Let's See How Far We've Come | Kris/Adam, Kris/Katy, NC17
Title: Let’s See How Far We’ve Come
Author: ilytheira @ usedtoshine
Rating: NC17
Pairings/Characters: Kradam (Kris Allen/Adam Lambert) and brief Kris/Katy, with cameos from a variety of S8 contestants.
Written For: forbiddenromanc
Prompt: Absolutely *anything* based off of this: “They put me with the cute guy. Distracting! He’s the one guy I found attractive in the whole group on the show: nice, nonchalant, pretty and totally my type - except that he has a wife. I mean he’s open-minded and liberal, but he’s definitely 100% straight.” Preferably with Kris/Adam ending, but like I said, anything.
Summary: Adam just laughs and shakes his head, “Yeah. Yeah, Kris Allen’s definitely worth it.”
Disclaimer: Neither Kris nor Adam, nor any of the variety of people featured below, belong to me. I’d also like to stress that this fic, in its entirety, is a work of fiction, and that the events described and information given below absolutely did not happen. The title of this fic comes from Matchbox Twenty’s “How Far We’ve Come.”
Author’s Note: I spent the longest time trying to see if I could fall back into third-person point of view, but alas, that's no longer my comfort zone anymore. This fic has also turned out to be much longer than I'd anticipated - everything I've been writing lately seems to have gone down this path, too - so thank goodness for the extended deadline, because the one I'd posted, I was not pleased with it.
This fic was written for the paintedboys Fic Exchange.
“They put me with the cute guy. Distracting! He’s the one guy I found attractive in the whole group on the show: nice, nonchalant, pretty and totally my type…”
Seriously, it’s like-the feeling is worse than having to meet Katy’s parents. You’d already known what to expect then-Katy had done an incredible job preparing you for the day you’d met Mr. and Mrs. O’Connell-but this is a completely different ballgame. It’s a funny feeling in your stomach to be nervous about meeting another competitor on the show, but it’s more of the fact that you know absolutely nothing about him that gets to you more than anything else does. Aside from the fact that your roommate Matt, Matt from Kalamazoo, Michigan, one hell of a piano player who graduated from Western Michigan, has already exchanged numbers with him, and that his voice is making you rethink why you’ve even joined this competition in the first place (might as well forfeit now or something, ’cause he seriously gives the whole “There are probably a lot of other singers better than me” point of view a completely different meaning), you know nothing.
Well, nothing except for his name being Adam, Adam Lambert, and that he’s from L.A., so you and everyone else that isn’t from here are literally in his territory, but that’s as far as you or Matt have gotten, so when Matt looks up from his phone with a wide grin on his face and a nod that you guess is supposed to be taken as one of confirmation or something, you find that uh, yeah, you’re more nervous than before. It’s safe to say that you’re quaking in your boots or something like that, since Matt follows it up with, “That was Adam. He’ll be here real quick.”
You nod nervously then take a look around at the people already seated around the circular table, all of them fast acquaintances of Matt. There’s Anoop, wearing his North Carolina jacket with pride, joking around with Nick or Norman (you’re gonna go ahead and guess Nick, since he’s not in costume) as he passes the table on the way to the buffet; to his left is, uh her name starts with an M!, er, Mishavonna, there you go, and Nick has her dissolving into giggles as he winks at her and makes a face before he walks away. Felicia, Felicia’s the one who separates you and Mishavonna, but she’s had her cell phone out for a while now, so you turn your attention to Kendall, who’s sitting to your left. Kendall and the empty seat beside her - reserved now for Adam, since Nate had stalked past Rose or Alexis (they actually kind of look alike to you) a few minutes ago - separate you from Matt, which you think might be a small problem, since you’re on the verge of telling him how bad of an idea this might be, how you and Adam may not be the most compatible people in the room (okay, Kris, you’re just nervous, and it’s okay to be nervous, okay? Jeez, Kristopher, you’re sounding like a lovesick teenager or something), but you don’t have a say in it, because here he comes, here he is, and bam, he’s standing behind Matt.
Matt jumps in surprise when Adam puts a hand on his shoulder, but then he’s standing up immediately and giving him a warm, two-armed hug. Adam pulls away first, smiling, and exchanging like, little pleasantries and stuff, whatever (it includes a quick glance in your direction coming from Matt and that makes you, uh, well, nervous), it’s way too quiet for you to hear over Tatiana and Katrina anyway (dear God). Adam nods twice before turning his eyes to you when Matt makes a gesture in your direction. More than anything else when he turns to look at you then do a quick scan of the table, you’re very much intrigued by his eyes - Adam’s eyes are a color that’s ridiculously bright; so bright, in fact, that from where you’re sitting right now, they look like an inhuman shade of gray, and yeah, you’ll be the first to admit that you stared at them. (And, seriously? Who has a face like that? You’re a little surprised you haven’t seen him in like, a Dolce & Gabbana campaign - is that even right? Dolce & Gabbana? - in one of Katy’s Vogue magazines with those supermodels she loves to talk about. So you flip through them once in a while. Not like it’s a sin, all right?)
You’ve got to hand it to Matt. There’s definitely something about Adam Lambert that you don’t see every day in Conway, Arkansas.
Nobody back home (or, you know, nobody back home that you know) for sure dresses like him - black trench coat, black shirt underneath, dark jeans, boots that you notice when he walks away from the table to chat with Jesse, Jesse Langseth, for a little bit, coming back quickly - and nobody back home carries themselves the way he does, either. There’s something - something intriguing, you could say - something powerful about the way Adam carries himself - you know, jaw clenched defiantly, lips slightly pursed, eyebrows raised. His expression - it’s insane how fast he can transition from one to the other; it’s way smoother than any of your recent chords have been, that’s for sure - softens a little when Allison, a young girl with a personality that seems to match her red (no, like, seriously red) hair, jumps on over and they hug each other and laugh, but it feels almost like an illusion, because once she’s gone, he’s got that regal look to him again.
When you hear David Bowie’s “Fame” over someone laughing at a joke from Jamar on the table to your right, you find that it’s Adam’s phone that’s ringing, that he’s the one who’s putting the phone to his ear, and while all this is going on, you notice his black nail polish immediately. (Did you say Dolce & Gabbana? You probably meant Alexander McQueen.) You’ve never seen any guy from Conway wear black nail polish. Okay, no, that’s a lie, Daniel’s done it once before - but the polish was only on the nail on his right pinky, and it lasted only all of five seconds before he begged Katy to take it off. She’d casually joked about Daniel being afraid to lose his masculinity, but apparently, losing any amount of masculinity due to nail polish is something Adam isn’t afraid of. In fact, on him, the black nail polish looks just as masculine as the eyeliner rimming his eyes.
Yeah - definitely Alexander McQueen. (Katy would totally back you up on this one.)
You feel like a stalker for staring, seriously, especially since it takes Kendall five pokes to your arm before she catches your attention, and when she says, “Why don’t we all just go him and give him the title now?” all you do is give her a grunt as an answer even though you totally agree. The first time you actually hear him speak (you find yourself thinking, thank you for shutting Tatiana up, Nate, ’cause if anyone can do it, it’s you), he’s saying, “Yeah, yeah, hey Allison, I’m having dinner right now” (didn’t Allison just stop by their table a few minutes ago? Or is he talking to a different Allison?) and you find that you’re fixated on the light, playful tone. There’s something about the inflections in his voice, it just seems to natural to him, and there’s something about the way his voice crescendos when he gasps, “He did not!” that just piques your interest. It’s almost as if he’s been singing for way too long and the song just doesn’t leave him anymore, like he’d been brought up singing before he knew how to speak (that was probably the story anyway).
You’ve definitely been staring for way, way too long - even Felicia’s turned her eyes away from him now, has gone back to her phone - and staring way, way, too hard, too, because once he’s ended his conversation with, “Love you, too, honey, and would you please tell that motherfucker in the background to shut the hell up, I’ll visit as soon as I can? Thanks” and you don’t hear your mother in your head saying something like Kristopher Neil Allen! (and she knows how much you hate it when she uses your full name) don’t you know how impolite it is to stare?, he turns to you again, eyes bright and wide and expression on his face curious, head tilted to the side and lips pushed out. “I’ve got something on my face, yeah?”
Anoop snorts then looks away, going back to eating his spaghetti when you turn your head in his direction and throw him a nasty glare. You look at Adam again, burying a hand at the nape of your neck, blushing because you’re stuttering, of all things, “Oh! Oh, uh, no, it’s just-”
And, now, you’re not the type of guy to cuss or anything, you don’t really do it unless you’re drunk and partying with Daniel and his friends and even that’s pretty much a rarity now, but you can’t help but think what in the actual fuck, Kris Allen? while you watch Matt take his seat, sliding to the edge so that Adam’s got enough room to lean against it.
“Kris, yeah?” he says casually.
You nod mutely.
“From?”
You meet his eyes and find that they’re like the sun (since when did you become such a huge cheeseball?) - they’re a little intense, a little too much for you and you can’t really meet them head-on, so you blink and look at his lips - okay, the hell, Kristopher? no, bad idea - so you move your eyes to his hair - and, it’s cool, okay, but Kristopher, what the hell are you doing? - so you give up and meet his eyes again. You give him a sheepish grin and he just blinks at you, eyebrow raised, just waiting for an answer (a sign of your consciousness would be nice, right, because you’re obviously alive and breathing), but you’re a little too slow with that, so Matt goes ahead with, “That’s Conway’s Kris Allen for ya.”
Adam smirks and inclines his head. “Hm,” he muses, straightening himself before placing a hand on Matt’s chair to steady himself as he leans forward, the other hand on his hip. “Pleasure to meet you, Conway’s Kris Allen. LA’s Adam Lambert.”
You can’t tell if it’s a wink that follows that, or if it’s just you seeing things, but there’s something about him that doesn’t make the blush on your cheeks go away. In fact, you can still feel your face heating up (you didn’t even know that was possible anymore). “Yeah,” you say, and then he moves. Beside you, Kendall giggles excitedly as Adam takes his seat next to her, and he’s all it takes for Felicia to stick her phone into her pocket and look at him with a wide smile on her face. “Yeah, I know. Matt, uh, Matt doesn’t shut up about you.” Matt snorts; Anoop just laughs. “I think he has like, a crush on you, or something, man.” This gets Adam laughing, and you relax a little. “But yeah. You were great earlier.”
“OhmyGod,” and Mishavonna’s epiphany scares the hell out of you, “you did the 4 Non Blondes and you killed it. Who does that?”
Adam keeps on staring at you, stares at you for another three seconds or something, before he rips his gaze away from you and fixes it on Mishavonna. He gives her a completely different look - something less edgier than the stare he’d given you, eyes rimmed in eyeliner and slightly narrowed as he stared at you, like he had been trying to decipher something, like your face is some sort of code and he was some sort of cryptologist or something trying to figure you out. The look she gets from him is more gentle, the smile he gives to her is sweet, like it’s a box of cookies wrapped up with a bow, and when he answers, “Aw, thanks so much,” it’s like he’s a completely different person - especially when he stands up and walks on over to Felicia when she asks for a picture with him, and when he whips out his own phone and takes a picture like some of Katy’s friends take their MySpace pictures, phone held up and a funny expression on his face.
You sit back and watch him gush on and on about the 4 Non Blondes with Mishavonna as Felicia and Kendall turn their attention to him when he sits back down, catching glimpses of him out of the corner of your eye as you pick at your chicken salad. You’re pretty sure Matt is watching you because you feel a stare on the side of your face. You turn to him and he turns back to his phone, a little knowing smile playing on his lips, and you’re left a little clueless. You think it’s something that’s got to do with you, though, because when Adam looks at his phone, looks at you, then looks back at Matt, he’s laughing and shaking his head. He types away at it, vigorously so, in fact, and when Matt’s phone goes off, he’s practically howling in laughter.
“S’because Kris Allen’s worth it,” he says, throwing a wink in your direction, and you practically choke on the piece of chicken you’re trying to swallow, because he follows that up by playfully batting his eyelashes at you.
Adam just laughs and shakes his head, “Yeah. Yeah, Kris Allen’s definitely worth it.”
From Matt (+1-269-558-0319)
Date 2/10/2009 8:37 pm
Kris Allen’s a cutie, huh?
From Adam (+1-310-859-7006)
Date 2/10/2009 8:41 pm
Hahahaha, whatever you say, Matt.
From Matt (+1-269-558-0319)
Date 2/10/2009 8:44 pm
=P the hell took you so long to get over here?
From Adam (+1-310-859-7006)
Date 2/10/2009 8:46 pm
Had to detach myself from tatiana. How fucking dare you leave me alone w/ her?
“… - except that he has a wife.”
From Katy (+1-501-729-6431)
Date 4/14/2009 9:02 pm
Couldn’t have wanted a better roommate for him! You’re great, Adam. :) Take care of him for me?
From Adam (+1-310-859-7006)
Date 4/14/2009 9:05 pm
aw, thanks, dollface. no worries, kristopher’s in good hands.
From Katy (1-501-729-6431)
Date 4/14/2009 9:10 pm
Yeah. I know. :) Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!
Kris looks at you breathlessly, beautifully, his cheeks flushed red and lips so sinfully bruised. This is your favorite side to Kris Allen, you think, because he’s just open and vulnerable and so fucking precious or something. You touch him gently, afraid that you’re going to break him or that he’ll shy away from you if you start off way too aggressively. As he lays here, spread out beneath you, buttons on his plaid shirt halfway undone and his jeans unbuttoned and the zipper lowered, you find that your heart actually begins to fucking ache because you’re suddenly realizing that he’s become so damn precious to you over the past few weeks. You breathe deeply as you straddle his hips, “I want you to sing for me, Kristopher.” He whimpers as you unbutton his shirt all the way, as you push the shirt he has on underneath up. “Sing me your song.”
He actually fucking shakes underneath you as your fingers catch his left nipple, and you watch almost with an innocent curiosity as he arches his back when you twist it slightly. You lean down and catch it in your mouth, transferring your hand to his right one, and you almost gasp when he threads a hand through your hair. You pull away and lick your lips, blowing gently, and he lets out a sound from deep in his throat. “I don’t know you,” he gasps, and damn, it’s heaven to your ears, “but I want you--shit, Adam-” and you smile against his skin as you take his other nipple into your mouth “-all the more for-oh, God-that.”
“All the more for this, Kris Allen?” you whisper as you straighten yourself again, as you slide his jeans down to his ankles, the bed beneath you creaking under your combined weight. “You want me all the more for this?” You let your fingers ghost over his trapped erection, the bulge in his boxers evident, and you smile. All the more for you, too.
He bites his lip and nods at you, nods at you fervently, and you smile sweetly at him. “Sing for me, Kristopher,” you command again as you remove his underwear, cock springing free, hard and weeping for you. You slither down his body, legs on either side of him, as you dip down and catch only his tip between your teeth.
His back arches again, arches in that beautiful way of his, that perfect way of his, and hisses, “You’re going to kill me here, Lambert.”
You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock and smile against it. You take him, all of him, into your mouth, and you hum, raising an eyebrow as he thrusts into you; you take your mouth off of him just in time. “I don’t hear singing,” you say.
He’s panting beneath you now, cheeks redder than ever, and when he speaks to you, it’s the only sound you ever want to hear again, “Can I skip to the chorus?”
And you laugh, you actually laugh, as you take his length into your hands, as you curl your fingers around his cock and stroke him gently. You ignore the tightening of your own pair of jeans as he squirms beneath you, and you slow down even more, slow down just enough so that he’s reaching down, ready to get himself off. You slap his hand away, “You can’t skip anything, honey, no.”
He whimpers in frustration, looking up at you with eyes that are begging, and you moan. “Sing it, Kristopher,” you say roughly, voice low, “sing it.”
“W-words fall thr-through me,” he surrenders to you, “and a-always fool me-“ and you start stroking him again, humming along with his voice. You lean over him and breathe kisses along his jaw line, song feathering over your ear, “-and I can’t react.”
“What a liar,” you whisper into his ear, nibbling it as you press a thumb to the tip of his cock. “‘Can’t react’ my ass.”
He chooses to ignore you, goes on with “And games that-that never a-amount to m-more-Adam, shit, oh-than they’re meant” before you press even harder and he bucks his hips, trying to urge you to move faster, faster, dammit, and you just grin.
“What about those games, Kristopher?” you say as you trail kisses across his chest, taking your hand off his erection and letting it come back up to play with his nipples. “Tell me about those games.”
He goes on, “Will p-p-play themselves out,” but the way he falters on ‘out’ and makes it sound like a moan instead when you take his right nipple into your mouth, bite it gently, and then swirl your tongue around it is even more delightful.
You move on down to his stomach, kissing the smooth expanse of his skin and admiring the definition in his abdomen, and you whisper against his skin, “Now you can get to the chorus, Kris.”
“Take this sinking boat,” he sings, panting as you dip your tongue into his navel, and then lick your way down right before the base of his cock, “and p-p-point it h-home,” and you smile, really, you just have to, when you take his tip into your mouth again and he can’t properly enunciate when he continues, “we’ve still got time.” He arches his back and puts a hand on your head again, and you wince when he pulls on your hair as you take all of him into your throat, but you don’t do anything, absolutely nothing at all, just keep him there, until he realizes why you’re not moving and he struggles to sing again.
“R-raise your h-hopef-ful voice,” he stutters and you hum in appreciation, “y-you h-have a-a choice,” and you start moving your head up and down, sometimes letting him out of your mouth and sometimes gently biting at his tip, and okay, seriously, your jeans are getting way too tight for this, “y-you’ll m-ma-ake it now,” and you release him and bring your lips up to his mouth, kissing him vigorously, and he shudders underneath you, shudders and shudders and moans and goddammit, why the goddamn fuck do you have to be so fucking indescribable, Kristopher Neil Allen, and so when he kisses you back, you bring your hand down and start stroking him faster.
You’re still kissing, you can feel the oxygen being ripped from your lungs, you feel lightheaded and dizzy and asphyxiated and you’re wondering what he’s thinking now, what he’s thinking as he’s fucking your hand, what he’s feeling as your hand gets faster and faster, and when you see the tautness of his throat as he forcefully rips himself away from you, rips himself and his whole body tightens and he’s spurting himself all over your fingers, his semen warm and sticky to the touch, you pant and you can’t think, can’t breathe, you’re the one who can’t react, Kristopher Neil Allen just came on your fingers, and the thought of it is so goddamn unbelievable that you’re kissing him again, kissing him like you’re never going to let him leave this room.
He shakes his head and you pull away from him, the both of you panting, and then as you brace yourself on top of him, both of your hands now on either side of his head, he unbuckles your belt, unbuttons and unzips your pants, and thank fucking God you chose to forego your underwear today, because when he wraps his hand around your cock and begins to stroke you, you start to realize that dammit, you couldn’t have taken an extra layer of clothing.
He takes a few seconds to catch his breath as he returns the favor, takes a few deep breaths, and then he’s singing to you, “You have suffered enough and warred with yourself” because, you know, of course he’d go to that line, because Kristopher Neil Allen is cheeky as fucking hell, and you’re the one fighting it hard to breathe now, you’re the one who can’t even keep your eyes open as you release moan after moan after ohGodyesKrispleaseKrisohGodoh, and when you feel your orgasm coming, when you shudder and arch your back and thrust repeatedly into his hands, you fight to open your eyes and he’s staring directly at you as you come, “It’s time that you won,” and oh.
You shudder and pant and collapse on top of him, burying your face into the crook of his neck, and you feel - you feel content. You’re a little dizzy, a little lightheaded, but that’s to be expected, so it’s an Olympian effort for you to look up at him when he nudges you with his chin. You roll onto your side, and then meet his eyes directly. “Yes, Kristopher?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
He bites his lip nervously, and you’ve got a feeling you know what he’s about to ask, because you’ve thought about doing it countless of times, but you wait for him to ask. You stare at him, just stare at him and how beautiful his bone structure is under the dim light of the lamp, how the light just hits is jaw at this angle and how the shadow it casts is too breathtaking for words, and he looks away. He takes a deep breath, looks you dead in the eye, and says, “Adam, do you-I mean, would you-”
Unfortunately, the band around the fourth finger on his left hand catches the light, too. “Kristopher,” you say lightly, “Kristopher, I won’t do anything she won’t do.”
“I mean, he’s open-minded and liberal, but he’s definitely 100% straight.”
From Katy (+1-501-729-6431)
Date 3/20/2009 3:45 pm
You’re actually willing to do that for him?
From Adam (+1-310-859-7006)
Date 3/20/2009 3:47 pm
I’ve done it for every guy lacking knowledge in the perfectly-fitting jeans department, honey. of course I will.
From Katy (+1-501-729-6431)
Date 3/20/2009 3:55 pm
You’re a lifesaver and I love you. :D
From Adam (+1-310-859-7006)
Date 3/20/2009 4:03 pm
Aw, honey, don’t mention it. feeling’s 500% mutual, trust me.
From Kris (+1-501-536-3094)
Date 3/20/2009 4:15 pm
You told him what?????? Aw come on Katy, you’re fueling the fire here!!
From Katy (+1-501-729-6431)
Date 3/20/2009 4:19 pm
I told him he’s going to take you SHOPPING, Kristopher, and you’re going. End of discussion.
You don’t know how you end up at True Religion at the American at Brand on a Friday when you should be picking songs for next week’s theme (okay, you’ve got a perfectly good idea and it involves a whole lotta Katy and a good amount of Alli), sitting on one of the stools in front of their transparent display case and watching Adam sift through jeans on hangers and murmur something or shake his head disapprovingly while he did so, but you’re here and he’s here and thank God there aren’t that much people today.
“We should be picking songs, Adam,” you complain, raking a hand through your hair. “I don’t need a whole, whole - what do you call it? Revamp? - revamp of my wardrobe.”
Adam looks back at you, at least five pairs of jeans weighing down on left forearm, and raises an eyebrow. “Be quiet or I’m not treating you to Pinkberry.”
“Okay, one,” you attempt to clarify as he turns around and proceeds to drape another pair over his arm, “I didn’t ask for Pinkberry, Alli did. And two, I-”
“-I know Alli wanted Pinkberry,” he answers as he walks around the counter and holds out what seems to be a total of eight pairs of jeans, “but if you don’t at least try this on and let me explain why they’re so much better than the… things you’ve been wearing” - he looks at you before you even have a chance to be offended - “we’re not even going to stop by for her yogurt and I’ll tell her it’s all your fault.” He looks at you in that manner you’ve found you can’t refuse - left eyebrow raised imploringly, lips casually settling into a satisfied smile you’ve come to learn is reserved only for you and Allison.
You roll your eyes and get up off the stool, taking the jeans from him and momentarily grunting at their weight, and head on over to the attendant at the cash register who’s absolutely more than happy to open a dressing room for you. You look down at the floor and spot Adam’s snakeskin boots, and you have to grin. You shake your head, look at your reflection in the mirror, and sigh. “I can’t believe you were willing to jeopardize Alli’s Pinkberry just to get me to try on jeans.”
“Kristopher Allen,” Adam replies, and God above, you’re being one hundred percent honest in thinking he was actually going to call you Christopher Robin, “are you insane? Even if you turned me down - which, quite frankly, I know you can’t do, honey” - you donn’t even have the energy to pretend to be offended because you find the overall situation so unbelievably amusing - “I wouldn’t have dared risk incurring the wrath of a disappointed teenager.”
He says it so seriously that you can’t contain a chuckle. You unbutton and unzip your jeans, skillfully maneuver your legs out of them, and hold up the first pair. You frown at it, inspect it: Well, okay, fine, inspects the price tag and holy sh- your eyes widen when you see $328.00. What person in their right mind would spend that much money for a pair of jeans? (Okay, well, Adam does, but you’re not far from questioning his sanity right now, so he doesn’t count.) What made them different from any other pair - throw ’em on, take ’em off, throw ’em in the laundry, dry ’em, that’s all it was, right? (And, no, apparently not, because he’s got such an affinity for them.) Because, really, if you’ve got to spend for like, dry-cleaning or something, or if you’ve got to freakin’ iron the damn thing for three hours, then you’re not down for that, you have absolutely no intentions of even trying them on-
“Kristopher, if your eyes are bugging out at the prices - your feet aren’t moving, by the way, I know you’re just standing there and moving away from the door won’t help you - would it help at all if I told you that there are more expensive brands out there?”
Okay, now, really? Would it help? No, not really, it doesn’t help at all (how was that supposed to help you?), so you tell him and he laughs. “C’mon, now, Kristopher, we don’t have all day.”
Grudgingly, you slip them on, and something immediately feels different. The material of the jeans is way different than what you’re used to - it’s rougher, tougher, makes you feel that way - but what you’re more shocked at is the enlightening fact that they’re absolutely comfortable. The denim settles around your thighs, actually ends up accentuating them in a way that you’ve never seen your other pairs do. You look at your reflection in the mirror - unbuttoned plaid shirt, white tee underneath, a pair of True Religion jeans settled on your hips - and you decide that, ugh, fine, it’s not that bad of an idea. You turn your eyes down and catch sight of your Chucks, and you grin; you’d expected to borrow Adam’s boots or something to be able to wear these jeans properly.
“Kristopher?” Adam actually sounds excited to be doing this. “Did the zipper get stuck or are you just waiting for me to get tired of this and let you out of the store without trying a pair? Because, really, now, I could do this all day.”
You open your mouth to answer, but you’re too late; a trace of smugness has already entered your roommate’s voice: “Or - or - you’re admiring yourself in that mirror and are inwardly singing my praises because I’ve done you the greatest favor in the history of favors done to Kristopher Neil Allen.” You can almost see the satisfied nod of his head. “I like the sound of option three. Do you mind if I go with option three?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you say as you open the door and walk out, “option three, whatever. Go ahead, feed your ego.”
You actually hear the hitching of his breath when he turns away from a pair of dark jeans that have caught his eye, and you look at him strangely. A grin begins to form on his lips, one of those Matt-esque Cheshire cat grins that come up when Matt’s plotting to prank Danny or push Anoop into the pool, and Adam nods appreciatively.
“Feel good, don’t they?” he asks you, and you nod.
“Comfy?” You nod again.
“Those are the Joeys,” he says, motioning you into the dressing room. You enter backwards, and he follows you, locking the door behind him.
“Hey,” you exclaim, but he raises an eyebrow at you.
“Kristopher, I don’t dig nonconsensual blowjobs in public areas - especially in dressing rooms.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Do you know how unsanitary that is?”
He looks at you seriously, mouth in a straight line and expression absolutely firm, before you playfully swat him on his shoulder and you both dissolve into laughter.
“Good to know,” you answer, and you nearly choke on your own saliva, because he’s already got a response halfway out of his mouth: “See, ’cause when they’re consensual? Honey, that’s a whole ’nother story.”
He leers at you and you blush and look away, before he ruffles your hair and sits on the bench by the wall. He drapes a leg over the other, leans back, and crosses his arms. “But seriously, Kristopher - the Joeys look very, very good on you.”
You feel red begin to stain your cheeks. “Thanks. You’d probably pull ’em off way better than I could, though.”
He bursts into laughter. “In a different way than you’re thinking about, doll. In a very different way.”
You look at him incredulously.
“Y’know,” he says flippantly, “you’re cute when you do that - your whole ‘why the fuck are you doing this to me, Adam Lambert?’ expression. S’cute. Honestly.”
“Oh, shut up,” you bite out. “Weren’t you supposed to educate me on how these jeans are better than what I was wearing a few minutes ago or something?”
Adam just rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
(The pair of jeans that Kristopher tries on is the Men’s Joey with Leather Horseshoe in Medium Phoenix, while the pair that catches Adam’s eye is the Men’s Luke Heritage Big T in Motor Psycho Medium.)
Author: ilytheira @ usedtoshine
Rating: NC17
Pairings/Characters: Kradam (Kris Allen/Adam Lambert) and brief Kris/Katy, with cameos from a variety of S8 contestants.
Written For: forbiddenromanc
Prompt: Absolutely *anything* based off of this: “They put me with the cute guy. Distracting! He’s the one guy I found attractive in the whole group on the show: nice, nonchalant, pretty and totally my type - except that he has a wife. I mean he’s open-minded and liberal, but he’s definitely 100% straight.” Preferably with Kris/Adam ending, but like I said, anything.
Summary: Adam just laughs and shakes his head, “Yeah. Yeah, Kris Allen’s definitely worth it.”
Disclaimer: Neither Kris nor Adam, nor any of the variety of people featured below, belong to me. I’d also like to stress that this fic, in its entirety, is a work of fiction, and that the events described and information given below absolutely did not happen. The title of this fic comes from Matchbox Twenty’s “How Far We’ve Come.”
Author’s Note: I spent the longest time trying to see if I could fall back into third-person point of view, but alas, that's no longer my comfort zone anymore. This fic has also turned out to be much longer than I'd anticipated - everything I've been writing lately seems to have gone down this path, too - so thank goodness for the extended deadline, because the one I'd posted, I was not pleased with it.
This fic was written for the paintedboys Fic Exchange.
“They put me with the cute guy. Distracting! He’s the one guy I found attractive in the whole group on the show: nice, nonchalant, pretty and totally my type…”
Seriously, it’s like-the feeling is worse than having to meet Katy’s parents. You’d already known what to expect then-Katy had done an incredible job preparing you for the day you’d met Mr. and Mrs. O’Connell-but this is a completely different ballgame. It’s a funny feeling in your stomach to be nervous about meeting another competitor on the show, but it’s more of the fact that you know absolutely nothing about him that gets to you more than anything else does. Aside from the fact that your roommate Matt, Matt from Kalamazoo, Michigan, one hell of a piano player who graduated from Western Michigan, has already exchanged numbers with him, and that his voice is making you rethink why you’ve even joined this competition in the first place (might as well forfeit now or something, ’cause he seriously gives the whole “There are probably a lot of other singers better than me” point of view a completely different meaning), you know nothing.
Well, nothing except for his name being Adam, Adam Lambert, and that he’s from L.A., so you and everyone else that isn’t from here are literally in his territory, but that’s as far as you or Matt have gotten, so when Matt looks up from his phone with a wide grin on his face and a nod that you guess is supposed to be taken as one of confirmation or something, you find that uh, yeah, you’re more nervous than before. It’s safe to say that you’re quaking in your boots or something like that, since Matt follows it up with, “That was Adam. He’ll be here real quick.”
You nod nervously then take a look around at the people already seated around the circular table, all of them fast acquaintances of Matt. There’s Anoop, wearing his North Carolina jacket with pride, joking around with Nick or Norman (you’re gonna go ahead and guess Nick, since he’s not in costume) as he passes the table on the way to the buffet; to his left is, uh her name starts with an M!, er, Mishavonna, there you go, and Nick has her dissolving into giggles as he winks at her and makes a face before he walks away. Felicia, Felicia’s the one who separates you and Mishavonna, but she’s had her cell phone out for a while now, so you turn your attention to Kendall, who’s sitting to your left. Kendall and the empty seat beside her - reserved now for Adam, since Nate had stalked past Rose or Alexis (they actually kind of look alike to you) a few minutes ago - separate you from Matt, which you think might be a small problem, since you’re on the verge of telling him how bad of an idea this might be, how you and Adam may not be the most compatible people in the room (okay, Kris, you’re just nervous, and it’s okay to be nervous, okay? Jeez, Kristopher, you’re sounding like a lovesick teenager or something), but you don’t have a say in it, because here he comes, here he is, and bam, he’s standing behind Matt.
Matt jumps in surprise when Adam puts a hand on his shoulder, but then he’s standing up immediately and giving him a warm, two-armed hug. Adam pulls away first, smiling, and exchanging like, little pleasantries and stuff, whatever (it includes a quick glance in your direction coming from Matt and that makes you, uh, well, nervous), it’s way too quiet for you to hear over Tatiana and Katrina anyway (dear God). Adam nods twice before turning his eyes to you when Matt makes a gesture in your direction. More than anything else when he turns to look at you then do a quick scan of the table, you’re very much intrigued by his eyes - Adam’s eyes are a color that’s ridiculously bright; so bright, in fact, that from where you’re sitting right now, they look like an inhuman shade of gray, and yeah, you’ll be the first to admit that you stared at them. (And, seriously? Who has a face like that? You’re a little surprised you haven’t seen him in like, a Dolce & Gabbana campaign - is that even right? Dolce & Gabbana? - in one of Katy’s Vogue magazines with those supermodels she loves to talk about. So you flip through them once in a while. Not like it’s a sin, all right?)
You’ve got to hand it to Matt. There’s definitely something about Adam Lambert that you don’t see every day in Conway, Arkansas.
Nobody back home (or, you know, nobody back home that you know) for sure dresses like him - black trench coat, black shirt underneath, dark jeans, boots that you notice when he walks away from the table to chat with Jesse, Jesse Langseth, for a little bit, coming back quickly - and nobody back home carries themselves the way he does, either. There’s something - something intriguing, you could say - something powerful about the way Adam carries himself - you know, jaw clenched defiantly, lips slightly pursed, eyebrows raised. His expression - it’s insane how fast he can transition from one to the other; it’s way smoother than any of your recent chords have been, that’s for sure - softens a little when Allison, a young girl with a personality that seems to match her red (no, like, seriously red) hair, jumps on over and they hug each other and laugh, but it feels almost like an illusion, because once she’s gone, he’s got that regal look to him again.
When you hear David Bowie’s “Fame” over someone laughing at a joke from Jamar on the table to your right, you find that it’s Adam’s phone that’s ringing, that he’s the one who’s putting the phone to his ear, and while all this is going on, you notice his black nail polish immediately. (Did you say Dolce & Gabbana? You probably meant Alexander McQueen.) You’ve never seen any guy from Conway wear black nail polish. Okay, no, that’s a lie, Daniel’s done it once before - but the polish was only on the nail on his right pinky, and it lasted only all of five seconds before he begged Katy to take it off. She’d casually joked about Daniel being afraid to lose his masculinity, but apparently, losing any amount of masculinity due to nail polish is something Adam isn’t afraid of. In fact, on him, the black nail polish looks just as masculine as the eyeliner rimming his eyes.
Yeah - definitely Alexander McQueen. (Katy would totally back you up on this one.)
You feel like a stalker for staring, seriously, especially since it takes Kendall five pokes to your arm before she catches your attention, and when she says, “Why don’t we all just go him and give him the title now?” all you do is give her a grunt as an answer even though you totally agree. The first time you actually hear him speak (you find yourself thinking, thank you for shutting Tatiana up, Nate, ’cause if anyone can do it, it’s you), he’s saying, “Yeah, yeah, hey Allison, I’m having dinner right now” (didn’t Allison just stop by their table a few minutes ago? Or is he talking to a different Allison?) and you find that you’re fixated on the light, playful tone. There’s something about the inflections in his voice, it just seems to natural to him, and there’s something about the way his voice crescendos when he gasps, “He did not!” that just piques your interest. It’s almost as if he’s been singing for way too long and the song just doesn’t leave him anymore, like he’d been brought up singing before he knew how to speak (that was probably the story anyway).
You’ve definitely been staring for way, way too long - even Felicia’s turned her eyes away from him now, has gone back to her phone - and staring way, way, too hard, too, because once he’s ended his conversation with, “Love you, too, honey, and would you please tell that motherfucker in the background to shut the hell up, I’ll visit as soon as I can? Thanks” and you don’t hear your mother in your head saying something like Kristopher Neil Allen! (and she knows how much you hate it when she uses your full name) don’t you know how impolite it is to stare?, he turns to you again, eyes bright and wide and expression on his face curious, head tilted to the side and lips pushed out. “I’ve got something on my face, yeah?”
Anoop snorts then looks away, going back to eating his spaghetti when you turn your head in his direction and throw him a nasty glare. You look at Adam again, burying a hand at the nape of your neck, blushing because you’re stuttering, of all things, “Oh! Oh, uh, no, it’s just-”
And, now, you’re not the type of guy to cuss or anything, you don’t really do it unless you’re drunk and partying with Daniel and his friends and even that’s pretty much a rarity now, but you can’t help but think what in the actual fuck, Kris Allen? while you watch Matt take his seat, sliding to the edge so that Adam’s got enough room to lean against it.
“Kris, yeah?” he says casually.
You nod mutely.
“From?”
You meet his eyes and find that they’re like the sun (since when did you become such a huge cheeseball?) - they’re a little intense, a little too much for you and you can’t really meet them head-on, so you blink and look at his lips - okay, the hell, Kristopher? no, bad idea - so you move your eyes to his hair - and, it’s cool, okay, but Kristopher, what the hell are you doing? - so you give up and meet his eyes again. You give him a sheepish grin and he just blinks at you, eyebrow raised, just waiting for an answer (a sign of your consciousness would be nice, right, because you’re obviously alive and breathing), but you’re a little too slow with that, so Matt goes ahead with, “That’s Conway’s Kris Allen for ya.”
Adam smirks and inclines his head. “Hm,” he muses, straightening himself before placing a hand on Matt’s chair to steady himself as he leans forward, the other hand on his hip. “Pleasure to meet you, Conway’s Kris Allen. LA’s Adam Lambert.”
You can’t tell if it’s a wink that follows that, or if it’s just you seeing things, but there’s something about him that doesn’t make the blush on your cheeks go away. In fact, you can still feel your face heating up (you didn’t even know that was possible anymore). “Yeah,” you say, and then he moves. Beside you, Kendall giggles excitedly as Adam takes his seat next to her, and he’s all it takes for Felicia to stick her phone into her pocket and look at him with a wide smile on her face. “Yeah, I know. Matt, uh, Matt doesn’t shut up about you.” Matt snorts; Anoop just laughs. “I think he has like, a crush on you, or something, man.” This gets Adam laughing, and you relax a little. “But yeah. You were great earlier.”
“OhmyGod,” and Mishavonna’s epiphany scares the hell out of you, “you did the 4 Non Blondes and you killed it. Who does that?”
Adam keeps on staring at you, stares at you for another three seconds or something, before he rips his gaze away from you and fixes it on Mishavonna. He gives her a completely different look - something less edgier than the stare he’d given you, eyes rimmed in eyeliner and slightly narrowed as he stared at you, like he had been trying to decipher something, like your face is some sort of code and he was some sort of cryptologist or something trying to figure you out. The look she gets from him is more gentle, the smile he gives to her is sweet, like it’s a box of cookies wrapped up with a bow, and when he answers, “Aw, thanks so much,” it’s like he’s a completely different person - especially when he stands up and walks on over to Felicia when she asks for a picture with him, and when he whips out his own phone and takes a picture like some of Katy’s friends take their MySpace pictures, phone held up and a funny expression on his face.
You sit back and watch him gush on and on about the 4 Non Blondes with Mishavonna as Felicia and Kendall turn their attention to him when he sits back down, catching glimpses of him out of the corner of your eye as you pick at your chicken salad. You’re pretty sure Matt is watching you because you feel a stare on the side of your face. You turn to him and he turns back to his phone, a little knowing smile playing on his lips, and you’re left a little clueless. You think it’s something that’s got to do with you, though, because when Adam looks at his phone, looks at you, then looks back at Matt, he’s laughing and shaking his head. He types away at it, vigorously so, in fact, and when Matt’s phone goes off, he’s practically howling in laughter.
“S’because Kris Allen’s worth it,” he says, throwing a wink in your direction, and you practically choke on the piece of chicken you’re trying to swallow, because he follows that up by playfully batting his eyelashes at you.
Adam just laughs and shakes his head, “Yeah. Yeah, Kris Allen’s definitely worth it.”
From Matt (+1-269-558-0319)
Date 2/10/2009 8:37 pm
Kris Allen’s a cutie, huh?
From Adam (+1-310-859-7006)
Date 2/10/2009 8:41 pm
Hahahaha, whatever you say, Matt.
From Matt (+1-269-558-0319)
Date 2/10/2009 8:44 pm
=P the hell took you so long to get over here?
From Adam (+1-310-859-7006)
Date 2/10/2009 8:46 pm
Had to detach myself from tatiana. How fucking dare you leave me alone w/ her?
“… - except that he has a wife.”
From Katy (+1-501-729-6431)
Date 4/14/2009 9:02 pm
Couldn’t have wanted a better roommate for him! You’re great, Adam. :) Take care of him for me?
From Adam (+1-310-859-7006)
Date 4/14/2009 9:05 pm
aw, thanks, dollface. no worries, kristopher’s in good hands.
From Katy (1-501-729-6431)
Date 4/14/2009 9:10 pm
Yeah. I know. :) Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!
Kris looks at you breathlessly, beautifully, his cheeks flushed red and lips so sinfully bruised. This is your favorite side to Kris Allen, you think, because he’s just open and vulnerable and so fucking precious or something. You touch him gently, afraid that you’re going to break him or that he’ll shy away from you if you start off way too aggressively. As he lays here, spread out beneath you, buttons on his plaid shirt halfway undone and his jeans unbuttoned and the zipper lowered, you find that your heart actually begins to fucking ache because you’re suddenly realizing that he’s become so damn precious to you over the past few weeks. You breathe deeply as you straddle his hips, “I want you to sing for me, Kristopher.” He whimpers as you unbutton his shirt all the way, as you push the shirt he has on underneath up. “Sing me your song.”
He actually fucking shakes underneath you as your fingers catch his left nipple, and you watch almost with an innocent curiosity as he arches his back when you twist it slightly. You lean down and catch it in your mouth, transferring your hand to his right one, and you almost gasp when he threads a hand through your hair. You pull away and lick your lips, blowing gently, and he lets out a sound from deep in his throat. “I don’t know you,” he gasps, and damn, it’s heaven to your ears, “but I want you--shit, Adam-” and you smile against his skin as you take his other nipple into your mouth “-all the more for-oh, God-that.”
“All the more for this, Kris Allen?” you whisper as you straighten yourself again, as you slide his jeans down to his ankles, the bed beneath you creaking under your combined weight. “You want me all the more for this?” You let your fingers ghost over his trapped erection, the bulge in his boxers evident, and you smile. All the more for you, too.
He bites his lip and nods at you, nods at you fervently, and you smile sweetly at him. “Sing for me, Kristopher,” you command again as you remove his underwear, cock springing free, hard and weeping for you. You slither down his body, legs on either side of him, as you dip down and catch only his tip between your teeth.
His back arches again, arches in that beautiful way of his, that perfect way of his, and hisses, “You’re going to kill me here, Lambert.”
You swirl your tongue around the head of his cock and smile against it. You take him, all of him, into your mouth, and you hum, raising an eyebrow as he thrusts into you; you take your mouth off of him just in time. “I don’t hear singing,” you say.
He’s panting beneath you now, cheeks redder than ever, and when he speaks to you, it’s the only sound you ever want to hear again, “Can I skip to the chorus?”
And you laugh, you actually laugh, as you take his length into your hands, as you curl your fingers around his cock and stroke him gently. You ignore the tightening of your own pair of jeans as he squirms beneath you, and you slow down even more, slow down just enough so that he’s reaching down, ready to get himself off. You slap his hand away, “You can’t skip anything, honey, no.”
He whimpers in frustration, looking up at you with eyes that are begging, and you moan. “Sing it, Kristopher,” you say roughly, voice low, “sing it.”
“W-words fall thr-through me,” he surrenders to you, “and a-always fool me-“ and you start stroking him again, humming along with his voice. You lean over him and breathe kisses along his jaw line, song feathering over your ear, “-and I can’t react.”
“What a liar,” you whisper into his ear, nibbling it as you press a thumb to the tip of his cock. “‘Can’t react’ my ass.”
He chooses to ignore you, goes on with “And games that-that never a-amount to m-more-Adam, shit, oh-than they’re meant” before you press even harder and he bucks his hips, trying to urge you to move faster, faster, dammit, and you just grin.
“What about those games, Kristopher?” you say as you trail kisses across his chest, taking your hand off his erection and letting it come back up to play with his nipples. “Tell me about those games.”
He goes on, “Will p-p-play themselves out,” but the way he falters on ‘out’ and makes it sound like a moan instead when you take his right nipple into your mouth, bite it gently, and then swirl your tongue around it is even more delightful.
You move on down to his stomach, kissing the smooth expanse of his skin and admiring the definition in his abdomen, and you whisper against his skin, “Now you can get to the chorus, Kris.”
“Take this sinking boat,” he sings, panting as you dip your tongue into his navel, and then lick your way down right before the base of his cock, “and p-p-point it h-home,” and you smile, really, you just have to, when you take his tip into your mouth again and he can’t properly enunciate when he continues, “we’ve still got time.” He arches his back and puts a hand on your head again, and you wince when he pulls on your hair as you take all of him into your throat, but you don’t do anything, absolutely nothing at all, just keep him there, until he realizes why you’re not moving and he struggles to sing again.
“R-raise your h-hopef-ful voice,” he stutters and you hum in appreciation, “y-you h-have a-a choice,” and you start moving your head up and down, sometimes letting him out of your mouth and sometimes gently biting at his tip, and okay, seriously, your jeans are getting way too tight for this, “y-you’ll m-ma-ake it now,” and you release him and bring your lips up to his mouth, kissing him vigorously, and he shudders underneath you, shudders and shudders and moans and goddammit, why the goddamn fuck do you have to be so fucking indescribable, Kristopher Neil Allen, and so when he kisses you back, you bring your hand down and start stroking him faster.
You’re still kissing, you can feel the oxygen being ripped from your lungs, you feel lightheaded and dizzy and asphyxiated and you’re wondering what he’s thinking now, what he’s thinking as he’s fucking your hand, what he’s feeling as your hand gets faster and faster, and when you see the tautness of his throat as he forcefully rips himself away from you, rips himself and his whole body tightens and he’s spurting himself all over your fingers, his semen warm and sticky to the touch, you pant and you can’t think, can’t breathe, you’re the one who can’t react, Kristopher Neil Allen just came on your fingers, and the thought of it is so goddamn unbelievable that you’re kissing him again, kissing him like you’re never going to let him leave this room.
He shakes his head and you pull away from him, the both of you panting, and then as you brace yourself on top of him, both of your hands now on either side of his head, he unbuckles your belt, unbuttons and unzips your pants, and thank fucking God you chose to forego your underwear today, because when he wraps his hand around your cock and begins to stroke you, you start to realize that dammit, you couldn’t have taken an extra layer of clothing.
He takes a few seconds to catch his breath as he returns the favor, takes a few deep breaths, and then he’s singing to you, “You have suffered enough and warred with yourself” because, you know, of course he’d go to that line, because Kristopher Neil Allen is cheeky as fucking hell, and you’re the one fighting it hard to breathe now, you’re the one who can’t even keep your eyes open as you release moan after moan after ohGodyesKrispleaseKrisohGodoh, and when you feel your orgasm coming, when you shudder and arch your back and thrust repeatedly into his hands, you fight to open your eyes and he’s staring directly at you as you come, “It’s time that you won,” and oh.
You shudder and pant and collapse on top of him, burying your face into the crook of his neck, and you feel - you feel content. You’re a little dizzy, a little lightheaded, but that’s to be expected, so it’s an Olympian effort for you to look up at him when he nudges you with his chin. You roll onto your side, and then meet his eyes directly. “Yes, Kristopher?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
He bites his lip nervously, and you’ve got a feeling you know what he’s about to ask, because you’ve thought about doing it countless of times, but you wait for him to ask. You stare at him, just stare at him and how beautiful his bone structure is under the dim light of the lamp, how the light just hits is jaw at this angle and how the shadow it casts is too breathtaking for words, and he looks away. He takes a deep breath, looks you dead in the eye, and says, “Adam, do you-I mean, would you-”
Unfortunately, the band around the fourth finger on his left hand catches the light, too. “Kristopher,” you say lightly, “Kristopher, I won’t do anything she won’t do.”
“I mean, he’s open-minded and liberal, but he’s definitely 100% straight.”
From Katy (+1-501-729-6431)
Date 3/20/2009 3:45 pm
You’re actually willing to do that for him?
From Adam (+1-310-859-7006)
Date 3/20/2009 3:47 pm
I’ve done it for every guy lacking knowledge in the perfectly-fitting jeans department, honey. of course I will.
From Katy (+1-501-729-6431)
Date 3/20/2009 3:55 pm
You’re a lifesaver and I love you. :D
From Adam (+1-310-859-7006)
Date 3/20/2009 4:03 pm
Aw, honey, don’t mention it. feeling’s 500% mutual, trust me.
From Kris (+1-501-536-3094)
Date 3/20/2009 4:15 pm
You told him what?????? Aw come on Katy, you’re fueling the fire here!!
From Katy (+1-501-729-6431)
Date 3/20/2009 4:19 pm
I told him he’s going to take you SHOPPING, Kristopher, and you’re going. End of discussion.
You don’t know how you end up at True Religion at the American at Brand on a Friday when you should be picking songs for next week’s theme (okay, you’ve got a perfectly good idea and it involves a whole lotta Katy and a good amount of Alli), sitting on one of the stools in front of their transparent display case and watching Adam sift through jeans on hangers and murmur something or shake his head disapprovingly while he did so, but you’re here and he’s here and thank God there aren’t that much people today.
“We should be picking songs, Adam,” you complain, raking a hand through your hair. “I don’t need a whole, whole - what do you call it? Revamp? - revamp of my wardrobe.”
Adam looks back at you, at least five pairs of jeans weighing down on left forearm, and raises an eyebrow. “Be quiet or I’m not treating you to Pinkberry.”
“Okay, one,” you attempt to clarify as he turns around and proceeds to drape another pair over his arm, “I didn’t ask for Pinkberry, Alli did. And two, I-”
“-I know Alli wanted Pinkberry,” he answers as he walks around the counter and holds out what seems to be a total of eight pairs of jeans, “but if you don’t at least try this on and let me explain why they’re so much better than the… things you’ve been wearing” - he looks at you before you even have a chance to be offended - “we’re not even going to stop by for her yogurt and I’ll tell her it’s all your fault.” He looks at you in that manner you’ve found you can’t refuse - left eyebrow raised imploringly, lips casually settling into a satisfied smile you’ve come to learn is reserved only for you and Allison.
You roll your eyes and get up off the stool, taking the jeans from him and momentarily grunting at their weight, and head on over to the attendant at the cash register who’s absolutely more than happy to open a dressing room for you. You look down at the floor and spot Adam’s snakeskin boots, and you have to grin. You shake your head, look at your reflection in the mirror, and sigh. “I can’t believe you were willing to jeopardize Alli’s Pinkberry just to get me to try on jeans.”
“Kristopher Allen,” Adam replies, and God above, you’re being one hundred percent honest in thinking he was actually going to call you Christopher Robin, “are you insane? Even if you turned me down - which, quite frankly, I know you can’t do, honey” - you donn’t even have the energy to pretend to be offended because you find the overall situation so unbelievably amusing - “I wouldn’t have dared risk incurring the wrath of a disappointed teenager.”
He says it so seriously that you can’t contain a chuckle. You unbutton and unzip your jeans, skillfully maneuver your legs out of them, and hold up the first pair. You frown at it, inspect it: Well, okay, fine, inspects the price tag and holy sh- your eyes widen when you see $328.00. What person in their right mind would spend that much money for a pair of jeans? (Okay, well, Adam does, but you’re not far from questioning his sanity right now, so he doesn’t count.) What made them different from any other pair - throw ’em on, take ’em off, throw ’em in the laundry, dry ’em, that’s all it was, right? (And, no, apparently not, because he’s got such an affinity for them.) Because, really, if you’ve got to spend for like, dry-cleaning or something, or if you’ve got to freakin’ iron the damn thing for three hours, then you’re not down for that, you have absolutely no intentions of even trying them on-
“Kristopher, if your eyes are bugging out at the prices - your feet aren’t moving, by the way, I know you’re just standing there and moving away from the door won’t help you - would it help at all if I told you that there are more expensive brands out there?”
Okay, now, really? Would it help? No, not really, it doesn’t help at all (how was that supposed to help you?), so you tell him and he laughs. “C’mon, now, Kristopher, we don’t have all day.”
Grudgingly, you slip them on, and something immediately feels different. The material of the jeans is way different than what you’re used to - it’s rougher, tougher, makes you feel that way - but what you’re more shocked at is the enlightening fact that they’re absolutely comfortable. The denim settles around your thighs, actually ends up accentuating them in a way that you’ve never seen your other pairs do. You look at your reflection in the mirror - unbuttoned plaid shirt, white tee underneath, a pair of True Religion jeans settled on your hips - and you decide that, ugh, fine, it’s not that bad of an idea. You turn your eyes down and catch sight of your Chucks, and you grin; you’d expected to borrow Adam’s boots or something to be able to wear these jeans properly.
“Kristopher?” Adam actually sounds excited to be doing this. “Did the zipper get stuck or are you just waiting for me to get tired of this and let you out of the store without trying a pair? Because, really, now, I could do this all day.”
You open your mouth to answer, but you’re too late; a trace of smugness has already entered your roommate’s voice: “Or - or - you’re admiring yourself in that mirror and are inwardly singing my praises because I’ve done you the greatest favor in the history of favors done to Kristopher Neil Allen.” You can almost see the satisfied nod of his head. “I like the sound of option three. Do you mind if I go with option three?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you say as you open the door and walk out, “option three, whatever. Go ahead, feed your ego.”
You actually hear the hitching of his breath when he turns away from a pair of dark jeans that have caught his eye, and you look at him strangely. A grin begins to form on his lips, one of those Matt-esque Cheshire cat grins that come up when Matt’s plotting to prank Danny or push Anoop into the pool, and Adam nods appreciatively.
“Feel good, don’t they?” he asks you, and you nod.
“Comfy?” You nod again.
“Those are the Joeys,” he says, motioning you into the dressing room. You enter backwards, and he follows you, locking the door behind him.
“Hey,” you exclaim, but he raises an eyebrow at you.
“Kristopher, I don’t dig nonconsensual blowjobs in public areas - especially in dressing rooms.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Do you know how unsanitary that is?”
He looks at you seriously, mouth in a straight line and expression absolutely firm, before you playfully swat him on his shoulder and you both dissolve into laughter.
“Good to know,” you answer, and you nearly choke on your own saliva, because he’s already got a response halfway out of his mouth: “See, ’cause when they’re consensual? Honey, that’s a whole ’nother story.”
He leers at you and you blush and look away, before he ruffles your hair and sits on the bench by the wall. He drapes a leg over the other, leans back, and crosses his arms. “But seriously, Kristopher - the Joeys look very, very good on you.”
You feel red begin to stain your cheeks. “Thanks. You’d probably pull ’em off way better than I could, though.”
He bursts into laughter. “In a different way than you’re thinking about, doll. In a very different way.”
You look at him incredulously.
“Y’know,” he says flippantly, “you’re cute when you do that - your whole ‘why the fuck are you doing this to me, Adam Lambert?’ expression. S’cute. Honestly.”
“Oh, shut up,” you bite out. “Weren’t you supposed to educate me on how these jeans are better than what I was wearing a few minutes ago or something?”
Adam just rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
(The pair of jeans that Kristopher tries on is the Men’s Joey with Leather Horseshoe in Medium Phoenix, while the pair that catches Adam’s eye is the Men’s Luke Heritage Big T in Motor Psycho Medium.)