Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~5200 words. Desperation play and intimacy kink.
It’s a special kind of sleaze who gets off on something like their friend being a squirmy little shit who won’t just go to the fucking bathroom already.
For the past fifteen minutes, Adam hasn’t been watching the movie. The hotel room’s dark, lit only by the flickering television. Cam, her silhouette slender at the foot of the bed, picked out the DVD, so he’s sure he’d enjoy it if only he could pay attention. He has vague impressions of a gritty, wet city, a confused protagonist that might actually be the antagonist, but that’s it. With Tommy curled up against his side, wriggling fitfully but eyes glued to the television, he’s lucky he got that much.
Tommy bites his lip, hips shifting hard enough to rock the mattress, then he settles down again, back to tiny little hitches he probably thinks no one else will notice. It should be really easy for Adam to unwrap his arm from Tommy’s waist and give him a nudge towards the bathroom. Instead, Adam’s staring hard at nothing at all, his focus razor-sharp on the soft scrape of Tommy’s jeans against the duvet, the blatantly sexual way Tommy’s breath catches, holds, then puffs free in a barely-there grunt.
When Cam rolls to the side and grabs up the remote, pointing it at the screen, Adam has to bite his tongue to keep from telling her not to pause it. “Go,” she says, “before you piss yourself.”
“Aw, shit,” Tommy grunts, and catapults off the bed, slapping on the bathroom light. “I could’ve held it!”
Twisting around, Cam gives Adam a look. Adam dredges up one of his own, hoping it’s enough to communicate silent commiseration over Tommy’s pea-sized bladder and stubborn refusal to empty it every half hour. Anything to keep his gaze from wandering to the bathroom where Tommy’s pissing with the door wide open. The splash of urine hitting water is unfairly loud.
“Wash your hands!” Cam calls, a grin her voice.
“Fuck off,” Tommy says, laughing, and Adam looks up in time to catch him shaking off and tucking away. Drawing a knee up to hide the party gearing up in his pants, Adam shifts a bit, trying not to bring too much attention to the fact that he’s really enjoying himself in ways nobody needs to know about. If Tommy catches him with a boner, it wouldn’t exactly be a big thing after having to deal with it on stage night after night. But it seems rude while Cam’s in the room. Not that Cam would care, either. It’s the principle of the thing.
“Pee now if you need to,” Cam warns, settling back on her stomach as Tommy wanders back to the bed, thumping down and scooting back in under Adam’s arm. “I’m not pausing it again.”
“Tyrant.” Adam’s not sure, but he thinks they’re only about forty-five minutes in. With three beers left out of the six Tommy brought with him, it’s guaranteed Tommy’s going to have to pee again before the movie’s over.
“Scheduled intermissions only,” Cam says, and hits play.
“Whatever,” Tommy says lightly, reaching for his beer, “I can hold it.”
True to his word, Tommy does hold it. All through the movie, then through an enthusiastic discussion that Adam does his best to participate in, and through Cam lazily gathering up her smattering of things, phone and hat and sunglasses, to wander back to her own room. He doesn’t even wiggle when she gives him a long hug goodnight.
“Back on the bus tomorrow,” Tommy says with a smile. For an introverted little hermit, Tommy is incredibly fond of the bus. It helps that the European leg of the tour is not as crowded as the North American, and it isn’t nearly so long between hotel nights. The bus is more like a glorified taxi cab than anything, a beverage service from point A to point B. Obviously something that provides booze is a-okay in Tommy’s book.
“Think you can find your way back to your own room?” Adam asks, drawing Tommy in for his own goodnight hug, free to enjoy how tiny Tommy is in his arms, warm, soft skin over a lean layer of muscle over sharp-edged bones. But there are softer places, like the slight bump of Tommy’s belly and the spot directly above his kidneys where Adam’s hands always settle since Tommy tends to be an overhand hugger, arms slung around necks and shoulders so he can cuddle in tight.
“Shut up,” Tommy says, muffled in Adam’s shoulders. “C’mon, you call this a hug?”
“You shut up,” Adam says, laughing as they squeeze the mutual crap out of one another. Tommy shifts from foot to foot but doesn’t ease up. It’s not as easy for him to hold it when he’s forced into stillness. Adam knows things like that, and knows that it doesn’t matter if Tommy’s seconds from bursting, he still won’t be the first to pull away.
Adam also knows knowing these things means he’s kind of a creep. At least he doesn’t let his hand skim over Tommy’s tiny, overfull belly as they finally separate. There’s being a creep inside your own head, and then there’s rubbing your best friend’s face in it.
“Shit,” Tommy says, quickly zipping up his hoodie in preparation for trip through the freezing arctic that’s every hallway in every hotel the world over. “Now I gotta take a fucking leak again.”
“Bathroom’s right here, baby,” Adam says.
“Nah, whatever.” Tommy tucks both hands into his pockets. “Gonna grab a shower before I turn in, might as well do it there.”
“God,” Adam huffs, thankful it comes out in exactly the same strained sort of tone he’d use for when Tommy’s being gross. Tommy standing underneath the clear spray of water, letting go because he simply doesn’t care, is kind of gross. Unfortunately, in Adam’s twisted head, it’s the same kind of gross as sucking someone’s dick or fucking them in the ass. The kind Adam can really, really get behind. “Go before you pee all over my carpet.”
“Fuck you,” Tommy says, and butts his shoulder against Adam’s chest, demanding another squeeze. “M’not five, not gonna piss my pants.”
“Out,” Adam demands, giving Tommy a shove toward the door before he gives in and presses his hand firmly against Tommy’s belly to feel the fullness there, rocking his palm against it to make Tommy gasp and squirm. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Okay, okay. See if I ever hug you again.” Hauling open the door, Tommy gives his cock a quick squeeze, furtive like he doesn’t think Adam’ll notice. He’s really got to go, bad, if he’s resorting to that tactic. Usually it takes hours for him to get there. But then, he did have almost an entire six-pack to himself. And the water Adam kept pushing on him between drinks.
“You love me,” Adam says, and crowds in close behind Tommy so Tommy’s forced out into the hall. “But if you widdle on the carpet, I’m not paying for it.”
“Widdle on your face!” Tommy shouts, booking it down the hall.
Pointedly closing the door, Adam turns around and sags against it. In the quiet darkness, alone, he palms his dick, groaning at how good it feels. He’s got to stop doing this. It’s a special kind of sleaze who gets off on something like their friend being a squirmy little shit who won’t just go to the fucking bathroom already. Adam’s not that kinky, and the few he’s got, he’s made peace with. But this thing Tommy does, it’s not bedroom games. It’s just a weird quirk Tommy has, like eating one side of an Oreo cookie, then scraping all the icing off with his teeth, then finally eating the other side. Adam is just the pervert who gets off on it and he doesn’t even the decency to be honest about it.
If he were really sorry, though, he wouldn’t stumble over to drop down on the bed and haul his dick out, remembering every hitch of Tommy’s hips, all the small noises Tommy made, as he jerks off as fast as he can. He comes so hard his vision whites out, and it’s so good, amazing, for all of thirty seconds. Then he’s left there, panting and staring up at the blank ceiling, wondering how the fuck it got this bad.
Of course he doesn’t stop. Because Tommy doesn’t stop. During the band’s break at one of the UK shows, close to the end of the tour–Adam can’t even remember where they’re supposed to be tomorrow, let alone where they are now, but that’s why he has Lane–Tommy dumps his bass and takes off stage left like his ass is on fire. Adam’s delayed a few seconds as Cam starts the lead-in, staring after Tommy instead of getting to his mark. Tommy’s been doing really well for this leg of the tour. He’s gotten the sniffles a few times, and a nasty stomach thing two days outside Malaysia, but that’s it. Nothing that would send him flying into the wings desperately sick.
Adam eyeballs the forest of drink cups on Tommy’s amps. Not sick, then. Just Tommy.
All through the acoustic set, Adam’s burning with shame, actually flushed dark with it, and stupidly glad he’s got the bright stage lights as an excuse. These songs are his heart and all he’s thinking about is how long Tommy had to go. Maybe the urge hit Tommy around Fever, far enough into the show that he’d think it’s okay, no big deal, he could make it to break. He’d jammed his way through the dance segment, headbanging his ass off during Sleepwalker, but then halfway through, he’d probably realized it totally wasn’t okay. All the jumping around wouldn’t have done his bladder any favours, and his usual squirm-shuffle-squirm routine wouldn’t cut it. On stage in the middle of a show, he wouldn’t have any hands free to make that desperate grab for his cock like he does. Maybe he tried pushing against the bass instead, and oh, god, maybe he couldn’t stop it anyway. Maybe he leaked a little. Just a tiny bit, enough to make him panic, taunt him with the sweet relief that would be letting go, and the second he ran off the stage he thought for sure he would lose it. It wouldn’t matter that he could finally squeeze his dick; his belly would be too tight, the pressure too strong.
And then Adam realises he’s staring out at the audience, not seeing them at all. His head’s filled with the image of Tommy rushing through the backstage jungle, hand on his cock, cussing under his breath trying not to piss his pants.
The second the lights dim, Adam makes for their makeshift dressing room. He’s so hard he aches. Popping wood isn’t something he gets embarrassed about. It works with his image. This time, it’s different. It’s not the energy, the music, or his fucking breathing. He’s so turned on thinking about Tommy fucking pissing himself he can barely walk.
Costume change is pure torture. He can’t stop thinking about Tommy dashing in here, clawing at his clothes, the huge, breathless sigh when he finally gets his dick out and aimed and he can finally go. He wants so bad to jerk off to that image, the flutter of Tommy’s eyelashes, the slack-faced relief, but he’s got exactly five fucking minutes to get out of one costume and into another while Sutan flutters around him fixing his face and his hair and fuck.
For real, this has got to stop.
Guilt, Adam’s learned, is an extremely powerful motivator. He feels horrible about what he’s doing to Tommy, objectifying him, getting off on his discomfort (even if Tommy does it to himself every god damn time). But the depths of his conscience are a shallow, slippery thing, and Tommy won’t stop fucking squirming. Guilt doesn’t stand a chance in the face of his twisted sex drive.
They’re somewhere miles and miles outside LA, hurtling along the freeway for the hell of it, both of them missing the endless rumble of rubber on asphalt and enjoying it a little more and a little less without the looming need to be somewhere. Adam’s had two chances to pull over and let Tommy take a leak already. Every time the rest stop sign has sailed on by, the dark twist in Adam’s stomach wound tighter. Tommy hasn’t said a word. All Tommy’s done is the same thing he’s doing now: shift, pluck at his seatbelt, then stay still for a handful of seconds before he shifts again with a soft, distressed noise that burrows its way into Adam’s brain, setting it on fucking fire. Then Tommy makes it again, hurt-sounding, like a gasp, like the noise a guy makes when he’s been hard for fucking hours and all he wants is a hand on his dick already. But Tommy won’t ask.
Another sign rises up on the horizon. Rest stop, ten miles. Adam jerks his gaze away from it, as if looking at it will make Tommy notice it too. His grip goes white-knuckled on the wheel. Tommy’ll have to ask this time. He’s barely even sitting still anymore, hips rocking fitfully, clenched fist shoved hard against his thigh close to his dick. Pretty soon Adam’s the one who’s going to have to pull over or fucking lose it in his jeans like a teenager.
Five miles. Adam flicks a glance Tommy’s way. Tommy’s got his eyes closed, head tipped back, mouth open on shallow puffs of air. There’s no way he can hold on. He’s not even trying to hide how desperately he needs to go anymore.
But he doesn’t mention it. Maybe he never even saw the sign. Maybe Adam should fucking say something. What they fuck are they doing?
The turnoff is right there. Right there. Adam should take it. He needs to take it, or Tommy’s going to fucking hurt himself. Then it’s gone, a blip in the rearview mirror, unreal as a mirage.
“Oh fuck,” Tommy rasps, way too late, as he grabs at the front of his jeans. He squeezes hard, rocking up into his grip, his other hand clutching at the door. “Fuck, I can’t-” his voice cuts out on a shocked, panicked noise. A dark stain spreads slowly beneath his fingers.
Adam’s dick jerks so hard it travels straight up through him to his grip on the wheel, the car swerving with a shudder. He rights it fast, his gaze jumping from the road to the wetness seeping into Tommy’s jeans. There’s not much. Tommy didn’t lose it entirely, but enough. Enough for Adam to see. “Oh my god.”
“I’m sorry,” Tommy says, strained. He’s rocking fitfully in the seat, like he’s fucking his goddamn hand, and it’s so hot, so fucking hot, Adam can’t stand it. But Tommy’s whining, muttering apologies, voice wrecked and face flushed. He’s really going to lose it in a minute. “I’m so fucking sorry, you gotta- I can’t, I’m gonna-”
For a minute, a second Adam thinks about not pulling over. About making Tommy piss himself right there in the car, the way his face would twist with shame and relief, the heady pleasure in it. How fucking hard it would be to not kiss Tommy while he did it, swallow down his sweet moans as piss soaked his jeans.
“Shit,” Adam says, under his breath, then, “Hang on, okay?” Tommy gives a short nod, teeth digging into his lip. Flicking on the turn signal as warning, Adam slows, his heartbeat thundering in his head. There’s nowhere to really go with traffic on one side, sparse but steady, and thick concrete blocks shoring up the freeway on the other. But it’ll have to do. The car’s enough cover.
Clawing at the seatbelt, Tommy shoves open the door. It hits concrete with a screech. “Fuck,” he says, “Jesus, your car, fuck, I can’t-”
Adam could seriously not care fucking less about the paint job. “Forget it,” he says, twisting to see how much room Tommy’s got. “Just go.”
“Fuck, fuck, shit,” Tommy says, scrabbling up in the seat, half on one knee with his other leg braced in the footwell as he tears at his fly. Grabbing onto the open door, he leans out a bit, swaying dangerously, and there isn’t enough room for him to fucking fall but Adam’s not thinking anymore as he twists a hand in the waist of Tommy’s jeans, steadying him. Tommy lets out a shocked grunt but doesn’t bark at him to let the fuck go.
Adam can’t see a thing but oh my god, he wants to. The sound of Tommy pissing is really, stupidly loud, but not loud enough to drown out heavy, relieved groan that goes with it, or the way Tommy starts panting, still pissing, like he’s run miles and miles to get here. It’s all over way too soon.
“Fuck,” Tommy says, collapsing back in an awkward heap. His dick’s a soft, pale slump against his jeans, his hand curled loosely around the base. He’s still breathing hard, his head bowed. Adam should really let go of his jeans. “Sorry about your car.”
“I meant it, don’t worry about it.” Reluctantly, Adam untangles his fist from Tommy’s clothes. Tommy makes a disgusted sound as he tucks himself away, but he doesn’t try to drag his shirt down or cover his lap as he flops back in the seat. Not even when Adam stares at the stain like a total creep. “I should’ve-”
“Just in time,” Tommy says, making Adam’s gaze jerk up. Tommy’s got his head tilted back against the headrest, a quiet smile on his face. He’s still flushed, embarrassed, but like the relief is too much for it to really bother him and he’s going to deal with it the same as he deals with all the crazy stuff that comes their way.
Swallowing hard, Adam puts the car back into gear.
“Shit,” Adam says. The bathroom lights are too bright, harsh. Outside the flimsy door, dozens of his friends are drinking his booze, eating his food, enjoying his gorgeous new house in the breezy summer evening. The music’s loud, their laughter louder, but all Adam can hear is the panicked thud of his heart as Tommy pushes him against the cold edge of the counter. Tommy’s stronger than he looks, pushing up on his toes with his hands fisted in the front of Adam’s shirt, pinning him. And he’s hard. So fucking hard.
“Said you were gonna hold it for me,” Tommy says, spreading his knees so he’s straddling Adam’s thigh. “Kinda dropping the ball here, man.”
Trying to dig up an answer, or some fucking logic, because Adam’s pretty sure Isaac joking about somebody needing to take Tommy to the bathroom isn’t at all the same thing as Adam saying he’s going to hold it for him, all that comes out of Adam’s mouth is a strangled groan. He grabs at Tommy’s hips, not even thinking about shoving him off. He should. He probably really should, but Tommy feels amazing in his arms, small and strong and soft and sharp in all the right places.
“Said you were gonna,” Tommy repeats, mouth brushing Adam’s jaw, his lips, almost-kisses. Adam would really like to be kissed right now, not fucking teased. Tommy’s entire existence is the worst tease Adam’s ever had to live through.
Before Adam can make a grab for him, Tommy backs off. Adam sways, stunned. His hand hovers stupidly in mid-air, like it doesn’t understand how it isn’t wrapped around Tommy’s throat, either. Tommy was fucking rubbing off on him, there’s no way he isn’t going to follow through. Tommy’s not that kind of tease.
“C’mon, c’mon,” Tommy says, taking Adam by the wrist to haul him over to the toilet. “Gotta fucking- Christ, I gotta piss so bad.”
Adam says, “Oh my god,” stumbling against him. Tommy’s got his legs spread again, tiny ass shoved snug to Adam’s dick, Adam’s hand shoved against the hard heat of his, as he reaches over his shoulder to grab up another fistful of Adam’s shirt, locking them together. “Tommy, I don’t-”
“You fucking do,” Tommy grunts, rocking hard into Adam’s palm. “Get me off so I can take a leak for you, let you watch me this time. I gotta go so bad, fucking do it.”
Shaking off Tommy’s hold, Adam wraps an arm tight around Tommy’s waist. He seriously wishes he didn’t have a clue what the fuck is going on here, but oh, fuck, he’s been watching Tommy for months. And Tommy knew.
When Adam presses his palm hard against Tommy’s belly, Tommy groans and slumps back, hips jerking forward. There’s a slight fullness there, way down low, so easy for Adam to rock his hand against, make Tommy squirm in his grip. But Tommy’s not trying to push him away, or shove his hand back down to his dick. He hangs in Adam’s hold, panting and twisting and moaning like Adam’s jerking him off instead of making everything worse, spiking the urge to piss until it’s got to be burning through the pleasure.
“I’m gonna,” Tommy gasps, and Adam’s never gone for the blatant route with dirty talk like that, except this time it makes his stomach flip with anticipation, “I’m gonna come so hard, c’mon, get a hand on me, want you to feel it.”
If Adam didn’t, if he kept Tommy zipped up, trapped, Tommy would let him do it. Tommy would let Adam get him off, and then, caught up in the relief, Adam’s so fucking sure Tommy would let go. Cupping Tommy’s dick, Adam imagines it, the sharp pulses as Tommy came, the warm, wet flood that would follow, soaking Tommy’s clothes, a filthy wet mess of come and piss and sweat. The bliss that would be on Tommy’s face, orgasm-sweet tension melting away to pure base relief. Tommy would let him do it all.
But Tommy wants his hand, and more than the twisted, wicked desire to see Tommy ruined like that is the one to have hands on him while it happens. He wrenches Tommy’s fly open with about as much finesse as a wrecking ball, shoving everything down in a tight bunch, Tommy’s bare ass rubbing against Adam’s jeans and Tommy’s dick finally in his hands, thick and heavy and gorgeous. It’s damp and slick at the head, more than just precome, like Tommy’s been holding it again for so long that his shorts are wet with it. “Fuck,” Adam says, punch-gut lust driving his hand down to search through Tommy’s underwear, find the wet stain and close his fist tight around it.
“Please,” Tommy says, his dick damp where it drags along Adam’s forearm. “Been fucking waiting so fucking long, thought I was gonna have to fucking piss on you for you to get it, come on.”
“Shut up,” Adam says, mouth pressed close to Tommy’s ear, “I’m savouring it.” Which is a strange thing to say, and not at all what Adam had planned, or even considered admitting. The lights are too bright, everything too loud rattling off the tiles, gritty-harsh and so fucking perfectly real. Tommy smells like hairspray and booze and a little like pot and lot like warm, clean sweat. And sex, layered thick in the small downstairs bath. Like a guy, hard and wet, and that’s what finally spurs Adam into making a move, curling his fingers tight around Tommy’s dick. Tommy gives up a grateful moan and bucks into it, shuddering when Adam’s other hand presses in on his belly. “Can you take it like this?”
“Yeah,” Tommy says, trying to toss hair out of his eyes. It sticks to his lashes, the dark flush on his cheeks. “Yeah, fuck. Your fucking hands.”
Staring down the length of Tommy’s body, Adam makes sure to twist his wrist just right to have his fingers bumping over the head, his tattoos bright and clear caught in the light so they’ll be caught just as brightly in Tommy’s memory of this later. His hand heavy on Tommy’s stomach, he drags the other down to tug on Tommy’s balls, push them up snug against Tommy’s dick, driving Tommy up on his toes with the pressure. He keeps it up until Tommy’s rocking against him, practically riding his dick through his jeans. Tommy needs relief so bad he’s shaking, leaking precome when Adam starts jerking him off again, then a tiny, hot trickle as the heel of Adam’s hand rocks steadily against his belly, pushing the piss out of him. He’s too hard, too close to coming, to be able to manage it for real, but there’s something so incredibly good, a sweet-sharp bite, in fucking with Tommy like this, with his body, twisting him up inside.
“Hurt?” Adam asks, and sucks in a quick breath when Tommy nods, fast and jerky, biting on his lip so hard it’s mottled white. Of course it fucking hurts, Tommy’s so full, ready to burst, and he can’t. “Gonna come for me?”
“Fuck, so fucking much,” Tommy says, fingernails digging harsh red crescents into Adam’s wrist. “Please, please, c’mon, I’m gonna, almost, fuck.”
So turned on he can barely breathe, Adam keeps jerking Tommy through it, watching come slick his knuckles, catch on the edges of Tommy’s jeans, streak across the toilet seat and hit the water. Then Tommy grunts, “I’m gonna,” again, the last pulse barely faded, come still squeezing out of his dick when Adam strokes him, un-fucking-believable when piss starts to flow. Adam belatedly aims for the bowl, some splashing the seat but he doesn’t care, it’s easy to clean up, he’s got Tommy’s cock in his hand and Tommy is pissing, slumped against him, hot breaths puffing against Adam’s throat. Tommy’s fingers lace briefly with his, wrapped around Tommy’s dick, then bump over his knuckles, up the shaft to rub around the glistening ridge and back down again. Adam can feel it through softening flesh when the stream starts to slow, turning to a long, endless trickle, then a few last drops that he watches cling to Tommy’s slit before he gives them a shake free.
Nuzzling at his neck, Tommy says, “Shoulda got you to fuck me.”
“Oh my fucking god.” Adam squeezes his eyes shut. Tommy had been so full already, so desperate, Adam hadn’t wanted to risk imagining pushing inside him, filling him up even more. But now Tommy’s said it and everything Adam had been holding in check rushes to the forefront, how Tommy would squirm on his dick, pant and twist and make all those same, choked-off noises as when he’s holding it but from having Adam inside him this time, too, his bladder bursting and his ass full and his dick hard in Adam’s grip.
“Fuck, yeah,” Tommy grates, fumbling awkwardly at Adam’s fly without turning around. “Next time. Fuck me next time, fucking, like, fuck it outta me. Right here, like this, shove your dick in me and make me lose it.”
When Tommy’s hand touches bare skin, Adam’s pretty sure he whimpers. There’s no way Adam can take this. It’s twisted and wrong and he wants it, fuck, he wants so much to be buried deep in Tommy while he’s desperate, to feel him squirm and tighten up and fight it and lose, his whole body relaxing in relief only to tighten up all over again when Adam fucks him. “I wouldn’t stop,” Adam says, voice shaky as Tommy drags his dick out, thumbs the head. “I’d fuck you through it, before you were even done. I’d have to.”
“Next time,” Tommy promises, bracing a hand on the tank, Adam’s dick sliding down to nestle between the cheeks of his ass. He’s a little wobbly, so Adam cups his hips, breathes in fast through his nose. It’s pure instinct that has him fucking up against Tommy’s ass, heart tripping when Tommy shifts, gets him stuttering perfectly along the dry cleft. It doesn’t take long for the mess leaking from his dick to slick the way, and by then Tommy’s rocking with him, his hand over Adam’s on his waist, the wet slap of skin filling the small space, Adam’s head, forcing the air out of his lungs. He comes faster than he has since fucking puberty, barely long enough to memorise the slippery smoothness of Tommy’s skin, the tight, clenching heat just out of reach, how Tommy groans for him like he’s already pushed inside it. He stays hunched over Tommy’s back, fingers digging bruises into pale skin, unable to breathe, move, fucking think as orgasm pulses through him, smears Tommy’s ass glistening wet.
Tommy hisses, “Shit,” slipping the second Adam’s grip loosens, no strength left in either of them to keep him upright. He ends up straddling the toilet seat, knees splayed wide bumping against the tank, his shirt rucked up and his head resting against Adam’s belly, hair catching on the spunk clinging to Adam’s cock. Listing sideways, he turns around enough to nuzzle at Adam’s hip, then Adam’s fingers, giving them a lazy, curious lick.
“Stop,” Adam moans, his thumb curling over Tommy’s mouth not giving him a hell of a lot of credibility, “stop, you’re going to kill me.”
“S’what you get for waiting so long,” Tommy says, tilting his head back to look up. “‘Cause, seriously, you’re not fucking stealthy, man.”
“You didn’t say anything!”
Tommy shrugs like it doesn’t even matter. “It was fun. Like, flirting, extreme kink style.” While he’s still sitting on the toilet, he gives the plunger a push.
“Oh my god, get up,” Adam says, hauling him off as the toilet flushes.
“In case you didn’t notice,” Tommy says easily, shuffling awkwardly back with his jeans around his knees and Adam’s arms around his waist, “I kinda really get off on it. Like you do, with your fucking boners visible from space.” His grin’s half-hidden by the fall of his hair as he tips his head back onto Adam’s shoulder. “You totally loved watching me squirm all the time. I didn’t start out doing it for you, but hey, cool bonus.”
Helplessly, Adam stares. Tommy’s grin softens, turns to a shy, happy smile, and Adam laughs, a bright burst of sound startling in the weird quiet that set in. “That was the filthiest sex I’ve ever had, and look at you,” Adam says. “You’re just.” A mess. Tommy is a complete mess, his face flushed, come smeared on his thighs, his back, all over his ass, probably some in his hair, too, and his shorts wet with piss and some splashed on his jeans, and he looks so sweetly delighted with it all, so hopeful.
“Pretty good, right?” Tommy says, resting a hand over Adam’s arms looped around his waist. “Like, it’s really fucking good.”
“Amazing,” Adam agrees, resting his cheek against Tommy’s messy hair as Tommy relaxes into him. “Except for maybe the mess on your clothes. You I can clean up. Your clothes, those need a washing machine.”
Glancing down, Tommy shrugs easily, but the glint in his eyes when he looks back up is wicked, as sharp as the slant of his smile. “Wouldn’t be the first time I ended up going commando after using your washroom.”