Want // Part 7
Title: Want // Part 7
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Didn't happen. Blahblahblah.
Summary: Performance night has gone well, and everybody gets a little drunk and slaphappy.
Author's Note: This is long. And it could have been longer. Yipes! Sorry.
When we leave, we are all wrapped around each other, moving through space like some creature out of a science fiction movie - nine heads, eighteen legs, arms shooting out in every direction. The air around us is crackling and sparking. Nobody is nervous anymore. We're sweating our makeup off, laughing, feeding off each other's body heat and bliss.
Allison's painted-pink mouth is all over my face, dropping big, exuberant kisses, leaving lipstick prints everywhere. "Out of control!" she's shrieking into my ear, "just out of control!" Megan leans in from the other side, reaching across Matt (who gets a faceful of boob) and plants one right in the middle of my forehead She catches Matt's smile on the way back (which is saying something along the lines of I'll give you some good, good loving, sweetheart), and elbows him hard, before kissing him, too. Adam is slapping Anoop on the ass, talking about his jeans, telling him he's going to wake up to a bed full of teenage girls, and Anoop is saying that's how he'll know he's really made it. Gokey is doing some weird pelvic-thrusting move I never want to see again (but probably will), laughing at himself. I'm just breathing all of it down deep, letting it fill me up, inflate me like helium, lift me up as high as I can go, take me out of myself for a minute.
We make our way through the flashing cameras, trying to be civilized role models until we pile into the limo, and then we're all over each other again, loud and electric. In the jostling, I end up almost in Adam's lap, and when he moves aside to give me room on the seat, he covers my knee with his big hand and squeezes. His face is animated and warm-looking, and I have a strange urge to lick it. I resist, but then he leans down until his eyes are level with mine, and in a voice only I can hear, he says, "You almost made me cum in my pants tonight, Arkansas. Nice recovery," and winks. My whole body flushes three shades darker.
Addressing everybody now, he hollers, "Right? Who owned that motherfucker tonight? Oh, was it Kris Allen?" and everybody starts whooping and whistling and clapping, and Matt leans over to beat a drumroll across my shoulders, and I feel like I'm back on stage, and I'm just lit up like a firecracker, sizzling away into a puff of color and smoke.
Then Danny says, "Really, dude, you killed it! Was worried about you there for a minute this afternoon."
"Nerves, man. Nerves. Dunno what the fuck that was," I answer, speaking too fast, still feeling far too hot under my clothes.
Allison kicks her legs out from across the limo and shoves them into my lap. "Skirt!" I say, slightly alarmed, just realizing that she's shed the leggings she'd been wearing underneath (they're now tied around her head, and I'm not sure why), and she crosses her ankles in some poor imitation of being demure, thumping my knee with her heel. She laughs raucously.
"Yeah, did Adam kick your skinny ass or what?" she says, jabbing pointedly at me with her foot again. "Soon as you came back, you looked like you'd seen a ghooooost or something, and then you rocked it! Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar!" She makes a ridiculous gesture with her hands and sticks her tongue out like fucking Gene Simmons. "How'd you do it Adam?" She uncrosses her legs and kicks him in the calf.
"Skirt!" he says, looking sidelong at me then turning to wink at Allison, who's laughing again. "Oh, and it was nothing. Just told Mr. Allen here that he wasn't getting any tonight if he didn't shape up." A wicked grin swallows his whole face.
Everyone howls with laughter. Everyone except for Danny, who smiles uncomfortably and shifts around in his seat and jerks his knee unconsciously away from Scott's. And me. My mouth drops open. My eyes pop wide. It is such a hyperbolic expression of shock that everybody mercifully interprets it as a joke, and I get a moment to recover.
"Yeah, man," I say, trying to keep my voice even, my tone light. "It was a week, actually. No cock for a week. If that's not motivation, what is, right?" I laugh, finally, and it comes surprisingly easy and languid out of my mouth.
Matt covers Allison's ears with his hands. She pretends to bite his arm, but I see her looking over at me, something working behind her eyes.
I catch Adam's eye as everyone else dissolves back into their own flirting and shoving and giggling. He's gone oddly quiet. He stretches out his long arms, leans down toward me, and whispers, "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking at all." His face is open, serious, shadowed. I smile a little, vaguely amused that he thinks he's crossed the line, and vaguely pleased that he cares. His hand hangs loosely above my shoulder, and I shrug up, ever so slightly, so that his fingertips are just brushing it.
"Joke, dude. 'Sall right." I watch his mouth relax. I let my head fall back against the seat. My body is still glowing. I like his proximity to me. I like his smudgy makeup and his innuendo. I like the stupid stripes on his sweaty shirt. I am feeling a little off-kilter, a little reckless, like I always feel on Tuesday nights. This is the first time I've let myself anywhere near him after a show, I think. When I see that nobody is paying attention, that even Allison has moved on to bigger and better things (sticking her head out of the moon roof, singing AC/DC into the wind), I turn my face back toward him. He's looking at me, too, and he raises his eyebrows when our gazes lock. "You said almost, right?" I ask, cocking half of my mouth.
His eyebrows knit together. "Almost?"
"You almost came in your pants tonight?" I'm trying vainly to keep my face neutral, but I have to bite at my tongue to keep from laughing.
He does nothing to tame his own smile, just lets it go. "Yeah, I said almost. You're not that good."
"Just wanted to make sure you had some left." I close my eyes again, lean back, feeling all feline and satisfied, my belly full of warmth and my head full of nothing but a slow, steady burn.
______________________________
An hour and a half after we walk back through the doors of the mansion, I pull my fourth beer out of the fridge. I've never been a drinker, anyway, and these are the first I've allowed myself in over a month. The first I've allowed myself since I saw who my roommate was. I have crossed so many lines already. This one is easy.
I feel good. I feel loose and sloppy and warm, and I'm tossing pretzels across the table at Anoop and Matt, and the counter is a mess of empty bottles and crumbs, and Adam, who is working on a nice buzz of his own, keeps looking at me on his way through the kitchen, his cheeks all pink and his eyes amused and inviting and maybe just a little confused. When he comes through again, he walks through the doors to the patio, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.
I fling one last pretzel, and it bounces off the back of Matt's head, and I laugh, following him out.
Adam is alone, leaning against the side of the building, a beer in his hand, a lit cigarette in his mouth. He blows the smoke out when he sees me, and it disappears into the air like a dream, or a thought. "Those'll kill you, you fucker," I tell him, taking a swig of my drink, stepping towards him. The makeup around his eyes is smudged.
He smiles around his cigarette and catches it in between two fingers. "I don't think they're nearly as dangerous as you are, Arkansas." He tips his head back against the building, lifting his eyebrows at me, like he's asked me a question.
"Dangerous?" I ask, laughing out the side of my mouth. I don't stop walking until my toes touch his. "Maybe to my own immortal soul," I say, taking another drink. The smoke from his cigarette is curling up around my bottle. I can smell it now, acrid and dry. I lift it from his hand and stamp it out. He doesn't protest, just stares at me.
"What about mine?"
"Nah, yours is fine." I lean even closer, flatten my hand against the wall next to his shoulder. He brings his bottle up between us, takes a drink, never takes his eyes off of me, never blinks. His pupils are wide and round. I don't know if it's the dark, the alcohol, something else. I feel brave. I feel drunk. I feel like I want to kiss him until his guts smoke like his dead cigarette.
I bend my elbow, closing the gap between our bodies. He's still staring. My mouth is an inch from his when he wants to know, "Why?"
He whispers it. I feel his breath on my lips. "Why what?" I whisper back.
"Why is your soul in mortal peril? Why is mine okay?"
I can't figure out if he's serious. I want to tell him, You haven't made any promises. I want to tell him, You are brave. I want to tell him, You don't lie. I want to tell him, You brought me food and you made up my bed and you yelled at me in the bathroom and you took my ring off with your teeth so that I wouldn't feel it when my hands clenched into themselves and bled. But I don't. Instead, I open my hand and press it between his legs, lean all the way in, fit my body against his, and say soft, against his cheekbone, "Because I'm doing this, and you're just standing there behaving yourself."
He sucks in a hard breath. I don't know if his eyes close, but his left hand does, around the material of my shirt, and as I run my fingers along the closed metal teeth of his zipper, I feel him get hard under them. I press the heel of my hand down. He pushes back. He gets harder. The bottle he is holding in his other hand starts to tap against the wall. His fingers are curled tight around its neck. I can feel his heartbeat through his clothes, through mine, against my shoulder.
I cup my palm around him, tight, and find the shape of him through his pants. His lower lip is between his teeth. As slow as I dare, I move my hand, figure out how to slide the fabric so that his hips jerk, his heart stutters, his eyelids twitch. I can't see the door. I don't care.
"You better take it back," I whisper, teasing, into the space between his shoulder and his jaw.
"Take what back?" he says, his voice sounding breathless, wobbly.
"You said I wasn't that good. But I am. You're gonna cum in your pants now, aren't you?" I spread my forefinger and middle finger apart, squeeze his cock between the knuckles, stroke down with my thumb. I'm warm all over, grinning like a drunk asshole, feeling my own hard-on pressing into his hip.
He laughs, and it catches somewhere behind his teeth, and he pulls in another breath. "Yeah. Think I am."
I can't stop smiling long enough to kiss him properly. I can't stop touching him, even when I hear a chorus of laughter through the glass doors a few feet away. The muscles in his thighs are jerking and trembling. His breath is against my cheek, alcoholic and smoky and sour and hot. Again, he grabs his lip between his teeth, but he can't hold onto it; it's wet, and it slips away, and he says "Fuck," into the dark. My spine responds, lights up, starts blinking like a star. I force myself not to crash my hips against him.
I press even harder, move my hand even faster. When his body goes rigid and his bottle slams against the wall, cracking the neck clear off, and his jaw drops open and his head flies to the side like he's been slapped, I stop. I press my whole hand flat against him, hold tight until I feel the throbbing subside, rest my forehead against his shoulder, and try to ignore my own insistent pulse.
He drops his broken bottle and both of his hands come to my neck. His fingertips feel hard and possessive and safe. He turns my head and stares into my face. He's smiling. I am, too. "Get upstairs," he tells me.
"What for?" I ask, knowing, but wanting to hear it anyway, wanting to feel the words move the air.
"I'm going to take care of you the right way," he answers, his eyes lit up by the light outside, or by his drunkenness, or by some fire inside of him, like he swallowed the cherry of his cigarette.
"Oh, did I do it wrong?" I tease, hooking a finger through his belt loop.
"No," is all he says.
He doesn't have to ask me twice. I straighten my clothes and walk straight through the glass doors into the now-empty (save for a mess) kitchen, grab another beer out of the fridge, drop my empty bottle onto the counter, and head for the stairs, not feeling my feet, not feeling my head, not feeling anything but my pounding fucking erection and a weird glow around my heart, like a ring around the moon.
When I get through the door, I crack the bottle open on one of Adam's belts, draped across the knob, thinking hey, I guess college did teach me something useful, and lean against the dresser, visible in the dimness by the moonlight through the blinds. Thirty seconds later, he comes through the door and does the same thing. We clink our drinks together and laugh.
Adam saunters over to his bed and scoots back against the wall, draws up his knees, rests his long arms on them, takes a drink. "Undress," he says, cocking an eyebrow.
I stop mid-sip and stare. "What?" I laugh.
"Undress," he repeats, his mouth full of trouble. He knocks his bottle against the inside of his knee and smiles. "Get naked. You know, take off your fucking clothes?"
"What, no music?"
"I didn't say strip, shithead. I said undress. There's a difference."
"Yeah, one requires your wallet," I tease. I can feel a blush rising all the way from the soles of my feet.
"Right," he says back. "Not this one, though." He gestures at me with his beer. "So get naked."
"You first," I answer, feeling heavy and hot and uncomfortable under the weight of his eyes.
"No," he says, taking another drink. "Just you. I want to see you."
I take a long, slow drink and shut my eyes. The cold liquid slides down my throat. I slam it down on the dresser, harder than necessary, summoning up some balls. "All right. You asked for it," I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
He just nods at me from the bed. "Yeah. I did. So let's get a move on, Allen."
I step out of my shoes and kick them aside. Then I slip off my socks and throw them in the same direction. I try not to look at him. In my head, I think of all the people who have seen me undress. My parents. My brother. Coaches. Teammates. Doctors. Wardrobe. Katy. No big deal, I tell myself. But none of them ever asked me for it, ever watched me like I was the single most fascinating fucking thing alive. I can feel his eyes on my skin as I grab the hem of my shirt, my hands shaking a little, and pull it up over my head.
I straighten my hair with one hand, grab for my beer with the other.
"Pants," he says from the bed, his voice quiet, subdued, not as amused as it was. I risk a glance towards him. The look in his eyes arrests me. I fumble with my button, mishandle the zipper twice before I get a grip on it and slide it down, pulling it out and away from my still-aching cock. I grab both waistbands at once and push them past my hips, struggle a little as I step out of them. My cheeks are flaming. I reach for the bottle again and press its coolness to my face before I take another sip.
Adam takes a drink, too. I see him out of the corner of my eye. He puts his beer on the side table, flips on the lamp there, and slides up to the end of the bed. "Come over here," he says.
I walk, self-conscious, towards him. My heart feels like a bird trapped in my ribcage. In the soft light now, I can see that I actually am slightly pink. Everywhere. Pink and sweaty, and despite being pretty fucking drunk, nervous. I try not to stare at my ridiculous erection. He has no such courtesy.
"Sit down," he says, when I'm standing in front of him. He gestures absently to his lap. I look at him skeptically, but he raises his eyebrows, all business. I settle across his thighs, my bare legs on either side of his clothed ones.
His eyes roam all over me, and I don't know where the hell to put mine. They jump from his messy hair to his fucked-up eye-makeup to his hands, resting on top of my thighs now, to his freckled nose, and back again, making a wide circle across his body.
"Did it hurt?" he asks, running two fingers across the scar on my ribs. Not, where'd you get this? or what happened? or oh my gosh. Just, did it hurt?
"Not really," I say. My voice sounds wrecked, slightly slurred. I don't think it's from drinking. His fingers on my body make my brain short-circuit. I want to lean into him, press my cock into his belly, rock my hips until I cum, staring straight into his face, which is leaning into me now (oh my fucking god, I think, for no real reason at all) and pressing kisses across my chest.
I don't, though. I just shut my eyes, feel the heat of his mouth on my skin, feel cool every time he breathes. "Good," he whispers. "I'm glad it didn't hurt." His lips are working their way up the cords of my neck, stopping to bite at the bones there, lick at all the places my blood beats close to the surface. I tilt my head back, up to the ceiling. His hair brushes the skin under my chin. His nails run down my back, making it arch and shudder. He's kissing a path between my shoulders, across my chest again. He lifts my arm, turns it so the paler skin underneath faces him, sucks hard near the bend in my elbow.
I am holding on to his shirt in tight fists, willing myself to stay still, stay silent, just exist.
His hands come back to my hips, hold them firm but gentle. His thumbs work their way across my belly, which feels hot and tight and full of singing crickets, making slow circles in my flesh. His head is dipping lower, his lips brushing everywhere they can reach.
I feel his hands urging me off of his lap. I let myself be stood up, turned around, sat back down on the bed. His mouth never leaves me. It follows me, hot and wet and soft and maddening, at my ear, my wrist, the bridge of my nose. Everything under my skin is melting, turning into liquid sunshine, threatening to boil over. I can feel my breath coming through my lips now, shallow and holy.
He pushes my knees wide apart, one in each hand, and kneels down between them. His lips find the crease between my hip and my thigh, and he runs his tongue along it. My cock feels heavier, needier, and I make some gutteral sound that I've never heard come through me before. He does it again. My fingers dig into my leg. With one hand, he uncurls them, taps them out straight as he kisses down the inside of my thigh, light and quick, making all of my muscles leap and clench and leap again. My head spins and spins, and I think I might pass out when he does it again to my other thigh, running his fingernails down my calves.
He presses a kiss into each of my knees, then stands up between them. He takes my face in both hands and brushes his lips against mine, soft at first, then hard, sliding his tongue between them, and then I can't be still any longer, and I grab him with all the strength I can pull out of myself and kiss his mouth like it's the one fucking thing that's going to keep me from sliding back onto the bed and dying where I sit. I hear my blood running through my veins. It's the creek behind my grandfather's house, swelled and rushing after it's rained. It's one long, perfect note swimming inside of my head, vibrating my bones.
I chase him when he lets go, but he puts one finger to my hungry lips, says, "Shhhhhh." I feel myself sigh, or mewl, or make some desperate sound, and then he's kneeling again. I feel him take my cock in one hand and open his palm underneath. My heart thumps against my chest. Hard. He brings his mouth to the head and kisses it, close-lipped, twice, slow. I feel his lips part. He rests the underside on his tongue and just runs it back and forth across the nerves there. Little explosions go off behind my eyes. He runs his tongue in slow, languid circles, taking his time, making me whimper. I am reduced to noise. Noise and need and breath, coming in unpredictable gasps as he finally opens all the way for me and lets me in.
He hollows his cheeks. He lets his tongue bump the head of my cock lightly against his top teeth every time he pulls back. He pushes the tip against the slit there before he lets me slip back inside. He does this slow, then a little faster, then faster still, until my muscles are growing taut and my throat is opening wide for the sound working its way up from my gut.
Then. I feel him stop. "Open your eyes," he whispers, as I sit, tense and trembling, on the edge of the bed, the edge of my sanity, the edge of an abyss whose bottom is unfathomable. I open them.
"Look at me," he whispers. I feel his breath on my cock. I screw up my face, look down. He smiles up at me, kisses the inside of my leg. "Are you listening?" he asks.
I nod in slow-motion, the blood at my temples pounding, my whole body screaming inside itself.
"There is nothing wrong with your soul. Everything about you is fucking beautiful." And then he kisses me again, lets me push past his lips, and I squeeze my eyes shut and feel everything let go. I am half aware that I'm sobbing, that my whole chest has let go at the same time, that everything is pouring out of me at once, and I fall forward, and he catches me and lets me crumple down into his lap, and I hold on because I don't know what else to do.
Part 1: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/274163.html
Part 2: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/284821.html
Part 3: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/296424.html
Part 4: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/300342.html
Part 4.5: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/305131.html
Part 5: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/326348.html
Part 6: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/367971.html
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Didn't happen. Blahblahblah.
Summary: Performance night has gone well, and everybody gets a little drunk and slaphappy.
Author's Note: This is long. And it could have been longer. Yipes! Sorry.
When we leave, we are all wrapped around each other, moving through space like some creature out of a science fiction movie - nine heads, eighteen legs, arms shooting out in every direction. The air around us is crackling and sparking. Nobody is nervous anymore. We're sweating our makeup off, laughing, feeding off each other's body heat and bliss.
Allison's painted-pink mouth is all over my face, dropping big, exuberant kisses, leaving lipstick prints everywhere. "Out of control!" she's shrieking into my ear, "just out of control!" Megan leans in from the other side, reaching across Matt (who gets a faceful of boob) and plants one right in the middle of my forehead She catches Matt's smile on the way back (which is saying something along the lines of I'll give you some good, good loving, sweetheart), and elbows him hard, before kissing him, too. Adam is slapping Anoop on the ass, talking about his jeans, telling him he's going to wake up to a bed full of teenage girls, and Anoop is saying that's how he'll know he's really made it. Gokey is doing some weird pelvic-thrusting move I never want to see again (but probably will), laughing at himself. I'm just breathing all of it down deep, letting it fill me up, inflate me like helium, lift me up as high as I can go, take me out of myself for a minute.
We make our way through the flashing cameras, trying to be civilized role models until we pile into the limo, and then we're all over each other again, loud and electric. In the jostling, I end up almost in Adam's lap, and when he moves aside to give me room on the seat, he covers my knee with his big hand and squeezes. His face is animated and warm-looking, and I have a strange urge to lick it. I resist, but then he leans down until his eyes are level with mine, and in a voice only I can hear, he says, "You almost made me cum in my pants tonight, Arkansas. Nice recovery," and winks. My whole body flushes three shades darker.
Addressing everybody now, he hollers, "Right? Who owned that motherfucker tonight? Oh, was it Kris Allen?" and everybody starts whooping and whistling and clapping, and Matt leans over to beat a drumroll across my shoulders, and I feel like I'm back on stage, and I'm just lit up like a firecracker, sizzling away into a puff of color and smoke.
Then Danny says, "Really, dude, you killed it! Was worried about you there for a minute this afternoon."
"Nerves, man. Nerves. Dunno what the fuck that was," I answer, speaking too fast, still feeling far too hot under my clothes.
Allison kicks her legs out from across the limo and shoves them into my lap. "Skirt!" I say, slightly alarmed, just realizing that she's shed the leggings she'd been wearing underneath (they're now tied around her head, and I'm not sure why), and she crosses her ankles in some poor imitation of being demure, thumping my knee with her heel. She laughs raucously.
"Yeah, did Adam kick your skinny ass or what?" she says, jabbing pointedly at me with her foot again. "Soon as you came back, you looked like you'd seen a ghooooost or something, and then you rocked it! Raaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar!" She makes a ridiculous gesture with her hands and sticks her tongue out like fucking Gene Simmons. "How'd you do it Adam?" She uncrosses her legs and kicks him in the calf.
"Skirt!" he says, looking sidelong at me then turning to wink at Allison, who's laughing again. "Oh, and it was nothing. Just told Mr. Allen here that he wasn't getting any tonight if he didn't shape up." A wicked grin swallows his whole face.
Everyone howls with laughter. Everyone except for Danny, who smiles uncomfortably and shifts around in his seat and jerks his knee unconsciously away from Scott's. And me. My mouth drops open. My eyes pop wide. It is such a hyperbolic expression of shock that everybody mercifully interprets it as a joke, and I get a moment to recover.
"Yeah, man," I say, trying to keep my voice even, my tone light. "It was a week, actually. No cock for a week. If that's not motivation, what is, right?" I laugh, finally, and it comes surprisingly easy and languid out of my mouth.
Matt covers Allison's ears with his hands. She pretends to bite his arm, but I see her looking over at me, something working behind her eyes.
I catch Adam's eye as everyone else dissolves back into their own flirting and shoving and giggling. He's gone oddly quiet. He stretches out his long arms, leans down toward me, and whispers, "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking at all." His face is open, serious, shadowed. I smile a little, vaguely amused that he thinks he's crossed the line, and vaguely pleased that he cares. His hand hangs loosely above my shoulder, and I shrug up, ever so slightly, so that his fingertips are just brushing it.
"Joke, dude. 'Sall right." I watch his mouth relax. I let my head fall back against the seat. My body is still glowing. I like his proximity to me. I like his smudgy makeup and his innuendo. I like the stupid stripes on his sweaty shirt. I am feeling a little off-kilter, a little reckless, like I always feel on Tuesday nights. This is the first time I've let myself anywhere near him after a show, I think. When I see that nobody is paying attention, that even Allison has moved on to bigger and better things (sticking her head out of the moon roof, singing AC/DC into the wind), I turn my face back toward him. He's looking at me, too, and he raises his eyebrows when our gazes lock. "You said almost, right?" I ask, cocking half of my mouth.
His eyebrows knit together. "Almost?"
"You almost came in your pants tonight?" I'm trying vainly to keep my face neutral, but I have to bite at my tongue to keep from laughing.
He does nothing to tame his own smile, just lets it go. "Yeah, I said almost. You're not that good."
"Just wanted to make sure you had some left." I close my eyes again, lean back, feeling all feline and satisfied, my belly full of warmth and my head full of nothing but a slow, steady burn.
______________________________
An hour and a half after we walk back through the doors of the mansion, I pull my fourth beer out of the fridge. I've never been a drinker, anyway, and these are the first I've allowed myself in over a month. The first I've allowed myself since I saw who my roommate was. I have crossed so many lines already. This one is easy.
I feel good. I feel loose and sloppy and warm, and I'm tossing pretzels across the table at Anoop and Matt, and the counter is a mess of empty bottles and crumbs, and Adam, who is working on a nice buzz of his own, keeps looking at me on his way through the kitchen, his cheeks all pink and his eyes amused and inviting and maybe just a little confused. When he comes through again, he walks through the doors to the patio, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.
I fling one last pretzel, and it bounces off the back of Matt's head, and I laugh, following him out.
Adam is alone, leaning against the side of the building, a beer in his hand, a lit cigarette in his mouth. He blows the smoke out when he sees me, and it disappears into the air like a dream, or a thought. "Those'll kill you, you fucker," I tell him, taking a swig of my drink, stepping towards him. The makeup around his eyes is smudged.
He smiles around his cigarette and catches it in between two fingers. "I don't think they're nearly as dangerous as you are, Arkansas." He tips his head back against the building, lifting his eyebrows at me, like he's asked me a question.
"Dangerous?" I ask, laughing out the side of my mouth. I don't stop walking until my toes touch his. "Maybe to my own immortal soul," I say, taking another drink. The smoke from his cigarette is curling up around my bottle. I can smell it now, acrid and dry. I lift it from his hand and stamp it out. He doesn't protest, just stares at me.
"What about mine?"
"Nah, yours is fine." I lean even closer, flatten my hand against the wall next to his shoulder. He brings his bottle up between us, takes a drink, never takes his eyes off of me, never blinks. His pupils are wide and round. I don't know if it's the dark, the alcohol, something else. I feel brave. I feel drunk. I feel like I want to kiss him until his guts smoke like his dead cigarette.
I bend my elbow, closing the gap between our bodies. He's still staring. My mouth is an inch from his when he wants to know, "Why?"
He whispers it. I feel his breath on my lips. "Why what?" I whisper back.
"Why is your soul in mortal peril? Why is mine okay?"
I can't figure out if he's serious. I want to tell him, You haven't made any promises. I want to tell him, You are brave. I want to tell him, You don't lie. I want to tell him, You brought me food and you made up my bed and you yelled at me in the bathroom and you took my ring off with your teeth so that I wouldn't feel it when my hands clenched into themselves and bled. But I don't. Instead, I open my hand and press it between his legs, lean all the way in, fit my body against his, and say soft, against his cheekbone, "Because I'm doing this, and you're just standing there behaving yourself."
He sucks in a hard breath. I don't know if his eyes close, but his left hand does, around the material of my shirt, and as I run my fingers along the closed metal teeth of his zipper, I feel him get hard under them. I press the heel of my hand down. He pushes back. He gets harder. The bottle he is holding in his other hand starts to tap against the wall. His fingers are curled tight around its neck. I can feel his heartbeat through his clothes, through mine, against my shoulder.
I cup my palm around him, tight, and find the shape of him through his pants. His lower lip is between his teeth. As slow as I dare, I move my hand, figure out how to slide the fabric so that his hips jerk, his heart stutters, his eyelids twitch. I can't see the door. I don't care.
"You better take it back," I whisper, teasing, into the space between his shoulder and his jaw.
"Take what back?" he says, his voice sounding breathless, wobbly.
"You said I wasn't that good. But I am. You're gonna cum in your pants now, aren't you?" I spread my forefinger and middle finger apart, squeeze his cock between the knuckles, stroke down with my thumb. I'm warm all over, grinning like a drunk asshole, feeling my own hard-on pressing into his hip.
He laughs, and it catches somewhere behind his teeth, and he pulls in another breath. "Yeah. Think I am."
I can't stop smiling long enough to kiss him properly. I can't stop touching him, even when I hear a chorus of laughter through the glass doors a few feet away. The muscles in his thighs are jerking and trembling. His breath is against my cheek, alcoholic and smoky and sour and hot. Again, he grabs his lip between his teeth, but he can't hold onto it; it's wet, and it slips away, and he says "Fuck," into the dark. My spine responds, lights up, starts blinking like a star. I force myself not to crash my hips against him.
I press even harder, move my hand even faster. When his body goes rigid and his bottle slams against the wall, cracking the neck clear off, and his jaw drops open and his head flies to the side like he's been slapped, I stop. I press my whole hand flat against him, hold tight until I feel the throbbing subside, rest my forehead against his shoulder, and try to ignore my own insistent pulse.
He drops his broken bottle and both of his hands come to my neck. His fingertips feel hard and possessive and safe. He turns my head and stares into my face. He's smiling. I am, too. "Get upstairs," he tells me.
"What for?" I ask, knowing, but wanting to hear it anyway, wanting to feel the words move the air.
"I'm going to take care of you the right way," he answers, his eyes lit up by the light outside, or by his drunkenness, or by some fire inside of him, like he swallowed the cherry of his cigarette.
"Oh, did I do it wrong?" I tease, hooking a finger through his belt loop.
"No," is all he says.
He doesn't have to ask me twice. I straighten my clothes and walk straight through the glass doors into the now-empty (save for a mess) kitchen, grab another beer out of the fridge, drop my empty bottle onto the counter, and head for the stairs, not feeling my feet, not feeling my head, not feeling anything but my pounding fucking erection and a weird glow around my heart, like a ring around the moon.
When I get through the door, I crack the bottle open on one of Adam's belts, draped across the knob, thinking hey, I guess college did teach me something useful, and lean against the dresser, visible in the dimness by the moonlight through the blinds. Thirty seconds later, he comes through the door and does the same thing. We clink our drinks together and laugh.
Adam saunters over to his bed and scoots back against the wall, draws up his knees, rests his long arms on them, takes a drink. "Undress," he says, cocking an eyebrow.
I stop mid-sip and stare. "What?" I laugh.
"Undress," he repeats, his mouth full of trouble. He knocks his bottle against the inside of his knee and smiles. "Get naked. You know, take off your fucking clothes?"
"What, no music?"
"I didn't say strip, shithead. I said undress. There's a difference."
"Yeah, one requires your wallet," I tease. I can feel a blush rising all the way from the soles of my feet.
"Right," he says back. "Not this one, though." He gestures at me with his beer. "So get naked."
"You first," I answer, feeling heavy and hot and uncomfortable under the weight of his eyes.
"No," he says, taking another drink. "Just you. I want to see you."
I take a long, slow drink and shut my eyes. The cold liquid slides down my throat. I slam it down on the dresser, harder than necessary, summoning up some balls. "All right. You asked for it," I say, trying to sound nonchalant.
He just nods at me from the bed. "Yeah. I did. So let's get a move on, Allen."
I step out of my shoes and kick them aside. Then I slip off my socks and throw them in the same direction. I try not to look at him. In my head, I think of all the people who have seen me undress. My parents. My brother. Coaches. Teammates. Doctors. Wardrobe. Katy. No big deal, I tell myself. But none of them ever asked me for it, ever watched me like I was the single most fascinating fucking thing alive. I can feel his eyes on my skin as I grab the hem of my shirt, my hands shaking a little, and pull it up over my head.
I straighten my hair with one hand, grab for my beer with the other.
"Pants," he says from the bed, his voice quiet, subdued, not as amused as it was. I risk a glance towards him. The look in his eyes arrests me. I fumble with my button, mishandle the zipper twice before I get a grip on it and slide it down, pulling it out and away from my still-aching cock. I grab both waistbands at once and push them past my hips, struggle a little as I step out of them. My cheeks are flaming. I reach for the bottle again and press its coolness to my face before I take another sip.
Adam takes a drink, too. I see him out of the corner of my eye. He puts his beer on the side table, flips on the lamp there, and slides up to the end of the bed. "Come over here," he says.
I walk, self-conscious, towards him. My heart feels like a bird trapped in my ribcage. In the soft light now, I can see that I actually am slightly pink. Everywhere. Pink and sweaty, and despite being pretty fucking drunk, nervous. I try not to stare at my ridiculous erection. He has no such courtesy.
"Sit down," he says, when I'm standing in front of him. He gestures absently to his lap. I look at him skeptically, but he raises his eyebrows, all business. I settle across his thighs, my bare legs on either side of his clothed ones.
His eyes roam all over me, and I don't know where the hell to put mine. They jump from his messy hair to his fucked-up eye-makeup to his hands, resting on top of my thighs now, to his freckled nose, and back again, making a wide circle across his body.
"Did it hurt?" he asks, running two fingers across the scar on my ribs. Not, where'd you get this? or what happened? or oh my gosh. Just, did it hurt?
"Not really," I say. My voice sounds wrecked, slightly slurred. I don't think it's from drinking. His fingers on my body make my brain short-circuit. I want to lean into him, press my cock into his belly, rock my hips until I cum, staring straight into his face, which is leaning into me now (oh my fucking god, I think, for no real reason at all) and pressing kisses across my chest.
I don't, though. I just shut my eyes, feel the heat of his mouth on my skin, feel cool every time he breathes. "Good," he whispers. "I'm glad it didn't hurt." His lips are working their way up the cords of my neck, stopping to bite at the bones there, lick at all the places my blood beats close to the surface. I tilt my head back, up to the ceiling. His hair brushes the skin under my chin. His nails run down my back, making it arch and shudder. He's kissing a path between my shoulders, across my chest again. He lifts my arm, turns it so the paler skin underneath faces him, sucks hard near the bend in my elbow.
I am holding on to his shirt in tight fists, willing myself to stay still, stay silent, just exist.
His hands come back to my hips, hold them firm but gentle. His thumbs work their way across my belly, which feels hot and tight and full of singing crickets, making slow circles in my flesh. His head is dipping lower, his lips brushing everywhere they can reach.
I feel his hands urging me off of his lap. I let myself be stood up, turned around, sat back down on the bed. His mouth never leaves me. It follows me, hot and wet and soft and maddening, at my ear, my wrist, the bridge of my nose. Everything under my skin is melting, turning into liquid sunshine, threatening to boil over. I can feel my breath coming through my lips now, shallow and holy.
He pushes my knees wide apart, one in each hand, and kneels down between them. His lips find the crease between my hip and my thigh, and he runs his tongue along it. My cock feels heavier, needier, and I make some gutteral sound that I've never heard come through me before. He does it again. My fingers dig into my leg. With one hand, he uncurls them, taps them out straight as he kisses down the inside of my thigh, light and quick, making all of my muscles leap and clench and leap again. My head spins and spins, and I think I might pass out when he does it again to my other thigh, running his fingernails down my calves.
He presses a kiss into each of my knees, then stands up between them. He takes my face in both hands and brushes his lips against mine, soft at first, then hard, sliding his tongue between them, and then I can't be still any longer, and I grab him with all the strength I can pull out of myself and kiss his mouth like it's the one fucking thing that's going to keep me from sliding back onto the bed and dying where I sit. I hear my blood running through my veins. It's the creek behind my grandfather's house, swelled and rushing after it's rained. It's one long, perfect note swimming inside of my head, vibrating my bones.
I chase him when he lets go, but he puts one finger to my hungry lips, says, "Shhhhhh." I feel myself sigh, or mewl, or make some desperate sound, and then he's kneeling again. I feel him take my cock in one hand and open his palm underneath. My heart thumps against my chest. Hard. He brings his mouth to the head and kisses it, close-lipped, twice, slow. I feel his lips part. He rests the underside on his tongue and just runs it back and forth across the nerves there. Little explosions go off behind my eyes. He runs his tongue in slow, languid circles, taking his time, making me whimper. I am reduced to noise. Noise and need and breath, coming in unpredictable gasps as he finally opens all the way for me and lets me in.
He hollows his cheeks. He lets his tongue bump the head of my cock lightly against his top teeth every time he pulls back. He pushes the tip against the slit there before he lets me slip back inside. He does this slow, then a little faster, then faster still, until my muscles are growing taut and my throat is opening wide for the sound working its way up from my gut.
Then. I feel him stop. "Open your eyes," he whispers, as I sit, tense and trembling, on the edge of the bed, the edge of my sanity, the edge of an abyss whose bottom is unfathomable. I open them.
"Look at me," he whispers. I feel his breath on my cock. I screw up my face, look down. He smiles up at me, kisses the inside of my leg. "Are you listening?" he asks.
I nod in slow-motion, the blood at my temples pounding, my whole body screaming inside itself.
"There is nothing wrong with your soul. Everything about you is fucking beautiful." And then he kisses me again, lets me push past his lips, and I squeeze my eyes shut and feel everything let go. I am half aware that I'm sobbing, that my whole chest has let go at the same time, that everything is pouring out of me at once, and I fall forward, and he catches me and lets me crumple down into his lap, and I hold on because I don't know what else to do.
Part 1: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/274163.html
Part 2: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/284821.html
Part 3: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/296424.html
Part 4: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/300342.html
Part 4.5: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/305131.html
Part 5: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/326348.html
Part 6: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/367971.html