Want // Part 2
A couple people kindly requested that I write a little follow-up to my first bit of PWP, haha, so I thought I'd shake my brain and see what fell out. This, apparently. (I think I need a new hobby. This is becoming a bit excessive. Ha. Excessive Kradam smut FTW!)
Title: Want (Part II)
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: NC-17, sex & language
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: Not my boys. This never, ever, ever happened. Well. Maybe in my dreams.
Summary: After spending one very sleepless night with Adam, Kris has to decide where to go from here. He ends up on a rolling desk chair. Who'd'a thunk it? ;)
My alarm is shrieking at me. It takes me a second to orient myself. I can't remember the last time that thing actually woke me from sleep. Usually, I stare at it until it blares once, then turn it off with a brief prayer of thanksgiving for the daylight. It had become a heralding sound. This morning, it's fucking irritating. Like it used to be. Like it's supposed to be.
I reach up from the abyss, fumbling in the air with one hand, bleary-eyed. I touch the edge of the side table, but I can't find my clock. I hear a quiet click, and it's off. I yawn. It's off? My eyes snap open. "Ohhhhhhh, shit," I moan, my voice sticky with morning in my throat. "Ohhh, fucking shit."
Adam is sitting next to me, sheet across his lap, cross-legged, bright-eyed, real. "Come on," he says. "It wasn't that bad, was it?" He's smiling. Fucking smiling. "We can just tell them we got in a fight."
"What?" I mutter, confused. I'm pulling up the covers to shield my nakedness. I can't bring myself to roll over and survey the rest of the room just yet: his empty bed, clothes all over the damn place. It's all coming back, and I don't want to see the evidence.
"Your lip," he smirks. My hand jumps to my face. My lower lip feels the size of a golf ball. I'm surprised my fingers don't come away bloody.
"You fucker," I say, closing my eyes. "You absolute fucker." I don't know what to do now. I tip my head back and rest it on the headboard, trying to collect my thoughts. There are too many of them. I can't give them order or meaning or chronology. They flutter around inside my head like blind birds, crashing into each other, the sides of my skull, the backs of my eyes. Fuck. I shake my head, trying to clear it.
I open my eyes. There, on the side table, Adam has retrieved my alarm clock from the floor. Next to it, neatly, lays my wedding band. I feel around my ring finger with my thumb, pressing down on one side, then the other. It doesn't feel as naked as it should. My heart balls up like a fist. I have to get out of this bed.
But I can't move. The sheet is covering us both, and my clothes are clear across the damn room. I'm forming a strategy when I feel his hand slip under the sheet and, before I can stop him, all five fingers stroke my cock from the base to the tip, quickly. It's hard. Of course. It's morning.
"You want me to take care of this for you?" he asks, looking fucking cheeky. Cheeky. Who the hell uses that word? But that's the look on his face, like some kid about to get detention. On purpose.
Startled, I grab the sheets tighter around myself. I can feel my face redden. He's already climbing out of bed, totally comfortable, totally natural. Totally hard. I can't even answer him. I just stare, like he's some creature from another fucking planet. He's on his way to the bathroom.
He looks back over his shoulder as he opens the door. I still have my eyes on him. I can't help it. "You better spank, then. Because someone's gonna notice if you're carrying that around with you all day. Maybe if it wasn't so fucking big." He's smirking again. I notice for the first time that his lips are all sexed out, too. Like I put my fist in them or something. Shit. I can't see my face, but I know it's purple. He reaches for something off his sink, tosses it at me. As he's shutting the door, he's muttering something about, "Always the skinny little ones who're packing. Go figure."
I catch what he's thrown. It's a fucking bottle of lotion. In spite of myself, I laugh. This is the single most unbelievable situation I have ever been in. Ever. I am fucked about a hundred times over. I know this. But I don't have the brains or the balls to deal with that right now, so I laugh. It's an uneasy laugh, but it loosens up my guts a little, which I desperately need. Good job, Kris, I think. Good work. You cheat on your wife with some fucking California queen, and you're laughing. Nice.
I sigh. I sit forward, rake my fingers through my hair, over my scalp, digging my blunt nails in as hard as I can. I leave them there, stare down at myself.
Adam's got the shower running. He's going to be at least 45 minutes, that much I've learned. I can't dress, can't eat, can't do anything until I wash everything about last night off of me.
I sit. I stare at my lap. Well, what the hell else am I gonna do? I think. Not going away by itself today. Even my thoughts sound bitter. I have to laugh again. I sit the lotion on my side table. I am not using that. It's his. It probably feels like his mouth. I cringe, remembering. I cringe, but my cock gets harder. "You fucker," I mutter under my breath. I'm not sure if I mean him or if I mean me. Maybe I mean my cock. I don't know.
I get out of bed, stretching my body all the way. I've never slept naked. The air feels chilly, but sort of nice, actually. I sit back down in the stupid rolling computer chair. His bed, mine, or the chair. Three bad choices. Whatever.
I sit, legs apart, and lean back. I close my eyes. I breathe all the way in, all the way out, trying to shake if off. I curl my hand around my cock, tug on it, see what's what. In my head, I'm calling up pictures of my wife. I flip through the album in my head, built over so many years: her mouth, her hair, her tits. But her lips keep curling into a fucking smirk. Her hair keeps changing color. I can't focus. I tighten my fist so hard it almost hurts. Shit, it does hurt. I want it to hurt. I want it to hurt until I can imagine her as clear as if she was in front of me, in my lap. I want it to hurt until she makes me want her as much as he does him.
I am trying so fucking hard, and I am failing so fucking hard. I have had so many nights with her, and only one with him, but it's his face I keep seeing; the noises in his throat I keep hearing; his mouth around me, not hers. I am concentrating so hard on wanting her that I don't even hear the water turn off or the door open. My eyes are shut. I don't see him walk out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, hair all mussed up, uncombed. Not typical of him. Not at all.
Finally, it's his voice that breaks the spell. "What are you thinking about?"
I pause. My hand stops, but my cock stiffens further, fills it up. I don't open my eyes. I'm afraid to see him. I swallow once. Twice. "Katy," I finally answer.
"And how's that working out for you?" I can feel the air change as he walks toward me. I can smell him. Humid, clean, soapy. He doesn't touch me, just stands there behind me. I bite down on my maimed mouth. It hurts. I hiss.
"Fine. Done now, though. Thought you'd be longer. Sorry." I'm embarrassed. I'm ridiculously embarrassed. I'm ridiculously turned on. I make a move like I'm going to stand up, but he puts one hand ever so slightly on my shoulder, holds me down, somehow, without putting any pressure on me at all.
"No you're not," he says.
"What?" I choke out.
"You're not done. I know what done looks like." I can hear the smile on his face. My cheeks are burning. My muscles are clenched: my stomach, my shoulders, my ass. "And you're doing it wrong. You're way better at it when you're thinking of me."
I hear him pluck the bottle of lotion off the table. I'm frozen in place. He's like a fucking snake charmer.
He sits down on the bed. My bed. The one with the messy sheets. The one I should have stripped and remade while he was in the shower, instead of feebly trying to jerk off to my wife, which apparently doesn't do it for me anymore.
One long, graceful leg reaches out and hooks around the chair. He pulls me toward him. My heels bounce along the floor. His hands turn the chair so my back is to him. He takes my wrist. His fingers are cool, but they feel like they're branding me. I feel like there's a vise squeezing my lungs, my heart. Delicately, he flips my hand over, squirts some lotion into it, and laughs, quiet. "As you were, soldier."
My arms are trembling, but I rub my palms together, work up some heat. He leans in, hands on the seat, on either side of my ass, but he's not touching me. His mouth is almost against my ear. It's not touching it. "What are you thinking about now?" he wants to know. He's whispering. My back arches involuntarily against the sound; my nipples get hard. I'm breathing through my mouth, shaky and thin.
I have no presence of mind. I barely have the faculties to tell him, "You," as one of his fingers taps my elbow, sending life all the way down my arm, making my hand close around my throbbing dick. But he wants more.
"Me? What about me?" That whisper.
I hiss again. I swear under my breath, Fuuuuuuuck. It's almost a moan, but it's not. My hand is working now, sliding along my entire length, my palm opening and coming up over the head when I get to it, circling a little. He is breathing, maddeningly even, in my ear. Like this does nothing to him. Like this doesn't make him want to fucking scream.
"What about me?" he insists. The very tip of his lip brushes my ear. It's so slight, like a breath. My fucking brain is on fire.
"Your mouth," I gasp out. My voice is thick; it comes from somewhere way back in my throat, that place that only opens up when you're on the very edge of all you can stand. And I am.
"My mouth? What's it doing?" He leans in. He smells my hair. He fucking smells my hair. My left hand is gripping the side of the chair in desperation. I think my nails are bleeding. My hips are rocking up off the seat. "Is it licking?" he asks, and suddenly his tongue is tracing the outline of my ear, slow and dirty, "Like this?" I'm groaning now, for all I'm worth, my jaw dropped open, vowels spilling out of my own mouth, meaningless.
"Maybe it's not licking." He flicks his tongue one more time, lightly, inside my ear. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. This time, it's a moan.
"Maybe it's sucking." His lips close over my earlobe, working it like a piece of candy. Working it like my cock. He sucks it into his teeth, scrapes them along, pushes against it with his tongue. He lets go with a little pop. It sounds like an explosion in my head.
"Is that what it's doing? Is that what my mouth is doing? Is that what you're thinking about?" he purrs. His breath is cold against the wetness of my ear, and I feel my whole body grow tight, so tight I'm afraid I'm going to split at the seams. "Is it?" he insists. "Tell me."
My hips are all over the place, bucking against my hand, trying to keep up with it. My toes are curled up so far they're almost under my feet.
"Tell me," he says again.
I can't take it anymore. I grab the head of my cock hard, twist my hand around it, force it through the circle of my thumb and forefinger. Yes, I finally say. Yes, fucking YES, yes yes oh fuck yes oh FUCK I'm babbling, Yes.
There's his answer, coming out of my mouth, coming all over my belly, and I am cracked open wide, trembling, aching, sweating, delerious, covered in my own fucking spunk, completely fucking spent, head thrown back, my whole body just pulsing and shuddering and saying his name.
His breathing is a little ragged against my cheek when he leans in to kiss it. He picks his towel up off the bed, gently tosses it across my lap. "You better clean yourself up," he says. "Before I do."
I know then that my old life is gone. Gone.
Title: Want (Part II)
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: NC-17, sex & language
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: Not my boys. This never, ever, ever happened. Well. Maybe in my dreams.
Summary: After spending one very sleepless night with Adam, Kris has to decide where to go from here. He ends up on a rolling desk chair. Who'd'a thunk it? ;)
My alarm is shrieking at me. It takes me a second to orient myself. I can't remember the last time that thing actually woke me from sleep. Usually, I stare at it until it blares once, then turn it off with a brief prayer of thanksgiving for the daylight. It had become a heralding sound. This morning, it's fucking irritating. Like it used to be. Like it's supposed to be.
I reach up from the abyss, fumbling in the air with one hand, bleary-eyed. I touch the edge of the side table, but I can't find my clock. I hear a quiet click, and it's off. I yawn. It's off? My eyes snap open. "Ohhhhhhh, shit," I moan, my voice sticky with morning in my throat. "Ohhh, fucking shit."
Adam is sitting next to me, sheet across his lap, cross-legged, bright-eyed, real. "Come on," he says. "It wasn't that bad, was it?" He's smiling. Fucking smiling. "We can just tell them we got in a fight."
"What?" I mutter, confused. I'm pulling up the covers to shield my nakedness. I can't bring myself to roll over and survey the rest of the room just yet: his empty bed, clothes all over the damn place. It's all coming back, and I don't want to see the evidence.
"Your lip," he smirks. My hand jumps to my face. My lower lip feels the size of a golf ball. I'm surprised my fingers don't come away bloody.
"You fucker," I say, closing my eyes. "You absolute fucker." I don't know what to do now. I tip my head back and rest it on the headboard, trying to collect my thoughts. There are too many of them. I can't give them order or meaning or chronology. They flutter around inside my head like blind birds, crashing into each other, the sides of my skull, the backs of my eyes. Fuck. I shake my head, trying to clear it.
I open my eyes. There, on the side table, Adam has retrieved my alarm clock from the floor. Next to it, neatly, lays my wedding band. I feel around my ring finger with my thumb, pressing down on one side, then the other. It doesn't feel as naked as it should. My heart balls up like a fist. I have to get out of this bed.
But I can't move. The sheet is covering us both, and my clothes are clear across the damn room. I'm forming a strategy when I feel his hand slip under the sheet and, before I can stop him, all five fingers stroke my cock from the base to the tip, quickly. It's hard. Of course. It's morning.
"You want me to take care of this for you?" he asks, looking fucking cheeky. Cheeky. Who the hell uses that word? But that's the look on his face, like some kid about to get detention. On purpose.
Startled, I grab the sheets tighter around myself. I can feel my face redden. He's already climbing out of bed, totally comfortable, totally natural. Totally hard. I can't even answer him. I just stare, like he's some creature from another fucking planet. He's on his way to the bathroom.
He looks back over his shoulder as he opens the door. I still have my eyes on him. I can't help it. "You better spank, then. Because someone's gonna notice if you're carrying that around with you all day. Maybe if it wasn't so fucking big." He's smirking again. I notice for the first time that his lips are all sexed out, too. Like I put my fist in them or something. Shit. I can't see my face, but I know it's purple. He reaches for something off his sink, tosses it at me. As he's shutting the door, he's muttering something about, "Always the skinny little ones who're packing. Go figure."
I catch what he's thrown. It's a fucking bottle of lotion. In spite of myself, I laugh. This is the single most unbelievable situation I have ever been in. Ever. I am fucked about a hundred times over. I know this. But I don't have the brains or the balls to deal with that right now, so I laugh. It's an uneasy laugh, but it loosens up my guts a little, which I desperately need. Good job, Kris, I think. Good work. You cheat on your wife with some fucking California queen, and you're laughing. Nice.
I sigh. I sit forward, rake my fingers through my hair, over my scalp, digging my blunt nails in as hard as I can. I leave them there, stare down at myself.
Adam's got the shower running. He's going to be at least 45 minutes, that much I've learned. I can't dress, can't eat, can't do anything until I wash everything about last night off of me.
I sit. I stare at my lap. Well, what the hell else am I gonna do? I think. Not going away by itself today. Even my thoughts sound bitter. I have to laugh again. I sit the lotion on my side table. I am not using that. It's his. It probably feels like his mouth. I cringe, remembering. I cringe, but my cock gets harder. "You fucker," I mutter under my breath. I'm not sure if I mean him or if I mean me. Maybe I mean my cock. I don't know.
I get out of bed, stretching my body all the way. I've never slept naked. The air feels chilly, but sort of nice, actually. I sit back down in the stupid rolling computer chair. His bed, mine, or the chair. Three bad choices. Whatever.
I sit, legs apart, and lean back. I close my eyes. I breathe all the way in, all the way out, trying to shake if off. I curl my hand around my cock, tug on it, see what's what. In my head, I'm calling up pictures of my wife. I flip through the album in my head, built over so many years: her mouth, her hair, her tits. But her lips keep curling into a fucking smirk. Her hair keeps changing color. I can't focus. I tighten my fist so hard it almost hurts. Shit, it does hurt. I want it to hurt. I want it to hurt until I can imagine her as clear as if she was in front of me, in my lap. I want it to hurt until she makes me want her as much as he does him.
I am trying so fucking hard, and I am failing so fucking hard. I have had so many nights with her, and only one with him, but it's his face I keep seeing; the noises in his throat I keep hearing; his mouth around me, not hers. I am concentrating so hard on wanting her that I don't even hear the water turn off or the door open. My eyes are shut. I don't see him walk out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, hair all mussed up, uncombed. Not typical of him. Not at all.
Finally, it's his voice that breaks the spell. "What are you thinking about?"
I pause. My hand stops, but my cock stiffens further, fills it up. I don't open my eyes. I'm afraid to see him. I swallow once. Twice. "Katy," I finally answer.
"And how's that working out for you?" I can feel the air change as he walks toward me. I can smell him. Humid, clean, soapy. He doesn't touch me, just stands there behind me. I bite down on my maimed mouth. It hurts. I hiss.
"Fine. Done now, though. Thought you'd be longer. Sorry." I'm embarrassed. I'm ridiculously embarrassed. I'm ridiculously turned on. I make a move like I'm going to stand up, but he puts one hand ever so slightly on my shoulder, holds me down, somehow, without putting any pressure on me at all.
"No you're not," he says.
"What?" I choke out.
"You're not done. I know what done looks like." I can hear the smile on his face. My cheeks are burning. My muscles are clenched: my stomach, my shoulders, my ass. "And you're doing it wrong. You're way better at it when you're thinking of me."
I hear him pluck the bottle of lotion off the table. I'm frozen in place. He's like a fucking snake charmer.
He sits down on the bed. My bed. The one with the messy sheets. The one I should have stripped and remade while he was in the shower, instead of feebly trying to jerk off to my wife, which apparently doesn't do it for me anymore.
One long, graceful leg reaches out and hooks around the chair. He pulls me toward him. My heels bounce along the floor. His hands turn the chair so my back is to him. He takes my wrist. His fingers are cool, but they feel like they're branding me. I feel like there's a vise squeezing my lungs, my heart. Delicately, he flips my hand over, squirts some lotion into it, and laughs, quiet. "As you were, soldier."
My arms are trembling, but I rub my palms together, work up some heat. He leans in, hands on the seat, on either side of my ass, but he's not touching me. His mouth is almost against my ear. It's not touching it. "What are you thinking about now?" he wants to know. He's whispering. My back arches involuntarily against the sound; my nipples get hard. I'm breathing through my mouth, shaky and thin.
I have no presence of mind. I barely have the faculties to tell him, "You," as one of his fingers taps my elbow, sending life all the way down my arm, making my hand close around my throbbing dick. But he wants more.
"Me? What about me?" That whisper.
I hiss again. I swear under my breath, Fuuuuuuuck. It's almost a moan, but it's not. My hand is working now, sliding along my entire length, my palm opening and coming up over the head when I get to it, circling a little. He is breathing, maddeningly even, in my ear. Like this does nothing to him. Like this doesn't make him want to fucking scream.
"What about me?" he insists. The very tip of his lip brushes my ear. It's so slight, like a breath. My fucking brain is on fire.
"Your mouth," I gasp out. My voice is thick; it comes from somewhere way back in my throat, that place that only opens up when you're on the very edge of all you can stand. And I am.
"My mouth? What's it doing?" He leans in. He smells my hair. He fucking smells my hair. My left hand is gripping the side of the chair in desperation. I think my nails are bleeding. My hips are rocking up off the seat. "Is it licking?" he asks, and suddenly his tongue is tracing the outline of my ear, slow and dirty, "Like this?" I'm groaning now, for all I'm worth, my jaw dropped open, vowels spilling out of my own mouth, meaningless.
"Maybe it's not licking." He flicks his tongue one more time, lightly, inside my ear. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. This time, it's a moan.
"Maybe it's sucking." His lips close over my earlobe, working it like a piece of candy. Working it like my cock. He sucks it into his teeth, scrapes them along, pushes against it with his tongue. He lets go with a little pop. It sounds like an explosion in my head.
"Is that what it's doing? Is that what my mouth is doing? Is that what you're thinking about?" he purrs. His breath is cold against the wetness of my ear, and I feel my whole body grow tight, so tight I'm afraid I'm going to split at the seams. "Is it?" he insists. "Tell me."
My hips are all over the place, bucking against my hand, trying to keep up with it. My toes are curled up so far they're almost under my feet.
"Tell me," he says again.
I can't take it anymore. I grab the head of my cock hard, twist my hand around it, force it through the circle of my thumb and forefinger. Yes, I finally say. Yes, fucking YES, yes yes oh fuck yes oh FUCK I'm babbling, Yes.
There's his answer, coming out of my mouth, coming all over my belly, and I am cracked open wide, trembling, aching, sweating, delerious, covered in my own fucking spunk, completely fucking spent, head thrown back, my whole body just pulsing and shuddering and saying his name.
His breathing is a little ragged against my cheek when he leans in to kiss it. He picks his towel up off the bed, gently tosses it across my lap. "You better clean yourself up," he says. "Before I do."
I know then that my old life is gone. Gone.