Conditioned
Title: Conditioned
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Word count: 1800
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kris has an erotic history with Adam's hair.
Disclaimer: Pure imagination. No disrespect intended.
Conditioned
The text from Adam is a one-word tease: Cock . . . atoo! :)
Kris scans his empty hotel room for hovering handlers and TMZ cameras before clicking the accompanying links. The first is a professional photo, what Kris has learned to call an editorial shot. Under the caption “World’s Most Beautiful,” two exotics flaunt their plumage. The cockatoo’s crest is bright yellow, Adam’s glossy black tipped with blue.
The second link, a short video, shows Adam posing for the shoot. Smoldering in a dramatic Goth collar that frames his bare chest. Laughing in the gold-embroidered jacket and crown of a Disney prince. By now, the usual dopey smile is stretching Kris’s face.
“Favorite feature?” Adam muses on the audio track. “It would have to be my eyes. Or my hair.”
Kris’s palms tingle in a conditioned response. Returning to the picture, he imagines reaching out to touch the artful spikes, testing their texture. Stiff, probably, not soft the way they are when they fall casually over Adam’s forehead. But easier to grab, to pull and . . .
Can he really jerk off to a picture from People magazine? The curious tilt of the bird’s head makes him feel like a pervert. It’s been so long, though, so unfairly long, and yes, apparently he can.
--
Kris has an erotic history with Adam’s hair. It dates back to their roommate days and Adam’s innocent request for styling assistance. “If that’s too weird for you, I totally understand,” he’d hastened to assure Kris. “It’s just, I can never manage the whole pomp-and-circumstance thing by myself. I end up looking like a fucking troll doll. It’s a lot easier with an extra pair of hands.”
It wasn’t weird, just companionable and a little daring. Nonsexual, but not the sort of thing one guy usually did for another, unless they were sharing a lot more than living space. They did share a lot more, that quickly became obvious; but Kris, naturally averse to complications, refused to see his new best friend as one. In his own version of killing with kindness, he smothered all questions of propriety with acceptance. By the simple equation Adam = good, it all was: talking confidentially for hours, overlapping personal space, playing at domesticity in front of the bathroom mirror.
For his Disco Week performance, Adam decided--after much deliberation and consultation with Kris, who had little to offer besides an uncritical thumbs-up--to wear a sober dark suit and tie. “And I think I’m going to be at full mast tonight,” he announced at the breakfast table. “Kris, want to lend a hand?”
“I knew it,” Matt cackled. “Not sure America is ready for that, bro.”
Kris swallowed orange juice quickly to avoid a spit take at the sight of Danny, fork paused in midair, equally fearful of missing a joke and of possible gayness committed over blueberry waffles.
Adam took pity on Sunday school sensibilities. “My hair,” he explained, with a combing motion that even the thickest glasses-wearer couldn‘t mistake. “I’m going for a modified Elvis. Not that Kris isn’t Viagra in human form,” he added, being Adam.
“But primarily an expert fluffer. Of hair,” Kris put in, before cracking up. Laughter was essential, an outlet for his giddiness. It wasn’t infatuation, not yet; more of a perpetual two-drink buzz. But Kris already had an inkling of how it would end, if not where and when.
--
The place turned out to be Adam’s L.A. rental, the time two thirty-five a.m. Kris had hesitated on the doorstep until his guitar case started to get heavy, then gone ahead and used his just-in-case key instead of knocking. This wasn’t a visit. He intended to stay, if Adam would let him.
“Adam?” he called. No response. He ditched the case and his duffel bag in the entry hall and headed for the living room. Almost home--and lost. The experience of proposing marriage in a former life hadn’t prepared him for this, for asking-- offering--
He found Adam stretched out on the couch, asleep, his phone clasped to his chest. Kris had called from the airport to say he’d landed and wanted to come over. “Spend the night!” Adam had urged, with simple gladness and none of the questions that would’ve given Kris an opening.
Kris regretted not making that opening. I was hoping we could talk. It’s kind of important. Or, pathetic and direct, I’ve been stalking you on YouTube. You look happy. Does that mean you don’t need me? He should’ve written a song. Bought diamonds.
Maybe he would save the soul-baring. Go crash in the guest room without rousing Adam, who’d been complaining of insomnia since returning from London three days ago. Studying Adam’s peaceful face for signs of jetlag, he found only the beauty of bones that always did things to him, made him stop and stare like a stranger, made him ache with the poignancy of minor chords. Many months and miles ago, Adam’s cheeks had been rounder, and he and Kris had been inseparable.
Adam put an end to his indecision by blinking in slow motion. “Hey,” he said, drowsy, openly pleased to discover a scruffy intruder in his house. “I know you. Didn’t you win that big singing competition?”
As he stood, tall and loose-limbed, Kris prodded himself: Move, at least. But he remained rooted to his patch of carpet, waiting for Adam to finish his own concerned inventory. Beneath the creases of travel, Kris knew, he showed deeper creases of exhaustion and stress.
And then Adam’s arms were wrapping around him, gathering him close. “Yeah,” Kris said, muffled, into Adam's shoulder. His old faceplant spot. The body fitted to his was leaner than he remembered. “I beat some glam-rock guy.”
“Whatever happened to that guy, anyway?” They were swaying together in a comforting rhythm, and Adam was fluttering damp lashes against Kris’s neck. Adam, who rarely cried, except at sad songs and sappy movies.
“Don’t know,” Kris answered, voice thick. It was as easy, he realized, as not letting go. “He, like, disappeared into oblivion.”
Adam lifted his head, and there was all the time in the world for Kris to grasp what was next. Knees weakening, he clung as Adam whispered, “You should look him up. Do something nice for him.”
Kris had never felt a greater desire to give. Before long, he was burning with it. But Adam convinced him that it was better to receive, right there next to the carved teak coffee table, in the quietest part of the night. The familiar detail of Adam’s hair between his fingers proved it was real, that Adam’s mouth was taking him in, that Adam’s tongue was sliding and stroking along his length, that he was here to stay.
--
Adam’s hair = blowjob. The new equation costs Kris his concentration. More than once, it obliges him to tug down his shirt in public like a teenager. Even the lavender smell of Adam’s favorite gel sets him off, once he starts noticing it on his own hands afterwards. He has to stop using the tube Adam bought him (a romantic token, not a grooming hint--Adam is a realist). Being too love-drunk to pass a sobriety test is one thing. Getting hard from a whiff of his own hair is unacceptable.
--
“Help,” Adam calls from the bathroom, in the tone that signals a styling emergency.
Kris sinks to a not-budging angle against the headboard and cradles his new new best friend, his guitar. He doesn’t resent Adam for going out, but he resents the situation enough to ignore Hair 911. This is the worst of the celebrity crap, in his opinion--having to make appearances at awards shows and product launches and freaking tattoo parlor openings while your significant other waits at home, companionship-starved and horny, because record buyers can't handle the two of you together.
“Screw them all,” Kris mutters, throwing in a sulky little riff for emphasis.
Adam appears in the doorway, smoothed and swooped but only at half mast. “C’mon, lend me those talented fingers,” he cajoles. “You used to be a pro at this. It’ll come right back.”
Kris knows his lower lip is sticking out. He doesn’t care. “Yeah. And then it won’t go away.” Grudgingly, he lays down the guitar and slides off the bed.
“Aww, the pout.” Instead of herding him toward the bathroom, Adam bends to kiss him, a press of soft, unpainted lips. He puts on the gloss last, after they’ve said goodbye. “I really think you should,” he says, sincere as a life coach. His hands settle on Kris’s hips, and Kris catches on; this isn’t a promise for later, a taste to tide them over. Gracious in defeat, he reaches up to grab, just a little harder than their mouths meet the second time.
Adam loves to kneel, loves to nuzzle at Kris’s groin before sliding his jeans down his thighs. The ritual could pass for a friendly greeting, but Kris suspects adoration. It’s blatant in Adam’s upturned gaze, guileless blue belying the seduction of dark liner. Kris lets his hands have their way, undoing Adam’s careful work just to see how tousled and debauched he can look. The stickiness of pomade feels porn-dirty.
What they both love best is improvisation. The segue from making love to fucking, and back again, is their signature. Until Adam, Kris had never crossed that boundary--and he doesn't use the word fucking even now--but he’s naturally gifted. He leads with his hips, thrusting into the tight circle of Adam's lips, deep, as though trying to stifle the urgent noises in Adam’s throat. The visual, as much as the act, pushes him right to the edge.
Musician that he is, Kris follows the possibilities. “I want to, can I-- ?”
Adam moans and grips the base of Kris’s cock. His other hand speeds its rough strokes between his own legs, but his focus stays locked on Kris, on sucking him, serving him. Kris’s muscles tremble with the effort of containing the pressure that builds and builds.
Adam comes first. All Kris can really see is the heaving of his chest and the flush spreading over his skin, but it’s enough, it’s too much. “Adam, oh-- ” Close your eyes now, damn it, he wills desperately, because Adam’s pulling off but staring up with a heat that makes Kris’s cock swell to impossible hardness, a final warning. At the last possible second, Adam’s lashes fall obediently for the private editorial shot, Kris’s pleasure written across his face in spattered drops of come.
Breathless and licking his lips, Adam is still inclined to talk. “So, a night in sounds good,” he says conversationally. Those eyes are flirting now. At Kris’s weak nod, he continues, “We could both use a shower. Want to wash my hair?”
--End--
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Word count: 1800
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Kris has an erotic history with Adam's hair.
Disclaimer: Pure imagination. No disrespect intended.
Conditioned
The text from Adam is a one-word tease: Cock . . . atoo! :)
Kris scans his empty hotel room for hovering handlers and TMZ cameras before clicking the accompanying links. The first is a professional photo, what Kris has learned to call an editorial shot. Under the caption “World’s Most Beautiful,” two exotics flaunt their plumage. The cockatoo’s crest is bright yellow, Adam’s glossy black tipped with blue.
The second link, a short video, shows Adam posing for the shoot. Smoldering in a dramatic Goth collar that frames his bare chest. Laughing in the gold-embroidered jacket and crown of a Disney prince. By now, the usual dopey smile is stretching Kris’s face.
“Favorite feature?” Adam muses on the audio track. “It would have to be my eyes. Or my hair.”
Kris’s palms tingle in a conditioned response. Returning to the picture, he imagines reaching out to touch the artful spikes, testing their texture. Stiff, probably, not soft the way they are when they fall casually over Adam’s forehead. But easier to grab, to pull and . . .
Can he really jerk off to a picture from People magazine? The curious tilt of the bird’s head makes him feel like a pervert. It’s been so long, though, so unfairly long, and yes, apparently he can.
--
Kris has an erotic history with Adam’s hair. It dates back to their roommate days and Adam’s innocent request for styling assistance. “If that’s too weird for you, I totally understand,” he’d hastened to assure Kris. “It’s just, I can never manage the whole pomp-and-circumstance thing by myself. I end up looking like a fucking troll doll. It’s a lot easier with an extra pair of hands.”
It wasn’t weird, just companionable and a little daring. Nonsexual, but not the sort of thing one guy usually did for another, unless they were sharing a lot more than living space. They did share a lot more, that quickly became obvious; but Kris, naturally averse to complications, refused to see his new best friend as one. In his own version of killing with kindness, he smothered all questions of propriety with acceptance. By the simple equation Adam = good, it all was: talking confidentially for hours, overlapping personal space, playing at domesticity in front of the bathroom mirror.
For his Disco Week performance, Adam decided--after much deliberation and consultation with Kris, who had little to offer besides an uncritical thumbs-up--to wear a sober dark suit and tie. “And I think I’m going to be at full mast tonight,” he announced at the breakfast table. “Kris, want to lend a hand?”
“I knew it,” Matt cackled. “Not sure America is ready for that, bro.”
Kris swallowed orange juice quickly to avoid a spit take at the sight of Danny, fork paused in midair, equally fearful of missing a joke and of possible gayness committed over blueberry waffles.
Adam took pity on Sunday school sensibilities. “My hair,” he explained, with a combing motion that even the thickest glasses-wearer couldn‘t mistake. “I’m going for a modified Elvis. Not that Kris isn’t Viagra in human form,” he added, being Adam.
“But primarily an expert fluffer. Of hair,” Kris put in, before cracking up. Laughter was essential, an outlet for his giddiness. It wasn’t infatuation, not yet; more of a perpetual two-drink buzz. But Kris already had an inkling of how it would end, if not where and when.
--
The place turned out to be Adam’s L.A. rental, the time two thirty-five a.m. Kris had hesitated on the doorstep until his guitar case started to get heavy, then gone ahead and used his just-in-case key instead of knocking. This wasn’t a visit. He intended to stay, if Adam would let him.
“Adam?” he called. No response. He ditched the case and his duffel bag in the entry hall and headed for the living room. Almost home--and lost. The experience of proposing marriage in a former life hadn’t prepared him for this, for asking-- offering--
He found Adam stretched out on the couch, asleep, his phone clasped to his chest. Kris had called from the airport to say he’d landed and wanted to come over. “Spend the night!” Adam had urged, with simple gladness and none of the questions that would’ve given Kris an opening.
Kris regretted not making that opening. I was hoping we could talk. It’s kind of important. Or, pathetic and direct, I’ve been stalking you on YouTube. You look happy. Does that mean you don’t need me? He should’ve written a song. Bought diamonds.
Maybe he would save the soul-baring. Go crash in the guest room without rousing Adam, who’d been complaining of insomnia since returning from London three days ago. Studying Adam’s peaceful face for signs of jetlag, he found only the beauty of bones that always did things to him, made him stop and stare like a stranger, made him ache with the poignancy of minor chords. Many months and miles ago, Adam’s cheeks had been rounder, and he and Kris had been inseparable.
Adam put an end to his indecision by blinking in slow motion. “Hey,” he said, drowsy, openly pleased to discover a scruffy intruder in his house. “I know you. Didn’t you win that big singing competition?”
As he stood, tall and loose-limbed, Kris prodded himself: Move, at least. But he remained rooted to his patch of carpet, waiting for Adam to finish his own concerned inventory. Beneath the creases of travel, Kris knew, he showed deeper creases of exhaustion and stress.
And then Adam’s arms were wrapping around him, gathering him close. “Yeah,” Kris said, muffled, into Adam's shoulder. His old faceplant spot. The body fitted to his was leaner than he remembered. “I beat some glam-rock guy.”
“Whatever happened to that guy, anyway?” They were swaying together in a comforting rhythm, and Adam was fluttering damp lashes against Kris’s neck. Adam, who rarely cried, except at sad songs and sappy movies.
“Don’t know,” Kris answered, voice thick. It was as easy, he realized, as not letting go. “He, like, disappeared into oblivion.”
Adam lifted his head, and there was all the time in the world for Kris to grasp what was next. Knees weakening, he clung as Adam whispered, “You should look him up. Do something nice for him.”
Kris had never felt a greater desire to give. Before long, he was burning with it. But Adam convinced him that it was better to receive, right there next to the carved teak coffee table, in the quietest part of the night. The familiar detail of Adam’s hair between his fingers proved it was real, that Adam’s mouth was taking him in, that Adam’s tongue was sliding and stroking along his length, that he was here to stay.
--
Adam’s hair = blowjob. The new equation costs Kris his concentration. More than once, it obliges him to tug down his shirt in public like a teenager. Even the lavender smell of Adam’s favorite gel sets him off, once he starts noticing it on his own hands afterwards. He has to stop using the tube Adam bought him (a romantic token, not a grooming hint--Adam is a realist). Being too love-drunk to pass a sobriety test is one thing. Getting hard from a whiff of his own hair is unacceptable.
--
“Help,” Adam calls from the bathroom, in the tone that signals a styling emergency.
Kris sinks to a not-budging angle against the headboard and cradles his new new best friend, his guitar. He doesn’t resent Adam for going out, but he resents the situation enough to ignore Hair 911. This is the worst of the celebrity crap, in his opinion--having to make appearances at awards shows and product launches and freaking tattoo parlor openings while your significant other waits at home, companionship-starved and horny, because record buyers can't handle the two of you together.
“Screw them all,” Kris mutters, throwing in a sulky little riff for emphasis.
Adam appears in the doorway, smoothed and swooped but only at half mast. “C’mon, lend me those talented fingers,” he cajoles. “You used to be a pro at this. It’ll come right back.”
Kris knows his lower lip is sticking out. He doesn’t care. “Yeah. And then it won’t go away.” Grudgingly, he lays down the guitar and slides off the bed.
“Aww, the pout.” Instead of herding him toward the bathroom, Adam bends to kiss him, a press of soft, unpainted lips. He puts on the gloss last, after they’ve said goodbye. “I really think you should,” he says, sincere as a life coach. His hands settle on Kris’s hips, and Kris catches on; this isn’t a promise for later, a taste to tide them over. Gracious in defeat, he reaches up to grab, just a little harder than their mouths meet the second time.
Adam loves to kneel, loves to nuzzle at Kris’s groin before sliding his jeans down his thighs. The ritual could pass for a friendly greeting, but Kris suspects adoration. It’s blatant in Adam’s upturned gaze, guileless blue belying the seduction of dark liner. Kris lets his hands have their way, undoing Adam’s careful work just to see how tousled and debauched he can look. The stickiness of pomade feels porn-dirty.
What they both love best is improvisation. The segue from making love to fucking, and back again, is their signature. Until Adam, Kris had never crossed that boundary--and he doesn't use the word fucking even now--but he’s naturally gifted. He leads with his hips, thrusting into the tight circle of Adam's lips, deep, as though trying to stifle the urgent noises in Adam’s throat. The visual, as much as the act, pushes him right to the edge.
Musician that he is, Kris follows the possibilities. “I want to, can I-- ?”
Adam moans and grips the base of Kris’s cock. His other hand speeds its rough strokes between his own legs, but his focus stays locked on Kris, on sucking him, serving him. Kris’s muscles tremble with the effort of containing the pressure that builds and builds.
Adam comes first. All Kris can really see is the heaving of his chest and the flush spreading over his skin, but it’s enough, it’s too much. “Adam, oh-- ” Close your eyes now, damn it, he wills desperately, because Adam’s pulling off but staring up with a heat that makes Kris’s cock swell to impossible hardness, a final warning. At the last possible second, Adam’s lashes fall obediently for the private editorial shot, Kris’s pleasure written across his face in spattered drops of come.
Breathless and licking his lips, Adam is still inclined to talk. “So, a night in sounds good,” he says conversationally. Those eyes are flirting now. At Kris’s weak nod, he continues, “We could both use a shower. Want to wash my hair?”
--End--