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blue_soaringI can't even remember why this happened, but I'm very, very sure ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
no_detective is responsible. She really is that fucking good. <3
And if you love me, I'll make a scene
Glamdom. Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~6200 words. Dubious consent.
On Tuesday, Tommy wakes up humping his mattress, moaning Adam's name.
*
And if you love me, I'll make a scene
On Tuesday, Tommy wakes up humping his mattress, moaning Adam's name. While he'd like to claim this is startling and strange, it really isn't. He flops onto his back, arm flung across his eyes, and waits for his wood to go down enough for him to take a leak without jacking it first.
This usually takes about thirty seconds. Today, it's more like five minutes. Sometimes that happens after a day spent hanging out with Adam. Whatever. Tommy's got more important things on his mind. Like breakfast.
Breakfast, which once he hauls his groggy carcass out of bed, is cold pizza and burnt coffee. The shiny new brewer Adam helped him pick out is a beautiful and amazing thing he can't program to save his fucking life. He's pretty sure it began its existence as a VCR.
Belly full, Tommy stumbles back into his bedroom to root around for a towel in the pile of clean laundry he never seems to get around to putting away. From there he shuffles into the bathroom, cranking the hot water, waiting for it to warm the tub before he stumbles in. He props a hand on the tiles and lets heat beat down on his shoulders, finishing the job of waking him up that his coffee had started. Now that he's not bitching his cock out, it dares to take an interest in him and his soapy hands.
Some days Tommy's better than others at keeping Adam from horning in on his good time. On a success scale of one to ten, ten being Adam-free, Tommy scores a negative five. Seriously, jailbait Britney should've trumped the fucking freckle perched right at the edge of Adam's bottom lip. His dick's got issues, man.
On Wednesday, while Tommy's out picking up more pizza, he texts Adam thirteen times. This isn't anything new either. Maybe thirteen texts with only one reply back is a little off, but Adam's busy. Tommy's got a lot of free time in comparison, that's all. Besides, Adam likes knowing Tommy's thinking about him.
Tommy's thinking about him a lot.
But Adam is busy being famous and shit, so Tommy heads out that night, hooking up with a bunch of random friends and friends-of-friends. He has an awesome time. Or at least Mike tells him he does. The fucking claw marks on his ass say it wasn't a total waste of a Wednesday night.
Mike actually seems sort of startled by the incredibly awesome time Tommy can't remember having.
Thursday, Tommy's worried he's coming down with something. It took him fifteen minutes to get out of bed. And not because he didn't want to get up--he never wants to get up. Thursday, though, he couldn't get up. Once he achieved vertical, he had to sit on the edge of the bed for another five until a dizzy spell passed. It's been awhile since he had one of those. But still, not really news.
Ask anybody, they'll say Tommy's not exactly energetic. Yeah, he gets shit done, but he's not Martha fucking Stewart or anything, achieving life-goals and saving orphans and cooking up a roasted pig feast for thirty inmates all by dinnertime. When it takes all he's got to make it from the couch to his car, though, and his ten-minute run to the grocery nearly puts him in the ground, he figures maybe he could switch out his mid-morning beer for a mimosa. OJ's healthy.
But it's Thursday night, Friday for a new generation, and he's going out. There will be booze, and if he's lucky--he usually is these days--he's gonna get laid again. He's gonna get laid so hard.
He gets laid really, really hard. So hard he passes out for thirteen hours.
Friday goes by in a blur. He wakes up wasted with giant gaping holes in his memory where he figures the amazing time he had last night is supposed to be. Hangover days start off on the couch watching movies between texting Adam, then generally move on to texting Adam while the movie plays on in the background. This time when Adam texts back, the thrill is incredible. He's not even kidding a little bit. There's this weird jittery thing going on in his belly that spikes every time his phone chimes. It's crawling through his veins, plucking at his nerves, winding them tight, tighter. Twenty minutes into a conversation about what the fuck okra soup is, and if Tommy's ever going to let that shit near his mouth, he's buzzed out of his fucking gourd.
"What the fuck," he says, clutching his phone in both hands, white-knuckled and crazy. The chick on the television screams. "Fuck, lady, you and me both."
He needs to put the phone down. Possibly to go throw up, or pass out. But then he'll miss Adam. Besides, if he stands up, another one of those dizzy spells will hit him, and he'll crack his skull open on the coffee table, and then where would he be? In the hospital, that's where. Adam would be pissed. And worried. The last thing Tommy wants to be responsible for in life is an angry, ulcer-ridden Adam Lambert.
It occurs to him that maybe he should be in an entirely different sort of hospital right now. Two whole murder scenes have gone by without a reply from Adam. His phone creaks alarmingly. He waits another minute. Two.
When Tommy jolts off the couch, grabbing his keys and hauling on his boots as he hops on one foot down the walk to his car, he's perfectly aware that what he's doing right now is full-on whacked out insane. The thing is, he doesn't care. Not enough to stop and think for a minute.
(He can't risk it. If he stops, he'll fall over. If he thinks, all his brain coughs up is AdamAdamAdam. It's kind of a problem.)
By the time he makes it to the hotel Adam's staying in while the work on his fancy new house is being done, he's sweating through his shirt, dizzy and gasping. He lurches through the lobby to the front desk, falling halfway on top of it and blinking up through his hair at the big guy staring down at him. "Adam Lambert," Tommy croaks. "Where's his room?"
Thunderclouds roll in over the guy's face. "Sir-"
"I'm not sir, don't, fuck off, 'sir' me," Tommy rambles, and okay. This really is insane. "Where the fuck's, fuck. Fuck." He fumbles his phone, hands scrabbling across the counter to catch it and dial Adam's number. "Pick up," he chants into it. "Pick up, pick up, cocksucking phone, pick- Adam! Jesus fucking Christ, where are you, what room are you in, tell me where you are."
Adam's confused response makes absolutely zero sense to Tommy beyond the glaring lack of a room number. He sways on his feet, staring stupidly at the chandelier glittering above his head. The big guy behind the counter waves security over. This isn't going to end well.
"Tommy," Adam says, very calmly, very clearly. "Give Montague your phone."
"Monte?" Tommy echoes.
"Montague. Look for his name tag. Ask for him."
"Montague?" Tommy tries, looking blearily around. People are staring.
The big guy pauses in the middle of talking to another even bigger guy. Fuck, the whole world is full of dudes three times Tommy's size. "Sir?" he asks.
"Adam's, uh." Tommy holds the phone out as far as he can reach. "Phone?"
Doubtfully, Montague takes the phone. He politely says, "Hello?" then, "Yes, sir," and, "I see, sir," and, "Of course, you're more than welcome," before turning back to Tommy. "Your phone, Mr. Ratliff. I'll escort you up."
Relief hits so hard Tommy's knees buckle. Gasps go up as Montague dives in like a swashbuckling hero to catch him. With a few quick flicks of one wrist, Montague sends out a swarm of hotel staff, a babble of voices rising up to usher people on their way, bring them water, a drink, a fucking first-class flight to Bali for a massage.
"I missed Bali," Tommy confides as Montague sets him firmly back onto his feet.
"Yes, sir," Montague says. He keeps an arm around Tommy's shoulders. "This way, please."
Tommy makes it all the way to the elevators without passing out. He blanks for a second after Montague hits the call button, and then again between floors fifteen and twenty-two. "Hey, so," he says, watching the numbers swim as they climb.
Montague makes a vaguely inquisitive sound.
"Thanks for not dropkicking my ass."
"I was going to," Montague says, discreetly taking on more of Tommy's weight, "but Mr. Lambert kindly requested I restrain myself."
"Yeah," Tommy says, nodding. Bad idea. The whole world tilts sideways and stays there. "He's kinda awesome that way."
When the elevator door swish open, Adam's there waiting. With a grateful nod, he takes Tommy off Montague's hands, gathers him in close. The over-conditioned air turns warm, sweet. That jittering in Tommy's belly spikes to a neon electric conga.
Tommy presses his face into the side of Adam's neck and breathes in deep. "You smell fucking awesome."
"God, Tommy," Adam chokes out. "Come on, come with me."
"Sometimes you smell like makeup," Tommy says, letting Adam half-lead, half-carry him down the hallway to a room with the door left propped open. "Which is like, okay and all, 'cause it's you."
Adam's mouth is set in a grim line. He's right next to Tommy's ear, but he sounds like he's underwater twenty miles away. "I think you should stop talking."
"Okay." Tommy can do quiet. He does it all the way down the hall until they're inside Adam's room. When Adam steers him over towards the bed to sit, his stomach somersaults up into his throat and lands a four-point-five at his toes. "I kinda screwed up down there."
Adam muffles a short, barking laugh in both hands. "It's not your fault."
Tommy is fully aware that he's so not with it right now. But even if he were, he doubts that would make sense.
"The book," Adam says, dropping his hands. "Do you remember the book you showed me? The one that fan gave you?"
Fans give Tommy a lot of stuff. Some of it is even really cool. "The scrapbook?"
"The book of love spells." If Adam's mouth goes any thinner, it's going to disappear.
"Love spells." Trying to remember takes way more fucking effort than it should, and Adam's bed is way too comfy. "When you were over at my place?"
"Tommy," Adam blurts, grabbing him by the elbow to keep him upright. "Yes. On Monday. Have you been like this since then?"
"Hell no." There was that whole jerking off three times watching fanvids of them making out on YouTube thing, but that's small fucking potatoes. Tommy's got a healthy sex drive. Adam's a good kisser. Totally logical. "Maybe."
"Oh my god," Adam says, stumbling back to land heavily on his ass on the floor. "Oh my god, I roofied you."
"What? No," Tommy says, then again, "no," longer and drawn out. "You totally don't need to roofie me. I put out."
"The book!" Adam shouts, flailing randomly. "The book- oh my god, Tommy, what the fuck are you doing, stop."
Having slid off the bed onto his knees and in the middle of crawling across the floor, Tommy pauses. "What?"
"Don't move," Adam says, hand held up like a crossing guard. "Stay there."
"But you're over here."
"Stop, stop!" Still on his butt, Adam scoots away, his back hitting the mirrored wall. "You were there when I read the spell. I put a spell on you, Tommy Joe. I put an actual fucking spell on you."
"And now you're mine," Tommy singsongs. Then he stops short, because hello, he does not fucking sing, thanks very much. Ever. Even when under the influence of supernatural roofies. But the idea doesn't sound half bad. Not the roofie part. That other part, the one he sang. He shrugs. "Okay."
"What do you mean, 'okay'?" Adam squawks. "It is not okay."
"Whatever. What're you gonna do, leave me hanging? Dude, that's pretty cold."
"I'm not gonna, what the fuck, Tommy. Stop moving."
Adam thinks Tommy's all about taking direction. This is a slightly skewed perception. The truth of it is, Tommy is fucking stellar at taking direction, as long as the direction is taking him someplace he wants to be. Right now where he wants to be is curled up in Adam's arms. So that's where he's fucking going.
And the thing about Adam? He's sort of clueless what to do when what he wants is crawling across the floor and up between his legs, especially when he's convinced he shouldn't want it at all.
"Try and tell me this isn't good," Tommy says, his back to Adam's chest, Adam's long, long, really fucking long legs bracketing his, Adam's dick pressed up snug against his ass. "Tell me you don't like me right here."
Something like a word gurgles in Adam's throat. So Tommy's playing dirty. whatever. All's fair in love and rock 'n roll, baby. Adam's fucked, 'cause this is both.
Adam's forehead bumps the back of Tommy's skull. "It's not real."
"Oh, come the fuck on. You seriously think you whammied me?"
"God, Tommy, have you seen yourself?" Despite what Adam's saying, he holds on tighter. "You look pretty fucking whammied."
Obviously Adam refuses to do what any sane, red-blooded male would do and let his dick do all the thinking here. Tommy switches tracks. "Okay, so I'm roofied."
"Yes," Adam breathes on a sigh of relief.
"And horny."
That relieved breath catches in Adam's throat. "Tommy," he warns.
"What're you gonna do about it?"
"I am not fucking you," Adam growls.
Lightning-bolt arousal jolts up Tommy's spine. He holds back a crazy-loud moan. There's an angle he can work here, as long as he doesn't blow it first. Like, literally blow it. "No, seriously," he says, fighting to keep his voice even. Adam feels so fucking good pressed up against him, all around him. His head's swimming. "Are you gonna break the spell?"
"I-"
"Because you gotta do something. And if you can't break it, what're you gonna do then?"
"Tommy," Adam tries again, desperate.
"Are you gonna just like, keep not fucking me? Maybe it's a Sleeping Beauty thing. Maybe all you gotta do is kiss me." This has so gone beyond playing dirty. Maybe later, Tommy'll feel bad. Maybe he'll even be ashamed of himself. He leans his head back against Adam's shoulder, gaze on the slack curve of Adam's mouth. "You should kiss me."
Adam makes a tortured noise. "Please stop."
Fuck. Tommy quickly scans the room. Adam's shit is everywhere. But the book's not at his house anymore, so this is the only place it could be. He stumbles to his feet, catching the foot of the bed to keep from falling over. "Gotta be here somewhere," he mumbles, aiming for Adam's suitcase, the dresser drawers. "Gotta be here, where'd you put it?"
Adam's still on the floor, breathing hard. "What?"
"The book," Tommy snaps, angling for the nightstand. "You're not gonna fucking do me, so I'm gonna get you the goddamn book." He wrenches out the entire drawer and nearly drops it on his toes. Inside is notepad with some random scribbles, some magazines, condoms and lube and the motherfucking book, plain and boring looking. Gathering up all three of the last, he wobbles back to Adam, drops to his knees with everything dumped in a heap between them. "Break it. Save me from whatever."
Warily, like Adam's waiting for something to bite him, he pushes aside the other junk to pick up the book. He turns the pages carefully, as if he's not sure what he's doing here, or what he's looking for. Tommy edges closer, stopping when his knee bumps into Adam's calf. That's enough. All he needs is to touch.
For now, anyway. The more distance between them, the longer it stays that way, the worse Tommy feels. Bits and pieces of things keep falling away from the corners of his vision. It's really fucking weird.
Scary.
He's gonna pass out.
Dimly, he hears Adam shout his name. His eyes fly wide as Adam lurches forward, catching him awkwardly, but the world snaps back into place long enough for him to avoid eating carpet. He swallows hard. "I think you really need to do something. Soon."
"I don't, there's nothing in here," Adam says, not letting go. "It doesn't say anything anywhere about breaking spells. It's not even, it says printed in fucking Taiwan." His worried gaze jumps to Tommy's face. "I don't know what to do. Maybe you're sick. Maybe you need an emergency room."
Tommy fumbles the book around so he can read it. He squints, tiny black print swimming. It doesn't even sound like a real spell. He remembers hearing Adam say it now, giggles erupting between words, Tommy's head pillowed on his chest. It sounded like the lyrics to a shitty little love song, broken-hearted, desperate.
"I'm not gonna leave you," Tommy says. Adam glances up, startled. "I'm not. Everybody knows I'm where I want to be. Fuck, I'll tell anybody who'll listen. I'm really fucking in love with you."
Adam jerks back hard. "Please don't say that to me now."
Tommy grunts, the break in contact hitting him like a slap across the face. He catches himself on one hand, head bowed as he tries to keep breathing. "I'm not lying. Not about this. I wouldn't. But I can't," he stops, drags in a lungful of air, another. There's something thick and aching filling up his chest, blocking it. He's going to actually fucking cry. "I don't mean I gotta be your everything. I'm okay with being just something. But you can't, you can't fucking leave me. Kiss me or fuck me or fucking find somebody else to do it, there's a chick, this girl, she's in my phone, we hooked up, she'll go again, Mike said she'd do me again in a heartbeat, just-"
"Shut up," Adam snaps, grabbing roughly onto Tommy's shoulders, shaking, "stop talking, Tommy, oh my god, please shut up."
Tommy's voice cuts out. Wide-eyed, suffocating, he stares up at Adam. Time slows syrup-thick, cloying. He wonders if he's going to remember this in the morning, or if it'll be like the last couple nights, driven crazy until he's crawling out of his skin and with giant black pits bored through his memory.
He hopes he remembers.
Ragged, too quiet, Tommy says, "Please kiss me." Adam doesn't move. "Please kiss me," he repeats, pushing forward into Adam's hold, then a third time when he can still see Adam's face, a fourth with their mouths touching. Still, Adam doesn't move.
Sweet and shaking, a shivery current running beneath Tommy's skin, Tommy kisses him instead, and keeps kissing him until he sinks back. Tommy crawls above him, one hand curved on the back of his neck, the other pinning him down by the shoulder. It takes more than Tommy's got in him to give to stop, say with his lips brushing Adam's, "Tell me to go, and I'll go."
Tommy expects a lot of things to happen then. One sad, pathetic little sliver of his brain honestly thinks Adam's going to kick him out. Another corner figures on Adam gently pushing him back, promising to figure out another way. The section Tommy's throwing his vote in with is waiting for Adam to flip him over, yank down his jeans and fuck him stupid.
The one thing he seriously doesn't see coming is Adam arching up into him, grinding cock to cock and loosing a breathless moan straight into his mouth. Tommy's whole body goes lax then snaps wire-taut, Adam's hand huge on his ass pushing him down, fingers curling into his back pocket to drag him into the short, choppy rhythm of Adam's hips moving against his.
"Holy fuck," Tommy bites out, face buried in the crook of Adam's neck. That squirming, delighted feeling in his stomach spirals out to his fingertips, all the way down to his fucking toes, a crackle-snap of pure electricity lighting up his nervous system like a fucking amusement park at midnight. He pushes up onto the palm of one hand, the other curling roughly into Adam's hair as his knees skid wide, desperately fucking the heavy heat of Adam's dick through two cockblocking layers of denim.
The craziest shit going on here is that Tommy's gonna come. He's gonna come so hard, it might actually fucking kill him.
"Shit," he hisses, trying to slow down, make this better than some teenaged rut in the back of his dad's car. Not that he's saying it isn't good. For him, anyway. He sneaks a look at Adam, and okay, shit, wow. Adam's throat is stretched out long, shining at the hollow, his mouth is slack, open, kiss-red lips slick, and his eyes are squeezed shut like he's in the best pain ever. It is seriously, really insanely hot.
And it makes Tommy come faster than a fucking bullet train from Tokyo. He fucks into Adam so hard they skid across the carpet, Adam's tee pulling taut across his throat where it's dragged down by the back, and then he's creaming his shorts like the first time he figured out what the fuck his dick was for. Long after he's done, he still can't stop the tiny little fucks of his hips, and it's kinda starting to hurt but hurt good, and maybe he doesn't want to stop after all.
"Baby," Adam murmurs, kissing the side of his open mouth. There's a tug on the front of Tommy's jeans, and oh fuck yes. He slows down long enough for Adam to get their pants open, and then Adam's thick naked cock is pushing up through the mess on his, sticky-slick and hot.
"Don't stop," Tommy says, cheek pressed to Adam's as he shoves awkwardly at his jeans, getting them down far enough for Adam's cock to slide behind his balls, ride the crack of his ass. "Keep going, I want you to, you can fuck me if you want, fucking come in me, mess me up."
"You're so fucking messed up already," Adam says, tail end of it cut off on a gasp as Tommy reaches back, angles Adam's dick so the wet head presses to his hole. Tommy holds him there for a handful of seconds like a promise, Adam's mouth working but no sound coming out, yes and no both forming on his lips before Tommy eases up, Adam's cock sliding through the loose tunnel of his fingers.
Bracing his free hand in the middle of Adam's chest, Tommy pushes up. He grabs at the hem of his tee, skinning it off sideways over his head, not letting go of Adam's dick until thin cotton slides down his other arm and he can shake it quickly aside. The necklace Adam gave him, thick onyx beads, thumps down heavy and cool against his collar bones. He drags a hand back through his hair, baring his face, everything he's thinking, everything he's feeling, written on it stark as the tattoos inked into his skin.
Adam's eyes go bright like midnight.
Smile gone smug, saucy, Tommy says, "Like that?"
"Fuck, yes, I like it," Adam says, his grip bruisingly tight on Tommy's waist. Breath lodges in Tommy's throat, one-two count before the world goes upside down, Adam finally rolling them over, pinning Tommy to the floor on his belly. Tommy spreads his legs, starts to spread himself open, but Adam knees his legs back together, says, "God, baby, I want to, wanna see you on my cock, watch you take it so good," and then it's Adam's spit-slippery cock pushing between his thighs, fucking fast and hard, coming all over them in that hot wet mess he'd wanted so bad.
Tommy lets his legs go slack, biting his lip at the disappointed noise echoing deep in Adam's chest. He reaches back to drag a couple fingers through Adam's come, getting them good and slick to push between the cheeks of his ass, up inside him. Overtaxed nerves buzz, fizzle-snap sensation, but fuck, it's good, his own fingers fucking his body open with Adam's half-hard cock right there. He scrubs his cheek against the carpet, mouth open, hips rocking.
It's not enough.
"Finger me," Tommy groans, chest squeezing tight as he drags his knee higher, putting himself on display with his fingers spread wide around his asshole. He can feel Adam staring and it's fucking amazing.
"Tommy," Adam says, trying to get back to his let's-be-reasonable bullshit tone, "slow down, baby, breathe for a minute." But it's too fucking late for that shit now--that's his come still dripping wet between Tommy's legs.
Tommy tosses hair out of his face, turning to pin Adam with a look over his shoulder. "Fucking get your fingers in me."
Any other time, it'd be pretty fucking funny the way Adam's mouth falls open, his eyes going wide, damn near popping out of his head. But there's still the crawling, sizzling thing burrowed under Tommy's skin, slithering its way through him in this weird, fucked up way that makes him shudder. Tommy's so not fucking laughing. If Adam doesn't start listening to him soon, he's gonna beg for real.
One of Adam's hands settles in the small of Tommy's back. Muscles go tense as Tommy twists further around to see where the other is, his gaze jumping crazy fast between Adam's fingers and Adam's face, right up until those fingers skim along the inside of his thigh. He drops his head, waiting, waiting, wondering if he's gonna go fucking insane before Adam touches him, and then Adam's fingers are warm at his hole, pushing up into him strong and thick.
The frantic jitter twisting up Tommy's insides rolls back to a smooth buzz. His eyes slip shut as he sinks down, chest flat to the floor, cheek pillowed on the backs of his hands, breath barely stuttering over the cold metal bite of Adam's rings so close to delicate skin. Everything that isn't Adam's hands on him feels hazy, distant. There's nothing holding him down except the easy slide of Adam's fingers into him, the slow drag out.
"Fuck," Tommy moans, fingertips curled deep into the carpet, the glue holding the fibres together digging in under his nails. "Adam, fuck me like that. Just like that."
Adam's mouth skims the sharp slant of Tommy's shoulder. He sounds ruined, hanging on to an edge they already fell over. "Tommy, you don't-"
A jolt of something really not fucking good nails Tommy right in the gut. "Don't have to do a fucking thing I don't want," he snaps, pushing up onto his elbows, furious and snarling, like Adam's taken a cattle prod to him or something. "It's my ass. If I say I want your dick in it, I want your fucking dick in it. Only thing you gotta worry about is if you want to put it there."
Adam's jaw goes tight. He breathes in fast, nostrils flaring, and spits right back, "Is fucking you going to fix whatever the hell is wrong with you? Because that wasn't you, Tommy. You don't say shit like that. Not to me."
Holy fuck, Adam is pissed. And gorgeous, stupidly fucking gorgeous, and seriously ticked off, and it fucking makes Tommy hot. Like, crazy hot, clutch-his-fucking-balls hot. A train-wreck moan squeezes out of Tommy's throat as his body clenches up tight around Adam's fingers. He wants it so bad now he can't even fucking speak.
Panic flares ice-cold as Adam draws back. Carpet burn bites into Tommy's elbows, his knee, as he whips around to grab at Adam's arm, misses, snags the hem of his tee instead and holds on like he's fucking dying. That fucked-up frenetic feeling looms inside Tommy, coiled up ready to rip through him, drag him kicking and screaming into real insanity.
"Tommy?" Adam asks, quiet and careful, his hand curled low on Tommy's ass.
Tommy stares hard at his fingers tangled in Adam's clothes. It takes him three tries to get something more than a crackle pushing out of his throat. "Don't cut me off." Adam starts to say his name again, softer, but Tommy shakes his head. "I'll live with it," he says, and he can fucking feel whatever's inside him laughing, endless shatter-glass peals that he remembers echoing in his head every night since Monday when he hooked up with somebody not Adam. He's remembering all sorts of things he wishes he wasn't. "Made it this long not even knowing it was there, right?"
"Three days before a nervous breakdown in a hotel lobby," Adam says, scooting down so he's on the floor next to Tommy, eye-level. He slides his hand between Tommy's thighs again, palm curved to drag one leg up over his. His parted lips brush against Tommy's. "You're pretty bitchy when you're horny."
When Tommy says, "Fuck it out of me," without a second thought, he knows Adam's right. This isn't him. It's what he wants, but not how he wants it, and it sure as hell isn't how he'd try to get it.
Adam's smile is lopsided, sad, when he leans in to finally kiss Tommy again. Tommy opens up for it as his heart sits up and rolls over like a fucking toy schnauzer, belly bared, stubby tail wagging, manically hopeful. A tiny sliver of sad doesn't have to mean no. Sad can mean a whole boatload of shit. Sad can fucking mean there's no more low-fat whipped cream for Adam's blended ice coffee.
"Move your leg up," Adam says into Tommy's mouth, his hand pushing up further to splay out on Tommy's ass, haul him in close. Tommy hitches his knee higher on Adam's hip, breath held and pulse pounding as Adam's fingers slide along his crack again, tips rubbing softly at his hole. When they push in, slip past tight muscle, all that air trapped in Tommy's lungs leaks soundlessly free.
A slow crook of knuckles pressing against Tommy's insides makes his whole body jerk He grabs at the back of Adam's shirt, face pressed into Adam's shoulder to muffle a low moan. Adam's fingers vanish for a heartbeat and come back saliva-slick, warm. The sticky head of Tommy's cock grazes Adam's bare belly, soft skin and thin, rough trail of hair so good Tommy shuffles closer, fucks up against him.
"I could make this better," Adam says, dragging Tommy's hair out of the way to mouth slow kisses along his jaw, his throat. "Wet and slick for you. Let me."
Sprawled halfway on top of Adam, hips moving in tiny, stuttering little fucks, Tommy shakes his head, holds on tighter. He doesn't need it better. What he needs is exactly what he's getting, drag and slow burn turning mellow as his body loosens to let Adam go deeper, fuck him faster. He's sure he could take Adam's dick now. He wants to take it bare.
Before he can stop himself, that's what he tells Adam. Just like that, "Fuck me, fuck me bare," between noises he's never heard himself make, desperate ones, torn all to shreds around the edges.
"God," Adam says, hauling him up to really give it to him, he's taking it so easy now, and, "Baby, don't."
"I want to feel it," Tommy groans, "I want to know what you fuck like," and he's lying, he is, but he isn't. He's thought this shit before, even thought about saying it, but never really doing it. He's wondered sometimes, a lot of times, about the looks on guys' faces the morning after they've been with Adam. Satisfied and somehow still shocked, smug that they got what they did, sad that they might not get it again.
"This is what I fuck like," Adam bites out, angry maybe, or turned on again, and Tommy shakes his head, straining to get more. He's going to need more than one night jacked up on some supernatural bullshit to find out what Adam's really like. His fingers find Adam's cock. Adam sucks in a hissing breath. "Tommy, stop."
Rising up on his knees, straddling Adam's hips, Tommy says, "Not gonna," and that's it, that's as far as he can get once he's got both their dicks in hand, tugging roughly as he fucks himself back on Adam's fingers. Tommy's hard enough to pound fucking nails and Adam's almost there, getting closer, this look on his face like he wants to fight it but can't. Clinging to the idea that if Adam really, honestly didn't want to fuck him, Adam could shove him away isn't the stupidest thing Tommy's ever done. But maybe not taking the chance to do it now, to angle Adam's cock back and sink right down on it is.
Orgasm rises up way too slow and easy. Tommy jacks faster, wanting it to slam into him, knock him back on his crazy ass, but it stays sweet as sugar, dark and thick as tar. He crumples under the weight of it, crushing the breath out of Adam's lungs as he falls, trembling as Adam's fingers keep moving inside him, fucking him until it's over, dragging free to leave him heavy and useless once it is. Trapped in the hollow of his thigh, he can feel Adam going soft again without coming.
Lying there, Tommy waits for what happens next. For the first time in days his head's clear. It's fucking bizarre he hadn't really realised how out of it he was; looking back on his week now, letting it play through like a black-and-white picture show, everywhere things were wrong stands out stark as a technicolour cell. Chalking it up to too much booze, too much partying. Stupid, flimsy excuses.
A choked noise sticks in Tommy's throat, furious. He hasn't got the strength to roll off Adam, get at least some of the space Adam deserves between them. There isn't enough distance in the whole fucking world for this. Fucking jumped by his best friend, fuck.
Adam's arm locks tight around Tommy's middle. "Don't," he says, holding Tommy down, crushing him like he's fighting back. "It's okay."
"It's not fucking okay," Tommy snarls, and this time he does try to get away, a pathetic twitch that Adam barely notices. "Lemme go."
The side of Adam's face is pressed close to Tommy's, too close for them to see one another. "Do you really want me to?"
"Yes," Tommy snaps, Adam's hold immediately going lose, bringing a wave of sheer panic sweeping in, "no, fuck, I don't know. Fuck. Fuck."
Too easily, like it's nothing at all, Adam says, "I'm not leaving you."
"Shut up." Tommy clenches his teeth, eyes squeezed shut.
"This isn't your fault," Adam says, the same as if Tommy hadn't spoken at all. "We can talk about it later, when you're ready to tell me what you really want."
"Shut up, fuck, shut up."
"No." One word, just one, so simply said, sends Tommy reeling, jolting away. Adam only lets him get far enough to see the smile aimed up at him. "You can be sorry, and you can wish it didn't happen, but it did. So when you're able, you're going to tell me if any of it was really you."
"It wasn't," Tommy starts, and, "I didn't," and a slew of other shit that doesn't mean squat. The whole time, Adam watches, waits, one hand stroking down his back like they're fucking lovers in a post-coital cuddle. Tommy's stomach lurches. "I wouldn't have done it like that. I wouldn't have said all that shit to you."
Carefully, Adam says, "You wouldn't have talked dirty to me, or wouldn't have said you loved me?"
It's too much. Tommy struggles to push away, real strength in it this time, but Adam holds fast. When Tommy pushes harder, his grip tightens, digging in, hurting.
"Is this what you wouldn't have done?" Adam asks, his hand huge on the back of Tommy's head, the strain of shoving against it radiating all through the muscles in Tommy's back. "Would you have given me the choice to push away?"
Tommy stops fighting.
Slowly, Adam releases him, both arms falling softly to the carpet. "You can go, or you can stay. I'll understand."
Tommy gingerly picks himself up, everywhere an ache, or a twinge, or sick black guilt. It doesn't help that Adam's still gorgeous. He doesn't trust his legs to hold yet. "Why would-"
"Stay because I want you to."
This is fucked all to hell. Wrong. What are they gonna do, talk about their feelings? Sleep in that big bed together like they used to, pretend nothing happened? Hang out acting like Tommy doesn't remember exactly how Adam looks when he comes, the feel of Adam's cock in his hands, what it's like to be pinned beneath Adam's weight so close to being fucked, like Tommy doesn't want to know more, know everything?
"I want you to stay," Adam says. "Stay with me."
It's not really a choice at all. Tommy was never going to leave.
"Okay." Adam pushes up, knuckles skimming Tommy's jaw, fingers sinking into his hair, and "okay," again, softer, kissing him, promising it's going to be.
*
End
no_detective is responsible. She really is that fucking good. <3And if you love me, I'll make a scene
Glamdom. Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~6200 words. Dubious consent.
On Tuesday, Tommy wakes up humping his mattress, moaning Adam's name.
And if you love me, I'll make a scene
On Tuesday, Tommy wakes up humping his mattress, moaning Adam's name. While he'd like to claim this is startling and strange, it really isn't. He flops onto his back, arm flung across his eyes, and waits for his wood to go down enough for him to take a leak without jacking it first.
This usually takes about thirty seconds. Today, it's more like five minutes. Sometimes that happens after a day spent hanging out with Adam. Whatever. Tommy's got more important things on his mind. Like breakfast.
Breakfast, which once he hauls his groggy carcass out of bed, is cold pizza and burnt coffee. The shiny new brewer Adam helped him pick out is a beautiful and amazing thing he can't program to save his fucking life. He's pretty sure it began its existence as a VCR.
Belly full, Tommy stumbles back into his bedroom to root around for a towel in the pile of clean laundry he never seems to get around to putting away. From there he shuffles into the bathroom, cranking the hot water, waiting for it to warm the tub before he stumbles in. He props a hand on the tiles and lets heat beat down on his shoulders, finishing the job of waking him up that his coffee had started. Now that he's not bitching his cock out, it dares to take an interest in him and his soapy hands.
Some days Tommy's better than others at keeping Adam from horning in on his good time. On a success scale of one to ten, ten being Adam-free, Tommy scores a negative five. Seriously, jailbait Britney should've trumped the fucking freckle perched right at the edge of Adam's bottom lip. His dick's got issues, man.
On Wednesday, while Tommy's out picking up more pizza, he texts Adam thirteen times. This isn't anything new either. Maybe thirteen texts with only one reply back is a little off, but Adam's busy. Tommy's got a lot of free time in comparison, that's all. Besides, Adam likes knowing Tommy's thinking about him.
Tommy's thinking about him a lot.
But Adam is busy being famous and shit, so Tommy heads out that night, hooking up with a bunch of random friends and friends-of-friends. He has an awesome time. Or at least Mike tells him he does. The fucking claw marks on his ass say it wasn't a total waste of a Wednesday night.
Mike actually seems sort of startled by the incredibly awesome time Tommy can't remember having.
Thursday, Tommy's worried he's coming down with something. It took him fifteen minutes to get out of bed. And not because he didn't want to get up--he never wants to get up. Thursday, though, he couldn't get up. Once he achieved vertical, he had to sit on the edge of the bed for another five until a dizzy spell passed. It's been awhile since he had one of those. But still, not really news.
Ask anybody, they'll say Tommy's not exactly energetic. Yeah, he gets shit done, but he's not Martha fucking Stewart or anything, achieving life-goals and saving orphans and cooking up a roasted pig feast for thirty inmates all by dinnertime. When it takes all he's got to make it from the couch to his car, though, and his ten-minute run to the grocery nearly puts him in the ground, he figures maybe he could switch out his mid-morning beer for a mimosa. OJ's healthy.
But it's Thursday night, Friday for a new generation, and he's going out. There will be booze, and if he's lucky--he usually is these days--he's gonna get laid again. He's gonna get laid so hard.
He gets laid really, really hard. So hard he passes out for thirteen hours.
Friday goes by in a blur. He wakes up wasted with giant gaping holes in his memory where he figures the amazing time he had last night is supposed to be. Hangover days start off on the couch watching movies between texting Adam, then generally move on to texting Adam while the movie plays on in the background. This time when Adam texts back, the thrill is incredible. He's not even kidding a little bit. There's this weird jittery thing going on in his belly that spikes every time his phone chimes. It's crawling through his veins, plucking at his nerves, winding them tight, tighter. Twenty minutes into a conversation about what the fuck okra soup is, and if Tommy's ever going to let that shit near his mouth, he's buzzed out of his fucking gourd.
"What the fuck," he says, clutching his phone in both hands, white-knuckled and crazy. The chick on the television screams. "Fuck, lady, you and me both."
He needs to put the phone down. Possibly to go throw up, or pass out. But then he'll miss Adam. Besides, if he stands up, another one of those dizzy spells will hit him, and he'll crack his skull open on the coffee table, and then where would he be? In the hospital, that's where. Adam would be pissed. And worried. The last thing Tommy wants to be responsible for in life is an angry, ulcer-ridden Adam Lambert.
It occurs to him that maybe he should be in an entirely different sort of hospital right now. Two whole murder scenes have gone by without a reply from Adam. His phone creaks alarmingly. He waits another minute. Two.
When Tommy jolts off the couch, grabbing his keys and hauling on his boots as he hops on one foot down the walk to his car, he's perfectly aware that what he's doing right now is full-on whacked out insane. The thing is, he doesn't care. Not enough to stop and think for a minute.
(He can't risk it. If he stops, he'll fall over. If he thinks, all his brain coughs up is AdamAdamAdam. It's kind of a problem.)
By the time he makes it to the hotel Adam's staying in while the work on his fancy new house is being done, he's sweating through his shirt, dizzy and gasping. He lurches through the lobby to the front desk, falling halfway on top of it and blinking up through his hair at the big guy staring down at him. "Adam Lambert," Tommy croaks. "Where's his room?"
Thunderclouds roll in over the guy's face. "Sir-"
"I'm not sir, don't, fuck off, 'sir' me," Tommy rambles, and okay. This really is insane. "Where the fuck's, fuck. Fuck." He fumbles his phone, hands scrabbling across the counter to catch it and dial Adam's number. "Pick up," he chants into it. "Pick up, pick up, cocksucking phone, pick- Adam! Jesus fucking Christ, where are you, what room are you in, tell me where you are."
Adam's confused response makes absolutely zero sense to Tommy beyond the glaring lack of a room number. He sways on his feet, staring stupidly at the chandelier glittering above his head. The big guy behind the counter waves security over. This isn't going to end well.
"Tommy," Adam says, very calmly, very clearly. "Give Montague your phone."
"Monte?" Tommy echoes.
"Montague. Look for his name tag. Ask for him."
"Montague?" Tommy tries, looking blearily around. People are staring.
The big guy pauses in the middle of talking to another even bigger guy. Fuck, the whole world is full of dudes three times Tommy's size. "Sir?" he asks.
"Adam's, uh." Tommy holds the phone out as far as he can reach. "Phone?"
Doubtfully, Montague takes the phone. He politely says, "Hello?" then, "Yes, sir," and, "I see, sir," and, "Of course, you're more than welcome," before turning back to Tommy. "Your phone, Mr. Ratliff. I'll escort you up."
Relief hits so hard Tommy's knees buckle. Gasps go up as Montague dives in like a swashbuckling hero to catch him. With a few quick flicks of one wrist, Montague sends out a swarm of hotel staff, a babble of voices rising up to usher people on their way, bring them water, a drink, a fucking first-class flight to Bali for a massage.
"I missed Bali," Tommy confides as Montague sets him firmly back onto his feet.
"Yes, sir," Montague says. He keeps an arm around Tommy's shoulders. "This way, please."
Tommy makes it all the way to the elevators without passing out. He blanks for a second after Montague hits the call button, and then again between floors fifteen and twenty-two. "Hey, so," he says, watching the numbers swim as they climb.
Montague makes a vaguely inquisitive sound.
"Thanks for not dropkicking my ass."
"I was going to," Montague says, discreetly taking on more of Tommy's weight, "but Mr. Lambert kindly requested I restrain myself."
"Yeah," Tommy says, nodding. Bad idea. The whole world tilts sideways and stays there. "He's kinda awesome that way."
When the elevator door swish open, Adam's there waiting. With a grateful nod, he takes Tommy off Montague's hands, gathers him in close. The over-conditioned air turns warm, sweet. That jittering in Tommy's belly spikes to a neon electric conga.
Tommy presses his face into the side of Adam's neck and breathes in deep. "You smell fucking awesome."
"God, Tommy," Adam chokes out. "Come on, come with me."
"Sometimes you smell like makeup," Tommy says, letting Adam half-lead, half-carry him down the hallway to a room with the door left propped open. "Which is like, okay and all, 'cause it's you."
Adam's mouth is set in a grim line. He's right next to Tommy's ear, but he sounds like he's underwater twenty miles away. "I think you should stop talking."
"Okay." Tommy can do quiet. He does it all the way down the hall until they're inside Adam's room. When Adam steers him over towards the bed to sit, his stomach somersaults up into his throat and lands a four-point-five at his toes. "I kinda screwed up down there."
Adam muffles a short, barking laugh in both hands. "It's not your fault."
Tommy is fully aware that he's so not with it right now. But even if he were, he doubts that would make sense.
"The book," Adam says, dropping his hands. "Do you remember the book you showed me? The one that fan gave you?"
Fans give Tommy a lot of stuff. Some of it is even really cool. "The scrapbook?"
"The book of love spells." If Adam's mouth goes any thinner, it's going to disappear.
"Love spells." Trying to remember takes way more fucking effort than it should, and Adam's bed is way too comfy. "When you were over at my place?"
"Tommy," Adam blurts, grabbing him by the elbow to keep him upright. "Yes. On Monday. Have you been like this since then?"
"Hell no." There was that whole jerking off three times watching fanvids of them making out on YouTube thing, but that's small fucking potatoes. Tommy's got a healthy sex drive. Adam's a good kisser. Totally logical. "Maybe."
"Oh my god," Adam says, stumbling back to land heavily on his ass on the floor. "Oh my god, I roofied you."
"What? No," Tommy says, then again, "no," longer and drawn out. "You totally don't need to roofie me. I put out."
"The book!" Adam shouts, flailing randomly. "The book- oh my god, Tommy, what the fuck are you doing, stop."
Having slid off the bed onto his knees and in the middle of crawling across the floor, Tommy pauses. "What?"
"Don't move," Adam says, hand held up like a crossing guard. "Stay there."
"But you're over here."
"Stop, stop!" Still on his butt, Adam scoots away, his back hitting the mirrored wall. "You were there when I read the spell. I put a spell on you, Tommy Joe. I put an actual fucking spell on you."
"And now you're mine," Tommy singsongs. Then he stops short, because hello, he does not fucking sing, thanks very much. Ever. Even when under the influence of supernatural roofies. But the idea doesn't sound half bad. Not the roofie part. That other part, the one he sang. He shrugs. "Okay."
"What do you mean, 'okay'?" Adam squawks. "It is not okay."
"Whatever. What're you gonna do, leave me hanging? Dude, that's pretty cold."
"I'm not gonna, what the fuck, Tommy. Stop moving."
Adam thinks Tommy's all about taking direction. This is a slightly skewed perception. The truth of it is, Tommy is fucking stellar at taking direction, as long as the direction is taking him someplace he wants to be. Right now where he wants to be is curled up in Adam's arms. So that's where he's fucking going.
And the thing about Adam? He's sort of clueless what to do when what he wants is crawling across the floor and up between his legs, especially when he's convinced he shouldn't want it at all.
"Try and tell me this isn't good," Tommy says, his back to Adam's chest, Adam's long, long, really fucking long legs bracketing his, Adam's dick pressed up snug against his ass. "Tell me you don't like me right here."
Something like a word gurgles in Adam's throat. So Tommy's playing dirty. whatever. All's fair in love and rock 'n roll, baby. Adam's fucked, 'cause this is both.
Adam's forehead bumps the back of Tommy's skull. "It's not real."
"Oh, come the fuck on. You seriously think you whammied me?"
"God, Tommy, have you seen yourself?" Despite what Adam's saying, he holds on tighter. "You look pretty fucking whammied."
Obviously Adam refuses to do what any sane, red-blooded male would do and let his dick do all the thinking here. Tommy switches tracks. "Okay, so I'm roofied."
"Yes," Adam breathes on a sigh of relief.
"And horny."
That relieved breath catches in Adam's throat. "Tommy," he warns.
"What're you gonna do about it?"
"I am not fucking you," Adam growls.
Lightning-bolt arousal jolts up Tommy's spine. He holds back a crazy-loud moan. There's an angle he can work here, as long as he doesn't blow it first. Like, literally blow it. "No, seriously," he says, fighting to keep his voice even. Adam feels so fucking good pressed up against him, all around him. His head's swimming. "Are you gonna break the spell?"
"I-"
"Because you gotta do something. And if you can't break it, what're you gonna do then?"
"Tommy," Adam tries again, desperate.
"Are you gonna just like, keep not fucking me? Maybe it's a Sleeping Beauty thing. Maybe all you gotta do is kiss me." This has so gone beyond playing dirty. Maybe later, Tommy'll feel bad. Maybe he'll even be ashamed of himself. He leans his head back against Adam's shoulder, gaze on the slack curve of Adam's mouth. "You should kiss me."
Adam makes a tortured noise. "Please stop."
Fuck. Tommy quickly scans the room. Adam's shit is everywhere. But the book's not at his house anymore, so this is the only place it could be. He stumbles to his feet, catching the foot of the bed to keep from falling over. "Gotta be here somewhere," he mumbles, aiming for Adam's suitcase, the dresser drawers. "Gotta be here, where'd you put it?"
Adam's still on the floor, breathing hard. "What?"
"The book," Tommy snaps, angling for the nightstand. "You're not gonna fucking do me, so I'm gonna get you the goddamn book." He wrenches out the entire drawer and nearly drops it on his toes. Inside is notepad with some random scribbles, some magazines, condoms and lube and the motherfucking book, plain and boring looking. Gathering up all three of the last, he wobbles back to Adam, drops to his knees with everything dumped in a heap between them. "Break it. Save me from whatever."
Warily, like Adam's waiting for something to bite him, he pushes aside the other junk to pick up the book. He turns the pages carefully, as if he's not sure what he's doing here, or what he's looking for. Tommy edges closer, stopping when his knee bumps into Adam's calf. That's enough. All he needs is to touch.
For now, anyway. The more distance between them, the longer it stays that way, the worse Tommy feels. Bits and pieces of things keep falling away from the corners of his vision. It's really fucking weird.
Scary.
He's gonna pass out.
Dimly, he hears Adam shout his name. His eyes fly wide as Adam lurches forward, catching him awkwardly, but the world snaps back into place long enough for him to avoid eating carpet. He swallows hard. "I think you really need to do something. Soon."
"I don't, there's nothing in here," Adam says, not letting go. "It doesn't say anything anywhere about breaking spells. It's not even, it says printed in fucking Taiwan." His worried gaze jumps to Tommy's face. "I don't know what to do. Maybe you're sick. Maybe you need an emergency room."
Tommy fumbles the book around so he can read it. He squints, tiny black print swimming. It doesn't even sound like a real spell. He remembers hearing Adam say it now, giggles erupting between words, Tommy's head pillowed on his chest. It sounded like the lyrics to a shitty little love song, broken-hearted, desperate.
"I'm not gonna leave you," Tommy says. Adam glances up, startled. "I'm not. Everybody knows I'm where I want to be. Fuck, I'll tell anybody who'll listen. I'm really fucking in love with you."
Adam jerks back hard. "Please don't say that to me now."
Tommy grunts, the break in contact hitting him like a slap across the face. He catches himself on one hand, head bowed as he tries to keep breathing. "I'm not lying. Not about this. I wouldn't. But I can't," he stops, drags in a lungful of air, another. There's something thick and aching filling up his chest, blocking it. He's going to actually fucking cry. "I don't mean I gotta be your everything. I'm okay with being just something. But you can't, you can't fucking leave me. Kiss me or fuck me or fucking find somebody else to do it, there's a chick, this girl, she's in my phone, we hooked up, she'll go again, Mike said she'd do me again in a heartbeat, just-"
"Shut up," Adam snaps, grabbing roughly onto Tommy's shoulders, shaking, "stop talking, Tommy, oh my god, please shut up."
Tommy's voice cuts out. Wide-eyed, suffocating, he stares up at Adam. Time slows syrup-thick, cloying. He wonders if he's going to remember this in the morning, or if it'll be like the last couple nights, driven crazy until he's crawling out of his skin and with giant black pits bored through his memory.
He hopes he remembers.
Ragged, too quiet, Tommy says, "Please kiss me." Adam doesn't move. "Please kiss me," he repeats, pushing forward into Adam's hold, then a third time when he can still see Adam's face, a fourth with their mouths touching. Still, Adam doesn't move.
Sweet and shaking, a shivery current running beneath Tommy's skin, Tommy kisses him instead, and keeps kissing him until he sinks back. Tommy crawls above him, one hand curved on the back of his neck, the other pinning him down by the shoulder. It takes more than Tommy's got in him to give to stop, say with his lips brushing Adam's, "Tell me to go, and I'll go."
Tommy expects a lot of things to happen then. One sad, pathetic little sliver of his brain honestly thinks Adam's going to kick him out. Another corner figures on Adam gently pushing him back, promising to figure out another way. The section Tommy's throwing his vote in with is waiting for Adam to flip him over, yank down his jeans and fuck him stupid.
The one thing he seriously doesn't see coming is Adam arching up into him, grinding cock to cock and loosing a breathless moan straight into his mouth. Tommy's whole body goes lax then snaps wire-taut, Adam's hand huge on his ass pushing him down, fingers curling into his back pocket to drag him into the short, choppy rhythm of Adam's hips moving against his.
"Holy fuck," Tommy bites out, face buried in the crook of Adam's neck. That squirming, delighted feeling in his stomach spirals out to his fingertips, all the way down to his fucking toes, a crackle-snap of pure electricity lighting up his nervous system like a fucking amusement park at midnight. He pushes up onto the palm of one hand, the other curling roughly into Adam's hair as his knees skid wide, desperately fucking the heavy heat of Adam's dick through two cockblocking layers of denim.
The craziest shit going on here is that Tommy's gonna come. He's gonna come so hard, it might actually fucking kill him.
"Shit," he hisses, trying to slow down, make this better than some teenaged rut in the back of his dad's car. Not that he's saying it isn't good. For him, anyway. He sneaks a look at Adam, and okay, shit, wow. Adam's throat is stretched out long, shining at the hollow, his mouth is slack, open, kiss-red lips slick, and his eyes are squeezed shut like he's in the best pain ever. It is seriously, really insanely hot.
And it makes Tommy come faster than a fucking bullet train from Tokyo. He fucks into Adam so hard they skid across the carpet, Adam's tee pulling taut across his throat where it's dragged down by the back, and then he's creaming his shorts like the first time he figured out what the fuck his dick was for. Long after he's done, he still can't stop the tiny little fucks of his hips, and it's kinda starting to hurt but hurt good, and maybe he doesn't want to stop after all.
"Baby," Adam murmurs, kissing the side of his open mouth. There's a tug on the front of Tommy's jeans, and oh fuck yes. He slows down long enough for Adam to get their pants open, and then Adam's thick naked cock is pushing up through the mess on his, sticky-slick and hot.
"Don't stop," Tommy says, cheek pressed to Adam's as he shoves awkwardly at his jeans, getting them down far enough for Adam's cock to slide behind his balls, ride the crack of his ass. "Keep going, I want you to, you can fuck me if you want, fucking come in me, mess me up."
"You're so fucking messed up already," Adam says, tail end of it cut off on a gasp as Tommy reaches back, angles Adam's dick so the wet head presses to his hole. Tommy holds him there for a handful of seconds like a promise, Adam's mouth working but no sound coming out, yes and no both forming on his lips before Tommy eases up, Adam's cock sliding through the loose tunnel of his fingers.
Bracing his free hand in the middle of Adam's chest, Tommy pushes up. He grabs at the hem of his tee, skinning it off sideways over his head, not letting go of Adam's dick until thin cotton slides down his other arm and he can shake it quickly aside. The necklace Adam gave him, thick onyx beads, thumps down heavy and cool against his collar bones. He drags a hand back through his hair, baring his face, everything he's thinking, everything he's feeling, written on it stark as the tattoos inked into his skin.
Adam's eyes go bright like midnight.
Smile gone smug, saucy, Tommy says, "Like that?"
"Fuck, yes, I like it," Adam says, his grip bruisingly tight on Tommy's waist. Breath lodges in Tommy's throat, one-two count before the world goes upside down, Adam finally rolling them over, pinning Tommy to the floor on his belly. Tommy spreads his legs, starts to spread himself open, but Adam knees his legs back together, says, "God, baby, I want to, wanna see you on my cock, watch you take it so good," and then it's Adam's spit-slippery cock pushing between his thighs, fucking fast and hard, coming all over them in that hot wet mess he'd wanted so bad.
Tommy lets his legs go slack, biting his lip at the disappointed noise echoing deep in Adam's chest. He reaches back to drag a couple fingers through Adam's come, getting them good and slick to push between the cheeks of his ass, up inside him. Overtaxed nerves buzz, fizzle-snap sensation, but fuck, it's good, his own fingers fucking his body open with Adam's half-hard cock right there. He scrubs his cheek against the carpet, mouth open, hips rocking.
It's not enough.
"Finger me," Tommy groans, chest squeezing tight as he drags his knee higher, putting himself on display with his fingers spread wide around his asshole. He can feel Adam staring and it's fucking amazing.
"Tommy," Adam says, trying to get back to his let's-be-reasonable bullshit tone, "slow down, baby, breathe for a minute." But it's too fucking late for that shit now--that's his come still dripping wet between Tommy's legs.
Tommy tosses hair out of his face, turning to pin Adam with a look over his shoulder. "Fucking get your fingers in me."
Any other time, it'd be pretty fucking funny the way Adam's mouth falls open, his eyes going wide, damn near popping out of his head. But there's still the crawling, sizzling thing burrowed under Tommy's skin, slithering its way through him in this weird, fucked up way that makes him shudder. Tommy's so not fucking laughing. If Adam doesn't start listening to him soon, he's gonna beg for real.
One of Adam's hands settles in the small of Tommy's back. Muscles go tense as Tommy twists further around to see where the other is, his gaze jumping crazy fast between Adam's fingers and Adam's face, right up until those fingers skim along the inside of his thigh. He drops his head, waiting, waiting, wondering if he's gonna go fucking insane before Adam touches him, and then Adam's fingers are warm at his hole, pushing up into him strong and thick.
The frantic jitter twisting up Tommy's insides rolls back to a smooth buzz. His eyes slip shut as he sinks down, chest flat to the floor, cheek pillowed on the backs of his hands, breath barely stuttering over the cold metal bite of Adam's rings so close to delicate skin. Everything that isn't Adam's hands on him feels hazy, distant. There's nothing holding him down except the easy slide of Adam's fingers into him, the slow drag out.
"Fuck," Tommy moans, fingertips curled deep into the carpet, the glue holding the fibres together digging in under his nails. "Adam, fuck me like that. Just like that."
Adam's mouth skims the sharp slant of Tommy's shoulder. He sounds ruined, hanging on to an edge they already fell over. "Tommy, you don't-"
A jolt of something really not fucking good nails Tommy right in the gut. "Don't have to do a fucking thing I don't want," he snaps, pushing up onto his elbows, furious and snarling, like Adam's taken a cattle prod to him or something. "It's my ass. If I say I want your dick in it, I want your fucking dick in it. Only thing you gotta worry about is if you want to put it there."
Adam's jaw goes tight. He breathes in fast, nostrils flaring, and spits right back, "Is fucking you going to fix whatever the hell is wrong with you? Because that wasn't you, Tommy. You don't say shit like that. Not to me."
Holy fuck, Adam is pissed. And gorgeous, stupidly fucking gorgeous, and seriously ticked off, and it fucking makes Tommy hot. Like, crazy hot, clutch-his-fucking-balls hot. A train-wreck moan squeezes out of Tommy's throat as his body clenches up tight around Adam's fingers. He wants it so bad now he can't even fucking speak.
Panic flares ice-cold as Adam draws back. Carpet burn bites into Tommy's elbows, his knee, as he whips around to grab at Adam's arm, misses, snags the hem of his tee instead and holds on like he's fucking dying. That fucked-up frenetic feeling looms inside Tommy, coiled up ready to rip through him, drag him kicking and screaming into real insanity.
"Tommy?" Adam asks, quiet and careful, his hand curled low on Tommy's ass.
Tommy stares hard at his fingers tangled in Adam's clothes. It takes him three tries to get something more than a crackle pushing out of his throat. "Don't cut me off." Adam starts to say his name again, softer, but Tommy shakes his head. "I'll live with it," he says, and he can fucking feel whatever's inside him laughing, endless shatter-glass peals that he remembers echoing in his head every night since Monday when he hooked up with somebody not Adam. He's remembering all sorts of things he wishes he wasn't. "Made it this long not even knowing it was there, right?"
"Three days before a nervous breakdown in a hotel lobby," Adam says, scooting down so he's on the floor next to Tommy, eye-level. He slides his hand between Tommy's thighs again, palm curved to drag one leg up over his. His parted lips brush against Tommy's. "You're pretty bitchy when you're horny."
When Tommy says, "Fuck it out of me," without a second thought, he knows Adam's right. This isn't him. It's what he wants, but not how he wants it, and it sure as hell isn't how he'd try to get it.
Adam's smile is lopsided, sad, when he leans in to finally kiss Tommy again. Tommy opens up for it as his heart sits up and rolls over like a fucking toy schnauzer, belly bared, stubby tail wagging, manically hopeful. A tiny sliver of sad doesn't have to mean no. Sad can mean a whole boatload of shit. Sad can fucking mean there's no more low-fat whipped cream for Adam's blended ice coffee.
"Move your leg up," Adam says into Tommy's mouth, his hand pushing up further to splay out on Tommy's ass, haul him in close. Tommy hitches his knee higher on Adam's hip, breath held and pulse pounding as Adam's fingers slide along his crack again, tips rubbing softly at his hole. When they push in, slip past tight muscle, all that air trapped in Tommy's lungs leaks soundlessly free.
A slow crook of knuckles pressing against Tommy's insides makes his whole body jerk He grabs at the back of Adam's shirt, face pressed into Adam's shoulder to muffle a low moan. Adam's fingers vanish for a heartbeat and come back saliva-slick, warm. The sticky head of Tommy's cock grazes Adam's bare belly, soft skin and thin, rough trail of hair so good Tommy shuffles closer, fucks up against him.
"I could make this better," Adam says, dragging Tommy's hair out of the way to mouth slow kisses along his jaw, his throat. "Wet and slick for you. Let me."
Sprawled halfway on top of Adam, hips moving in tiny, stuttering little fucks, Tommy shakes his head, holds on tighter. He doesn't need it better. What he needs is exactly what he's getting, drag and slow burn turning mellow as his body loosens to let Adam go deeper, fuck him faster. He's sure he could take Adam's dick now. He wants to take it bare.
Before he can stop himself, that's what he tells Adam. Just like that, "Fuck me, fuck me bare," between noises he's never heard himself make, desperate ones, torn all to shreds around the edges.
"God," Adam says, hauling him up to really give it to him, he's taking it so easy now, and, "Baby, don't."
"I want to feel it," Tommy groans, "I want to know what you fuck like," and he's lying, he is, but he isn't. He's thought this shit before, even thought about saying it, but never really doing it. He's wondered sometimes, a lot of times, about the looks on guys' faces the morning after they've been with Adam. Satisfied and somehow still shocked, smug that they got what they did, sad that they might not get it again.
"This is what I fuck like," Adam bites out, angry maybe, or turned on again, and Tommy shakes his head, straining to get more. He's going to need more than one night jacked up on some supernatural bullshit to find out what Adam's really like. His fingers find Adam's cock. Adam sucks in a hissing breath. "Tommy, stop."
Rising up on his knees, straddling Adam's hips, Tommy says, "Not gonna," and that's it, that's as far as he can get once he's got both their dicks in hand, tugging roughly as he fucks himself back on Adam's fingers. Tommy's hard enough to pound fucking nails and Adam's almost there, getting closer, this look on his face like he wants to fight it but can't. Clinging to the idea that if Adam really, honestly didn't want to fuck him, Adam could shove him away isn't the stupidest thing Tommy's ever done. But maybe not taking the chance to do it now, to angle Adam's cock back and sink right down on it is.
Orgasm rises up way too slow and easy. Tommy jacks faster, wanting it to slam into him, knock him back on his crazy ass, but it stays sweet as sugar, dark and thick as tar. He crumples under the weight of it, crushing the breath out of Adam's lungs as he falls, trembling as Adam's fingers keep moving inside him, fucking him until it's over, dragging free to leave him heavy and useless once it is. Trapped in the hollow of his thigh, he can feel Adam going soft again without coming.
Lying there, Tommy waits for what happens next. For the first time in days his head's clear. It's fucking bizarre he hadn't really realised how out of it he was; looking back on his week now, letting it play through like a black-and-white picture show, everywhere things were wrong stands out stark as a technicolour cell. Chalking it up to too much booze, too much partying. Stupid, flimsy excuses.
A choked noise sticks in Tommy's throat, furious. He hasn't got the strength to roll off Adam, get at least some of the space Adam deserves between them. There isn't enough distance in the whole fucking world for this. Fucking jumped by his best friend, fuck.
Adam's arm locks tight around Tommy's middle. "Don't," he says, holding Tommy down, crushing him like he's fighting back. "It's okay."
"It's not fucking okay," Tommy snarls, and this time he does try to get away, a pathetic twitch that Adam barely notices. "Lemme go."
The side of Adam's face is pressed close to Tommy's, too close for them to see one another. "Do you really want me to?"
"Yes," Tommy snaps, Adam's hold immediately going lose, bringing a wave of sheer panic sweeping in, "no, fuck, I don't know. Fuck. Fuck."
Too easily, like it's nothing at all, Adam says, "I'm not leaving you."
"Shut up." Tommy clenches his teeth, eyes squeezed shut.
"This isn't your fault," Adam says, the same as if Tommy hadn't spoken at all. "We can talk about it later, when you're ready to tell me what you really want."
"Shut up, fuck, shut up."
"No." One word, just one, so simply said, sends Tommy reeling, jolting away. Adam only lets him get far enough to see the smile aimed up at him. "You can be sorry, and you can wish it didn't happen, but it did. So when you're able, you're going to tell me if any of it was really you."
"It wasn't," Tommy starts, and, "I didn't," and a slew of other shit that doesn't mean squat. The whole time, Adam watches, waits, one hand stroking down his back like they're fucking lovers in a post-coital cuddle. Tommy's stomach lurches. "I wouldn't have done it like that. I wouldn't have said all that shit to you."
Carefully, Adam says, "You wouldn't have talked dirty to me, or wouldn't have said you loved me?"
It's too much. Tommy struggles to push away, real strength in it this time, but Adam holds fast. When Tommy pushes harder, his grip tightens, digging in, hurting.
"Is this what you wouldn't have done?" Adam asks, his hand huge on the back of Tommy's head, the strain of shoving against it radiating all through the muscles in Tommy's back. "Would you have given me the choice to push away?"
Tommy stops fighting.
Slowly, Adam releases him, both arms falling softly to the carpet. "You can go, or you can stay. I'll understand."
Tommy gingerly picks himself up, everywhere an ache, or a twinge, or sick black guilt. It doesn't help that Adam's still gorgeous. He doesn't trust his legs to hold yet. "Why would-"
"Stay because I want you to."
This is fucked all to hell. Wrong. What are they gonna do, talk about their feelings? Sleep in that big bed together like they used to, pretend nothing happened? Hang out acting like Tommy doesn't remember exactly how Adam looks when he comes, the feel of Adam's cock in his hands, what it's like to be pinned beneath Adam's weight so close to being fucked, like Tommy doesn't want to know more, know everything?
"I want you to stay," Adam says. "Stay with me."
It's not really a choice at all. Tommy was never going to leave.
"Okay." Adam pushes up, knuckles skimming Tommy's jaw, fingers sinking into his hair, and "okay," again, softer, kissing him, promising it's going to be.
End
