Fic: You Lack Integration and a Cheap Pursuit - Adam/Tommy (1/2)

[blue_soaring]

This would literally not be half the story it is without rivers_bend. Endless thanks to her for absolutely everything, and to @Quinn_ART and @Valress for helping me weed out the pesky typos that hide from me like ninja.

Like Saint Joe on the School Bus, at the end of this fic you'll find a download link for a pdf of the story (ePub to follow in the next few days) and a link to donate if you'd like to for any reason. I've been working on original novels for the last two years or so, dragging it out, but I've decided I'm putting one out next year, no more piddling around, because omg, can I freakin' piddle like a champ. (Unhousetrained pets have nothing on me, for serious.) You don't have to donate to download the pdf or the ePub; take it, share it, and I hope you enjoy!

In other news, I've totally found Dreamwidth's post limit. Crazy.

You Lack Integration and a Cheap Pursuit
Glamdom. Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~60,000 words. Werewolf AU containing underage rebellion, sex, drugs, alcohol, and rock 'n roll.
Tommy has a plan. A very careful, weeks-long in development, not-so-shabby plan. The internet's pretty good for learning shit, but his mom's crazy, and disappointingly computer-savvy. Way more savvy than Tommy is. Tommy found out about the clubs through news articles, a few details through some message boards not filtered out by parental controls tighter than Fort fucking Knox, but not the real nitty-gritty stuff. Like if weres can smell how old you are.

*

You Lack Integration and a Cheap Pursuit

Oh shit. This guy is totally gonna sniff him.

Tommy has a plan. A very careful, weeks-long in development, not-so-shabby plan. He's in black, with a little bit of black, some more black, and the battered, black leather jacket he found at a second-hand store, the smell of smoke and gasoline sunk so deep into it nobody else wanted to even touch it. He tried spiking his hair up in a badass mohawk, but the shit he bought at the drugstore wasn't strong enough to keep, or even get it there, so it's flopped sideways and kinda cool-looking anyway, like he did it on purpose. It shows off his hair buzzed close to his skull on the other side, dark roots stark next to pale blond.

He likes it better than a mohawk. Whatever. With his eyes lined in more black, he's rockin' it.

The dude on the door is eyeballing him like he totally thinks Tommy's rocking it, and he's also totally not buying it. Maybe the guy can smell the booze on him. Tommy's not drunk or anything really stupid. He's got a little buzz on, just enough to have the guts to come out here. The internet's pretty good for learning shit, but his mom's crazy, and disappointingly computer-savvy. Way more savvy than Tommy is. Tommy found out about the clubs through news articles, a few details through some message boards not filtered out by parental controls tighter than Fort fucking Knox, but not the real nitty-gritty stuff. Like if weres can smell how old you are.

As far as Tommy figures, illegal underground clubs are illegal underground clubs, and not so big on carding people. Anonymity, right? And like, weres are technically fucking illegals anyway. It's not like the fine state of California is going to go around issuing licenses to people they refuse to admit exist. Weres probably wouldn't even want licenses anyway. They don't do shit the way humans do.

Which is like, the total basis of Tommy's plan. Concocted in the dark at quarter past midnight two weeks ago, hunched over some PBR swiped from Mike's dad's stash and the otherworldly glow of his dinged-up laptop while he surfed nature sites. Wolves, the internet helpfully told him, are territorial motherfuckers. Total 'trespassers will have their throats torn out' type of shit. But they've got whole systems of communication, body language and vocalisations, and Tommy's plan so does not involve bleeding out face-down in a puddle of his own piss in an Eastside back-alley.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Tommy meets the guy's gaze, holds it for the count of two, long enough to say, "Hey," and drop his arms loose to his sides before he cuts away. The guy's built like a fucking tank, and Tommy's got no illusions about how quickly he could end up a smear on the sidewalk even without the whole super-human strength thing. He's hoping leaving his throat and belly vulnerable is a good enough show of submission. No way does he want get close enough to lick this dude's face.

Not that he knows that's something werewolves actually fucking do. He's working with shit information here.

The guy grins, baring two shockingly-white rows of very human teeth. Arms folded over his chest, he jerks his chin at the door.

Keeping his head down, Tommy says, "Thanks," and hauls ass inside before the guy sniffs out how close he was to shitting his pants.

Heat and noise plough into Tommy like twin linebackers. He staggers, grabbing onto whatever the fuck he can reach, which fortunately turns out to be a wall plastered with ratty posters and not somebody twice his size and meaner than a pitbull. Shit. If these guys have got wolf-level hearing, sensitive enough to catch the whisper of falling autumn leaves, then their fucking eardrums must be bleeding. His head's gonna explode.

Gulping down air, Tommy shoves away from the fall. This place reeks. Like, seriously fucking reeks. Beer and sweat and this weird, thick musky smell that tastes wild clinging to the back of his throat. He gives breathing through his nose a shot, trying to pick out what the fuck that even is, and instantly regrets it. It's so sharp and sour it feels like it seared his fucking nose hairs.

Scrubbing furiously at his nose and pulling small, shallow breaths in through his mouth, trying not to taste the sweat on the air, he presses deeper into the club. There are fucking hundreds of people in here, and of course every last one of them is like, two feet taller than him, minimum. Hunching his shoulders, figuring he might as well use his size to his advantage, he worms his way through the crowd. It's way too dark for him to see the floor, the flashing lights only throwing him off when he tries. This is totally what the dead poets his English teacher loves are talking about when they go on and on about being cast adrift in the roil of foreign seas, holy shit. By the time he makes it to the stage, a few rows back because he's crazy, okay, not fucking crazy--he'd like to come out of this one unbroken rib at least--he's drenched in sweat, tee sticking to his back, hair clinging to his face. Ducking down, he peers underneath somebody's raised arm. His eyes go wide.

Now this is a motherfucking rock show.

There's a whole fucking platoon of performers, dressed up in the craziest, fucking sexiest shit ever, leather and metal, thigh-high platform boots, and so much fucking bare skin it's like he's in the middle of a fucking porno. There's a girl smack in front of him in only a pair of skintight shimmering pants, her chest bare, a hand each from the two guys behind her cupping her breasts as they dance, moving so fast when they spin and twist that she's only really naked for a second or two at a time.

Way back in the shadows, surrounded by fucking torches, 'cause it's not like this place has a fucking fire code or something, is the band. He drags his gaze away from the dude with the spiked beard shredding it on guitar to centre stage where there's this other guy, the singer, dressed in the same clingy, shiny pants as the dancers, and a jacket made out of the same stuff hitting him past the knees, hanging open. Tommy's eyes catch first on the dark trail of hair low on his belly, the sharp, smooth jut of his hipbones, then his fucking dick. His dick, hard and thick, outlined so fucking clearly. Tommy's mouth goes weirdly wet, his stomach tight, a sharp thrill arrowing straight to his cock. He's checked out some porn before--his best friend Mike's so fucking stingy with it he had to steal Mike's laptop and watch it with the sound turned off while Mike slept, whatever--but this guy is real, right fucking there, and there are all these guys and girls crawling on all fours around him, writhing on the floor mostly fucking naked, pawing and licking at his boots, and when Tommy finally looks up, past the angry red clawmarks he totally missed before, to see the guy's face, his dick jerks. He's seen singers get into it. This guy is really into it, like everybody in the audience is giving him the best blow of his life all at the same time.

The music crests, peaks, the guy's voice screaming over it as the chick on her knees in front of him rears up to dig her nails into him, rake them from collarbone to groin, more vicious red marks blossoming in their wake. The crowd's roar surges, the whole room shifting forward at once, carrying Tommy with them like he's caught on the tide. He'd be flat on his face except they're crushing too close, bodies on all sides holding him up.

And then the silence comes crashing in. Three sweet, startling seconds of it before the cheers go up, deafening applause, howls sweeping through the crowd. While Tommy's still trying to catch his breath, his heart thundering in his ears, the music picks up again, a dark, creeping baseline thrumming up through the floor, stalking like shadows in the dark.

The singer moans along with it, soft, melodic, lone-wolf haunting. A shiver goes through the crowd. Whether it's sympathy or anticipation, Tommy doesn't have a fucking clue. When it crawls up his spine, it's something else entirely. He can't stop staring at the guy singing. Literally just cannot fucking rip his gaze away no matter how hard he tries. It's not even, it's not like Tommy really desperately wants to bone him or anything. He's just so fucking compelling.

Considering he's boring holes into the poor dude's skull, it's not really surprising when the guy looks straight at him. Except for how it totally is, because Tommy's the fucking smallest shit in here, and the lights are jumping around wildly, throwing the club into stark relief then darkest black, the torches on stage barely making a dent. And the guy is staring right fucking at him. He swallows hard.

The singer drops into a crouch, voice rising in counterpoint, sliding down again to a warm hum of sound. He crooks a finger, and Tommy stupidly tries stepping forward. He's already burning up in here, but a fresh wave of heat spikes beneath his skin. Way to be a fucking attention-starved moron.

A wicked, knowing smile slant the singer's mouth. "You," he breathes, more sound than word, and it's gotta be a lyric, it's fucking got to be, but he sings it again, soft and intimate, hand outstretched, waiting.

This time when Tommy tries pushing closer, the crowd lets him eke through. His lungs are squeezed so tight he can barely breathe. He's pretty sure his ribs are creaking.

Rising slowly from his crouch, the singer laughs, smooth and dark like the slow creep of sin. Tommy shivers in its wake, desperate to get closer. His skin's crawling with the need to touch. He wants to rub his face in the guy's chest, let the guy crawl inside him, eat him fucking alive, and that is so fucking scary, so bizarre and foreign and downright terrifying an urge, that Tommy freezes.

The singer throws his head back, laughing, arms in the air. "Howl for me, motherfuckers!" he screams, and the entire place goes up. Howl after howl after howl, rising in pitch, melting and melding together. It sounds like a promise, like a threat, like a warning that the hunt is fucking on. Tommy scrambles back, heart in his throat, throwing wild, terrified glances at the people around him. Because they're not people, they're werewolves, every last fucking one of them, teeth bared and eyes glinting, and Tommy is fucking prey.

He bursts out into the alley, stomach still churning with the expectation of sharp, vicious claws biting into flesh. Everybody's seen the photos the Coalition keeps putting out of werewolf attacks. The mauled corpses, half-eaten, the twisted horror forever frozen on victims' faces. He's so sure it's all bullshit. Hate-mongering propaganda. He is so fucking sure, and he takes off running for his life anyway, scared out of his fucking mind with his heart rabbiting in his chest.

Four blocks away, he slows, lungs burning, eyes blurred by tears. He's gonna throw up it hurts so bad. He stumbles into another alley, crouching in the shadows with his head between his knees, praying for the dizziness to pass. Some days, he really fucking wishes he didn't hate sports so much.

He jolts at the scrape of nails on broken asphalt, head snapping up, staring wide-eyed into the dark. Nothing but the skitter of dumpster rats. Nobody followed him. The fucking coolest party ever is on the go back there, some were isn't going to slip away to trail after the scrawny stick of a kid that thought he could crash it.

Which is pretty much the final thought of every horror movie victim ever. Tommy shoves away from the wall, panting shallowly. It's not too late for him to catch a bus once he makes it out of Eastside.

He does it in record time, alternating between jogging and walking really, really fucking fast. After swinging onto the bus and shoving some change into the machine while the driver gives him this look like he knows exactly what sort of trouble-making kid Tommy Joe is, up to no good out here in his black leather and eyeliner, he feels slightly safer. He makes his way down to the back, slumping into a seat with his feet up. Outside, beyond the yellow pools of the streetlights, the world looks dark, menacing. Like there's a pack prowling at the very edges waiting for him to take one wrong step to pounce. He's so fucking glad there's a metal wall between him and the looming night.

Three transfers later, the bus dumps Tommy five blocks south of his house in boring suburban Burbank. The streets are well-lit, and there's the noise of someone throwing a patio party a few houses over. Eastside is miles and miles away. He should probably take the long way around, but the playground shortcut is right there, full of wide open space, and it's not like it's really dark. Besides, he's still kinda worked up. The half-smoked joint in his jacket pocket is totally what he needs.

Lighting up, he heads away from the street. The first toke is good, spicy-sweet, hits him quick and hard. He figures it's the adrenaline making him burn through oxygen faster, his blood pump harder. On legs still unsteady from his crazy-mad run from the club, Tommy wavers over to the lopsided merry-go-round and plunks his ass down. The chill of the metal feels good seeping through his jeans. He drops slowly back, one arm stretched out to get as much contact as possible while he takes another draw. Smoke curls lazily around the moon, hanging fat and full in the starless sky, when he breathes out. The noise of the patio-party stretches all the way in here past the scraggly bank of sheltering trees. Somebody's dog starts yipping.

Tommy sighs and smokes the last of his joint, stubbing the roach out on a handlebar and stuffing it back in his pocket. The nervous jitter's mellowed out some, but not nearly enough he's ready to head home. He broke curfew more than two hours ago. He's not looking forward to the shit that's gonna meet him when he gets home. Heaving another sigh, he climbs to his feet. Might as well get it over with. The sooner he's back in his room, the easier it'll be to pretend tonight didn't happen. It was stupid to not tell even Mike about his plan, in case something happened, but he's glad he didn't. Now he doesn't have to 'fess up about what an utter chickenshit he is.

Weaving only slightly, he starts off for home. Tree roots and rocks and shit keep getting in his way. Hunching deeper into his jacket, he detours around them, the space between his shoulder blades tingling when he crosses out of the playground into the field where his mom tried to get him to join the soccer team when he was seven. He absolutely hated it. Kids running circles around him, screaming in his face, trying to knock him over with the fucking ball because he was so much smaller than everybody else. And the coach, this big brick shithouse of a guy, couching down to ruffle his hair and call him squirt, or sport, telling him to man up and take it, and fuck, how that annoyed the crap out of him. Man up and fucking take it, what kind of bullshit lesson is that to teach a kid getting his ass walloped on a daily fucking basis?

"Bullshit," Tommy mutters under his breath, sunk so deep in the memory he's getting kinda annoyed now, "bull-fucking-shit," and it totally fucking figures he trips on nothing, fucking nothing, like even the grass still has it out for him. He grunts a curse as the jolt goes all the way up through his palms into his shoulders, his knees to his lower back. And then he sighs again, the frustration bleeding out of him, because it's his own damn fault, out here smoking up in the middle of the night. He rolls over, thumping onto his ass, poking at the knees of his jeans and his stinging palms. There're little speckles of blood in the dirt smeared on his hands. Jesus, he went down hard. He flops back into the grass, letting it have him if it wants him so bad, and tells the dull sky, "Fuck my life."

Pure genius, he passes out. Only for a couple minutes. Or maybe, like, an hour at the most. All he really knows for sure is he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, scuttling clouds have hidden the moon and it's dark, really fucking dark. Bits of grass are poking him in the side of the face. His palms still hurt. And there's this really fuck-off giant wolf staring at him.

"Holy fuck," Tommy spits, bolting upright. It is seriously fucking huge. Wolves are like, ninety pounds at the most. The fucking most, okay, he knows this shit. This one is fucking twice that size, and it's close, really way too fucking close, like, one big leap and it'll be on him.

It lifts its head, scenting the wind, a low rumble building up in its throat.

"Shit. Shit. I'm sorry, okay?" Tommy does not fucking want to end up a mauled corpse on the fucking soccer field. He is so fucking sorry it's not even funny. "I fucked up. I won't do it again. I won't tell anybody. I'm a snot-nosed little kid, okay, I'm like, acting out and shit, oh fuck." As it pads silently closer, he scrunches down in the tiniest ball he can manage, protecting his belly and lacing his hands at the base of his skull, hoping that'll be enough to keep it from snapping his neck. Adrenaline burns through his veins, urging him to get up, run, fucking run. But there's nowhere he'd be able to run to fast enough.

A hot whuff stirs Tommy's hair. "Fuck," he rasps, squeezing his eyes shut, "I'm really, really sorry, please don't, I don't wanna get mauled, I-" breaking off with a pathetic whimper when its cold nose touches his ear. Snuffling breaths send shivers shooting all up and down Tommy's spine. He's never been so fucking scared in his life, and that includes the time his mom almost fell asleep at the wheel dropping him off at school right after Dad ended up in the hospital the first time.

The wolf noses harder at him. He sucks in a startled breath smelling of pot and grass and the thick, musky wildness clinging to the wolf's fur. He tries scrunching down tighter, but the wolf paws at him, sharp nails scraping up his forearms where his jacket's rucked up. It snarls, angry, and Tommy bites back a hiccuping sob, sure this is it. The wolf's gonna rip him to shreds. He's gonna fucking die a block away from home where his mom's probably up drinking way too much coffee worrying about him.

It's kind of a total shock he's still breathing three minutes later. The wolf's backed off entirely, and Tommy does not trust that, no he fucking does not. It's patiently waiting for him to untuck himself from his protective little ball. It'll go for his throat the second there's an opening. He stays hunched over, ignoring the burn in his back, the terrified cramp in his guts, the ache in his chest where he's not getting enough oxygen.

The wolf huffs softly, like a question. Tommy flinches. It huffs again, sounding further away, and Tommy risks a tiny peek. It's sitting on the grass about fifteen feet off, tail curled around its paws, watching. Waiting. Fucker.

"You're a dick," Tommy tells it, because this shit is worse than all the snuffling.

One of its ears twitches.

"You heard me. A dick."

It yawns, totally unimpressed. Which would be funny except for the fucking forest of teeth gleaming in the fresh spill of moonlight.

"Okay." Tommy eyeballs the wolf warily. It doesn't really look like it wants to eat him. It looks totally calm. Relaxed, even. Like in the pictures Tommy's seen of wolves hanging out watching cubs play. The pot and the fucked-up adrenaline kicking around in Tommy's blood makes him say, "I'm not a cub," which it totally stupid when five minutes ago he was pleading with it not to kill him because he's a dumb kid.

It actually fucking laughs at him. Or makes a soft whuffing noise that feels like a laugh, anyway.

In a really idiotic burst of bravado, Tommy says, "Look, if you're not gonna kill me, can I go home so my mom can take a shot at me? I'm out so fucking late, you don't even know."

Obviously, the wolf doesn't say anything. It shakes its fur out a bit, but Tommy's pretty sure that's not an answer. Either way, Tommy's only got two choices. Either he stays out here until he falls asleep and hopes the wolf doesn't eat him--maybe that's how he got through it last time; prey that's flaked out on you is no fun at all--or he stands his dumb ass up and hopes the fucker really isn't waiting him out. He is never leaving the fucking house again. Mom's going to have to home school him.

Tommy nervously wets his lips and scrubs them dry again on the back of his scratched-up wrist. It looks like he got into a fight with a fucking rabid kitten, seriously. "Okay," he says, rubbing his palms off on the legs of his jeans. "I'm gonna get up. You, um. You stay there."

Like a geriatric without a walker, Tommy climbs agonisingly up to his feet. He keeps a cautious eye on the wolf, ready to hunker down again like a pillbug if it so much as twitches. Once he's up, and as-of-yet unmauled, he hesitates. The wolf looks over its shoulder and lazily licks its muzzle. "Yeah, right," Tommy mutters. "As if I'm falling for that shit."

The wolf abruptly stands up. Tommy backpedals so fast he almost trips over his own damn feet again, heart catapulted straight up into his throat. When the wolf doesn't make another move, Tommy freezes. All he wants to do is run for it so fucking bad. But he's seen every scrap of footage National Geographic's got, and even if he's a fraction of the size of a fucking buffalo, he's gonna stand his fucking ground. Anything that tries running ends up dinner-to-go.

With a snort, the wolf takes three lazy steps forward. Tommy takes three involuntary back, then another half-dozen on purpose as the wolf keeps coming, like it's chasing him down in slow motion. When his heel scrapes on the sidewalk, Tommy throws a startled glance down, then hisses, "Shit," because that was so fucking dumb, oh Jesus, so fucking stupid, that's all it was waiting for to pounce.

Except, it doesn't. Waiting patiently for him to get his balance back, it starts herding him across the street, down past the rows of dark houses one after the other.

About a dozen feet from his own front door, Tommy asks, stunned, "Did you just fucking walk me home?"

Like the wolf totally doesn't appreciate Tommy poking fun, its tail goes up and its head goes down, teeth bared. Tommy holds up both hands, palm out, tripping over apologies--he's seriously got to learn to keep his dumb mouth shut. But the wolf's not looking at him. Its fixed on the shadows by Mrs. Peterson's mutant begonia, snarling low and threatening deep in its throat.

"Oh, fuck me." Another wolf. Big, black, and one of these things is fucking terrifying enough, why the fuck did two have to stalk him home.

The wolf by the flowers snarls at the first one, snapping its jaws on thin air like it's really, really pissed. Tommy flings at glance at his wolf, then looks back at the newcomer, then the shadows deep and dark all around. Who knows how many of them are out there. It could be dozens. A whole fucking pack.

Motherfucking fuck this shit. Tommy takes off for the door.

Chaos explodes in his wake. Snarling and snapping and growling, the tear of claws into turf, the heavy thud of bodies and pained yelps. Whatever the fuck's going on, he's not stopping long enough to find out, or check on who's winning. He thumps into the door, jamming his key into the lock and almost breaking it off as he wrenches at the knob. Slamming the door shut so hard the house shakes, he throws all the locks, and stays pressed against it like the strength of his will alone can hold it fast. Outside, he hears the noise of the wolves still fighting. One of them eventually's going to win. Either's big enough to break through a window. Fuck, one could probably take out the door if it wanted.

He needs to call the fucking police. Or a swat team. Maybe a motherfucking ambulance, because it sounds like one of those wolves isn't walking away from this shit. Is that what they fucking do? Fucking stalk smartass kids for kicks and maul each other in the middle of fucking suburbia? No way. Just no way. The Coalition can't be right. That wolf could've fucking killed him seventeen fucking times between the park and here.

"Tommy?" his mom calls from the top of the stairs.

"Fuck! Mom!" Tommy whips around, back to the door. "Jesus, you scared the fuck outta me."

"Language," Mom says, scowling.

Tommy flaps his hands at her. This is no fucking time for fucking manners. "Look, I know, I'm so late, you're totally right, but Mom, Mom, there's-"

"Yes?" she prompts, looking seriously annoyed. "It's quarter past five in the morning, Tommy, and I'm visiting your father in two hours. Stop slamming doors and go to bed. We'll talk about your curfew in the morning. I'm not happy."

"But," Tommy says, "but, the-" Apparently, the nothing, because outside's quiet. Dead fucking quiet. Heart in his throat, he goes up on his toes to risk a peek out through the little semi-circle window set in the door. Seriously, fucking nothing except some torn-up grass and a few crushed flowers. What the fucking fuck.

"Bed," Mom says, smacking her palm down on the banister. "Now."

"Okay!" Tommy shouts, then winces. Never mind setting off the wolves again, he's about to send his fucking mother into rabid rage. "I'm sorry. I got, um, with Mike. And fell asleep. And worried you'd be worried."

She softens maybe a fraction of a fraction. "Alright. We're still going to talk about it, though. Thank you for being concerned."

"Sorry," he mumbles.

Halfway to her door, she pauses. "Next time, honey, just call and let me know you're staying the night. It's a good neighbourhood, but I'd rather you not be out walking the streets this late."

"Okay," Tommy repeats. "I'm sorry. G'night."

Her bedroom door closes with a quiet snick. Tommy whips around and stares out at the lawn again. As intimidating as she can be, there's no fucking way his mother scared off two werewolves. Motherfucking werewolves. Right out there! Fighting to, like, the death. He can't fucking believe it.

Bonus, he's not puppy chow.

After a few tense minutes squinting at the dark, and before his mom can get mad at him all over again, he books it up the stairs. Carefully closing the door, he circles around the foot of his bed and creeps to the window, the blinds up, the calm night lit up pleasantly by yellow streetlights. It doesn't look like the type of night where somebody wakes up dead the next morning. If he's got to choose, he'll go with one of the wolves kicking the can over him any day. Well, maybe he'd feel bad about it, though. He's not sure what the fuck the black one wanted, but the grey one hadn't been too bad.

A flicker by one of the lopsided trees in the backyard catapults Tommy's heart back into his throat. It turns out to be nothing, branches waving in the wimpy breeze. He can't help thinking maybe one of them's still out there. If it walked him home, it'd probably stick around until it made sure he was settled in, right?

Shuffling away from the window, Tommy grabs his beat-up old acoustic, flicks off the lights, and sits down on the bed, fully clothed, boots still on. After a second's thought, he scrabbles at his pocket, getting his cell out. If he hears one sound, one fucking howl, he's calling the police so fucking fast, and he's not gonna be one bit sorry when they put down every single were for five miles.

*

Tommy wakes on top of the covers with a vicious crick in his neck and a cramp in his hand from clutching his phone while he slept. Sunlight pours through the blinds he didn't close. His mouth is fuzzy and disgusting, his eyes crusty, and his clothes are twisted and sweaty and gross. Heaving a grunt, he rolls over, hiding from the mid-morning blaze. Summer is fucking brutal.

Half-asleep, he listens for the noise of Mom puttering around downstairs, hoping he's at least woken up in time to catch breakfast. Everything's quiet. Too fucking quiet. Electric fear jolts through him. Motherfucking werewolves on his front fucking lawn. He scrambles off the bed, nearly taking a header into the wall when his foot tangles in the sheets draping across the floor, and slams into his door. Wrenching it open, he yells, "Mom! Mom!" and pounds down the stairs, swinging into the kitchen. It sparkles merrily in the bright sun, totally empty.

As he whips around in a panic, heading for the front door with visions of blood-smeared grass and mangled corpses in his brain, he catches sight of a note pinned to the coffee maker. Snatching it up, he reads it twice, then a third time, heartbeat thundering in his ears. "Oh thank fuck," he groans, sagging against the counter. He'd forgotten all about her plans to visit Dad. Fuck, he'd thought she would've woken him up so he could come along.

Dad might be out soon, she said yesterday, if he keeps getting better and better like he's been doing. She knows the hospital freaks Tommy out, and thinks seeing his father hooked up to oxygen and so exhausted all the time isn't good for him. But Dad's on the mend. Totally kicking ass, and he said last time he can't wait to see how much better Tommy's gotten at guitar.

Tommy feels really guilty all the time that maybe she's right, and he doesn't want to see his dad that way. And then he goes and almost gets his face chewed off by werewolves at three o'fucking clock in the morning. He's such a fucking shit.

But she totally knows he has plans to hang out with Mike today, and there's nothing in her note telling him to keep his ass home. Normally kicking it around the house is so his thing, watching movies and fucking around with chords he hasn't yet mastered, but if he's got to stay in today, he'll go fucking crazy. Absolutely batshit mental.

To help with the guilt, he does the few dishes in the sink, even drying them and putting them away, and flings shit around his room so it looks slightly less chaotic than usual. Satisfied that'll mellow his mom out enough she won't kill him the second he comes home, he scribbles on the back of the note she left him that he's out with Mike and will definitely, for sure, no doubt at all be home for dinner.

Outside, there's no trace of the wolves. Not a blade of grass out of place, not a smudge of dirt to be found. Fucking unreal.

By the time he makes it downtown, Mike's texted him three times. Once to make sure Tommy's not dead (Mike doesn't know anything about last night, but sometimes he knows stuff, and maybe Tommy's kind of got this habit of getting his ass into places it shouldn't be), once more to remind him that they've got a movie date (Mike actually calls every time he goes outside the house with somebody a date; Mike has dates with his fucking mom), and a final time to say he's at the bakery drinking a delicious icy cool caffeinated beverage, and doesn't Tommy wish he had one. Tommy does wish he had one. Just to gross Mike out, he stops by California Pizza King on his way so he can have pizza and coffee.

Predictably, Mike makes a disgruntled face. "That's disgusting." He hands over the coffee Tommy totally knew Mike was going to buy for him.

"You're, like, the best fucking date ever," Tommy says, greedily sucking up half his drink through the too-thin straw.

Mike gives his shoulder a companionable bump. "Don't you forget it. And don't forget it's your turn to buy tickets."

Shit. Tommy totally forgot. He used up way too much of his pay from his job at the music store downtown on bus fare last night trying to avoid being eaten alive. As if it actually fucking helped. Next time, he'll remember werewolves can apparently fucking track a guy on a bus for forty fucking miles. Not that there's going to be a next time he goes out fucking looking for weres. Just, if he happens to run into a pack or something.

As they cross the street back to the AMC, Tommy busily scrounging through his pockets trying to find enough change to afford two tickets and trusting in Mike to keep him from getting run over, Mike keeps glancing back over his shoulder.

"Dude," Tommy says, coming up with a ten dollar bill from absolutely fucking nowhere, "what the fuck are you looking at?"

"That guy, man." Mike jerks his chin sort of randomly. "I think he's checking you out."

"Mike, dude, I told you to switch to decaf." Oh hey, another five in change. Awesome. He'll probably only half to bum, like, half the price of one ticket off Mike.

"Okay, a," Mike says, elbowing Tommy in the side, "decaf is a fucking crime against nature and that's not a funny thing to joke about. And b, I'm serious. He was eyeballing you at the bakery, and now he's, like-

Tommy cocks an eyebrow. "Going to watch a movie?"

"Look," Mike hisses, shoving him. "Just like, look, over by the IKEA."

Rolling his eyes, Tommy glances over. A weird chill snakes down his spine. If Mike hadn't said anything, he might not have noticed the guy at all, but oh man, once he's looking, he can't miss him. This guy's tall and fucking built, not like body-builder built or anything, but just fucking built in a really awesome way, long lean legs and subtle, smooth curves of muscle in his arms, his tee clinging to a broad chest, shoulders to match, and totally rockin' pitch-black hair and aviators and holy fuck, Tommy's gonna pop wood.

"Put your fucking tongue back in your mouth," Mike says. "He's fucking stalking you."

Please, Tommy thinks, like, any fucking day, bring it. "Pretty sure grabbing some coffee and a flick doesn't a crazy stalker make, man."

Mike doesn't look convinced. He also seems to realise Tommy's being the voice of reason here, which is so fucking out there it's enough to knock him back down to earth. "Yeah," he says slowly, "I guess. But he's giving me the weirdest vibe."

"Is that why you're practically fucking pissing on me to stake your claim? Afraid he's gonna try to, like, pick me up, and I'll ditch you for the hot older guy with the platinum AmEx?"

"I'd ditch you for a platinum AmEx."

"Fuck you," Tommy says, mostly a laugh. "I wouldn't ditch you for a burrito."

"Poor misguided sap," Mike says, but he ends up buying both movie tickets when he gets a load of the dregs of Tommy's pockets, so Tommy's feeling pretty safe in the sap department.

Before they go inside, Tommy tosses back one last glance. The guy's moved to a bench, ankle on one knee, arms slung over the wooden back. He's totally not paying one bit of attention to the two kids heading inside the theatre.

Tommy shivers in the blast of air conditioning that hits him as he crosses the threshold, the space between his shoulder blades tingling.

*

"I seriously gotta get home," Tommy says, holding up his fist to make Mike knuckle-bump him, because there's not much else in the world as awesome as Mike's too-cool-for-this-shit frown. Especially when Mike always fucking caves and gives the lamest bump ever. "Promised I wouldn't be late for dinner."

"Whipped, Ratliff," Mike says, shaking his head sadly. "Whipped."

"Totally," Tommy agrees, nodding fast as he backsteps down the sidewalk. "Whipped like you had that coffee ready and waiting."

Mike flips him off and starts walking away.

"I love you, Nash!"

Flapping a hand, Mike keeps walking.

"For your dick!"

It's distant and thready, but Tommy catches Mike's giggly laugh. Score. He can always crack Mike's shit up.

Jamming in his earbuds, Tommy cranks the volume and heads for the bus stop. It's his own fucking fault he's stuck heading home while Mike's headed to the arcade for some quality old school gaming. The ones Tommy's got at home are pretty cool, and pretty much one-player anyway, but it's hanging with Mike he's missing out on. Might be a good thing, though. Another hour or two around him and Tommy wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut about Eastside. Not that he actually fucking thinks the weres will know if he spills to another kid--they've kinda got to expect that shit--but he did promise.

All day he's managed to not think too much about last night. Now, on the bus staring out at the bright, cheery afternoon, it's hard to believe it even happened. It doesn't even seem real, like a nightmare, or a scene from a movie.

Tommy's phone starts buzzing. Startled, he pries it out of his pocket. guy still following u?

fuck off, Tommy texts back, rolling his eyes. It's a fucking ten minute bus ride. Mike's such an old lady about shit. jealous i'm gonna get some?

so jealous. condom bouquet for ur grave.

Fucker. Man, he fucking loves Mike. He's seriously got to not get his ass grounded, because if he's got to go the summer without Mike, he'll die. Mom's way too much of a softie to ground him, anyway. He'd have to do something seriously shitty, like blow up the house.

Or get her mauled by werewolves, that'll do it. Christ.

As he hops off the bus on the other side of the park where the wolf had found him last night, he looks around warily. There are a lot of trees, lots of cover. Coalition bullshit says weres are more active at night, but don't think for a second that makes the day safe. Standing out here, kids laughing and yelling, the sun high in the sky, it's hard to feel threatened. Tommy gets another shiver as he walks past the soccer field. By the time he'd made it here last night, he'd been pretty sure the wolf wasn't going to eat him. Scare him, teach him a lesson about ending up places he's got no business being, but not hurt him. Until the other wolf showed up, anyway. Tommy doesn't even fucking know what the fuck anymore.

His mom gives him a grateful smile for getting home on time. He helps out in the kitchen while she tells him about her day, how Dad's up and moving around now, and he kinda wishes she'd woken him up this morning. He doesn't say anything, though. She's got enough to deal with. He's a total shit for going out last night, but he'd had to see. Rumour says the shows move around a lot to keep from being raided, and once he'd found out for sure where it was gonna be last night, he couldn't miss his chance. He seriously fucking couldn't.

Over dinner, he expects Mom to bring it up. Instead, she says, "Dad asked if you'd looked at your options yet."

Fucking dirty pool. College is the last fucking place he wants to go after high school. But she knows he's feeling guilty, and she's got him worked into a corner here if he wants to go out tonight. He shuffles some broccoli around on his plate and makes some noises about reading the brochures, at least the ones that have decent music programs.

"You've got time to bring your grades up," she says evenly. Not accusingly like she did back when he was in junior high and he couldn't even fucking take it, he started fucking bawling right there in the fucking school parking lot because he was fucking trying already. Fucking Bs and the occasional C (fucking gym) are pretty decent grades, but he's not ever gonna be the numbers genius his dad is. If his school had a music department, his average would be a hell of a lot higher. Music he can fucking do.

The rest of dinner passes in a horrible black haze. He eats what's on his plate so she's got one less thing to worry about, since she seems to think him being fucking skinny means she's starving him, not that he's got crazy metabolism--see, he fucking pays attention in class--and slinks up to his room to blast some Manson straight into his skull. There's a sucktastic lump of bile-drenched broccoli sitting in the pit of his stomach making it ache. Gross.

He drifts off rubbing his belly, waking up what feels like a whole day later but is only a few hours according to his buzzing phone. Outside's gone quiet. Scrubbing his eyes, he squints at the text from Mike.

thought u were coming over?

college 4 dinner

fuck, Mike says, and Tommy grins at the way he can hear it in his head, vehement and sharp and totally on his side. u gotta tell em.

Tommy rolls onto his side. He'd slept off the worst of his stomachache, all he needs is Mike stirring it up again. fuck off i know.

sorry, comes back right away. Tommy knows Mike means that one, too. come over, i got stuff.

Fuck yeah, Tommy's coming over if Mike's got weed. He texts, on my way, motherfucker and pounds down the stairs, darting past the living room to call out that he's headed over to Mike's.

"Back before midnight this time!" Mom yells as he's bolting out the door.

Mike's place is close enough he doesn't bother with a bus. The walk and the evening air warm with the last of the day's heat, and the promise of a good, mellow high, are taking care of the twisting in his belly. Mike's right. He's gonna have to tell his parents soon he doesn't plan on going to college fucking ever. His job gives him decent walking around money, and once he's out of school he'll be able to switch to full time. That'll be more than enough to keep him afloat while he's looking for gigs. As long as his parents don't kick him out too soon, he won't have to worry about his own bills, and if he gets some shows that actually fucking pay, he'll be able to help out more with the ones his mom and dad are already dealing with. Win fucking win. College is a stupid fucking idea.

A couple blocks from Mike's, he gets another text. how about that dude, tailing you yet?

Tommy takes a look around, spotting a couple out walking their teeny puffball dog and some kids on bikes, then rolls his eyes. The movie theatre guy is not fucking stalking him, what the fuck. u toking without me?

parents are at aunt's for the weekend, Mike sends back.

Mike's family is kinda awesome like that. The back door's open when he gets there, so he lets himself in, slinging his jacket over a chair in the breakfast nook on his way into the den.
The Royal Tenenbaums is playing on the big screen. Mike's hand shoots up over the back of the couch, joint stuck between two fingers.

"I totally don't love you for your dick," Tommy says, taking the spliff and helping himself to a good, long draw.

"You love me for my stash."

Holding the smoke in his lungs, Tommy nods fast, rounding the couch to flop down by Mike's feet up on the cushions. "Good stash," he croaks out, letting the smoke escape. "Oh fuck me, so good."

"Beer's in the fridge," Mike says, covetous eyes glued to Margot's giantass fur coat. Tommy's up in a flash, back the way he came. "Only one, motherfucker!"

Tommy grabs two, bottles clinking as he closes the fridge. It's still a good half hour before true dark, but Mike's parents have so many fucking trees around their house it's like fucking midnight already. When he'd left the house, he hadn't thought about how he'd have to walk home. Alone.

Maybe if he calls and asks really, really nicely, Mom'll let him stay the night. She might not even mind that Mike's parents are out. Tommy's not exactly loud, but when Mike's over, he's like a fucking elephant stampeding around the place. Quiet doesn't even begin to describe Mike around adults. Fucking ninja. Mom thinks he's the most polite young man ever. She'd never think he's also her son's fucking dealer.

Not that Mike actually charges him. More like Tommy buys him shit sometimes, and sometimes Mike gives him pot. Whatever. They've got a system.

"So, this dude," Mike says the second Tommy's ass is back on the couch.

"There is no dude!" Trading the joint for a beer, Tommy takes another too-fast hit. It sticks weirdly in his lungs, almost choking him, but he keeps it together long enough for it to work into his blood. "What the fuck is up with you?"

"I'm fucking telling you, you didn't see that guy checking you out." Mike waves a hand vaguely at the joint. "I thought he was going to come over, seriously."

"Bullshit."

"Don't blame me when you turn up on a milk carton," Mike says, and drills his toes into Tommy's thigh when Tommy won't give up the spliff. "Fucker."

"Not gonna end up on a fucking milk carton." Tommy steals another toke, then maybe one more, way too soon after the other. Mike doesn't even fucking know. Tommy could end up one of the Coalition's nightmare stories, dumb kid that thought he could handle getting tangled up with the weres, never even found his fucking body. Except they'd never know. Nobody would fucking know what happened to him, he'd be one of those missing persons posters at the grocery store, his digitally-aged face staring out at people who don't bother to even read his name. "Fuck," Tommy says, dragging it out as he lists sideways onto Mike's legs. "Fuck, man. Fuck."

Absently patting his shoulder, Mike takes back the joint. "Knew you'd see the truth."

Obviously Tommy had given it a moment's thought, okay? After last night, he'd like to see someone not consider that maybe the guy had something to do with the wolves. But it's probably a total coincidence. Mike gives Tommy shit all the time about people checking him out, especially when people aren't, because Mike's a dick like that. Mike's a dick, and the weres are done with him, and he's not gonna end up on a fucking milk carton.

"Fuck you," Tommy says, heaving up to his feet. "I'm putting on a different fucking movie. Save your Wes Anderson jerkoff for when I'm not here, filthy dirtbag."

Behind a lazy curl of smoke, Mike's eyes glitter. "'Cause it's so much better sitting next to you when you got a hardon for Mary Tyler Moore."

"That lady is classy." Tommy points a warning finger at Mike as he digs out the box set of The Munsters he got Mike two Christmases ago. "Classy."

"You're fucking classy," Mike says, giggling, which makes no fucking sense at all. Tommy's got to be baked, too, 'cause he says, "My dick's classy," which makes even less fucking sense, and just like that, all the shit's okay.

Mike is fucking aces, man. Aces.

*

Okay until Tommy's getting ready to head out, anyway, and Mike's perched on one of the stools in the kitchen watching him struggle into his jacket. "You sure you don't want me to walk you home, princess?"

Somehow, Tommy's managed to keep his mouth shut about last night. But Mike really is fucking psychic; he knows something's up, and he's not convinced it's the whole college thing anymore. The only thing that's saving Tommy from spilling his guts is that Mike's worried it might be about Tommy's dad, and Mike doesn't like bringing that up unless Tommy brings it up first, because Mike really, seriously is a hand-wringing grandma.

"Sure you don't wanna suck my dick, sweetheart?" Tommy counters, finally getting his arms in his jacket's sleeve and shrugging it on. "I know you're gonna rub one out the second I'm gone."

Mike sighs dreamily, slumping against the kitchen island. "You're the best I never had."

Flipping him off, Tommy's out the door and down the walk, his phone already buzzing with Mike's cheeky, miss you so much, pining, death imminent. It isn't until Tommy's a few blocks away that the quiet of the night penetrates his smoky brain. Quarter to midnight is way too early for it to be this fucking dead on a Saturday night. Most of the houses even have lights on still, but the roads are empty. Nobody's taking out the trash, or letting out a dog to do its business, or kicked back outside enjoying a drink and the warm night. Fucking silent like the grave.

"Chill, Ratliff, you big fucking pussy," Tommy mutters under his breath. "They're not gonna shut down an entire fucking neighbourhood to take you out."

Passing by a tall privacy hedge, he picks up the pace, shooting nervous glances into the shadows. About a block from the park, he breaks into a jog, light-headed and unsteady. The pot's doing a total number on him. Keeping pace with Mike toke for toke is always a bad fucking idea. Nothing's even fucking happening. Looking over his shoulder again and again, there's nobody behind him, no fucking wolves on his tail. His nerves are buzzing anyway, stomach twisting, useless adrenaline burning through his veins. There's phantom snarling at his heels, heat on the back of his neck like the fucking wolf breathing down it again. He breaks into a run at the playground, hitting the soccer field full fucking tilt with his heart crashing into his ribs for no fucking reason other than he's a total chicken shit. There's light warm in the window of his living room, a flicker of the television through the curtains. He barely manages to slow down enough so he doesn't slam into the door again, wrenching it open too fast anyway and stumbling inside.

"Tommy?" his mom calls.

"Tripped on the mat," he shouts back, closing the door as fast as he dares and booking it upstairs before she gets up to see what he's all worked up about. He's probably aired out plenty, but he's still buzzed, and his mother can be fucking scary when it comes to figuring out all the shit he'd really rather she not know. Figuring it's the safest place to hide out, he slips into the bathroom, plunking his ass down on the edge of the tub and dropping his head into his hands. His breathing's harsh and fast still, strained, and his head's spinning so fucking much it's like he's back in the park trapped on the merry-go-round. Fuck.

Lifting his head, he risks a look in the mirror to see how blown his eyes are. He's flushed and sweaty, colour high in his cheeks, and yeah, he's pretty fucking wrecked. Mom gets a look at him now, she'll know exactly what he's been up to. What he wants is to cool down in the shower. With his luck, though, and the way he's feeling right now, he'll end up taking a header into the tile. He settles for splashing some water on his face and giving his teeth a half-assed brush before he slips into his room, quietly closing the door behind him. Shucking his jacket, then his boots and jeans, he notices the blinds are still up, the window open. He gives his jeans a toss and pads over barefoot to close it, and freezes with his hand halfway to the cord, his chest squeezing so tight his ribs creak and his lungs burn and his heart fucking heart stops mid-beat.

There's a wolf sitting in his backyard. A motherfucking wolf in his motherfucking backyard. Again. He stares at it, hoping it'll dissipate like smoke in the wind, a product of his pot-soaked brain. It stares calmly back, yellow eyes unblinking.

"Oh fuck," Tommy whispers.

Like it heard him, the wolf stands up, shaking out its fur. It's not the black one from last night, but the light's weird, he can't tell if it's the grey one or a new one. Without a glance back, it leaves, melting into the shadows. Tommy stays at the window for a long, long time, staring at nothing, hoping the longer he stays here, the soft drone of the television in the background, the easier it'll be to convince himself that didn't happen.

It doesn't work.

"Tommy," his mom calls, footsteps moving into the kitchen. "Tommy, honey, do you want a Coke?"

"No," Tommy croaks, quickly clearing his throat and raising his voice. "No thanks!"

Finally closing the blinds, Tommy slowly backs away from the window. He thumps down on his bed when his legs hit the frame. The Coalition says weres like to send messages, make examples of people. Message received, loud and fucking clear: they're not done with him.

All he can hope for now is they're not waiting to make an example out of him, too.

*

Sunday, Tommy doesn't go out. Or Monday, or Tuesday. That's not really weird for him. Mom doesn't notice anything's off, and Mike's still got that clue but he's not pushing. On Wednesday, Tommy's starting to get antsy--turns out choosing to stay in his house is way different from being caged up in it--and he goes with his mom to the grocery. The entire time his head's on a fucking swivel. He stares hard at everybody, especially the lady in the freezer section with nails so fucking long they're practically claws, like he can tell by looking if they're weres or not.

Movie theatre dude doesn't make an appearance. The only reason Tommy's so fucking fixated on him is because of fucking Mike.

By Thursday night, Tommy can't fucking take it anymore. Every night this week he's crept to his window like a total freak and peered out into the dark, waiting for a flash of yellow to send ice-cold dread down his spine. This time, after spending most of the night downstairs with his mom watching crappy television, he's pissed right the fuck off with being made a prisoner in his own fucking home. He leaves the light blazing as he marches his ass across his room, yanks up the blinds, flings open the window, and fucking screams like a little girl when he finds the wolf fucking there waiting for him. Snapping his mouth shut, he scrambles back and almost trips over his guitar.

Holy fuck. Obviously he hadn't expected it to actually fucking be there. Man, these fuckers are smart. Way to lull him into a false sense of security. The anger had been good. Made him feel brave, reckless. Now he's fucking scared shitless again.

And the wolf's still out there.

Swallowing hard, Tommy edges back to the window. He hangs back too far, unable to see a fucking thing. Which is fucking ridiculous, okay? He doesn't need to fucking see it for it to be able to break into his god damn house and tear his throat out while he's sleeping.

Taking a deep breath, he steps fully into the window frame. The wolf cocks its head curiously.

"I get it, okay?" Tommy says, halfway between a whisper and a squeak. "I said I was sorry. Please stop terrorising me."

The wolf yawns.

"Exactly, right? This is a total fucking drag for you, keeping an eye on the boring punk-ass kid. I'm not gonna do anything." Tommy's gripping the windowsill so hard his knuckles are turning white. "I fucking promise. I really, really fucking promise. Okay?"

Looking unimpressed, the wolf stands up. It turns away, Tommy silently chanting yes, yes, leave, please fucking leave at it as hard as he can, but it only takes a few steps before it turns back. It looks at the street, then back up at him, expectant.

"No fucking way."

A low, warning growl echoes through the soft night air.

"No. No." If he goes out there, he's toast. He'll go down so hard, so fast, probably wouldn't even fucking know what hit him except he would've fucking walked right into it like a complete moron.

The wolf looks at the street again, then him, the street one more time. Its lips peel back in a quiet snarl.

"Fuck you," Tommy says, and slams the window shut, yanking the blinds down so hard one of them snaps. Trembling with an adrenaline spike, he hits the floor beneath the window, knees drawn up tight to his chest. He waits for the howls to go up, one last warning before he's totally fucked. Christ, he's so fucking sorry he brought this shit down. The five fucking minutes he got to see of the show weren't fucking worth it.

Except nothing bad's really happened yet, and the show was fucking amazing. The whole stalking thing's thrown him for a loop, but he remembers pretty clearly the press of bodies, the manic energy, the dark, slinking rhythm of the singer's voice. The way it felt like the guy was staring straight at him, into him, seeing all the raw parts of him, meat and bone and soul. Tommy closes his eyes tight. He wants it to be him out there. The guy he'd watched on stage that night, Tommy wants him to be the wolf that chased him home, who stopped the other one from hurting him, who sits out in the dark keeping watch. It's stupid and crazy and he's nothing but a dumb fucking kid sitting here hoping that's what this is about. Like it's fucking romantic or some shit.

Because, yeah. Tommy's got some pretty romantic notions about werewolves. He's read all those books, seen all those movies, had all those dreams. And even now, with the truth snarling in his face, all he can think about it what it would be like to belong to a wolf. For someone to want you so much they put an actual fucking claim on you, one that every other person honours and respects. For someone to keep you, protect you, forever.

Objectification, the Coalition says. Dehumanisation. Tommy doesn't fucking believe it for a second. He knows it's not the most healthy thing in the world to want. But wanting to be wanted, that's not so fucking strange.

Scooting over to the bed, Tommy gropes along his tangled sheets for his laptop, pulling it down onto the floor. There's got to be somebody out there he can reach. Some fucking site that hasn't been shut down, or flagged by his mom's fucking Fort Knox lockdowns. Something to tell him he's not off his fucking rocker, and he's reading this right.

Three hours later, his eyes are burning, and he's got nothing except an ache in his chest and a lump in his throat.

*

Friday morning finds Tommy alone in the house. He's already ignored three calls from Mike. If he doesn't answer soon, Mike's going to come over here and bitchslap him, and he'll totally deserve it, except if he answers, the whole story's going to come pouring out of him the second Mike says hello. He can't risk Mike talking him out of tonight. Mike'll do it, too. Give Mike five fucking minute and he can talk Tommy into or out of all kinds of shit. So, yeah. No answering the phone. Or the door, if somebody knocks.

The day passes molasses-slow, the heat thick and cloying, making Tommy's clothes stick to his skin. He showers a second time around six that evening, standing under the cool spray letting it beat his skin numb. It doesn't do anything for the hot roil in his belly. Around seven, he starts getting ready, having to stop and breathe slowly counting backwards from ten before his hands are steady enough for him to put on some fucking eyeliner, and it still ends up a total mess compared to the other night. Frustrated, he smudges his fingertips through it, smearing black over his eyelids, then comes back and darkens the line again. Like this, his eyelashes look heavier, thicker, his eyes wide and dark. He leaves the long part of his hair soft this time around, spiking up the back. Same clothes, same black leather jacket, and he's ready before the sun goes down.

His mom's out at Aunt Jo's, so he leaves her a note, carefully propped up on the coffee maker, saying he's out with some guys from school. Mike still doesn't have a clue, but he's the only one Mom's got a number for, and he'll cover. Even pissed at him, Mike'll cover.

Taking the Metro's faster than a bus, but the line stops miles from Eastside's border. Tommy ends up waiting forty minutes for a bus to trundle up. He pays without looking at the driver, slumping past empty seat after seat until he gets to the very back. A couple people get on as they wind through the streets, getting off again at the busier intersections, where the lights are all bright and there are dozens of more people milling around. Only Tommy stays on until they're past 5th Street. He hops off about five blocks east from there, ducking his head as he exits so the driver can't catch his gaze.

The club's probably moved by now. It's been over a week. But it's his only chance. Fuck, he'd probably talk to the guy that had been on the door now. If it meant he'd get some fucking answers, he'd even lick the guy's face.

At the mouth of the alley, he knows he's too late. Everything's quiet. There's fresh garbage heaped by the dumpster, some of it spilling out over the top into the alleyway, no sign of it being pushed aside to make way for the crowd. He keeps going until he hits the black, gaping maw of the doorway. Touching the door hanging drunkenly off its hinges, he traces the clawmarks gouged into the thick metal like proof he didn't need. Like a mark, a sign, a fuck you. We were here.

Tommy steps inside, staring blindly into the dark. His eyes adjust slowly, the shadowy light from outside barely penetrating the blackness. Breathing slow and shallow, he remembers the crash of the noise, the heat, the solid press of bodies, the thick, wild smell clogging his mouth and nose and lungs. The air still feels heavy with the memory of it.

Something stirs the air by his face. Startled, he sucks in a quick breath, jerking back. His laugh rings out empty and hollow. He's totally psyching himself out. There's nothing left here but missed chances. If he'd had the balls to stay, if he hadn't let the fucking Coalition's bullshit freak him out-

"Fuck," Tommy spits, whipping around. He kicks at the crooked door, pissed off all over again, anger spiking to rage for no good fucking reason at all--he doesn't get like this, doesn't fucking act out, get ticked off so easy. But he was so fucking close, and it's his own fucking fault.

And when a hand clamps onto his elbow to pull him back into the dark, he screams. Another hand comes down on over his mouth, his fucking nose, muffling the ragged noise torn straight up from the pit of his stomach. He twists and kicks and tries to slam his elbow back into the guy's gut, or his motherfucking balls, but the guy's other arm comes around him, clamping down tight, yanking him around to crush him face-first against a wall, the guy solid and immovable behind him. He aims to take a chunk out of the guy's palm, giving up with a shocked whimper when his arm gets twisted hard behind his back.

"Stop," the guy says, gentle like he isn't fucking tearing Tommy's arm out of its socket. His grip loosens on Tommy's mouth, but his hand doesn't move. "Stop, I won't hurt you."

Tommy greedily sucks in air. The urge to scream is burbling in his chest, wild and crazy, the urge to fight, run, hide. Stomping it all down, he manages a shaky nod.

The guy--the were, Tommy fucking knows it's a were; that smell is clinging to his skin, crawling into Tommy's lungs--drags in a slow breath. He lets go of Tommy's arm, and it drops dead to Tommy's side, pain shooting through his back. Tommy bites back the hurt noise that wants to come spilling out of him and concentrates on staying really, really still as the guy leans closer, arm propped on the wall to box Tommy in as he sniffs at Tommy's neck, hot breaths stirring his hair. Squeezing his eyes shut tight, Tommy bows his head as much as he can trapped like he is. A soft growl pushes through the dark.

"Tell me your name," the guy says, his mouth brushing close to Tommy's ear as his hand falls away from Tommy's face.

Shakily, Tommy says, "Let me up."

The soft touch of lips becomes the hard edge of teeth scraping over Tommy's spine. "I want your name."

"Fuck," Tommy says, something sick and black twisting through the fear in his belly. "Tommy. Tommy Joe."

"Tommy," the guy says, his voice soft again, still rough, like nothing Tommy's ever heard before. "You shouldn't have come back."

Bile burns the back of Tommy's throat. "Don't tell me what I already fucking know. I had to."

The weight holding Tommy pinned eases. He doesn't dare move, and it's not like the guy's actually letting him up. Tommy can still feel him, pressed close from chest to thigh. He wishes he could fucking see.

"I saw you," the guy says. "So small, almost hidden in the crowd, but I saw you. I smelled you the minute you walked in the door, so fucking good."

Tommy's heart gives one hard thump. "I'm not running," he says, starting to turn around carefully, taking it as a good sign that the were backs off enough for him to do it. "I'm not gonna run this time. I'm not, I just- I want-" The guy, the fucking singer, eyes so blue their colour shines bight through the dark, quirks a smile. He's exactly like Tommy remembers, and so fucking different. Not so otherworldly now, but still not a part of the one Tommy lives in. He's gorgeous, the steady thrum of something wild and free and vicious clinging to him like a drumbeat, beautiful and deadly and fucking unreal. His face is human, but there's nothing human in it. Tommy drops back against the wall. "Jesusfuck."

The guy lets out a pained noise. His gaze darts from Tommy's throat to his mouth to his eyes and back, so quickly Tommy can barely follow, and the next thing Tommy knows the guy's got a hand buried in his hair, wrenching his head back to shove his face against his neck. A shocked, dark thrill courses down Tommy's spine, arrows into his belly. He leaves his hands loose by his sides, breathing hard. This doesn't feel anything like he's about to get his throat ripped out.

Up until the guy bites, and then Tommy's panicking, hands flying up to push at his shoulders, a ragged scream echoing through the emptiness. The guy digs in harder for a brief second, long enough for Tommy to get seriously freaked, and then tears away, panting. His eyes are slipping to yellow, his teeth bared, shockingly white and wet and inhuman.

Going against every urge screaming through his body, Tommy keeps his chin up, throat and belly vulnerable. He can't let go of the guy no matter how hard he tries, so he clutches harder, holding on, not pushing away.

"You need to go," the guy grates.

Not even sure he's got a voice left, Tommy manages, "You gotta let me."

"I don't want to. Fuck, I don't want to." The guy closes his eyes, nostrils flaring as he sucks in a hard breath. "I want to keep hunting you."

"The park," Tommy says, and doesn't need to see the guy's short, sharp nod to know he's right. "The movie theatre?"

"Yes," the guy growls, fingers scraping over concrete as his hands curl into fists on either side of Tommy's head. "You didn't run for me then, but that night, on the way back from your friend's, you ran. Oh, fuck, you ran, and it was so good. I wanted you. I want you so much."

This is crazy. Tommy's finally fucking cracked. It's like he's drunk and high and fucking insane all at once. But his voice is steady when he asks, "What's your name?"

The question startles the guy into opening his eyes. He hesitates, watching Tommy's face, before he says, "Adam."

A sharp thrill spikes Tommy's blood. His wolf has a name. "You said you wouldn't hurt me."

"I think I already did," Adam says, flicking a glance at Tommy's arm. "But that's not what I want."

"So prove it." Tommy would really like to fucking know where this stupid bravado thing he's got going on is coming from. Wherever the fuck he's digging it up, it's working. Mostly. "Let me go. I can't get away from you, you know where I live. But let me go home."

"And then what?" Adam asks, doubtful.

"Hunt me."

Adam sucks in a sharp breath. "What-"

"You said that's what you wanted, right? So do it. Hunt me, and when you're tired waiting, make me run."

"You," Adam starts, darting in again to quickly smell Tommy's skin. "You're not pack. You've never been with pack."

Not exactly sure what that means, and pretty sure if he doesn't even know what Adam's asking, the answer's no, Tommy shakes his head.

"But you want to play."

"If you'd wanted to hurt me, intentionally do it, I mean, you could've by now. Maybe it's kinda shaky, but I've trusted people for less." Tommy shrugs, like it doesn't matter to him one bit or not if this fucking gorgeous were he's stumbled upon wants to screw around with him. "If you wanna."

"You don't even know what you're offering," Adam says, his eyes narrow.

Not a fucking clue. But whatever it is, Tommy wants it so bad he can taste it. "You'll show me."

Adam watches him a moment longer, then takes one sharp, decisive step back. Tommy gropes along the wall, finding the edge of the door. He's got no idea how this is going to pan out, but as long as he's still breathing, it's good. It'll do.

"I'll find you," Adam says, his voice echoing weirdly through the dark as Tommy steps out into the alley. "If you run, I'll find you."

Turning his back on the door, Tommy walks carefully up the alley, his steps even, measured. It's taking everything he's got not to make a break for it, but he's not ready yet. He's not sure he's ever gonna be ready. "If I run," he says when he hits the street, sure Adam can still hear him, "I want you to."

*

The only thing Tommy can do then is go straight to Mike's. No matter what, he's fucked now. Locked into something he doesn't know how to get out of, and even if he knew, he's not sure he'd want to. He shows up on Mike's stoop about an hour to his curfew, about to knock when he remembers that Mike's parents are stupidly early risers. Hauling out his phone, he texts, im in ur backyard to Mike and circles around to the fence, lifting the latch to let himself in. He plops down on the verandah as the glass door behind him slides open. Mike pads out, hesitates, then sits silently down beside him, bare toes in the grass.

"I found a were club," Tommy starts, and the whole thing comes tumbling out of him, bursting free like it'd been waiting for its chance. Mike stays quiet the entire time. Most of the time he's looking out at nothing in the yard, but sometimes his gaze catches on Tommy's face, the makeup, the hair, the clothes. When he gets to the part about tonight, about Adam, Mike's breath hisses between his teeth, but he still doesn't say anything.

"So, uh." Tommy scratches at the back of his neck. "That's it, I guess."

"Okay," Mike says slowly. "Now what?"

"Now what?"

"Yeah." Mike twists around to sit sideways, facing Tommy. "This guy hunts you for another couple of days, and then what?"

"I... don't know?"

"You don't know," Mike says flatly.

"How am I supposed to fucking know? I've got shit to go on here, Mike, fuck. The guy fucking smelled me. In a room full of fucking werewolves. I'm not going anywhere he doesn't fucking want me to, okay?"

"You're totally okay with that," Mike says, so far from a question it's not even funny, except for how it really, really is. Tommy shrugs, trying not to grin. This is all so fucking insane. "Okay." Mike slaps his hands down on his thighs and stands up. "I've got a laptop and an unmonitored internet connection. Let's go."

A whole week's worth of tension melts from Tommy's shoulders. He clambers up, relief making his legs watery. "Thanks, man."

"Whatever." Mike hauls open the sliding door, stepping back for Tommy to go in first. Before he can cross the threshold, though, Mike touches his arm. "It looks good," Mike says, gesturing at his face. "I like the hair."

"You totally want to date me," Tommy says, letting their shoulders bump. "You think I'm pretty."

"Yeah, except your boyfriend could eat me for lunch."

Tommy can't help it. He cracks the fuck up, doubled up against the kitchen counter laughing so hard his lungs ache, and Mike keeps shaking his head, grinning, patting him on the back waiting for him to get his shit together long enough for them to go upstairs.

*

In the half hour Tommy's got before he's got to make a break for home, they find out way too much, and so not enough. At least eighty percent of it is rumour, wild speculation, or total Coalition bullshit. Tommy immediately vetos all the sources that bring up humans as a potential food source for weres, and the ones that get a little too into some freaky sexual detail.

"But that could happen," Mike says, looking at a totally improbable artist's rendering of a giant wolf climbing on top of a naked woman, bound and gagged on her hands and knees, tears streaming down her face. She really doesn't look one bit happy to be there, and Tommy is so not blaming her. The wolf is fucking four times her size. It could swallow her fucking whole. "What if that's what this dude wants?"

"I've seen him as a wolf," Tommy says, determinedly clicking away from the page. "He's not that big."

Mike snorts.

"Shut up. He's not gonna fucking, not like that."

"But he could."

"But he's not fucking going to."

"Okay," Mike says, holding up his hands. "Okay. He's not going to."

Gnawing on the inside of his lip, Tommy quickly navigates around a few more pages. There's nothing fucking useful anywhere. There are lots of stories, myths and legends and stuff, centred around weres finding, and sometimes losing, their mates, but all that stuff is talking about two werewolves, not a were and a human. It's like the subject's total fucking taboo. Weres and humans don't mix, period.

"Huh," Mike says, trailing Tommy down the stairs, his voice low. "I thought there'd be more."

"Me too. I mean, I'd fucking hoped." Tommy's got some ideas. Ideas that he didn't need that fucking illustration to come up with, fuck.

Mike goes up to the door, flicking open the locks. "You think he's out there?"

"Probably," Tommy says, and stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, he's out there."

Flicking a glance at Tommy, then up the stairs, Mike pulls open the door. He stands in the threshold, taking in the street, the darkened windows, the quiet hush of night. "You sure I can't walk you home?"

"Dude, thanks, I mean it, but what're you gonna do, get a baseball bat?"

Mike frowns. "Yes."

Shaking his head, grinning, Tommy says, "I told you, it's cool. Adam's not going to hurt me."

Mike doesn't look convinced. "He's not the only wolf out there."

"Pretty sure he's already, like, staked his claim and shit, with the whole knock-down drag-out wolf brawl that first night. That somehow my mom totally fucking missed."

"Your mom, man," Mike says, leaning on the door. "When she's out, she's out."

"Fucking lucky for me. So, look." Tommy rests heavily against Mike, making his shoulder slide over the door. "I'm gonna head out, and you're not gonna fucking, like, grandma yourself into an early grave, okay? Nobody's gonna fucking jump me."

Mike shoves him off. "Fine, fuckface, but text me when you get home. I fucking mean it," he hisses when Tommy waves a hand. "Text me or I'm calling your mom!"

Tommy flips his wave over to give Mike the finger. Satisfied this means Tommy's gonna text, Mike closes the door, leaving Tommy alone in the street. Except Mike's probably running up the stairs right now, watching through the hall window, baseball bat clutched in one fist ready to bust some were ass. Fucking Mike, man. Crazy.

Crazy like Tommy is, walking home with his hands in his pockets, one earbud in. The music's down low, and he doubts he'd hear anything unless Adam wanted him to, but he knows Adam's out here. Watching, and waiting, keeping pace with him as he crosses the street, though fuck if Tommy can catch sight of him anywhere. It's more that Tommy can feel the weight of Adam's attention on him. Now that he's sure it's there, he doesn't know how he could've missed it before.

But then, he didn't miss it. He felt the itchy, crawly sensation on the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades, but hadn't known what it was. His mind playing tricks on him, he thought. Getting worked up over nothing.

"It would've been cool if you'd said something before," Tommy says, so quiet he can barely hear his own voice over his music. He wonders if Adam's tailing him as a wolf, or if he's as smooth and silent in human form, too. "Like, in the park. If you'd said you- Y'know, if you told me what you wanted." Nothing. Not even a whuff to let him know Adam's listening. He hunches his shoulders, jamming his hands deeper into his pockets. "Is it, like, are we a thing now? Is this a thing? 'Cause it feels like a thing. Like, dude, you're fucking walking me home. Again."

When there's still no response, Tommy falls silent. There's only so much talking he can do without some sort of feedback. For the few blocks left to home, he thinks about the night he got into the club, when he showed deference to the wolf on the door, and the way Adam reacted to the same thing earlier tonight, so totally different. The first guy mellowed out. Adam kinda went nuts. Adam fucking bit him.

On the sidewalk by his house, Tommy stops. He turns to face the shadows in the park across the street, wondering if Adam's hidden in them. Instead of totally creeped out like he should be, he feels safe. At the same time as he's not afraid of Adam, he is. He wants things he doesn't understand. Adam could fucking tell him. Adam should've fucking told him, and not let him get away with that shit at the club.

"I don't care that you want to hunt me or whatever," Tommy says, head down, hand on the door. With his music off, the whole world's gone quiet. It takes him a couple tries to find his voice again. "Whatever you're getting out of this, I hope it's good, because I'd rather be making out with you than standing here talking to the fucking crickets."

There's nothing but more nothing. Tommy sighs and goes inside. He takes his time getting ready for bed, texting Mike so he doesn't freak, delaying the inevitable. Expectations low, he checks his window.

"Had it right the first time," Tommy tells his empty backyard. "You're a total dick."

*

Tommy stares at the hickey on his neck. A fucking hickey. He hadn't had time to notice it last night, and Mike hadn't said a fucking word, and he's got a motherfucking hickey on his neck. It's tiny even, not like, this big fucking monster of a bruise, which doesn't make any fucking sense. Adam had chewed on his neck, for fuck's sake. Felt like he'd taken a fucking chunk out of it.

Jesus Christ, Tommy's got a hickey. He sits down hard on the toilet lid, jeans hanging off his ass. He's got a hickey, and it's way too high for any of his shirts to hide. His mom is gonna sniff this shit out like a fucking bloodhound, fuck.

Three minutes spent on a quality freak-out, Tommy throws his ass into the shower, then into some clean clothes, and then downstairs into the kitchen. Might as well get it fucking over with. Mom's leaning against the counter by the coffee pot, mug in one hand and magazine in the other. "Morning, honey," she says, glancing up with a quick smile. "Are you going out with Mike today?"

"Gonna hang at his place," Tommy says, carefully getting a mug out of the cupboard and filling it up. He keeps flicking looks at his mom, waiting for the shoe to drop or whatever.

"Alright, as long as you're not making a nuisance of yourself." She turns a page. "Are you home for dinner?"

"Um, I'll call?"

"Okay, honey." Pushing away from the counter, she presses a quick kiss to his hair and shuffles off to the living room. "Have fun!"

"What the fuck," Tommy mutters into his mug.

At Mike's, they try searching for better info, and end up with more of the same. Halfway through, Tommy confesses his stupid one-sided conversation, and how Adam didn't even fucking, like, give him a howl or anything. Tommy totally realises he's sounding like a lovesick chick here, but what the fuck, man. "Like, what the fucking fuck."

Mike gives him a look, all, how the fuck am I supposed to know?, and shrugs. "Maybe he was busy protecting your questionable virtue?"

"Fuck you, it is not fucking questionable. My first fucking hickey, you loser." Tommy jabs a finger at his neck. "My first."

"Okay," Mike says, like he's actually giving why Adam didn't jump Tommy's bones on the way home last night some serious consideration. "Maybe he's easing you into it."

Tommy scowls. He's seen porn, okay. He knows what goes where.

"Shut up," Mike says. "It could be different. You could be right, and hunting you means he's, like, courting you."

"Dude, I can't fucking believe you just said courting with a straight face."

"I read it." Mike clicks around through their collected bookmarks, bringing up a page with white font on a black background, and Jesus, how the fuck did Mike even manage to look at that long enough to read it. "Yeah, here." He points. Tommy's eyes nearly fucking cross. Fucking font. "Werewolves mate for life."

"I knew that." Or, he'd sorta guessed. Wolves do, and a lot of what wolves do seems to carry over to weres, so. He shrugs.

Mike looks at him. "You don't think maybe he'd wanted to be a little cautious about hooking up with a human kid? For life, man."

"Making out isn't a fucking marriage proposal," Tommy grumbles.

"You've thought this through, right?" Mike's got his serious face on. "I mean, really thought it through."

"Nothing's even fucking happened yet!"

"The government fucking refuses to admit they exist," Mike snaps. "Police get in more shit if they shoot an actual wolf than if they shoot a were, Tommy, you-"

"You're overreacting," Tommy says, shoving off of Mike's bed. "Maybe all he wants is to get laid, okay?"

Mike wavers. For a second, it looks like he's gonna lay back into it again, but he shakes his head, mouth quirked. "You would be totally okay with scratching a werewolf's fucking itch."

"It's cool, right? Crazy, but fucking cool." Tommy can't help grinning. "A fucking were wants to get all up in my business."

"You fucking hope he does, freak."

"Oh man." Tommy sits down hard on Mike's swivel chair. "I'm gonna get laid."

"Shut up about your non-existent sex life and get over here, Ratliff," Mike says. "I'm not your fucking pimp."

In a daze, Tommy dutifully gets up and goes to sit on the bed, staring at the computer screen not seeing a damn thing. He's going to get laid.

*

That night, Tommy resists the urge to hide out in the bathroom for two hours fussing with his stupid face. Mom's already giving him some weird looks, like she thinks he's got a girlfriend and won't tell her, so he stays in his room practicing chords until his fingers ache. Since she doesn't have work in the morning, she's up late watching all the shows she missed during the week. It's driving Tommy nuts. Normally he doesn't give a shit, and sometimes he'll even flake on the couch with her, but the one night he wants her to crash out early, she's a fucking junkie.

Finally, around one in the morning, she knocks softly on his door. "Still up, honey?"

"Yeah," he says as the door opens a crack, letting in a sliver of the hall light. He's been not-watching The Addams Family DVDs on his laptop for the last two hours. "Probably gonna go to bed after this one."

She smiles, coming in to give him a kiss goodnight. "Maybe one more, as long as you keep it low."

"I got headphones around here somewhere."

Ruffling his hair, she says, "Even better," and closes the door quietly behind her, already half-asleep on her feet. His mom, seriously. Like a zombie.

The twenty minutes it takes for her to finish puttering around and go to fucking sleep already feels more like three days. He jiggles his leg impatiently, the laptop on mute so he can hear the creak of the bed as she lies down, her grateful sigh to be finally fucking horizontal, and then the soft snorty noises she makes right before she's really deeply asleep. He waits an extra ten minutes just in case, even though it's fucking killing him, he's so fucking hard already and there's no fucking reason for it, he's just so stupidly fucking excited. Then he's scrambling out of bed as fast as he can, creeping downstairs with his boots in one hand, sneaking out the door and making sure it closes silently behind him. He jams his feet into his boots, not bothering to lace them up, and jogs across the street. The soccer field is wet with dew, soaking his laces. He stops long enough to tuck them inside his boots so he doesn't actually kill himself, and heads for the playground.

It's empty when he gets there. No surprise. Rubbing his bare arms and wishing he'd grabbed a jacket, Tommy sits down on the merry-go-round. The metal's cool compared to the night air, seeping through his jeans.

He's not sure how long he waits. He's not even sure how he knew Adam would be out here. Expecting the wolf, he gets Adam, human-shaped Adam, melting out of the shadows beneath the trees. Tommy shivers. Adam looks good in the night, like he belongs. Like he's a sliver of it only playing at human. It's so fucking hot.

"Hi," Tommy says, testing out his voice. It's only a little shaky, rough like he's just woken up.

Adam doesn't say anything.

"I, um." Tommy bites at his lip. He'd been hoping if he got his ass out here, Adam would make the first move. Adam totally seems the type, with the whole shoving Tommy up against a fucking wall and everything. He scrubs a hand through his hair. "Listen, I, um-"

"You said I could hunt you," Adam interrupts, finally stepping away from the trees. The first thing Tommy notices is that he's fucking barefoot. He's in battered jeans and a tee and he's barefoot. Tommy can't stop staring at his toes.

"I'm not backing out." Grabbing onto one of the bars for support, Tommy gets on his knees on the merry-go-round, watching as Adam steps from the grass to the hard-packed dirt. "I just," and Tommy doesn't actually fucking know. Adam's right there in front of him, close enough to touch but not doing it, and Tommy's skin is buzzing, nerves thrumming, heart kicking at his ribs. And Adam's not fucking doing anything.

A frustrated noise bursts out of Tommy. He shoves up, his hand on Adam's chest for balance, Adam's heat seeping through thin cotton into his palm, so fucking hot it's unreal. He thinks he meant to go for a kiss, but he's never kissed anybody before, not even on a dare or some stupid party game where it's not even a real kiss. He ends up with his mouth on the corner of Adam's instead, not a real kiss yet either, and he could make it one easily but he doesn't. He waits and waits for Adam to do it, make a fucking move already. Adam's strung tight, tension singing through him, and Tommy thinks, fuck this shit and licks Adam's mouth, a soft, slow drag of his tongue with his heart in his throat and his stomach fluttering and his head somewhere in National Geographic, and fuck, fuck, Adam's got to know what he means, fucking licking the guy's face, he's fucking got to.

One of Adam's hands comes up, fingers shoving into Tommy's hair, tangling. "Don't," Adam says, barely a word. "Don't tease me with this."

"I'm not." Tommy swallows hard, trying to clear the lump in his throat. He's so turned on it's a fucking miracle he can even see straight. "I'm not teasing."

Adam drags in a shuddering breath, air rushing cool over Tommy's damp lips. Tommy expects a question to follow, something like, how old are you or do you know what you're asking for, but what he gets is nothing even close to that. He gets Adam's fingers on his jaw, tilting his face up, Adam's mouth, lips parted, rubbing over his, hot and damp and amazing. He gets Adam's other hand sliding from his hair to his back, pulling him in closer. His hand catches awkwardly between them and he flushes, embarrassed at his total lack of anything even remotely resembling smooth. Adam doesn't seem to notice, or care. Their mouths keep bumping, almost-kisses, and Tommy's going crazy, his skin's on fucking fire and his dick's screaming at him, fucking throbbing he's so close to losing it.

"Lie down," Adam says, trying to guide him, and Tommy says, "Yeah, yeah," totally intending to, wanting to see what's going to happen next, dying for it, but Adam's pressed so tightly against him, it feels so fucking good and Adam's thigh is right on his dick, right fucking there Tommy can't help grinding against it. Adam sucks in a sharp breath and Tommy blurts, "Sorry, I can't, fuck," and Adam doesn't try to stop him, doesn't even have a fucking chance Tommy loses it so fast. All the anticipation coiled tight in his belly snaps like a rubber band strained to the limit and he's clutching at Adam's shoulders, face shoved into Adam's chest to muffle the racket he's making as he comes so hard he can't even fucking breathe.

When he lands back on Earth, Adam's the only thing holding him up. "Fuck," Adam says, tight and disbelieving. He shoves Tommy down, Tommy's elbow catching on the bar before his back hits cold metal, and pushes his face into Tommy's belly. Tommy gulps air, none of his limbs working right. He fumbles for a grip on something, like fucking reality, but Adam's yanking his shirt up to get a bare skin, wrenching at his jeans, and then Adam's fucking licking him. Licking and kissing and sucking, working his jeans down past his hips, over his thighs. Tommy sucks in more air at the shock of cold metal on skin. Jesus Christ, he's fucking naked in the middle of the playground on the fucking merry-go-round.

And Adam's staring at his dick. Both his hands are on Tommy's bare thighs, holding him down, thumbs moving in restless circles that send tiny zings of something fucked-up and amazing straight into the pit of Tommy's stomach, and all he's doing is fucking looking.

"It's, it's the same, right?" Tommy asks, heat prickling along his neck. "Like, it's not, fuck." He squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck Mike and his fucking research and all those fucking pictures. "You're not gonna do it if it's not gonna be good?"

Adam lets out a harsh, pained noise. The go go go that's been clamouring around inside Tommy all day's finally eased up, but it's still there, lurking, fucking waiting for its chance. All he's been able to think about since Friday night is how Adam felt against his back, how turned on Adam had been shoving him around but hadn't done anything about it, and what it'd be like if maybe Adam did. If maybe Adam would go down on him, if Adam would want Tommy to do that too, or if Adam would want to fuck him, for real fuck him, push him down and push up inside him.

And just like that Tommy's back to where he started, so hard he aches, and Adam's watching him, eyes dark and intense and so fucking inhuman--like, they look human, they're human shape and colour and everything, but they're not human. If Tommy ever wants to spot a were again, all he's got to do is look in their eyes.

Holding Tommy's gaze, Adam sinks down. He noses at the inside of Tommy's thigh, and Tommy spreads his legs automatically, wanting more when the warm tickle of Adam's breath is enough to make his dick jerk. Adam keeps going, mouthing at Tommy's balls, which is fucking shocking and duh and so good, so, so good when he licks, tongue rough and rasping. Tommy shoves his arm over his mouth trying to shut himself up before he gets loud enough to wake up the whole neighbourhood. He's waiting for Adam to talk, say something, anything, but Adam's intent on what he's doing, which is driving Tommy out of his god damn mind. Adam's tongue drags over his hip, along the tendon close to his cock, up past it to lick at his belly. The come smeared on Tommy's skin is cool, drying tight, even cooler in the wake of Adam's mouth.

"Oh fuck," Tommy groans, hands clenching into fists, easing, his nails catching on the merry-go-round's studded platform. Adam's tasting him, his skin and his come, learning him like Adam had learned his scent the very first night they were out here. "Please do something. Fucking do something."

"I am," Adam says, making Tommy jerk and whine with the brush of soft lips on skin, and flush bright red with embarrassment again, because fuck, what kind of lay is he, fucking squirming all over the fucking place? "I'm waiting for you to tell me what you want."

How the fuck is Tommy supposed to know? Jesus, he'll take anything. Everything. It all sounds so fucking amazing, like, having Adam there is fucking amazing, having another person touching him is so mindblowing he can't fucking even- "Anything, whatever you want, I'm gonna fucking die."

Adam laughs. Tommy shudders, because Jesus. "You're not going to die," Adam says, crawling up over him, heat pressing down. "I should've known you haven't done any of this before."

"I know how to fucking get off," Tommy busts out. For fuck's sake, he's not that fucking virginal. Him and his dick have had loads of good times. Heh. Fucking loads.

Then comes the dreaded question, the inevitable, "How old are you?" like Adam's actually fucking curious and not like he's gonna use it as an excuse to leave Tommy hanging.

"Fucking old enough, okay? Stop fucking-" Before Tommy can do much more than lift his hands, Adam's got his arms pinned above his head by his wrists. Pure lust rips through Tommy so fast he gasps, this flashfire need lighting him up everywhere, and Jesus, fuck, fuck, Adam's right, he's never done anything like this.

"Okay," Adam says, as if that's really the end of it. "Tell me if you want to stop."

"I don't want to stop, you haven't even fucking done anything, I can't fucking believe- fuck." Tommy's mouth snaps shut so hard his teeth clack. Adam's mouth is on his dick. Adam's mouth is on his dick, and it's hot and wet and so fucking slick, this smooth, slow pull because Adam's actually fucking sucking on him, like his cheeks are hollowing because he's sucking, and Tommy should've fucking figured because, ha, it's called sucking dick and all, but he didn't know. He seriously did not have a fucking clue.

He figures out Adam's let go of his wrists only after he notices his fingers are tangled in Adam's hair, tugging and pulling and he tries to stop that shit 'cause he's heard some pretty nasty talk about the assholes who yank on your hair when you're trying to give head, but he can't. He honestly fucking can't. It's like his hands aren't even his anymore. Adam's tongue is doing this thing, this crazy-awesome flicky-twisting thing, making Tommy's toes curls in his boots, and he's holding Tommy down by his hips, sweat gathering in the small of his back and salty-sharp on his lips, prickly. He's being a total noisy fucker about all of this, too, choked-off moans echoing through the dark, small thin sounds that can't be coming from him except they fucking are, as Adam goes at him harder, encouraging it, this endless feedback loop of so fucking awesome that bursts out of Tommy on a ragged shout. He can feel Adam swallowing around the pulse of his cock, almost enough to set him off again except he's still in the middle of coming for the second fucking time already tonight.

"Wow," he croaks, staring up at the night sky blotchy with city lights. He's floating up there somewhere with the thready, scuttling clouds, his brain ten million miles away and somehow still connected to his body, the weird, glowy aftershocks as Adam nuzzles at his belly, the side of his dick. Give him five minutes, he could probably go again. That was fucking amazing. Adam's nose pushes at Tommy's ribs, his chest, the crook of his neck. It tickles in a vague, not-quite-there way. "You sniffin' me again?"

Adam huffs agreeably, nipping at the mark on Tommy's throat. Tommy hisses, ducking his chin on instinct, lifting up again a split-second later because it's not like he actually fucking wants Adam to stop.

Two great orgasms hot on the heels of one another have either killed off way too many of Tommy's braincells, or loosened his tongue to the point of stupid, because he says, "Smells good, huh? Like, um, good enough that maybe you'd let me try it out?"

"Oh my fuck," Adam says, face buried against Tommy's throat, and it's so normal, so fucking human when Adam's anything but, Tommy bursts out with the giggles. Like he's fucking high or something, crazy.

"I'm not laughing at you," Tommy says, biting his lip, barely keeping his giggles in check. A pissed off were is the last fucking thing he needs. But Adam's not looking at him like he's a snack--or actually, Adam sort of is looking at him like Adam would maybe very much like to eat him, but not in any way that Tommy won't be able to mostly walk away from. And maybe a little like Adam thinks he's cute and shit. There's a fucking trip. A werewolf thinks he's cute. "This is really kind of crazy, y'know? I want to do stuff and I know what stuff but I don't even fucking know, it's just nuts."

"Okay," Adam says, easy as falling off a fucking cliff. There's a soft snick, the drag of a zipper. Tommy's pulse shoots from mellow-yellow to three-point-five-seconds-to-lift-off. Adam pushes up on his hands and knees above Tommy, jeans open in a pretty clear invitation. One that Tommy's way too slow to take him up on, since Adam feels the need to say, "Go ahead."

"Sorry," Tommy blurts, jolting into motion. He can't see a fucking thing like this, the shadows are too deep and the streetlights too far away, but he flicks a glance at Adam and pushes his shirt up anyway. And Adam lets him. Expecting some crazy gym-hardbody, because the guy's a fucking wolf, Tommy's shocked to find a thin layer of softness over lean muscle. He presses harder, feeling Adam's stomach shift as he breathes, and of course, right? Like, of fucking course Adam's not some fucked-up steroid-ridden LA freak. He's solid and real, strong, and even if his eyes are wolf-wild, this body is pure human. It feels so good Tommy wants more. He wants all of it. He pushes his hands up the back of Adam's shirt, muscle flexing and skin shifting when he presses hard, finding all sorts of places to grab on and squeeze, feel bone and tendon and flesh. Before he knows it he's got his hands down the back of Adam's fucking pants and he's groping at the guy's ass. Shoving impatiently at Adam's jeans gets Adam helping him push them down over his thighs, and then Tommy's got to grab onto those, pull Adam closer so he can trace the cut of Adam's hips, following them in to the thick weight of Adam's dick.

"This okay?" Tommy asks. Adam's breathing has gone fast and shallow but he nods tightly, so still Tommy's not sure if it's a good thing or not until it hits him maybe Adam's not so much enduring Tommy having his boring grabby-hands moment here as much as Adam's working really, really hard at not jumping him again before he's done. Which, hey, that's a pretty fucking nice thought. So nice it's all he needs to spur him on that little bit more to get his hand wrapping around Adam's dick, and then, holy fuck, he's got his hand on Adam's dick. It's thick and hard and soft and so fucking hot, heat seriously fucking pouring off him like being too close to a stove element. That is his dick in Tommy's hand.

Adam says, "Fuck," ragged like it's torn out of him, his head bowing. His hair, clumped into soft spikes with sweat, brushes Tommy's cheek, and even that is incredible, Tommy's nerves lighting up in its wake. He pushes into Tommy's lax fist, a stuttering drag that turns slick when Tommy's palm skids over the head, slides back down on precome. Sucking in a hissing breath, Tommy grabs onto Adam's hip and squeezes, shifting his hand to spread more slippery heat around, make the next push easy. Tommy keeps trying to do shit, thinking that maybe Adam would like it more if he firmed up around the head, or if he twisted his wrist a little bit, but every time an idea hits him Adam fucks it right out of his brain again. Tommy ends hold holding his hand mostly steady for Adam to fuck it, wishing there was more light, that it was the middle of the fucking day so he could see Adam's cock, the wiry curls brushing his knuckles. He's thinking about Adam's fucking pubes and he's ready to go again, probably only needs something to rub against for a couple seconds.

"Jesus," Tommy says, tugging on Adam's hip, skidding his hand up to fist the back of his shirt, trying to haul him down, "stop for a minute, c'mon, get down here, I want," and that's as far as he gets before Adam drops down to one elbow, the angle even weirder now with Adam listing halfway on top of him. Planting his boots with a metallic clang, Tommy thrusts up, his dick dragging along Adam's belly, catching on the hem of his shirt. When Adam finally fucking gets with it, settling on top of him with their dicks pressed together, Tommy yanks his hand free and grabs onto Adam's shoulders again, bucking up against him. Everything's messy and slick and hot between them, getting messier, and holy fucking hell, like this Adam's gonna come on him, he's gonna come on Adam, it's going to be so fucking good and amazing and holy fucking shit, Adam's the one going off first this time.

"Yeah," Tommy says, his mouth on total autopilot, "yes, do it, oh fuck," because Adam's grinding hard, totally lost, shoving and panting and going still as his dick jerks against Tommy's belly, more wet heat spilling all over him. If Tommy could fucking breathe, he's sure his mouth would still be going, but as it is, his whole world's narrowed down to the scratch of hair on Adam's belly, the sticky heat of Adam's cock going soft against his, the way Adam's nosing in under his chin, biting at his throat again, licking over his mouth and fucking inside it. Tommy's orgasm is like it's pulled up from his toes, long and stringy like melted taffy, gooey-thick, sweet, suffocating. On the crazy-fuzzy come down, he realises he's clawing into Adam's back and he jerks his hands away, stumbling over apologies because there's fucking skin under his nails. Not a lot but he can feel it there. He seriously hopes Adam's not bleeding.

Adam's head slowly lifts. His eyes are full-on wolf now, rich glittering yellow. It's the only part of him that's changed, but it's enough to poke Tommy's post-orgasmic glow full of holes.

"I didn't mean to," Tommy says, holding his hands out, nowhere to go with Adam lying on top of him. How the fuck was he supposed to know he's a fucking clawer? And like, fuck, maybe he's a screamer, too, he heard somebody making a fucking lot of noise and maybe it was him, he's- "It was so good, I wasn't even fucking thinking-"

"You marked me," Adam says, closing his eyes, breathing deep. He doesn't sound angry.

"I- Yeah." The jizz smeared all over Tommy's stomach, sticking to his tee shirt, is a hell of a lot less sexy than it was three seconds ago. But it's still not gross. Maybe if Adam wasn't making that growling noise low in his throat, it'd be hot. Well, okay, the growly noise is kind of hot on its own, as long as it isn't a bad sign. "I was kinda in the moment? Is that okay? I can, um, try to not do it again, if you want." If there's going to be an again. If this isn't the end of the game, like, Adam's hunted him, and caught him, and now it's over.

"No," Adam says slowly, like he's testing the idea out. "No, it's okay. I like it. But I wanted to know if you did it on purpose."

This is not the sort of conversation Tommy's used to having with his dick out. Most of those conversations are the kinds he doesn't want to have, like when Mom comes home early and shouts for him to get his butt down for dinner and he's really, really busy in the middle of jerking off, which is something she never, ever needs to know about. Not that he doesn't think she knows he does it, but there's knowing he does it, and then there's knowing he's doing it right at that exact moment. All kinds of awkward he hopes she's really oblivious about.

This is a different kind of awkward. Kind of a hot type of awkward. Weird. "Is it better if I did?" Tommy asks. That might be something he should really know.

"Not better," Adam says, "and not worse. But different."

"Like, okay then." The grin that's wanted to take over Tommy's mouth since orgasm number two finally gets its foot in the door. "Because that was all really awesome. The whole fucking thing, awesome."

Adam laughs. A real fucking laugh, not all dark and intent, but genuinely pleased, kinda light almost. It's seriously amazing. Tommy wants to hear it again right now. "Thanks," he says, like he means it, and okay, there's some post-orgasm etiquette Tommy totally hadn't considered.

"You too," Tommy says. "Thanks, and like, you're welcome and stuff."

Tucking his face against Tommy's neck, Adam lets out a long sigh. "You should go inside before your mother finds you missing."

Tommy's not even gonna ask how Adam sounds like he knows it's just his mom in there. "Dude, she sleeps like the dead. Nothing short of a coffee bomb is gonna wake her up."

Adam bites at Tommy's neck. It's light, almost playful, but easy to tell he means business. "Go inside, Tommy Joe, or I'm," but he cuts himself off, doesn't say.

"What?" Tommy asks, jostling him. Teeth snap tight on Tommy's neck. His heart kicks and his dick jumps. "Is that a, like. A promise?"

Adam's answer is a rumbly snarl. Fuck, that is so fucking hot. Tommy grabs onto the back of Adam's head, pressing him closer against his throat, relishing the scrape and tug of sharp teeth on skin in a way he never really considered he would. Fair's fair; he marked Adam, Adam gets to mark him. He can't get over the rough animal noises Adam's making, caught between a growl and a whimper as he bites and Tommy holds on tighter, struggling to get his legs up, wrap himself around Adam's heat. It's fucking chilly out here with his clothes half-off, and Adam feels so good.

Planting both hands on Tommy's shoulders, Adam shoves up. His mouth's red and wet, shining in the dull light. Tommy swallows hard and tries to push up, wanting to kiss him, but Adam gives a warning snarl, holds him down so hard metal grates against his shoulder blades. "Go inside," Adam says, pushing harder, like punctuation. "Now."

Tommy's gaze darts to the trees. He's not getting the weird creepy vibe he's had all week, knowing something's out there watching him even though he didn't know it, but Adam's tone isn't anything Tommy wants to argue with. Adam backs off, sinking down into the dirt at his feet on one knee, and Tommy stares for a minute, taking in how natural Adam looks like that, face tilted to the sluggish breeze, and how at the same time it's the weirdest fucking thing.

Struggling up, Tommy tucks his spunk-sticky dick away and absently wipes his hand on his jeans. Adam's backed up enough from the merry-go-round that Tommy's got space to stand, his knees like jelly as Adam stares up at him, eyes so bright in the night, intense. Fear-tainted excitement starts crawling through Tommy's belly, thickening up his dick again. He's so fucked in the head.

"Go," Adam says, his breathing deep and slow.

Tommy starts backing away before his brain gets a chance to tell his feet to move. "Are you going to chase me?" he asks, and what, what the fuck, that's so not the question he'd had in his head.

An eager, wild noise slips out of Adam. "Do you want me to?"

"Yeah." Tommy's voice feels rusty, unused. There's a good ten feet between them, now fifteen, almost twenty. Adam doesn't so much as fucking twitch. "No," he says, almost to the street, Adam so far away from him it's like he's waking up from a dream, but he swears he can feel Adam go tense, afraid, "no, I want you to catch me. I want you to fucking catch me, and-" and he doesn't even fucking know. He just wants.

Turning around to make sure some car isn't gonna come out of nowhere and splatter him all over the asphalt, Tommy strains for the sound of Adam padding through the grass. "Please," he whispers, skin tight and itchy as he crosses the street, slowing as he gets closer to his house, not even sure what the fuck he's asking for. All he can picture is Adam coming up behind him, pinning him again, crushing him against his front fucking door while the rest of the world sleeps on, oblivious. "Please, come on."

Nothing happens. Pushing the door open, he slips inside, barely pausing long enough to throw the locks before he creeps upstairs. The laptop is still open on his bed, playing on mute. Making sure the door's closed firmly behind him, he crosses to the window, leaning halfway out of it to breathe in the night air. Tommy can't see him, but he knows. Adam's out there, waiting. Wanting.

And Tommy's so fucking willing it hurts.

*

The bus through Eastside is bizarrely normal during the day. There are a couple people that make the hairs on the back of Tommy's neck stand up, but after getting a good look at them, he figures out it's because they keep eyeballing him, not that they're weres. A kid in beat-up Chucks, torn jeans and an old Queen tee isn't so weird a sight--he's not even rocking any makeup today.

Right before he hops off the bus, the middle-aged lady two seats up flicking glances at him, it hits him that maybe they think he's the were. His throat's all marked up, he's got scratches on his arms, and he didn't bother to try hiding any of it. He likes the way they look, red and angry against pale skin, likes the tug and pull as they heal. He wants Adam to be able to see them, smell them, still kinda raw. His face heats as he steps off the bus with the woman boring holes into his back. Maybe he looks like a victim. Maybe she thinks he's one of those sad stories the Coalition likes to spread, about people who get tangled up with weres and can't get out again, used and abused like junkies.

It doesn't feel anything like that. Tommy's the one who feels like the drug, like Adam's addicted to him, chasing him, craving him. Maybe he's a total fucking shit for coming out here, aimlessly walking dirty streets like bait trying to lure Adam out. He's got no ID on him again, nothing valuable except some cash for bus fare. The midday sun beats down, scorching the city, making it reek of hot tar and stale garbage. It crawls down Tommy's throat when he tries breathing through his mouth, clings. With their sense of smell, living in this shit's got to be fucking torture for weres.

Under his breath, Tommy says, "Adam," sort of testing it out. As if the name, like the marks on his skin, are a claim. Eyes track him, some following him until he's walked almost a whole block, others flicking him a glance and moving on, uninterested. Every time it feels like somebody's staring too long, Tommy whispers Adam's name, wrapping himself up in it. It's weird and stupid and he probably looks like he's off his fucking rocker, but he doesn't care. He's not taking the chance Adam won't come to him tonight. The game's not fucking over yet. It can't be.

When Tommy's so deep in Eastside he's wondering if he's ever going to be able to find his way out again, the air changes. Underneath the stink of civilisation is something wilder, freer, way more dangerous to him and his unprotected belly, his clawless hands and blunt teeth. He stops at the mouth of an alleyway that looks the same as every other one in the city, dank even in the heat, smelly, riddled with shadows. Tommy can't see him, but Adam's here, somewhere. Adam's found him. The crazy, eager thrill in his belly spills up fast in a grin he can't hold back.

Tommy searches the doorways and the rooftops as he starts moving again, faster this time, with purpose even though he's got nowhere in mind to go. There's a scraping sound off to his left, maybe rats in the dumpsters, maybe not. He hesitates, trying to decide if he should move toward it or away. His gut says he's the bait, the prey, and prey is herded, not lured. Skin buzzing, shirt clinging to the sweat slick in the small of his back, he turns and jogs quickly across the street, running away. Nerves start prickling at him, making him second guess himself, until there's another sound, louder and closer, the scratch of nails on concrete straight up ahead. He ducks into the alley on his immediate right, this one smaller than most of the others, meant only for foot traffic. The noises come from behind him this time, soft and threatening, speeding his pulse and his steps. Somebody sane might question if it's really Adam back there. Somebody fucking sane wouldn't be out here in the first fucking place.

And they sure as shit wouldn't be having the time of their fucking life, breaking into a quick jog, then a run, not paying one bit of fucking attention to where they're going; Tommy's careening through alleyways and parking lots, letting Adam chase him deeper and deeper until the buildings are old and crumbling and the sky's blotted out by rusty fire escapes and broken balconies and crooked awnings haphazardly strung between them. Only when his lungs start to burn and he's coughing, and his feet are sore from pounding the pavement, does he slow. He stumbles against a wall, shoulder propped against it as he heaves for breath. Hair clings to his sweaty face. His shirt feels like he jumped in a fucking pool.

Adam's on him in a flash. Even expecting it, wanting it, he lets out a startled shout, twisting around too late. Arms clamp around his chest, trapping his arms against his sides, and teeth dig into his neck, making him shout and twist in an entirely different way. "So good," Adam groans, licking at the raw, throbbing mark on Tommy's neck, "you're so, so good, I want you so much." Exactly what Adam wants him for is pretty fucking clear, his hard dick practically fucking drilling through Tommy's spine, making Tommy heat up even more on the inside, temperature cranked to fucking critical.

Tommy gasps, hears, "Yes, fuck, okay, just fucking," come tumbling out of him, and Adam's turning him around, pressing him against the summer-scorched metal of a battered door. Adam can't fucking mean right here, anyone could see them, but when Adam presses closer, all Tommy does is spread his legs and open his mouth and let Adam inside. Adam licks at his tongue, hot and wet and so fucking dirty, hands running down his back, cupping his ass and lifting him up into the grind of Adam's hips. The chase had Tommy half-hard, the kisses got him all the way there, and this rockets him straight to the fucking edge, clutching at Adam trying to hold on, get more of it before he goes head-first over the other side.

"You're so hard," Adam pants against his throat, and Tommy thinks, no fucking kidding, "I can smell it on you, how much you want this. You're going to let me do everything to you. Anything I want."

Nodding fast, Tommy stops and grunts, "Don't fucking stop," when Adam backs off. That is so not what he meant, Jesus fucking Christ. He grabs at Adam's jeans, sure for one crazy moment he can smell how hard Adam is, too, musky-thick and earthy like the park after a heavy rain. His mouth floods wet. Fuck, he wants Adam's dick in it. He wants to know the taste that goes with that smell so familiar and so very fucking different.

"Inside," Adam says, shoving at the door. Tommy stumbles back, his support gone. Cool shadows close in around him. There are off-white and pasty green checkered tiles on the floor, a staircase leading up, with an old iron railing and cracked rubber bumpers on the edges of the stairs. It feels like the air in here should be old, dusty and forgotten, but it's heavy with something else. Or Tommy's mouth and nose are so full of Adam's scent that's all he can smell.

"Where," Tommy starts, and Adam says, "Up," pushing at him. He takes the stairs as fast as he can, Adam's hand on his waist, then the back of his thigh, urging him on at the landing up another floor, then one more. He's so out of breath he's wheezing by the time they get to the top. Adam shoves past him, grabbing his wrist and dragging him to an unmarked door, through it into murky twilight.

"Down," Adam says, barely more than a growl. Since that's the direction Tommy had been planning on going anyway, before Adam interrupted, he drops to his knees. But Adam grabs at him again, pushing him down on his hands, manoeuvring around behind him to yank his shirt up, tear his fly open. Oh, Tommy thinks in a hot rush. Fuck, fuck, oh fucking Christ. He goes down to one elbow, tucking his chin against his chest, hiding his face. There's carpet on the floor, thin and scratchy. He didn't think- He'd wanted, but he didn't think, not so fucking soon.

Adam's hands on Tommy's bare ass shock a thin, reedy noise out of him. Braced, Tommy waits, stale breaths shunted back in his face, his skin crawling with dread, anticipation. He's so fucking exposed like this, more vulnerable in the dark with his ass up than he thinks he'd feel out in the middle of the alley flat on his back naked in the sunlight. Adam's fingers side down his thighs, back up between them, palms flat to his ass with thumbs pushing between his cheeks, spreading him open. He shivers and bites his lip and tries not to whimper, because that is just so fucking embarrassing, such a fucking wimpy, childish thing to do. He knuckles at the hot burn behind his eyes and squeezes them tighter shut. Adam's not going to hurt him. It's not going to be anything like that fucking illustration.

Adam's the one who whines then, shocking the fuck out of Tommy. He kisses the base of Tommy's spine, breathing a quiet shushing noise, raspy and strained, cool on overheated skin. Another kiss, and another, moving closer and closer to Adam's thumbs, and Tommy bites back a weird hiccuping noise, not a sob, not a fucking thing like that, he's just wound up too tight, he can't hold it all in. The moment Adam's mouth touches his asshole, hot and wet and not one bit fucking shy about it, all fucking right up in there licking him, everything caught in his chest bursts sharply free. He's not a fucking monk, okay, he knows about all the freaky stuff people get up to. He's thought about it, imagined it, but he didn't fucking know it felt like this, intrusive and dirty and like he should be fucking ashamed to like it. It's so fucking good. Not as immediate as Adam's mouth on his dick had been, but heavier somehow, sticky-hot pleasure squirming through him. Carpet fibres and old glue catching under his nails, Tommy shoves back against Adam's face, fucking riding Adam's tongue caught in some fucked-up limbo being embarrassed by what he's doing and powerless to stop it.

"Adam," Tommy moans, chopped up by short, staccato bursts of these fucking crazy, mindless noises he's making, getting louder and louder, echoing off the walls. Adam licks him all over, sucks on his balls and mouths at his dick, nuzzling his junk like Adam's trying to fucking scent-mark him, and then Adam's sliding back up, biting hard at the cheek of his ass, squeezing harder, teeth scraping all the way back to his hole. He jolts, shocked all fucking over again. It hurts but in a good way, like when he'd finally been allowed to get his ears pierced, sharp and sudden and then the billowing ache that settles way down low in his belly. All it takes is recognising what the ache really is, like his body's already wired a certain way and all he had to do was fucking realise it, to make him come. Adam climbs over him to pin him down as he claws at the carpet, losing it so fucking hard that through the bright burst of it, he's scared. It's too much, too intense, this'll fucking kill him, and it isn't until Adam's shoving a hand underneath him, fisting his dick, that he realises he's lost time, whole minutes gone and he's hard again.

"What the fuck," he rasps. He unclenches his hands, a sharp ache arrowing up from his fingers into his arms. His fucking jeans are down to his ankles, caught on his sneakers, and his knees are burning so bad it feels like somebody took a cheese grater to them. Sucking in a shaky breath, he's about to ask Adam to let him up for a minute when Adam's hand skids wetly over his cock, thumb bumping over the notch beneath the head and pressing hard to his slit. A wordless sound comes out of him instead as his hips bucks. His ass feels wet and open and weird, so fucking weird, but a hand on his dick is familiar, even the angle's pretty much the same as when he jacks it.

"You can go again," Adam says, and Tommy would laugh if he could manage it. Fuck yeah, he can go again. Adam gives him one long tug, then goes short and hard and slow, nipping at the peak of Tommy's spine, nosing through his hair to find the shell of his ear. "Fuck my hand for me. Let me feel you come this time."

Tommy hisses, "Holy shit," his dick and his hips and his whole fucking body taking over, pushing him into Adam's hand again and again and again. Wherever the fuck they are stinks of sex, fucking reeks of sweat and come layered over Adam's wet-earth smell, organic and vibrant. Tommy fills his lungs with it until they're bursting, and he's clawing at the fucking carpet again, humping Adam's fist like it's his last chance ever to get some. He imagines what he looks like, half-naked on hands and knees, sweaty and flushed and straining, Adam watching his every move, feeling it pressed up against his back, and he fucking likes it. He's turned on and kinda embarrassed and that turns him on even more, not like a humiliation thing but that he can do this, he can just fucking do it because he wants to, and Adam wants him to. Adam doesn't fucking give a shit that he's a stupid kid with a hair-trigger dick. The second time he comes doesn't hit him as hard as the first, letting him ride it the whole way through to the end, Adam's hand clutching tighter around his pulsing dick, come shot straight onto the floor and more of it squeezing free, spilling down Adam's knuckles. Tommy collapses in a shuddering heap, one of his hands banging into the wall and the other into what feels like a fucking shoe. As soon as he's got the breath, he asks, "Where the fuck are we?" in a voice that suggests he's been a chain-smoker from the fucking womb.

"My place," Adam grates, and whoa, what the fuck, Adam's place, Adam brought him home? Tommy flails for a handhold as Adam catches him around the hips and hauls him up, his body totally not on board with any plan that involves moving. "Tommy, please." Grabbing Tommy's hand, Adam presses it against his dick through his jeans. His dick that's so fucking hard, Tommy's own gives a sympathetic jerk. Fortunately Tommy's gonna need more than five minutes to get going again.

"Oh fuck yeah," Tommy says, scrambling around awkwardly, kicking off his Chucks and his crumpled jeans. His thighs are a sticky, cooling mess, and while that would drive him nuts on his own, here in this small dark space with Adam, it's so fucking hot he could die. There's more light when he's finally facing Adam, spilling in from probably the living room a little further down the hall, more than enough for him to get Adam's jeans open and shoved down and his hands all over Adam's junk. "You want me to suck you off, right? Can I do that?"

Adam's dick practically leaps with joy in his hand. Taking that as a yes, Tommy dives down, Adam's hand coming up to catch in his hair and push it back delaying him barely a second. He stuffs his mouth as full as he can get it, testing out the texture and shape of Adam's dick, and the taste, oh fuck, the taste spreading all over his tongue, so good he draws back, searching for more. His hand loosely holding Adam steady, he pushes his tongue at the slit and sucks, feeling Adam's thigh go tight under his other palm, muscles bunched and flexing. Adam's hand in his hair jerks, clenches hard. Tommy groans eagerly, so immediately in love with the idea that he can make Adam react so strongly that he has to do it again, sucking harder, flicking with his tongue, remembering only when Adam pushes that he's got Adam's entire fucking dick to play with. He takes more of it into his mouth, way more at Adam's urging than he thinks he can handle, but it's a smooth slide filling him up. He's so fucking relaxed right now, two-orgasm drunk, that he thinks he could maybe push it further, see what Adam would do if he got it wedged into his throat, but he likes the way everything's going too much to try for it.

Once he gets something like a rhythm going, it turns out it's more work worrying about keeping his lips tight and his tongue firm and his teeth out of it than he thought it would be. Even with all that, it's fucking amazing. Like, he can feel every twitch of Adam's dick, blood-hot and so hard beneath smooth, delicate skin, and there's a fucking trip. Adam, big motherfucking scary werewolf, is as soft and vulnerable as Tommy is down here. Tommy's got his dick in his mouth, millimetres from hard, blunt teeth, Tommy's got his balls gathered up in his other hand, heavy but just as weirdly fragile, so easy to squeeze and tug and make Adam gasp, tremble, push harder into Tommy's mouth. He's always kind of enjoyed playing with his own nuts while getting off. It never occurred to him it's the feel of them in his hand as much as actually touching them that does it for him. But oh fuck, it's so much better when it's Adam's. There's no immediate, driving need to come, nothing but the taste and feel and smell to lose himself in. Jesus Christ, he is in fucking cocksucking nirvana.

A part of him wants to stop and tell Adam all about this, make sure Adam really fucking gets what's happening down here, these fucking life-changing revelations Tommy's on his knees having, but a bigger part, the part he's listening to, wants him to keep going. He can't tell for sure that Adam's close, but it seems like it, both of Adam's hands in his hair, Adam's voice ripped to shreds. There's just enough time for him to wonder if he's gonna take a shot in the mouth or if Adam's going to let go, and if he wants Adam to let him up or not, before Adam starts yanking really hard on his hair. Figuring that's his warning, he digs his nails into Adam's wrist, so very much fuck no, he's taking it right here like this. Adam tries a couple more times, saying something too fast and choppy for Tommy to understand, and then Adam's shoving him down, bucking up, filling his mouth with sudden wet heat. Stupidly, Tommy forgets about swallowing, forgets how to swallow. His mouth fills up too fast and he chokes, spluttering, come going fucking everywhere, his face and his hand, and Adam's junk and thighs and belly and clothes. While Adam's slumped over him, breathing hard, Tommy stares at Adam's sloppy dick. He did that. He made Adam come so hard, and so fucking much, he couldn't even fucking keep it all in his mouth.

Grinning like a total fucking nutjob, Tommy surges up, spunk-slick hand skidding over Adam's cheek as he kisses the fuck out of him, messy and off-centre and so terrible. He starts to laugh before he can fix it up, tiny hiccuping giggles he can't hold back, like he's fucking high or something. High on dick.

"I love your dick," Tommy says, and okay, maybe he hadn't pegged himself as that kinda guy--not the non-dick-loving kind, that's kind of a total duh, but the type who likes to talk about it. "You're like, it's like-- Fuck. Fuck! It fits in my fucking mouth, like, fucking right in there. Your dick fits my mouth."

Adam's staring at him, panting, eyes weirdly murky in the dimness, not quite blue and really far from yellow. His thumb skims the corner of Tommy's lips, fingers unsteady on Tommy's jaw. Tommy turns and nuzzles into Adam's palm, remembering how it had covered his entire mouth and nose, liking how gentle it is now, almost tentative, but totally getting a kick out of how, if Adam wanted, Adam could shut him up again so easily.

Breaking away, Tommy skins off his shirt. Now he's naked, and Adam's pretty much mostly dressed, boots and all, and Tommy really, really likes the rough brush of denim on the insides of his thighs as he crawls over Adam's lap, drapes his arms around Adam's neck. He bites his lip, feeling the tug of thin smears of come beginning to dry, then presses his lips really carefully to Adam's. With a noise like Tommy's kicked him in the gut, Adam kisses him. It's slow, wet and dirty, like, fucking filthy with the way Adam's sucking on his tongue, nipping and tugging on his lips, licking and sucking again. Tommy's totally on his way to another awesome boner, but it's kinda fuzzy and distant, more like something to let hang around for awhile, keep making him feel good. By the time Adam's kisses wind down, Tommy's mouth feels sore and swollen, well-used and very much appreciated. Tommy's really appreciative of Adam's appreciation. He bumps their foreheads together. "Gonna offer me a beer?"

Adam huffs a laugh, the fingers of one hand tracing slow, lazy paths up and down Tommy's bare back, touching without a purpose, just because. "I guess I should. But I'd have to get up for that."

"Floor's less awesome than it was ten minutes ago," Tommy says, bracing a hand on Adam's shoulder to give himself a wobbly push up. Which totally ends up putting his dick right in front of Adam's face, and his dick is pretty interested in getting some of that appreciation showing in Adam's eyes. Adam's gaze slides up, meeting Tommy's, as he slowly grins.

Rocking back off his knees, then up onto his feet without any help at all, Adam strips off his shirt and uses it to wipe off his belly. "Kitchen's this way," he says, adding his shirt to the heap of Tommy's clothes.

Tommy bites his tongue to keep from asking if Adam's really gonna give him booze. He's not sure how old Adam is, but he's definitely realised by now Tommy's a good few years away from legal drinking age. Also more than a few shy of legal in any sense of the word. Adam's a werewolf, though. Based on what Tommy's seen so far, human laws don't have much pull.

Instead of turning on the overhead light, Adam flicks on the small light above the stove. When he opens the fridge and bends down to pull two bottles off the shelf, Tommy's gaze gets stuck on the long, smooth curve of his back. Before Tommy knows what he's doing, he's reaching out to touch. It feels like something he's allowed to do now.

Adam smiles at him, straightening up. "It's cheap," Adam says, handing over a bottle, "so don't expect much."

"I'm kind of a lightweight," Tommy admits. Though fuck knows it's not for lack of trying. He glances around for something to pry the top off once he figures out it's not a screw cap.

Setting the top of his own bottle against the edge of the stove, Adam gives it a pop with the heel of his hand. The cap goes flying off. "Here," he says, holding out the bottle, condensation swirling around the mouth.

"Cool." Tommy's only seen that done in movies. His Uncle Joe tries that move all the time, and it usually ends in his uncle red-faced and his mom shaking her head sadly as she hauls out the bottle opener. Looking around the kitchen, Tommy takes a quick swig. It doesn't taste all that awesome, but his experience with beer to date is that it's not about the taste. He's in Adam's apartment, where they had the best fucking sex ever, drinking Adam's beer. Everything's fucking beautiful.

Though kind of frosty with no clothes on, holding a cold bottle. He shuffles over a few steps to where Adam's leaning against the counter like some sort of amazing x-rated Levi's ad, tucks himself in close to Adam's side. Adam drapes a warm arm around him, pulling him in, cheek resting against the top of Tommy's head. It should probably be weird standing around naked in the kitchen drinking shitty beer. It's really, really not.

"So, um." Tommy flicks the edge of his beer's label with a nail. "You buy this 'cause it's cheap?"

"I don't buy it at all," Adam says.

"Oh." Adam probably can't buy it. No ID. Tommy's not so sure how the were thing works in other countries, though. Maybe Adam's not even from here. "Are you, uh."

Adam's quiet laugh is soft and warm. "You can ask me questions."

Wrinkling his nose, Tommy says, "They're pretty dumb. And probably don't even matter."

"No, come on. Ask me."

The naked thing isn't weird. Somehow, having a normal conversation is. Like, Tommy's built up this mental image of Adam either as a wolf, or as this stupidly hot guy he gets to bang. This in-between thing, the sexy guy he gets to hang out with, shoot the shit, that's fucked.

Tommy ends up going with the ever-brillant, "How old are you?"

"Twenty," Adam answers, easy as shit.

"What do you, um, do?" It's a question Tommy's always hearing. The second he asks it, he realises how fucking vague it is. "I mean, this is your place. Do you own it?"

"No. A friend of my family owns the building." As if Tommy's not asking the lamest, nosiest questions ever, Adam takes another drink, settling deeper against the counter to pull Tommy in front of him. Adam's junk is soft against Tommy's back. His fingertips, only vaguely cool, stroke across Tommy's belly, finding the thin trail of hair there to follow it down, back up again. Tommy shivers. "I pay rent when he lets me. I do odd jobs when there are people willing to pay me under the table. I sing." Adam's nose touches Tommy's ear. "You saw me."

"That's not singing," Tommy blurts. "That's fucking, I don't even fucking know. So much fucking more than singing. It was incredible. Your fucking voice, man."

Adam makes a sort of bizarre, shyly-pleased sound distantly related to a laugh. "Thank you."

"I mean it," Tommy huffs, suspicious that Adam's not taking him seriously. "Music is my fucking soul. You're really amazing."

Adam says, "I'm glad you think so," genuinely enough that Tommy figures he's not gonna have to beat Adam over the head with his beer to make a point. Which is good, because cheap, shitty brew or not, it's warming Tommy up from the inside out. He's not really close to buzzed, but if Adam's got any more to share, he'll get there.

They stand in companionable silence for a few minutes, Tommy polishing off his drink, thinking about asking for another and playing back what Adam said. "That sounds rough," he says, resting his head on Adam's shoulder to look up at him. "Not having a job, I mean."

"Lots of clubs hire me for one or two shows," Adam says. "With the raids, most are afraid to keep me on longer, but people are decent to me. The pay's fair. More than fair, considering they can't list me as an expense."

"Fuck." Tommy's eyes are prickling weirdly. From what he can see, Adam's place is decent, and Adam's warm and solid and healthy behind him. Not homeless or starving, and not alone if he's got a family, friends, but it's not fucking fair. Tommy can't vote, can't drive, can't drink, can't do any-fucking-thing, but he's allowed to at least fucking exist. Shit, he's even got a steady job. And he's fucking worried about telling his mom he doesn't want to go to college.

"What is it?" Adam asks, his face close, his tone not nearly as easy and relaxed as it was answering Tommy's dumb questions. "Why are you crying, what's wrong?"

"M'not crying," Tommy grumbles. Shit. But he isn't.

"You're about to, I can smell it. Tell me what's wrong." Adam sounds like he's gonna fucking wolf out.

"It's not you," Tommy says quickly, sure beyond doubt he doesn't want to deal with a panicked, two-hundred pound wolf. "Just, I knew the Coalition was fucking bullshit. I knew it. And here you are, fucking, like, not even that much fucking older than me, and you're nothing like the bullshit they spout. Not even fucking close, and they don't want to even give you a fucking chance."

At the mention of the Coalition, Adam tensed, but by the time Tommy's run down, he's loose again, holding Tommy close and rubbing at his arm. Which is dumb and cliché because it really, really helps. "Sometimes, they're right," Adam says quietly.

"Bull-fucking-shit-"

"I said sometimes," Adam cuts in calmly. "We can be careless and violent and cruel. Sometimes we lose control and hurt people even when we don't mean to. Other times we do things we know we shouldn't."

"How's that so fucking different?"

Adam shrugs. "It isn't. Claws and teeth or a loaded gun, they're both weapons."

Adam's so fucking mellow about all of this it's driving Tommy insane. It's like he doesn't even fucking care. Like he's accepted it or some shit. "Except you can't fucking license people to live."

Catching Tommy's arm, folding it against his chest, Adam says, "I agree with you."

"Then why aren't you fucking doing something about it!"

"Do what?" Adam asks, his voice still so frustratingly even. "Live my life the way I want to?"

"Yes," Tommy huffs. It feels like he's about to get schooled, and he's not sure which direction it's coming from.

"Go where I want to, and do what I want to, and bring home this gorgeous kid I saw at a rock show once, one crazy enough to walk into a room full of wolves, so I can stand in the middle of my kitchen and kiss him if I want?"

Tommy's heart steadily picking up speed, it gives one hard lurch as Adam tilts his chin up to make good on that last thing Adam mentioned. Still sort of ticked off, Tommy refuses to go with it at first. For all of two fucking seconds, because yeah, he's a kid, but he's not fucking stupid. He knows a good thing when it's fucking licking his mouth open, gentle and sweet, a pure current of electricity running beneath it, the promise that this could turn hard and dirty at any second. Hard like Adam's dick is getting, rubbing against Tommy's side and belly as he twists around to let Adam kiss him deeper. Tommy ends up clutching at Adam's face, empty bottle shoved onto the counter, kissing back for all he's worth. His mouth stings a bit, reminding him of what they've already done together, that there's more Adam'll probably let him do.

"Change'll come," Adam says, rubbing Tommy's sore bottom lip with his thumb. "Until then, I'm doing exactly what I want to."

So fucking ready to be done with minefield conversations, Tommy says, "Like me? I'm pretty into being done and all."

Adam's smile goes from surprised to sharp to smoking hot in three seconds flat. "You came out here today to seduce me," he accuses.

Pretty non-conventional seduction, even to Tommy's limited experience, but hey, whatever works. "I'm conveniently naked," Tommy points out.

"I have a bed," Adam adds, and Tommy says, "Fuck yeah, bed," and drags Adam out of the kitchen, only a vague idea as to where this bed might be located in the scheme of things. He's confident he'll figure it out.

*

Though Tommy took a quick dip in Adam's shower, brushed his teeth with Adam's toothbrush, and took the long way home so his clothes would have a chance to air out, he's afraid the second his walks into his house, Mom'll take one look at him and know he spent the entire day drinking and fucking. Seriously, he's pretty much a good kid. The sex is a new addition to his occasional booze and drug habits that he doubts she'd appreciate, but he tries not to get into trouble. Adam even had weed and he didn't touch it.

More like Adam wouldn't let him touch it, since it was bad enough sending him home half-cut, but not because Adam's got some high ideas about kids and drugs. Adam doesn't want Tommy's mom getting between him and Tommy's ass. 'Cause then, Tommy thinks, sort of gleefully, Adam would have to do something drastic. Adam is really, really into Tommy's ass. Literally.

Adam's got a big queen size bed, and he pushed Tommy down on it on his belly, spread him out and licked him open again. Rolled him back over, his arms and legs fucking useless Adam had him so worked up, and went down on him so fucking slowly Tommy almost yelled his fucking head off. And then Adam stopped, like, cold fucking turkey, until Tommy came down enough to watch as Adam pushed his knee up and slid a finger in. Only one, and he was already so loose and wet he barely felt the stretch, but Adam was fucking it into him, pressing against his insides, rocking gently enough to let Tommy feel it, get used to it, and then Adam smiled this tight, wicked smile and pushed. Tommy's been curious about his ass before, did some exploring, but he'd never found that spot. He came so fucking hard he saw stars. A whole fucking universe.

Fuck, thinking about it's given him a boner, and he's on his front fucking step. He can hear his mom inside talking on the phone. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What the fuck is his life.

"There he is!" his mom calls after he's closed the door but hasn't made it even close to the stairs. He cringes. He hopes they don't have company. Please let there be no company. "Michael's on the phone, honey! Did you forget to charge your cell again?"

"Um, yeah," Tommy says, sufficiently sheepish for her to buy it. Since the last fucking thing he needed was to get caught in Eastside and for someone to call his fucking mom, his phone is upstairs, turned off, shoved way into the back of his nightstand with the only single, sad condom he's ever owned, a tube of KY from his cousin Warren at his last birthday--a homage to the classic American Pie (even though it wasn't KY used in the movie)--and the valentine he got from Lauren Harris in seventh grade, because it was a fucking zombie offering its heart up in one grimy, half-rotted fist. Lauren was pretty cool, and he maybe cried a little the day she moved to Wichita. Tommy's pretty sure he could've fallen in love with Lauren.

She'd probably think it's way awesome he's got a werewolf boyfriend, too. Sorta-boyfriend? There was the initial awkward date (sorta-date), alcohol, kissing and groping and sex, and then tonight Adam walked him all the way out of Eastside to the bus. All that's close enough to the whole boyfriend experience for Tommy to figure it counts.

"Honey?" his mom asks, holding out the phone.

"Sorry," Tommy mumbles. "Dude, hey," he says into the receiver, stretching the phone cord to its limit so he can lurk in the hallway like a kid with way too much shit to hide from his mother.

"Hey," Mike says, nice and mellow. "So, you ditched me today. You get head?"

"What?" Tommy flings a frantic glance at the kitchen where Mom's chopping vegetables. "What, dude, what, shut up."

"Alright, go you, you got some. I hope you reciprocated. I didn't raise no Scrooge."

"You didn't fucking raise anybody, Jesus, shut up."

"Language," Mom says casually.

"Oh," Mike says, long and drawn out and super fucking annoying. Dude's totally baked. "It's okay, you know. I forgive you. I told your mom I forgot to ask you what time you wanted to come over for our really awesome pyjama party on Wednesday. You know, that night my parents are going to be in fucking Oregon or whatever. I get scared in the dark."

"Wednesday?" Tommy scratches at the back of his neck, keeping a wary eye on his mom in the hall mirror. "I, uh, oh. Wednesday."

"Sometimes you're really slow, Ratliff."

"You are the best fucking friend ever," Tommy says fervently. "I love you like a brother, man."

"As long as you don't love me like a wolf."

"Get off the phone, weirdo, so I can ask my mom."

"Okay," Mike says easily. "Call me, dude, or I'll give her wolfsbane for her birthday."

"That's not funny," Tommy says. "Mike? Mike? Shit." He collapses against the wall, shoulders sagging. Mike would totally do that and think it's hilarious. Fuck, he'll have to ask Adam if it's just a name for a weird plant, or it Adam's going to, like, break out in hives the next time he trots through the yard.

"Come set the table, please," Mom calls from the kitchen.

Tommy slumps around the corner and hangs up the phone. Mom's staring straight at him. "Um," he says, and goes to get plates.

"Is there something you want to ask me?"

Fuck Mike for dropping this on him without giving him time to think up a really, really good reason why she should let him sleep over at Mike's when Mike's already blown the whistle on his parents being out of town. Fucking Mike. Fucking Mike calling his mom while he's stoned.

Going straight for it, Tommy asks, "So, can I?"

Mom's eyes take on a suspicious glint. "Are you going to be there all night?"

"Yes," Tommy says, not really getting where she's going with that. "But, um, no. We might go catch a movie? With the guys, you know." Guys, what fucking guys. Jesus. He's got to quit saying that shit.

She looks at him for another long moment. "Alright," she says finally, and Tommy's brain goes, What? What? For fucking real, what?. "You're never given me a reason to doubt you. I trust you'll be responsible."

Oh, ouch. Motherfucker. Direct hit. Tommy's post-coital werewolf-boyfriend glow goes up in a mushroom cloud the size of fucking Canada. "Thanks, Mom," he says, putting as much I'm-a-good-son into it as he can muster.

"You're welcome, honey," Mom says, smiling. "I'm glad you're getting out more."

*

Monday, Tommy goes with his mom to the hospital in the morning. Dad's doing great, they're talking about releasing him next week, but Tommy can tell they had a talk. They keep exchanging Meaningful Parental Gazes when they think he's not looking. One of them's going to try the sex talk again soon. The first time they gave it a shot, Tommy thinks his mom got a little too deep into the wine to build up the courage for it, and his dad thought every fucking thing she said was hilarious, so they eventually gave up after a stern 'be safe, be smart, and don't mix sex and alcohol, son, it's never as good an idea as it sounds'. With the both of them being so fucking weird, it made a deeper impression than he thinks they realise. He's never gotten drunk with anybody he's ever had sex with until after they've had sex.

True, it was just the one time with Adam, but whatever. He totally listened.

That night, his mom has some neighbours over. They're up really, really late, and Mr. Foon sort of takes over the entire backyard for his hourly smoke breaks. It totally kills any chance Tommy's got to sneak out or for Adam to sneak in. Not that Tommy thinks that'll fly, but by the time midnight rolls around and Mr. Foon is outside puffing like a fucking smokestack again, Tommy's willing to consider the logistics of getting Adam in through his bedroom window.

On Tuesday, his mom wrangles him into cleaning the garage. The entire fucking thing. The whole time Tommy's outside, he thinks about what they could do if Adam were to happen by. Tommy's never seen him in daylight. And then Tommy stops, old paint cans clutched to his chest like he's a Harlequin heroine, because he's never seen Adam in the daylight. Really seen him in full daylight, not some back alley, knowing it's him--the dude Mike pointed out at the movie theatre is a smudge in his memory, not even Adam at all. Adam's eyes are probably fucking killer all lit up. And his hair, so dark fisted in Tommy's hands, it's probably like slices of fucking midnight in the sun. It's like there's this entire version of Adam he's missing out on.

"Fuck me," he says, shoving the cans into a more-or-less tidy pile in the corner. The first thing he's doing when he turns eighteen is getting Adam a fucking cell phone and a god damn family plan. Adam's got no job history, no credit rating, and no fucking phone. Maybe until Tommy's old enough to switch off his mom's plan, they can get Adam a pay-as-you-go phone from the 7-11. Adam'll say he does fine without it, and could be he does, but the phone in the lobby of Adam's building only makes outgoing calls for some weird, fucked up reason. Fuck, he wishes Adam would call.

That night, after being a moody little bitch all through dinner, Tommy says, "Going out," as he stumps his way through the door. His mom doesn't say anything, not even her usual back-by-whatever-time thing. She's probably glad to get him out of her hair.

Tommy crosses the street without even looking, like a total genius. The playground's empty when he gets there, too late for the usual suspects to be hanging around, and the park's too close to the houses for it to be a popular spot with the evening crowd. He goes straight to the merry-go-round, sits down, and instantly feels like a tool for thinking of it as their spot. But it kind of is. Tommy saw Adam as a wolf for the very first time nearby. Tommy got his very first fucking blowjob right here. They kissed, for real.

It's not too late for Tommy to go into Eastside again. Except the last two times he did that, he got lucky. What if he goes now, and Adam's out at a gig? He can't aimlessly wander the streets at night the same as he did in the day. He's reckless and a little crazy, not fucking suicidal.

After about an hour, his ass his numb and his hands are freezing. He sticks it out for another twenty minutes, then shoves up with a sigh, shuffling his way back across the soccer field to home. Instead of heading inside, he circles past the exceptionally tidy garage to slump into the backyard, throwing himself down on the old swinging chair. Mom always forgets to put the cover back on it at night, so it's a little damp and smells like mould. Gross. Too late now, though. He's deep into his funk and smelly mould suits it fine.

Close to eleven, he gives up. He's been out here marking the fucking wind for way too long already. If Adam were anywhere close, he would've scented Tommy by now. Adam's obviously got shit to do.

A few more hours watching reruns on his laptop in bed, Tommy rolls over and goes to sleep. His window's open extra wide, just in case. Hope's a bitch like that.

*

"He's not coming," Tommy says morosely to his beer.

"You're like fucking Rapunzel," Mike mutters, busily rolling a joint. "He'll be here."

"If he can." Tommy's not quite ready to admit it to Mike, but he's not so sure. Two nights a no-show. Two nights without even a twinge of that being-watched feeling. There's only one thing that's changed. Maybe Tommy wasn't very good. Maybe he should've been more careful and not fucking kicked Adam in the shin when he came that last time. Adam had laughed, though. Said it was cute.

"Here," Mike says, shoving a lit joint in Tommy's face. "Let down your long fucking hair."

Tommy falls on the joint happily. This is so what he needs. He's got to fucking chill. So what if Adam doesn't make it tonight? There's always tomorrow. And Mike's fucking awesome, hanging out in his backyard waiting for Tommy's wayward werewolf to make an appearance when they've got full run of the house. To be fair, Mike's got full run of the house a lot, so maybe it's not such a big deal to him. Even before Tommy's dad got sick the last time, his parents never really went anywhere. Homebodies, like him.

Through the smoke, Tommy thinks he catches a glint of yellow. When it turns out to be nothing, he chases his hit with some beer. The combination'll knock him out pretty fast if he's not careful. Not like he's got something to stay up for, though.

"Hey," Tommy says, elbowing Mike. "Let's marathon, like, Halloween or something."

Mike squints at him, inhaling slowly, the cherry flaring red. "Yeah," he croaks through the smoke. "Yeah, okay."

*

Instead of watching the series in order, they skip right from the original 1978 movie to Rob Zombie's remake, picking out the best and worst parts of each one. They're both pretty high by the time they pop in the second disc.

"Man," Mike says in his stoner drawl, "cockroaches, socialites, and Michael fucking Myers."

Not even sure what the joke is, Tommy immediately pictures Paris Hilton in a classic goalie mask and cracks his shirt right the fuck up. Which doesn't even fucking make sense. It's Myers, not Jason Voorhees. The picture's in his head now, though, and it won't fucking go away. Like a fucking cockroach.

Mid-cackle, something rattles the sliding door, sending Tommy bolt upright with a bellow. Mike blinks at him, totally not getting it, then the door rattles again and Mike hisses, "Shit," staring across the hall into the dining room. Tommy meets his gaze when it slides back. No fucking way. There are no tits here. Serial killers to the next house down, please.

"Shit," Mike says again, up on his knees, clinging to the back of the couch. "Dude, somebody's out there."

"Somebody?" Tommy echoes dumbly.

"Like, it's not a wolf."

"Oh my fuck." Tommy scrambles over the couch, his foot tangling in the knitted afghan Mike's had since he was, like, four, and still carries from his room to the couch and back again like a fucking teddy bear. He manages to kick free without falling on his ass and legs it to the dining room, slamming up against the glass, scrabbling at the lock. "Adam. Fuck me, Adam, Jesus, how'd you find me," he babbles, kinda drunkenly, as he hauls the door open, "how the fuck, oh, fuck."

"Hey," Adam says, warm and happy and not like he minds Tommy kind of drunk and kind of stoned and clinging to him really kind of stupidly. Tommy thought he wasn't coming. Tommy had considered that maybe, you know, once Adam had him a couple times in that big bed, Adam's itch would be nice and scratched. Adam hadn't said anything about coming out to see him again. Kinda implied, but hadn't said.

Adam makes a soft whuffing noise, weird, but not bad, as he noses in under Tommy's jaw, lips finding the marks hidden at the edge of the collar of Tommy's shirt, then tongue, then, oh fuck yeah, teeth. Tommy never would've figured he had such a thing for biting, Christ. It makes his spine go liquid, stomach molten, every fucking time. Like he could melt through Adam's fucking pores.

At the sound of footsteps behind Tommy, Adam tenses. More than tenses. Goes on, like, full fucking alert, like if he had a tail, it'd be standing straight the fuck up. Against Tommy's neck, his lips peel back from his teeth in a warning snarl.

"Mike," Tommy gasps, pushing at Adam's arms. Fuck, Mike. Who so doesn't fucking need to see Tommy turn into a horny whimpering mess in Adam's arms. "It's Mike, chill. He's, like, my fucking brother."

Adam's growl cuts off. Lifting his head slightly, he sniffs the air. "You didn't say you had a brother. He smells like you, not like family."

"Yeah, well, you don't look like teen wolf, McFly," Mike says, as if that makes, like, a fucking iota of sense. Still, kinda totally hilarious. Tommy chokes back a giggle.

"I mean, he's my best friend," Tommy tries. "We were watching movies. On the couch." He jerks his chin towards the living room, the muted glow of the television playing on without them.

Making a sound like he's not so sure, Adam scents Tommy's skin again. It takes Tommy's substance-addled brain a second to figure out what's going on, and once it hits him--Adam's fucking scenting him for sex--he doesn't know if he's going to crack up for real, or fucking die. He settles for rolling his eyes and shaking Adam off. "Quit it."

Face stormy, Adam says, "But-"

"But nothing, dude." Mike's got his arms crossed, a thundercloud to rival Adam's a-brewing, and the sturdy, solid oak dining table between him and the crazy territorial werewolf. "Shit's not cool. Guy's fucking mooning around for days, and you show up acting like he's been fucking, like, stepping out on you. Not cool."

Wow. Mike's totally gonna be a 1950s dad when he grows up.

For a minute there, while Mike and Adam are having their staring contest, Tommy thinks Adam's gonna sprout claws, but then Adam's shudders lightly, like a wolf shaking out its fur. "He is family," Adam says, strangely respectful.

Mike looks floored. "Don't, uh, and don't you forget it."

"I'm gonna buy you a cell phone," Tommy says, which isn't what he meant to say, but whatever, he'll go with it. "So next time I can stay out all night, you'll fucking know."

Adam looks down at him, eyes widening slightly. "Is that why you're over here?"

"Duh," Tommy says. "Told you, Mike's my bro." Adam and Mike share another look, which is vaguely reminiscent of the Meaningful Parental Glances Tommy had to endure on Monday. Any second now, Mike's going to declare that Adam had better treat his boy right. Heading that shit off, Tommy nudges Adam in the side. "So, uh. You gonna take me back to your place again?"

Nostrils flaring on a sharp breath, Adam's grip on Tommy tightens. There's a flicker of yellow in his eyes. "Is that safe?"

"Define safe." Mike's staring at Adam's shifting eyes.

"Shut up," Tommy tells him. "You said you'd cover for me."

Mike snaps out of it with a blink. "Yeah, uh. Yeah. 'Course. Got you covered. Go forth and fornicate, my child."

"Fuckin' A." Tommy goes up on his toes to give Adam a quick peck, murmuring, "Gonna grab my shit," and taking off for the living room. He hasn't got much--phone, backpack, jacket--and he gathers it all up in a rush. Eyeballing the half-joint left sitting on the coffee table, Tommy jams it into his pocket. Mike's got more, and he'll never remember they didn't finish it. Besides, even if it's mostly Tommy's ass Adam's interested in, it's not nice showing up at a guy's place for a second time empty-handed. Half a doobie will totally do.

"'Kay," Tommy says, hustling his ass along, "am I gonna need bus fare or-- What the shit."

Mike jerks back from Adam guiltily. With the table still between them, he hadn't been able to get too close, but Adam's leaning across the top of it too. Adam smiles and says, "He likes my eyes."

"Oh man," Mike says. "Yes, please do make me sound like my lovesick friend."

"Your eyes are pretty cool," Tommy says, still wondering what the fuck.

"It's probably 'cause I'm so baked," Mike says, "but when they go from blue to yellow, it's not this full shift thing. Like, little specks of yellow rise up through the blue, kinda like a mosaic, right, and then boom, wolf eyes."

Adam grins, like this is the best fucking shit he's heard all week. Tommy's got to admit, that's pretty cool, and he's sorta jealous he didn't notice before. There were other, way more shallower parts of Adam he'd been too busy checking out. "Cool," Tommy says, hoping that sounds enthusiastic enough. "So, uh. Thanks, dude."

"No problem." Mike gives Tommy a companionable shoulder bump on his way past. "I expect to be best man at the wedding."

"Wedding, fuck," Tommy says, rolling his eyes and trying to cut a stealthy glance Adam's way at the same time. Adam's fucking beaming. Like, any fucking second now the top of his head's gonna explode, he looks so happy. Despite Tommy's best efforts, the warm pool in his belly spreads up and out, seeping all along his limbs straight to fingers and toes. He's so fucking excited for this shit.

Giving Mike a final wave, Tommy slips out into the night with Adam. Adam's hand settles on his arm to lead him slightly north of Mike's place, perpendicular to the route Tommy would take home. When they hit the street, Adam's hand slides down and wraps warmly around Tommy's, and Tommy's entire fucking body thrums happily. Jesus.

"This isn't going to be much of a surprise," Adam says, "but I like it when you're jealous."

"What?" Tommy tightens his grip on the strap of his backpack. "I wasn't, dude. You weren't doing anything."

"I wasn't," Adam agrees. "But your gut reaction back there was for your friend to back off and stop looking at my eyes."

Stop talking about shit Tommy was too much of a horndog to notice, really, but kinda. "Um."

Adam gives his hand a squeeze. "So you'll forgive my gut reaction at smelling him all over you."

"Already did," Tommy mumbles. "Do your eyes really do that, like he was talking about?"

"I don't know. You can watch later and tell me."

A swift kick of lust and anticipation and maybe a little bit of fear gets Tommy right in the gut. Maybe Adam'll let him watch a whole shift. Adam's already had his tongue in Tommy's ass, and Tommy's had Adam's dick in his mouth, for fuck's sake, there can't be much about shifting that's more intimate than that. Except, you know, Adam's dick in Tommy's ass. Oh fucking hell. Tommy's probably gonna get fucked tonight. Like, in a couple hours, he'll be in Eastside, in Adam's big bed, and he won't need to leave until tomorrow sometime. That's more than enough opportunity for him to get it.

"I'm not going to be able to drive if you keep thinking about whatever you're thinking about," Adam says, aiming for casual.

"You've got a fucking car?"

Adam gives him a weird look tempered with a smile. "Not much of one. Did you think I ran everywhere?"

Plodding along in a daze, Tommy shrugs and says, "Didn't really think about it?" which isn't a total lie. It wouldn't make much sense to go on the wolf express everywhere--pretty conspicuous, for one thing, and for another, it'd mean Adam showing up everywhere naked. Tommy had gotten so used to seeing Adam-the-wolf, though, he'd kind of assumed.

Another squeeze of Tommy's hand in Adam's lets him know it's okay. But Tommy's got to stop doing that shit, assuming he knows anything for real about Adam. Normal people fucking ask when they want to get to know somebody.

Adam's car is parked at the edge of Tommy's neighbourhood, where the residential area butts up against some grungy businesses sandwiched between storage warehouses. The light's shit, making it a pretty sweet place for Adam to stash his car. It's also pretty deserted, and there's not much in the way of surveillance or a night watch as far as Tommy can tell, so it probably explains Adam showing up at his place as a wolf. Shorter trip from here, for sure.

Nervous energy swirling through Tommy's insides, he gets in the car. The door's not locked, and one glance around lets him know why. The car's pretty much stripped to the bone. There's an outer shell, some seats, a steering wheel. It looks like it limped its way out of the 70s. "Wow," Tommy says, even though he didn't mean to.

"I know." Adam's got a rueful twist to his mouth as he cranks the key. "Point A, point B."

"I'm not talking shit about your ride," Tommy's quick to say. He's not. Fuck, he's so not. It's going to get his ass into Adam's bed way faster than the Metro and a string of buses. He fucking loves Adam's car. "It's smart, I mean. Like, less chance somebody's gonna jack it? At least you got a fucking car. And your own fucking place. Christ, I can't fucking wait until I can move out."

Keeping away from the main thoroughfares--another smart move, considering Adam's an illegal and Tommy's so fucking underage--Adam takes them on a route Tommy's never really been before. Everywhere's shit, dirty and battered, dark and deserted. It makes him feel so fucking young. So fucking disconnected from everything.

"Tell me why?" Adam asks, pulling Tommy's attention away from the rusty metal culverts heaped behind a broken fence, like somebody had plans for this place and didn't have the chance to make it happen.

"Just, I do," Tommy says, shrugging. "My parents are awesome, and I know they love me, but they've got all these things they want me to do. And, y'know, shit they most definitely don't want me doing."

Adam nods, silent. He's one of those things that falls into the latter category. Booze, drugs, and werewolves. Fuck, Tommy is a shit son.

"I've been trying to figure out for a couple months how to tell them I don't want to do college." Adam never even had the chance, which makes Tommy feel like an ungrateful little shit. But it doesn't change his mind. College isn't for him. It'd be worse to waste the money. Then he'd be like those prep school jerks coasting through life on daddy's money and wasting every fucking second of it. "I'd rather work. Try to score some gigs. That sort of thing."

"You play?" Adam asks, carefully slowing down as they hit some traffic. He's the fucking safest driver Tommy's ever seen.

"Guitar." Trying not to sound proud about it is a lost cause. Tommy loves that he can play, and that he's getting better all the time. "I like the old school bluesy stuff."

Adam's teeth flash in a quick smile. "That's so awesome. And that you know what you want, and you're going to go for it."

"Moving out'll have to wait," Tommy says. Now that he's started talking, it's like he can't stop. They're about halfway to Eastside, he guesses, and it's like they're in their own little world inside the car. It smells like Adam, and warm metal and grease, kinda unreal. Like one of those really vivid dreams where you can feel the cracked leather under your fingers, taste the air, but everything's almost too heavy, so real it's like its trying too hard so you know it can't be.

Adam makes an interested noise, prompting Tommy to go on. "Uh," Tommy says, trying to wrangle his brain back around, "like, oh yeah. When I graduate, my gig at the music store'll be full time. I wanna be able to help out my mom, so I'm gonna hang around for awhile, slip her some extra cash instead of taking on rent and bills and shit of my own right away."

"I did that," Adam says, making Tommy's heart jolt, like it means something that they had the same idea, wanted the same thing for their families. "My mom eventually kicked me out, saying I had to do something for myself for once, but I still send her money."

"Sounds like a good mom," Tommy says, grinning into the dark.

"Apparently, I'm a good kid," Adam says, wry. "She doesn't always understand my choices, but she does her best to support me."

"Like the singing?" It's be so cool if Tommy's mom was into his music the way his dad is.

"A little like that, yeah."

Reaching across the seats, Tommy gives Adam's hand a squeeze. He's not sure how he's gonna keep this up without his parents finding out, but oh fuck, no way can they know. Not while they could put a stop to it, point blank. Or like, they could try, and he could fuck off and do shit anyway, but he doesn't want that. It'll be easier if they just don't know. Which means keeping Adam a secret. That doesn't sound so hot, either.

Tommy's still mulling over if this is a thing or a fling when Adam takes his hand back to navigate the smaller, narrower streets of Eastside. As the old-style buildings rise up around them, the nervous twitter in Tommy's stomach surges to the forefront. Thinking about all that shit totally distracted him from the really awesome sex he hopes he's about to have. Fuck, he can't wait to suck Adam's dick again. Now that he knows what he's doing, he'll be even better at it. Adam's gonna fucking love it.

Slamming the car into park, Adam says, "Shit," and surges across the bench seat, catching Tommy's jaw in one hand and shoving his tongue straight into Tommy's mouth. Tommy flails a bit, stupidly, because okay, he totally didn't see that one coming, and Adam moves fast, holy fuck, but he gets with it in pretty good time, opening up to let Adam have his filthy fucking way. Things way down low in Tommy's belly go tight and liquid hot. He kisses back harder, trying to tell Adam with his tongue that Adam's got carte fucking blanche here. Anything Adam wants to do to him, Tommy'll fucking take it.

"Oh my god," Adam says, pushing Tommy's shoulder hard into the seat, twisting to get closer, "you smell so fucking good." He shoves his nose in the crook of Tommy's neck, his hands skidding down to wrench open Tommy's fly, and Tommy thinks, oh, wow, holy shit, what? He's gonna get blown in the front seat of a fucking Buick.

The second Tommy's jeans are open, Adam stills, shuddering. He's bent over Tommy's lap breathing hard through his nose, sharp and loud in the closeness of the car. Tommy bites at his lip and squirms. Adam's hand is right fucking there, poised to dive in his shorts and haul his dick out, but Adam's not fucking moving. Tommy pushes at the back of Adam's head, kinda insistent and rude. He can't help it. That first move of Adam's dumped his ass square in so-fucking-hard-it-hurts territory, and if Adam doesn't do something soon, Tommy's gonna haul it out and jack it himself.

What Tommy totally doesn't expect is for Adam to yank Tommy halfway across the seat and shove his whole fucking face into Tommy's crotch. Tommy does some more of that dumb, uncoordinated flailing, ending up with one leg crooked in the footwell and the other slung over the back of the fucking seat, spread wide open as Adam noses at him, sucking on his dick through his shorts. It's dark out, and it's Eastside at night so there's not a lot of movement that Tommy can see, but that doesn't mean there aren't people out there. Somebody could be watching them right now.

"Adam," Tommy tries, his skin prickling with heat and unseen eyes. "We should, I guess--fuck--inside?"

Adam shivers and bites at his belly right beside his trapped dick. Tommy arches up, clamping his mouth shut on a sharp cry. Fuck, that's like it's on an express line to his fucking balls, making them go heavy and tight and about two seconds from fucking exploding.

"We should fuck," Adam says, which isn't at all what Tommy meant but shit, he agrees, he agrees so fucking much as Adam's mouthing at the head of his dick, forcing one of those thready noises out of his throat. Tommy's still being a total douche about it, too, holding Adam's head down and grinding against his face, and that's so not helping them get their asses out of the car and into Adam's bed. Unclenching his hands from Adam's hair takes every single ounce of will power he's got left.

"For real fuck," Tommy says, pushing his hand down to cup his cock through his jeans. Adam growls, annoyed at Tommy's cockblocking ways, but Tommy's totally serious here. "I mean it. Like, upstairs. Put your dick in me type of fuck."

Adam groans so loud the car shudders. Or maybe that's all Tommy, squished up in the seat trembling like a fucking leaf in a storm. He's got no idea what he's getting himself in to here. He can't even imagine what it'll feel like to have Adam in him, but fuck, he wants to know.

"Come on," Tommy says, pushing at Adam's shoulder. "Let's go. Fuck, like, right now, c'mon, go."

With a sound like it hurts, Adam tears himself away, thumping back against the seat. His eyes are pure wolf in the darkness, otherworldly and so fucking hot with his hair fallen in his face. Tommy paws at the door handle, wrenching it open and shoving his way out into the street. Looking around, he doesn't recognise anything. The clunk of Adam slamming the other door echoes all the way down to Tommy's bones.

"This way," Adam says, taking hold of Tommy's elbow. It could be pushy and weird, Adam dragging him along like that, but mostly it's just hot. Tommy can feel in the tension singing through every line of Adam's body how bad he wants this. The trip from the street to the alley, through a few more pathways to Adam's building, up the stairs to Adam's apartment, passes in a complete blur. Tommy would never be able to find the car again on his own.

Inside Adam's place, neither one of them stops long enough to turn on a light. Adam probably doesn't need them, Tommy doesn't know where the switches are, and even if he did, taking the time to drop his backpack is way more than he wants to spare. Tommy shoves up in Adam's face, grabbing it in both hands, and kisses the fuck out of him, sudden and surprising enough that Adam goes stumbling back against the wall. Hanging onto Tommy's arms, Adam lets him get away with it for a few fucking fantastic minutes until the tension in Adam's muscles takes over and he flips them, crowding Tommy to the wall instead. Just like that, Tommy's trapped. Penned in on all sides, the wall, Adam's arms, Adam's body flush against his.

"Fuck," Tommy spits, grabbing onto the back of Adam's shirt, rubbing up against him crazily. "That's so fucking good, I-- I love it, shit, I fucking love it."

"Come on," Adam says, through messy kisses, "go ahead, lose it. We've got all night, Tommy, the whole night," and Tommy thinks about all the hours they've got to fill and comes like a fucking freight train, breath knocked out of him and fingers cramping, tangled in Adam's shirt. He slumps back so hard he would've gone down except Adam's there to prop him up and kiss him back to earth. It can't be really good for Adam, since Tommy's way too uncoordinated to even try to kiss back, but Adam doesn't seem to mind. He kinda seems to actually really like it, if the thick heat of his dick digging into Tommy's belly is any indication.

Gulping air, Tommy squirms out of Adam's hold. It's a tight fit, but he manages to wriggle down to his knees, clutching at Adam's hips to steady himself before he goes for Adam's fly. "I thought," Adam says, choked, and Tommy says, "We got time, right? We got lots of fucking time," pulling Adam's jeans down, underwear along for the ride, so Adam's dick is right there in front of his face, hard and thick and flushed dark. He stares for a minute, wishing he could see more. Later. Fucking later, he thinks, and sucks the wet head into his mouth.

Adam hisses and fucks, both hands slapping to the wall. This is fucking perfect. There's no weird angle giving Tommy a crick in his neck, he doesn't have to worry about keeping his balance so both hands are free, one to jack the fucking massive amount of dick Tommy can't cram into his mouth, and the other to push up under Adam's shirt, feel the flutter of his stomach muscles, drift down and back to clutch at the meat of his ass as his hips get away from him and he fucks into Tommy's mouth. Not ready for it, Tommy loses the suction, and pretty much all the air in his lungs.

"Sorry," Adam gasps, nails scratching at paint as his hand curls into a fist. "Sorry, I, god. You're so fucking eager. Tight and wet and tiny, fuck, I can't wait to fuck you."

Tommy pulls off, even though he doesn't want to, panting hard. His dick is killing him all over again. Adam makes a miserable noise, his hand dropping down to cup Tommy's head, his cock skidding over Tommy's cheek. It's wet and slippery and so fucking dirty, Tommy's dick jumps, fresh heat seeping into his sticky-cool shorts.

"I gotta," Tommy says, resting his forehead on Adam's hip, "fuck, I gotta get out of these clothes."

"Oh fuck yes," Adam says, heartfelt and vicious. He grabs Tommy under the armpits and hauls him stumbling to his feet, already shoving his hands under Tommy's hoodie and shirt to pull them off him. Tommy tries doing the same for Adam but their hands get all tangled up, slowing everything down way too much.

"Fuck this noise," Tommy mutters under his breath, kicking off his shoes so hard one goes flying into the opposite wall. "Naked, naked, c'mon."

"Bedroom," Adam says, slapping at the wall. In the living room, warm yellow light flares. Tommy nods fast, wanting to stay and strip Adam down but wanting the fucking bed so much too. He settles for skinning off his jeans on his way down the hall, heart tripping and skin heating at the sound of Adam's quiet curse when he finally gets them off. That kinda thing makes a guy feel pretty fucking sexy.

It's only Tommy's second time in Adam's room and he knows where the sex stuff is. Beside a small, half-empty bottle in the nightstand, he finds a few extra pocket packets of some different kinds of lube, and a strip of condoms. Hauling the whole works out, he dumps it all on the bed in time for Adam to appear in the doorway, finally totally fucking naked. Tommy fumbles blindly for the lamp, catching it before it hits the floor with his haste to flick it on.

"Oh wow," Tommy croaks. Why the fuck did he wait so long to get Adam naked? He's sure he had plans to do it the last time he was here. Adam kept fucking fucking him, though, never giving him the chance. Lounging in the doorway, letting Tommy looks his fill, Adam is broad and lean, his legs fucking miles long, and his dick, okay. Tommy knows it's shallow how his eyes keep sliding back down to focus on Adam's package, but come the fuck on. Adam's kneecaps are totally sexy too, and maybe he'd even really enjoy nibbling on them, but Tommy's seen lots of knees in his time. Hard, naked cock, not so much.

Before Tommy realises what he's doing, he's clambering over the bed, wanting to touch. Adam meets him in the middle, the mattress dipping beneath Adam's knees and sending Tommy tumbling into him. Tommy moans so loud his ears fucking pop. There's so much skin. Everywhere, so fucking much of it, and Tommy's pretty much groping Adam all over the place, arms and back, hips and thighs, pressing in tighter and tighter against him like he could crawl inside if only he tries hard enough.

When Adam grabs at his arms, Tommy's almost expecting some crap like wait, slow down to follow. Ready to head that shit off--more time means more fucking orgasms, not slow the fuck down--Tommy tenses up. Which makes it really, really easy for Adam to knock him off balance and flatten him out on his back.

"Okay," Tommy says, breathless as he drags his knees up, "yeah, yeah, okay, this is good."

"Thought you'd like it," Adam says, crawling between his legs, thumb at his lips tipping his face up for more kisses. Fuck, Tommy loves kissing. And bare skin. And dick.

"I love sex," Tommy mumbles into Adam's mouth.

Adam palms the back of his thigh, nudging his leg further up. Not sure what to do with it, Tommy tries hooking it on Adam's hip. It totally works better if he's got both legs up, though, so he goes with that.

"You're really, really good at it," Adam says absently as his eyes slip shut and he rocks down.

More than the thrill of their sticky cocks catching and dragging together rockets through Tommy. "Yeah?" he asks, not really meaning to. But he'd been kinda worried. A guy like Adam's totally got to have tons of experience. Tommy's gotta keep up here.

Adam nods, biting his lip, hips rocking faster. He opens his mouth like he's gonna say something, but all that comes out is a hot rush of air as his hips lift, his dick skidding down to wedge between the cheeks of Tommy's ass. And oh wow, oh fucking wow, that feels amazing. Tommy's knees clamp tight on Adam's sides, desperate to keep him there, hot, ticklish pleasure racing along Tommy's nerves.

"You like it?" Adam asks, the tips of his fingers sneaking in, pushing his dick harder against Tommy.

"Do I fucking ever," Tommy grits out, shocked at how much. He'd figured, you know? But holy fuck. "Shit, do it now. Right fucking now, c'mon."

Adam takes his fingers away, which is so not what Tommy fucking meant. Lube, though, right. At least one of them has some functioning brain cells left. Tommy wiggles impatiently, trying to get Adam's dick rubbing at him again while Adam gropes across the sheets looking for the most specific packet of slick ever.

"Not helping," Adam warns.

"Feels good," Tommy counters. If Adam would lie all the way down on top of him again, he could probably go for orgasm number two right about now. He tugs a little, trying for it. Adam's fucking immovable.

"Oh my god," Adam says, and darts in, teeth closing on a giant chunk of Tommy's neck. Tommy doesn't even fucking know what the fuck at first, because what the fuck?, and then Adam bites harder, slow and steady and easing up only when Tommy goes completely still. The second Adam releases him, Tommy starts squirming again, more to see what'll happen than anything.

"Sorry," Tommy says, squeezing his eyes shut. Adam's biting so hard, he's sure skin's split, but it feels so fucking good. He's not one bit sorry at all. Especially not when slick fingers find his asshole, rubbing all around it in a way that makes his lungs seize before Adam presses in. It's too much at first, pushing a weak noise out of him. Then it hits, like, this fucking critical point where his nerves fry and it's good, weird and foreign and really really fucking good.

Easing back, Adam licks the raw mark on Tommy's throat. He stays close, watching Tommy's face as his fingers move. All Tommy can do for a long minute is clutch at Adam's back and let his body go, rocking with the rhythm of Adam's hand. He feels thick and full and hot already. Trembling, because Adam keeps pushing on that spot, making the heavy feeling flare, weird pressure like he's really gotta fucking go, like, go, both ways, but the signals get all crossed and he's not sure which urge is screaming at him loudest. Sex is fucking messed up.

"Good, though," Adam says, pausing with his fingers buried deep. He crooks them sharply, pressing against Tommy's insides, making him arch and gasp. "Feel that?"

"'Course I fucking felt it," Tommy grates, "fucking jerk, fucking fingers are in my ass," and he's hot all over, turned on and a little embarrassed and weirded out and he wants to come so fucking badly. No wonder people are always going on about waiting to do this until you know you're ready. All Tommy wants to know is if anybody's ever fucking ready to share their skin like this. Tommy's so used to being inside his body all on his own, he doesn't know what he's gonna do when Adam's in it with him.

"But you like it," Adam says, going a little faster, a bit deeper, really working to loosen Tommy up. He kisses the side of Tommy's face, his chin, his mouth again. "I can smell how much you like it. I could make you come."

Christ, probably. Tommy's been so busy focusing on his ass and all the weird, amazing things Adam's making him feel that he'd sort of forgotten about his dick. Now that he's thinking about it again, he can't stop, way too aware of it rolling against his belly, leaking all over him, pounding like his pulse has moved house way down south for the winter. He bites his lip, straining up to get more friction, no good with Adam's arm in the way.

Tommy's so sure Adam's gonna make him wait--he's pretty sure the second Adam's cock touches his hole, he's going off again whether Adam wants him too or not--that Adam's slippery hand closing on his dick shocks the fucking hell out of him. Then he doesn't even know what he wants more, grinding down on Adam's fingers or fucking up into his fist. Trying for both gets him this jerky kind of rhythm going, heat building up between them, inside him, until he's sweat-slicked and slippery and everything's soaked in sex, he twists and arches and comes with a startled jolt. Then it's even messier, everything slick and raw between his legs, dick and balls and ass so fucking wet.

Letting out a strangled groan, Adam surges up to kiss him. He tries giving as good as he's getting, but so much of his attention is on Adam's fingers slipping out of him, how weirdly open he's left feeling, how he sorta wants to squeeze his legs together to really feel it, like poking at a bruise.

"I really need to fuck you, just like this," Adam says, in almost as much of a mess as Tommy is, his chest heaving like he's been running for days. He nuzzles at Tommy's face, no more kisses left, like he's too far gone to stay still long enough to even try it. "I can wait if you want me to. But, fuck, Tommy, I really want it, you have no idea how good you smell right now, what you fucking look like." His hands push restlessly at Tommy's thighs, stroking up over his ass, his back, digging in and holding on and slipping away again. "I need you to smell more like mine."

That had been Tommy's plan pretty much all along, but the way Adam's talking now makes it sound like there's more to it than maybe Tommy had counted on. It makes him nervous, and excited, standing at the edge of a cliff, wind howling. "Is it- Is that okay?" Tommy asks, shoving hair out of his face so he can see Adam's. "I mean, I haven't, like, before, so if you're sure it's okay?"

A trickle of humanity drains out of Adam's eyes. He pushes up a bit. "What do you think I'm asking you?"

It doesn't sound accusing. It doesn't sound good, either. Tommy gnaws on the inside of his lip. He's pretty sure they're not on the same page here. "If you can, like, bareback me?"

Adam sucks in a breath so sharp it whistles between his teeth. He shoves up and off of Tommy completely, hunched over, "Fuck me," cutting harsh and grating through his ragged breathing. A shot of panic slices through Tommy's hazy glow.

"Adam?" Tommy asks, up on one elbow, afraid to move too fast. He's never seen Adam shift before, but he's seen a fucking lot of Hollywood. This looks a hell of a lot like Adam's body is getting ready to break down and become something else entirely. For no good reason, Tommy flashes back on that fucking illustration.

"I'm okay," Adam says, head still down, his fingers digging into the mattress. "Don't be afraid, I'm okay."

Cautiously, Tommy says, "You don't look okay."

Adam shakes his head, refusing to look up. "You surprised me. I got excited and angry and I wanted it so much, I almost did it. I could fucking taste it. Exactly what it would be like to have you like that, exactly the way you'd smell fucked raw on my dick. So easy to imagine."

That one nails Tommy right where it fucking counts. He mutters, "Jesus," squeezing his eyes briefly shut as lust claws through him. He's got to fucking focus here. Important shit first. "Why angry?"

"Because you trust me," Adam snaps. "And I could hurt you so easily, but no one warned me it would be like this. I knew it would be hard. I didn't realise that meant it'd be close to fucking impossible to control myself."

Tommy risks scooting closer. On the scale of Important Shit, this is fucking nuclear. "I, um, don't really know-- You mean not hurting me is hard?" There's a fucking scary thought. Tommy's really gotten off on what they've done so far, and while Adam hasn't hurt him, he hasn't been exactly gentle and tender, either. Not in a mean way. Like, determined and focused and an edgy kind of rough, not smack-my-bitch-up rough.

"Mating with you," Adam says, and Tommy's face flares neon hot. Christ. What a fucking phrase to trot out right now, while Tommy's feeling all squirmy and weird and even more vulnerable than usual. "But I want it." Dragging in a deep breath, Adam finally looks up. Flecks of blue show through the yellow in his eyes like stars fighting to shine in the sun. "I knew the minute I saw you. I didn't even try denying it. It doesn't make a difference to me that you're human."

Tommy plucks blindly at a loose thread in one of Adam's sheets. Even with all the Coalition's horror stories, he'd figured the whole inter-species thing didn't happen all that often. Even if the packs wanted to keep it quiet, somebody would've stood on a soapbox and proclaimed their forbidden love for all the world to see. That's what people in love do. So maybe Tommy's the jerk here, since all he wants to do is keep Adam hidden and safe. Except they're not exactly flinging the l-word around. Which is better, right? Mucking up the fucking works when they got a good thing going would be stupid.

Thinking he better do his part to keep this easy, Tommy says, "If it's really that big of a deal, go ahead and use a rubber."

Adam stares at him for the count of two, then busts out with this choked-off crazy noise. "A rubber."

"Dude, I'm fucking lost," Tommy admits. "I thought we got, y'know, a thing. It feels like a thing? And maybe it's a big fucking deal and all, but it kinda isn't. It's just... what it is."

More staring. It's a damn good thing Tommy's totally okay with all this naked stuff, or he'd be starting to feel weird about lying here all messed up while Adam gets his shit together. "It really doesn't bother you at all," Adam says eventually.

"That you're a were? Christ, what, no. Or like, not in any way that isn't making all this shit ten billion times fucking hotter."

"You do have a thing for being bitten," Adam says, gaze slipping down to Tommy's neck.

"Yeah," Tommy says, shuffling back as Adam uncurls. That's more fucking like it. They gotta install a daily quota for Serious Shit That Needs to be Discussed. And possibly put a moratorium on doing so while sex is happening. "Yeah, like, get on up here and chew on me some more."

Adam snorts a laugh. "You squirm more when I don't."

"That what you want? In the mood for me to squirm on your dick?" It's way over the top, kinda stupid, but it makes Adam grin, and anything that makes Adam look like that is a-okay in Tommy's book. Besides, corny or not, it's still pretty hot, and it gets him thinking about the, like, logistics of being on Adam's dick, literally fucking on it, and that's nothing but fucking awesome. He wriggles around, getting comfy, letting his hands get back to wandering, going with the flow when they both seem to want to head south and get Adam all revved up again. Adam watches him the whole time, eyelashes fluttering when he gets a good, solid grip and jacks him a couple times. Adam hadn't exactly gone soft or anything, even with all the serious shit flying around. Tommy's gonna chalk that one up to him staying nice and naked. Something good to look at.

"Gonna suit up?" Tommy asks, feathering his fingers near the ridge. Adam's got that one spot there that makes his cock swell harder every fucking time. He's already pretty fucking blood-thick, but his body tries sending another pulse or two down south anyway, like it's worth a shot.

"You do it," Adam says, gaze glued to Tommy's hands. "You come up with some really great stuff all on your own. I love not knowing exactly what you're going to do next."

Tommy flushes, proud. So what if he's got zero notches on the bedpost, Adam likes the shit he comes up with. How fucking awesome is that?

The promise that this is gonna get even more awesome is the only thing that lets Tommy let go of Adam's dick long enough to grab up a condom packet. His hands are slippery, sweat and lube and come, so he jams the edge of the foil in his teeth and tears. It's not even all sexy-like, just, fuck, he's gotta get the damn thing open. He catches Adam's grin out of the corner of his eyes as Adam leans down, kissing his shoulder open-mouthed and slow.

"Like that," Adam says, resting his forehead against Tommy's cheek as Tommy fumbles around trying to get a good grip on Adam's dick to fit the tiny little slippery shit of a condom over the head. "It's hot because you're not even trying."

"I'm so fucking trying," Tommy grunts, a triumphant zing shooting through his belly when the fucking thing starts to unroll nice and smooth. Putting on a fucking rubber shouldn't be such a production, holy shit. But with Adam mouthing at his skin, stroking up the back of his thigh like that reminding him to get his legs up, it's all pretty hot. Like it's more real this way, less porno-perfect.

Settling back, knees spread, Adam runs his hands down Tommy's sides to grip his hips, tugging him into, like, prime fucking position. He doesn't ask if Tommy's ready, either reading it on Tommy's face that he so fucking is, or trusting that Tommy'll say hang on a second if he needs it. Tommy's stomach swoops. They're so doing this.

"Breathe out," Adam says, as his dick wedged up against Tommy's hole makes Tommy's breath catch and hold. Tommy nods, 'cause right, he knew that, breathe out, push down, holy fucking shit, Adam's putting his fucking dick in him. "God," Adam groans, inching closer on his knees, rocking a bit to sink in deeper, "god, yeah, like that."

Tommy squeezes his eyes shut, concentrating so fucking hard on keeping his body loose that all he can feel is the stretch. Maybe he tightened up or something while they were having their fucking talk, because this is, fuck, it's so fucking crazy. It's more and more and more, making him feel heavier, fuller, this messed-up ache billowing out inside him. He arches away from it on instinct, but Adam's holding his thighs firm, pulling him back down so he takes more instead. And then Adam's thighs are brushing his ass, he's halfway in Adam's fucking lap, and he's fucking filled up and pinned and he can't even fucking see.

The bed shifts, Adam leaning forward, which makes his dick shift and Tommy twitches, gasping, as the pressure spikes to borderline unbearable. In the next breath, it mellows out again. "Move," Tommy says, clutching at Adam's shoulder, "fuck, fuck, move."

Holding tight, Adam moves. It keeps going like that, spike and mellow, spike-mellow, until the mellow's not so mellow anymore and Tommy's making as much fucking noise on the pull out as he is on the push in. He tries not to claw the shit out of Adam right off the bat, but Adam figures out he's holding back pretty quickly and plays fucking dirty pool, sucking on Tommy's neck so flesh mounds thickly between his teeth. There's too much to keep track of, the thick, sharp smell of sex, the filthy wet noise of it, the way Adam feels, Tommy's legs around his waist and arms around his shoulders and Adam's arms shoved beneath him, hauling him up off the bed and down into every smacking thrust. Tommy loses it somewhere in the middle, even more messed up, like Adam fucked it out of him. His cock jerks against Adam's belly, rolling slickly in his own come, oversensitive but not so bad Tommy wants to do a fucking thing about it, and then all he's got to do is hold on for the ride, his head fuzzy and body thrumming.

He tries kissing Adam a couple times, but Adam's way, way out of it, eyes clamped shut and mouth open, breaths harsh. The third or fourth time Tommy licks at Adam's lip, Adam shudders, the long, smooth roll of his hips turning short, choppy, jostling Tommy up the bed. Eyes flying open, Tommy holds on tighter, the smouldering buzz he'd been enjoying suddenly flaring bright. Tommy's hard again in fucking no time, all lights green, go-go-go. This is all happening way faster than he can reload. If Adam makes him blow it again, that shit's gonna be dry.

"Jesus," Tommy grunts, throwing an arm up to keep from splitting his fucking head open on the wall. Braced, it's so much easier to move with Adam, and Adam groans, going at him harder, knowing he can take it now. Adam's so close he's shaking. Tommy drags in a couple deep breaths, totally ready to throw some dirty talk into it, really get Adam there. What he's not expecting is for Adam to fucking pull out. Slurring only a little, Tommy says, "What the fuck?"

Not saying a fucking word, Adam scoots back, grabs on, and flips him over onto his belly. Before Tommy's got a chance to figure out which fucking way is up, Adam's on him again, ass hauled high and stuffed full, and Tommy fucking screams, choked-off and shot. It's so much fucking deeper like this, and Adam's leaning back, really fucking going for it, like, straight up fucking pounding it into him.

"One more," Adam says, words crazy and guttural around the edges, not quite human. "Put your hand on your cock, give me one more."

Tommy's got his dick in hand before his brain's put a word in. He strips it hard and fast, pleasure cutting through him sudden, switchblade-sharp. He knows Adam's not gonna come, not gonna stop, until Tommy beats it out. This time around he's got to work for it, twisting, tugging, moaning way too loud because he's not gonna make it, it's too soon, even for him. But Adam isn't letting up, biting at his back, his shoulders, pushing his head down to dig teeth into the back of his neck, right above the peak of his spine. When he finally fucking blows, it's so sharp it hurts, barely anything pumping over his fingers. It claws into him all the way to his fucking bones, holding him frozen, and when it lets go, it's like his whole body turns to water. With a wordless shout, Adam drives in hard, and comes.

"I can't," Tommy mumbles, not sure if Adam can even hear him, or if he's making any sense at all--his tongue feels thick, clumsy, as fucked-up as the rest of him. "Fuck, can't move."

"Don't," Adam says, his voice still weird, strained. "Just. Stay there."

No fucking problem, Tommy thinks, and like a total champ, passes right the fuck out.

Part 2

Comments

[adamgrrrl73]

whoa!!!!! really hot n sexy n exciting n stuff, but just want to point out for future reference-- it's california pizza KITCHEN, not king...
djfjdhsufigotkdbshsudhrcghgaif... off to part 2.

[blue_soaring]

I'm aware! Calling it King is both an inside joke and a nod to another writer I admire, and besides that, it's not like this universe is the actual LA that exists in our world. :3

[adamgrrrl73]

ok; didn't realize. can i ask the inside joke or is it personal? still reading part 2, long fic, i'm really luving it!

[eastlea]

wow! loving this fic... i couldn't stop reading it last night and paid for this today with lack of sleep! really good fic. Just love Tommy and Adam.

[(Anonymous)]

I am now officially in love with the word fuck, along with every other word in this story...your writing is every kind of fucking awesomeness. Off to read part 2!