yay, showersex
Well, since you were all so nice to me about my last attempt at this, I figured I'd try again. I'm on a roll lately, haha... I didn't really go back and edit much yet, so this probably needs some polish. In any case.... yeah. Here ya go!
Title: Untitled, as of yet
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: a very stern NC-17, for sex and language
Word Count: probably too many ;)
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: Not my boys, unfortunately. This never, ever happened.
Summary: Kris and Katy are at it again, and Adam is having trouble handling his feelings re: angry!Kris.
Kris is on the phone when I come through our bedroom door. It's late; I'm exhausted, and I fucking hate when he's on the phone, because it's always with her, and it always leaves him pissy and dark. She winds him up so tight that you can bounce a quarter off his lips when he's done. I look at him, and his eyes are steel. I hate the hardness she puts there. He jerks his chin at me in some approximation of hello, and I decide it's best to let him seethe at her in privacy.
I don't ask what the problem is. I don't eavesdrop. I never do, though this happens at least three times a week. I promptly disappear through the bathroom door, quiet, and turn the water on, drowning out his low, terse voice and the angry set of his jaw that looks so unnatural, so wrong on his little-boy face.
I'm midway through brushing my teeth when I hear a dull thud come from the bedroom. The unlocked bathroom door slams open wildly and bounces off the stopper. Kris stalks into the threshold, looking larger than he is, shoulders seeming broader. His eyebrows almost touch in the center of his forehead. The door swings toward him again, shuddering with the force of his entrance, and he swats it aside and stands in the doorway. I pause, clenching my toothbrush between my teeth. I spit into the sink, wipe my wrist across my mouth.
Before I can say anything, Kris storms up to his sink, swinging his open fist at its contents and flinging them to the floor. Shaving cream, razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, aftershave. One, two, three, four, five. They bounce and skid across the tile. His toothbrush narrowly misses my ass. The can of shaving cream comes apart, its top sliding into the back corner next to the trash can.
"Whoah," I say, as mildly as I can. "This is new. " She must've really flipped on her bitch switch tonight, I think.
"Fuck you," he shoots back, low and hard. I keep the Right now? to myself this time. His eyes are black. I've never seen him like this. He's totally wired, totally fucking keyed up, and I don't think I'm going to laugh him down this time. I study him quietly, debating, trying to keep my face neutral.
"FUCK YOU!" This time, it's practically a roar. He reaches down for the toothpaste, which slid back near his foot, and pitches it against the rear wall.
I'm calm, but something catches in my chest, like a sob that isn't really a sob, or like a cough that doesn't materialize. His body is literally trembling with fury. I notice that he's bouncing up on his toes slightly, like he doesn't know where to put what he's feeling, like he's a kid. My heart feels oddly like it's itching. My pulse is responding, quickening, heading south, and I don't like it at all.
I narrow my eyes a little, try to breathe steadily. "What the hell, Kris?" I say, not challenging, just honest.
His chest is rising and falling roughly. He's flushed. I stand there, barefoot in my pajama bottoms, my toothbrush lying askance in the sink, feeling sort of like an idiot. I am not often rendered speechless.
He loses it again. "Fucking bitch!" he spits, slamming the heel of his foot into the side of the bathtub once, twice. Abruptly, he turns and stalks back out, crashing the door shut in his wake. I don't know whether to go after him or not. I decide against it. There is something in his energy I don't trust. I think it has more to do with my completely inappropriate response to him, really, but whatever it is feels vaguely dangerous.
I strip down and turn on the shower. I get in when it's still slightly cool. I let it run over my face and my chest, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to shake it off.
Through the door, I hear them start up again. She must've called back. He's shouting now. Shouting. I can't understand what he's saying, but even here, under the water, through the closed bathroom door, I can hear the venom in his voice. They fight constantly, but never this viciously, never to the point where he gets batshit and starts throwing things. His aggression is strange; it doesn't fit him correctly. It creeps around the angles of his face like bad lighting. It makes him look sharp, large, almost menacing.
I keep my eyes shut and try to concentrate on the sound of the water. My heart is stuttering nervously, and I make the shower hotter trying to soothe it. I start to wash, deliberately avoiding anything below my waist, at least until I get this shit under control. It's not working as well as I would like. I'm letting the spray hit my shoulders, which are unusually tense, when I hear the fucking door bang open again. My eyes fly open in surprise, and I stop dead.
I'm thinking he might throw some more crap around the bathroom and leave, but it's eerily silent for a minute. I'm standing stock still, my heartbeat seeming to knock randomly around my chest, waiting. I realize I'm holding my breath and I let it out. It's difficult; it comes out shaky and weak. I look lamely toward the curtain, but I can't see through it.
Suddenly, it rips back, and I'm standing there dripping wet, naked, trying to put out some bizarre masochistic fire in my dick, staring Kris fucking Allen in the face. Right. In. The. Face.
And his face is sour. Hard. His eyes are a thousand shades of pissed, and it looks like there's a fire roaring in his head. He's holding his cell phone in his other hand, and as he's pulling the curtain all the way open, he flings it against the back wall. I hear it crack. He just stands there and stares for a minute. I'm simultaneously struck dumb and panicked, and in this, I'm distracted from keeping my fucking cock under control, and I realize it's getting stiff.
"Jesus Christ, Kris," I finally manage, and grab the shower curtain liner and pull it across my hips. "Get me a fucking towel, would you?"
He doesn't move. His mouth is working, like he's trying to say something but can't get his lips around it. My brain is haywire, watching him struggle for words, feeling myself harden against the plastic, seeing the water start to spray haphazardly. His hair is getting wet; his eyelashes have tiny beads of moisture in them. He blinks at them. I'm surprised steam doesn't rise. I'm about to short-circuit.
"She thinks I want to fuck you," he finally says. He swallows hard. Something around his jawline softens, almost imperceptibly. His eyes are still blazing, vaguely alarming. "She thinks I want to fuck you." He laughs, but it's not laid-back; it's not gentle; it's not genuine. It sounds, actually, like he's laughing with an axe buried in his chest.
I look closer, and what's in his eyes, what's in his whole demeanor, looks more like a dare than anything else. In my head, I think This fucking asshole wants me. This fucking kid is daring me to fuck him. I shake my head. I'm trying to convince myself not to take it. Trying really fucking hard, actually. But he persists. He steps closer. He's at the edge of the tub now, his bare toes up against it. His white t-shirt is getting soaked. The water is still running everywhere; I don't know why I don't think to shut it off.
I can't help myself. My mouth cocks sideways, half-smiling "Do you?" I ask. It's something I'd probably say to him a thousand times if he said that to me first, smiling, playing with him. But I'm not playing. Not exactly, anyway. He's not either. His eyes are practically slits now.
"You're the fucking expert, aren't you? What do you think?" He yanks at the waistband of his sweats, pulls them down in the front, and suddenly I'm staring at his cock, which is practically straight up against his stomach.
Our eyes meet, and we're just standing there. My hands clench the curtain. My stomach muscles spasm. His face is still smoldering, still dark, all wet. I should be cold, but I'm not.
"I think she's right. That's what I think." My voice is low, barely audible. I'm not sure if he can hear it over the roar of the water.
He lets go of the elastic, and it snaps back against his body. He steps against his leg with the opposite foot, sliding the material over his hips, until it puddles at his feet. With more grace than I've ever seen him exhibit, he's over the side of the tub and I'm flat against the shower wall, the curtain pulled from my hand and dangling from errant hooks ripped away from the rod.
He pushes my hips sideways, and I can feel the whole of him pressing against my back as my face hits the cool tile. I lean into it, bracing myself, my heart up somewhere in my throat, pounding like a hammer. His mouth is against the side of my neck, just below my ear. I feel his teeth grip my earlobe hard. It hurts, and I like it so much my hips buck involuntarily.
"This way?" he asks. "Hmm?" he says. His voice is rough, but suddenly not unkind. He's asking me if I want to be fucking manhandled, and oh fuck yes. I do, and that's what I say, yes, oh fuck. His teeth are in my shoulder now, and his cock is pressing against my ass, and my cock is pressing against my own hand, my knuckles scraping along the wall. I close my hand around it, but he reaches down and pulls it away, shoving it against the tile next to my forehead. My palm splays, then my hand claws shut. I'm trying to stay still. I'm trying to let him. I'm trying, but oh fuck me it's so hard. I exhale against the wall. Water drips down my face.
I can feel his forehead between my shoulders, at the base of my neck. His cock is slippery, with water and pre-cum, up against my thigh. I reach behind me and press him against me harder. When he speaks, his voice enters my body through my spine. I feel it spread to every nerve I have, setting them all ablaze, making them all scream and howl and swear.
"Do you want me to fuck you?"
I can't catch my breath. I can't do anything except nod, gasp, nod, gasp, nod.
And then he does. Slow. Careful. He's not fucking me for power, or for pain. He's fucking me to make me cum, and he's got one hand braced against the wall and the other one wrapped tightly around my cock, and every time he thrusts forward, he strokes up, and when he comes back, he strokes down, so while he's fucking me, I'm fucking his hand, and I can barely stay upright because my knees are weak and halfway buckled, and I'm gripping the goddamn shower bar like it's a life raft.
His mouth is by my jaw. I can feel that he's on his toes. His breath is getting faster, and he's starting to talk to me. He's not coherent; I have no idea what language it is, or what language it wants to be. I don't care. My entire body is riding upwards toward the end of this, and I don't want it to, I want this to go on forever, I want to be fucked until the water runs freezing and the bathroom floods and we have to replace the bedroom carpet and people come banging on our fucking door and have to tear it off the hinges. But it can't.
I can feel in his body, in my body, that it's almost over. Everything pulls up, and he feels it. Torturously, he stops his hand. My hips move towards it, but he pulls away. In my ear, he growls, "I say when."
He stops himself, pauses. I feel his chest heaving against my back. We are both paused, standing on the edge, halfway dead from desire when he comes forward one last time with his own hips, slides his hand down my cock, and we both come crashing, hard, crumpling into each other, one tangled knot of skin, water, cum, breath.
He slides down my back, wrapping his arms around my waist, resting his face between my shoulder blades. I fall forward into the wall, my forearms bracing us both. Water covers the floor.
I can't catch my breath. Can't speak. And I'm not sure if I want to, just yet.
Title: Untitled, as of yet
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: a very stern NC-17, for sex and language
Word Count: probably too many ;)
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: Not my boys, unfortunately. This never, ever happened.
Summary: Kris and Katy are at it again, and Adam is having trouble handling his feelings re: angry!Kris.
Kris is on the phone when I come through our bedroom door. It's late; I'm exhausted, and I fucking hate when he's on the phone, because it's always with her, and it always leaves him pissy and dark. She winds him up so tight that you can bounce a quarter off his lips when he's done. I look at him, and his eyes are steel. I hate the hardness she puts there. He jerks his chin at me in some approximation of hello, and I decide it's best to let him seethe at her in privacy.
I don't ask what the problem is. I don't eavesdrop. I never do, though this happens at least three times a week. I promptly disappear through the bathroom door, quiet, and turn the water on, drowning out his low, terse voice and the angry set of his jaw that looks so unnatural, so wrong on his little-boy face.
I'm midway through brushing my teeth when I hear a dull thud come from the bedroom. The unlocked bathroom door slams open wildly and bounces off the stopper. Kris stalks into the threshold, looking larger than he is, shoulders seeming broader. His eyebrows almost touch in the center of his forehead. The door swings toward him again, shuddering with the force of his entrance, and he swats it aside and stands in the doorway. I pause, clenching my toothbrush between my teeth. I spit into the sink, wipe my wrist across my mouth.
Before I can say anything, Kris storms up to his sink, swinging his open fist at its contents and flinging them to the floor. Shaving cream, razor, toothbrush, toothpaste, aftershave. One, two, three, four, five. They bounce and skid across the tile. His toothbrush narrowly misses my ass. The can of shaving cream comes apart, its top sliding into the back corner next to the trash can.
"Whoah," I say, as mildly as I can. "This is new. " She must've really flipped on her bitch switch tonight, I think.
"Fuck you," he shoots back, low and hard. I keep the Right now? to myself this time. His eyes are black. I've never seen him like this. He's totally wired, totally fucking keyed up, and I don't think I'm going to laugh him down this time. I study him quietly, debating, trying to keep my face neutral.
"FUCK YOU!" This time, it's practically a roar. He reaches down for the toothpaste, which slid back near his foot, and pitches it against the rear wall.
I'm calm, but something catches in my chest, like a sob that isn't really a sob, or like a cough that doesn't materialize. His body is literally trembling with fury. I notice that he's bouncing up on his toes slightly, like he doesn't know where to put what he's feeling, like he's a kid. My heart feels oddly like it's itching. My pulse is responding, quickening, heading south, and I don't like it at all.
I narrow my eyes a little, try to breathe steadily. "What the hell, Kris?" I say, not challenging, just honest.
His chest is rising and falling roughly. He's flushed. I stand there, barefoot in my pajama bottoms, my toothbrush lying askance in the sink, feeling sort of like an idiot. I am not often rendered speechless.
He loses it again. "Fucking bitch!" he spits, slamming the heel of his foot into the side of the bathtub once, twice. Abruptly, he turns and stalks back out, crashing the door shut in his wake. I don't know whether to go after him or not. I decide against it. There is something in his energy I don't trust. I think it has more to do with my completely inappropriate response to him, really, but whatever it is feels vaguely dangerous.
I strip down and turn on the shower. I get in when it's still slightly cool. I let it run over my face and my chest, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to shake it off.
Through the door, I hear them start up again. She must've called back. He's shouting now. Shouting. I can't understand what he's saying, but even here, under the water, through the closed bathroom door, I can hear the venom in his voice. They fight constantly, but never this viciously, never to the point where he gets batshit and starts throwing things. His aggression is strange; it doesn't fit him correctly. It creeps around the angles of his face like bad lighting. It makes him look sharp, large, almost menacing.
I keep my eyes shut and try to concentrate on the sound of the water. My heart is stuttering nervously, and I make the shower hotter trying to soothe it. I start to wash, deliberately avoiding anything below my waist, at least until I get this shit under control. It's not working as well as I would like. I'm letting the spray hit my shoulders, which are unusually tense, when I hear the fucking door bang open again. My eyes fly open in surprise, and I stop dead.
I'm thinking he might throw some more crap around the bathroom and leave, but it's eerily silent for a minute. I'm standing stock still, my heartbeat seeming to knock randomly around my chest, waiting. I realize I'm holding my breath and I let it out. It's difficult; it comes out shaky and weak. I look lamely toward the curtain, but I can't see through it.
Suddenly, it rips back, and I'm standing there dripping wet, naked, trying to put out some bizarre masochistic fire in my dick, staring Kris fucking Allen in the face. Right. In. The. Face.
And his face is sour. Hard. His eyes are a thousand shades of pissed, and it looks like there's a fire roaring in his head. He's holding his cell phone in his other hand, and as he's pulling the curtain all the way open, he flings it against the back wall. I hear it crack. He just stands there and stares for a minute. I'm simultaneously struck dumb and panicked, and in this, I'm distracted from keeping my fucking cock under control, and I realize it's getting stiff.
"Jesus Christ, Kris," I finally manage, and grab the shower curtain liner and pull it across my hips. "Get me a fucking towel, would you?"
He doesn't move. His mouth is working, like he's trying to say something but can't get his lips around it. My brain is haywire, watching him struggle for words, feeling myself harden against the plastic, seeing the water start to spray haphazardly. His hair is getting wet; his eyelashes have tiny beads of moisture in them. He blinks at them. I'm surprised steam doesn't rise. I'm about to short-circuit.
"She thinks I want to fuck you," he finally says. He swallows hard. Something around his jawline softens, almost imperceptibly. His eyes are still blazing, vaguely alarming. "She thinks I want to fuck you." He laughs, but it's not laid-back; it's not gentle; it's not genuine. It sounds, actually, like he's laughing with an axe buried in his chest.
I look closer, and what's in his eyes, what's in his whole demeanor, looks more like a dare than anything else. In my head, I think This fucking asshole wants me. This fucking kid is daring me to fuck him. I shake my head. I'm trying to convince myself not to take it. Trying really fucking hard, actually. But he persists. He steps closer. He's at the edge of the tub now, his bare toes up against it. His white t-shirt is getting soaked. The water is still running everywhere; I don't know why I don't think to shut it off.
I can't help myself. My mouth cocks sideways, half-smiling "Do you?" I ask. It's something I'd probably say to him a thousand times if he said that to me first, smiling, playing with him. But I'm not playing. Not exactly, anyway. He's not either. His eyes are practically slits now.
"You're the fucking expert, aren't you? What do you think?" He yanks at the waistband of his sweats, pulls them down in the front, and suddenly I'm staring at his cock, which is practically straight up against his stomach.
Our eyes meet, and we're just standing there. My hands clench the curtain. My stomach muscles spasm. His face is still smoldering, still dark, all wet. I should be cold, but I'm not.
"I think she's right. That's what I think." My voice is low, barely audible. I'm not sure if he can hear it over the roar of the water.
He lets go of the elastic, and it snaps back against his body. He steps against his leg with the opposite foot, sliding the material over his hips, until it puddles at his feet. With more grace than I've ever seen him exhibit, he's over the side of the tub and I'm flat against the shower wall, the curtain pulled from my hand and dangling from errant hooks ripped away from the rod.
He pushes my hips sideways, and I can feel the whole of him pressing against my back as my face hits the cool tile. I lean into it, bracing myself, my heart up somewhere in my throat, pounding like a hammer. His mouth is against the side of my neck, just below my ear. I feel his teeth grip my earlobe hard. It hurts, and I like it so much my hips buck involuntarily.
"This way?" he asks. "Hmm?" he says. His voice is rough, but suddenly not unkind. He's asking me if I want to be fucking manhandled, and oh fuck yes. I do, and that's what I say, yes, oh fuck. His teeth are in my shoulder now, and his cock is pressing against my ass, and my cock is pressing against my own hand, my knuckles scraping along the wall. I close my hand around it, but he reaches down and pulls it away, shoving it against the tile next to my forehead. My palm splays, then my hand claws shut. I'm trying to stay still. I'm trying to let him. I'm trying, but oh fuck me it's so hard. I exhale against the wall. Water drips down my face.
I can feel his forehead between my shoulders, at the base of my neck. His cock is slippery, with water and pre-cum, up against my thigh. I reach behind me and press him against me harder. When he speaks, his voice enters my body through my spine. I feel it spread to every nerve I have, setting them all ablaze, making them all scream and howl and swear.
"Do you want me to fuck you?"
I can't catch my breath. I can't do anything except nod, gasp, nod, gasp, nod.
And then he does. Slow. Careful. He's not fucking me for power, or for pain. He's fucking me to make me cum, and he's got one hand braced against the wall and the other one wrapped tightly around my cock, and every time he thrusts forward, he strokes up, and when he comes back, he strokes down, so while he's fucking me, I'm fucking his hand, and I can barely stay upright because my knees are weak and halfway buckled, and I'm gripping the goddamn shower bar like it's a life raft.
His mouth is by my jaw. I can feel that he's on his toes. His breath is getting faster, and he's starting to talk to me. He's not coherent; I have no idea what language it is, or what language it wants to be. I don't care. My entire body is riding upwards toward the end of this, and I don't want it to, I want this to go on forever, I want to be fucked until the water runs freezing and the bathroom floods and we have to replace the bedroom carpet and people come banging on our fucking door and have to tear it off the hinges. But it can't.
I can feel in his body, in my body, that it's almost over. Everything pulls up, and he feels it. Torturously, he stops his hand. My hips move towards it, but he pulls away. In my ear, he growls, "I say when."
He stops himself, pauses. I feel his chest heaving against my back. We are both paused, standing on the edge, halfway dead from desire when he comes forward one last time with his own hips, slides his hand down my cock, and we both come crashing, hard, crumpling into each other, one tangled knot of skin, water, cum, breath.
He slides down my back, wrapping his arms around my waist, resting his face between my shoulder blades. I fall forward into the wall, my forearms bracing us both. Water covers the floor.
I can't catch my breath. Can't speak. And I'm not sure if I want to, just yet.