Want // Part 8 (for real!)
Title: Want // Part 8 (for realllll!)
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: Not my boys. This didn't happen.
Summary: Everybody gets cleaned up. But then things get REALLY messy.
Author's Note: I changed the last part to part 7.5, because equus07 pointed out, quite correctly, that it just wasn't part 8. And since I've been home sick for three days (UGH), I've had plenty of time to write... hence the overload of fic from me recently, haha.
I finally force myself to stop when the stitch in my side becomes so intense that I can barely get a breath past it, and my stomach feels like it's been pummeled by Allison's happy fists for three hours. I cough and try to breathe deep, try to slow down the hysterical spasms, and it's a battle, but I emerge victorious to find Adam rising to his feet, still chuckling, pulling off his shirt.
"We are so revolting right now," he says, tossing it at the basket in the corner of the room and missing. "Seriously. This is like an episode of CSI. DNA everywhere."
That almost gets me going again, but I hold onto my composure by a single, wavering thread and agree with him.
"Come shower." Unbuttoning his pants, he heads toward the bathroom. I follow.
I watch from the doorway as he strips the rest of the way down. He balls up his pants and wrinkles his nose at them, chucking them across the floor. I laugh a little. He leans through the curtain to adjust the temperature, and I watch the stretch of his back, the curve of his ass, the line of his shoulder. He's so pale under the hard white light. He's pale, and he's tall, and he's broad in some places and narrow in others, like a road that's hard to navigate in the rain. A few errant drops of water hit his arm as he turns the shower on and slide down like tears.
"Hotter or cooler?" he asks as I step in.
"Perfect," I answer. It is, too. Hot enough to make me feel clean, but not hot enough to burn. "I hate sharing showers, by the way. I always get an elbow to the face, and somebody's always cold."
"I won't let you get cold," he grins. "And I'll watch my elbows. Promise." He puts out both of his arms to me, and I step in between them, letting him pull me carefully against him under the spray. He turns us both so my back gets the warmth and uses one hand to brush back my hair.
He doesn't let me get cold. He doesn't elbow me in the face. He traces droplets down my cheeks with his fingers, though, and uses his thumbs to smooth my eyebrows back into place after I wash my hair.
I draw him closer until the water hits his face, and he leans up into it with a sigh. I cup my hands to catch the tiny stream that bounces from his chin, then open them so it splashes across my feet. I splay my palm across his belly and watch the shifting shape of the water as it pools around my fingers, try to read it like tea leaves. Everything changes too quickly. I can't follow the plot. I don't know where this will end. I give up and lean my head into his shoulder, shut my eyes, let the water rush around me and fill me up with white noise.
It's late when we emerge, clean and bare and dry, from the bathroom. Much later than I thought. I don't feel tired until I glance at my watch on the dresser, and then, suddenly, it feels like I have sand in my limbs and weights on my eyelids. Adam notices, too. He tugs gently on my earlobe. "Wanna share a sleeping bag?"
I smile slowly and roll my eyes. "I knew I shouldn't have told you that. Never gonna let it go, are you?"
"Never," he answers, then flicks off his lamp and pulls the rumpled covers of his bed all the way back. I crawl gratefully between them. They're cool against my belly, and his arm is warm across my back, and his eyes are open, staring at me, when I turn my head to look at him. "Sleep," he says. "Now."
"I was waiting for the show," I say, half of my mouth smooshed into the pillow. I'm not ready yet to call it a night.
"What? That was like, eight hours ago or something. And if I never have to sing the words white boy again, I'll be perfectly content." His eyes are gleaming in the soft bit of moonlight coming through the window. He's teasing me. He knows what I'm talking about.
"Not that show, asshole," I grin back. "Though that was pretty good, too. Not that I expected anything less from the Great Adam Lambert."
"Shut the fuck up," he says. "You owned my ass tonight."
"Whatever. I was giving you a friggin' compliment; just give me that cheesy little thank you and move on," I tease. "And anyway, that's not the show I was talking about."
"Oh?" He lifts an eyebrow.
"Show me how you do it," I say, not the slightest bit embarrassed anymore.
"Do what?" He wants me to say it. Prick, I think affectionately.
"Spank, " I say. "Show me. What happens in the sleeping bag stays in the sleeping bag, I promise."
"Oh, well in that case," he deadpans, drumming his fingers across my back lightly. "It's all the same," he laughs. "You've seen one dude, you've seen them all."
"Then why'd you want to see me?" I ask.
He pauses, just for a beat, caught off guard, before he says, "That, my dear, was an accident. Not my fault you had to handle things right there in the open air."
"Bullshit," I laugh. "Bullshit and you know it. You couldn't get your pervy ass out of that shower fast enough."
"What can I say?" he shrugs into the bedclothes. "The lighting was bad the night before. I wanted to see if you look as good as you taste."
That finally brings color to my cheeks. My eyes dart away from his. I can feel him smile, can feel the heat radiating from his skin. I wonder if I taste like him, I think fleetingly. Is it all the same?
"For the record," he says, "you do."
"Well, then, your turn," I say quickly, not sure how to respond to that. "Fair is fair."
"I guess it is, hm?" I brave his gaze again and find him looking expectantly at me. "I'm going to need a little inspiration, I think. " The expression on his face is hazy and calm. I am trying to figure out what color his eyes are. They've gotten darker and deeper, become wells. I want to dip my bucket in and drink.
"I'll get you started, but you have to finish," I whisper.
"Too late," he says. He rolls up onto his hip and stretches all the way out. I reach over him and pull the covers away, and I see what he means. For a moment, we just lay there. The air vibrates a little. It purrs like a cat. "Just kiss me," he says, quiet, gentle.
I do. I lean up onto my own hip, press his back into the mattress, and catch the side of his face in my palm. My thumb glides through his lashes. They flutter. Our noses bump, like this is the first time we've done this. His mouth curls into a smile, and I kiss it wider and wider. We share breath between us. Both of our lips feel cool, dry. I don't let myself get greedy. I pull away then reach over to turn the lamp back on. It flickers a little, then dims, like the bulb is loose. I settle back onto my side.
Adam's eyes are closed. He drags the fingers of his right hand up his thigh, across his jutting hip, and then he closes them around his cock. I watch him squeeze a little, then loosen his fist and start to move. It's familiar. I keep my body still, but all of my cells, all of my nerves are moving with him, are matching his rhythm, which gets steady and purposeful. I know it so well. I can feel what he feels, the sensations stacking on top of one another, building a precarious tower up towards God, seeing how tall they can go before the earth shakes and everything falls.
I can't take my eyes off of him. He's amazing, all tight, trembling muscle and unchoreographed hips, his lip slipping between his teeth. I fight the urge to put my hand over his heart and feel it push back against my palm. His eyes are closed and ticcing, like he's having a dream. I want to be in it. I wonder if I am.
Without thinking, I reach over and touch his left hand. He closes it around me. I squeeze back. I can feel myself, stiff and responsive, but I let it be.
His grip tightens on my hand. Oh, fuck, he whispers, and it sounds oddly like a prayer, soft and serene and lovely.
"Tell me," I whisper back, "before you..."
Now.
With my other hand, I reach and touch him, stop him before he cums all over his belly. I lean over, speak against the hollow place below his sternum, "In my mouth. Don't want you to get messy again."
He sucks in a breath as I close my lips over his cock. A quick jerk of his hips, and then I taste him again, this time more bitter, this time, hotter. It's not all the same, I think idly as I swallow and lick at him, making sure it's all gone before I press a kiss to his clean, pale stomach. His hand tangles in my damp hair.
I stretch out beside him, my full length. I watch the muscles in his face relax, and then he opens his eyes to look at me.
"What did you think about?" I ask him.
"Your hands," he says. "Your hands, and your face, and that thing you do with your arms when the music stops but your heart keeps going."
I don't ask him what he means. I just wanted it to be me.
I start to reach for the light, but the bulb burns itself out just as my hand comes up, and then his arms wrap around me and my head swims into the black part of the sea.
_______________________________________________
The alarm clock doesn't wake me in the morning. A heavy, thundering pounding on the bedroom door does. I wake with a start, and my heart practically shoots through my ribcage and hits the ceiling. I sit straight up. Adam leans up, bleary-eyed onto his elbow.
Allison's voice is much too loud for this hour, I'm sure, though I have no idea what hour it actually is, since, when I look at the clock across the room on my nightstand, it's black. Then I realize that light is streaming in through the blinds. Shit, I think, starting to panic. I'd forgotten that people had been in to clean yesterday while we were gone. They always manage to knock that fucking plug out of the wall.
"Kris!" she's hollering in between thumps. "Adam! It's eight o-flippin-clooooooock!"
"Shit! Hang on!" I holler back, leaping out of bed and reaching into Adam's cluttered, open drawer for a pair of pajama pants.
She doesn't hear me through her own banging, though, because the next thing out of her mouth is "I'm coming in!" and then the unlocked door (shit, I barely have time to think again) starts to open. Adam frantically pulls the sheets around himself, and I'm just pulling the drawstring of pants that clearly aren't mine tight around my waist, when Allison comes stomping through, still yelling about the time.
I see her step into the room, and I feel like I might be dreaming (I'm hoping I'm dreaming) as she surveys the scene: one bed made, one not. Me, standing in pants that are far too long, the drawer yanked open at my feet. Adam, wrapped in the bedclothes.
She reacts quickly, kicking the door shut behind her with her bare heel. I can hear other voices in the hallway. I recognize Megan's laugh, Matt's voice. For a minute, the air is completely still. Looking at her, I realize that she's got my cell phone in her hand.
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
Part 7: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/397220.html
Part 7.5: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/403854.html
Author: l3petitemort
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kris/Adam
Disclaimer: Not my boys. This didn't happen.
Summary: Everybody gets cleaned up. But then things get REALLY messy.
Author's Note: I changed the last part to part 7.5, because equus07 pointed out, quite correctly, that it just wasn't part 8. And since I've been home sick for three days (UGH), I've had plenty of time to write... hence the overload of fic from me recently, haha.
I finally force myself to stop when the stitch in my side becomes so intense that I can barely get a breath past it, and my stomach feels like it's been pummeled by Allison's happy fists for three hours. I cough and try to breathe deep, try to slow down the hysterical spasms, and it's a battle, but I emerge victorious to find Adam rising to his feet, still chuckling, pulling off his shirt.
"We are so revolting right now," he says, tossing it at the basket in the corner of the room and missing. "Seriously. This is like an episode of CSI. DNA everywhere."
That almost gets me going again, but I hold onto my composure by a single, wavering thread and agree with him.
"Come shower." Unbuttoning his pants, he heads toward the bathroom. I follow.
I watch from the doorway as he strips the rest of the way down. He balls up his pants and wrinkles his nose at them, chucking them across the floor. I laugh a little. He leans through the curtain to adjust the temperature, and I watch the stretch of his back, the curve of his ass, the line of his shoulder. He's so pale under the hard white light. He's pale, and he's tall, and he's broad in some places and narrow in others, like a road that's hard to navigate in the rain. A few errant drops of water hit his arm as he turns the shower on and slide down like tears.
"Hotter or cooler?" he asks as I step in.
"Perfect," I answer. It is, too. Hot enough to make me feel clean, but not hot enough to burn. "I hate sharing showers, by the way. I always get an elbow to the face, and somebody's always cold."
"I won't let you get cold," he grins. "And I'll watch my elbows. Promise." He puts out both of his arms to me, and I step in between them, letting him pull me carefully against him under the spray. He turns us both so my back gets the warmth and uses one hand to brush back my hair.
He doesn't let me get cold. He doesn't elbow me in the face. He traces droplets down my cheeks with his fingers, though, and uses his thumbs to smooth my eyebrows back into place after I wash my hair.
I draw him closer until the water hits his face, and he leans up into it with a sigh. I cup my hands to catch the tiny stream that bounces from his chin, then open them so it splashes across my feet. I splay my palm across his belly and watch the shifting shape of the water as it pools around my fingers, try to read it like tea leaves. Everything changes too quickly. I can't follow the plot. I don't know where this will end. I give up and lean my head into his shoulder, shut my eyes, let the water rush around me and fill me up with white noise.
It's late when we emerge, clean and bare and dry, from the bathroom. Much later than I thought. I don't feel tired until I glance at my watch on the dresser, and then, suddenly, it feels like I have sand in my limbs and weights on my eyelids. Adam notices, too. He tugs gently on my earlobe. "Wanna share a sleeping bag?"
I smile slowly and roll my eyes. "I knew I shouldn't have told you that. Never gonna let it go, are you?"
"Never," he answers, then flicks off his lamp and pulls the rumpled covers of his bed all the way back. I crawl gratefully between them. They're cool against my belly, and his arm is warm across my back, and his eyes are open, staring at me, when I turn my head to look at him. "Sleep," he says. "Now."
"I was waiting for the show," I say, half of my mouth smooshed into the pillow. I'm not ready yet to call it a night.
"What? That was like, eight hours ago or something. And if I never have to sing the words white boy again, I'll be perfectly content." His eyes are gleaming in the soft bit of moonlight coming through the window. He's teasing me. He knows what I'm talking about.
"Not that show, asshole," I grin back. "Though that was pretty good, too. Not that I expected anything less from the Great Adam Lambert."
"Shut the fuck up," he says. "You owned my ass tonight."
"Whatever. I was giving you a friggin' compliment; just give me that cheesy little thank you and move on," I tease. "And anyway, that's not the show I was talking about."
"Oh?" He lifts an eyebrow.
"Show me how you do it," I say, not the slightest bit embarrassed anymore.
"Do what?" He wants me to say it. Prick, I think affectionately.
"Spank, " I say. "Show me. What happens in the sleeping bag stays in the sleeping bag, I promise."
"Oh, well in that case," he deadpans, drumming his fingers across my back lightly. "It's all the same," he laughs. "You've seen one dude, you've seen them all."
"Then why'd you want to see me?" I ask.
He pauses, just for a beat, caught off guard, before he says, "That, my dear, was an accident. Not my fault you had to handle things right there in the open air."
"Bullshit," I laugh. "Bullshit and you know it. You couldn't get your pervy ass out of that shower fast enough."
"What can I say?" he shrugs into the bedclothes. "The lighting was bad the night before. I wanted to see if you look as good as you taste."
That finally brings color to my cheeks. My eyes dart away from his. I can feel him smile, can feel the heat radiating from his skin. I wonder if I taste like him, I think fleetingly. Is it all the same?
"For the record," he says, "you do."
"Well, then, your turn," I say quickly, not sure how to respond to that. "Fair is fair."
"I guess it is, hm?" I brave his gaze again and find him looking expectantly at me. "I'm going to need a little inspiration, I think. " The expression on his face is hazy and calm. I am trying to figure out what color his eyes are. They've gotten darker and deeper, become wells. I want to dip my bucket in and drink.
"I'll get you started, but you have to finish," I whisper.
"Too late," he says. He rolls up onto his hip and stretches all the way out. I reach over him and pull the covers away, and I see what he means. For a moment, we just lay there. The air vibrates a little. It purrs like a cat. "Just kiss me," he says, quiet, gentle.
I do. I lean up onto my own hip, press his back into the mattress, and catch the side of his face in my palm. My thumb glides through his lashes. They flutter. Our noses bump, like this is the first time we've done this. His mouth curls into a smile, and I kiss it wider and wider. We share breath between us. Both of our lips feel cool, dry. I don't let myself get greedy. I pull away then reach over to turn the lamp back on. It flickers a little, then dims, like the bulb is loose. I settle back onto my side.
Adam's eyes are closed. He drags the fingers of his right hand up his thigh, across his jutting hip, and then he closes them around his cock. I watch him squeeze a little, then loosen his fist and start to move. It's familiar. I keep my body still, but all of my cells, all of my nerves are moving with him, are matching his rhythm, which gets steady and purposeful. I know it so well. I can feel what he feels, the sensations stacking on top of one another, building a precarious tower up towards God, seeing how tall they can go before the earth shakes and everything falls.
I can't take my eyes off of him. He's amazing, all tight, trembling muscle and unchoreographed hips, his lip slipping between his teeth. I fight the urge to put my hand over his heart and feel it push back against my palm. His eyes are closed and ticcing, like he's having a dream. I want to be in it. I wonder if I am.
Without thinking, I reach over and touch his left hand. He closes it around me. I squeeze back. I can feel myself, stiff and responsive, but I let it be.
His grip tightens on my hand. Oh, fuck, he whispers, and it sounds oddly like a prayer, soft and serene and lovely.
"Tell me," I whisper back, "before you..."
Now.
With my other hand, I reach and touch him, stop him before he cums all over his belly. I lean over, speak against the hollow place below his sternum, "In my mouth. Don't want you to get messy again."
He sucks in a breath as I close my lips over his cock. A quick jerk of his hips, and then I taste him again, this time more bitter, this time, hotter. It's not all the same, I think idly as I swallow and lick at him, making sure it's all gone before I press a kiss to his clean, pale stomach. His hand tangles in my damp hair.
I stretch out beside him, my full length. I watch the muscles in his face relax, and then he opens his eyes to look at me.
"What did you think about?" I ask him.
"Your hands," he says. "Your hands, and your face, and that thing you do with your arms when the music stops but your heart keeps going."
I don't ask him what he means. I just wanted it to be me.
I start to reach for the light, but the bulb burns itself out just as my hand comes up, and then his arms wrap around me and my head swims into the black part of the sea.
_______________________________________________
The alarm clock doesn't wake me in the morning. A heavy, thundering pounding on the bedroom door does. I wake with a start, and my heart practically shoots through my ribcage and hits the ceiling. I sit straight up. Adam leans up, bleary-eyed onto his elbow.
Allison's voice is much too loud for this hour, I'm sure, though I have no idea what hour it actually is, since, when I look at the clock across the room on my nightstand, it's black. Then I realize that light is streaming in through the blinds. Shit, I think, starting to panic. I'd forgotten that people had been in to clean yesterday while we were gone. They always manage to knock that fucking plug out of the wall.
"Kris!" she's hollering in between thumps. "Adam! It's eight o-flippin-clooooooock!"
"Shit! Hang on!" I holler back, leaping out of bed and reaching into Adam's cluttered, open drawer for a pair of pajama pants.
She doesn't hear me through her own banging, though, because the next thing out of her mouth is "I'm coming in!" and then the unlocked door (shit, I barely have time to think again) starts to open. Adam frantically pulls the sheets around himself, and I'm just pulling the drawstring of pants that clearly aren't mine tight around my waist, when Allison comes stomping through, still yelling about the time.
I see her step into the room, and I feel like I might be dreaming (I'm hoping I'm dreaming) as she surveys the scene: one bed made, one not. Me, standing in pants that are far too long, the drawer yanked open at my feet. Adam, wrapped in the bedclothes.
She reacts quickly, kicking the door shut behind her with her bare heel. I can hear other voices in the hallway. I recognize Megan's laugh, Matt's voice. For a minute, the air is completely still. Looking at her, I realize that she's got my cell phone in her hand.
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
Part 7: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/397220.html
Part 7.5: community.livejournal.com/kradam_ai/403854.html