-light touches skimming Tommy's throat, up over his face, endlessly thankful, a mirror image of the warmth banked down low in Tommy's belly.
End
