(no subject)
so i posted this over at idolslash, and they told me to come over here with it, cos y'all might like it. i hope you do :) my first stab at slash.
Want
By: l3petitemort
Rating: NC-17 - sexuality, language
Word count: lots. ha.
Pairing: Kradam
Disclaimer: these boys are NOT mine, and this totally didn't happen.
Summary: Kris hasn't been able to sleep since Adam became his roommate. He discovers he isn't the only one with this problem.
Want does not compute. Not for me. I don't know want, because I can't know want, because want is what gets little boys like me beaten by their daddies. Want makes your mama cry and your pretty blond wife cut her wrists in the bathtub. Want brings the pastor who married you straight to your door, Good Book in hand, filled to straining with righteous rage and out for blood, out for your soul.
But here it is. Want is under the pillow when my head hits it, whispering shit into my ear so that I can't sleep, no matter how exhausted I am, because I have to smother it with my own flesh, pressing hard into the mattress, trying to kill it, trying to make it shut up.
Want grips me in the shower, familiar as my own hand, and I have to turn the water cold and hard to drown it, and I walk out into the bedroom, lips blue, jeans buttoned, and he looks at me, eyebrows knit, one raised in a question mark, and I tell him, "It wakes me up." Then I smile, sideways, and it feels tortured, but it looks real. This happens every morning. Sometimes, I really think he believes me. I am good at being believable.
Mostly, I am good at being believable. Mostly. Sometimes, I think he knows.
I'm always awake, chewing on my lips, willing the night to end so I can wash it off and get back to the business of being too busy to think: rehearsal, photo shoot, video shoot, studio, lather, rinse, repeat. He doesn't sleep well, either. His body turns one way, then the other. His sheets tangle. He pulls them out from under his arms or tucks them between his legs. The darkness in the room is thin. I can see too much if I open my eyes. Sometimes, I do anyway. Sometimes, he sighs, like he's as frustrated as I am.
I lay still, keeping my breathing as even as I can. I want to talk to him, to have some company in these long hours. Want. Sometimes, I think there is no harm in a conversation. Sometimes, I think You talk to him every damn day. What's the difference? Then I remember: the difference is the safety of daylight, of other people, of cameras. I think of how much easier it is to be noble when there are other eyes. So I never say a word.
But he does. Tonight, he says a word. Three, actually. Three words, and the spring in my belly coils tight.
"Kris, you awake?"
It's 1:25am. My clock radio is blinking at me from the nightstand. I am curled up in the fetal position, working my lower lip between my teeth, fully dressed in sweats, boxers, a long-sleeved t-shirt - like armor. My palms start to sweat, like a reflex, at the sound of his voice, quiet, in the dark. No backdrop: no street noise, no microphone feedback, no silverware clinking, no laughter, no lamplight. Just his voice bare in the silence, in the gray. It sounds like he is up against the tunnel of my ear, and I flinch. My teeth start to ache, inexplicably.
I don't know what to do. Like so many times in my life, I am struck dumb and impotent. I am about to switch on auto-pilot, squeeze my eyes shut, and force myself back to Arkansas, the farthest place, at least metaphorically, from this half-naked L.A. boy whispering my name in the dark. I am about to do it, but I don't. I don't have time. He does it again.
"Kris?"
Just my name, this time. I realize I've stopped breathing. I realize he knows that I'm awake. My lungs are about to explode, so I shove my face into the pillow and let out all of my air in a sigh. I take another breath. I make my mouth into an O and blow out, searching for my voice. It's somewhere in my chest, full of tension and gravel, and it sounds like it's coming through a grater in my throat.
"Yeah, man. I'm awake."
I swear to God I can hear him smile, can hear it slip over his face like something silky. I can hear the muscles in his mouth move. "You all right?" he asks.
I want to answer, "No," and go from there. Want. This feels more dangerous than it should. I am all grown up now, with a wife and a house and years upon years of calculated self-control. I have practiced it so often, so intently, that it looks real. Natural. And this is a conversation. These are words. He is in his bed, and I am in mine.
It's now 1:27am. I am so fucking hard, I think I'll pass out. But I don't. I will it to go away. But it won't. I cough, take a strangled breath, cough again. "Yeah, dude. Sorry. Voice is a little rough tonight."
"Yeah, I hear you. They really worked us over today. I should be exhausted, but I can't sleep."
My cock distracts me with its insistence. I think it's stolen all the fucking blood from my head, and the words are out of my mouth before I ever really think them. "You never sleep. You toss and turn all night, Lambert."
He laughs. That ridiculous laugh, like there's so much happy in his throat that he has to open up and let it out, and I feel like I've been punched right in the gut. Something in my jaw unlocks for a second, and I gasp. I'm not sure if I'm gasping at my confession, at his laugh, or at the feel of my forearm accidentally brushing my erection. This is the want I was talking about. I pull my arm away.
"You watching me sleep again, Allen? Or, I guess, watching me not sleep?" He's teasing me. My stomach is a knot. The spring coils tighter. I force a laugh of my own, but it sounds like a crash, like something falling off a shelf and breaking.
" 'S ok," he says. I can hear that smile again. I want so badly to turn over, to look at his face, but I am afraid of what will happen if I do. I am paralyzed. "Sometimes I watch you, too, speaking of never sleeping. You might sleep even less than I do."
"Maybe," I croak. My tongue is pushing against the back of my teeth so hard it's threatening to bleed.
"You sure you're all right?" He is genuinely concerned for me now. I am thinking, fuck. Fuck. FUCK. My mind is not very Christian tonight. Not very Christian at all. My heart is pounding its fists on my rib cage, screaming. I wonder if he can hear it.
"Yeah, man," I say again. "Sorry." My voice is as thin as the darkness between us. I feel my pulse in my dick. And then I hear his bed squeak. He's getting up. What the fuck is he doing? All of my muscles seize. I can feel a single bead of sweat drip between my shoulder blades.
And then he is sitting on the edge of my bed, and I am wound up tighter than his fucking pants, and I am willing him both to touch me and to not, and my heart is howling for mercy, and my lungs are howling for mercy, and my brain is howling for mercy, and my fucking cock is howling for mercy, and I can't stop saying fuck because this is what I do when I'm anxious, and I am so far beyond anxious that I've lapped it, and I feel like the entire room is on fire, and when he touches my forehead looking for a fever, I know he's going to find one.
And he does. His cool hand is on the bare skin of my face, and I can't figure out what to do to keep from cumming, or dying, or both. Before I can do either, his palm comes away slick. "Jesus, Kris," he says. He touches my right cheek, first with the palm again, then the back. Like my mother. My guts are an inferno.
He slides the blanket out from under himself and peels it away, along with the sheet. "You're sweating to death," he says, lifting the hem of my t-shirt, lightly, worried. I can feel it sticking to my back. When he pulls it away from my skin, the slight cooling makes the hair on my neck stand up.
Then, like a reflex, my right hand reaches back and closes on his forearm. It is now that I know there is no turning back. The clock blinks at me. 1:30am. Five minutes. Five fucking minutes.
I flip over onto my back. His face is pale in the gray between us. There's a smudge of eyeliner at the outside corner of his left eye, the same color as the dark. His forehead is lined with confusion, worry. But he isn't clumsy, stupid, tortured like me. He has been here before, in the dark, in another man's bed, feeling the air get thick and close. He figures out soon enough from the look in my eyes, which is probably a cross between a wild animal and a terrified child, what my problem is.
My callused fingers grip him tight, and I think for a moment how absurd this is, like holding an anchor to keep from drowning. But he's seen it now. Seen me. The only one who knows, so I hold onto him and watch the understanding transform his worry into want.
"It's okay," he whispers. His voice has gone hoarse. His eyes are hooded. "Really."
I can't move. My fingers dig into his arm. My other hand clutches the side of my pants; I can feel it clawing my thigh. His eyes drop to my waist, then below. For a second, there is just breath between us, just night and air and a lifetime of unsatiated want, and then his voice cuts it in half, cuts my burning brain in half when he says, "Do you want me to kiss you?"
I say nothing, but I lick my lips at the suggestion, and that's enough. His mouth is on mine before I can take a breath, and I suck at his lips, his tongue; I bite down until I taste metal in my throat; I can't stop. He doesn't care. One of his hands is holding the neck of my t-shirt; the other is buried in my hair.
I feel like he has flipped a switch somewhere in my body. The spring in my stomach has uncoiled; my hands have uncurled, and they can't stay still. His face, his throat, his bare shoulders, his back. I am reaching for his hips, clawing ferociously at them, trying to get my hands under the elastic waistband of his pants. I have no idea what I'm doing, I just want I want I want I want I want.
He grabs my left hand away, gentle but firm, and brings it to his mouth, which he has had to tear away from mine. I can feel my lower lip, swollen and bruised. Carefully, he slides each finger between his lips, down to the hilt of my palm. When he gets to my ring finger, his teeth reach below my wedding band. I know what he's doing. He slides his tongue, working the moisture around it, and it slides off easily. I hear it clink in his mouth. He pushes it out onto the bed with his tongue, and it disappears into the darkness, into the sheets, into irrelevancy. I am shocked at my own smile. I am shocked that I feel 20lbs lighter.
I am shocked when he grabs my erection through my pants, and I rise to meet his hand, which is now sliding me out of them, as effortless as every move he makes. His mouth is at my throat now, licking my Adam's apple, nibbling the bones of my neck. I'm fucking panting - PANTING - as he pulls my boxers off after them.
My cock springs free; I feel it against his thigh, hot through his pants. In one swift motion, he drops his own, and we are skin on skin, he naked, me in my stupid t-shirt, and I feel him hard against me. My head drops back; I'm moaning now, unintelligible, not fighting it, just lost. Lost. I don't know how he gets my shirt off, but I feel it slip over my head, and we are naked.
We are naked. His skin is taut, soft, slick with sweat - his? mine? ours? - and his hard-on is pressing into the space between my hipbone and my stomach, and I think I'm going to cum about twenty times, but I don't.
I don't cum until I feel him wrap his hand around my cock and slide down my body. I don't cum until I feel his tongue on the head, circling it like a fucking ice cream cone, licking the whole length like it's the most fantastic cock he's ever sucked. Maybe it is. I don't know. I don't know anything, but when his lips come back to the head, I push past them, and he opens for me all the way.
I slide against his tongue, over his teeth, then back again, my face to the ceiling, mouth open wide, gasping and moaning and not even caring anymore that the walls are as thin as cardboard, that there are other people living here, that somewhere under my sweaty body my wedding ring is lost, that I believe in Heaven and in Hell, that this is what I have been fighting my entire fucking life, and for what? For what?
And I don't know about Heaven anymore, or Hell, but I see God. I see God as my back arches up, my toes curl under, every muscle in my body clenches, and I cum so hard I feel the bedsheets tear in my fists as I spill everything into his mouth. He swallows it. All of it.
He slinks up my body, and I feel him, still rock-hard against my thigh. I reach for his cock, close it in my fist, and squeeze as I run my hand up and down, up and down, thinking I know how to do this. I know. I know. I want him to cum. Oh please God. I'm praying. Old habits die hard, I suppose. Please God. I am praying.
Pre-cum makes it slipperier, easier. I pump faster. His hips move in rhythm, and I feel him tighten. Every hair on my body stands up. He pauses. He growls. Fuck, he growls, and I feel him spasm in my hand, spilling it against my thigh, my hip, my belly. It ends him. He can do nothing but fall against me.
My head falls back. The clock blinks at me. I reach for it, shoving it to the ground.
"It's all right," he says. And for the first time in a long time, it is. For the first time in a long time, sleep is there to catch me. I have no idea what happens from here, but for a minute, I am blessed with not caring.
Want
By: l3petitemort
Rating: NC-17 - sexuality, language
Word count: lots. ha.
Pairing: Kradam
Disclaimer: these boys are NOT mine, and this totally didn't happen.
Summary: Kris hasn't been able to sleep since Adam became his roommate. He discovers he isn't the only one with this problem.
Want does not compute. Not for me. I don't know want, because I can't know want, because want is what gets little boys like me beaten by their daddies. Want makes your mama cry and your pretty blond wife cut her wrists in the bathtub. Want brings the pastor who married you straight to your door, Good Book in hand, filled to straining with righteous rage and out for blood, out for your soul.
But here it is. Want is under the pillow when my head hits it, whispering shit into my ear so that I can't sleep, no matter how exhausted I am, because I have to smother it with my own flesh, pressing hard into the mattress, trying to kill it, trying to make it shut up.
Want grips me in the shower, familiar as my own hand, and I have to turn the water cold and hard to drown it, and I walk out into the bedroom, lips blue, jeans buttoned, and he looks at me, eyebrows knit, one raised in a question mark, and I tell him, "It wakes me up." Then I smile, sideways, and it feels tortured, but it looks real. This happens every morning. Sometimes, I really think he believes me. I am good at being believable.
Mostly, I am good at being believable. Mostly. Sometimes, I think he knows.
I'm always awake, chewing on my lips, willing the night to end so I can wash it off and get back to the business of being too busy to think: rehearsal, photo shoot, video shoot, studio, lather, rinse, repeat. He doesn't sleep well, either. His body turns one way, then the other. His sheets tangle. He pulls them out from under his arms or tucks them between his legs. The darkness in the room is thin. I can see too much if I open my eyes. Sometimes, I do anyway. Sometimes, he sighs, like he's as frustrated as I am.
I lay still, keeping my breathing as even as I can. I want to talk to him, to have some company in these long hours. Want. Sometimes, I think there is no harm in a conversation. Sometimes, I think You talk to him every damn day. What's the difference? Then I remember: the difference is the safety of daylight, of other people, of cameras. I think of how much easier it is to be noble when there are other eyes. So I never say a word.
But he does. Tonight, he says a word. Three, actually. Three words, and the spring in my belly coils tight.
"Kris, you awake?"
It's 1:25am. My clock radio is blinking at me from the nightstand. I am curled up in the fetal position, working my lower lip between my teeth, fully dressed in sweats, boxers, a long-sleeved t-shirt - like armor. My palms start to sweat, like a reflex, at the sound of his voice, quiet, in the dark. No backdrop: no street noise, no microphone feedback, no silverware clinking, no laughter, no lamplight. Just his voice bare in the silence, in the gray. It sounds like he is up against the tunnel of my ear, and I flinch. My teeth start to ache, inexplicably.
I don't know what to do. Like so many times in my life, I am struck dumb and impotent. I am about to switch on auto-pilot, squeeze my eyes shut, and force myself back to Arkansas, the farthest place, at least metaphorically, from this half-naked L.A. boy whispering my name in the dark. I am about to do it, but I don't. I don't have time. He does it again.
"Kris?"
Just my name, this time. I realize I've stopped breathing. I realize he knows that I'm awake. My lungs are about to explode, so I shove my face into the pillow and let out all of my air in a sigh. I take another breath. I make my mouth into an O and blow out, searching for my voice. It's somewhere in my chest, full of tension and gravel, and it sounds like it's coming through a grater in my throat.
"Yeah, man. I'm awake."
I swear to God I can hear him smile, can hear it slip over his face like something silky. I can hear the muscles in his mouth move. "You all right?" he asks.
I want to answer, "No," and go from there. Want. This feels more dangerous than it should. I am all grown up now, with a wife and a house and years upon years of calculated self-control. I have practiced it so often, so intently, that it looks real. Natural. And this is a conversation. These are words. He is in his bed, and I am in mine.
It's now 1:27am. I am so fucking hard, I think I'll pass out. But I don't. I will it to go away. But it won't. I cough, take a strangled breath, cough again. "Yeah, dude. Sorry. Voice is a little rough tonight."
"Yeah, I hear you. They really worked us over today. I should be exhausted, but I can't sleep."
My cock distracts me with its insistence. I think it's stolen all the fucking blood from my head, and the words are out of my mouth before I ever really think them. "You never sleep. You toss and turn all night, Lambert."
He laughs. That ridiculous laugh, like there's so much happy in his throat that he has to open up and let it out, and I feel like I've been punched right in the gut. Something in my jaw unlocks for a second, and I gasp. I'm not sure if I'm gasping at my confession, at his laugh, or at the feel of my forearm accidentally brushing my erection. This is the want I was talking about. I pull my arm away.
"You watching me sleep again, Allen? Or, I guess, watching me not sleep?" He's teasing me. My stomach is a knot. The spring coils tighter. I force a laugh of my own, but it sounds like a crash, like something falling off a shelf and breaking.
" 'S ok," he says. I can hear that smile again. I want so badly to turn over, to look at his face, but I am afraid of what will happen if I do. I am paralyzed. "Sometimes I watch you, too, speaking of never sleeping. You might sleep even less than I do."
"Maybe," I croak. My tongue is pushing against the back of my teeth so hard it's threatening to bleed.
"You sure you're all right?" He is genuinely concerned for me now. I am thinking, fuck. Fuck. FUCK. My mind is not very Christian tonight. Not very Christian at all. My heart is pounding its fists on my rib cage, screaming. I wonder if he can hear it.
"Yeah, man," I say again. "Sorry." My voice is as thin as the darkness between us. I feel my pulse in my dick. And then I hear his bed squeak. He's getting up. What the fuck is he doing? All of my muscles seize. I can feel a single bead of sweat drip between my shoulder blades.
And then he is sitting on the edge of my bed, and I am wound up tighter than his fucking pants, and I am willing him both to touch me and to not, and my heart is howling for mercy, and my lungs are howling for mercy, and my brain is howling for mercy, and my fucking cock is howling for mercy, and I can't stop saying fuck because this is what I do when I'm anxious, and I am so far beyond anxious that I've lapped it, and I feel like the entire room is on fire, and when he touches my forehead looking for a fever, I know he's going to find one.
And he does. His cool hand is on the bare skin of my face, and I can't figure out what to do to keep from cumming, or dying, or both. Before I can do either, his palm comes away slick. "Jesus, Kris," he says. He touches my right cheek, first with the palm again, then the back. Like my mother. My guts are an inferno.
He slides the blanket out from under himself and peels it away, along with the sheet. "You're sweating to death," he says, lifting the hem of my t-shirt, lightly, worried. I can feel it sticking to my back. When he pulls it away from my skin, the slight cooling makes the hair on my neck stand up.
Then, like a reflex, my right hand reaches back and closes on his forearm. It is now that I know there is no turning back. The clock blinks at me. 1:30am. Five minutes. Five fucking minutes.
I flip over onto my back. His face is pale in the gray between us. There's a smudge of eyeliner at the outside corner of his left eye, the same color as the dark. His forehead is lined with confusion, worry. But he isn't clumsy, stupid, tortured like me. He has been here before, in the dark, in another man's bed, feeling the air get thick and close. He figures out soon enough from the look in my eyes, which is probably a cross between a wild animal and a terrified child, what my problem is.
My callused fingers grip him tight, and I think for a moment how absurd this is, like holding an anchor to keep from drowning. But he's seen it now. Seen me. The only one who knows, so I hold onto him and watch the understanding transform his worry into want.
"It's okay," he whispers. His voice has gone hoarse. His eyes are hooded. "Really."
I can't move. My fingers dig into his arm. My other hand clutches the side of my pants; I can feel it clawing my thigh. His eyes drop to my waist, then below. For a second, there is just breath between us, just night and air and a lifetime of unsatiated want, and then his voice cuts it in half, cuts my burning brain in half when he says, "Do you want me to kiss you?"
I say nothing, but I lick my lips at the suggestion, and that's enough. His mouth is on mine before I can take a breath, and I suck at his lips, his tongue; I bite down until I taste metal in my throat; I can't stop. He doesn't care. One of his hands is holding the neck of my t-shirt; the other is buried in my hair.
I feel like he has flipped a switch somewhere in my body. The spring in my stomach has uncoiled; my hands have uncurled, and they can't stay still. His face, his throat, his bare shoulders, his back. I am reaching for his hips, clawing ferociously at them, trying to get my hands under the elastic waistband of his pants. I have no idea what I'm doing, I just want I want I want I want I want.
He grabs my left hand away, gentle but firm, and brings it to his mouth, which he has had to tear away from mine. I can feel my lower lip, swollen and bruised. Carefully, he slides each finger between his lips, down to the hilt of my palm. When he gets to my ring finger, his teeth reach below my wedding band. I know what he's doing. He slides his tongue, working the moisture around it, and it slides off easily. I hear it clink in his mouth. He pushes it out onto the bed with his tongue, and it disappears into the darkness, into the sheets, into irrelevancy. I am shocked at my own smile. I am shocked that I feel 20lbs lighter.
I am shocked when he grabs my erection through my pants, and I rise to meet his hand, which is now sliding me out of them, as effortless as every move he makes. His mouth is at my throat now, licking my Adam's apple, nibbling the bones of my neck. I'm fucking panting - PANTING - as he pulls my boxers off after them.
My cock springs free; I feel it against his thigh, hot through his pants. In one swift motion, he drops his own, and we are skin on skin, he naked, me in my stupid t-shirt, and I feel him hard against me. My head drops back; I'm moaning now, unintelligible, not fighting it, just lost. Lost. I don't know how he gets my shirt off, but I feel it slip over my head, and we are naked.
We are naked. His skin is taut, soft, slick with sweat - his? mine? ours? - and his hard-on is pressing into the space between my hipbone and my stomach, and I think I'm going to cum about twenty times, but I don't.
I don't cum until I feel him wrap his hand around my cock and slide down my body. I don't cum until I feel his tongue on the head, circling it like a fucking ice cream cone, licking the whole length like it's the most fantastic cock he's ever sucked. Maybe it is. I don't know. I don't know anything, but when his lips come back to the head, I push past them, and he opens for me all the way.
I slide against his tongue, over his teeth, then back again, my face to the ceiling, mouth open wide, gasping and moaning and not even caring anymore that the walls are as thin as cardboard, that there are other people living here, that somewhere under my sweaty body my wedding ring is lost, that I believe in Heaven and in Hell, that this is what I have been fighting my entire fucking life, and for what? For what?
And I don't know about Heaven anymore, or Hell, but I see God. I see God as my back arches up, my toes curl under, every muscle in my body clenches, and I cum so hard I feel the bedsheets tear in my fists as I spill everything into his mouth. He swallows it. All of it.
He slinks up my body, and I feel him, still rock-hard against my thigh. I reach for his cock, close it in my fist, and squeeze as I run my hand up and down, up and down, thinking I know how to do this. I know. I know. I want him to cum. Oh please God. I'm praying. Old habits die hard, I suppose. Please God. I am praying.
Pre-cum makes it slipperier, easier. I pump faster. His hips move in rhythm, and I feel him tighten. Every hair on my body stands up. He pauses. He growls. Fuck, he growls, and I feel him spasm in my hand, spilling it against my thigh, my hip, my belly. It ends him. He can do nothing but fall against me.
My head falls back. The clock blinks at me. I reach for it, shoving it to the ground.
"It's all right," he says. And for the first time in a long time, it is. For the first time in a long time, sleep is there to catch me. I have no idea what happens from here, but for a minute, I am blessed with not caring.