Want // Part 3
Title: Want (Part 3 of...?)
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: PG-13, R to be safe - for language (yes, really!)
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: These aren't my boys. This didn't happen. Blah, blah, blah.
Summary: Most of this is in Kris's head. He's processing what's happened between him and Adam, moving this PWP that suddenly has some sort of P (ha) along.
Author's Note: There still isn't much of a plot. Whatever plot exists is mostly internal struggle/dialogue. This might bore you. But maybe not! More smut is on the way, I promise ;) Oh, also, the first line of this is the very last line of Part 2, which I did just to orient myself. AND! I'm considering changing the name, since I've gone beyond the one-little-blurb this started as. Okay. Done now.
community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/274163.html <--- part 1 (NC17)
community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/284821.html <---- part 2 (NC17)
I know then that my old life is gone. Gone.
Gone, like my breath is gone, and I'm swimming up through something close to death, not sure whether or not I'm going to make it. Gone, like my bones feel gone, feel like they've crumbled to ashes underneath my skin. Gone, like somebody threw a match into my soul just to see what colors it would turn, and my whole body is glowing with light.
For a moment, I'm only sure I'm alive because I can hear my heart firing in my chest. I can't make my eyes open, but I feel Adam stand behind me, smooth and quick, and move toward his dresser. He says nothing. I rub the towel across my belly, forcing my muscles to work, feeling them heavy, protesting. I think, I could sleep, and I know it's ridiculous, because I just woke up, but I think, I could sleep, and fuck him again, and sleep, and fuck him again, and then I'd never have to think. Or speak. Or know.
I hear his zipper pull up hastily, hear him shuffle through his drawer for a shirt. The clouds in my brain are starting to part, and I'd like them to stay, just a minute longer, please, so I don't have to be conscious, please.
"What?" Adam asks, gentle. I realize I must have said it aloud.
"No--" I cough, clear my throat. "Nothing. Sorry."
The air stills. He walks toward me, still, somehow, smelling clean. "Are you all right?" His voice is soft, a timbre above his slippery whisper. I don't understand why it feels like a knife twisting in my ribs. One of his hands touches my shoulder. I have the urge to grab it, press my face into it, bite his palm, sob. I don't.
"Yeah. Sorry."
"Stop apologizing. You're okay. Everything is okay. But if we're not downstairs for breakfast in fifteen..." he trails off, his fingers gently lifting, drumming across my collarbone. He doesn't have to finish his thought. I know. Someone will come looking for us, some fucking timekeeping minion from hell. My stomach twists.
"Shit," I say aloud, running the towel over myself, urgently this time. I am thinking about having to walk out into the daylight, smile, make conversation. I think I might throw up. I tuck the towel around myself and stagger to my feet. I feel him cup my elbow, steady me, let go.
I try to shower quickly, but my whole body is in slow motion. Even the cold water does nothing to move me along this morning. It just makes me shiver; makes me feel like somebody's stupid dog caught in the rain. For the first time in weeks, I let it run hot. My hands are deliberate, heavy. I am touching everywhere, taking inventory, making sure I'm still put together properly, not completely rearranged. Maybe I want to make sure I'm still me, still recognizable.
I work from the bottom up, and when I get to my lip, I freeze. I shut my eyes, feel the water sliding down it. "Shit. Fuck ME," I swear out loud. It's still huge. I put my face into my palms, rub circles around my eyes. Just rehearsals today. No pictures, no video. Still. There will be eyes on me, because I can't even get a fucking haircut without eyes on me anymore. Somebody's going to have to be an asshole and ask me; somebody's going to think it's funny. And then somebody's going to get punched in the balls. Goddamnit.
I'm still not sure what I'm going to do when I step out onto the cold tile, dry myself, step back out into the bedroom. The first thing I notice is the clock. 8:30. "Shit!" I say to myself, for what feels like the eighteenth time today. I'm ridiculously late for breakfast. We have to leave in half an hour. Did I really spend almost an hour in there? Who the fuck am I, Adam Lambert? I think of his name and groan inwardly.
The next thing I notice is the room. My bed is made up tight and clean, practically military corners. The sheets are fresh. Last night's pajamas are folded, set on the foot. Next to my bed, on the end table, are four new things: a cup of coffee, a banana, a plastic bag filled with ice, and a note.
I pick it up. My hands shake a little. My heart feels wobbly.
Kris, it says, in his weird rockstar handwriting, Ice the lip. I told them you were up sick all night and smashed it on something in the dark. Close enough, right? And eat, for fuck's sake. --- A.
Maybe he isn't the love-note type, I think wryly, roll my eyes, feel a flash of pain behind them like a lightning strike. Somehow, though, the made bed, the clean room - they feel oddly like a love note.
And the coffee. Oh, God. Coffee. I almost have my second orgasm in as many hours. And he did it right: light, one sugar, cinnamon.
I think back to last week this time. All of us around the table - nine, plus Adam, then - everything clinking and noisy, the air loose and warm. He came in from the kitchen, flipped open the big window in the dining room, dropped the cinnamon down on the table in front of me. "Dude, that is the gayest breakfast I have ever seen." He bit on one side of his wicked smile, watched me tip it into my coffee.
"Hey, you can't win everything, Lambert," I'd shot back, laughing easily. "That cupcake only gets you second place today. Even with the sprinkles." They were rainbow, for the record. He never eats properly. Ever.
"Shut the fuck up and suck on your banana, Kris Allen," he'd said, swishing his finger through the icing, popping it into his mouth.
I'd thrown my head back, laughing in earnest. Until I noticed Sarver roll his eyes, shake his head. Adam had seen him, too. His eyes got dark, like a cloud over his brow. The Arkansas kid in me had wanted to kick Sarver in his hillbilly teeth, but Allison was too fast.
She'd stood up, made like she was reaching for something across the table. She'd angled her elbow artfully, just so, and it managed to send both his coffee and his ungainly tall glass of orange juice spilling joyfully over the table and into his lap, splashing his shirt, his jeans, his big, stupid face.
"OOOOOOOPS!" She'd made her mouth into this perfect little O, eyes wide. "Gee willikers!" She didn't apologize. Sarver swore, stalked away from the table to change. Megan and Lil started to mop up the mess, clucking.
Allison leaned over to grab some napkins. On her way by, she flashed this giant, shit-eating grin at Adam. She paused mid-grab, and he'd pecked her on the nose, telling her, "You're a pistol." She'd caught my eye on the way back, winked. It was brilliant. Fucking brilliant.
I'm reliving her genius, ice against one side of my lip, coffe mug against the other, still wrapped in my towel, when Adam comes quietly through the door. He smiles when he sees me.
"That's a good look for you. Mention it to the stylist."
"Thanks." I free up my mouth. "I like to call it Totally Fucking Screwed. It's gonna be huge this summer." I sip more hot liquid gratefully, shut my eyes, go back to the ice. The sting has gone out of my lip, and now it just feels dull. And cold.
He comes to sit beside me on the bed. He is strangely cautious, tender. "This totally freaked you out. I freaked you out." He lifts one hand, like he's going to put it on my back, but stops himself. But I'm not tense anymore. The shower, the clean room, the breakfast - it's taken the piss out of me. I'm sort of numb, sort of wanting him to touch me, sort of tired of this battle inside my skin. Already, I'm tired of it. And I know, realistically, it's just begun.
I lean over, let my damp head hit his shoulder. He presses his cheek against it, smells my hair. Again. "Sorry," I say, soft.
"Stop," he answers. I can't read what's written on his face. "Apologizing, I mean. Stop it. I told you. Stop. You don't need to tell me sorry. I liked it, remember? I wanted it?"
It seems like a very long time before I speak again, and I don't know whether it's courage or cowardice that brings the next words spilling out of my mouth, but they come, and they're softer than his hand, which has moved to rest on mine: "Me, too."
His face is close enough to kiss. I am just about to do it, against whatever better judgment I have left, when he pats my bare arm, smooths down the hair there. "Get dressed," he says. He nods toward the table, at my ring. "And don't forget that. They're starting to worry down there."
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: PG-13, R to be safe - for language (yes, really!)
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: These aren't my boys. This didn't happen. Blah, blah, blah.
Summary: Most of this is in Kris's head. He's processing what's happened between him and Adam, moving this PWP that suddenly has some sort of P (ha) along.
Author's Note: There still isn't much of a plot. Whatever plot exists is mostly internal struggle/dialogue. This might bore you. But maybe not! More smut is on the way, I promise ;) Oh, also, the first line of this is the very last line of Part 2, which I did just to orient myself. AND! I'm considering changing the name, since I've gone beyond the one-little-blurb this started as. Okay. Done now.
community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/274163.html <--- part 1 (NC17)
community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/284821.html <---- part 2 (NC17)
I know then that my old life is gone. Gone.
Gone, like my breath is gone, and I'm swimming up through something close to death, not sure whether or not I'm going to make it. Gone, like my bones feel gone, feel like they've crumbled to ashes underneath my skin. Gone, like somebody threw a match into my soul just to see what colors it would turn, and my whole body is glowing with light.
For a moment, I'm only sure I'm alive because I can hear my heart firing in my chest. I can't make my eyes open, but I feel Adam stand behind me, smooth and quick, and move toward his dresser. He says nothing. I rub the towel across my belly, forcing my muscles to work, feeling them heavy, protesting. I think, I could sleep, and I know it's ridiculous, because I just woke up, but I think, I could sleep, and fuck him again, and sleep, and fuck him again, and then I'd never have to think. Or speak. Or know.
I hear his zipper pull up hastily, hear him shuffle through his drawer for a shirt. The clouds in my brain are starting to part, and I'd like them to stay, just a minute longer, please, so I don't have to be conscious, please.
"What?" Adam asks, gentle. I realize I must have said it aloud.
"No--" I cough, clear my throat. "Nothing. Sorry."
The air stills. He walks toward me, still, somehow, smelling clean. "Are you all right?" His voice is soft, a timbre above his slippery whisper. I don't understand why it feels like a knife twisting in my ribs. One of his hands touches my shoulder. I have the urge to grab it, press my face into it, bite his palm, sob. I don't.
"Yeah. Sorry."
"Stop apologizing. You're okay. Everything is okay. But if we're not downstairs for breakfast in fifteen..." he trails off, his fingers gently lifting, drumming across my collarbone. He doesn't have to finish his thought. I know. Someone will come looking for us, some fucking timekeeping minion from hell. My stomach twists.
"Shit," I say aloud, running the towel over myself, urgently this time. I am thinking about having to walk out into the daylight, smile, make conversation. I think I might throw up. I tuck the towel around myself and stagger to my feet. I feel him cup my elbow, steady me, let go.
I try to shower quickly, but my whole body is in slow motion. Even the cold water does nothing to move me along this morning. It just makes me shiver; makes me feel like somebody's stupid dog caught in the rain. For the first time in weeks, I let it run hot. My hands are deliberate, heavy. I am touching everywhere, taking inventory, making sure I'm still put together properly, not completely rearranged. Maybe I want to make sure I'm still me, still recognizable.
I work from the bottom up, and when I get to my lip, I freeze. I shut my eyes, feel the water sliding down it. "Shit. Fuck ME," I swear out loud. It's still huge. I put my face into my palms, rub circles around my eyes. Just rehearsals today. No pictures, no video. Still. There will be eyes on me, because I can't even get a fucking haircut without eyes on me anymore. Somebody's going to have to be an asshole and ask me; somebody's going to think it's funny. And then somebody's going to get punched in the balls. Goddamnit.
I'm still not sure what I'm going to do when I step out onto the cold tile, dry myself, step back out into the bedroom. The first thing I notice is the clock. 8:30. "Shit!" I say to myself, for what feels like the eighteenth time today. I'm ridiculously late for breakfast. We have to leave in half an hour. Did I really spend almost an hour in there? Who the fuck am I, Adam Lambert? I think of his name and groan inwardly.
The next thing I notice is the room. My bed is made up tight and clean, practically military corners. The sheets are fresh. Last night's pajamas are folded, set on the foot. Next to my bed, on the end table, are four new things: a cup of coffee, a banana, a plastic bag filled with ice, and a note.
I pick it up. My hands shake a little. My heart feels wobbly.
Kris, it says, in his weird rockstar handwriting, Ice the lip. I told them you were up sick all night and smashed it on something in the dark. Close enough, right? And eat, for fuck's sake. --- A.
Maybe he isn't the love-note type, I think wryly, roll my eyes, feel a flash of pain behind them like a lightning strike. Somehow, though, the made bed, the clean room - they feel oddly like a love note.
And the coffee. Oh, God. Coffee. I almost have my second orgasm in as many hours. And he did it right: light, one sugar, cinnamon.
I think back to last week this time. All of us around the table - nine, plus Adam, then - everything clinking and noisy, the air loose and warm. He came in from the kitchen, flipped open the big window in the dining room, dropped the cinnamon down on the table in front of me. "Dude, that is the gayest breakfast I have ever seen." He bit on one side of his wicked smile, watched me tip it into my coffee.
"Hey, you can't win everything, Lambert," I'd shot back, laughing easily. "That cupcake only gets you second place today. Even with the sprinkles." They were rainbow, for the record. He never eats properly. Ever.
"Shut the fuck up and suck on your banana, Kris Allen," he'd said, swishing his finger through the icing, popping it into his mouth.
I'd thrown my head back, laughing in earnest. Until I noticed Sarver roll his eyes, shake his head. Adam had seen him, too. His eyes got dark, like a cloud over his brow. The Arkansas kid in me had wanted to kick Sarver in his hillbilly teeth, but Allison was too fast.
She'd stood up, made like she was reaching for something across the table. She'd angled her elbow artfully, just so, and it managed to send both his coffee and his ungainly tall glass of orange juice spilling joyfully over the table and into his lap, splashing his shirt, his jeans, his big, stupid face.
"OOOOOOOPS!" She'd made her mouth into this perfect little O, eyes wide. "Gee willikers!" She didn't apologize. Sarver swore, stalked away from the table to change. Megan and Lil started to mop up the mess, clucking.
Allison leaned over to grab some napkins. On her way by, she flashed this giant, shit-eating grin at Adam. She paused mid-grab, and he'd pecked her on the nose, telling her, "You're a pistol." She'd caught my eye on the way back, winked. It was brilliant. Fucking brilliant.
I'm reliving her genius, ice against one side of my lip, coffe mug against the other, still wrapped in my towel, when Adam comes quietly through the door. He smiles when he sees me.
"That's a good look for you. Mention it to the stylist."
"Thanks." I free up my mouth. "I like to call it Totally Fucking Screwed. It's gonna be huge this summer." I sip more hot liquid gratefully, shut my eyes, go back to the ice. The sting has gone out of my lip, and now it just feels dull. And cold.
He comes to sit beside me on the bed. He is strangely cautious, tender. "This totally freaked you out. I freaked you out." He lifts one hand, like he's going to put it on my back, but stops himself. But I'm not tense anymore. The shower, the clean room, the breakfast - it's taken the piss out of me. I'm sort of numb, sort of wanting him to touch me, sort of tired of this battle inside my skin. Already, I'm tired of it. And I know, realistically, it's just begun.
I lean over, let my damp head hit his shoulder. He presses his cheek against it, smells my hair. Again. "Sorry," I say, soft.
"Stop," he answers. I can't read what's written on his face. "Apologizing, I mean. Stop it. I told you. Stop. You don't need to tell me sorry. I liked it, remember? I wanted it?"
It seems like a very long time before I speak again, and I don't know whether it's courage or cowardice that brings the next words spilling out of my mouth, but they come, and they're softer than his hand, which has moved to rest on mine: "Me, too."
His face is close enough to kiss. I am just about to do it, against whatever better judgment I have left, when he pats my bare arm, smooths down the hair there. "Get dressed," he says. He nods toward the table, at my ring. "And don't forget that. They're starting to worry down there."