rivers_bend

Back to Part One

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In the period where Adam lived alone but the paps made it too irritating to do it himself, Leila did most of Adam's grocery shopping. Now Tommy could do it—he's just not that noticeable unless he's standing next to Adam, and since the news about them moving in together broke and blew over, no one really takes his picture unless they're side by side—but he pretty much hates grocery shopping, so they usually get a delivery service to do it unless Leila's in one of her must-feed-my-son moods. Tommy is not, however, going to rely on a delivery guy or his mother-in-law to buy him sex toys from the produce department. Besides, he wants to pick this out himself.

Whole Foods is quiet at eleven on a Tuesday morning, so Tommy can look over all the pieces and pick just the right one without having to get out of the way for anyone who wants okra or daikon or whatever the hell that purple thing missing its label is. When he finds what he's looking for, he also picks up a bottle of soy sauce, a loaf of bread, and a six pack of beer just in case the check-out girl is kinky or whatever and gives the fey boy buying nothing but a hand of ginger a knowing look. Not that Tommy's embarrassed, but he's had friends who worked in grocery stores, and he knows they talk. His sex life is his own business.

And Adam's, obviously.

"So I know you don't like food in the bed," Tommy says as they're doing the dishes that night. "But do you think you'd make an exception for ginger?"

"Oh my god, figging?" Adam asks, eyes going bright. "Really?"

Tommy nearly loses his grip on the soap-slick glass he's trying to put in the dishwasher. "Yes?" he says, laughing.

"Brad and I—" Adam starts, and dissolves into giggles.

Jealousy kicks Tommy in the chest. He's never been jealous of Brad before, and he doesn't like it. Envious, a little, yeah—that Brad's known Adam so much longer, and that he got to see an Adam who could go out in drag just for fun, and dye his hair purple without even thinking about it. Who could be free in a way that Tommy's Adam just isn't anymore—but never jealous. He tells it to fuck right off.

"Oh my god," Adam continues, apparently not having noticed that Tommy's frozen in place. "So we're watching those—whatchama—amateur porn vids, like the ones, "reader's wives" or whatever? Except with just guys, and this one says 'figging' and we have no idea what that is, but the dude is hot, so we hit play, and like—oh my god. Oh my god. Seriously."

"So did you guys—" Tommy figures he doesn't have to finish the sentence.

Adam giggles again—yet another thing Adam manages to pull off that grown-ass men should not be able to—and flaps the dish towel. "Fuck no! I would have been too embarrassed to ask, but I'm pretty sure Brad would not let stir-fry ingredients anywhere near his ass."

Tommy hates that he feels so relieved, but he can't do anything about the grin that cracks his face. "So we can try it?" he asks.

"Hell yes." Adam discards his towel and grabs Tommy's ass instead. "I love seeing you squirm."

Tommy gives Adam a kiss and then wriggles out of his grasp to go to the refrigerator where the ginger's waiting in the crisper, resting on the bottles of Corona and the microbrew Isaac brought a few too many of last time he came over. They probably should get some vegetables at some point. But right now, Adam's crowding up behind Tommy, peering over his shoulder, his fingers stroking up under the hem of Tommy's tee, and Tommy has better things to think about than shopping lists.

They end up making out up against the shelves of the open refrigerator, chilling Tommy's skin until he's covered in goosebumps. He finally breaks away with a shiver. "Can I— There's like instructions on my laptop," Tommy says, teasing a finger along Adam's dick in his jeans. "Do you wanna, like, make it while I go get ready?"

"I am all over it," Adam says, grinning like Tommy just presented him with proof that ice cream has no fat or calories.

"If you—" Tommy's backing toward the arch into the hall. "I mean—"

"Seriously. I've so got it covered," Adam reassures him. He grabs the ginger out of the drawer and waggles it in Tommy's direction.

When they meet back in the bedroom twenty minutes later, Tommy naked and freshly scrubbed, and Adam carrying a glass of water and a plate covered in a damp paper towel, they're both still smiling.

After a minute of Adam watching Tommy's dick grow heavy while Tommy stares at the plate in Adam's hand, Adam says, "On your back, pillow under your ass, legs spread," voice low, his smile heated now.

Tommy shivers again, even with his skin still hot flushed from the shower, and he scrambles to obey.

Uncovering the plate, Adam puts it on the bedside table where Tommy can see it, then undresses slowly, watching Tommy's eyes flick from the carved plug and back to Adam. The smell of the ginger dominates the faint scent of mango body wash still clinging to Tommy's skin.

"Smells good, doesn't it?" Adam says, pushing his jeans down over his hips.

Nodding, Tommy glances over at it again, thinks about it up inside him, burning and tingling. It looks like Adam chose the longest piece, the one that's curved gently after the sharper angle near the bulbous base Adam's left so they can avoid an embarrassing trip to the ER. It looks perfect, and Tommy is suddenly pretty sure this was not the first time Adam had seen those how-to sites. If he'd been too embarrassed to ask Brad, Tommy can't imagine him asking anyone else, but that wouldn't have stopped him doing some research in case the opportunity fell into his lap one day.

It hits Tommy that this is something Adam's probably wanted for a few years at least. And Tommy's the one who offered it to him. Fuck wanting to see what it's like, Tommy is overtaken with the need to give this to Adam, nownownow, and his whole body shudders with want. Hands reaching out without Tommy even thinking about it, he's begging, pleading, "Adam, fuck, Adam. Put it in me. Need you to."

Adam lights up like The fucking Grove at Christmas. "You're not supposed to be begging yet," he says, wagging his finger and tsking, not fooling Tommy for a second. He's climbing on the bed, spreading Tommy's thighs wider, dipping the ginger root into the glass of water, stroking Tommy's crack with the fingers of his other hand, face shifting from delighted kid to sex god as he gets into what he's doing.

The plug slides in more easily than Tommy anticipated, not much thicker than Adam's finger, and slick enough, even without lube, that there's not the drag he was expecting. Adam is staring at Tommy's ass as he pushes, one tooth denting his bottom lip like this requires the utmost concentration. Considering the number of things Adam has stuck up Tommy's ass in the last year, Tommy finds that almost funny. Except Adam fucking him with that kind of single-minded intensity is far too hot to be amusing.

"You good?" Adam asks, eyes flicking to Tommy's face just long enough to catch his nod, then he's back to watching what he's doing.

Anticipating the burn, Tommy starts panting in an effort to stay still as Adam pushes the root in with a slow, steady pressure. "It isn't anything yet," Adam admonishes him, more seriously this time. "Just relax. Wait."

Tommy slows down, takes a deep breath and lets it all out, feeling it as Adam gets the ginger seated all the way inside.

"Don't move," Adam says, petting Tommy's thigh, leaning down to drop a teasing kiss on the head of Tommy's cock where it's resting on his stomach. Then he's gone, heading toward the bathroom.

Breathing, in for eight and out for ten, Tommy concentrates on the sound of water in the sink instead of on the plug holding his ass open, pressing just a little on his prostate—not enough to really even feel good, just enough to know it's there. The sink turns off, the slap of Adam's foot on the tile, and then Tommy can see him again, walking across the carpet toward the bed, eyes moving over Tommy's body, from his face to his spread thighs.

"I didn't move," Tommy says, because he has to say something and that's the first thing that comes to mind.

"You didn't move," Adam says, low, sexy, fond. He sits between Tommy's spread knees, rubs his palms on Tommy's thighs like he's warming them.

It's a coincidence of timing, it has to be, but the heat from Adam's hands moves to Tommy's ass like it's Adam's finger, blood hot, holding him open. As Adam watches, hands resting just above Tommy's knees, the heat becomes a tingling burn, and then a burning tingle, and Tommy starts to move.

His hips rock and his legs shift side to side, and Adam's tongue peeks out of his mouth as he squeezes Tommy's thighs. Tommy pushes against the pressure, he can't help it, and that tightens his ass around the plug, turning the tingling into a fiery itch.

"Oh," he cries out, and he tries to get away from the sensation, only making it worse.

Adam pets him soothingly, but there's a glint in his eyes Tommy knows well. Adam has no intention of soothing him.

"Fuck," Tommy says, in control enough to at least know he's gonna speak this time. "Fuck. It's—"

"Just wait," Adam says again, running a hand up the inside of Tommy's right thigh to where the ginger enters Tommy's body. "Just wait."

Except Tommy's not sure what more he could be waiting for, because Adam pushes the ginger a fraction deeper, then releases it, spreading the burn, pulling and pushing past his prostate, and it's just too fucking much. Tommy's hands fly to his junk and he practically crushes his balls and his dick in two tight fists.

"Hands on the bed," Adam says, and Tommy somehow lets go and slaps them palm-down to the mattress either side of his hips. But as soon as Adam starts moving the plug again, Tommy's hands are back.

"Over your head."

And Tommy tries. He does. But no sooner does he feel the sheet on the backs of his hands then he's grabbing his cock again. He can't help it. It's so intense. Like nothing he's ever felt before. None of his usual methods for keeping control are working.

"Do you need the cuffs?" Adam asks.

Tommy wants to say no, wants to be able to do this without, but he can't. There is no fucking way. He's still shaking his head when the word, "Yes," tumbles past his lips as his hands try to claw at where Adam's pressing the ginger into him still.

"If you take that out while I get them, I won't put it back, and you're not coming for a week," Adam says, and Tommy knows he means it. They've never done more than three days while Adam's been here, but when he was away for eight days once he called every night so Tommy could talk him to orgasm, but wouldn't let Tommy come until he got home. And that was back in the days when he was convinced he was vanilla.

The headboard is Tommy's only hope. He grips it like he's going to fall to his death if he lets go, while Adam gives the plug one last twist and then leans over to the bedside table.

The cuffs are leather, soft and buttery, wide enough that Tommy can tug and tug and not hurt himself, and they have carabiners through the D rings that clip directly to the headboard's bars. Tommy loves them. Tonight, though, he fights Adam the whole way, something he's never done, not even the time they were trying to role-play naughty boy.

"Settle down!" Adam says when Tommy's wrenched his right wrist out of his grip for the third time, trying desperately to get to his dick. That gets through to him just enough so he can hold on while Adam gets the clip attached outside the furthest spacer.

"Keep that up and I'm tying your legs together," Adam says, smacking Tommy's hip hard enough to distract him from the fire in his ass, but only for a moment. With something to pull against, though, Tommy gets his breathing back under a semblance of control.

His mouth and his hips, not so much. Every exhale is a moan, "Adam," and "Please," and wordless sounds that don't even have any meaning in Tommy's head. He doesn't jerk his legs out of Adam's grip, lets him buckle the ankle cuffs, but he can't stop shifting, trying to get comfortable, get friction, get something.

"You going to be good, now?" Adam asks, pushing Tommy's legs as far as they'll spread when he's got the second cuff—a stark reminder of his threat—done up.

"Yes," Tommy cries. "Please, Adam, please. Please." He can feel tears on his cheeks and his shoulders ache already from pulling at his bonds, and this is probably the craziest thing they've ever done. Tommy is nothing but the need in his ass, in his dick, in his chest.

But somehow he gathers himself and focuses on Adam's face. On the fiercely predatory look that promises to devour Tommy whole. "Want, want, want—" Tommy breathes, knuckles white on the headboard, sweat prickling on his lips and temples, legs held so still they ache.

"Fuck," Adam breathes. "Fuck. Tommy." And he's reaching for the ginger again, fucking it shallowly in and out, saying, "So good. How are you so fucking good?"

"For you," Tommy gasps, which isn't even close to everything he means, but Adam seems to get it. Eyes locked on Tommy's, he keeps fucking him so slow, until Tommy can't take any more. Until he breaks.

Actively crying now, from the burning and frustration, Tommy is thrashing his head side to side, but he doesn't try to get away from Adam's hands between his legs, even when Adam angles the plug up so it's a constant rocking pressure against Tommy's prostate. Even when Adam presses up behind Tommy's balls, making him feel like he's going to fly apart. Even when Adam bends down and sinks his teeth into the tender skin of Tommy's ass, an inch away from—

Suddenly, Tommy's laughing, hysterical, crazy, breathless whoops, making Adam start, lurching back, jerking the plug out as he does.

"What?" he says. "Are you—"

"Ring of—" Tommy howls, and Adam's laughing, too, hard enough he has to put his hand on the bed for balance, by the time Tommy has the air to gasp out, "Fire."

"Fuck you," Adam says, still laughing, and that's the best fucking plan Tommy's ever heard.

Gulping in oxygen, laughter turned back to crawling, itching lust as quickly as it came on, he says, "Hell, yes." Tommy spreads his legs impossibly wider. "Now," he adds in case Adam doesn't get the point. "Right now."

The lube Adam smears on Tommy's hole might as well be ice—and so not in the soothing way—making Tommy flinch hard and try to close his legs, but Adam's huge between them, his knees spread wide while he slicks his cock, and it's suddenly clear Tommy's not getting any more prep. It won't be the first time he's taken Adam's dick with nothing more than a single finger and generous lubrication, but it'll be the first time when his ass is crawling with fire ants, and Tommy can't catch his breath.

"You said 'now,'" Adam reminds him, moving forward, filling Tommy's vision, and his cock is there, pushing at Tommy's hole, so fucking big and relentless.

It's a whole different kind of burning, trying to stretch around Adam's girth, compounding the fire from the ginger, and for a second Tommy's sure he's going to grey out, but his body somehow knows what to do with this, and he holds on.

"That's it, baby. Open for me," Adam says, and he's not giving Tommy any time to adjust, is just letting his weight carry him forward, his only concession helping Tommy to hitch his legs up. Then without warning he drives forward hard, swearing.

"Fucking fuck, Tommy, jesus!" Adam pulls out and shoves back in, only Tommy's grip on the headboard keeping him from shooting up the bed. "That's—"

And, oh. Adam maybe should have used a condom if he didn't want ginger juice on his dick. Tommy wants to say 'told you so,' but there's no fucking way he can talk with Adam pounding his ass and spreading the ginger even deeper. It's all he can do not to bite off his tongue just trying to breathe.

Crazy thoughts run through Tommy's head, snatches of images, jarring chord progressions, a sonorous announcer-voice saying, "All you need is a good deep dicking," in time with Adam's thrusts, and Tommy wonders if he missed the note that ginger is an hallucinogenic. But then Adam slows down, stroking the hair off Tommy's face, bending to kiss his forehead, and Tommy feels himself snap back into place.

He makes a sound and Adam grins at him, wild and joyful, and the ache in Tommy's shoulders, the twinges in his hips, fade to nothing.

Propping himself on one elbow, Adam wraps a hand around Tommy's cock, and Tommy shouts, so over-stimulated the touch is a shock even when he expected it.

"Gonna come for me?" Adam whispers against Tommy's lips, and Tommy isn't sure he even can come, figures he's way beyond that point.

Then, wide eyes locked on Adam's expectant face, his whole body's seized with an orgasm so big it hurts.


Jizz, it turns out, is no more soothing than lube on ginger-inflamed tissues, but a cold washcloth feels like heaven. Adam comes back three or four times with a fresh one before Tommy can finally close his legs.

"Now, you can use the ankle cuffs," he says, making the D rings click together as he squeezes Adam's hand and the cold cloth between his thighs.

"Careful, or I'll use them to tie you to the bed posts, take this nice cold water away."

"You wouldn't," Tommy says, confident he's right. "You like having me all nice and cuddly."

"I do," Adam agrees. "But I kind of like you thrashing and desperate, too."

"And crying," Tommy points out. "Don't front. You like me so desperate I'm crying." He wonders if he's pushing it, but doesn't really care. He saw Adam's face.

Adam looks at him, serious for a minute, and then the corners of his mouth twitch in a smile.

"Ha!" Tommy says.

"Fine." Adam pretends to sulk. "I like you so desperate you're crying."

"This," Tommy says, squeezing Adam's hand affectionately with his thighs, "Is why we're perfect together."

*

Leila calls the next afternoon while Adam's at a meeting. "Tommy!" she says, like she's delighted he answered the phone. "How are you?"

He doesn't get a chance to answer before she's saying, "I haven't seen you boys in forever. I'm coming for dinner. I'll bring food."

"Tonight?" Tommy says. He loves Leila. And as far as he knows, the only plans they have for tonight involve Netflix and maybe a pint of ice cream. But he always feels weird when she invites herself over through him instead of Adam.

"Tonight. Thai food okay with you?"

"Did Adam—"

"Adam's phone is off. He said Wednesday or Thursday when I talked to him last week, though, so I figured you aren't going out."

When Tommy's hit with the image of Leila turning up unannounced last night, he nearly chokes to death on his own saliva.

"You okay, sweetie?"

"I'm fine," Tommy squeaks out past the tickle in his throat. "Just swallowed wrong." Which sounds far too dirty, but thankfully, Leila doesn't notice.

"So is seven okay?"

"Seven's fine." Tommy has no idea if seven's fine. But Adam won't be any later than five-thirty, so it shouldn't be a problem.

And, really, it totally wouldn't have been in any way. Except just after Tommy gets off the phone with Leila the house alarm goes off, and it takes half an hour on the phone with the company to make it stop, and by the time Tommy has some peace and quiet to think again, he's completely forgotten the dinner plans. Adam's not only late, but grumpy when he gets home, because his meeting was about tour insurance, and apparently fire dancers are more of a liability than he expected or something, so Tommy opens a bottle of wine and settles Adam between his legs to give him a shoulder rub.

Tommy has discovered that the relaxing effects of shoulder rubs are greatly enhanced by dirty talk, and he's in the middle of telling Adam exactly how it felt when Adam fucked him with his ass still burning from a plug of ginger when the doorbell rings.

"Oh, fuck!" Tommy says, nearly kicking over his glass of wine. "Your mom's coming for dinner."

Adam looks down at the tent in his own pants and says, "Well, shit." But when the bell rings again, he laughs. "Warning would have been nice."

Tommy's boner is less obvious than Adam's, so he elects himself to get the door. "With the alarm and everything I forgot," he says, calling, "Coming!" in the general direction of the foyer. Leila has a key, but she's good enough not to use it when she expects them to be home. Or smart enough.

She's carrying two shopping bags, one clinking with bottles, and the other smelling of Pad Thai, but that doesn't stop her leaning in to kiss Tommy hello. "Dining room or living room?" she asks.

Considering what he and Adam were just doing in the living room, Tommy thinks the dining room is a much better option. When Adam comes to join them a second later he's got a purple scarf hanging around his neck, which he probably thinks distracts from his crotch. Tommy would argue it's more like a pointer.

Leila, damn her hawk-eyes, catches Tommy staring and probably blushing. "I lived with him through puberty, honey, and I've seen him on stage. That thing's nothing new." Tommy's face gets even hotter, and Adam bursts out laughing, flinging one end of the scarf over his shoulder like a diva with a feather boa.

"Where's my wine?" Leila says, and Tommy, grateful for something to do with his hands, pours her some.

Getting plates and silverware settles the last of Tommy's embarrassment, and he's back to his pale self and putting his napkin in his boner-free lap, ready to enjoy a meal with two people he loves, when Leila starts pulling food out of the bag.

"Pad Thai," she says. "Garlic chicken, and beef with ginger."

Tommy tries to hold it together, and he probably could have done it if it had just been him. But Adam catches his eye and starts laughing, and Tommy feels his face go up in flames again as he follows suit.

Leila laughs too, even as she glances back and forth between them, utterly bemused. "Am I missing something?"

Tommy shakes his head violently, and Adam waves a hand in what Tommy hopes is a negative gesture, though it kind of looks like he's trying to hail a taxi.

"I'm going to assume you're both twelve, and the word beef is too sexual to be said aloud in your presence," Leila says.

This makes Tommy nod as vigorously as he'd shaken a moment before. But Adam hasn't lost the power of speech and says, "Exactly." Then, looking right at Tommy, "And that's why we're so perfect for each other."

Tommy manages, somehow, not to kill him.

---

Tommy used to dream sometimes about being in a real, touring band, of course he did, but his fantasies always got stuck on the playing-in-a-band part. On stage, in the studio, just jamming together, Tommy loves it all. He loves the bus, even when he hates it, and he loves getting to go places he would never have seen otherwise. But watching Adam do press and red carpets and media parties, Tommy is so, so glad he got the gig he did, where he can mostly stay in the background. Added bonus to not having to talk to reporters—trying to sound interesting and interested in answering the same questions five-hundred-million times—he gets the house to himself at least once a week without having to ask for alone time. Not that he'd probably have to ask anyway, because Adam's good like that, but still. Awesome.

Tonight Adam's going to a charity auction, and Tommy's talked him into taking Brad as his plus one, because Brad loves shit like that and Tommy can think of about a thousand things he'd rather do.

"There's an open bar," Adam had tried, but Tommy pointed out that one whole wall of their living room is a bar and he doesn't have to put on a suit to drink there. Adam couldn't really argue with that.

Party nights like this Tommy gets the best of both worlds: cocktails with his friends, watching Adam and Brad primp and preen and try to out-fabulous each other (it's a tough contest and Tommy refuses to pick sides, which Brad counts as a win since Tommy should obviously be biased towards his boyfriend, and Adam sees as Tommy being a total sweetheart to his ex, so Tommy can't lose), and then he gets peace and quiet to catch up on TV Adam can't be bothered to watch, or he can lie on the bed listening to music, or whatever he wants.

Tonight he has an experiment to conduct, though.

Last night Adam tied him to the bed and teased him for what felt like hours, sucking hickeys and chewing bruises into his thighs and hips and stomach, pausing only to lap at the precome Tommy kept leaking and leaking in desperation, but not ever stopping to actually suck his cock until finally Tommy's pleas to come were broken by sobs.

Now, from his knees to his waist, Tommy looks like a purple and white cheetah. He wants to touch. He's come from Adam biting him or pressing on hickeys or bruises, but only with Adam fucking him. Tommy wants to know if he can get off on the bruises if it's not Adam's fingers making them throb, if no one's touching his dick. He suspects Adam would wonder why he'd want to do that, but he doesn't really have a good answer. He just likes to know things sometimes. Likes to try things. He can tell Adam about it later; tonight is just for him.

When the car with Adam and Brad and their bottle of champagne drives away, Tommy runs a bath. Hot water always makes bruises more sensitive, and just the thought of stroking over them with wet, soap-slick hands makes his dick twitch in interest. While he's waiting for the tub to fill, Tommy strips off his clothes and examines his marks in the mirror. So okay, he doesn't really look like a cheetah. A little like an extra on Criminal Minds, maybe, but only if you don't look at the sappy smile on his face.

He's gonna wait until he's in the water to start, but it's too tempting to trace the edges of the mark highest on his hip: a deep-purple hickey almost twice the size of the others. Adam had stayed there forever, a hand splayed on the opposite side holding Tommy steady—his thumb so close to Tommy's dick, but not nearly close enough—while he licked and kissed and sucked maddeningly gently, then with more and more pressure as Tommy tugged at his bonds and his soft moans turned to whimpers. Every time Tommy'd thought Adam might move onto somewhere else, he'd come back to that spot again where the skin was smoothest between Tommy's belly and his hipbone.

Feeling the toothmarks on his thighs twinge with every movement, Tommy had tried to pull away and press closer at the same time, shaking under Adam's hands and mouth. He can feel Adam's hands again now as he rubs the mark with his thumb.

Yeah. He's pretty sure he can do this.

The water stings like a fucker, much more than the luke-warm shower that morning had, and Tommy nearly flinches himself into a concussion, thankful as hell for the lip on the windowsill that works as a grab bar. There's an anti-slip mat in the linen closet, but he and Adam have never used it, and Tommy's not even sure where it came from. He chuckles to himself over the fact that Adam would kill him if he knocked himself out, though it's not really that funny. Adrenalin's adrenalin, though, and laughing goes hand in hand with the way his racing heart makes the throbbing bruises send how you doin' messages to his dick. For a second Tommy wonders if he could get there with just thinking and hot water, but that tantra shit takes practice and that's not what he's doing here, anyway.

"Fuck," he breathes, settling back and getting comfy. What the fuck even. He can still feel bubbles of laughter in his chest and the dirty grind low in his belly like waking up with morning wood that's more about good dreams than morning. He wants to grab his dick, pull it slow and steady until it goes from half- to all-the-way hard, but he lets his fingers drift over his thighs instead, teasing the soft skin near his balls before pressing on the neat oval left by Adam's teeth at the curve of his quads.

The first jolt doesn't feel good at all, the edge of his nail catching a particularly tender spot, but he eases up, moves to the mark below it, thinks about the way Adam watches him as he bites down, and that's—oh yeah—much more like it. The movement of his hand swirls water past his junk, just the right amount of tease, and he rubs at the mark on his thigh like a lipstick stain, mouth twitching in pleasure when it sends a rush of blood to his dick.

He's not sure if it's the hot water, or thoughts of Adam, or just wanting this to be sexy, but the buzz he's hoping for comes quicker than he expected. That endorphin rush that takes half an hour under the tattooist's gun takes less than two minutes of prodding at the marks Adam left on his skin. The sharp bites of pain from the pressure are followed by an ache rather than the sting of a needle, but the feeling of being alive in every cell is the same, and even better now his dick can get as hard as it wants without earning him a knowing smirk.

And it does want, though it takes longer to get there than if he were touching it. He does run a finger up behind his balls, sweet push in, just pleasure, swift rush enough to make him gasp. His dick's bobbing up against his belly now, fat and full, feeling good, making his hips rock in the water looking for friction that isn't there. He reaches above his head for the bath oil and spills it on his hands, slicking them down over the marks on his stomach, palm and then thumb catching the hickey above his hipbone, the pain going deeper without the drag of skin on skin, going right to his cock.

Things go faster with the oil, sensation ratcheting up until he's so fucking close he's sure he's going to tip over any second, thighs and ass clenched, toes curling, fingers playing his bruises like a bass line. If Adam were here he could string out the tease half an hour, maybe even longer, but on his own Tommy's too fucking close, needs it now, with nothing to focus on but the orgasm lurking in his spine, so he cups his nuts, fingers around his hole, digging his other thumb into the bruise just to the left of his dick, eyes closed as he shoots.

Working so hard for an orgasm always leaves him a little dizzy, and combining that with the heat and buoyancy of the water leaves him panting and clinging to the edge of the bath for a second before he dissolves into giggles. He just fucking came from playing with bruises. Who even does that? He's for sure had more mind-blowing orgasms, but it's like getting a middle piece of brownie instead of a corner piece. You've still got a fucking brownie.


When Adam gets home he's drunk and in high spirits, full of gossip and tales of who bid on what, and Tommy makes him a big mug of tea, pours himself a glass of wine, and curls up on the couch with him to hear about his night. Adam's hand slides under Tommy's tee, his thumb unerringly finding the hickey above Tommy's hip. He brushes it so gently that Tommy can hardly feel it, but it still leaves him smiling to himself while Adam tells him about the near miss with a pair of crystal earrings he bid on by mistake.

The next day, when Adam asks why the nearly-full bottle of bath oil is now nearly-empty, Tommy explains about his experiment.

"What if I told you I don't believe you unless you show me?" Adam says.

"I'd say you were trying to get in my pants."

"You're missing the point," Adam corrects. "I want you in your pants. I wanna watch."

In the end, though, Adam can't keep his hands to himself, and Tommy comes on Adam's face while Adam sucks a fresh bruise onto his thigh. Catching his breath after, watching Adam trace patterns around his recent handiwork, Tommy says, "That was so a corner-piece-of-brownie."

Adam doesn't even ask what the hell he's talking about. He just grins like he knows he's the best lay Tommy's ever had.

"Smug bastard," Tommy mutters.

"Takes one to know one," Adam says, his grin getting even smugger. And who knew that was possible?

---

Real, actual blood on someone's mouth looks nothing like Halloween or movie makeup. It's thinner, pinker, and apparently about ten-thousand times sexier, despite the fact that Tommy's lip is fucking bleeding. Whenever he bites his own lip that hard it just really really hurts, but when Adam does it—

Instead of saying "Ow," he's grabbing Adam's face, growling, sucking his own blood off Adam's lips, smearing their cheeks and chin with more in the process.

Adam's mumbling something that might be Tommy's name, trying to push him away, but Tommy can't let go, can't stop, needs to find a way to crawl fucking inside somehow.

"Tommy!" Adam finally says, escape achieved by pinning Tommy down, thumbs crossed over his windpipe. "Tommy. Stop. You're bleeding."

Tommy can only lie there looking at him dumbly, gasping for breath under Adam's loosened grip, because duh. Duh.

Adam's right thumb caresses his cut lip, fingers gentle on his throat now, while his left hand holds Tommy's shoulder. "You're bleeding," he says again, wonderingly. His tongue darts over his own lips like he's chasing stray sugar from a donut or something. It's more than Tommy can take.

"Fuck me," he says, not even begging. Demanding. Needy. Struggling against Adam's hold. "Fuck me. Now. Fuck."

Adam laughs, shock more than amusement. "Tommy, what the hell?"

They're not even naked, not even really fooling around, just making out a little because neither of them could choose what movie they were gonna watch, and they maybe got a little carried away and Tommy doesn't even know, but fuck movies, he's so turned on he's going to die.

"Adam— Just, Adam—" begging now, and Adam's touching him again, grinding a little against Tommy's thigh, thank fuck. Thank fuck, he's stopped arguing.

Except, "Are you okay?" Adam asks.

And Tommy knows what he wants Adam to do. "Suck my dick with my blood in your mouth?"

It's a gamble, even odds if Adam is going to tell him to fuck off or decide it's not the worst kind of kinky and let Tommy have his way.

"Please?" he says when he can see Adam's brain turning over. It feels like forever that they sit there, Tommy's fingers digging into Adam's arms, Adam half on top of him. Then slowly, Adam's eyes never leaving Tommy's face, Adam leans in and kisses him again, teeth finding the cut and chewing just enough to sting and get the blood flowing again.

Tommy shakes and whimpers and nearly comes in his pants when he feels Adam sucking at the cut. When Adam pulls away, his lips are red and there's a streak of blood reaching for his cheekbone. Tommy doesn't even breathe while Adam moves between Tommy's knees, pulls down Tommy's sleep pants, takes Tommy's dick and rubs the head deliberately across his mouth. Still doesn't breathe when Adam does it again, watching Tommy intently.

"Do it," Tommy tries to say, but it's just a gasp. Then Adam opens his mouth around Tommy's dick.


"So that happened," Adam says twenty-six minutes later. He's sitting on the floor, spine against the sofa, head tipped back into the dip of Tommy's waist, right elbow on his raised thigh so he can reach Tommy's dangling right hand, though he's not holding it so much as distractedly pushing at Tommy's cuticles with his thumb.

Tommy, flat on his back and not planning on moving, possibly ever, knows he should say something, but he's distracted by the smear of blood and jizz on Adam's cheek and the throbbing burn of the cut on his lip, stretched and rubbed raw by Adam's cock, because as he was coming Tommy realized what he really wanted was Adam to fuck his face, to see Adam's dick sliding into his mouth slick with Tommy's blood.

It fucking hurts, and it doesn't help that Tommy can't stop grinning.

"Ow?" he says when Adam tilts his head to look at him expectantly. Then, "I fucking love you."

"You look like you got in the ring with—" Adam lifts his free hand to push hair off his face. "—whatever boxer people are talking about getting in the ring with these days." When he huffs a laugh it's a little maniacal. "I refuse to compare myself to Mike Tyson. Though maybe under the circumstances—"

Tommy grabs at Adam's hand, stilling it. "I though you were over this?"

Adam wrinkles his nose and tries to pull his thumb out of Tommy's grip, but Tommy keeps hold of it.

"This is why it's ridiculous for you to think of yourself as vanilla," Tommy continues, pulling Adam's hand up to cradle it against his chest. "You end up feeling like an abusive asshole. Embrace the mint chip with hot fudge and sprinkles, man."

Adam hooks his other hand up over Tommy's thigh and squeezes gently. "But I'm the hearts-and-flowers, remembering-our-anniversary guy."

"And filthy-gorgeous rock-star guy. And a total hippie. And, and, and. Why do you always have to be just one thing?" Tommy wants ice for his lip, and maybe some Tylenol, but it's obviously conversation time first.

"I don't want to be just one thing. I just want—"

"But you kinda do. I mean, you get over it and stuff, but like, you wanted to just be a singer, not a gay singer—as though you can separate the two—and you say, 'Just be you', but everyone has a lot of yous to be."

Adam gives Tommy a narrow look. "I know that."

"It's not just about clothes, though."

"Never mind," Adam says. "It doesn't matter."

"Fuck that. Fuck it in the eye. Don't give me that bullshit." Tommy heaves himself up, letting go of Adam's hand, pushing himself to his feet. "Kitchen. You need a drink and I need some ice."

Adam's look says he's going to argue, but he gets up and doesn't say anything, so Tommy leads the way.

In the kitchen, Tommy gets a clean dish towel for the ice while Adam gets two beers out of the fridge and settles his ass on one of the bar stools. When Tommy was little, his best friend's mom had a magnet on her refrigerator that said, "The kitchen is the heart of the home." Tommy thinks of the rooms with the TV and the bed as the heart of his home, but he and Adam do seem to have a surprising number of serious conversations in this kitchen.

While he's wrapping up the ice and shaking two Tylenol into his palm, Tommy tries to think of what to say to Adam so he'll maybe stop freaking out, but Adam starts.

"I guess it's like when you realized you weren't straight." Adam takes a gulp of his beer, and Tommy watches his throat work, then focuses back on the blood still smeared on his face.

"What's like when I realized I wasn't straight?" He gets out a second cloth and wets it, holding it out to Adam, miming face-wiping. Then he finally gets the ice onto his own lip.

"It must have been hard for you to get used to." Adam swipes at his mouth and chin. "You think you're one way for your whole life, and suddenly everything's changed and you don't even know how you got there."

Adam Lambert is sitting three feet away, all sexy and gorgeous and amazing even when he's kind of annoyingly stubborn. Tommy's pretty sure he knows how he got here. A little muffled behind his icepack, Tommy says, "It wasn't that hard, really, I don't think."

"Yeah, right." Adam checks his face in the side of the toaster and scrubs at the blood on his cheek. "It took you ages to admit you wanted more than just what we were doing on stage."

Tommy laughs out loud, which makes his lip throb again, so he presses the ice to it harder, snorting, while Adam looks at him expectantly.

"What?" Adam finally says. "It did!"

"It took me ages to admit it to you. I admitted it to me after like five seconds. The fact that you were my boss and we were on this crazy world tour, like, living on buses with all these other people, was a much bigger problem than the fact that you're a dude."

Another sip of beer, and one last swipe at his face, and Adam tosses the cloth into the sink. "So no angst at all about your sexuality? That's kind of freakish, you know."

Tommy's heard from Leila, and from Brad, and hell, from Entertainment Tonight, about how much Adam angsted over being gay, so he can see how it doesn't seem fair. "It's not that I didn't angst at all, I just think I got most of that out of the way when I was a teenager and different in all kinds of ways. I got used to not fitting into anyone's boxes."

"So wanting to suck my cock isn't any different from wanting to wear eyeliner with a John Wayne tattoo?"

"Well, sucking your cock's a hell of a lot more fun."

Adam cracks a smile at that, and holds a hand out like he wants Tommy to come closer. Tommy's feet are obeying before he even has a chance to consider whether it's better to finish this conversation with some space between them or not. He ends up between Adam's legs, ass resting on one of Adam's thighs, Adam's arms slung around his waist.

"Even with a cut lip?" Adam asks, inclining his chin at Tommy's icepack.

"Sometimes especially with a cut lip." It's not like Tommy wants to be bleeding all the time or anything, and he thinks that's part of Adam's whole problem here. Like maybe he thinks if Tommy gets off on something and Adam likes it too, they have to do it every time. "But when I'm eating a breakfast burrito it's not like I'm wishing it was hot wings."

"Cock sucking's the breakfast burrito I take it."

"And—" Tommy stops, shuddering. "I was going to say the bloody lip's hot wings, but then I thought about eating hot wings with this cut, and oh my fucking god, no. Ow."

"So you aren't a total masochist." Adam squeezes him, arms and legs all getting involved in the hug. Tommy lets himself be cuddled, just shifting enough to keep the ice on his face.

"My point exactly. And you're not a total sadist. We play around and have fun."

"And when it stops being fun we stop?"

Tommy tries to hear what's under Adam's voice, but he doesn't want to assume. "When it stops being fun, yes. If it stops being comfortable, I think we talk about whether uncomfortable can still be fun."

"You don't want this to be easy, do you?" Adam lifts a hand to Tommy's hair, worrying at the strands curling behind his ear.

"I'd love for this to be easy. You're the one who wants to judge every little thing we do based on some criteria I can't figure out."

"Hrmph," Adam says, skritching more determinedly at Tommy's scalp.

"Okay. Not every little thing." Tommy takes the ice off his mouth, testing if the drugs have kicked in yet. They have, some, so he takes a sip of his beer. "Not most things, even. I guess the blood was a little unexpected."

"It was pretty hot, though," Adam admits after a pause to run a finger across the cold patch on Tommy's chin.

"That's what I'm saying."

Adam doesn't seem to have an answer to that, but it's an easy silence that stretches out, broken only by the occasional susurration of Adam's fingers on Tommy's skin as he rubs his arm, and the ticking of the kitchen clock.

Finally, Adam pushes Tommy away just far enough so he can look him in the eye, says, "So I'm a kinky romantic?"

The boy and his labels. It's a good thing Tommy knows just what to do with him. He smiles, reaches up to touch Adam's cheek. "You're Adam fucking Lambert. Everything else is negotiable."

---

A/N: This story would not have been possible without my gang of cheerleaders, alpha readers, beta readers, and question answerers. My daisy-chain girls, and my train-to-London-through-the-Snowpocalypse girls, I adore you beyond measure. Thank you endlessly.

So many thanks also to qafmaniac who was willing and more than able to turn my "hmmm, what about something like this?" into art :D