rivers_bend

Title: That Flavor You Like
Word Count: ~19,000
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Adam/Tommy (Brad, Leila, friends and family)
Warnings: (or Enticements if you prefer) there is a whole lot of kink in this story. If you need more specifics, highlight the following: barebacking, face slapping, rimming, face fucking, blade play, porn-watching, pain play, blood play, figging, marking and bruising, fisting, consent kink, and sexual negotiating. There is also schmoop in delicious sizable quantities.
Art by: qafmaniac
The Obvious: I don't know any of the people whose public personas are used in this story, and neither believe nor mean to imply this ever happened or is likely to.
Summary: Since Tommy has been having sex with Adam for almost a year, he feels pretty qualified to say that Adam is not nearly as vanilla as he seems to think he is.




They've been in their new house for almost three weeks when Tommy gives up on waiting for Adam to unpack the last of the boxes and decides to do it himself. A crate of "good china" (and seriously? People still have that stuff?) that someone gave Adam when he moved into his first house after Idol is easy enough to find a place for in the built-in units in the dining room, and the box lurking in the corner of the living room turns out to be booze left over from the housewarming party, so Tommy can just shove it all behind the bar. The annoying box was always going to be the one of files and paperwork in the office.

Once he's carefully transferred all the hanging files filled with bills and contracts and Tommy doesn't even know what to the brand-new filing cabinet in the corner by the bay window, there are still two huge accordion files marked Press in Leila's handwriting that he's not sure what to do with.

Back when he still couldn't believe it was real that he was Adam Lambert's bass player, and for a while even once they'd been on the road and he could sometimes hardly remember his life before Glam Nation, Tommy had looked at all the press he could find about Adam and their gigs. But at some point he'd stopped looking for it, and by the time they left for Asia he was pretty much ignoring even the reviews Monte or the others pointed out. He liked the Adam he saw every day better than the man the reporters and fans saw, and the questions and answers were all the same anyway.

Apparently he'd missed a hell of a lot, though.

The second file hasn't been closed properly and everything spills out of it when he picks it up. The clipping on top is illustrated with Adam standing proud in his spiked codpiece, and seems to be a printout from an Australian website. The caption under the picture makes Tommy laugh, and he sits down to read the whole article. For once, he's surprised by what Adam had to say.


"Adam," he asks that night, fingering the bruise on the inside of his thigh where Adam bit him, relishing the well-fucked ache in his ass, "Thought you were all about being honest with your public?"

Adam's fingers stop playing in Tommy's hair and go still just above his ear. "I thought you agreed that where we live is none of their business. We don't want—"

"I'm not talking about us." God, no. Not that the paps and bloggers won't find out soon enough that they've moved in together, but there's no need to make an announcement. "I'm talking about you telling that Australian guy that you're like, all vanilla."

"The Australian guy?"

"Your mom kept all these clippings and printouts. All your press stuff from the tour."

"Oh." Adam goes back to stroking. "Oh, yeah. That guy. But I am vanilla."

Tommy looks at him. There's no sign that he's joking. "Okay," Tommy says doubtfully.

"What?"

"I'm not sure that word means what you think it means."

"But we cuddle all the time. And I've never like actually used a whip or put a collar on anyone or anything."

Which, yeah, true, as far as Tommy knows. Not, now that he has it in his head, that Tommy would say no to a collar. The whipping they might have to negotiate. But that isn't exactly the point. "Okay," he says again.

"You like the cuddling, right?" Adam sounds genuinely unsure, which makes Tommy laugh.

"Baby, you have met me, haven't you?" He curls into Adam's side, wrapping tightly around him. "Just, I also like it when you pin me to the wall by my throat and tell me you're going to fuck me 'til I pass out."

"That's not like leather and toys and stuff, though," Adam says.

Tommy doesn't bother saying, "No, it's like choking and you being an enormous toppy top," because Adam has that secure-that-I'm-right tone going on, and it's after midnight, and Tommy's just had a fairly awesome orgasm, so he's too sated to argue.

"I'm a romantic," Adam adds when Tommy doesn't answer. That makes Tommy kiss him, because Adam is, and Tommy loves it. The kissing leads to more kissing, and Adam teasing at the edge of Tommy's hole, but neither of them are fifteen or super-human, and they're both fucked out.

"I love you," Adam says, proving his point, as he tucks Tommy against his chest in his favorite falling-asleep position.

"You too," Tommy says. Fortunately Adam's too far gone already to notice he sounds distracted.

Before meeting Adam, Tommy hadn't really given much thought to vanilla versus kinky, preferring to just be Tommy, really. But he's done a lot with Adam he'd never done before, and some of it is definitely gay, and some of it is definitely kinky, and he's been kind of proud of that. Not that he wants to go like, marching in a parade or anything—though he'd go if Adam wanted to—but Adam's whole stance on this vanilla thing still gives him something to think about.

Two AM finds Tommy on his third episode of Wolf Moon, which he'd never even heard of but Netflix recommended because he likes Weeds and Dexter. It's shit, but it's got Kevin Nealon as the leader of a werewolf pack, and it beats lying in bed wishing he could fall asleep as easily as Adam can.

---

Tommy's throat has been killing him for two days, which usually wouldn't bother him that much, except they're doing Ellen on Thursday, and then Adam's in the studio doing some backing tracks for the performances in the new year, and Tommy seriously needs to not be giving his boyfriend strep or anything. So he emails his doctor to ask about getting a throat swab. He's about to hit send when he remembers something else he's been meaning to go to the doctor about, so he adds an extra sentence. Not even fifteen minutes later he hears back. They can see him tomorrow and do all the tests then.

The strep test is negative, but Tommy's still careful, only kissing Adam on the back of the neck, and washing his hands all the time, until the show is taped and the tracks are laid down and it no longer feels like he's swallowing a saguaro every time he tries to drink anything.

Tommy climbs into Adam's lap that night, dick hard and the top button of his jeans undone.

"Hey," Adam says, looking up from his Ace of Cakes marathon. "You feeling better then?"

It's been five days since they fucked, and Tommy isn't worried about competing with chocolate butter cream. Always having been an actions-speak-louder-than-words guy, he buries his fingers in Adam's hair and seals their mouths together, wedging his knees under the back sofa cushions so he can grind right up against Adam's cock.

"Mll urmg mumf," Adam says, which, whatever, he's standing up and carrying Tommy back to their bedroom so it can't be anything all that important.

"Mmm hmm," Tommy agrees, wrapping his legs around Adam's waist, feeling both tiny and huge in that way that only Adam can make him. He gave up, oh, about instantly, on wishing Adam wouldn't carry him around like a doll, because it's fucking hot when Adam picks him up and puts him where he wants him, and it makes Adam all glowy and grabby hands when Tommy goes pliant in his arms, which is never a bad thing.

Adam drops him on the bed and Tommy lets his limbs just splay—lazy to some, but he's learned Adam likes pulling his clothes off, so Tommy looks at it as willing. "Gonna fuck you so hard," Adam says, predatory, and hell yes. Tommy loves having a boyfriend for whom spread legs and a hard dick count as foreplay.

"No condom," Tommy murmurs, and that wasn't actually supposed to be out loud, he was gonna ease into it better, but oh well.

"What?" Adam's frozen, fingers still curled around the ankles of Tommy's pants, holding them up in the air, the legs half off.

Tommy kicks his way out of the denim, because he's not having this conversation with his pants around his knees. "When did you last have sex with someone not me?"

Dropping Tommy's jeans, Adam knees up onto the bed, planting his hands either side of Tommy's ribs. "That guy in Spain," he says like he thinks Tommy's accusing him of sleeping around behind his back.

"And that was what, eight months ago?" Tommy traces Adam's infinity tattoo with one knuckle. "We both know Brad made you get tested too when you went to the clinic with him after his broken condom debacle."

From the look on Adam's face, Tommy isn't supposed to know about that, but it's not Tommy's fault Brad likes him and gets a little attention-seeky when he's drunk.

"And I got tested when they did my strep swab. So we're all good, right?" Tommy continues when Adam doesn't say anything.

Adam's going to argue, pinches his lips all up and hauls air in through his nose, but then he sighs, bends down and kisses the tip of Tommy's chin. "It's that simple?"

"Isn't it?"

"I don't know. It seems like it should be more complicated."

"I'm pretty sure it's not."

Adam looks at him the way he did when Tommy would get the last word in the joke pile-ons that would happen on tour, a look Tommy eventually decided was fond exasperation. "What am I going to do with you, Tommy Joe?" He clearly doesn't expect an answer, but Tommy has one anyway.

"Fuck me. Hard. Until I have jizz running down my legs."

Their conversation had cooled things off a little, but Adam growls at that, one hand catching both Tommy's wrists over his head and the other going to his throat, lifting his chin so Adam can devour his mouth, tongue and teeth and lips laying claim to half of Tommy's face. With a leg hooked behind Adam's knee, Tommy has the leverage to grind up against him, hipbones banging, cocks slipping past each other, more painful than gratifying, except for how the fucking sounds Adam's making are pretty much the most gratifying things Tommy's ever heard, and painful's not exactly the worst thing in the world anyway when his dick's this hard.

"Your fucking filthy mouth," Adam says, wrestling free from Tommy's grip and flipping him over, hauling him up by the hips and biting his ass, hard enough to make Tommy hiss and flinch, to make his cock jerk and his legs spread slutty wide.

"Do it. Fuck me. Fucking do. it." Tommy's gasping, pushing his ass back, wishing Adam would shove in with nothing more than the precome slicking his cockhead, but knowing he won't, not even really caring, just needing to be fucked right the hell now.

And Adam's there, stretching him open with two spit-wet fingers, dribbling lube between them, murmuring words Tommy can't hear over the sound of blood rushing in his head.

Tommy knows, he knows that his ass doesn’t have the right kind of nerves to be able to tell the difference between skin and condom, but he doesn’t fucking care. He can tell. It’s not just the drag or anything either, that’s Adam’s fucking dick in his ass and he can feel it.

"Oh, Tommy, fuck. me," Adam says, and for a second Tommy takes him literally and he almost says no fucking way are you stopping now before he realizes it's just an expression. "You're so hot."

"'M fucking brilliant," Tommy says, only it's kind of hard to hear with the way his face is mashed into the pillow. Not that it matters because Adam isn't stopping, isn't even slowing down, is snapping his hips until Tommy has to put a hand out to stop his head hitting the headboard.

"Wanna— fuck, Tommy, wanna see you, fuckin' want—"

Tommy likes it on his knees, Adam behind him, pulling him in to meet his thrusts, but he likes it on his back, too, Adam watching his face like he thinks the answers to the fucking universe are there or something. Fuck, he likes riding Adam's cock, up against the wall, bent over the kitchen counter, hanging from the god-damn chandelier.

He's not arguing if Adam wants to turn him over and fuck him face-to-face, is what he's saying.

Except for how he kind of is. "Don't stop, don't stop," he's begging, even while he's pulling one knee up so Adam can flip him over.

"Not stopping, baby, I just—"

And finally Tommy's on his back, Adam's hands sliding up his thighs, pushing them wide, and Tommy's fucking fingering his own hole, spreading it open like he thinks Adam might have trouble finding it.

"I got you," Adam says, and he does. Pushing back in, not even waiting for Tommy to take his fingers out first, and fucking hell that's Adam's dick. His skin slipping between Tommy's fingertips, and Tommy wanted this, but he didn't know how much.

"Don't have a latex kink," Tommy says, maybe; it's what he means, but Adam looks at him like he's nuts, so maybe it didn't make much sense. "It's your fucking dick in me," he tries to clarify.

Adam kisses him, his favorite way to shut Tommy up when he starts babbling. "Your fucking dick," Tommy says again, but Adam's tongue is in his mouth so it's barely even a jumble of sounds. Adam just groans, hitches Tommy's leg higher, fucks him harder.

"So fucking hot, Tommy, how are you so fucking hot?" Adam's panting, gasping, and Tommy isn't even sure if he's speaking in actual words or if Tommy's brain is just putting sounds together. He's folded practically in half, and Adam's hair is falling in his face, black strands stiffer and more tickly than his own ever are, and there's so much friction, so much pressure and it's fucking perfect, and he doesn't want it to ever stop, but he wants Adam to fucking come already. He wants to feel it.

Adam lifts Tommy by the back of his neck and kisses him hard, tongue fucking deep into his mouth and stubble abrading his chin. He loves it all, loves that every sensation is just sex, just Adam, and he gets this, gets to take everything Adam will give him and still ask for more.

It's a shock when Adam comes—either he gave no warning or Tommy wasn't paying attention—and for a second Tommy's disappointed because he can't feel any difference, but Adam keeps fucking him and it goes messy and squelchy, and Tommy feels a grin creeping across his face.

When Adam pulls out, lets Tommy's legs drop, goes to his elbows between Tommy's thighs, he doesn’t immediately suck Tommy's dick like he usually does, instead pushes his fingers into Tommy's hole, watching, creeping Tommy out a little, only really not, because that so isn't discomfort making him writhe and twist on Adam's hand.

"Fuck, Tommy," Adam says. "Fuck."

"You gonna suck me or what, fucking teasing—" Teasing what, Tommy never gets to say, because Adam goes down on him then, angling his fingers just right, sucking hard and swallowing around Tommy's dick, and if Tommy'd only known he'd have been sleeping with singers all along because jesus fucking christ.

And it's not even like Tommy hasn't had plenty of blow jobs from Adam in the last ten months, but somehow it always catches him by surprise how really really fucking good at it Adam is. Even better with his soft sounds of pleasure vibrating Tommy's dick. Greedy little fucker that he is, Tommy wants Adam to suck him forever, but he's not gonna last more than a couple seconds with Adam's throat and his fingers and the sounds and the smell of sex everywhere—

"Fuck fuck fuck!" Tommy shouts, back arched so it's only his heels and shoulders still on the bed, and Adam's swallowing and trying to hold Tommy down so he doesn't choke or bite anything off, and Tommy feels like his spine is gonna snap in half.

"Ow," he says once he can breathe again.

"Mmm?" Adam enquires from his spot on Tommy's hip.

"Shouldn't be yelling yet. Throat's still kinda sore," Tommy answers, and really. Ow.

"Have to gag you next time," Adam murmurs, reaching up to stroke Tommy's throat with two fingers.

If he thinks Tommy's gonna argue with that, he's seriously mistaken.

---

It's twenty to four on a Thursday afternoon, and apparently everyone else in Beverly Hills thinks it's too late for lunch and too early for dinner, because there are only about five other people in the restaurant, and two of them work there. Unless they start shouting, which is unlikely, no one is going to overhear them. Tommy figures it's as good a time as any to talk.

"You know how when we're, like, at a party," he says. "And I want to go home but I'm totally happy if you want to stay, I say, 'I shouldn't mix my drinks, I think I'm gonna go sleep it off.'"

"Uh huh," Adam says, looking around and then down at their half-full plates. "Do you want to go?"

"No," Tommy says. "And you know how if I like, wish you'd come with me, I say, 'Do you have the number for a cab in your phone?'"

Adam looks even more confused.

"And you trust me not to say about sleeping it off if I really want you to come with me, and I trust you to say you put the taxi number in my phone if you really really want to stay. And it's like a code so we know what the other one wants without having to have one of those 'Are you sure? Are you sure?' conversations."

"Yes," Adam says. "Is your burger not good? Or did you want me to come back with you when we were at that release party the other night?"

Tommy chuckles and tosses a piece of bread crust in Adam's direction. "The food's fine. And that's my point. The system works because we trust each other to use it."

"So do we— Wait. No. I'm gonna stop guessing. Tommy Joe, what are you trying to say here?" Adam smiles, pleased with himself for remembering to let Tommy to get to his own point.

"I think we should talk about safewords," Tommy says.

"Why?" Adam goes from smiling to that sort of calm that means he's not calm at all.

"Not because you've ever done anything I didn't want." Tommy maybe should have started with that. He knows Adam, for fuck's sake. "And not because I'm scared I can't tell you if you want something I'm not in the mood for right then." Adam has never suggested or done anything Tommy doesn't want at all, and he can't actually imagine that happening, but everyone gets in moods.

"Okay," Adam says, his salad abandoned, but one thumb rolling a corner of his paper placemat up then smoothing it out repeatedly.

Tommy looks around to make sure the waiter isn't about to arrive to ask them how their food is, and lowers his voice a little. "But I do like it when you hold me down by my throat, and bite me 'til I bruise, and fuck me before you think I'm prepped enough. Stuff like that can get intense, and I just think we should both have an easy, no-questions out just in case."

"I have one too?"

"Yes, Adam. You have one too."

"Huh," Adam says.

For some reason, Adam relaxes a little after that, going back to eating, and letting Tommy talk without getting defensive. Tommy carefully avoids the words 'vanilla' and 'kinky' and doesn't bring up that he's been reading and asking around and all this safeword stuff is pretty new to him, too. That if it weren't for Adam, he's not sure he would have known he was into all this. It's not even a lie of omission; it's easing Adam into the idea.

By the time the bill comes, Adam has chosen a word, agreed to Tommy's, and has moved on to suggesting sexual positions and locations they could try when they get home, many of them probably not physically possible, but all of them fun-sounding. Tommy figures a) they're done shopping, and b) the safeword conversation was a success.

---

Adam is leaning on one of the stools at the kitchen island, making him just Tommy's height, even with Tommy barefoot, black-painted toes peeking out from the frayed hems of his jeans in the way that usually makes Adam smile. They would be eye-to-eye if Adam's gaze wasn't on Tommy's stomach. Tommy can't tell if Adam is just admiring the way the jeans ride so low on his hips that it's clear Tommy didn't bother pulling on anything else at all before coming out to find his boyfriend, or if he's avoiding looking Tommy in the face, but he knows which Adam would claim and he knows what he suspects. There're more ways than one to not see eye-to-eye.

"Adam," Tommy says into the silence, "what makes you happier than anything else?"

That brings Adam's eyes flicking to his face. "Making people happy?"

Tommy's lips twitch, but he manages not to smile. Right answer. He actually thought he'd have to work harder to get there. "And awesome sex also makes you happy, right?"

Adam raises an eyebrow, but no way can he deny it. Everyone who's ever seen an interview with the guy knows that about him. And Tommy's been there for some pretty fucking spectacular sex and seen the grin Adam cannot wipe off his face. He won't admit to it, though, because that would encourage Tommy to keep talking.

Not that Tommy needs to be encouraged. He'll let things slide and go with the flow with the best of them—hell, better than the best of them, probably—but Adam asked him what he wanted. Said Tommy could tell him anything. And then he walked away when Tommy did as he was told. That is not okay.

"So something that will make me happy and provide us both with great sex is pretty much your perfect scenario."

"I'm not going to slap you."

Tommy's known Adam long enough to have identified his various stubborn tones. This is his for your own good voice. Hard to talk him out of, but not impossible. Tommy's had practice.

"Because?"

"Because I don't hit people I love."

The coffee Adam put on as an excuse to leave the bedroom—because god forbid Adam Lambert admit there's something he just doesn't want to talk about—is done, so Tommy lets Adam's comment stand and gets out cups, fills them, doctors them, brings them back to the other side of the kitchen.

He's surprised when Adam grabs his wrist instead of the mug, and pulls him into the space between his knees, sliding fingers along the skin at Tommy's waist. "Thanks," Adam says, retrieving his coffee and taking a sip. "Why does it always taste better when you make it?"

"Because I don't think you're going to get fat if your coffee has more than half-a-teaspoon of milk in it."

"Why do you want me to slap you?"

Of course now he wants to talk, with his dick all soft and warm nuzzled up against the side of Tommy's hip, and his arm holding Tommy close so Tommy can't look him in the eye.

Fine, then. "Because it feels good. Because it isn't any different to when you pull my hair or leave bruises on my wrists or fuck me so hard I can feel it for two days. Because I like it."

"But—"

"Adam." Tommy wiggles enough that he gets his left shoulder in Adam's line of sight. "You think this didn't hurt?" The bite-mark there is from last night, and Tommy knows each tooth has left a purple-red welt and it's starting to bruise around the edges.

"That's—"

"Did I come when you bit me? Before you even touched my dick?"

Tipping his head back, Tommy can see Adam's face, see the heat in his eyes and the involuntary quirk of his lips at the memory.

"So you want me to slap you while I'm fucking you?"

"No—" Or, well, actually—"Okay, that works too. But that isn't what I meant exactly."

"So what do you mean, exactly?"

On the plus side, Adam's kind of trapped with Tommy between his legs. On the minus side, Tommy's already tried to have this conversation once this morning, and Adam still sounds kind of belligerent. Tommy fortifies himself with coffee.

"And this time you'll listen?"

"Promise." Adam kisses him behind his ear and pulls him closer.

Tommy explains what he wants.

*

So far Tommy has unearthed an almost-empty carton of Thai take-away that is at least two weeks old, a half-full jar of pasta sauce that he doesn't remember opening, some chicken breasts that were best before the week before last, and some fresh ravioli that are only two days past their prime. None of it looks very promising for dinner, and Adam is due home—

Due home now, apparently. The front door slams—a problem when the kitchen window is open, something they keep meaning to do something about—and Tommy calls, "How was it, baby?"

There's no answer, save the sound of Adam's boots coming down the hall. Tommy has just dropped the chicken in the garbage and is still turning around when Adam comes striding across the threshold.

"Hey," Tommy says, smiling. He notices a tiny falter in Adam's gait, a flicker of something in his eyes, but before he can really register it, Adam has closed the distance between them and grabbed a handful of Tommy's hair. And, hello, how to go from perplexed to hard in 0.5 seconds.

Tommy lets his neck go, allows Adam wrench his head all the way back, but he doesn't let his knees give, keeps them defiantly rigid.

"I want my dick sucked," Adam says.

The way his head is tilted, Tommy has a perfect view of Adam's face, of his eyes taking in Tommy's slack mouth and lowered lashes, noting Tommy's failure to drop to his knees. The grip on Tommy's hair tightens past pleasure into pain that jolts down Tommy's spine and turns to pleasure again as it hits his dick, making him twitch, but before he can give in to the sensation completely, Adam lets go.

And with his eyes searching Tommy's face like he's trying to read Tommy's soul, Adam slaps him across the face.

The sting is sharp and perfect and on its own is enough to make Tommy drop, but the look on Adam's face—that's something else again. The ex who liked to slap Tommy generally looked angry (usually put on, but not always), or had some kind of porn-star sex face thing happening, but Adam looks raw. And that, more than any physical sensation ever could, is what makes Tommy's knees buckle.

He actually whimpers trying to get Adam's pants open because he can't make his fingers work fast enough, and Adam's no help, both his hands buried in Tommy's hair again, holding him still, his head all the way back, leaving him nowhere to look but up. But Tommy's done this before, and even shaky with lust and blind, he gets inside, gets his hands on Adam's dick.

And now they're on familiar ground, Adam using a thumb to open Tommy's jaw, to guide his cock, his other hand tilting Tommy's head so he can fuck his way inside.

Without thought Tommy opens to him, letting Adam use his mouth, no need to act. He can still feel Adam's palm on his cheek, skin tingling where the press of Adam's shaft stretches it, throbbing in time with his dick, with his heart trying to get more oxygen to his brain, not that he's getting much oxygen even as far as his lungs right now. Adam's rolling his hips, his own breathing ragged, fingers tracing Tommy's jaw, high whine against his palate like he's close already. Like maybe—

"Shit, Tommy, shhh—" Adam fucks deep into Tommy's throat, shaking, thighs quivering under Tommy's hands, grip on his hair so fucking tight, and Tommy's knees are on fire, he can't breathe at all, can't see for the tears in his eyes, and there is no place he'd rather be.

After Adam comes, he stumbles back the three or four steps it takes him to hit the wall, which is so far from his usual hair-petting and murmuring endearments that Tommy just freezes, stunned. Adam's looking down at his hands clenched in front of his thighs. Tommy swims up from the blissed-out place where Adam was fucking his face, and shuffles forward on his knees.

"Oh, hey," he croaks, reaching for Adam's right hand, cradling it in his own. "Don't do that." He kisses Adam's fist, each of his knuckles, the webbing between his thumb and fingers. "Don't do that. You were amazing."

"I—" Adam says, tugging at his hand like he thinks Tommy is just going to let him go. Instead, Tommy uses his grip to pull himself up and get an arm around Adam's waist.

Keeping Adam's hand pressed to his lips as they walk, Tommy steers Adam down the hall and into the living room where he pushes him down into the giant armchair—the one perfect for cuddling—and climbs into his lap.

"You were amazing," he says again, burrowing in to kiss Adam's neck, tucking Adam's limp arms around him.

"I hit you," Adam says quietly.

"Mmm, hmm."

"I think I got off on it." Adam's voice is so quiet Tommy's sure he couldn't hear it if he didn't have his head resting on Adam's chest.

Tommy wants to tell him that's a good thing, but he's not sure that's what Adam needs to hear right now, so he picks his hand up again and kisses the center of his palm. "I love you."

Adam pulls his hand out of Tommy's grip so he can use it to cup Tommy's jaw, tilt it toward him and kiss his mouth, eyes searching his face the whole time. It's sweet, gentle, what Tommy thinks of as an early morning kiss, though it's certainly not always morning when he gets them. Tommy opens to it, following Adam's lead. It lasts for minutes, long enough that Tommy starts to drift with it and it's a struggle to pull himself back, focus on Adam and not just what Adam's doing to him.

"Wanna talk about it?" Tommy asks, breaking the kiss to look Adam in the eye.

Meeting Tommy's gaze just long enough to show he can, Adam shakes his head and strokes a hand down the length of Tommy's arm. "Not right now," he says. "We should have some dinner."

Tommy had completely forgotten that dinner was all he'd had planned for the evening less than an hour ago. It seemed like years. "There's nothing in the house," he says. "I'll order something. What do you want?"

Faced with a decision to make, Adam seems more solid under Tommy's weight. "Is that Mediterranean place still open?"

Tommy has no idea and he's reluctant to get up and get the takeaway menus from the kitchen, but he remembers he's got his phone in his pocket and the internet will tell him. Adam is quicker though, and gets his own phone out. Clearly he's ready to be in charge again, and Tommy is happy to let him. They can eat, watch a movie, do some more cuddling, maybe Tommy can get a handjob. Plenty of time to talk later, once Adam's figured out what he wants to say.

---

When he'd imagined this scene the first time, fifteen or sixteen years old, jerking off frantically after watching some fucked-up Euro-thriller on cable, Tommy had pictured a switchblade, or maybe a balisong— something street. A thug's knife. He'd never really refined the fantasy over the years. This works just as well, though. Better, even, because Tommy had never let himself imagine this with Adam.

There were no deep-purple, eight-hundred-thread-count sheets in Tommy's fantasies either, but yeah, still not complaining. Lying spread-eagle on his belly, he can feel the softness on his cheek, on the freshly-shaved skin of his arms. Just getting Adam to do that—to pull the blades of a safety razor through thick, white foam, revealing Tommy's tattoos inch-by-inch—had been a challenge: What if I cut you, fuck up your ink? But Tommy'd finally talked him into it during a shower blow-job (never said he didn't play dirty) and after a few weeks it'd become just part of their morning routine. At least on mornings they have time to shower together.

The second (okay, fourth in the end) conversation lasted longer, and required less in the way of sexual bribes and more in the way of visual aids—Tommy now gets a little thrill when he sees the paring knife on the rack in the kitchen that he used to show Adam you can scratch without cutting—persuasion, and reassurances that no, Tommy has not somehow managed to forget his safeword in the five weeks since Adam freaked about slapping him. But finally here they are, Adam kneeling between Tommy's spread legs, tracing idle patterns on his back with a pocket knife.

Without moving so much as a hair, Tommy shakes off the thoughts of how they got to this point, and lets himself feel. The heat of Adam's skin makes the goosebumps on Tommy's own stand out more in contrast, and Tommy wants to close his legs to feel the warmth better, but at any moment the scrape of the knife point might move from his spine to the tender skin inside his thighs, or the even thinner skin at the back of his knees, and Tommy's being still. Being good.

"So fucking gorgeous, Tommy," Adam says, and the spiral he's tracing on Tommy's ribs becomes a sinuous trail down to his ass. The knife point is just sharp enough to ride the line between scratch and tickle, making Tommy's nerves jump and buzz. Adam presses harder on the meat of Tommy's ass, not enough to break the skin, but enough to remind Tommy that he could. To make him want it.

"What does it look like?" Tommy asks.

Adam's weight shifts alarmingly and for a second Tommy wonders if Adam plans to get his phone out, snap a picture of Tommy's naked butt, but then he drapes himself over Tommy's back, propping his elbows either side of Tommy's head.

"Like this," he says, lips brushing Tommy's cheek, and he drags the knife down his arm from elbow to wrist. The line goes from white to red and starts to fade. "You're so pale, though," Adam breathes. "It lasts longer."

Tommy wishes it would last forever. "Wanna see," he says. "Do my—"

Before he can even finish, Adam's lifting up and rolling him over, planting his left hand in the middle of Tommy's chest. Tommy wants to lay his hand on top of it, trace the bone in Adam's wrist with a fingertip, but he spreads his arms out to the side, palms up, mirror image of how Adam had instructed him to lay on his belly. Like he sees Tommy's conflicted desires, Adam gives him a secret smile, only in his eyes; it makes Tommy stretch his arms wider, trying to reach the edges of the bed with his fingertips.

"So damn good for me," Adam says, his eyes still bright with pleasure. "Now don't move."

This time when he lifts the knife Tommy can see it. It looks bigger than he remembered, but somehow less serious than it had felt on his back, the bright red of the handle peeking out of Adam's palm failing to instill any sense of danger. But then the tip touches his skin, right where the base of Adam's thumb lies heavy on his sternum, and Tommy's guts tell him Adam's about to carve out his heart.

Adam takes a shaky breath (Tommy's glad one of them can breathe) and starts to drag the blade towards Tommy's left nipple. Past his knuckle, around the metallic turquoise glint of his nail, then down toward the vulnerable webbing between his finger and thumb. Tommy's more scared for the skin there than for his own, and underneath the thrill of this happening, the rushing of his pulse and the sparking of his nerves, Tommy can feel what it's taking for Adam to do this to him. For him.

A hurt noise escapes Tommy's throat, stealing the last of his air with it, but Adam—thank god—doesn't stop, because Tommy is so far from pain right now that he wouldn't even know the word if asked. The blade changes direction again, leaving Adam's skin intact, heading up the edge of his finger toward Tommy's throat. It's all happening less than ten inches from Tommy's eyes, but he feels like he's looking down his whole body at Adam's hand, like he's watching from somewhere else.

"Breathe, baby," Adam says, his hand getting heavier for a moment and the weight of the blade lifting. Tommy struggles against the pressure on his chest, fills his lungs, lets the air come stuttering out, fills them again and floats even higher.

"I want—" Adam says, but Tommy doesn't let him finish.

"Keep going. All of it. Adam, please."

For a second, a fraction of one, Tommy can see the look of concentration on Adam's face, but then the pinch of the blade is back, and Tommy can't tear his gaze from the play of metal against flesh. It shouldn't be a relief every time the knife veers away from Adam's finger webbing toward the hollow of Tommy's throat, but Tommy maybe shouldn't be thinking about how that steel would feel tracing the head of his cock, or teasing under his balls, playing at his ass, looking to be sheathed up inside him, and he's almost vibrating with wanting that, so he's not worrying about the second airway Adam could give him with a few pounds more pressure.

Even before the blade finishes tracing down the outside of Adam's hand, Tommy feels its loss. He wants Adam to keep going, to outline his arm, his whole body, on Tommy's skin. To write I was here in Tommy's cells, to carve it into him. There's a part of him that knows that's not what they're doing here, that Adam never agreed to that—besides, the knife is too dull to cut him safely—but he doesn't care. The point is sharp, and Adam could stab him, could leave a scar right there where his wrist rests against the curve of Tommy's ribs.

"Adam," Tommy says, the m swallowed in a moan. He's hoping Adam will get it, what's under his name, hoping he won't, because he'd probably take off running if he knew what Tommy would let him—beg him to—do with that knife.

Adam lifts his hand and the blade together so Tommy's looking down at the print on his chest. Pink from the heated pressure of Adam's hand spreads out past the thin broken line, already fading where Adam started, still stark where he finished. It's good, and it's almost enough.

Almost.

"Fuck me," Tommy says, the words dry in his mouth. He needs something he knows he can't ask for, and this is as close as he can get right now.

But, fucking careful bastard, Adam folds the knife boy-scout safe and sets it in the drawer when he gets out the lube, and then starts dicking around with slicking up his fingers.

"Fucking fuck me," Tommy says again, because he doesn't want tender right now, he wants to goddamn feel Adam taking him. "I'm not a fucking virgin, here."

Adam looks stunned, and for a horrible second Tommy's sure he's going to stop, safeword out and leave him hanging, but then he slicks his dick, wipes the rest of the lube on Tommy's thigh, and presses Tommy's knees up to his chest. "Hold them," he says and barely waits for Tommy to grab behind his knees before he's lining up and pushing.

Tommy wants the burn, but his body opens up, lets Adam in, and there's just the aching fullness and the twinge in his hips. "Fuck me," he says again, a broken record, but he's crawling out of his damn skin here.

Adam slams in twice, then pulls out, slaps Tommy's hip. "Turn over."

And he's helping, and Tommy's scrambling to get his knees underneath him, chest down, ass up, and Adam's got his palms on Tommy's cheeks, spreading him open until he feels his hole fluttering, then Adam's fucking cock is opening him again, slow, relentless press until Adam's all the way in, one hand on Tommy's waist, the other on the back of his neck, holding him down.

"Want me to fuck you?" he asks, voice delicious-dangerous, making Tommy's dick pulse between his thighs.

Tommy tries to arch under Adam's weight, grind his ass back like if only he could move he'd somehow get Adam deeper, and Adam's hand tightens on the back of his neck. "I'm driving," Adam says and Tommy goes limp under his hold, crazy buzzing finally finding a focal point in Adam's palm.

Since he can't move, he doesn't have to. Just needs to absorb the snapping of Adam's hips sending shocks up his spine, hold on for the ride. The hand on his waist moves to his hip, fingers digging in as Adam pulls him to a better angle, uses a knee to increase the spread of Tommy's thighs. It's perverse that the more Tommy feels like nothing but a hole spread open for Adam to use, the more he feels loved and owned. But he's given up all logic where Adam's concerned and goes with his gut. And his dick. Which is all about Adam holding him down and fucking him seven ways from Sunday.

Tommy comes with Adam slamming into him, Adam's grip the only thing keeping him from collapsing on his face or flying off into space.

The next thing he knows, Adam's pulling him close, wiping down his thighs, pushing sweaty hair off his cheek. Tommy tries to look down to check if Adam's hand print is still visible on his chest, but he's all sort of mushed up against Adam's ribs, so he can't see at all. He can feel it, though, even if the sensation is more imagination than anything.

"What color?" he manages—their code for checking in when someone's feeling like he can't get a read. Tommy's not up for a real conversation yet, but he needs to know if Adam hated putting a knife to Tommy as much as he thought he would.

"Green," Adam says, tracing the curve of Tommy's jaw.

He'd expected yellow, even with the look in Adam's eyes when Tommy asked to be fucked, so it takes a minute for Tommy to process what Adam said. Green. He said green. Thank fuck. Green means he liked it. Actually, for-him liked it, not just liked that it got Tommy off. Green means he might not even freak when Tommy asks him to make him bleed next time. Green is Tommy's new favorite color ever.

---

The thing arrives while they're on a promo trip—Adam doing press and meet-and-greets, Tommy doing Adam—and Leila somehow thinks Adam sent it, so she gets it hung. The way the foyer opens onto the living room it's the first thing they see when they get home. Though honestly, Tommy's a little surprised they couldn't see it from the fucking airplane when they flew into LAX.

Adam takes one look and starts saying, "No. No no no no no," over and over. Tommy can't stop him because he's too busy laughing until tears squirt out of his eyes and he's doubled up on the tiles, one hand gripping the archway from the foyer to the living room so he doesn't tumble down the two shallow steps and crack his head open on the wrought-iron console table behind the sofa. Adam eventually switches from "No," to "Fuck off," and starts prodding Tommy with the toe of one of his sharp-ass boots.

On the plus side, they both love the picture. Adam chose it to open his last tour for fuck's sake. It's just, well, it's the same size as the concert projection, and dripping with Alice-in-Wonderland font as tall as Tommy, declaring this the home of Glam Nation. Not even Narcissus needs a picture that large of himself in his living space. And Adam is not a narcissist. Not that much of one anyway.

When Tommy finally—by dint of covering his eyes with his free arm so he can't see the thing anymore—stops laughing at Adam's ten-foot-square face, Adam moans, "What the actual fuck was she thinking?" and then turns off the lights and heads for the bedroom. He mutters it again a few times while they're brushing their teeth and showering off the airplane, but Tommy distracts him with a blow-job, and then forgets about the picture completely when Adam returns the favor. By the time they re-discover it the next morning, Adam's laughing, too.

Not just laughing. He's planning a whole fucking Alice-in-Wonderland-themed party, because What the hell else are you supposed to do with something like that? Tommy would love to argue, but a) there's no arguing with Adam when he gets his mind set, and b) the dude kind of has a point. So, they have a party.

People dress up and bring booze labeled "Drink me," and snacks labeled "Eat me," including at least two batches of pot brownies and a plate of hash cakes. There is also a jug of tea that smells an awful lot like fungus. Tommy catches Lee staring at the picture on the wall like he can't actually believe it's real, which answers Tommy's question of whether the Cherrys sent it as a joke. No one else owns up to sending it, either, not even after most of the booze and all of the brownies are gone.

But two days later while Adam's out and Tommy's finally putting the living room back in order, he finds something that makes him wonder if the culprit was there after all. Stacked on the DVD player there are three Sony recordable DVDs with the words "Watch me" written carefully in Sharpie in the same Alice font as the picture. Of course enough of their friends are artists that it could just be a party-themed joke from any one of at least half of the guests. Hoping for a clue, however, Tommy pops the first one into the player.

It's so not about the picture on the wall.

Two guys in suits—hot enough, if a little muscly for Tommy's taste—are sitting drinking in a gentleman's-club looking room. Before long, and not at all to Tommy's surprise, a third man joins them and gets naked. Not being averse to watching a good blow-job, Tommy edges toward the couch, dropping down when it hits the back of his knees. And, hello, rimming. Also not something Tommy's averse to. Watching or doing. Or having done.

He's got one hand in his pants, just kind of testing out how into this he wants to get, when suddenly the scene changes, and Mr. Naked is climbing up onto a table to ride Mr. White-shirt's cock. And Mr. Pink-shirt is climbing up behind him, fingering his hole.

Apparently the answer is very into this. Tommy's watched DP before, but it was always a girl in the middle with a cock in each hole. He's never seen—make that had never seen—one hole so stuffed full of dick. And it seems that he really really fucking likes it.

When Adam gets home, Tommy's still on the sofa, dick hanging out of his fly, come-stained shirt in a ball on the floor. He's jerked off twice to Mr. Naked getting double fucked, and the living room is still a total mess.

"Hello," Adam says, bemused, but smiling. "Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?"

A year ago, hell, maybe even six months ago, Tommy would have fallen all over himself tucking back in and apologizing. Now he says, "Not just anyone, but it looks like you're on the guest list."

"We watching porn?"

"Who needs porn when you're here?" Tommy pulls Adam down and kisses him, wet, dirty, with intent. Later, he wants to talk to Adam about the fantasies the porn inspired, and doesn't want Adam to try to brush him off because he thinks Tommy's just trying to keep up with the Joneses. Assuming the Joneses are porn stars.

They only make it to the bedroom because Adam drags him. Tommy doesn't mind a little rug burn, but then again it's not like he minds that Adam has this thing about seeing his boyfriend all spread out on his sheets.


It's cheesy to bring shit up in the afterglow, but Tommy can't help it that his mind's on sex when Adam's just blown him with three fingers up his ass and then fucked him until they're both just lying here boneless. He's not at his most subtle when he's all post-orgasmic, though.

"So, fisting," he says. "You ever done that?"

Adam blinks at him.

*

The look on Adam's face when he's fingering Tommy is almost as good as the way he feels, fingertips like fucking magic, slow sweet stretch or achy just-right burn. He's so damn intent, like Tommy's not just the only person in the world, but like the only thing in the universe. It's a serious fucking turn-on, and Tommy sometimes thinks he could get off on that alone if god-for-fucking-bid he lost all feeling below the waist or something. Not that he likes to think about that, really. Just, the point is, Adam's fucking hot when he's got his fingers in Tommy's ass. And Tommy's quite sure he'll be even hotter with his whole hand up there. Besides which, just the thought of being so full he doesn't know which way is up has Tommy rocking his hips in anticipation.

"Patience is really not your virtue," Adam says, hands stroking the inside of Tommy's thighs, soothing and pressing them further apart at the same time.

"Pretty sure you took any virtue I had left."

Adam scoffs and shakes his head. "Pretty sure you gave it to me. Begging."

"What the fuck ever." No shame in begging when it gets you Adam fucking Lambert's hands on you. "Please will you please put your fucking hand in my ass."

Adam shakes his head again, fighting a grin and wrestling the lid off the new tub of Slam Dunk bought specially for the occasion.

As Tommy pulls his knees up, Adam drops a kiss on the inside of his thigh and then starts to stroke Tommy's hole with a dry, gentle finger. Having learned that complaining only makes things worse (not that he always follows the lesson), Tommy doesn't protest further, just bites his lips and lets Adam tease.

Except Adam doesn't tease. Pushing the tub of lube aside, he gets down between Tommy's legs, shoves a pillow under his ass, spreads his cheeks, and licks. Tommy's hands want on his dick, in Adam's hair, pulling him closer, but he hooks his fingers under the headboard and holds on, muscles quivering. Adam hums and Tommy can feel it in the base of his spine; it makes him want to laugh, want to fuck himself on Adam's tongue, but there's something even better about keeping himself still, sipping air in the spaces between Adam's thrusts.

He can feel himself opening, Adam's tongue pushing in, a finger, two even, and he's impatient as hell but never wants this to stop, and he knows Adam knows it, is going to string this out as long as he can.

Adam is not a man who hides his appetites—that's one of the things Tommy loves most about him—and he eats ass like there is nothing on earth he'd rather be doing. It took about a month of Adam going down on him to get past the fucking awesome physical sensation of it and really hear the noises Adam makes, to appreciate the affection implicit in the press of a cheekbone against the back of his thigh or a nose nuzzle in the crease of his groin, to read Adam's desperation in the shape of his tongue, but now all of that is part of what makes this so hot Tommy's gonna break his fingers gripping the headboard if he's not careful.

He's holding back his orgasm with willpower and the cramp in his curled toes when Adam bites him, slow sink of teeth into the spot where ass meets thigh. Tommy gasps and jerks hard, spine lifting off the bed, and only avoids kicking Adam because Adam was ready and grabbed his legs.

"We're not even half-way there, yet," Adam says, lifting up on his elbows to kiss Tommy's raised knee. "No coming until I'm inside you."

Tommy just nods, mouth open, because he can't figure out how to get air in any other way.

"Down to business," Adam says, and kneels up, trailing his hands down Tommy's legs. "Turn over."



Tommy's lost all sense of time, but their room has dimmed with the setting sun while Adam's been stroking, rocking, fucking in and out of Tommy's ass with slicked up, relentless fingers. Face pressed to the sheets, ass in the air, Tommy already feels impossibly open, but Adam's saying, "Just a little more, c'mon, baby, just a little more," so he tightens his grip on the pillow, trying to relax his hips, let the tension drain out of his legs. "Please," he's saying, "Please," because anything else gets caught in his throat.

His elbows and knees would be grateful for the cushion top on the mattress if Tommy could focus on anything but the pressure of Adam's knuckles and the heat of Adam's other hand on his waist. There's a tight-strung line from the tips of Tommy's everything to the places Adam's touching him, and Tommy doesn't feel made of flesh anymore. He's lost track of his own body, doesn't know if he's gone soft or about to come, if he hurts or even knows what pain is anymore.

Adam's everywhere: in Tommy's head, his ass, in his bones and his lungs. There's no room to breathe or move, and Tommy starts to panic. He struggles, trying to push down the sensation, because he wants this. Wants to give this up for Adam to take, and he can't even remember why it was so important, he just knows that it is.

"Baby, breathe," Adam says, one hand petting Tommy's spine like he's a cat. "Breathe for me."

Tommy hangs on the words, turning them over like a puzzle he knows he needs to solve, but he can't.

"Harold," Tommy says, the word tumbling out of his open mouth.

Air floods in to fill the space the word left in his chest, and with it a rush of dizziness that makes his limbs give out completely. Hands are everywhere, and something warm and dry wraps tight around his hips and thighs, then he's on his back, something else huge and heavy covering him up to his chin. All the time he can hear Adam's voice, steady and soothing even though he can't make out the words. The bed moves, moves again, and Tommy realizes, when Adam climbs underneath it to lie beside him, that the heavy weight on his chest is their bedding—including the embroidered damask bedspread which usually spends nights folded on the bench at the end of the bed.

Tommy's fingers twitch, trying to reach out for Adam, but he doesn't make contact. "Muh," he manages, twitching again, this time brushing skin.

"Shhhh," Adam says, threading their fingers together, rubbing Tommy's thumb with his. "Got you. Right here." He moves closer, lifting Tommy's hand and taking it with him as he lays his arm across Tommy's ribs. It should make it harder to breathe, and it would, except Adam's holding the weight of his arm off Tommy's chest.

"Not—" Tommy says, and uses all the strength he can find to tug at Adam's fingers and make him cuddle tighter.

"Okay," Adam soothes, and scoops Tommy up and holds him close.

Tommy swims back to the surface with the sound of air filling Adam's lungs syncing to the rise and fall of the rib cage under his cheek.

"I'm sorry," Tommy says when the words come back, because he doesn't know how to say that he wishes it had gone differently, but it isn't Adam's fault, and he's fine, but he needs to know if Adam's fine too.

"Everything's good," Adam says and moves a hand up to stroke Tommy's hair off his face.

Several minutes of hair stroking pass, Tommy clinging to Adam's waist and using his big toe to tease the hair on Adam's lower leg, and Adam says, "So you never told me why your safeword's 'Harold'."

Tommy thinks about it, hmming a little to let Adam know he's not ignoring him. "I dunno," he finally says, voice soft against Adam's chest. "That movie, Harold and Maude, freaked me the fuck out when I was little, and, like, that seemed like something I wasn't ever going to say accidentally."

"Fair enough," Adam answers, a laugh rumbling under the words. Then, "Do you think you're ready for some tea?"

"Not that fucking chamomile shit." Tommy is feeling much better, but he will never be ready for that again. It's revolting.

"How 'bout the Winter Warmer?"

Tommy feels hot and sweaty, but he is cold inside somewhere that hasn't quite gotten the message that the shock and adrenalin can go away now, so he nods.

"I'll put the bath on, bring you some tea."

"Some for you, too," Tommy says, letting Adam slide out from under the covers.

Adam kisses him on the forehead and goes into the bathroom humming Tea for two, and two for tea, under his breath.

It's a good ten minutes before Adam returns, stopping to put two mugs in the bathroom before coming to sit on the edge of the bed, and Tommy spends the time stretching the feeling back into his toes and fingertips, tracing the shape of his lips and the angle of his jaw with one knuckle, sliding his palms over his ribs, fitting himself back into his skin. He could totally walk to the bath, but he doesn't bother protesting when Adam picks him up and carries him. And huh, did Adam have that towel next to the bed while they were fucking, or did Tommy lose time while Adam went to get it to wrap around him? He'd thought it was a blanket.

"You warm enough?" Adam asks when Tommy reaches up to pat his face. It was meant to be a thank-you pat, for the towel, and the tea, and the everything, but Adam can't always be a mind reader.

"'M good," Tommy says, sliding his fingers back to tangle in the hair at Adam's nape.

"You are definitely that," Adam agrees. He sets Tommy down and unwinds his terry-cloth bindings. "Great, even."

"You are such a sap."

"You love it."

Tommy grins, hugely, despite himself. "I do," he says, grabbing Adam's wrist for balance as he steps into the tub.

---

Read On