DRABBLE MEME: BATCH 13
PLEASE WRITE MORE THO!
Tommy Ratliff* - unprompted by Anon (A/N - Please refer to THIS PICTURE for context)
It's just a picture. It's just a picture! Those four words are looping in Adam's mind as he's sitting at the computer, staring at, yes, just a picture.
...It's totally not just a picture. It has Tommy and some guy in some bar looking too close for Adam's comfort. The guy's not even that cute. He reminds Adam of Michael Sarver, only skinnier and probably more willing to press another man to his chest like that. Who is he? Why hasn't Adam met him? Why didn't Tommy ever talk about him? Is he even worth talking about?
Adam never thought of himself as the jealous type when he was younger. It just sounded so juvenile. Though in recent years he has admitted to himself and the media that he can get really, really fucking jealous.
One time when he was with Drake, another man slithered over to and offered to buy Drake a drink. His accent was cute and he wasn't Drake's type but Adam didn't care; he felt like he just swallowed a brick he had a certain urge to punch him in the face. So, okay, yeah, Adam gets jealous sometimes. But that was a boyfriend. That's totally different than this, right?
Tommy's just a friend, despite what eccentric fangirls and some media outlets like to think. Adam couldn't explain why, whenever he's looking at this picture (which he finds himself doing quite often), he had the same feelings of jealousy he had with Drake.
He's looking at the picture too much, that's it. It's not healthy to stare at a computer screen (or iPhone screen, or someone else's computer screen) that long.
Adam lets out a sound that’s like a grunt and his hands coil into fists. This is ridiculous-- Tommy's Adam's friend, this means nothing. The guy in the picture could be just a friend? He probably is. He totally is.
Adam decided to give the guy a name instead of just calling him "guy," because he's part of Adam's thoughts more than he'd like and Adam always gives nicknames to people like this. After much deliberation with himself he decided on "Douche-y Dan," because, really. Adam can't handle his fucking smirk. It's so smug and Tommy's just nuzzled under him and--
Fuck. For a second Adam almost popped a blood vessel when he thought Tommy and Douche-y Dan were holding hands. No, it's just Tommy clasping his own hands around D-Dan's waist. Which is better, right?
Ugh, no. It may be even worse. Who does that to just a friend? Adam leans his head back on the chair he's sitting in and tries to picture ever doing that to a friend. He has, probably dozens of times to different people in one night. But that doesn't matter to him.
He stares at the photo a few more seconds, analyzes D-Dan's annoying shirt (which, if it was on anyone else, Adam would find cool), the bottle under Tommy's elbow. He travels up to Tommy's face. He's not sure how to read it.
Why the fuck does Tommy never smile in pictures? Is he happy? Sad? Sedated? No one could ever tell, and right now it was making Adam crazy.
The look in his eyes is almost as smug as D-Dan's smirk and in an instant Adam shuts his laptop. He just can't look at that, anymore.
But he's not jealous. What he felt with Drake (and probably more than a few times with Brad but Adam can't remember right now and honestly, he doesn't want to) isn't the same with what he feels now--
except Adam's not fucking fooling anyone, and he's so. jealous. right. now.
Adam would never admit to thinking this to anyone. It's all because of that stupid picture in a stupid bar with stupid Tommy and stupid D-Dan.
Adam hates himself for this. It just makes no sense. Let's review: Tommy equals friend. Tommy equals someone he kisses every night on stage to the tune of thousands of fangirl/boy screams. Tommy does not equal boyfriend.
But he could be, right? What if he feels that same spark when they kiss every night like Adam does?
The more Adam thinks about it, the more he wants to change that last equation.
Tommy Ratliff* - unprompted by amazonziti (A/N This was written before we had confirmation that Tommy's new tattoo was a Libra symbol on his wrist.)
Adam goes first. He sits calmly and looks at himself in the mirrored wall behind the tattooist as his forearm is cleaned and then shaved and then cleaned again and the outline of the infinity symbol transferred to his naked freckled skin.
Tommy sits in an extra chair and scoots up to Adam's left side, takes his hand in case Adam needs to squeeze. Adam smiles at him and tickles Tommy's palm with his fingers, and then meets his own gaze again in the mirror. The tattooist bends over Adam's right arm, and Adam's eyes go unfocused and his left hand goes slack. Tommy keeps holding on to him anyway. Just in case.
Adam's tattoo doesn't bleed much, and it's over quickly. Adam stretches and sighs when it's done and grins when Sasha and Cam come over to see how it looks before the tattooist locks up infinity with a bandage and some tape.
It's Tommy's turn next. "I want the same tattoo Adam got," he tells the tattooist.
"Uh huh," the guy says. "Same place too?"
Adam and Tommy had talked about it and figured that would probably be a bad idea. "Nah," Tommy says. "I was thinking here instead?" He turns around and pulls up the back of his shirt a little to expose the small of his back.
Then Adam's there, warm steady hand on the back of Tommy's neck. "No, baby," Adam says. "You don't need a tramp stamp, come on."
"Tell me where it's gonna go, then."
"Hm." Adam sounds like he's thinking about it, but Tommy is willing to bet he's known exactly where Tommy's tattoo was going to be for weeks, since they first started talking about getting them done. Adam slides his hand down Tommy's back, dips his fingers below the waistband of Tommy's jeans, drags them all the way around til the tips rub the jut of Tommy's hip. "Right here."
It'll hurt, getting ink where it's just skin and bone. "Okay," Tommy says. He blinks up at Adam. Adam smiles.
That night they unwrap their tattoos together in the bathroom of Adam’s hotel suite. Tommy can’t stop staring at his mark on Adam’s arm. He’d feel kind of like a possessive creep, except Adam can’t stop staring at his mark on Tommy, either.
“C’mere, baby,” Adam says, and Tommy steps into his arms easy, nuzzling into Adam’s shoulder, designer cotton against his nose and cheek, Adam’s scent filling up his head. Adam lets out a long slow sigh and wraps his arms around Tommy, digs his fingers into his hair, lazy pull down the back of Tommy’s skull. Tommy lets his head loll in Adam’s hand.
“Good,” Adam says, and then untangles them, putting his hands on Tommy’s shoulders. Tommy hears himself whine a little in protest, and there’s amusement in Adam’s voice when he says, “Turn around, Tommy, I want to look at you.”
Obediently, Tommy turns to face the bathroom mirror. Adam tugs him back to lean against his chest and Tommy does. He hums a little in the back of his throat as Adam folds away the fly of Tommy’s jeans so they can both stare at Adam’s mark on Tommy’s hip. Adam frames it with his fingers, looks into Tommy’s eyes, lets Tommy see his satisfied smirk. “You like it?” Tommy asks.
“It’s perfect,” Adam says.
Later Adam lets Tommy rub unscented moisturizer into his mark on Adam’s wrist. Tommy’s as gentle as he knows how to be, and Adam doesn’t flinch. Then it’s Adam’s turn, his warm fingers and the cool lotion startling and welcome on Tommy’s hip. “Three times a day til it stops peeling,” he says.
“I know,” Tommy says. “I have done this before.”
Adam quirks an eyebrow at him. “Let me take care of it?”
Tommy laughs. “You want to rub my scabby tattoo for me?”
“It’s mine,” Adam says. “I want to take care of it.”
“Yeah, okay,” Tommy says. “Can I do yours?”
“Sure,” Adam says. He looks happy. Tommy smiles at him. Adam kisses Tommy’s smile, and then licks it when he’s done like he’s trying to be thorough.
They smooth lotion on each others’ tattoos before breakfast in the morning, and then after lunch before their soundcheck at the Knoxville theater. It’s nice each time. Tommy likes taking care of Adam, likes the uncomplicated pleasure he feels every time he sees his mark on Adam’s forearm, every full-body pulse of mine. Adam bites his own lip when he touches his mark on Tommy, glances at Tommy through dark lashes, smiles when he’s done.
Adam pulls Tommy into a cluttered corner backstage after Ori finishes her set and brandishes a tiny tube of lotion at him. “Now?” Tommy says. “We’ve got like ten minutes before we go on. I think it can wait.”
“For luck,” Adam says, like either of them needs it. “Just...” A nip against Tommy’s jaw, and then another on top of the almost-healed hickey on Tommy’s neck. Tommy can feel Adam’s lashes brush his jawline. “Let me.”
Then one of Adam’s hands is cradling the back of Tommy’s neck, tilting Tommy’s head to lean into Adam’s collarbone. His other hand is at the waistband of Tommy’s pants, pulling the leather away. Tommy looks down, sees his own pale skin against black leather, Adam’s indelible blue mark on his hip. Adam sighs into Tommy’s ear. “There it is.”
“Mm.” Tommy leans into Adam harder, and Adam takes his weight easily, strokes a dry fingertip over infinity, kisses Tommy’s cheek and then his ear and then the corner of his mouth.
“Good boy,” Adam says. Tommy shivers, takes a breath to make sure he’s not drowning. Adam kisses Tommy’s open mouth, gentle on Tommy’s slack lips and lax tongue, tightens his hand on Tommy’s neck. Tommy tries to kiss back, but it feels like he can’t make his mouth work. “Ssh,” Adam says, kisses him again.
Then there’s cool slick lotion on Tommy’s hip. Adam lets Tommy turn his head again to look as Adam rubs the lotion into his mark, wipes away the excess, tugs up Tommy’s waistband. “Mine,” Adam says, and Tommy nods.
Crowley (Good Omens) - hitchhike, Queen, snakeskin boots by cafwen
Hammer to Fall
Crowley sped the big black Bentley too fast down a road that was too small for it. He flashed a grin at the fading blue lights behind him and almost didn’t notice the black convertible Ford Mustang at the side of the road as he sped past. What he did notice was the tall dark-haired man crouched down beside the flat tyre. Well, more specifically, the arse of the tall dark-haired man. He was wearing tight black leather pants that left little to the imagination. And he had a bum you could bounce pennies off of.
Crowley wasn’t usually very compassionate towards hitchhikers and the like, but for this lad he could make an exception.
~~~***~~~
Adam saw the huge black car drive past, saw the dark glasses of the driver flash by. He knew the guy had seen him and hadn’t fucking stopped. Another huge black car came up - wait. Same car? Adam looked down at the road where the first car should now be. Nothing. Huh. Maybe it was the heat.
This car had pulled over and a -whoa- very tall man climbed out. He had short black hair, big sunglasses, a slinky black leather jacket and the most drool-inducing pair of snakeskin boots Adam had ever seen. Adam stared at the boots, which came closer, and then up, and up some more - at the face of the man. He must be at least 6 ft 4. Adam had to crane his neck - it was really weird.
“In a spot of trouble are we?” the stranger asked, and smiled like a snake.
~~~***~~~
“Thanks, I really appreciate this.” Adam said from the passenger seat of the Bentley. “I didn’t catch your name?” he enquired.
“Crowley.” The man replied, looking over at Adam with a smile that seemed almost sinister. It was disconcerting because he hadn’t taken his sunglasses off and Adam couldn’t see his eyes.
Crowley was giving him a lift to the next gas station so he could get someone out to help him with the tire. Crowley glanced up - a convenient thunderstorm had appeared out of the blue.
“Doesn’t look like you’ll be able to get anyone out to look at your car for a while.” Crowley did not sound overly sympathetic.
“Damn, I’d better call Lane.” Adam mumbled and pulled out his iPhone, which had been charged that morning. Crowley frowned at the instrument.
“Well that’s weird.” Adam continued, “I charged my phone this morning and the battery’s just gone dead.”
“Very strange indeed. Alas, I do not believe in these mobile phones. But the car phone should work.” He lied.
Adam glanced at the car telephone as if he had never seen one before, and wanted to laugh. That might not be wise. Then he picked up the receiver.
“Damn! Dead as well!”
“Must be the weather.” Crowley left an appropriate pause. “You are welcome to stay at my hotel room for the next few hours until the rain clears up, of course. I have a bottle of Macallan 1926 I was hoping to test for the first time tonight and I would hate to have to drink it alone.”
Adam’s eyes went wide. “That stuff’s like - $70 000 a bottle.”
“$75 000 actually.”
“I’m there.”
~~~***~~~
“Dude! We need shome mushic!” Adam sing-songed. Half the Macallan was gone, he was in a lavish hotel room, surrounded by antiques and paintings by very famous names and he was feeling no pain. He reached shakily for the stash of cassette tapes -seriously? In this day and age?- he could see in Crowley’s briefcase. Unfortunately they all seemed to be classical shit.
“I hope you like Queen.” Crowley sighed. “Ignore the titles on the covers.”
“Oh. Which one’sh Queen?”
“They all are.”
“Um. ‘kay.” This guy was weird. But so was Adam, so that was alright. He slotted a cassette into the handily provided player and turned it on. A heavy bass riff started.
“Aw’right!” he enthused, jumping to his feet and stumble-dancing his way back to the couch Crowley was sprawled drunkenly out on.
“Dance wif me!” he pleaded.
“No.”
“’K sing wif me!” he begged.
“Absolutely not.”
Adam considered, and then plonked himself in Crowley’s lap. “Kiss me.”
Crowley growled, grabbed a fistful of Adam’s hair and obliged. He kissed the smaller, younger man breathless before yanking his head back and sliding his tongue down Adam’s neck.
The groan he got in response to that was very rewarding and Crowley hissed a little too realistically as he turned Adam easily onto his back and moved to straddle him, enjoying the little bumps of Adam’s hips thrusting in time to the music. He met resistance when he tried to trap a slightly sobered-up Adam’s hands behind his head with one hand however.
“Um... I know we’ve just met and all, but I’m actually more of a top and I think you might be getting the wrong impression here...” he panted, kissing Crowley again because he couldn’t stop himself.
“My dear boy. I am afraid I am much “more of a top” than you are, currently. So...” he licked down Adam’s neck again and pinned his hands very firmly, leaving no doubt as to whom the physically stronger was, “I suggest you get used to it and enjoy the ride.” He used his free hand to pinch a nipple firmly as punctuation on that statement.
“Ffffff....”
Crowley looked down at the young man beneath him, his eyes glassy with pupils blown wide. “I am going to take that as consent.”
Tommy Ratliff* - unprompted by Anon (A/N - Please refer to THIS PICTURE for context)
It's just a picture. It's just a picture! Those four words are looping in Adam's mind as he's sitting at the computer, staring at, yes, just a picture.
...It's totally not just a picture. It has Tommy and some guy in some bar looking too close for Adam's comfort. The guy's not even that cute. He reminds Adam of Michael Sarver, only skinnier and probably more willing to press another man to his chest like that. Who is he? Why hasn't Adam met him? Why didn't Tommy ever talk about him? Is he even worth talking about?
Adam never thought of himself as the jealous type when he was younger. It just sounded so juvenile. Though in recent years he has admitted to himself and the media that he can get really, really fucking jealous.
One time when he was with Drake, another man slithered over to and offered to buy Drake a drink. His accent was cute and he wasn't Drake's type but Adam didn't care; he felt like he just swallowed a brick he had a certain urge to punch him in the face. So, okay, yeah, Adam gets jealous sometimes. But that was a boyfriend. That's totally different than this, right?
Tommy's just a friend, despite what eccentric fangirls and some media outlets like to think. Adam couldn't explain why, whenever he's looking at this picture (which he finds himself doing quite often), he had the same feelings of jealousy he had with Drake.
He's looking at the picture too much, that's it. It's not healthy to stare at a computer screen (or iPhone screen, or someone else's computer screen) that long.
Adam lets out a sound that’s like a grunt and his hands coil into fists. This is ridiculous-- Tommy's Adam's friend, this means nothing. The guy in the picture could be just a friend? He probably is. He totally is.
Adam decided to give the guy a name instead of just calling him "guy," because he's part of Adam's thoughts more than he'd like and Adam always gives nicknames to people like this. After much deliberation with himself he decided on "Douche-y Dan," because, really. Adam can't handle his fucking smirk. It's so smug and Tommy's just nuzzled under him and--
Fuck. For a second Adam almost popped a blood vessel when he thought Tommy and Douche-y Dan were holding hands. No, it's just Tommy clasping his own hands around D-Dan's waist. Which is better, right?
Ugh, no. It may be even worse. Who does that to just a friend? Adam leans his head back on the chair he's sitting in and tries to picture ever doing that to a friend. He has, probably dozens of times to different people in one night. But that doesn't matter to him.
He stares at the photo a few more seconds, analyzes D-Dan's annoying shirt (which, if it was on anyone else, Adam would find cool), the bottle under Tommy's elbow. He travels up to Tommy's face. He's not sure how to read it.
Why the fuck does Tommy never smile in pictures? Is he happy? Sad? Sedated? No one could ever tell, and right now it was making Adam crazy.
The look in his eyes is almost as smug as D-Dan's smirk and in an instant Adam shuts his laptop. He just can't look at that, anymore.
But he's not jealous. What he felt with Drake (and probably more than a few times with Brad but Adam can't remember right now and honestly, he doesn't want to) isn't the same with what he feels now--
except Adam's not fucking fooling anyone, and he's so. jealous. right. now.
Adam would never admit to thinking this to anyone. It's all because of that stupid picture in a stupid bar with stupid Tommy and stupid D-Dan.
Adam hates himself for this. It just makes no sense. Let's review: Tommy equals friend. Tommy equals someone he kisses every night on stage to the tune of thousands of fangirl/boy screams. Tommy does not equal boyfriend.
But he could be, right? What if he feels that same spark when they kiss every night like Adam does?
The more Adam thinks about it, the more he wants to change that last equation.
Tommy Ratliff* - unprompted by amazonziti (A/N This was written before we had confirmation that Tommy's new tattoo was a Libra symbol on his wrist.)
Adam goes first. He sits calmly and looks at himself in the mirrored wall behind the tattooist as his forearm is cleaned and then shaved and then cleaned again and the outline of the infinity symbol transferred to his naked freckled skin.
Tommy sits in an extra chair and scoots up to Adam's left side, takes his hand in case Adam needs to squeeze. Adam smiles at him and tickles Tommy's palm with his fingers, and then meets his own gaze again in the mirror. The tattooist bends over Adam's right arm, and Adam's eyes go unfocused and his left hand goes slack. Tommy keeps holding on to him anyway. Just in case.
Adam's tattoo doesn't bleed much, and it's over quickly. Adam stretches and sighs when it's done and grins when Sasha and Cam come over to see how it looks before the tattooist locks up infinity with a bandage and some tape.
It's Tommy's turn next. "I want the same tattoo Adam got," he tells the tattooist.
"Uh huh," the guy says. "Same place too?"
Adam and Tommy had talked about it and figured that would probably be a bad idea. "Nah," Tommy says. "I was thinking here instead?" He turns around and pulls up the back of his shirt a little to expose the small of his back.
Then Adam's there, warm steady hand on the back of Tommy's neck. "No, baby," Adam says. "You don't need a tramp stamp, come on."
"Tell me where it's gonna go, then."
"Hm." Adam sounds like he's thinking about it, but Tommy is willing to bet he's known exactly where Tommy's tattoo was going to be for weeks, since they first started talking about getting them done. Adam slides his hand down Tommy's back, dips his fingers below the waistband of Tommy's jeans, drags them all the way around til the tips rub the jut of Tommy's hip. "Right here."
It'll hurt, getting ink where it's just skin and bone. "Okay," Tommy says. He blinks up at Adam. Adam smiles.
That night they unwrap their tattoos together in the bathroom of Adam’s hotel suite. Tommy can’t stop staring at his mark on Adam’s arm. He’d feel kind of like a possessive creep, except Adam can’t stop staring at his mark on Tommy, either.
“C’mere, baby,” Adam says, and Tommy steps into his arms easy, nuzzling into Adam’s shoulder, designer cotton against his nose and cheek, Adam’s scent filling up his head. Adam lets out a long slow sigh and wraps his arms around Tommy, digs his fingers into his hair, lazy pull down the back of Tommy’s skull. Tommy lets his head loll in Adam’s hand.
“Good,” Adam says, and then untangles them, putting his hands on Tommy’s shoulders. Tommy hears himself whine a little in protest, and there’s amusement in Adam’s voice when he says, “Turn around, Tommy, I want to look at you.”
Obediently, Tommy turns to face the bathroom mirror. Adam tugs him back to lean against his chest and Tommy does. He hums a little in the back of his throat as Adam folds away the fly of Tommy’s jeans so they can both stare at Adam’s mark on Tommy’s hip. Adam frames it with his fingers, looks into Tommy’s eyes, lets Tommy see his satisfied smirk. “You like it?” Tommy asks.
“It’s perfect,” Adam says.
Later Adam lets Tommy rub unscented moisturizer into his mark on Adam’s wrist. Tommy’s as gentle as he knows how to be, and Adam doesn’t flinch. Then it’s Adam’s turn, his warm fingers and the cool lotion startling and welcome on Tommy’s hip. “Three times a day til it stops peeling,” he says.
“I know,” Tommy says. “I have done this before.”
Adam quirks an eyebrow at him. “Let me take care of it?”
Tommy laughs. “You want to rub my scabby tattoo for me?”
“It’s mine,” Adam says. “I want to take care of it.”
“Yeah, okay,” Tommy says. “Can I do yours?”
“Sure,” Adam says. He looks happy. Tommy smiles at him. Adam kisses Tommy’s smile, and then licks it when he’s done like he’s trying to be thorough.
They smooth lotion on each others’ tattoos before breakfast in the morning, and then after lunch before their soundcheck at the Knoxville theater. It’s nice each time. Tommy likes taking care of Adam, likes the uncomplicated pleasure he feels every time he sees his mark on Adam’s forearm, every full-body pulse of mine. Adam bites his own lip when he touches his mark on Tommy, glances at Tommy through dark lashes, smiles when he’s done.
Adam pulls Tommy into a cluttered corner backstage after Ori finishes her set and brandishes a tiny tube of lotion at him. “Now?” Tommy says. “We’ve got like ten minutes before we go on. I think it can wait.”
“For luck,” Adam says, like either of them needs it. “Just...” A nip against Tommy’s jaw, and then another on top of the almost-healed hickey on Tommy’s neck. Tommy can feel Adam’s lashes brush his jawline. “Let me.”
Then one of Adam’s hands is cradling the back of Tommy’s neck, tilting Tommy’s head to lean into Adam’s collarbone. His other hand is at the waistband of Tommy’s pants, pulling the leather away. Tommy looks down, sees his own pale skin against black leather, Adam’s indelible blue mark on his hip. Adam sighs into Tommy’s ear. “There it is.”
“Mm.” Tommy leans into Adam harder, and Adam takes his weight easily, strokes a dry fingertip over infinity, kisses Tommy’s cheek and then his ear and then the corner of his mouth.
“Good boy,” Adam says. Tommy shivers, takes a breath to make sure he’s not drowning. Adam kisses Tommy’s open mouth, gentle on Tommy’s slack lips and lax tongue, tightens his hand on Tommy’s neck. Tommy tries to kiss back, but it feels like he can’t make his mouth work. “Ssh,” Adam says, kisses him again.
Then there’s cool slick lotion on Tommy’s hip. Adam lets Tommy turn his head again to look as Adam rubs the lotion into his mark, wipes away the excess, tugs up Tommy’s waistband. “Mine,” Adam says, and Tommy nods.
Crowley (Good Omens) - hitchhike, Queen, snakeskin boots by cafwen
Hammer to Fall
Crowley sped the big black Bentley too fast down a road that was too small for it. He flashed a grin at the fading blue lights behind him and almost didn’t notice the black convertible Ford Mustang at the side of the road as he sped past. What he did notice was the tall dark-haired man crouched down beside the flat tyre. Well, more specifically, the arse of the tall dark-haired man. He was wearing tight black leather pants that left little to the imagination. And he had a bum you could bounce pennies off of.
Crowley wasn’t usually very compassionate towards hitchhikers and the like, but for this lad he could make an exception.
~~~***~~~
Adam saw the huge black car drive past, saw the dark glasses of the driver flash by. He knew the guy had seen him and hadn’t fucking stopped. Another huge black car came up - wait. Same car? Adam looked down at the road where the first car should now be. Nothing. Huh. Maybe it was the heat.
This car had pulled over and a -whoa- very tall man climbed out. He had short black hair, big sunglasses, a slinky black leather jacket and the most drool-inducing pair of snakeskin boots Adam had ever seen. Adam stared at the boots, which came closer, and then up, and up some more - at the face of the man. He must be at least 6 ft 4. Adam had to crane his neck - it was really weird.
“In a spot of trouble are we?” the stranger asked, and smiled like a snake.
~~~***~~~
“Thanks, I really appreciate this.” Adam said from the passenger seat of the Bentley. “I didn’t catch your name?” he enquired.
“Crowley.” The man replied, looking over at Adam with a smile that seemed almost sinister. It was disconcerting because he hadn’t taken his sunglasses off and Adam couldn’t see his eyes.
Crowley was giving him a lift to the next gas station so he could get someone out to help him with the tire. Crowley glanced up - a convenient thunderstorm had appeared out of the blue.
“Doesn’t look like you’ll be able to get anyone out to look at your car for a while.” Crowley did not sound overly sympathetic.
“Damn, I’d better call Lane.” Adam mumbled and pulled out his iPhone, which had been charged that morning. Crowley frowned at the instrument.
“Well that’s weird.” Adam continued, “I charged my phone this morning and the battery’s just gone dead.”
“Very strange indeed. Alas, I do not believe in these mobile phones. But the car phone should work.” He lied.
Adam glanced at the car telephone as if he had never seen one before, and wanted to laugh. That might not be wise. Then he picked up the receiver.
“Damn! Dead as well!”
“Must be the weather.” Crowley left an appropriate pause. “You are welcome to stay at my hotel room for the next few hours until the rain clears up, of course. I have a bottle of Macallan 1926 I was hoping to test for the first time tonight and I would hate to have to drink it alone.”
Adam’s eyes went wide. “That stuff’s like - $70 000 a bottle.”
“$75 000 actually.”
“I’m there.”
~~~***~~~
“Dude! We need shome mushic!” Adam sing-songed. Half the Macallan was gone, he was in a lavish hotel room, surrounded by antiques and paintings by very famous names and he was feeling no pain. He reached shakily for the stash of cassette tapes -seriously? In this day and age?- he could see in Crowley’s briefcase. Unfortunately they all seemed to be classical shit.
“I hope you like Queen.” Crowley sighed. “Ignore the titles on the covers.”
“Oh. Which one’sh Queen?”
“They all are.”
“Um. ‘kay.” This guy was weird. But so was Adam, so that was alright. He slotted a cassette into the handily provided player and turned it on. A heavy bass riff started.
“Aw’right!” he enthused, jumping to his feet and stumble-dancing his way back to the couch Crowley was sprawled drunkenly out on.
“Dance wif me!” he pleaded.
“No.”
“’K sing wif me!” he begged.
“Absolutely not.”
Adam considered, and then plonked himself in Crowley’s lap. “Kiss me.”
Crowley growled, grabbed a fistful of Adam’s hair and obliged. He kissed the smaller, younger man breathless before yanking his head back and sliding his tongue down Adam’s neck.
The groan he got in response to that was very rewarding and Crowley hissed a little too realistically as he turned Adam easily onto his back and moved to straddle him, enjoying the little bumps of Adam’s hips thrusting in time to the music. He met resistance when he tried to trap a slightly sobered-up Adam’s hands behind his head with one hand however.
“Um... I know we’ve just met and all, but I’m actually more of a top and I think you might be getting the wrong impression here...” he panted, kissing Crowley again because he couldn’t stop himself.
“My dear boy. I am afraid I am much “more of a top” than you are, currently. So...” he licked down Adam’s neck again and pinned his hands very firmly, leaving no doubt as to whom the physically stronger was, “I suggest you get used to it and enjoy the ride.” He used his free hand to pinch a nipple firmly as punctuation on that statement.
“Ffffff....”
Crowley looked down at the young man beneath him, his eyes glassy with pupils blown wide. “I am going to take that as consent.”