1776 fic (Sweet Jesus!)
Title: Inhibitions and Exhibitions
Author: comrade_sir
Rating: R for Rutledge
Warnings: See above. Also, SoloM and voyeurism
Pairing: In a way, Adams/Rutledge, but this is NOT a lovey-dovey-fluffy fic in the least.
It was after hours in the Congressional chamber, and John Adams once again found himself stomping down four flights of stairs from the bell tower of the meeting house. He had gone up there to think--to think about how to inspire Jefferson to start that damned Declaration, to think about how to persuade the South that independence was less dangerous than tyranny, to think about how to tear Judge Wilson away from Dickinson for just a moment in order to break Dickinson's iron hold on the man. Unfortunately, all Adams could think about at the moment were all of the colorful deaths he secretly wished most of the members of the Continental Congress to die. Resigning himself to the fact that it was almost midnight and he had made absolutely no progress, Adams was ready to leave. However, what he saw when he was passing by the chamber made him stop in his tracks. Either a red-headed ghost was haunting the desk of South Carolina, or one Edward Rutledge was still there, slumped in his chair and using his desk for a pillow.
"Mr. Rutledge?" Adams inquired. No response. The man was fast asleep.
Adams placed himself beside the South Carolinian's desk. He may not have liked the man, but it was only decent to rouse him; he would suffer in the morning if he slept through the night in that position. Before doing so, however, he took a moment to observe the sleeping delegate. His usually impeccable curls were a bit tousled, and his lips were slightly parted. His eyes were darting to and fro under his eyelids, which occasionally caused his daintily curved eyelashes to flutter. Every now and again, the man would emit a soft moan, sometimes from high in his throat, others from deep in his chest. Adams sneered, whether at himself or at Rutledge, he knew not. The picture before him was almost...cute.
"Good God," Adams mumbled to himself. Enough was enough. He pressed his hand to Rutledge's shoulder and gave a little shove. Rather than awaken, however, the sleeping Rutledge leaned into the pressure, his breath hitching and then quickening. Adams sighed and rolled his eyes; he wasn't about to attempt to make sense of the Dandy from the Deep South.
"Mr. Rutledge," Adams called out again, shaking him this time. Finally, Rutledge lifted his head off the desk, blinking several times in rapid succession. He rubbed his right eye with the heel of his hand and cracked the left one about halfway open.
"Mist'Adams?" he murmered groggily. Just great, Adams thought. That damned accent was even thicker when mumbled; his title and his name now sounded like one word.
"This isn't a very comfortable place to sleep, Mr. Rutledge," Adams said, watching as the younger man continued to clear the cobwebs. "And after today's gruelling meeting, why in the hell are you still here of all the God-forsaken places anyway?"
"It wasn't nearly so gruellin' for me, suh," Rutledge teased, "I didn't staht a cane fight. And besides," he added, his grinning facade turning scrutinous, "I could ask you the same question."
"Fair enough," Adams conceded. "I stayed behind to think--about how to win you and the rest of your damned block over to the side of independence, actually."
"Ah," Rutledge began. "Then it appeahs, suh, that we have reached an impasse. As I have said, Mistah Adams, South Carolina does indeed desiuh independence for South Carolina. Nevahtheless, heah I am, on the bidding of Mistah Dickinson and the rest of the South, writin' a countuh-argument to your declaration. For if there is one positive element of the King's rule, it is that he lives in England, and therefore has little input in the govuhnance of South Carolina most of the time. As opposed, of course, to you, Mistah Adams."
"You're wrong, Rutledge," insisted Adams. "The King is a tyrant to all colonies, regardless of their distance from England. Thomas Jefferson is, as we speak, writing a masterpiece of a declaration that will point out every way in which your argument is flawed."
"So the declaration committee has met with success, then?" Rutledge questioned.
Adams sighed yet again. "It will," asserted Adams. "Once Jefferson puts his mind to the task at hand, it will."
"I see," said Rutledge. "Nevuh fear, Mistah Adams. At this rate, there won't be much of a declaration to run agaisnt yours, eithuh."
"Hmmph," grumbled Adams. "Bet you've written more than Virginia's most famous lover."
Rutledge chuckled at this. "Five shillin's says you're wrong."
"I'll take that bet," said Adams, and he snatched the paper from under Rutledge's arm. On it were three short phrases, all crossed out, a few holes from where Rutledge had grown frustrated and rent the paper with the quill, an inkblot from where Rutledge had fallen asleep on the paper with the quill still over it, and doodles of a dog, a horse, a cat, and a duck. Adams dug into his purse and handed Rutledge five shillings.
"Incredible," he groaned with a combination of shock and disdain. "What in the hell is wrong with you people?" Adams looked at the paper again and cracked a smile. "Dickinson will be furious."
"Oh, I don't know about that, suh," remarked Rutledge sardonically as he fiddled with his lace cuffs. "I thought the horse was pretty good."
Adams rolled his eyes yet again and flung the paper into Rutledge's face. "He'll flay you alive, and you know it."
"And you're complainin' about that, Mistah Adams?" Rutledge asked with a cocked eyebrow.
"Excellent point," Adams agreed, smiling as he imagined Dickinson chasing Rutledge with something sharp and on fire. The man was infuriating, after all. Adams couldn't even figure out why he was still speaking to him, except that there was something that was still puzzling him.
"Rutledge," Adams began, "you are among the best orators in Congress, if not the best, and at only twenty-six years of age. Why are you suddenly unable to stay awake long enough to write a simple argument? By God, man, you just argued your point to me not five minutes ago!"
During Adams's tirade, his hands had flown to Rutledge's biceps, as if to shake the young man into a state of concentration. They didn't shake, however; they merely squeezed. Adams didn't even notice what he had done...that is, until Rutledge noticed. Rutledge's breath hitched, just as it had in his sleep, except now it was accompanied by a pink blush that was spreading over his nose and cheeks. Adams chuckled under his breath.
"Only twenty-six years of age," he repeated, musing. "Incredible." He then did something that surprised even him; he trailed his fingertips down Rutledge's silk sleeves to his wrists, then slid them all the way back up to his shoulders. The South Carolinian gasped and shuddered; his eyes were wild and unsure. Adams now knew why he did it; just once, he wanted to see this man who had continually aggravated him with his condfidence and his vanity lose control. Furthermore, he wanted to be the one to take it from him.
"Something the matter, Mr. Rutledge?" Adams asked, feigning innocence. "You seem tense."
Rutledge said nothing. Instead, he bit his lip as the deft fingers continued their trail up to the exposed flesh of his neck. His entire face was flushed now, and his eyes fought with themselves between fluttering shut and glaring daggers at his tormentor. As Adams continued the teasingly light massage of the younger man's neck, Rutledge crossed his legs and attempted to move his chair back underneath his desk.
"No," scolded Adams, seeing the South Carolinian's move. "You cannot cover this with pretense as you do everything else in your life. Just look at you, trying to preserve your useless vanity even now. Disgusting."
At this, Rutledge growled--a raw, animalistic sound, unbefitting of the ever-delicate, ever-elegant, ever-intellectual man that Adams knew and hated. It was the sound Adams craved: the sound of a man who had lost himself. Adams might have lost himself as well, had Rutledge not picked this moment to grasp his wrist and tug his hand toward the apex of his thighs.
"Oh, no," Adams scoffed, snatching his hand away from Rutledge's grip. "That, Mr. Rutledge, is one privilege you will not receive." To Rutledge's dismay, Adams placed his fingers not two inches from Rutledge's intended target for them and ran them tortuously up and down the length of his thighs before removing them entirely.
Rutledge's eyes flew open. They had glazed over with lust, and his entire expression had darkened. He was grinning now, a grin much more menacing than the smugly superior smirk that he always wore when Congress was in session. Adams tried to back away, but realized he was too intrigued to leave. He had been so wrong to think he was the one in control, he thought to himself. Oh, so wrong. Finally, the southerner spoke, his voice dripping with honey and venom.
"Very well, Mistah Adams."
Rutledge rose from his chair and perched himself on his desk. He lay back on the desk, and his own fingers traced the same path up and down his thighs that the older Congressman's had. When they finally reached the bulge at the center, they languidly caressed it through the tight silk breeches and began unfastening the buttons one by one. Adams looked on, aghast.
"I...I don't think I follow," he stammered. Rutledge laughed a dark, melodious laugh that was mingled with a moan.
"It's all quite simple, Mistah Adams," he explained. "You see, I've always been a bit of an...exhibitionist. I like it when people look at me; surely you must have noticed that, suh."
"I've noticed," bit Adams. "You dress like a damn peacock. But this," he gestured to Rutledge, to the empty chamber, and to himself, "gives you some kind of sick pleasure? Good God!"
"Oh, yesss," hissed Rutledge. His hand was now stroking his hardened flesh, and his eyes were fixed on John Adams. "It's been hard, suh, bein' away from home all these months and not knowin' whethuh any of my fellow Congressmen would...indulge me. But to find out that the great John Adams likes tuh watch...Well, suh, I can't say I haven't dreamt of this moment on many a fitful evenin'."
Adams wanted to contend that Rutledge was mistaken, that he didn't like to watch any such thing, but when Rutledge's elegant fingers beckoned him closer, he could only obey.
When Adams sat in the chair next to Rutledge's desk, the pace of Rutledge's hand quickened. Their eyes met, and Rutledge's fluttered shut as he leaned his head back as far as it would go, exposing the tender flesh of his neck. His other hand grabbed at his thighs, his chest, his hair. His deep, throaty moans were echoing through the chamber. Adams was transfixed.
"My God," he whispered almost reverently at the prone form before him. "My God."
"Oh God!" Rutledge shouted, reaching out once again to grasp Adams's hand. Adams let him take it this time, and Rutledge squeezed it in a pulsing fashion that matched his breathing. His back was slightly bowed upward, and his head was beginning to thrash from side to side. His moans, were continuous now, almost keening. Finally, he locked eyes with Adams and squeezed his hand hard.
"Yes?" Adams questioned, breathily.
"Yes," Rutledge nodded, gasping and shuddering. "Oh, yes! Ah!" He pulled his hand away from Adams's grip just in time to reach into his breast pocket. Adams looked on, enraptured, as Rutledge gave one last cry of ecstasy before arching his back and spilling into his handkerchief.
"Incredible," Adams whispered, drinking in the sight. He gulped, his mouth having become suddenly very dry. His eyes darted around the room. As Rutledge, still basking in the glow of his climax, took his time rebuttoning his breeches, the reality of what Adams had just witnessed sunk in. Unable to face that reality just yet, Adams shot up from the chair and backed toward the chamber door.
"Oh, don't leave yet, Mistah Adams," Rutledge drawled, still lounging on the table. "It's not propuh."
"Incredible!" Adams shouted, becoming increasingly horrified with what had transpired.
"I could make a very cheap remark with that, Mistah Adams," informed Rutledge absently, "Very cheap, indeed. But, in presuhvation of the moment, I will refrain."
"I-ah-have to, um, go do something, that, uh, isn't here," Adams stuttered. Seeing the distinctly nonplussed look that was shadowing Rutledge's face, Adams added, "I promise not to tell anyone about...what you just did."
Rutledge had hopped down from the table and was now stalking toward him, looking more irritated than before.
"Well, that's awfully kind of you, suh," Rutledge clipped. "Especially considerin' that YOU initiated what WE just did."
"Now look here, Rutledge," Adams said sternly, "while I may have triggered your...outburst, I took no further role in this affair."
"Didn't you, now?" Rutledge inquired, with a pointed stare at a bulge in the other man's nether-regions. He backed Adams into a wall. "Prove it." And with that, his hand grabbed the object of his attetion, gave a couple of rough strokes, and squeezed. Within seconds, his palm was moist.
"Hypocrite," he hissed into Adams's ear. "You enjoyed this almost as much as I did."
"No!" Adams denied.
"I loathe hypocrites, Mistah Adams," snapped Rutledge, paying the older man's exclamation no heed. "You'll do well to remembuh that, suh."
That was Rutledge's final admonition before he stormed into the darkness, leaving a tormented and confused Adams behind.
"Oh, Abigail," whispered Adams. "Please forgive me, Abigail."
Rutledge was wrong. Adams took no part in this. So, why did he feel he needed his wife's pardon?
Author: comrade_sir
Rating: R for Rutledge
Warnings: See above. Also, SoloM and voyeurism
Pairing: In a way, Adams/Rutledge, but this is NOT a lovey-dovey-fluffy fic in the least.
It was after hours in the Congressional chamber, and John Adams once again found himself stomping down four flights of stairs from the bell tower of the meeting house. He had gone up there to think--to think about how to inspire Jefferson to start that damned Declaration, to think about how to persuade the South that independence was less dangerous than tyranny, to think about how to tear Judge Wilson away from Dickinson for just a moment in order to break Dickinson's iron hold on the man. Unfortunately, all Adams could think about at the moment were all of the colorful deaths he secretly wished most of the members of the Continental Congress to die. Resigning himself to the fact that it was almost midnight and he had made absolutely no progress, Adams was ready to leave. However, what he saw when he was passing by the chamber made him stop in his tracks. Either a red-headed ghost was haunting the desk of South Carolina, or one Edward Rutledge was still there, slumped in his chair and using his desk for a pillow.
"Mr. Rutledge?" Adams inquired. No response. The man was fast asleep.
Adams placed himself beside the South Carolinian's desk. He may not have liked the man, but it was only decent to rouse him; he would suffer in the morning if he slept through the night in that position. Before doing so, however, he took a moment to observe the sleeping delegate. His usually impeccable curls were a bit tousled, and his lips were slightly parted. His eyes were darting to and fro under his eyelids, which occasionally caused his daintily curved eyelashes to flutter. Every now and again, the man would emit a soft moan, sometimes from high in his throat, others from deep in his chest. Adams sneered, whether at himself or at Rutledge, he knew not. The picture before him was almost...cute.
"Good God," Adams mumbled to himself. Enough was enough. He pressed his hand to Rutledge's shoulder and gave a little shove. Rather than awaken, however, the sleeping Rutledge leaned into the pressure, his breath hitching and then quickening. Adams sighed and rolled his eyes; he wasn't about to attempt to make sense of the Dandy from the Deep South.
"Mr. Rutledge," Adams called out again, shaking him this time. Finally, Rutledge lifted his head off the desk, blinking several times in rapid succession. He rubbed his right eye with the heel of his hand and cracked the left one about halfway open.
"Mist'Adams?" he murmered groggily. Just great, Adams thought. That damned accent was even thicker when mumbled; his title and his name now sounded like one word.
"This isn't a very comfortable place to sleep, Mr. Rutledge," Adams said, watching as the younger man continued to clear the cobwebs. "And after today's gruelling meeting, why in the hell are you still here of all the God-forsaken places anyway?"
"It wasn't nearly so gruellin' for me, suh," Rutledge teased, "I didn't staht a cane fight. And besides," he added, his grinning facade turning scrutinous, "I could ask you the same question."
"Fair enough," Adams conceded. "I stayed behind to think--about how to win you and the rest of your damned block over to the side of independence, actually."
"Ah," Rutledge began. "Then it appeahs, suh, that we have reached an impasse. As I have said, Mistah Adams, South Carolina does indeed desiuh independence for South Carolina. Nevahtheless, heah I am, on the bidding of Mistah Dickinson and the rest of the South, writin' a countuh-argument to your declaration. For if there is one positive element of the King's rule, it is that he lives in England, and therefore has little input in the govuhnance of South Carolina most of the time. As opposed, of course, to you, Mistah Adams."
"You're wrong, Rutledge," insisted Adams. "The King is a tyrant to all colonies, regardless of their distance from England. Thomas Jefferson is, as we speak, writing a masterpiece of a declaration that will point out every way in which your argument is flawed."
"So the declaration committee has met with success, then?" Rutledge questioned.
Adams sighed yet again. "It will," asserted Adams. "Once Jefferson puts his mind to the task at hand, it will."
"I see," said Rutledge. "Nevuh fear, Mistah Adams. At this rate, there won't be much of a declaration to run agaisnt yours, eithuh."
"Hmmph," grumbled Adams. "Bet you've written more than Virginia's most famous lover."
Rutledge chuckled at this. "Five shillin's says you're wrong."
"I'll take that bet," said Adams, and he snatched the paper from under Rutledge's arm. On it were three short phrases, all crossed out, a few holes from where Rutledge had grown frustrated and rent the paper with the quill, an inkblot from where Rutledge had fallen asleep on the paper with the quill still over it, and doodles of a dog, a horse, a cat, and a duck. Adams dug into his purse and handed Rutledge five shillings.
"Incredible," he groaned with a combination of shock and disdain. "What in the hell is wrong with you people?" Adams looked at the paper again and cracked a smile. "Dickinson will be furious."
"Oh, I don't know about that, suh," remarked Rutledge sardonically as he fiddled with his lace cuffs. "I thought the horse was pretty good."
Adams rolled his eyes yet again and flung the paper into Rutledge's face. "He'll flay you alive, and you know it."
"And you're complainin' about that, Mistah Adams?" Rutledge asked with a cocked eyebrow.
"Excellent point," Adams agreed, smiling as he imagined Dickinson chasing Rutledge with something sharp and on fire. The man was infuriating, after all. Adams couldn't even figure out why he was still speaking to him, except that there was something that was still puzzling him.
"Rutledge," Adams began, "you are among the best orators in Congress, if not the best, and at only twenty-six years of age. Why are you suddenly unable to stay awake long enough to write a simple argument? By God, man, you just argued your point to me not five minutes ago!"
During Adams's tirade, his hands had flown to Rutledge's biceps, as if to shake the young man into a state of concentration. They didn't shake, however; they merely squeezed. Adams didn't even notice what he had done...that is, until Rutledge noticed. Rutledge's breath hitched, just as it had in his sleep, except now it was accompanied by a pink blush that was spreading over his nose and cheeks. Adams chuckled under his breath.
"Only twenty-six years of age," he repeated, musing. "Incredible." He then did something that surprised even him; he trailed his fingertips down Rutledge's silk sleeves to his wrists, then slid them all the way back up to his shoulders. The South Carolinian gasped and shuddered; his eyes were wild and unsure. Adams now knew why he did it; just once, he wanted to see this man who had continually aggravated him with his condfidence and his vanity lose control. Furthermore, he wanted to be the one to take it from him.
"Something the matter, Mr. Rutledge?" Adams asked, feigning innocence. "You seem tense."
Rutledge said nothing. Instead, he bit his lip as the deft fingers continued their trail up to the exposed flesh of his neck. His entire face was flushed now, and his eyes fought with themselves between fluttering shut and glaring daggers at his tormentor. As Adams continued the teasingly light massage of the younger man's neck, Rutledge crossed his legs and attempted to move his chair back underneath his desk.
"No," scolded Adams, seeing the South Carolinian's move. "You cannot cover this with pretense as you do everything else in your life. Just look at you, trying to preserve your useless vanity even now. Disgusting."
At this, Rutledge growled--a raw, animalistic sound, unbefitting of the ever-delicate, ever-elegant, ever-intellectual man that Adams knew and hated. It was the sound Adams craved: the sound of a man who had lost himself. Adams might have lost himself as well, had Rutledge not picked this moment to grasp his wrist and tug his hand toward the apex of his thighs.
"Oh, no," Adams scoffed, snatching his hand away from Rutledge's grip. "That, Mr. Rutledge, is one privilege you will not receive." To Rutledge's dismay, Adams placed his fingers not two inches from Rutledge's intended target for them and ran them tortuously up and down the length of his thighs before removing them entirely.
Rutledge's eyes flew open. They had glazed over with lust, and his entire expression had darkened. He was grinning now, a grin much more menacing than the smugly superior smirk that he always wore when Congress was in session. Adams tried to back away, but realized he was too intrigued to leave. He had been so wrong to think he was the one in control, he thought to himself. Oh, so wrong. Finally, the southerner spoke, his voice dripping with honey and venom.
"Very well, Mistah Adams."
Rutledge rose from his chair and perched himself on his desk. He lay back on the desk, and his own fingers traced the same path up and down his thighs that the older Congressman's had. When they finally reached the bulge at the center, they languidly caressed it through the tight silk breeches and began unfastening the buttons one by one. Adams looked on, aghast.
"I...I don't think I follow," he stammered. Rutledge laughed a dark, melodious laugh that was mingled with a moan.
"It's all quite simple, Mistah Adams," he explained. "You see, I've always been a bit of an...exhibitionist. I like it when people look at me; surely you must have noticed that, suh."
"I've noticed," bit Adams. "You dress like a damn peacock. But this," he gestured to Rutledge, to the empty chamber, and to himself, "gives you some kind of sick pleasure? Good God!"
"Oh, yesss," hissed Rutledge. His hand was now stroking his hardened flesh, and his eyes were fixed on John Adams. "It's been hard, suh, bein' away from home all these months and not knowin' whethuh any of my fellow Congressmen would...indulge me. But to find out that the great John Adams likes tuh watch...Well, suh, I can't say I haven't dreamt of this moment on many a fitful evenin'."
Adams wanted to contend that Rutledge was mistaken, that he didn't like to watch any such thing, but when Rutledge's elegant fingers beckoned him closer, he could only obey.
When Adams sat in the chair next to Rutledge's desk, the pace of Rutledge's hand quickened. Their eyes met, and Rutledge's fluttered shut as he leaned his head back as far as it would go, exposing the tender flesh of his neck. His other hand grabbed at his thighs, his chest, his hair. His deep, throaty moans were echoing through the chamber. Adams was transfixed.
"My God," he whispered almost reverently at the prone form before him. "My God."
"Oh God!" Rutledge shouted, reaching out once again to grasp Adams's hand. Adams let him take it this time, and Rutledge squeezed it in a pulsing fashion that matched his breathing. His back was slightly bowed upward, and his head was beginning to thrash from side to side. His moans, were continuous now, almost keening. Finally, he locked eyes with Adams and squeezed his hand hard.
"Yes?" Adams questioned, breathily.
"Yes," Rutledge nodded, gasping and shuddering. "Oh, yes! Ah!" He pulled his hand away from Adams's grip just in time to reach into his breast pocket. Adams looked on, enraptured, as Rutledge gave one last cry of ecstasy before arching his back and spilling into his handkerchief.
"Incredible," Adams whispered, drinking in the sight. He gulped, his mouth having become suddenly very dry. His eyes darted around the room. As Rutledge, still basking in the glow of his climax, took his time rebuttoning his breeches, the reality of what Adams had just witnessed sunk in. Unable to face that reality just yet, Adams shot up from the chair and backed toward the chamber door.
"Oh, don't leave yet, Mistah Adams," Rutledge drawled, still lounging on the table. "It's not propuh."
"Incredible!" Adams shouted, becoming increasingly horrified with what had transpired.
"I could make a very cheap remark with that, Mistah Adams," informed Rutledge absently, "Very cheap, indeed. But, in presuhvation of the moment, I will refrain."
"I-ah-have to, um, go do something, that, uh, isn't here," Adams stuttered. Seeing the distinctly nonplussed look that was shadowing Rutledge's face, Adams added, "I promise not to tell anyone about...what you just did."
Rutledge had hopped down from the table and was now stalking toward him, looking more irritated than before.
"Well, that's awfully kind of you, suh," Rutledge clipped. "Especially considerin' that YOU initiated what WE just did."
"Now look here, Rutledge," Adams said sternly, "while I may have triggered your...outburst, I took no further role in this affair."
"Didn't you, now?" Rutledge inquired, with a pointed stare at a bulge in the other man's nether-regions. He backed Adams into a wall. "Prove it." And with that, his hand grabbed the object of his attetion, gave a couple of rough strokes, and squeezed. Within seconds, his palm was moist.
"Hypocrite," he hissed into Adams's ear. "You enjoyed this almost as much as I did."
"No!" Adams denied.
"I loathe hypocrites, Mistah Adams," snapped Rutledge, paying the older man's exclamation no heed. "You'll do well to remembuh that, suh."
That was Rutledge's final admonition before he stormed into the darkness, leaving a tormented and confused Adams behind.
"Oh, Abigail," whispered Adams. "Please forgive me, Abigail."
Rutledge was wrong. Adams took no part in this. So, why did he feel he needed his wife's pardon?