[ nomenclature ]
Aug. 31st, 2009 12:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
winterliveamerican idol rpf, adam/brad, NC-17, set around 2006 or so, do not even judge me. for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ai_kinkmeme prompt: here, and for lah who loves them.
important disclaimer: none of this is true, i don't know anybody named herein, for fun and not profit.
It's a broiling summer afternoon in Los Angeles, so when Adam said I am so not going in, Brad decided to be magnanimous and stay in bed. Their ancient gold curtains are blocking what light they can, and the fan is making broken, oblong circles over their heads. It's not a huge help, but it's better than being at work.
Brad is painting his toenails a bright violet, his foot braced against the nightstand, because you always feel better when you look good. He at least made an effort to start the day by putting on briefs and the tank top that makes him look faintly muscular. Adam, on the other hand, is sprawled naked beside him, face first in the pillow. The last time he got up was to take his turn with the radio, and the station went from smooth Sam Cooke to scratchy Son House a while ago, but neither of them can be bothered to get up. Adam likes the lyrics, and it reminds Brad of the very few good things in Texas.
"So," Brad says, picking up their conversation. "You're not saying you never."
Adam laughs, muffled and deep. "I am not a virgin in that respect, no."
Brad smiles against his knee and dips the brush again. "But you don't, anymore."
"I wouldn't say never," Adam hedges, sounding thoughtful. His hair is sticking to the back of his neck, and he stretches to get a little breeze on it. "It's not that it's not fun, I just... like to top." He looks up then, his eyes wide. "Why, do you..."
"Please, terror is not a good look on you." Brad winks at him, a little mental snapshot of his face and the slick curve of his heavy shoulders, and then turns back to his toes. "Besides, me and the other nellies repel like magnets. I'm not saying I could never be butch, but I am what I am. All your tiaras are belong to me, bitches."
Turning onto his side, Adam gives him a look like a hammered calf. "That's why I love you," he says softly, and so help him, on anybody else that look would send Brad screaming.
But he's long since learned that Adam is an exception to all rules. He leans down for a kiss, thick and syrupy in the midday heat. Brad could melt into it, if he wanted, and they do have all day.
Adam touches his cheek. "You never say it back," he notes, and his voice isn't hurt or sad or hopeful, oh no, not at all.
Brad sighs and caps his nail polish, flopping down onto his side the minute it hits the nightstand. "Baby," he says, schooling his voice into something soothing. "It's because it's trite. It's played. I'm sorry, I know you love to say it and hear it and I do respect that when it counts, but I just... I tell my dog I love her."
Of course, Adam turns his eyes away, shutting Brad down before he even warms up.
They always have this fight. It's so stupid, given how they feel about each other, and Brad always gives in and just says it because it's easier and it's not like he doesn't mean it, but for some reason it feels like today might be different. Maybe it's because they took this day for each other, because they're sharing this miserable fucking heat the way they share eyeliner, and bitching at Bill O'Reilly.
Brad shifts closer to him, lifts his chin to look into his eyes. Adam fights a little, and when he does meet Brad's gaze he looks like he might be getting ready to get mad. But Brad lifts his knee, puts it over Adam's thigh and looks right into him, willing him to understand. "We have something more than that. Better."
Adam narrows his eyes, watching closely. He can always tell when Brad's bullshitting, always, and so when he bites his bottom lip, it feels like victory. "Tell me," Adam says.
"I trust you," Brad tells him. "You'd never hurt me, and if you did fuck it up, you'd try as hard as me to make it better. You protect me and you won't leave me. I have faith in that. In us. And you have that trust in me too, and that's something better than sweet, fleeting love. I can count on you."
Adam's kiss is brutal, partly because of the way he always bites and holds on too hard, and partly because of the way their fingers slide on skin. It's a million degrees in here. Brad usually can't get out of his clothes fast enough when Adam kisses him like this, but right now he's got something to prove, so he grabs Adam's arm and pulls.
It takes a second for it to click. Adam goes along with it for that second, gets about halfway there before looking back up uncertainly. His eyes are a devastating shade of blue right now, and Brad has to fight to hold them, to silently promise that he's serious. He's not even sure it'll work, but it feels like the thing to do.
When Adam relaxes, carefully letting himself lie on his stomach with his face in the pillows, Brad shivers. Suddenly he's all nervous.
But he knows how to do this. It's not like he's a virgin of any flavor, for fuck's sake. So he grabs a condom and some lube from the nightstand (his nail polish next to Adam's giant, cheap sunglasses) and settles in along the smooth line of his back.
Adam puts his arms under the pillow. It makes the dip of his spine stand out, long and gorgeous, a bead of sweat connecting the freckles all the way down. Brad sighs at how beautiful he is; he's always been, even if he doesn't always see it. It's a few seconds to push his underwear down to his thighs, to get the condom on from this angle, which almost makes him laugh. It'd break the mood, though, so he bites it back.
Brad's blood is singing as he slicks up, his hand tight on his dick, which is primed as a porn star, thank you. He knows what he's being given here, and as much as he'd like to believe that it's just a novelty or a one time kink, he knows better.
When he pushes Adam's knees apart with his own, when he rubs lube over the hole he's fingered enough to be able to trace it in his sleep, it's different enough that Brad's heart skips twice.
Adam sighs, shifts his hips against the mattress. He usually can't shut up during sex, but right now the only sound is a rough lament on a slide guitar, easing out of the speakers in the corner.
Brad bites his lip, presses two fingers into him. It's so tight, his body volcanic with heat, and Brad's cock throbs in his fist.
"Don't," Adam says, a bit of a moan breaking his voice just right.
Brad can hear what he means, and takes his fingers away. If that's how Adam wants it, that's how it'll be. He braces his knees and lays down along that strong back, wrapping an arm around him. He kisses the skin under his mouth, smooth and slick with sweat.
Adam's getting restless now, shifting under him. He grabs Brad's wrist and holds it against his chest, and when Brad slides the head of his cock through the lube, his grip goes hard and tight. "Do it," Adam growls, pushing his ass up and back.
"Christ, you are so fucking hot," Brad breathes, and thrusts into him one tortuously slow inch at a time.
It's been at least a year since he did this, and it's nothing like he remembers. He's shivering already, right on the edge, and when Adam groans deep in his throat, fire licks along Brad's skin.
"Is it good?" he asks breathlessly, kissing the back of Adam's shoulder. He presses closer, harder, Adam's ass a perfect pressure against Brad's hips. "Is it good for you, baby?"
Adam pushes his face against the pillow, gripping tight with his fingers. "Harder," he grits out. "Go harder."
Brad can't help a groan of his own, his cock jerking inside Adam with the urge to do just what he says. He's got the presence of mind to slide his fingers around and find one soft nipple with his fingers - Adam's secret achilles' heel - and tug at it as he picks up speed with his hips. It feels like it's gone up ten degrees in here in the last two minutes, the fan doing absolutely nothing, and Brad licks the sweat from his lover's shoulders as the gentle creak of their old bed punctuates the radio.
Adam is pushing back against him now, soft groans breaking out of him as their hips slap. He drags Brad's hand down, and together they tangle their fingers around Adam's dick to squeeze and stroke.
"Harder," Adam demands, and Brad can't possibly deny him.
They slam together now, heat raging through Brad's mind and erasing his nerves, his worry, his thoughts. He feels like falling, like standing on top of a skyscraper, and the rush is hissing through him and clenching his teeth, tightening his hand, speeding his hips. It's nothing like sex usually is, no giving in or urging on or anything he's used to, and it's all that difference that he'll blame later for what tumbles out of his mouth.
"Adam," he whispers against the spattered freckles, the beads of sweat, words sliding over that gorgeous skin. His stomach is tight, his body on fire, he can't think or breathe or anything, and he fucks Adam as hard as he possibly can and listens to him snarl and scratch and moan. He can barely hear himself. "Oh, fuck. Fuck, Adam. God, I love you so fucking much."
The sudden intense pressure takes Brad's breath away, as every muscle in Adam's body locks down hard. Hot wetness spurts through Brad's fingers and Adam's long, loud moan is so sweet it ought to be criminal. He can't stop fucking him, deep and short thrusts until his mind whites out and his ears ring with how good it feels to bury himself inside the one person he wants to be with.
It's a long, long time before he's ready to think again, but when he does, Adam's laughing. It's sweet and soft, the kind of thing you do when you're just too happy to stay quiet, and Brad bites him on the shoulder when he draws out, just to break the delirium.
For once, he doesn't mind being the one who has to get up to go to the bathroom after everything's over. He's usually gloating about not having to move out of the tangled sheets, and now he runs the tap and splashes tepid water on his face so he has an excuse to stay here for a minute.
He just needs to get his breath. He needs to get himself together. Everybody gets soppy during sex, and it's not like he didn't mean it. Of course he loves Adam. It's just when he was growing up, it wasn't something you threw around like that, not when you really meant it. It's a special occasion kind of thing.
But this was a special occasion, really. So Brad pads back into the room and tosses his sweaty, ruined clothes at the overflowing laundry basket in the closet. He climbs back in bed, puts his back to Adam's chest, and sighs in relief when Adam wraps an arm around him and spoons them together.
He feels particularly small, right now, which is as it should be.
"You're pretty good at that," Adam murmurs against the back of Brad's neck, a smile in his voice.
Relief is a cool rush in Brad's chest. He settles against the pillow and smiles. "I told you I was amazing. If you failed to comprehend just how truly amazing I am, I can't be held responsible."
Adam chuckle buzzes low against Brad's back. "Clearly I don't have enough imagination."
Brad sighs theatrically, and traces his fingers over the back of Adam's hand. "I despair of you."
"So you should." Adam rubs his fingers over Brad's soft belly, right along the only hair on his body that is allowed to grow in its natural state. "I only hope I'm up to your challenge."
Brad slides a hand back between them, touches Adam's cock where it's gone soft and damp. "Nope."
"Give me a minute," Adam grins, glancing his teeth over Brad's shoulder.
As it turns out, he's more than adequate for the challenge at hand, and Brad forgets all about his slip of the tongue. But a week later they're touring a new bar, and Adam's talking to Cassidy about how important it is to have trust in a relationship, more important than anything else. Brad drags Adam into the back room and blows him for a half hour, and couldn't give a god damn about the catcalls that greet them when they come back.
He's where he belongs, no matter what they call it, and maybe that's all that fucking matters.
ai_kinkmeme prompt: here, and for lah who loves them.important disclaimer: none of this is true, i don't know anybody named herein, for fun and not profit.
Nomenclature
It's a broiling summer afternoon in Los Angeles, so when Adam said I am so not going in, Brad decided to be magnanimous and stay in bed. Their ancient gold curtains are blocking what light they can, and the fan is making broken, oblong circles over their heads. It's not a huge help, but it's better than being at work.
Brad is painting his toenails a bright violet, his foot braced against the nightstand, because you always feel better when you look good. He at least made an effort to start the day by putting on briefs and the tank top that makes him look faintly muscular. Adam, on the other hand, is sprawled naked beside him, face first in the pillow. The last time he got up was to take his turn with the radio, and the station went from smooth Sam Cooke to scratchy Son House a while ago, but neither of them can be bothered to get up. Adam likes the lyrics, and it reminds Brad of the very few good things in Texas.
"So," Brad says, picking up their conversation. "You're not saying you never."
Adam laughs, muffled and deep. "I am not a virgin in that respect, no."
Brad smiles against his knee and dips the brush again. "But you don't, anymore."
"I wouldn't say never," Adam hedges, sounding thoughtful. His hair is sticking to the back of his neck, and he stretches to get a little breeze on it. "It's not that it's not fun, I just... like to top." He looks up then, his eyes wide. "Why, do you..."
"Please, terror is not a good look on you." Brad winks at him, a little mental snapshot of his face and the slick curve of his heavy shoulders, and then turns back to his toes. "Besides, me and the other nellies repel like magnets. I'm not saying I could never be butch, but I am what I am. All your tiaras are belong to me, bitches."
Turning onto his side, Adam gives him a look like a hammered calf. "That's why I love you," he says softly, and so help him, on anybody else that look would send Brad screaming.
But he's long since learned that Adam is an exception to all rules. He leans down for a kiss, thick and syrupy in the midday heat. Brad could melt into it, if he wanted, and they do have all day.
Adam touches his cheek. "You never say it back," he notes, and his voice isn't hurt or sad or hopeful, oh no, not at all.
Brad sighs and caps his nail polish, flopping down onto his side the minute it hits the nightstand. "Baby," he says, schooling his voice into something soothing. "It's because it's trite. It's played. I'm sorry, I know you love to say it and hear it and I do respect that when it counts, but I just... I tell my dog I love her."
Of course, Adam turns his eyes away, shutting Brad down before he even warms up.
They always have this fight. It's so stupid, given how they feel about each other, and Brad always gives in and just says it because it's easier and it's not like he doesn't mean it, but for some reason it feels like today might be different. Maybe it's because they took this day for each other, because they're sharing this miserable fucking heat the way they share eyeliner, and bitching at Bill O'Reilly.
Brad shifts closer to him, lifts his chin to look into his eyes. Adam fights a little, and when he does meet Brad's gaze he looks like he might be getting ready to get mad. But Brad lifts his knee, puts it over Adam's thigh and looks right into him, willing him to understand. "We have something more than that. Better."
Adam narrows his eyes, watching closely. He can always tell when Brad's bullshitting, always, and so when he bites his bottom lip, it feels like victory. "Tell me," Adam says.
"I trust you," Brad tells him. "You'd never hurt me, and if you did fuck it up, you'd try as hard as me to make it better. You protect me and you won't leave me. I have faith in that. In us. And you have that trust in me too, and that's something better than sweet, fleeting love. I can count on you."
Adam's kiss is brutal, partly because of the way he always bites and holds on too hard, and partly because of the way their fingers slide on skin. It's a million degrees in here. Brad usually can't get out of his clothes fast enough when Adam kisses him like this, but right now he's got something to prove, so he grabs Adam's arm and pulls.
It takes a second for it to click. Adam goes along with it for that second, gets about halfway there before looking back up uncertainly. His eyes are a devastating shade of blue right now, and Brad has to fight to hold them, to silently promise that he's serious. He's not even sure it'll work, but it feels like the thing to do.
When Adam relaxes, carefully letting himself lie on his stomach with his face in the pillows, Brad shivers. Suddenly he's all nervous.
But he knows how to do this. It's not like he's a virgin of any flavor, for fuck's sake. So he grabs a condom and some lube from the nightstand (his nail polish next to Adam's giant, cheap sunglasses) and settles in along the smooth line of his back.
Adam puts his arms under the pillow. It makes the dip of his spine stand out, long and gorgeous, a bead of sweat connecting the freckles all the way down. Brad sighs at how beautiful he is; he's always been, even if he doesn't always see it. It's a few seconds to push his underwear down to his thighs, to get the condom on from this angle, which almost makes him laugh. It'd break the mood, though, so he bites it back.
Brad's blood is singing as he slicks up, his hand tight on his dick, which is primed as a porn star, thank you. He knows what he's being given here, and as much as he'd like to believe that it's just a novelty or a one time kink, he knows better.
When he pushes Adam's knees apart with his own, when he rubs lube over the hole he's fingered enough to be able to trace it in his sleep, it's different enough that Brad's heart skips twice.
Adam sighs, shifts his hips against the mattress. He usually can't shut up during sex, but right now the only sound is a rough lament on a slide guitar, easing out of the speakers in the corner.
Brad bites his lip, presses two fingers into him. It's so tight, his body volcanic with heat, and Brad's cock throbs in his fist.
"Don't," Adam says, a bit of a moan breaking his voice just right.
Brad can hear what he means, and takes his fingers away. If that's how Adam wants it, that's how it'll be. He braces his knees and lays down along that strong back, wrapping an arm around him. He kisses the skin under his mouth, smooth and slick with sweat.
Adam's getting restless now, shifting under him. He grabs Brad's wrist and holds it against his chest, and when Brad slides the head of his cock through the lube, his grip goes hard and tight. "Do it," Adam growls, pushing his ass up and back.
"Christ, you are so fucking hot," Brad breathes, and thrusts into him one tortuously slow inch at a time.
It's been at least a year since he did this, and it's nothing like he remembers. He's shivering already, right on the edge, and when Adam groans deep in his throat, fire licks along Brad's skin.
"Is it good?" he asks breathlessly, kissing the back of Adam's shoulder. He presses closer, harder, Adam's ass a perfect pressure against Brad's hips. "Is it good for you, baby?"
Adam pushes his face against the pillow, gripping tight with his fingers. "Harder," he grits out. "Go harder."
Brad can't help a groan of his own, his cock jerking inside Adam with the urge to do just what he says. He's got the presence of mind to slide his fingers around and find one soft nipple with his fingers - Adam's secret achilles' heel - and tug at it as he picks up speed with his hips. It feels like it's gone up ten degrees in here in the last two minutes, the fan doing absolutely nothing, and Brad licks the sweat from his lover's shoulders as the gentle creak of their old bed punctuates the radio.
Adam is pushing back against him now, soft groans breaking out of him as their hips slap. He drags Brad's hand down, and together they tangle their fingers around Adam's dick to squeeze and stroke.
"Harder," Adam demands, and Brad can't possibly deny him.
They slam together now, heat raging through Brad's mind and erasing his nerves, his worry, his thoughts. He feels like falling, like standing on top of a skyscraper, and the rush is hissing through him and clenching his teeth, tightening his hand, speeding his hips. It's nothing like sex usually is, no giving in or urging on or anything he's used to, and it's all that difference that he'll blame later for what tumbles out of his mouth.
"Adam," he whispers against the spattered freckles, the beads of sweat, words sliding over that gorgeous skin. His stomach is tight, his body on fire, he can't think or breathe or anything, and he fucks Adam as hard as he possibly can and listens to him snarl and scratch and moan. He can barely hear himself. "Oh, fuck. Fuck, Adam. God, I love you so fucking much."
The sudden intense pressure takes Brad's breath away, as every muscle in Adam's body locks down hard. Hot wetness spurts through Brad's fingers and Adam's long, loud moan is so sweet it ought to be criminal. He can't stop fucking him, deep and short thrusts until his mind whites out and his ears ring with how good it feels to bury himself inside the one person he wants to be with.
It's a long, long time before he's ready to think again, but when he does, Adam's laughing. It's sweet and soft, the kind of thing you do when you're just too happy to stay quiet, and Brad bites him on the shoulder when he draws out, just to break the delirium.
For once, he doesn't mind being the one who has to get up to go to the bathroom after everything's over. He's usually gloating about not having to move out of the tangled sheets, and now he runs the tap and splashes tepid water on his face so he has an excuse to stay here for a minute.
He just needs to get his breath. He needs to get himself together. Everybody gets soppy during sex, and it's not like he didn't mean it. Of course he loves Adam. It's just when he was growing up, it wasn't something you threw around like that, not when you really meant it. It's a special occasion kind of thing.
But this was a special occasion, really. So Brad pads back into the room and tosses his sweaty, ruined clothes at the overflowing laundry basket in the closet. He climbs back in bed, puts his back to Adam's chest, and sighs in relief when Adam wraps an arm around him and spoons them together.
He feels particularly small, right now, which is as it should be.
"You're pretty good at that," Adam murmurs against the back of Brad's neck, a smile in his voice.
Relief is a cool rush in Brad's chest. He settles against the pillow and smiles. "I told you I was amazing. If you failed to comprehend just how truly amazing I am, I can't be held responsible."
Adam chuckle buzzes low against Brad's back. "Clearly I don't have enough imagination."
Brad sighs theatrically, and traces his fingers over the back of Adam's hand. "I despair of you."
"So you should." Adam rubs his fingers over Brad's soft belly, right along the only hair on his body that is allowed to grow in its natural state. "I only hope I'm up to your challenge."
Brad slides a hand back between them, touches Adam's cock where it's gone soft and damp. "Nope."
"Give me a minute," Adam grins, glancing his teeth over Brad's shoulder.
As it turns out, he's more than adequate for the challenge at hand, and Brad forgets all about his slip of the tongue. But a week later they're touring a new bar, and Adam's talking to Cassidy about how important it is to have trust in a relationship, more important than anything else. Brad drags Adam into the back room and blows him for a half hour, and couldn't give a god damn about the catcalls that greet them when they come back.
He's where he belongs, no matter what they call it, and maybe that's all that fucking matters.
