Fic (Adam Lambert): Tuesday (NC-17)
Tuesday
Adam Lambert (Kris/ Adam, voyeurism, masturbation, all that stuff, NC-17)
Author's Notes: Short Adam Lambert piece. 985 words. I never watched American Idol so I'm calling my fandom "Adam Lambert" and sticking with that. I don't know what this is about. Set during the AI tour but I hate telling readers what they can probably figure out themselves so forget I said that.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to reflect on the personalities or behaviours of the persons mentioned within. Pure fantasy.
For leksa and gatefiction: RPF enthusiasts Inc.
The mirror is chipped. A piece taken from the edge, fingernail shaped. He touches it without thinking, feels the rough of cut glass contrasting with the mirror’s surface. It's compelling, grooved like vinyl, enticing somehow.
Sharp too. He retracts his hand, feels oddly self-conscious.
Black makeup streaks the side of his face, kohl from the crease of his eye to his cheekbone. He wipes it with a cotton swipe and it’s gone like the night’s performance, nothing left but an impression. It's sort of romantic. Very rock and roll. 2 am in front of a chipped mirror, wiping his face off like a drag queen.
“Tragic darling,” he says out loud. Laughs a little. He looks like a clown.
This is the last eight weeks: rehearse, perform, ride out the high, crash, sleep, do it all over again. Week one of the tour was a party. Week nine is a wake, ghosts of their former selves haunting hotel corridors and drinking the mini bar with the lights out. He’s not old enough to be this tired.
He takes his shirt off, throws it on the floor next to the jeans he wore yesterday. The room is a mess. Glitter on the sink, glitter on the bathroom floor, glitter across his collar bone and on his wrists. It’s everywhere. He showers and wakes up with it in the morning. Glitter, bruises, sprains, exhaustion; the tour will leave its mark on him one way or another.
Earlier Kris called him a diva. “But you look dangerous so it clearly works for you,” he said. He checked his own reflection in the mirror, ran his hands through his hair. “It smells like paste,” he said, holding his fingers up for Adam to smell.
“It’s American Crew,” Adam said.
“Paste,” Kris said, still looking at his hand.
Kris dropped by after the after party but he went to bed an hour ago. He said he had to call his wife. Or maybe that was last night. Adam’s losing track of time. His sanity is next.
Kris sat on the floor and played a song. A half a song. Half written. It sounded sweet. Melancholy. It reminded him of something. Adam’s got “Slow Ride” and “Na Na Hey Hey” stuck in his head and when he tries to hum a tune it’s all he can think of.
When he left, Kris said, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Adam said.
“Get some sleep,” Kris said.
He needs coffee. He needs a club. A late bar. Somewhere to shake off the endless hotel rooms and airports. He’s too tired to sleep, too wired to be alone. He should have sprung for weed in Cleveland. The offer might not come again.
The cotton swipes pile up on the sink, bruises on the porcelain. They do him up like Barbie and at the end of the night he wipes it all away, buries it in the trash. If it’s Tuesday it must be Belgium. Or Wisconsin. Or Illinois. Lather. Rinse. Second verse. Chorus. Refrain.
Kris said he looked like hell this morning. Kris looked like the cover of GQ. Adam said he needed to get laid and Kris laughed. “So do I,” he said. Maybe that’s why he’s calling his wife every night?
There’s only one cure and Adam’s at it regularly so he has every reason to believe Kris is too. Kris is two doors down, probably at it right now between his too white sheets. Kris with the covers around his knees, his boxers around his hips, eyes closed, dick in hand.
That would be a performance worth seeing. Adam imagines himself with the best seats in the house. Hanging back, watching from the sidelines. Yeah, baby, just like that. Do it. And Kris does. Welcome to the show.
Damn. Fantasy about hot straight guys is dirty wrong fun. Fantasy about friends crosses a line. He shouldn’t. He rubs his forehead. Fuck it. He’s needs to jerk off now while the itch is driving him crazy. He can be a better person tomorrow.
He takes the fantasy where he wants: he’s in the room, one knee on the bed, crawling toward Kris, scaling his body. He catches Kris’s eye, lowers himself toward Kris’s midriff and it’s written on Kris’s face: want, need, fear.
Fuck. Zip down, dick in his hand, pumping into his fist, the mental image of his mouth around Kris’s dick burns the back of his eyes. The look on Kris’s face, the noise he makes how he tastes. God. Adam’s never done it in front of a mirror before and he can’t believe how dirty he looks. Dishevelled and desperate, jeans hanging around his thighs, belt dangling uselessly, cock exposed, red, full. He’s a showman, a performer, working the camera, the mirror, fucking himself for his audience, lips are parted, eyes glazed, his hand on his dick, frenzied and without rhythm and oh god, he’s coming over the sink.
He breathes out, collects himself, checks the mirror again and his eyes are black, smeared with kohl. His pupils are dilated and his breathing heavy. That’s a fucked face if he ever saw one. Too bad he’s the only one to see it.
They say you sleep better if you’re not sexually frustrated so a good wank before bedtime is probably good for the soul, or something. Still, he feels guilty. He needs a real fuck. Something solid.
He cleans the sink, wipes himself with Kleenex. Cleanser on the cotton swipe and once more under his eyes. He’s coming back now. Turning into himself. More human, Jewish boy in makeup, playing dress up like he’s 12 years old.
He has light blue eyes and fair skin. Normal. Safe. Someone he used to know. His hair falls into his eyes and he brushes it to one side. His jeans are undone. He’s still wearing boots. This tour is going on forever.
End.
Adam Lambert (Kris/ Adam, voyeurism, masturbation, all that stuff, NC-17)
Author's Notes: Short Adam Lambert piece. 985 words. I never watched American Idol so I'm calling my fandom "Adam Lambert" and sticking with that. I don't know what this is about. Set during the AI tour but I hate telling readers what they can probably figure out themselves so forget I said that.
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction and is not intended to reflect on the personalities or behaviours of the persons mentioned within. Pure fantasy.
For leksa and gatefiction: RPF enthusiasts Inc.
The mirror is chipped. A piece taken from the edge, fingernail shaped. He touches it without thinking, feels the rough of cut glass contrasting with the mirror’s surface. It's compelling, grooved like vinyl, enticing somehow.
Sharp too. He retracts his hand, feels oddly self-conscious.
Black makeup streaks the side of his face, kohl from the crease of his eye to his cheekbone. He wipes it with a cotton swipe and it’s gone like the night’s performance, nothing left but an impression. It's sort of romantic. Very rock and roll. 2 am in front of a chipped mirror, wiping his face off like a drag queen.
“Tragic darling,” he says out loud. Laughs a little. He looks like a clown.
This is the last eight weeks: rehearse, perform, ride out the high, crash, sleep, do it all over again. Week one of the tour was a party. Week nine is a wake, ghosts of their former selves haunting hotel corridors and drinking the mini bar with the lights out. He’s not old enough to be this tired.
He takes his shirt off, throws it on the floor next to the jeans he wore yesterday. The room is a mess. Glitter on the sink, glitter on the bathroom floor, glitter across his collar bone and on his wrists. It’s everywhere. He showers and wakes up with it in the morning. Glitter, bruises, sprains, exhaustion; the tour will leave its mark on him one way or another.
Earlier Kris called him a diva. “But you look dangerous so it clearly works for you,” he said. He checked his own reflection in the mirror, ran his hands through his hair. “It smells like paste,” he said, holding his fingers up for Adam to smell.
“It’s American Crew,” Adam said.
“Paste,” Kris said, still looking at his hand.
Kris dropped by after the after party but he went to bed an hour ago. He said he had to call his wife. Or maybe that was last night. Adam’s losing track of time. His sanity is next.
Kris sat on the floor and played a song. A half a song. Half written. It sounded sweet. Melancholy. It reminded him of something. Adam’s got “Slow Ride” and “Na Na Hey Hey” stuck in his head and when he tries to hum a tune it’s all he can think of.
When he left, Kris said, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Adam said.
“Get some sleep,” Kris said.
He needs coffee. He needs a club. A late bar. Somewhere to shake off the endless hotel rooms and airports. He’s too tired to sleep, too wired to be alone. He should have sprung for weed in Cleveland. The offer might not come again.
The cotton swipes pile up on the sink, bruises on the porcelain. They do him up like Barbie and at the end of the night he wipes it all away, buries it in the trash. If it’s Tuesday it must be Belgium. Or Wisconsin. Or Illinois. Lather. Rinse. Second verse. Chorus. Refrain.
Kris said he looked like hell this morning. Kris looked like the cover of GQ. Adam said he needed to get laid and Kris laughed. “So do I,” he said. Maybe that’s why he’s calling his wife every night?
There’s only one cure and Adam’s at it regularly so he has every reason to believe Kris is too. Kris is two doors down, probably at it right now between his too white sheets. Kris with the covers around his knees, his boxers around his hips, eyes closed, dick in hand.
That would be a performance worth seeing. Adam imagines himself with the best seats in the house. Hanging back, watching from the sidelines. Yeah, baby, just like that. Do it. And Kris does. Welcome to the show.
Damn. Fantasy about hot straight guys is dirty wrong fun. Fantasy about friends crosses a line. He shouldn’t. He rubs his forehead. Fuck it. He’s needs to jerk off now while the itch is driving him crazy. He can be a better person tomorrow.
He takes the fantasy where he wants: he’s in the room, one knee on the bed, crawling toward Kris, scaling his body. He catches Kris’s eye, lowers himself toward Kris’s midriff and it’s written on Kris’s face: want, need, fear.
Fuck. Zip down, dick in his hand, pumping into his fist, the mental image of his mouth around Kris’s dick burns the back of his eyes. The look on Kris’s face, the noise he makes how he tastes. God. Adam’s never done it in front of a mirror before and he can’t believe how dirty he looks. Dishevelled and desperate, jeans hanging around his thighs, belt dangling uselessly, cock exposed, red, full. He’s a showman, a performer, working the camera, the mirror, fucking himself for his audience, lips are parted, eyes glazed, his hand on his dick, frenzied and without rhythm and oh god, he’s coming over the sink.
He breathes out, collects himself, checks the mirror again and his eyes are black, smeared with kohl. His pupils are dilated and his breathing heavy. That’s a fucked face if he ever saw one. Too bad he’s the only one to see it.
They say you sleep better if you’re not sexually frustrated so a good wank before bedtime is probably good for the soul, or something. Still, he feels guilty. He needs a real fuck. Something solid.
He cleans the sink, wipes himself with Kleenex. Cleanser on the cotton swipe and once more under his eyes. He’s coming back now. Turning into himself. More human, Jewish boy in makeup, playing dress up like he’s 12 years old.
He has light blue eyes and fair skin. Normal. Safe. Someone he used to know. His hair falls into his eyes and he brushes it to one side. His jeans are undone. He’s still wearing boots. This tour is going on forever.
End.