We’re not looking for where we belong

Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~4700 words. Drug use. Shotgunning and fingering and rimming, oh my.
There are lines in the sand and Tommy’s allowed to touch them, give them a little nudge, but not step right fucking over them like that.

The sun blazes red-pink-gold over the South Pacific. There’s a lyric slinking through the sunset haze that Tommy can’t put his finger on, so he takes another long drag, breathes out smooth and slow and squints through the smoke as if he’ll find it swirling there.

Flaked out beside him on an oversized lounger, skin sticky where they touch from elbow to wrist, thigh to calf, Adam says, “You’re so toasted.”

“Fuck yeah,” Tommy says, hoisting the joint like a trophy. The horizon wavers behind it. He blinks once, lazily, and when he opens his eyes again, the world’s full of Adam. A smile carves its way across Tommy’s mouth inch by slow inch. He hooks his arm over the top of the lounger, keeping the joint out of Adam’s freakishly long reach.

“This is why you can’t have nice things,” Adam says, grumpy twist to his mouth. His hair shines in the last of the day’s light, jet black and heavy from the shower. The freckles on his lips are like the steps to a dance Tommy wants to follow with his tongue, little teasing flicks, quick-quick-slow.

Instead, he says, “Fuck you, you gave it to me.”

“I’m starting to see the error of my ways, Tommy Joe.”

Tilting his head back, way back, turns into a languorous stretch Tommy feels all the way down to his toenails. Along the way he figures out that pressure against his thigh is Adam’s hip, and that tickle near his shoulder is the lace on Adam’s leather bracelet, and that slow slinking tingle up his spine is courtesy of his half-hard cock. He holds the joint up again, slanted between his fingers, chin up, Adam’s gaze sliding like fingertips down the length of his throat. “You wanna?”

“Yeah, I wanna,” Adam says, and makes a clumsy grab for it.

Tommy dodges, says, “C’mon,” smoke filling his lungs before the word’s faded from the air. He holds it, and holds it, slithering build of pressure, and when Adam doesn’t sink down to meet him, he lifts his head, lets it trickle free in a smoky kiss to Adam’s slack mouth.

Time hangs, hushed, the sound of waves or blood in Tommy’s ears, and then Adam sucks in a sharp breath. The smoke’s already wafted away on the coconut-breeze, but Adam’s chasing it to the source, lips dry against his, dry and warm, with a promise of slick wet heat. A shiver hop-skip-jumps from his chest to belly to groin. He can’t help but wiggle in its wake, bask in the heavy, sleepy pleasure. Tiny bright sparks flare where Adam’s touching him and he catches a giggle on teeth dug into his bottom lip.

“I’m so fucked,” he says, grinning through it, and puts the joint to his lips again, takes a long, deep drag. He’s so very fucked, because this time Adam is right there to take its place, lips a little damp, parted and pressed softly against his. He sucks back half the smoke on a shocked noise, like he wasn’t expecting Adam’s mouth on his, hadn’t fucking asked for it. Adam’s thumb presses to the hollow of his throat, long fingers wrapped around his neck, dragging him up and in until there’s barely enough space for the smoke to slither out between them.

It’s too chaste to be a kiss, too intimate to be anything else. He spends forever just hanging there in Adam’s hold, live-wire thrill streaking through his veins, and then he slides his tongue tentatively forward, barely even tasting the inside of Adam’s mouth. He’s done this dozens of times before, on stage, off it, in front of friends and family and only the two of them saying hello, but it’s not the same. Not even fucking close, not when he can feel the tension stringing Adam tight, a quiver to Adam’s lips that matches the one in his belly. Right then and there he knows Adam’s gonna fucking flip his shit, ’cause this is the start of something.

Breaking away, Tommy keeps his gaze down. “One more,” he says, and fills his lungs and his head with a warm fuzzy haze. He really doesn’t give a shit about Adam’s boundaries aside from the fact that they’re Adam’s, and Adam’s trusting him to stick to them. They’re always shifting, though, one step to the side and two back so that tiny pecks hello become full on mouth-to-mouth deals, a cuddle on the couch becomes sleeping together twined close and sweaty in the early morning heat, riding the high after a show becomes fucking into the loose sloppy tunnel of glitter-speckled hands.

He waits for a murmured warning, the quiet growl of his name Adam uses like a leash to control him. Waiting for it and fucking wanting it because there’s nothing else like that safe panic-trill shooting through him, knowing he’s wriggled his way deeper beneath Adam’s skin, rooted there, and Adam’s never going to dig him out. It’s so messed up, fucking crazy and stupid, and he loves it. Wants it too much, needs it too hard, and it’s going to fucking kill him the day Adam tells him no.

But for now there’s nothing except the slow shivering breath Adam takes, then the pressure of Adam’s mouth opening his up to share the hit. Adam pulls the smoke from his lungs, every last scrap of air and a sliver of his soul, and that’s the fucking pot talking, not him–it’s never him; it’s the stage-high or the rockstar-thrill or the pot and Mai Tai cocktail in his blood, but not him. He teeters on the edge of asking for something he’s terrified he won’t get, but the bright bite of pain at his fingertips jolts him, stumbling and gasping, back from the drop.

“Motherfucker,” he hisses, flicking the stubby joint into the sand. “Yeah, s’right, laugh it up, asshole,” he tells Adam, a smile on his face and fond vengeance in his voice. The weight’s gone from between them and he wants it back, thinks maybe this time he’d have dived in headfirst even while he’s sure he wouldn’t have, not unless Adam told him to first. This isn’t so bad, though. Adam’s got that sparkle to his eyes, that mischievous quirk to his mouth he thinks he only ever does on purpose but gives him away every fucking time.

“Oh, baby,” Adam says, all poor-sad-you, and catches his hand. “Will you ever play bass again?”

“Fuck you,” Tommy says, leaving his hand happily captive–gets a thrill out of Adam’s big hand wrapped around his, and hell if that isn’t the saddest shit ever–and gropes for the joint ready and waiting on the table. He jams it between his lips, lights it one-handed and gives the Zippo a careless toss aside. Taking his time with the first hit, he lets it by turns mellow and spike the churning in his belly as Adam lazily, absently, traces the lines on his palm. He’s on his second, or third, or probably still the first when, “Kiss it better,” instead of a lungful of smoke comes slinking out of his stupid fucking mouth.

Adam’s eyelashes sweep down. He turns Tommy’s hand over in his own, traces the bumps and dips of Tommy’s knuckles with a thumb. “Say please.”

Breath sticks in Tommy’s throat. There’s an edge to the playfulness in Adam’s voice, a dark corner, dangerous and subtle. He swallows once, hard, and says, “Please,” without a clue what the fuck he’s even asking for anymore.

Bringing their hands up, Adam presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the tip of Tommy’s finger. Then another, slower, slight part to his lips, tiny flutter of his lashes. And one more when the air in Tommy’s lungs has turned thick and heavy, the heat against the pad of his finger going from dry to wet, the tip of Adam’s tongue sliding smoothly down, ticklish on the edge of his palm. Tommy’s fingers twitch, curl, and he’s breathing hard and fast and quiet, squirming in the shade of Adam’s shadow, cock dragging against the inside of his cargo shorts.

Something in the way Adam looks, a shift in the set of his mouth or the feather of hair across his eyes, makes Tommy lift the joint for another hit. The smoke’s barely reached his lungs, let alone seeped into his blood, when Adam’s mouth is on his to steal it away, and it slams into him anyway in a thick dizzying rush. He shoves up into the kiss, he’s so going to get his tongue in Adam’s mouth this time around, but Adam’s is already pushing into his, a lewd wet slide that sets off lust like an atom bomb in Tommy’s gut. The sturdy wood lounger creaks as Adam rises up above him, pushes him deeper down into it, licks and sucks at his tongue until he’s shaking and moaning and fucking dying from the chaotic jumble of needs and wants and half-formed cravings screaming through his head.

Fingers brush his jaw, skim close to his mouth, and he darts towards them, gets the hard edge of Adam’s nail catching his lip but doesn’t fucking care. Pineapple and the salt-sweat tang of Adam’s skin explodes on his tongue. He ducks his head, digs his teeth into Adam’s knuckle to keep his fucking finger right where it fucking is, and licks up every scrap of flavour he can find. But it’s not enough and fades too fast, leaves him with the taste of bare wet skin, and he grabs at Adam’s wrist, other hand skidding down to hook on Adam’s elbow, perfect angle to suck Adam’s finger further into his mouth straight to the first knuckle, weird fucking thrilling press of the tip against the soft tissues near the back of his throat.

“Tommy,” Adam grates.

Months of habit have Tommy pulling away before he figures out that wasn’t his cue to back the fuck off. Adam’s finger fucks back in, hooking over his bottom teeth to pull him in close. He goes with it, high and dazed, cheeks hollowed and cock fucking throbbing in time to his heartbeat as Adam fingerfucks his mouth. Somewhere along the way one finger becomes two wedging his mouth open, thick on his tongue, pinning it down. He knows what Adam’s hands feel like on his dick and now it’s too fucking easy to imagine them pushing up between his legs, slick wet fingers at his hole, and god fucking damn it, that fucking high-pitched whining noise is coming from him.

Forcing his eyes open, he meets Adam’s heavy gaze. For some fucking crazy reason Adam’s quit moving, is up there just staring, sunset and sweat glistening on his throat. This time when Tommy eases back Adam doesn’t stop him, and a slow lick to Adam’s palm becomes an open-mouthed kiss trailing down his wrist, along the soft underside of his forearm. Even without the sun the heat presses in, stifling, and Tommy can feel the sweat gathering on his thigh where Adam’s calf is pressed to it, the spliff burning between his fingers, but it’s weird, hazy and distant as a dream.

“You should fuck me,” slips out of Tommy’s mouth, bizarrely casual.

Even weirder, Adam says, “I want to, so fucking bad.” That’s not how this goes. There are lines in the sand and Tommy’s allowed to touch them, give them a little nudge, but not step right fucking over them like that. And if he does, when he does, Adam’s the one to push him back, draw a new line. If there’s a little ground gained between it and the old one, neither of them say a fucking word. But it’s different now, something’s fucking changed, it’s crackling like something alive under Tommy’s skin.

Dropping the joint, Tommy spreads his legs and slides on down, gets Adam fit snug between them. He likes the look of Adam right there, dazed, turned on. There’s this sizzle of fear in his belly, thrilling and awesome, too much to keep inside so it all comes spilling out. “So what’re you gonna do about it? Gonna finally get your dick in my mouth, teach me how to suck you off? Been fuckin’ dying for the chance. Know you want it, want to see me tryin’ to take it all.”

Adam’s hand slides from his knee to thigh, shorts bunching up and so fucking in the way when it skips up to cup his cock. His mouth drops open and he bucks up into the slight squeeze, slaps his hand down on Adam’s to keep it there as he grinds into it. He can’t even fucking breathe when Adam leans in close, not-quite-kiss bumping along his jaw to his ear where Adam whispers, “Thought I’d get yours in mine.”

“Fuck,” Tommy grunts, cock jerking. “Don’t, don’t fucking dick me around about shit like that.”

“Not teasing,” Adam says, fingers plucking at the buttons on Tommy’s shorts, words hot on Tommy’s neck. “I want to get my mouth all over you. Bet you taste so fucking good.”

The second Adam’s hand gets past the zip, Tommy’s hips come up. He grabs onto Adam’s arm and shoves, gets Adam’s knuckles skidding past his cock, his balls, wants them to keep fucking going but Adam stops short, fingers splayed wide. “Come on,” Tommy says, free hand fisting Adam’s hair, “come on, know you wanna, I fucking know you want your fingers up in me, want to know what it feels like, watch me open up and take it,” and he’s talking about Adam, what he can fucking see Adam wanting, but fuck if it isn’t really everything he wants too.

“Your fucking mouth,” Adam says, and jerks up to his feet, hauls Tommy straight to the edge of the lounger and then up off it, right into Adam’s arms with his fucking shorts hanging off his ass. He scrambles to get his knees up, ankles locked around Adam’s waist, can’t help rocking into Adam’s motherfucking cock nestled snug against his. He buries his face in Adam’s neck, breathes in the mellow smoky tang layered over clean sweat, and he seriously doesn’t give two shits about anything right now except how fucking amazing Adam feels pressed all up against him.

“Gonna say fuck it and do me up against the wall?” he says, mouth on autopilot, hands skidding over Adam’s back, pressing into the flex of muscle. He’s got a crystal-fucking-clear idea of how easy it’d be for Adam to lift him up, drop him down, slick gritty burn. “Get your fingers back in my mouth, keep me quiet? ‘Cause you know I’m gonna be fucking noisy, can’t keep my mouth shut, gonna fucking choke screaming when you get your dick up my ass.”

“You watch too much fucking porn,” Adam says, but his grip’s gone bruisingly tight on Tommy’s bare ass, and his eyes are wild, pupils blown. Tommy’s jostled as he steps over the threshold, door banging off his elbow, and they fucking forgot to crank the A/C because it’s a sauna in the cabin, air so thick it’s hard to breathe. Adam dumps him on the sliver of clear space on the bed, sweeps the rest clear, clothes and books and phone sent flying, and climbs up over him, hands under his shirt to peel it off. The second he’s free Adam’s mouth is on his rough and sloppy, and Adam’s shoving at his shorts, getting them halfway down his thighs. He wriggles a little further onto the bed, totally intending to help, and Adam latches onto the idea, hands gripping him under the arms and just fucking flinging him up to the pillows, clothes left behind.

Tommy would have something to say about this manhandling shit, he really would, except he’s really fucking loving it, his dick’s aching in that crazy perfect way, and who the fuck is he to argue what that. Adam’s not done, anyway, and all he ends up with are a few mauled syllables grunted into the bed as Adam rolls him over onto his belly. A hot, bone-deep shudder spills out of him in a moan.

“Just want to look at you,” Adam says, and like fuck Tommy’s burying that, not when he’s all splayed out and ready, but all he gets are Adam’s hands on his ass, cheeks spread and hole exposed, and the thick knot of nerves in his stomach tightens in a creeping, burning itch. He waits, and waits, tiny twitch of muscle he can’t control. Adam’s breath hitches. He drags his knee up higher, lifts up and rocks down so Adam can see the soft crush of his balls against the tousled sheets, and then his heart’s in his throat because Adam’s mouth is on his ass, slick wet glide of tongue up the inside of his thigh and straight to his asshole.

“Fuck,” Tommy says, muffled and strained, softly reverent, “Adam,” lost in the pillow. He pushes his hands under it, grips it tighter to his face as his back arches, hips shoved up, fucking begging. Ticklish pleasure skitters out along his nerves, and he doesn’t know what the fuck it feels like except it’s good, it’s fucking amazing, incredible, he wants Adam’s teeth on him, tongue in him; he wants everything.

Adam’s tongue drags soft and flat over his sac, a brief flick over his hole and then a dirty wet wiggle against it, teasing hint of pressure. His body goes tight then loose, and Adam’s groan slips in a shiver under his skin. Trying to press closer gets him shit fuck all and he lurches up on one knee, awkward burn in his hips before he manages to get the other one up, his coordination shot to fucking hell. Then his face is on fucking fire because he’s ass-up like a porn star, chest pressed to the bed and moaning like Adam’s dicking him for real instead of this slow, fucking annoying, stupidly amazing almost-tonguing thing.

“C’mon,” he says–fucking whines–heat blazing up the back of his neck, “stick your fucking tongue in me already, fuck, kiss it if you’re gonna, just fucking, fuck,” and there’s no air left in his lungs, no room to suck any back down when Adam’s thumb rubs over his hole, pushes up and in and it’s so wet and fucking slick, perfect. He screws back into it, knows exactly what he looks like with his dick hanging heavy and leaking between his legs, and he seriously couldn’t care less how slutty he gets as long as Adam doesn’t fucking stop.

Adam drags a wet kiss across his ass. Fingers fan out over his balls, squeeze once, soft and fleeting, and then Adam’s thumb is dragging free, hooked on the rim for a second before a few fingers take its place. Anticipation pulls his muscles taut and an easy trickling breath becomes a quick rush of air sucked in between his teeth as spit-slippery fingers push in deep and hard and way too fucking slow. The quivering in his belly spreads out and down, thighs trembling as Adam’s fingers crook, press and pull all at once and it’s the fucking weirdest thing ever, Adam in him like that, stroking from the inside, fucked up and so hot. So motherfucking hot.

“So tight,” Adam says, kind of a stupid, awe-struck mumble, and Tommy wants to say, No fucking kidding,, because it fucking is, pressure like he’s never felt. Adam’s fingers are way thicker than his, sinking a hell of a lot fucking deeper than he’s managed on his own before. “Ease up, baby, don’t wanna-” and whatever the fuck Adam doesn’t want gets lost in the flick of his tongue between his fingers, quick and shocking.

“I’m fucking high,” Tommy bites out, scrubbing hair out of his face with the pillow, crisp cotton cool on overheated skin. “Ain’t gonna get any fucking looser.”

Adam groans a curse, harsh and vehement, right into the meat of Tommy’s ass. His thumb sweeps up, flirts delicately with the stretched rim of Tommy’s hole, but it’s a third finger that nudges in alongside the other two. He echoes Tommy’s shuddering groan and then just fucking stays there, wedging Tommy wide open on the thick bunch of his knuckles with his tongue flicking around them, between them, driving Tommy seriously fucking insane.

Tommy bucks his hips, desperate; he wants Adam to fucking move already, give him something besides the slow-build pressure to focus on. Adam’s hand slaps to his ass, a hard jolt that goes straight up through him and shoves a ragged, ruined sort of noise out of him. He shoves up on the palm of one hand, groping for the headboard or the wall or fucking anything except the slippery sheets to brace against, because, “Fuck, Adam, do it again.”

A twist of Adam’s fingers sends a hot flash of blood rushing through his ears. He thinks Adam says, “What?” sharp and stuttering, so he spits back, “Slap me, fucking slap me again,” and he could fucking cry when Adam does. It feels so fucking amazing, quick biting sting and heavy full pressure. He moans for it, cock throbbing, head pounding, and Adam’s fingers fuck up into him on the next smack, out and in again on every tiny bright slap after.

He chokes on a warning but it’s too late, all that heat pooled in his belly coils tight and lashes out, fucking sucker punch orgasm that drops him down to his elbows. Head bowed and with blurry eyes he can see Adam’s hand on his dick, jacking him, but there’s so much buzzing along his nerves he can’t tell what’s sending those wracking shivers up through him. He presses into it all anyway, even when the sensations are too sharp, skating the edge of pain as his arms give out on him, and then his legs go and he’s sinking down, sprawled out awkward and panting.

“Tommy,” Adam says, hazy as an afterthought, and Tommy’s skin prickles at the sound of foil tearing. “I’ve got to, fuck, you look so good, you’re so good, baby,” and Tommy moans something back at him that means go ahead, do it, just fucking go for it. Hands grip Tommy’s thigh, his side, and he grunts as he rolls over, legs falling shamelessly wide around Adam. Adam looks fucking wrecked, sweet hot mess with his cock all shiny-slick, and Tommy scrubs both hands over his face, up into his hair. “C’mon, baby,” Adam says, hauling Tommy halfway up into his fucking lap, pausing to strip off his shirt and then he’s naked, angles and curves that shouldn’t fit right against Tommy but they fucking do.

Tommy’s so fucking loose for it when Adam’s dick presses to his hole, opens him up and slides on in slick and easy. He fists a hand in his hair, body loose and boneless and all these sounds just slipping out unchecked, full-on pornographic hitching little breaths because Adam’s not giving him a chance to adjust to the feel of a cock hot and thick up inside him. He doesn’t even want a fucking breather here, it’s better this way, fucking fantastic with every sharp thrust jolting him up higher on the bed. His nerves are fucked raw, a heavy sore ache spiralling down to where Adam’s driving into him, and he twists sluggishly on the sheets, reaching down to feel his hole stretched hot around Adam’s cock.

Adam makes this noise, high and helpless, and words start breaking through Tommy’s shaking moans, filthy street-corner trash-talk unsteady and threaded through with too much honesty, because he really does fucking love this, loves the feel of his body strung out and used, abused, bone-deep buzzing ache that he’ll carry for days. And that’s not the sort of shit he’d take for just anybody, high and hard up for a good lay or not; not the sort of shit he’d want at all if it wasn’t Adam up there giving it to him.

He gets a clumsy hand tangled in Adam’s hair, drags him down for what should’ve been a kiss but ends up just being their open mouths pressed together and a flick of tongue in the hot space between. It’s impossible to breathe with his knees almost in his fucking chest, but when Adam lets go of his legs, shoves both arms under him with hands curved over his shoulders to drive him into every thrust, it really doesn’t fucking help. He can’t keep still but there’s nowhere for him to go, pinned by Adam’s weight, and it’s kind of suffocating in a really awesome way. Bits and pieces of the world fall away, the creaking of the door Adam didn’t close all the way, the feel of the sheets wadded up in his hands, until all that’s left is Adam fucking him, pressed so fucking close he can’t tell anymore where he ends and Adam begins.

Looping a shaky arm around Adam’s neck, Tommy groans, “C’mon, Adam, come the fuck on already, give it up, give it to me,” into the mess of Adam’s hair, not even sure what the hell he’s saying but they both know what he means. At least he thinks Adam does, because Adam rears back, this hectic sort of glint in his eyes right before they squeeze shut and he finally, fucking finally lets go. It’s not the first time Tommy’s seen him come, won’t be the fucking last time he watches that shock of bliss flash across Adam’s face if he’s got anything to say about it, but it nails him like a bullet punching into his chest every god damn time.

“God, Tommy,” Adam says, forehead to forehead, breath hissing as he pulls out, notices the trembling Tommy can’t seem to shake off. “I can’t, I’m not sorry, I can’t be fucking sorry for that, oh my god, I want to fuck you again just like this,” and he sounds like he can’t believe what he’s saying, like it’s a fucking surprise that he wants Tommy already fucking wrecked and out of his mind before sticking it to him all over again.

“Knock yourself out,” Tommy wheezes, not even caring about the come drying tacky on his belly, the mess between his legs. “Soon as you can get it up, cowboy.”

A weird strangled noise echoes deep in Adam’s throat. His fingers flit across Tommy’s hole, and Tommy doesn’t need to see it to know exactly what it looks like, red and puffy, sore as it feels. Their breath hisses in tandem when the tiniest push gets Adam’s fingers sinking into him, all three right off the fucking bat. And Tommy whimpers, he actually makes a noise that could be classified as a fucking whimper, because it hurts but it really, really doesn’t, and it’s way too fucking easy to imagine Adam pushing him over onto his side, spooning up behind him and really fucking going for it this time.

When that doesn’t actually happen, it takes him a second to reconnect with the world. Adam leans close to nuzzle kisses at his mouth until he opens up, takes the slow push of tongue to match the lazy rhythm of Adam’s fingers in his ass. Just as he’s getting used to it–but not really, there’s no getting used to Adam inside him like that–Adam’s hand slides away, and the mattress shifts.

Before Adam gets any stupid ideas about slinking off, Tommy groggily says, “Cuddle me, bitch.”

Adam laughs quietly and drops carefully down beside him, and if there’s an edge to it, kind of hysterical, worried, he’ll get the fuck over that soon enough. Those boundaries he’d been clinging to are blasted all to hell now and Tommy’s not letting him build them back up this time. Whatever the hell Adam thinks love is when he’s up on stage singing his fucking heart out about it, this is it for Tommy. Either Adam’ll figure that out on his own or he won’t, and no matter which way that potential clusterfuck goes, Tommy’s staying right here.


One Response to “We’re not looking for where we belong”

  1. ~Nightshade~ Says:

    Well holy fucking hell! I need to hit the showers now. Not even a joke.

    Gorgeous, hot, amazing – I love these two and you write them so beautifully.

    Thank you!!

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