The Good Times are Killing Me

Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~10,000 words.
It’s not co-dependency. It’s healthy work-life balance.

There’s stupid shit, and then there’s stupid shit. It’s not like Tommy’s got the market share on either, but instead of forcing out the words jammed up in his throat, he’s busy staring at the clean lines of Adam’s face like a total freak. Half an hour on Google gave him a pretty solid handle on all things Lambert. Okay, yeah, it ended up being more like two hours, but it’s a job interview. Gotta be prepared. Which is why he’s rockin’ the amped-up glam version of his usual right now.

But he wasn’t ready for this. Even squinting he can’t find a speck of makeup on Adam’s face. There’s no glitter, no leather, no awesome gloves with more spikes than he’s had birthdays. Just Adam, smiling, laughing, in a soft jersey tee and tight worn jeans and bare toes painted OPI Ink. The bottle’s sitting on the floor next to a takeout cup with a teabag string hooked over the edge.

“Yeah, totally,” Tommy says, not sure if it’s the tea or the toes that rattled the pileup past his tongue. “I can totally learn bass for you.”

No sparkle on Adam’s face, but that lights one in his eyes. It spreads out into the curve of his mouth, bright and broad and feeling kinda a lot like he’s whipped Tommy’s legs out from under him at sixty miles per. Gravity packs it in because Adam fucking Lambert smiles like Tommy just said he won the world.

It’s the single most brilliant, fucking stupidest thing Tommy’s ever done.

*

“Fuck, oh fuck,” Tommy says the second he’s off stage, and can’t quit saying it. He says it a few more times, adds a couple of adjectives, bites his lip and hopes it’s going to stop tingling sometime in the next century. The crowd had no fucking clue that was coming. He didn’t have a fucking clue and he went to the goddamn rehearsal. Now that shit’s all over YouTube and he’s going to be stuck seeing his knees go out from under him for real on endless replay for the next ten fucking years.

Adam sweeps down, a tidal wave of glitter and spikes. “That was fucking amazing. I want to do it again. Right now.”

“Wasn’t bad,” Tommy says, fumbling for the wall just in case. There’s this weird echoing roar in his head. Blood rush, crowd rush, who the fuck knows.

A flare from the stage lights brightens Adam’s face. “Best fucking kiss you ever got.”

Tommy’s not so sure about that. Hard to be sure about anything when he’s still trying to figure out exactly what the hell happened. If it even happened. Warning might’ve been nice. Maybe. Okay, no. Kisses like that aren’t supposed to come with prep time, because then they aren’t kisses like that.

The stage is still running hot in Adam’s blood. Whatever it was out there that keyed him up, Tommy’s staring at it reflected in his eyes right the hell now. He’s pretty sure he knows what’s about to happen this time.

“Say no,” Adam says, and for a second there Tommy’s trying to figure out if that one’s a request or an order. Either way it’s one he’s going to ignore. Time slows down to a syrup-thick crawl as Adam’s hand comes up, fingers light on his chin to lead him in for the sweet slow push of Adam’s tongue into his mouth. He opens up for it, just sinks right into it, because when somebody’s serious about getting their mouth all over his and he likes the somebody who’s attached to it, that’s what he does. Adam is pretty fucking serious about it.

There’s nothing to grab onto this time around except the wall or Adam and so far neither one’s working out so hot. Adam’s shirt slips out from under his fingers. The tips catch on Adam’s belt, so he fists that tight, yanks Adam in like he hadn’t had a chance to out there. Underneath the layers there’s a hint of warm skin, firm muscle, Adam’s motherfucking cock, hard and thick and right there. Dick is hardly ever Tommy’s first choice off the menu. But there it is, ten points for presentation, and sounding more and more like the perfect chaser to Adam’s tongue.

He isn’t ready for that to not happen. He’s not ready for the fallout that starts up about five seconds after Adam quits sucking on his lip, half the fucking nation horning in on what should’ve been the private freakout he didn’t bother having.

He is so not ready for any of this.

*

Halfway to the door, Tommy stops short. “Like, do you want actual coffee or that blossoming flowery thing pretending it’s related to a bean?”

Adam makes a face. Lots of things about Adam spite all attempts to fit them into tidy labelled boxes. The faces drive Tommy insane. This one’s some cracked out mashup of fondly exasperated and gleeful disappointment. Like Adam actually fucking sits around waiting for Tommy to do something worth teasing him over. “Don’t mock my tea, bitch.”

“So fucking drink coffee,” Tommy says, gnawing on the jagged edge of a nail as he flicks one-handed through crumpled bills. Half the time when Adam says, ‘Hey, Starbucks, awesome idea,’ what he means is, ‘I’d love some boiled rose petals.’

Adam lifts one eyebrow into a perfect dark arch. Lounging on the cramped bus couch with his phone in one hand and the other curved over his hip, he’s ready for cameras to start flashing. It’s just the two of them, though, hanging out waiting for the others to get back. He’s not even sure how long they’ve been on the road. Days and nights and cities blur together like time-lapse photography.

The corner of Adam’s mouth hitches up as Tommy gropes for his phone, aims. He says, “Yeah?” and slumps deeper into the cushions, tilts his chin up and does some shit that clicks the atmosphere from casual and easy to sex about to happen. Some days Tommy seriously wishes sex was about to happen. Most days. He’s not so screwed in the head he doesn’t know a good time when it’s staring him in the face.

He’s also not so screwed in the head he wants to fuck this up. Adam’s more caught up in the whole label thing than he is, forced into speaking the language the straight-laced masses do. It’s a lot less about the parts than the person they’re attached to. Adam is fucking stellar, his parts are pretty cool, and if his kisses are anything to go by he sure knows how to use them.

“You are so fucking crazy,” Tommy says, and shoots another picture when Adam blows him a kiss. The A/C’s on blast but the bus has gone stuffy like two hours into a show. “I’m putting this shit on your Facebook.”

“Put your face on my Facebook,” Adam says, mangling the end of it with a giggle. He actually fucking giggles right in the middle of being sex god extraordinaire, this cute burst of sound so genuine it kinda hurts. Somehow it clears the air clogging up Tommy’s lungs instead of making it worse. “Ask somebody else to go.”

“Y’know I’m gonna come back, right? With your shitty flower-nut tea.”

Adam says, “You better,” and it sounds like a threat, a promise, another one of those really fucking awesome good times Tommy really, really wants to have.

But the stage is like Vegas. What happens there, stays there. Motherfuck it all.

Except, he’s sick of that shit. “Gimme a good reason not to,” he says, and Adam’s eyebrows fly up. “Go, I mean.”

Edging towards confused and covering it with a laugh, Adam says, “Like I’m technically your boss?”

“Come on, that’ll just make me go. Like stickin’ it to the man,” Tommy says, and counts off the seconds it takes for the oxygen in his lungs to go from normal to soupy to solid lead weighing him down. It happens right when Adam tunes in to the same wavelength he’s been riding since November. He thinks about saying something, then not saying something, then pretty much blurts, “No concerned-parent coalition here,” like it’s something dirty he’s got to work up the balls to say.

“No,” Adam says slowly. “Just a sexual harassment suit.”

Tommy’s face goes flat. “You do not think I’m going to pull that shit. Not now.”

“You? Fuck, you’re the one hitting on me.” Adam pauses, leans up a little more. “You are hitting on me, right?”

“Well now I’m gonna say no, ’cause you’re threatening to sue my ass.”

“Honey, that is so not what I would do to your ass–and now look what you’ve done,” Adam says, swinging up with a finger waggling. “I have no impulse control. You see what you made me do? ”

Adam stares at him expectantly. So that’s not rhetorical. Tommy was really hoping. Explaining a dicked attempt to get into Adam’s pants doesn’t really fit with that good time he’d been thinking about having. “Um.”

“No, nope, never mind,” Adam says, waving both hands. He’s really working the whole diva thing. Tommy’ll have to trot that one out later, once he’s got a minute to sit down and figure out what the fuck is actually going on here. “This didn’t happen. It didn’t happen.” He points at the door. “Starbucks.”

After the sun’s glare fades behind the safety of his sunglasses, Tommy says, “Huh,” to the clear blue sky. That had kinda gone a little differently in his head.

*

“You,” Adam says, glaring down at him with daytime demon eyes, “are going to get that all over my bed.”

Stretched out on his stomach, bottle caught in his right hand and applicator carefully smoothing down the last bare nail left on it, Tommy waves his foot in a pft, never gesture. The boring news show droning on the background, pre-empting his quality time with infomerical bingo, clicks over to a commercial break. “I have been doing this shit since I was five, man. Go shower. You smell like a buffalo.”

Adam’s mouth twists up on one side like he’s trying to figure out which is worse, the hotel pissed at him for getting his rocker glam all over the duvet or stinking like a hairy herd animal. He finally says, “As soon as you put that down, I’m shoving my sweaty buffalo shirt all up in your face.”

“Been there, licked that.”

“Can’t wait to do it again,” Adam tosses back, hauling his shirt off and folding it haphazardly before stuffing it into the laundry bag slumped in the corner. Which makes absolutely zero sense. Who fucking folds dirty laundry? A good question that does nothing to distract Tommy from the billions of freckles spattered across Adam’s shoulders. “Now what the hell are you doing.”

Not looking up from his phone, Tommy says, “Tweeting gay emo lyrics. Seems the time, right?”

“Baby, it’s always time for that.” Adam pauses with his hand on the bathroom door. “Knock if you take off.”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and wonders as the door swings partway shut, when Adam’s going to fully drop the question mark that’s still hanging around at the end of that sentence. They’ve got this thing now. Adam’s no big fan of being alone and Tommy doesn’t really resent the company, so when there’re no interviews or special appearances or sound checks to be done, they hang out. It’s not like it’s constant chatter-chatter-chatter either. It’s them doing their own thing, together. It’s pretty sweet. Adam would make a great housemate.

Tommy kills the volume on the television. Even before the shower switches on, Adam does. His voice starts out soft and low, gauging the acoustics with nonsense sounds that melt into words, half-formed sentences. Bits and pieces of Voodoo meld with Goldfrapp circa 2002 and a sliver of some toned-down Zeppelin. Should be a royal fucked up mess, but somehow it works. Adam makes it work.

When the shower dies and the concert slinks on back around to Sleepwalker–always the moody stuff in the bathroom, he’s not sure what’s up with that–Tommy figures enough’s enough. He loves that fucking song, yeah, but happy fits Adam better, sassy and fucking proud of it. He belts out the opening line to Strut, losing it halfway through when laughter erupts from the bathroom. He’s on key (not the right one) and keeping time, over the top and full of awesome. Thirty seconds later Adam flings the door open and parades on out in his favourite pair of lazy day jeans and a random tee. Face clean and hair slicked back, he picks it up before they hit the chorus, adding in the dance moves Tommy’s only hinting at because hey, he’s still flaked out on the bed thanks very much.

“I can’t tell right now if you’re hot or ridiculous,” Adam says, dropping into the space Tommy didn’t need to shimmy over to make.

“Hot,” Tommy says, and throws in a smoulder for kicks. “Always hot.”

Adam gives him an odd sideways look. “That one was adorable. The other’s still open for debate.”

Rolling onto his back, Tommy gives his hair a toss out of his face. He’s loving this style but for kicking around he’s really got to start in on that plan for stealing the coolest of Monte’s scarves to keep it back.

Or not. That flick is all the invitation Adam needs to gather up a tight fist of it, and that is so not going to happen if he’s got a stupid scarf on his head. “Watch the nails.”

“Watch the nails,” Adam echoes, traces of a laugh wound through it. “Nobody knows how big a brat you really are.”

“You do,” Tommy says, like it means something. He didn’t really intend for it to come out like that. It just did. And now Adam’s looking at him with a soft sorta smile and a weird light in his eyes that makes the base of Tommy’s spine tingle. He nuzzles into the press of Adam’s knuckles, neck arched, exposed, mouth parted on a short intake of breath he didn’t think he could fit into his lungs.

“You’re doing it again,” Adam says, another question mark hanging crookedly off the end.

It’s fucking working, Tommy wants to say. He braces both elbows on the bed, pushes up and says, “Tug,” instead.

For a second it looks like Adam’s going to blow it off, turn it into a joke, but there’s that dark glint in his eyes right before his fingers tighten. He yanks Tommy back down like those first few times on stage, edging close to too hard too fast, and the remote goes flying to the floor as Tommy’s arm goes out from under him. It’s a fucking good thing he sucked down that scrap of air when he could because there sure as hell isn’t any more fitting in there now.

“You want me to kiss you,” Adam says, mattress dipping as he slides up onto one knee. His shadow falls across Tommy’s face when he shifts closer, knee bumping Tommy’s thigh, and Tommy spreads his legs easily, live-wire thrill sparking in his belly as Adam straddles his leg, leans down close. “You want it so fucking bad.”

“So do it,” Tommy says, heart thudding against his ribs in a steady bass line. “Have the fucking balls to jam your tongue down my throat right here where there’s no audience for an excuse.”

Adam’s free hand closes over Tommy’s throat. His smile’s a slow, slick spread that doesn’t fit the sunshine streaming in through the windows or the clean wet scent of his skin. Tommy’s seen it before, had it pressed to his mouth with Adam’s savage gorgeous urge to just have sweeping out through the crowd, turning screams for more of Adam to ones for Adam to take more of him.

When Adam’s mouth comes down on his, soft and slow and sweet, it’s not his fault he makes this weird gasping noise. It is absolutely not his fault he does it again at the flick of Adam’s tongue along the inside of his lip, or when he goes to press up into it and Adam holds him down, makes him take it the way Adam wants to give it. Which is like the best fucking idea ever. He hooks his fingers into the back of Adam’s jeans to get a little more of that and ends up scraping his tongue on Adam’s stupidly sharp teeth when Adam jerks back. He gets as far as, “The fuck,” before Adam’s palm slaps across his mouth.

“This is a bad idea,” Adam says.

Tommy shakes his head emphatically no. All that gets him is a narrow-eyed glare instead of more kissing, so he switches to an eyeroll that means maybe and shrugs. Epically worse things could happen. Armageddon, for example. Both the movie and the real thing.

Adam’s gaze slides down to where Tommy’s dick is trying to get a word in edgewise. He says, “We are not fucking,” in the exact same tone adults use to deny children delicious fresh-baked cookies before dinner. Adam’s a fucking cookie-nazi. Motherfucking cock-nazi.

Holding up his thumb and forefinger, Tommy’s, “Little bit?” comes out as a mumbled mess. He tosses in a shot of wide-eyed hope to get the message across.

The disapproving frown trying to ruin Adam’s smile loses its grip. “No cocksucking either.”

“Oh come the fuck on,” Tommy explodes, shaking free of Adam’s grip. “There is no motherfucking good reason why you can’t stick your dick in my mouth. I’m right here asking for it. I would like to please suck your cock right now. Okay? You get that? Work for you?”

That puts the hottest look on Adam’s face. A little shocked, a lot eager, x-rated Christmas morning come early. A second later Tommy’s jeans are open and hauled down over his ass, Adam’s big hand pushing up past his balls to settle a couple of fingers right at his hole. Tommy’s heart skips a dozen beats and ends up lodged in his throat, fluttering frantic as a trapped bird. Adam being Adam, he’d expected a token nod to foreplay first, but he’s willing to count a month and a half of making out on stage if Adam is.

“Fuck,” Adam says, low and reverent. His hand closes snugly around Tommy’s cock, a flash in his eyes to match the hitch of Tommy’s hips. “Look at you.”

“Yeah, look at me,” Tommy says, “just fucking look at me. And you were gonna say no. Can’t even believe you tried, you freak.”

Adam gives him a rough squeeze, making the k cut sharp. “So tiny and vicious. Gonna get pissed if I want you to fuck my hand? Show me how sweet you move?”

A moan sticks in Tommy’s throat. By the time Adam gets a spit-slick hand back on his dick, he’s swallowed it back down. Practically fucking choking on it because Adam’s fingers are right there playing with the idea of pushing up inside him. He grabs onto Adam’s wrist, trying to control the angle, to get himself off in about three seconds flat, and Adam’s smile slips into a dark tease.

Watching Adam lick a few more fingers wet almost does it for him. But then those fingers press back up between his legs, and that really almost does it. His hips stutter, brain totally fried and body caught in the impossible decision between which would be hotter, fucking Adam’s hand or fucking himself on Adam’s fingers.

Turns out Adam figures why fucking choose when he could have it all.

“Shit,” Tommy says, fist twisted up white-knuckled in the bedspread. He’s wedged wide open, legs shaking, and tiny flint sparks lighting up his belly with every twitch of Adam’s hands. “Shit, shit, fuck, hang on, fuck.”

Adam goes to back off and Tommy makes a noise that’s supposed to be, Don’t fucking move. He manages a shaky nod when Adam gets it, and an even shakier no when Adam asks, “Too much?”

Licking sweat off his lips, Tommy says, “Your fingers are fucking huge.”

Colour splashes brightly across the bridge of Adam’s nose. “You just, you took one so easy.”

Tommy blinks. They’re barely even fooling around and Adam’s tripping over words like he never does, voice dipping into this crazy low register that makes Tommy think blowjobs. A quick clench gets him nothing except an unsteady puff of Adam’s breath and a crack in his voice. “What’d you do, try to fucking fist me?”

“No!” Adam bursts out, one part shock and one part something that belongs some place dark and hot and hazy. He catches the smile flirting at the edge of Tommy’s mouth and mutters, “Saucy little bitch, I gave you two. Should’ve given you three.”

Tommy’s stomach swoops for the stratosphere. He shakes a bit of hair out of his eyes, rolls his hips, and has to struggle to keep enough air in his lungs to say, “So c’mon, finger me like you mean it.”

A curse hisses out between Adam’s teeth. He hesitates, obviously thinking Tommy’s got something he’s trying to prove, but the jump of Tommy’s dick when his fingers crook takes care of that stupid idea. He pushes all the way to the last knuckle nice and slow and easy, eyes on Tommy’s face and bottom lip hitched on his teeth.

The weird tickle of Adam’s thumb skimming the stretched rim of his hole clashes with the deep, heavy feeling settled in his gut. He rocks with the press against his insides, a sharp gasp shoved out of him when Adam brushes his prostate and that fullness turns to an electric rush. A tug on his dick gets his hips rolling to Adam’s rhythm. Any fucking second his nerves are going to fry. Fuck, that is so going to suck, because this is incredible.

Then Adam says, “Fuck yes, that’s it. Come on, baby, let me see it. You fuck so sweet, don’t you, c’mon, give me a little more,” and Tommy really wants to know how the fuck Adam figures he’s going to do anything except spectacularly blow his load. Adam’s got five seconds before the mother of all wet spots takes over his big god damn bed.

Make that three, because Adam’s tossed in some fancy twist of his wrist to the peak of each pull on Tommy’s dick–Tommy knows a few tricks, okay, he’s not a total loss here, but that is some seriously fancy shit–and nope, wrong again, he’s coming right the fuck now. It gets all over his stomach and the crumpled hem of his shirt, and he so does not give a flying fuck about walking out of here with come-stained clothes. It is totally and completely worth it.

He’s still turned on by the time he comes down and Adam’s fingers slide free. Pretty hard not to be when Adam’s opening his jeans one-handed to tug his cock out and fisting it right in front of his face. “You want me to-”

“Lie there and look pretty,” Adam grits out, and Tommy’s insides do another one of those zero-gravity shimmies. He drags a few fingers through the sticky mess on his skin, curling a little closer to Adam to get a hand on his thigh, sliding it up to cup his ass. He’s usually more into participation, but Adam’s gotten him used to this sort of interactive prop thing. Probably helps that it’s fucking hot.

It still takes him a second to get with the program, though, and then he’s blurting, “You’re gonna fucking come on me. ‘Cause that’s not kinky at all, shit.”

Instead of an answer Tommy gets a crooked smile and Adam dropping down to give him a kiss that’s more tongue than anything, rushed and maybe a little sloppy compared to his usual flare but the guy’s smack in the middle of jacking off. That definitely makes the slick glide of Adam’s tongue against his several hundred degrees hotter. Hotter again is the noise Adam makes when he’s close, teeth scraping Tommy’s lips, catching on his chin on the way down to dig into his throat. He echoes the moan Adam sends shivering under his skin, flashing ahead to the mark that’s going to leave, a jumble of oh fuck yes and no sweater for awhile and fuck yes, more rattling through his head.

The second Adam comes it all goes blank. Tommy stares down at the blurred curve of Adam’s ear, past that to where his hands are twisting up the back of Adam’s shirt, and wishes he could see instead of just feel the hot wet spill of Adam’s come on his thighs. He jerks at the brush of Adam’s cockhead close to his balls. He would so go there right now if they had a rubber. Chances are good they do.

And then it’s all over too fast. He holds on tighter, but Adam’s sliding away, grabbing up the towel Tommy hadn’t seen him drop beside the bed and wiping everything away while it’s still body-warm. Adam ignores his grumble, or writes it off as ew, come which is so far from what he meant it’s not even funny, but Adam curling up beside him kills his mild foray into grumpy. Adam is big, and warm, and nuzzling at his neck all sweetly. Nobody could grump their way through that.

“Aw yeah,” Tommy says, “gonna get your cuddle on.”

Adam mutters, “Shut up,” without any heat behind it and wraps an arm snug around Tommy’s middle.

Cuddling’s good, though. Hell, with how touchy-fucking-feely they are, it’s a wonder they hadn’t said fuck it weeks before and made with the puppy pile nightly. With his jeans still down around his knees that draft is gonna go glacial any second, but before it gets a chance Adam drops a leg heavily over his and rolls him closer, tucking him firmly between the mattress and Adam’s bulk.

So now he’s kinda squished, but he’s warm. He’ll bitch in a minute.

When he finally gets around to it, it’s heading into the golden haze of late summer afternoon. Adam’s gone, the duvet that’s doing a shit job of taking his place hauled up haphazardly around his shoulders, but it’s still warm, it still smells like Adam, and that lazy glow he’s feeling might not be from the setting sun after all.

*

Some misalignment of the stars or the planets or something freaky happens the next day. From there everything goes wrong. On stage Adam’s the same, but off it he’s so careful to keep out of Tommy’s orbit they might as well be in different universes. He doesn’t get it. One second he’s fucked halfway out of his mind, the second he’s cuddled back to earth, and now he’s fucking lucky if Adam accidentally blinks in his direction. It is not cool. He wants to know what the hell he did wrong here and he’s not even getting a chance to find out. Which is just fucking weird, okay? Adam likes to talk. Rambles on and on and on when he’s happy, takes a microphone to shut the guy up for crissakes, and oh. Right.

A solid lump of lead materialises in Tommy’s gut. Adam is not happy. Probably should’ve figured that one out about a week ago.

Because, a whole fucking week of this shit. They should’ve been screwing like bunnies by Tuesday at least. Next Thursday he’d been planning on going for it bareback. (No, he should not be poking through Adam’s private papers. Adam should not leave them out where nosy people can easily find them. That’ll teach him.) At this rate he’ll be lucky if Adam holds his hand by Christmas.

He’d really been looking forward to the hand-holding. He’s never been the little hand before.

Monte started giving them looks a day after Adam went weird. A couple of the others noticed it too, but when Longineu gave him a, “Hey, what’s up with you and him?” one afternoon instead of a plain hey, hi, how ya doin’, that was it. Shit had gone on long enough. You do not cave in to half a year’s worth of fantastic sexual tension with the most amazing handjob ever and then blow the guy off. Even when you’re Adam fucking Lambert. Especially when you’re Adam motherfucking Lambert.

Problem is, Adam’s good at this dodging thing. It’s like the entire universe hops on board with Adam’s plan by rewriting physics and letting him slip through solid walls. And it sucks, it so fucking sucks, because the tour is taking over the world one city at a time, everything’s sold out everywhere, another album is going to happen, and now Tommy’s stuck wondering if he’s still going to be here when it does.

*

The first hour in a hotel without Adam sucks. Another two hours after that doesn’t make it any better. It’s empty and boring and too much like Adam’s avoidance has skyrocketed to a whole new level. Tommy loves the fans. Ten thousand screaming people is a boost to anybody’s ego. Lines get blurred, crossed, but stalking the hallways searching for Adam’s room is some seriously uncool shit.

Kinda funny in a tripped out way, too. But mostly uncool, since it means that instead of crashing with them, Adam’s been smuggled into a hotel on the other side of the city.

By hour five he’s done. And worried. Not that there’s anything to worry about; Adam’s a big boy, balls the size of Asia Pacific. Man, does he have the balls to handle this. So maybe it’s Tommy who’s got the jitters. It’s not co-dependency. It’s healthy work-life balance. So not his fault Adam has a starring role in both. Fuck, he hopes it’s not his fault this is all fucked up. He might actually fucking cry in a really pathetic way.

He whips out his phone and is halfway through a tweet before he stops to think. He seriously wants to alert somebody to his awesome plan. And he could use the support. The problem there is he’s alerting somebody. Two point five seconds after the tweet goes out, he’ll be mobbed. Mobbed does not equal slick ninja tactics.

So he puts his phone away and opens his suitcase instead. He strips down, hauls on all the boring basic pieces he’s got and grabs a handful of gloop for his hair on the way to the bathroom. There’s no makeup to worry about scrubbing off since he did it three hours ago in an attempt to calm the fuck down, and some water slicking back his hair along with a generous spritz of hairspray takes care of that. All in all, not bad. Maybe a little like daddy’s boy playing dress-up, but whatever. He’s on a mission.

Butterflies start tickling his belly on the elevator ride down. The whole huge complicated plot he concocted to dodge the fans turns out to be a bust, because somehow he sidles right on through the lobby without anybody, tricked-out glamwhore or not, giving him a second glance. It’d be disappointing if it weren’t so killer. He is so fucking slick.

The cab ride across town takes approximately four and a half billion years. He fiddles with his phone, retweets an awesome photo that adds three inches to his height, types up this obtuse direct message to Adam before he remembers that shit’s not on and with his luck he’ll fuck it up and Twitter will explode the internet. This would’ve been so much easier in the 80s. The only thing phones did then was fucking ring.

He gives the driver too much cash and a mumbled thanks as he tumbles out the door. Somehow he skips the lobby, the elevator, the hallway, everything right up until he’s standing in front of 503 with his knuckles poised to knock. Half the paint’s chewed off his thumbnail again. It looks weird near the smooth cuff of his shirt.

One quick knock gets nothing. He checks to make sure the coast is clear before pressing his ear to the door and knocking again, calling, “Adam?” in a voice so low he can barely hear it. Clearing his throat he tries again. Still nothing.

Fuck Twitter, he’s going straight to the source. He texts, Open up, fucker, and hits send with a vicious jab. Adam had better not be ignoring him like some goddamn diva. Two seconds later he flips off the peephole and keeps his fucking hand there until the goddamn bolt clanks and the door swings open.

Adam, still in full-on glam mode from a piece after the show, gives him a slow burn once over. “I didn’t order this from room service.”

“Fuck you, lemme in.”

False surprise shapes Adam’s mouth. He steps back and gestures grandly.

“Thanks,” and, “Fuck,” come tumbling out of Tommy’s mouth one on the heels of the other. He scrubs both hands through his hair, turning in an aborted half-circle to take in the absolute generic nothing of another hotel room. There’re little pieces of Adam strewn about though—a jacket folded over the back of one of the chairs, the suitcase open on the stand beside the armoire, weird coconut water open on the bedside table. “Sorry.”

“Hey, whatever,” Adam says, bolting the door. He settles back against it to give Tommy too much space. “You are so stressed.”

Now that he’s here and it feels like there’s actual oxygen in his lungs for the first time in six hours, he also feels like a total douchebag. He’s also not saying anything, which prompts this minuscule crinkle of worry on Adam’s face. He should so say something. He totally will, as soon as he’s done breathing.

“Alright, now you’re freaking me out a little.” Adam points at the bed. “Sit. Speak.”

“It’s intense,” is the first thing Tommy blurts. Adam gives him a steely look and points at the bed again, so he plops his ass down before Adam does it for him. His elbows go on his knees and face goes in his hands, muffling his voice. “I kinda figured it would be, right? But not this crazy.”

After a beat, Adam says, “You’re not talking about what I thought you were going to talk about, are you?”

“Probably not.” Risking a quick glance up is a bad, bad idea. Adam is seriously looking at him. Not just looking at him, but looking at him, reading him like he reads a song before it’s written. It’s not good. Okay, it’s awesome, because it kicks the flutter in his belly up to a whirlwind, but it’s not good. Shit happens when Adam makes like he’s reading souls in the slant of somebody’s mouth.

The toes of Adam’s boots slide into view. Then his knees, his hands; Adam crouches down in front of him, thigh muscles bunched up tight beneath battered black jeans, waiting until Tommy gets done with the procrastinating and meets his gaze before saying, “So, I’m going to make you say it.”

“Say what?”

Adam shrugs. “Whatever it is you need to say. You’ve got something rattling around in there you want me to hear.”

“You’re a dick,” probably isn’t it, but that’s what Tommy goes with.

A sad, shy little smile quirking his mouth, Adam says, “Yeah. Keep going.”

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Tommy says, but instead of angry it comes out miserable. Well, maybe a little angry by the look on Adam’s face, but mostly miserable. “Seriously, what the hell. You could’ve fucking warned me I’d be a one-off.”

Adam goes through about fifteen different expression before he settles on some weird bastard mix of resentment, shock, and maybe a little bit baffled, if baffled had a fourth cousin twice removed. His mouth opens. Then shuts. Opens again to let a noise possibly related to a word squeak out.

“But you’re fucking you.” Tommy waves a hand, like that one little gesture could encompass all that is Adam. “Mr. Monogamous. A one-night-stand-free zone. Curtains and chintz and shit. Salads. Fucking mini-me sized salads.”

Adam says, “Salad,” like it’s some alien word written backwards in invisible ink. “After all that, you end up with salad.”

Tommy gets pissy when he’s hungry. Impossible or not, eating salad actually makes him hungrier. Celery is fucking Satan. “Fucking lettuce.”

“Hey,” Adam says, “hey,” and catches his chin between a couple of fingers like he’s some fainting chick in a made-for-cable historical. “I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

And there’s the crushing disappointment. He’d been hoping heart-sick was just a word people used. There’s actually a hard lump of pain smack in the middle of his chest where his lungs used to be. “Yeah, well, whatever, okay, just quit treating me a leper, and if you make one joke right now about me knowing what a leper is I will punch you in the nuts for real.”

“No, hey, no,” comes tumbling rock-slide rough out of Adam’s mouth. “I mean I messed up. I really fucking messed up, okay? I didn’t think you wanted a whole thing. And I can’t do halfway. Fuck, you know me, I so can’t do this halfway and I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let it go that far.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Tommy takes a second to breathe. No matter how hard he tries he can’t get enough air. “So what, you figured I couldn’t do it all the way? No, okay, that I wouldn’t, and I did it anyway? Because that is so much better.”

Adam cringes. “I freaked out a little.”

A smile creeps in at the corners of Tommy’s mouth. “You freaked out a lot.

“Do not ask for logic from my heart, Tommy Joe.”

Tommy’s gaze slides down. “Maybe you should listen to your dick a little more.”

“No talking about my dick until you fess up about this being a thing or a fling.” The words are easy but the look on Adam’s face isn’t. It’s dead serious, cracked all around the edges like splintered glass. Too easy to break.

“I had plans,” Tommy says, scooting back and dragging a hand through his hair. “Big plans. I was gonna make you get doors for me and everything. There were roses or lilies or some shit in there, too.”

Adam’s head tilts a little to the side with the weight of his smile. “Is this you asking me out?”

“This me practically fucking proposing. Is it gonna be like the blowjob thing where I gotta spell it out for you? Because I do know you, okay, and I wouldn’t have tried to get into your pants if I didn’t want to stay there.”

A tiny crinkle forms between Adam’s eyebrows. “That is weirdly sweet.”

“Fuck, I know, I’ll rot your damn teeth out, are we done? Can we fuck around now?”

Adam rocks back with a bark of laughter. “Y’know, I didn’t say yes.”

“You fucker.” Fisting the front of Adam’s shirt, Tommy yanks him back in. “Get your stupid lying tongue in my mouth.”

“You talk so sweet to me,” Adam says, but he drops down onto his knees, perfect height to lean in and lay one on him. It’s rough and slow all at once, edging towards desperate before Adam takes over. Tommy’s got close on one hundred and fucking forty-four hours of no-kissing to make up for here, it’s not his fault he’s rushing into it.

All those plans he’d had start jostling around in his head, distracting him from the nip Adam gives his lip until it turns to a full out bite. He jerks back, catches the playful disapproval in Adam’s eyes and blasts it all to hell with a well-placed, “You are so fucking me tonight.”

“Baby, I-”

Tommy darts in to smear whatever’s on the tip of Adam’s tongue to nothing. He mumbles, “Know you wanna,” between half-kisses, “gonna spread me out and fuck me, watch me take everything you got.”

Adam sucks in a crackling breath. He rolls up onto his feet and Tommy drops back to his elbows, puffing at the damp hair caught on his eyelashes. Adam looks so big from all the way down there, maybe kinda huge, kicking Tommy’s feet wider to get a knee in between his legs. It slides on up, firm pressure snug against Tommy’s balls while Adam gets a hand on his face, tilts it up like he’s going for a kiss that doesn’t happen. And Tommy would bitch about this lack of kissing except it means Adam’s caught up in being a fucking tease so the way’s clear to grab his belt and yank it undone. He’s got it hauled out of three of the loops and Adam’s low laugh’s echoing in his head before he remembers that’s all he needs to get at Adam’s fly. The backs of his knuckles brush Adam’s bare belly and then Adam’s hand is closing over his wrist, forcing it back down to the bed.

“Don’t need to warm me up,” Tommy says, tongue thick, clumsy, words all a jumbling rush. “Just get your fucking clothes off. Wanna see you naked this time.”

Adam slants him one of those back-alley smiles and rocks back up on his knees. “Go ahead.”

It hangs there for a beat and then Tommy’s got hold of his belt again, yanking it straight off. He’s nicer on the buttons of Adam’s shirt, not really because he figures he shouldn’t rip the guy’s clothes off or that he’s suddenly all on board with the slow it down take it easy thing, but because he wants this to last a little longer than fifteen seconds. Thirty at least. Forty’s pushing it. Leaving Adam’s shirt gaping wide, Tommy spreads his hands out over Adam’s bare chest, runs them down and back up and really seriously plans on doing something other than mindless groping. The second he fixes on the piercings, though, the flex of muscle in Adam’s belly catches his eye and he skips on down to that, then the thin, dark-but-so-not-black trail of hair peeking out from Adam’s open fly reminds him there’s still too many clothes. He leaves Adam’s shirt hanging haphazardly off his shoulders and goes for the good stuff, the tight bulge of Adam’s junk in his jeans not half as awesome as getting his hands on it. He even manages to take his time about it instead of jumping all over it like a sex fiend, kinda caught up in how different Adam’s dick feels in his hand, thick and heavy and running about ten degrees hotter than a normal human being should.

Adam’s nails graze the inside of his wrist. He hums softly under his breath when Tommy jacks him and says, “You like that?”

It’s corny, and ridiculous, and somebody should do something about Tommy’s brain/mouth filter, but he says, “Yeah, like it so much I’m gonna take it for a ride.”

Adam laughs, rough and happy, and shrugs out of his shirt. Totally all for it, Tommy sits halfway up to start stripping off his own clothes. It takes longer than it should, like the cotton’s not just clinging to his skin but glued on, weirdly magnetized, and that ripping noise was probably a seam. Or a button. He fights with the zip on his jeans, mutters a few choice words for his taste in fashion–looks great, does not come off easy enough–and scoots back, flailing one leg in the vague direction of Adam’s hand.

Reason who-knows-lost-count why Adam is so fucking awesome: he grabs on and tugs and gets rid of sloppily-laced boots right on cue for Tommy’s jeans to slide straight off. Everything hits the floor with a thud and Tommy slumps back with a relieved puff of breath. The tail end of it turns into moan when he finally gets his hand on his dick. Feels like he’s been hard for fucking days.

The weight of Adam’s gaze brings his up. Tommy licks the pad of his thumb wet through the grin tugging at his mouth and rubs all around the ridge, spit and precome glistening in the hotel’s soft mood lighting. The hitch in Adam’s breathing is almost as good as the hand that closes over his, turns his slow jack to a rough squeeze. “You’d better have some shit in here somewhere.”

Dropping closer, Adam nuzzles a kiss under his jaw. “You mean you didn’t bring any?”

“I didn’t count on getting fucking laid,” Tommy says, a hiss caught between his teeth and leaking slowly free as Adam’s thumbnail grazes his slit.

A pause, then Adam says, “Are you clean?”

“‘Course I’m fucking clean. Last thing I want is my goddamn dick to fall off,” Tommy says–snaps, but c’mon, he deserves a little wriggle room here. He’s been thinking about this for months. Jacking off to it for weeks. Things need to start happening faster.

A hand curled under his chin yanks his attention away from the wet sheen on Adam’s dick. The look in Adam’s eyes clogs his throat. Oh.

“Yeah, uh.” Tommy licks his dry lips. Pure electricity tickles his insides. “Did you– Are you serious?”

Dumb question. Adam is always very, very serious about sex, even when he’s laughing his head off.

Adam says, “I’m safe,” and leaves it at that.

It should probably take Tommy more than half a second to come up with an answer for that, but all he’s got is, “Oh fuck yes,” and the vicious need to get his tongue back in Adam’s mouth. He goes with it, scrabbling back up on his knees, arms hooked around Adam’s neck. Skin to skin is fucking amazing. That is Adam’s naked dick digging into his stomach.

Adam’s hands slide down, cup his ass. He’s not sure whose groan that was but hell if it matters, not when Adam’s pulling him into a slow dirty grind. He tries to eke out a couple extra inches of height to get his cock rubbing against Adam’s and the fucker goes and laughs at him.

“Hey,” Tommy says, working up a half-assed scowl.

Adam totally doesn’t buy it. “Cute and tiny, just how I like you,” he says. His gaze drops. “And hot. Very fucking hot. Lie down, sweetheart, I want to watch this.”

Tommy’s stomach pulls another one of those crazy backflips. He flops back onto the pillows, one arm flung above his head and the other dragging across his hip. Adam stops, and stares, and then stares some more. This is good, this is all really fucking awesome, but Tommy’s got plans. He says, “Hey,” and makes a kissy face.

“Brat,” Adam says, but it gets him moving. Which is a whole new level of awesome. Tommy’s got a clear view of his jeans sliding down his hips when he roots through the suitcase. He hooks his thumb in the waistband and helps them along, baring miles and miles and fucking miles of thigh, his slanted gaze on Tommy the whole time.

Throat closed up tight, Tommy applauds.

“I do love an appreciative audience,” Adam says, and it sounds like he’s smiling. Tommy’s too busy checking out his package again to be sure.

When Adam’s knees hit the bed, Tommy hauls his up, feet planted squarely on the rumpled covers. The smile falls straight off Adam’s mouth on a grated curse. He drops the bottle to skim both hands up the insides of Tommy’s thighs, pressing them wider, murmuring something that sounds a hell of a lot like, “That’s it, open up,” under his breath when Tommy lets his knees fall wide.

Instead of watching Adam’s hands, Tommy gets one of his own cupped under his balls and watches Adam’s face. His stomach’s all tied up in jittery, anticipatory knots by the time one lube-slick finger slides over his hole. Swallowing hard, he gets his other hand down there with Adam’s and spreads his ass a little more. Steady prickling heat crawls up the back of his neck. Fucking’s fucking, lots of messy wet parts, somebody else’s business all up in his and no time for worrying about that weird Iowa-shaped freckle on his ass, but Adam’s dropped down to one elbow, and he’s really fucking serious about this whole watching thing.

And then Adam moans, “Fuck, yes, like that,” and the two fingers rubbing over his hole push up and in, slippery and thick and sparking a fresh rush of heat out from his belly. His thigh quivers with the effort of not rocking down. He wants to hurry this the fuck up but he wants to feel it, wants give Adam what he wants, too.

Turns out Adam might really be some kind of sex god, or at the very fucking least a mind reader. He glances up, says, “Go on, baby,” again, and Tommy grabs on to a handful of crumpled pillow as he rolls his hips, gets Adam’s fingers sinking in all the way to the knuckle.

Then it’s more pressure, a tattletale glint in Adam’s eye and a third finger sneaking in there along with the other two. Tommy drops the pillow in favour of scrabbling at the headboard, looking for something with some heft to hold on to, but the stupid thing is too damn ultramodern to do any good. He latches onto the arm Adam has looped around his leg instead, flesh mottling white beneath his fingertips.

“Fuck,” Adam whispers, and then he’s sitting up, snatching at the bottle rolling away. He stops with his hand poised to slick up his dick. “Last chance, Tommy.”

“Wait,” Tommy says, and tries not to laugh when Adam gapes at him, stricken. It’s not funny. It’s really not except it so totally is and he fails miserably at that not laughing thing. “No, I mean– Sorry.” He rolls up onto his side and takes a deep breath, scoots out of the way and tries again. “I mean you lie down first. On your back.”

“Tommy Joe,” Adam says, and it looks like there’s a bright grin trying to break out but it can’t get a foothold with so much lust softening the curve of his mouth, “I am so glad you’re a pushy little bitch.”

Tommy says, “You got that fucking right,” mostly because he’s got to say something and that seems a little better than a spontaneous declaration of undying love, or letting the rush of fuck, yes, now-now-now, fuck, now in his head tumble free. Adam slides into place so smoothly it’s like he’d been practicing, the same as he’s always practicing his moves for the show, eyelashes dipping low as Tommy crawls up over his legs to settle right on his dick.

Tossing a glance down, Tommy asks, “Gonna hold that for me?”

“So fucking mouthy,” Adam says, and gives Tommy’s ass a slap to get him lifting up again.

Tommy doesn’t have a chance to hold back the noises piling up in his throat when the bare head of Adam’s cock grazes his ass. There isn’t a single fucking universe in existence now or ever where that’d be anything more than a crazy pointless dream. He braces his hands on Adam’s chest, thumbnail close enough to flick the bar through Adam’s nipple if he could somehow figure out how to do anything except breathe. Adam’s dick is hot and slick and so much fucking bigger than it’d felt in his hand.

The head settles against his hole and all it takes is the tinniest nudge from Adam to get him sitting down on it. He goes slow, easy, because yeah, he wants to feel this and he is so fucking feeling it. All the air gets wedged out of his lungs by the push of Adam’s cock up into him and there’s no space left for him to suck any back down. Things go hazy for a second and when he clicks back in it’s to the floored hey-think-I-see-that-Jesus-guy look on Adam’s face. Biting down hard on his lip he keeps going, manages to work it a fraction deeper before having to pull off and go again. Sweat prickles at the back of his neck, a ticklish trickle to the hollow of his throat, but there’s no way in hell he’s stopping now, not until he’s got that too-full feeling as deep as it’ll go.

Both of Adam’s hands go to his hips, hold on tight like he means to slow this down. Whatever noise Tommy manages to squeeze out changes his mind, though, or maybe he wasn’t going to try that shit at all. The next second he’s pushing down, arching up, finishing what Tommy started. Tommy slumps forward with a shivering gasp, air sweet in his burning lungs, heart pounding so hard against his ribs he wonders if Adam can see it shaking under his skin.

“Come on,” Adam says, wanting it so bad Tommy can see it in his fucking eyes, but he’s not jostling Tommy along, is willing to wait, “come on, show me how pretty you are.”

But Tommy’s arms don’t want to hold him up. It takes him a couple of tries to get the right roll to his hips so he’s fucking back onto Adam’s cock, not just rubbing his dick all over Adam’s belly. Adam’s close enough to kiss, hot little puffs of breath skimming his cheek, but Tommy’s mouth doesn’t want to listen to him either, hanging open and being totally fucking useless. All his attention’s on the gritty pull as he rocks forward, the slick pressure on the way back, the way he can feel it in his fucking teeth when Adam’s bottomed out.

Shoving up, Tommy says, “Faster,” and Adam gives him this look like he’s going to argue about it. The next thing out of Tommy is a sharp grunt and okay, not the sexiest sound ever but when he clamped down to head off any protests he didn’t expect it to feel quite like that. Either way Adam’s not rattling off some shit about first time anal, so mission accomplished. Doesn’t mean he can’t do it again, though, even if it ends up ruining the slow rhythm Adam’s trying to drag him into. Adam’s open-mouthed shock of pleasure is worth it.

He goes with Adam’s lead for a minute, kinda amazed at how easily they fall together. He’s not used to working this angle but if he’s riding sloppy, Adam doesn’t give a flying fuck. From the look on his face, Adam wouldn’t give a flying fuck about the whole building crashing down around his ears.

Just to prove it, Adam goes and says, “Holy fuck,” all rough and wrecked, full of ragged edges. Hearing more of that sounds like an awesome idea, and Tommy figures he’d better get it now while the getting’s good. Give it another few minutes and Adam’s going to be too fucking busy blowing his mind for him to go for it. He leans back, presses down on the one knee Adam’s got raised up until it sinks back down. He follows right along after it, bracing both hands on Adam’s thighs, unable to lift up off Adam’s cock very far like this but oh hell can he grind it in. When Adam’s fingers dig like iron bands into his hip he even figures out how to get a slow rock forward in there and it jumps straight from the most amazing thing ever to fucking miraculous.

This time it’s Tommy who’s saying, “Come on, come on,” ’cause he’s losing it fast. There’s too much building up inside him to keep a lid on it, spilling out in all these little half-hitched noises he kinda wishes he didn’t know he could make but that are doing some pretty amazing things for Adam so it’s not all bad. His dick jerks against Adam’s belly when a hand tangles in his hair and he opens his eyes to see Adam curl up to drag him back down. He goes easy–he always fucking goes easy for Adam–lets Adam pull him in close and pin him there, chest to chest with his knees splayed wide. Adam’s thighs press close to his, breaking the rhythm for a minute as Adam arches up off the bed, goes for fucking broke without the mattress in the way. Tommy curls his hands over Adam’s shoulders and holds on as best he can, one minute grating at Adam to just go ahead, blow it and the next he’s the one shaking and moaning his way through the best fucking orgasm anyone’s ever had anywhere, fucking period.

Adam’s mouth skims his cheek. Bits of his hair catch and cling to Adam’s lips and Adam nuzzles in closer, teeth finding the edge of his jaw and scraping lower, digging in hard against the sensitive skin behind his ear. “Sorry,” Adam mumbles, and, “Almost, fuck, Tommy,” and Tommy really doesn’t have the first fucking clue what the hell he’s rambling about. He knocks it off before Tommy can figure out how make a sound that isn’t a croak, his grip on Tommy’s ass gone so tight Tommy would fucking swear he can feel Adam’s heartbeat in his fingertips. Then he goes and makes this perfect fucking sound, harsh and gorgeous like it’s ripped straight out of his chest. Tommy scrambles up to get a look at his face, burn into his brain the shape of Adam’s mouth and the sharp slant of his throat and the way his eyes squeeze shut when he comes.

It takes Adam a good few minutes to get back to earth afterwards. Tommy stays draped over his chest feeling pretty god damn smug, twirling the damp little flicky bits of Adam’s hair around one finger in a vain attempt to get them to curl while he blinks back to life. He lets out a slow breath, eyes crossing hilariously as he tries to figure out what the hell Tommy’s doing, and then a crinkle appears between his eyebrows as he loops back to whatever it was he was trying to say in the middle of fucking them both stupid. He gets as far as, “I,” mouth snapping shut when Tommy bops him on the lips with one finger.

Tommy’s grin is lopsided and ridiculous. Good sex is better than a high. That was some incredible fucking sex right there. “If you apologise I won’t blow you in the morning.”

Adam’s expression flips back over into shock. A happy kind of shock, though. Like the surprise birthday-Christmas-Hanukkah-whatever kind of happy shock.

“Not my first time,” Tommy says, and oh man, Adam has got some serious yay!-oh-wait-boo going on over there.

“But you said, you told me.” Adam’s face screws up. He’s really having trouble figuring out if he’s ecstatic or furious. “You did not lie to me about not sleeping with boys.”

“Pegging. Google it.”

“Tommy Joe,” Adam breathes, but it sounds more like oh god yes. He catches the upwards hitch of Tommy’s eyebrow and smiles impishly. “Not that it matters in a potentially sleazy way.”

“Uh huh. Do your gay virgin ass sacrifice thing while I’m asleep, ‘kay?”

Adam’s eyes go bright. He ducks his chin down in a way that is totally and complete adorable. “Gonna do the walk of shame?”

“Fuck you, rockstar.” Wriggling closer, Tommy makes sure his bony knee jabs Adam. “You can carry me to the motherfucking bus.”

“You cling any harder and I’ll have to.”

Tommy keeps his eyes resolutely closed. “Aren’t you supposed to go all good boyfriend now? Get me a wet cloth since you jizzed in my ass?”

He can’t see it but he can sure as hell feel the face Adam pulls. “You straight boys and your aversion to jizz.”

Tommy’s got a comeback for that one. Tommy’s always got a comeback, but one thing he’s figured out for sure is Adam loves getting the last word in. So much so that there’s no way in hell he’s going to let Tommy nap until he gets it, so Tommy shuts up and cuddles some more.

All of five seconds later, Adam’s hand stroking along his back becomes a finger-walk over his ass. He ignores it, and ignores it, and then fails entirely at conveying anything even remotely like how much he is so not paying attention to Adam’s prodding. “Fuck,” he groans, levering up. “You’re one of those freaky people energized by sex, aren’t you.”

Adam shrugs, corner of his mouth hitched up in a very not contrite way. “Ten minute power nap, go?”

Burying his face in the crook of Adam’s neck, Tommy moans, “Fuck,” one more time to make sure his feelings on the matter are totally clear.

Adam’s a fucking lying liar who only gives him five minutes. Tommy stays pliant for another three, waits until Adam huffs his name and doesn’t get even a twinge of guilt when Adam isn’t ready for Tommy’s teeth digging into his shoulder.

End

One Response to “The Good Times are Killing Me”

  1. janshawaii Says:

    f-ing unbelievable. . once again, a marvelous piece of work! It’s gonna take me a while to get down from this ‘high’!! Will keep on reading your work! Love it!

Leave a Reply