rivers_bend

Title: like lipstick is a sign of my declining mind
Pairing: Adam/Tommy
Words: 2100
Rating: NC17
The Obvious: I do not know any of the people whose public personas are used here, and neither believe nor mean to imply this actually happened.
A/N: I don't have a kink bingo card, but if I did, and if it had a "vanilla kink" square, this would be my fill for that. Title and cut text from little plastic castle by Ani DiFranco
Summary: Adam, of course, has never been a one-trick pony, on stage or off, and he drives Tommy just as wild when he leaves the attitude on his belt with his flogger.



Tommy doesn't see anything wrong with being a rock star and a traditionalist. The whole idea of sides of someone's personality being contradictory is just stupid. People are complex. It's so not a big fucking deal. He can be inked all to hell, wear chains on his fuck-off boots, and still get off hardest on laying his girl out, licking her wet and desperate, fucking her face-to-face all sweet kisses and slow, easy thrusts.

But then he gets off just as hard being held down by his throat and fucked hard and fast, Adam's lips just far enough away that kissing's nothing more than a sweet-hot tease, and Tommy decides traditional isn't the only game in town when it comes to getting his rocks off.

Adam, of course, has never been a one-trick pony, on stage or off, and he drives Tommy just as wild when he leaves the attitude on his belt with his flogger.

They'll be eating dinner, maybe Tommy's trying to get the perfect amount of wasabi into his soy sauce, or he's frowning in the direction of the waiter who's been avoiding both his gaze and his raised beer bottle for fifteen minutes, and Adam's hand will slide across the table, up and over Tommy's wrist, fingers grazing down the back of his hand to weave with Tommy's own.

"You look beautiful," he'll say, and Tommy doesn't want to blush, because it's so fucking cheesy, but Adam sounds so ridiculously sincere, and it gets him every damn time.

Aware of the other diners, Adam'll lean even closer. "Gonna make love to you all night, baby. Chase the spice right off your tongue."

And Tommy would say fuck more beer, fuck the rest of this sushi, they can take it to go, but Adam won't rush, determined to make date night, date night, and Tommy pretty much loves that about him, even when his napkin thinks it's on a camping trip in his lap. On the plus side, nights like this Adam doesn't tease--well, nothing more than little touches to Tommy's hands and wrists, maybe brushing Tommy's hair off his cheek or fixing his collar--so after the initial rush of, oh. this, Tommy's no more than half hard for the rest of the evening, a pleasant buzz under his skin.

The best part of kissing Adam any time they're alone is the way he focuses, but the best thing about kissing him when he's in a mood like this is the way he focuses on Tommy's lips. It's like he's going to kiss Tommy all night, maybe kiss him forever, hands busy doing nothing more than framing Tommy's face, stroking his hair. It used to make Tommy frantic for more, but now he gives it up, gives in, reveling in making out like teenagers, pretending that's all he's gonna get.

And Tommy's pretty sure that the reason Adam always says his X-men power would be mind reading is because that's what his X-men power actually is, because every single fucking time, he waits until just after the point that Tommy decides this is the time he's right, kissing's gonna be the peak, and that's when he goes for more.

As far as he can remember, Tommy's never heard Adam order him to strip, but Adam has this look--this now we're having so much sex look--that Tommy's hands (and his dick) have decided means the same thing, and usually he's naked by the time his ass hits the bed. But nights when Adam won't even let him see the check, when Adam's adamant about holding doors and holding hands, Tommy doesn't so much as reach to adjust his dick. He waits for Adam to say, "May I?" fingering the hem of Tommy's shirt. Waits while Adam pushes it up under his arms, kissing the spot just above his belly button, or maybe the curve of his ribs, helps just enough so Adam can get it up and over his head.

"Thank you," Adam sometimes says, and it should be ridiculous, because what the fuck, he loves it when Adam follows him into the shower, pins him face to the wall and fucks him until he can't feel his legs, so letting Adam see his chest isn't exactly revolutionary, but he's looking at Tommy like he's unwrapping the best present ever when he says it, and Tommy could die with how sweet that is.

If he doesn't say thank you, it's because he's too busy kissing lines down Tommy's arms to the palms of his hands, or lapping at Tommy's nipples, or nuzzling the soft skin of his belly. It feels like thank you, though, and it still makes Tommy melt.

"You too," Tommy usually says--wanting Adam's skin, needing to touch it--and sometimes Adam will comply, but usually he ignores Tommy's demands, kisses his way up to Tommy's face, goes back to making out with him, slow, gentle, thorough, and not nearly as maddening as it should be.

Distracted by the kissing, Tommy misses it when Adam goes for the button on his pants, but he snaps to attention pretty quickly when Adam starts pulling them down over his thighs. He's learned to let Adam look, appreciate the cut of Tommy's hip with his thumb, stroke the length of Tommy's dick with the back of his fingers, or trace the line of hair down Tommy's belly with the tip of his nose. Learned nothing he does or says will rush this, learned to let that be just as hot as the feel of Adam's palms pushing his thighs apart so he can lick up behind Tommy's balls.

Once he's gotten Tommy naked and drunk his fill of the sight of him, Adam finally takes his own clothes off. He stands to do it, folding Tommy's clothes and stacking them on a chair before undoing buttons and snaps and zippers, keeping a straight face through his strip tease, even when Tommy can tell it's a struggle. They watch each other in silence, their usual dirty talk set aside for the night, Tommy left with reading I'm gonna make love to you so sweet in the hunger in Adam's eyes, Adam seeing Now, please, need you so much in the restless shift of Tommy's thighs opening on the bed.

And then, at last, Adam climbs up beside him, dick hard and eager but hands still soft and gentle, rolling Tommy on his side so Adam can curl in behind him, fit their bodies together while he nuzzles kisses into Tommy's neck.

After hours of foreplay, Tommy's ready, so fucking ready for Adam's dick. Usually Adam wants to finger Tommy whether or not he needs it, whisper in his ear about how hot Tommy is, how slick, how responsive he is to every stroke and press, but something about whatever this is Adam's doing when he gets like this makes him want to just slick his dick and slip inside. Tommy is not complaining. Not that he's complained about any of Adam's ideas ever--except that one time Adam thought they should give hiking a try--but there's nothing like opening around Adam's dick, letting it carve its own path in Tommy's body; he never feels so full, so possessed, as when Adam does him like this.

It may be partially their position, both of them on their sides, Tommy folded into the curl of Adam's body, wrapped in Adam's arms, Adam's cheek resting on his ear, nothing in Tommy's world but Adam's scent, his body heat, the sound of him breathing, murmuring Tommy's name, and baby, sugar, gorgeous, love. It might be the way Adam goes so slow, pushing in a fraction at a time, stilling completely when his hips hit Tommy's ass, the only movement between them the fluttering of Tommy's muscles working to adjust, and the rise and fall of Adam's ribs against his spine.

Now he knows how good it is like this Tommy's stopped longing for Adam to roll him onto his face, tug at his hips and make him take it, the hard, fast fucks that get so deep. Not that he'd give that up. But this is good too. So, so good.

Full but not fucked, surrounded by sensation, Tommy finds it hard to breathe. Adam's hand stroking over his belly helps, but it jacks him up too, makes him want to move, makes his bones turn to hot water and his muscles shake.

"Shh, baby, shhh. I've got you," Adam whispers right in his ear, smooth cheek--and every time, Tommy thinks that should have been his first clue: Adam always shaves before they go out nights like this, but Tommy always forgets to notice--pressed to Tommy's, scratching himself on Tommy's stubble nights he has it, skin to skin if Tommy shaved before dinner, too.

It's meant to ground him, Tommy knows, and like the hand on his belly it helps, but Adam's still inside him, holding him open, no friction, no movement to distract him from how full he is, how his hole can't close, can't pull Adam in farther or push him out, can only be this space Adam's made for himself. And nothing Adam does short of actually fucking him is gonna make that less intense, less crazy. Adam wouldn't want it to. Not that they've ever talked about why Adam loves this, but Tommy knows him, knows how much he loves making Tommy feel.

Some day, Tommy thinks, he going to come apart completely like this. Not a metaphor, actually unspool from the inside out, sink into Adam's pores, disappear inside his skin. But that night isn't this night, because every time Tommy gets to the point where he starts to believe his atoms might dissolve, that's when Adam starts to move.

Little fucks at first, barely a twitch, a shift, like maybe he's just getting comfortable, and then a little more. A little more, fingers of one hand firm on Tommy's hipbone, palm on his ass, helping hold him still while Adam rocks out and in again, out and in, slow, fucking maddeningly slow, then faster, just enough faster. Not like nights Tommy's on his knees for it, or even nights Adam hooks Tommy's legs over his shoulders, but there's friction, all kinds of good things going on with it, ramping Tommy up instead of leaving him strung out, and how the fuck Adam isn't dying with the slow drag of Tommy's ass on his dick, Tommy will never know, not that there's even room to think about that now.

It's that moment of impending orgasm, stretched like the taffy on the machine at the pier, doubled, doubled again, folded over on itself in an endless loop, Tommy just as helpless under Adam's hands as sugar under stainless steel gears, until he's so close to coming that he's sure he's never going to actually get there. But these nights Tommy never begs. He never swears or pleads or gets demanding. He arches his spine, holds Adam's hand closer to his chest, twists his head back for another kiss, high on Adam's timeline, waiting for the moment Adam rolls him on his belly, covers him completely, finally driving deep and hard as he comes.

If Tommy doesn't come then, grinding into the sheets as Adam's whispering praise and endearments into his hair, Adam flips him back, chest to chest this time, kisses him, harder than before, but sweeter too somehow, wraps a hand around his cock and jerks him just right. If Tommy can't hold on, if he breaks, Adam pulls him off the wet spot, cuddles him close, strokes his neck, his hip, his thigh.

Either way, nights like this, with Tommy a puddle of bliss on the bed, Adam forgoes the pack of wetwipes in the bedside drawer, goes to wash in the bathroom, comes back with a hot washcloth and a cold glass, wipes Tommy down and feeds him sips of water from his own mouth.

"You're so kinky," Tommy always murmurs, chasing the last cool drops off Adam's tongue.

"Love you too," Adam always answers.