Fic: On the Lam - Adam/Tommy

[blue_soaring]

For rhiannanb2. I'm pretty sure this totally fits the bill for your request. :D

On the Lam
Glamdom. Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~3500 words. Western!AU timestamp for Way Over Yonder in the Minor Key. Outdoor sex and straight-razor pervin'.
"Another day, I'll lose sight of your face," Tommy says, setting the pitcher down on the top step. "And I have this strange liking for your face."

*

On the Lam

From the doorway comes Adam's voice, soft in the midmorning hush. "Seems I'll never get used to seeing you there."

Mouth quirked in a sideways smile, Tommy tilts the brim of his hat, pulled down low over his eyes to shield them, up with the tip of one finger. For now the sun is a bright and welcome warmth seeping into his bones. Come noontime, he'll retreat to the soothing dim of Monte's saloon, wet his throat with a fine whiskey, watch the girls for a few hours as both a favour and a thanks for the supper Lisa brought by the night before.

"I love that," Adam says, stepping out from the shadows onto the porch. "The way you smile for me."

With his gaze sliding down Adam's bare chest, the battered jeans riding low on his hips, Tommy says, "Hard to find something not to smile about. Rough night, Sheriff?"

"In a manner," Adam says, coming up behind the old wooden chair Tommy's slumped in, leaning over it with a hand braced on the back. Even upside down, his smile is beautiful enough to have Tommy's chest squeezing tight. "Had an outlaw in need of wrangling."

"Looking mighty scruffy for a lawman." Reaching a hand up, Tommy scratches blunt nails through the stubble thick on Adam's throat. "If I didn't know better, I'd say he got the better of you."

Inches from a kiss, Adam's laugh huffs warm against Tommy's lips. "Could be he'd like to think he did."

"Well now," Tommy says, ducking out from under Adam's hand aimed for his jaw, up on his feet with his hat tumbling into the dust, "can't have you thinking this easy town life is turning me soft. Put your ass in that chair."

Adam folds his arms over the back of it instead, long legs crossed at the ankle. He's barefoot again. It's an awful good thing Adam's town is so small, and so helplessly fond of him. Somewhere outside Still Creek, a body might take exception to a sheriff that walks around half-naked more often than not. Every day Tommy finds a new freckle on skin already kissed brown with them. "That's a shocking lack of manners you've got there, Tommy Joe."

"Ass in the seat," Tommy growls, and with another laugh, hands raised, Adam slips round to settle down. He hooks an arm over the back, knees spread carelessly wide. Ignoring the question writ clear in the slant of Adam's eyebrow, Tommy heads into the relative dark of the house, bounds up the stairs to gather up the cup and strong-bristled brush, soap and razor off Adam's wash stand. He tucks the razor into his pocket before grabbing the pitcher of lukewarm water. There's not much left in it after last night, but enough.

When Tommy moves back out into the sunlight, he finds Adam still in the chair, twisted partway around watching for him. This time, both of Adam's eyebrows lift, and he rubs at his throat, soft rasp of scruff on skin. "Don't suppose I get a say in this?"

"Another day, I'll lose sight of your face," Tommy says, setting the pitcher down on the top step. "And I have this strange liking for your face."

Adam says, "Shameless sweet-talk," smile a mile wide, eyes sparkling, as Tommy sets to working the soap to a lather. He's free with his smiles, his easy affection, but there's a small, unwelcome sliver of Tommy's soul that doubts it can last. Barely two weeks have gone by since Tommy's quit running, and the urge lingers like a burr. There's a price on his head still. There are men itching to claim it. Men that won't think twice about going through Adam to do so.

"One day," Tommy says before Adam notes the turn his thoughts have taken, and sets two fingers beneath Adam's chin to tilt his face to the light, "you'll have to tell me the story of how you became sheriff to Still Creek."

Adam's mouth twists ruefully. "That would mean telling you about my brother."

Brush poised, Tommy takes a moment's pause. "Your brother?"

"My brother," Adam repeats, "who would try the patience of a saint."

Tommy strokes the brush over Adam's cheeks, down his throat. The lather's good, thick and clinging. Taking the minute it needs to soften Adam's start of a healthy beard, Tommy pulls out the straight razor, flicks it open to test the edge.

"I can only imagine what some might say about my letting you near my neck with that," Adam says, eying the blade.

Straddling one of Adam's thighs, a spark lit low in his belly at the way Adam's gaze dips, lingers, Tommy nudges Adam's chin a fraction higher, stretches his throat out long and vulnerable to set the razor's edge to it. Though still bright and sparkling, the light in Adam's eyes goes dark, sweet as when they're naked and spent on rumpled sheets. "They'd have more to say about your letting me roam free through your streets."

"You're not going anywhere," Adam says, as sure as the grip he settles on Tommy's hip, and a far sight more certain than the nervous churning his words start in Tommy's gut. He notices this time. The naked blade against his neck doesn't do a damn thing to shake the stubborn line his mouth thins down to. "I've never chased a man down before, don't think it necessary with a world already hard enough to live in, but for some I'd be willing to make an exception."

Carefully, a hand in Adam's hair to steady him, Tommy draws the razor along Adam's throat in one smooth stroke. Flicking bits of hair and foam to the dirt, Tommy says, "Sounds like a threat, Sheriff."

"Damn right it is," Adam says, his hand slipping down Tommy's thigh, his eyes slipping shut along with it. "And don't you forget it."

"I don't much like being chased." A stroke of the razor along Adam's jaw forestalls any reply, Tommy's need to concentrate on keeping his hand steady giving him time to think past Adam's simple, easy trust in him, that his hand won't slip, that he won't be running again soon, ever. "But for some I'd be willing to make an exception."

Adam's eyes flash open. "You would say that now, when you've a knife to my throat."

"Chase me down," Tommy says, inching closer, the chair's seat stopping him from getting his thigh close to the heat he knows is thickening in Adam's jeans. "Make me leave my mark somewhere not your handsome face."

Grip going tight on Tommy's leg, Adam's gaze shoots up to meet his, drops down a heartbeat later to his mouth, then to the proud push of his cock against his fly. He moves as if he wants to touch and Tommy makes a warning noise, drags his nails against Adam's scalp to fist his hair, hold him still.

"Terrible wretched tease," Adam says. "I never should've let you leave my bed."

"A man's got to eat sometime," Tommy replies, wholly unrepentant as he quickly cleans the blade with a snap of his wrist and brings it back to Adam's face. He's not paying as much attention to the task at hand as he should. If the razor weren't so finely made, so precisely cared for, there'd be more than one small nick marring Adam's skin. With the hand in Adam's hair, he gently tilts Adam's head further back, exposes the tricky curve beneath his chin. Only that and the bits of soap clinging round Adam's mouth remain, a few sparse patches where the hair grows against the grain. "Hold your tongue or risk losing something I'd rather not be lost."

Adam grunts low in his throat, rolling his lips together. His gaze is warm and heavy as Tommy works, saying clearly all the things his mouth can't.

"Miracle upon miracle," Tommy says, light and teasing and at odds with the blade he's scraping along Adam's skin, mindful of the sharp bob of his throat as he swallows. "There is a way to quiet you that won't send the poor Father into fits."

When Adam's bright laugh bursts free, the razor slips. Tommy's heart kicks at his ribs harder than a frightened mare. There's no pained hiss cutting through Adam's voice, though, no thin line of red slashed across his throat. "If he were to see us now, I think he would have words regardless," Adam says, oblivious to the shaking rasp of Tommy's breath.

"We won't chance hurting his delicate sensibilities again if you don't stay still," Tommy warns, gripping Adam's jaw to finish the job quickly. He runs his thumb around Adam's lips after, checking for places he's sure to have missed in his haste. The blade is held a foot if it's an inch away from Adam, and Tommy's thankful for it when Adam catches Tommy's thumb between his teeth, licks at the pad.

Nose wrinkling at the taste of soap, Adam pulls back, works his tongue against his teeth. "I hope you've finished. There are better things you could be doing with your hands."

Eyebrow cocked, Tommy runs the backs of his knuckles down Adam's throat, up again, fingers fanning out to stroke over his chin, the softness of his cheeks. There's a tiny missed patch close to Adam's ear, on the hinge of his jaw, and with a murmured command to stay, Tommy turns to scoop the cup up from weather-worn planks.

"Tommy," Adam says, the closest thing a whine Tommy's ever heard slip past his lips.

"No complaining," Tommy says, seizing Adam's chin. "You've already put a rash on my belly, all of it goes."

"Really?" Adam asks, eyes brightening again as he reaches for the hem of Tommy's shirt, one of the many that began life as Adam's, and Tommy, much like the outlaw he is, shamelessly stole. "Let me see."

"I don't see how you could've missed it. Stay still."

Adam grumbles wordlessly, sincerity behind it ruined by the smile tugging at his mouth, and obediently settles down. The second the blade leaves his skin, he gathers up a rough handful of Tommy's shirt, hikes the hem up to bare his belly. Both hands curve around Tommy's sides to angle him into the sun. The slight redness low on Tommy's stomach, along the slant of his hip, draws Adam's gaze first. From there, iron to lodestone, Adam looks to wounds scabbed but not yet scarred. Thanks to Anderson and his crew, Tommy will carry the bite of shotgun pellets for the rest of his life, pocked and angry on a skin he's managed to save more than once. Scars are a thing he usually doesn't pay much mind. These he thinks he'll have a strange affection toward. He's found his fingers on the wounds more than once already without his knowing, a lingering, gentle touch, almost wondering.

Much like the brush of Adam's fingers now, cottontail soft on healing skin. There's a look to Adam's eyes, haunted and determined, that brings that banked smoulder up to a flare bright as a blacksmith's forge. He doesn't give voice to what Tommy can see he desperately wants to say. Never again and don't you dare, warnings he means down to the very last fibre.

It's no surprise when Adam pulls him down to straddle his lap. No surprise, but his stomach swoops regardless, the sun hot on his back and Adam's mouth hotter on his neck as he loops his arms around Adam's shoulders, razor held a careful distance out. Adam's hands slip beneath his shirt, palms flat to his back pulling him in as kisses turn to bites tracing a path up to Tommy's mouth. Before Adam's goal is met Tommy opens for him, anticipating the slick push of tongue, craving it as sure and sudden as the first time, as every time after. Fumbling to close the razor without breaking contact, Tommy remembers the finely-kept edge, how it isn't his to abuse by putting away without proper care, and clenches his fist tighter around the bone handle.

"Drop it, I don't care," Adam says into his mouth, followed by a soft noise and a scrape of teeth, a hand in his hair to guide him exactly the way Adam wants. Since the night he first went beneath Adam, rolled onto his belly for him with legs spread, Tommy's given as damn good as he's gotten. When he tries to do the same now, Adam's having none of it, both hands framing his face to keep him still, one snapping down to hold him off by the wrist when he reaches for the buttons of Adam's jeans.

Heat prickles up the back of Tommy's neck. Outside, exposed to anyone that happens to wander by, that's the last place Tommy's hands should be heading. Unlike the last time he tried to get inside Adam's clothes out here, he's not drunk on whiskey or Adam's sweet voice. "Inside," he says, and grunts his surprise when Adam refuses to let him up.

"I like you here, in the sun," Adam says, and for a minute, half of one, Tommy severely doubts his aim as their hands push toward Tommy's buttons instead. Those doubts don't last long past Adam's soft, "Take it out for me."

"You're gone mad," Tommy says, laughing, but the look in Adam's eyes stays steady, as steady as his grip as he presses Tommy's hand against Tommy's cock gone thick and wanting. "Adam."

"There's no one to see." Briefly forcing Tommy's palm harder to his cock, an obvious request to leave it there, Adam hikes up the hem of Tommy's shirt again, clearing his view. "Go on."

The dry and dusty breeze that sweeps through the long stretch of nothing between the saloon and Adam's home isn't to blame for the shiver that tracks up Tommy's spine. He sets down the razor and with unsteady hands unbuttons his jeans, then rises up on his toes to reach inside. He hesitates there, a scrap of shame left for where they are.

When Adam's eyes go heavy, dark, when an impatient noise echoes low in Adam's chest, his fingers digging in harder above Tommy's kidneys, Tommy realises it isn't the shame giving him pause at all.

Being as slow as he can about it, Tommy lifts his cock free. He settles down, far too aware of the outside air cool on the damp head, of Adam's hands going even tighter still to pull him in close. As Adam watches, he gives it an easy tug, then another, twin urges to spit in his palm to make it slicker and to glance behind him, make certain the clearing is empty still, burning under his skin.

"Don't think about what's out there," Adam says, voice gone as rough as the night before, but now he's lit by the sun not an oil lamp, and his face is shaved clean, smooth like it hasn't been in days. He looks more now like the sheriff that had stood so firmly in Tommy's way, the one that kept Tommy here with soft words and softer kisses instead of bars and cuffs and threats. Leaning down, Tommy nuzzles his still-scruffy cheek against Adam's, relishes the way Adam's breath hitches. This time when he reaches for Adam's fly, Adam says only, "Please."

"You're no proper lawman at all," Tommy says, quickly fumbling Adam's jeans open, much more eager to pull Adam's cock out into the light, press it hard and hot and incredible against his. The drag when he jerks them is far from easy, but Adam is leaking already, glistening in the sun as Tommy smears slick around with his thumb, over the ridge of Adam's cock and onto his own. It gets to him in a way it hasn't before, creeping along his nerves, buzzing in his brain. He squeezes a bit harder, working more from Adam's slit, biting at the inside of his lip as Adam's hips start rolling with him. In the near three weeks he's been sleeping in Adam's bed, they haven't yet played like this. Tommy's wounds made Adam fuck him slow and careful every chance they got, slow and careful and maddening when the dreamlike haze he's been living in trying to figure out what it means to not be on the run, to have a home someone's willing to share with him, brings a fear curling black in Tommy's gut that hasn't ever nested there before. Now he has something to lose.

It's not much of a kiss when Tommy takes Adam's mouth. Adam moans for him though, lips parted for his tongue, hands flexing on Tommy's back as the slick leaking from both their cocks finally wets Tommy's hand enough to make the rough drag a fraction smoother. Tommy's got some choice words to say when Adam breaks off the second it goes from good to perfect, but they get stuck in his throat when Adam turns his hand palm-up, spits in it rude and obscene in the bright light of day.

Tommy hisses, "Jesus," and needs no prompting at all to let Adam get their cocks smeared wet. The spike of pleasure that follows makes him clutch desperately at Adam's back, and the rhythm of Adam's hips picks up in response, less him jerking them off now and more Adam fucking into his fist and against his dick sweet and sharp all at once. It shouldn't be enough to finish him, the friction amazing though not quite right, but he honestly thinks it might.

"Oh, god, please," Adam says, so far out of the blue Tommy doesn't know what he's talking about, or quite know what's going on when Adam rocks up out of chair, spills them down onto rough planks worn smooth in places by the passing years. Some of the breath's knocked out of him, not all, but enough that he can't manage much more than an uncoordinated flail when Adam shucks down his jeans, plants his bare ass to the wood. Adam's own jeans only get nudged a few extra inches off his hips before he's on top of Tommy again, slippery cock riding the groove of Tommy's hip and mouth on his neck, sucking fresh marks into skin already mottled with more than a fair share.

"Greedy bastard," Tommy grunts, not much of a complaint at all with his dick trapped between their bellies, Adam's all smooth skin and the soft prickle of hair going slick and hot. He hooks his ankle around Adam's calf, arching up for more, lost in the feel of Adam against him, the sharp smell of sex not yet caught and whisked away on the breeze, when the shadow of his hat rolling through the dirt catches his eye. The laugh bursts out of him before he can stop it and Adam moans in response, something that sounds like sweetheart muffled in the crook of Tommy's neck. "Yeah," Tommy says, no thought given as he grabs at Adam's ass, encourages him to thrust faster, bring them both to the edge with Adam tumbling straight over it, frozen for a few beautiful moments in pleasure before fumbling between them, wrapping his hand, big and strong and come-slick, around Tommy, finishing him so quickly it's like he's a boy again only just discovering the things his body can do. Dazed, Tommy can only huff a laugh again, shocked straight down to his toes, the very tips of his fingers.

"So gorgeous," Adam says, heavy on top of him, still breathless, "I love it when you laugh, Tommy Joe. I love it."

"No sense left in you at all," Tommy says, his body gone loose, one arm barely staying caught around Adam's shoulders as the other flops down, useless. "Be thankful there's service now, and that your town's a sight more pious than you."

The devilish curve of a smile pressed to Tommy's throat, Adam says, "Oh I am thankful, have no worries. So very thankful."

"Thankful enough to pull that pitcher of water here?" Tommy asks, eyeballing it just out of reach.

Barely managing to snag it with a few fingers curved into the spout, Adam drags it close. He lifts up only enough for Tommy to gratefully down a few lukewarm mouthfuls, easing his parched throat. His hands roam careless and free while Tommy drinks, one curved along Tommy's jaw to stroke his cheek, down over his throat as he swallows, along the sharp wing of his collarbone exposed by his shirt rucked sideways and through the sweat gathered in the hollow. The heavy thud of Tommy's heart refuses to slow. It's a good life he's stumbled upon here in Adam's town, in Adam's arms. A damn good life he wants so badly to hold fast.

"There are some leftovers to warm if I've worn you out," Adam says, the slant of his smile softened.

Tommy gives up an eager groan. Adam laughs, and kisses him happily, as free beneath the sun as he is threadbare and sweat-stained sheets.

*
End