Almost Lover
Title: Almost Lover
Author: kissoffools / wakeyourheart
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Set about two years into the future, Kris and Adam meet for drinks for the first time in one year, four months, and twelve days.
Disclaimer: So not real, the time frame in which it exists hasn't even happened yet. Okay? And as always, if you got here by Googling yourself or someone you know, please hit the Back button. Trust me, it's better for everyone that way.
Notes: Written for the ontd_ai Kink Meme challenge. The prompt was "Kradam, biting, bite marks". I took that prompt and made it half about that, and half about the angst. There's a lot of angst. Whoops.
You don’t quite know what to do with yourself when the email arrives.
You haven’t heard from him in one year, four months and twelve days (no, you haven’t been counting, shut up) and now that you do, it’s in the form of one innocent email in your inbox? ‘From: Kris Allen’ shouldn’t be scary, but it is, and there’s a brief moment where you consider dumping it into the trash without reading it. But you can’t, because dammit if you’re not the most curious person you know. Yeah, curiosity. At least, that’s the reason you give yourself for opening the email.
’Heard you’re recording in NYC. I’m gonna be there for a press tour this weekend. Friday night’s free. Drinks?’
That’s it? Sixteen fucking months and that’s the best he can do?
You hate yourself for how fast you send back a ‘Yes'.
***
It hits you about .5 seconds after Kris walks into the bar that this was a terrible idea.
You see him before he sees you, because of course the universe wants to give you those extra few seconds of agony - just a little bit more than Kris gets. Always a little bit more than Kris gets. He’s looking well, you note - the exhaustion in his eyes isn’t apparent from a distance - and the way his lips curve up as he spots you is enough to send your brain reeling.
But no, you’re Adam Lambert, and you are nothing if not capable of keeping your cool. Your smile matches his as he makes his way to your small table, and you hug him back even though you haven’t done this in a year and a half and it just doesn’t feel the same. You eye the clock above the bar as he settles himself - 9:13 pm - and then your eyes sweep over to the gold band around his finger.
“Two vodka sevens,” you signal to the waitress. “Doubles.”
You can bail after an hour.
***
Small talk, you realize, sucks.
You’ve been there for forty-nine minutes and you’ve felt every one of them. You two have covered family, friends, music, careers, touring, and the latest celebrity scandals (okay, you knew more about that last one than he did), and if you’re not careful, you’ll end up moving on to the damn weather. To Kris’ credit, he’s avoided any mention of that little gold band, and for that, you’re grateful. You’d never delude yourself into forgetting it exists (well, not anymore. You’re wiser than that now, or at least you’d like to think you are), but it helps that he’s not rubbing it in your face. Almost.
But then he slips up and mentions the beach house that he and Katy bought.
You’re not listening anymore. You may as well not even be in the bar, because you’re back on that damn tour bus again, pressed up against Kris’ side in a bunk bed barely designed to fit one man, let alone two. His thumb’s stroking the inside of your wrist in that way that he knows soothes you, and he’s whispering things like, “When this is all over, and we’ve gotten through this, we’ll get a place by the beach. Just you and me and the white sands, the blue water, the long grass blowing in the breeze… our very own paradise where judging eyes can’t get us,” and fuck it all, your heart is still panging at the memory. It’s still raw, and dammit, you thought that was gone.
“The fuck are you trying to do to me?” You spit the words at him before your brain can tell you that this is probably a bad idea.
Ever the human emoticon, Kris’ surprise could be read by everyone in the bar. His neck flushes and if your stomach wasn’t churning so badly, you’d probably feel bad. “I - what? I’m not trying to do anything, man.”
No, because he’s Kris Allen, and Kris Allen never purposely tries to upset anyone. “We go a year and a half without speaking because it’s better for you, for your marriage, and then you drop in on me out of the blue and expect no hard feelings?” You can’t help but let a derisive little laugh slip out. “Come on, Kris, you’re not that stupid, I know you’re not.”
He’s shrugging and running a finger around the rim of his glass, eyes downcast. “I was just in town and I wanted to see you. Is that a crime?” There’s a bit of a pout in his voice, and that pisses you off. He’s not the fucking hurt party here.
“After you asked me to stay away? Yes, it’s a fucking crime. You can’t do that to someone.”
“You’re acting like you’re the only one that got hurt back then.”
“Oh, don’t you tell me it hurt you too. You had no problem going back to Katy and pretending like we… like I didn’t -”
“It wasn’t that simple.” When you’re mad, your voice gets louder, raises for the whole room to hear. His quiets right down, forces you to concentrate and feel every damn word. You always hated that.
“Oh, no, I’m sure it wasn’t.” And now your voice is mocking. “You got to go back to your cozy little life, with your cute little wife and your recording and your fucking beach house, and I got to put my heart back together again and try not to miss you every damn day!”
He finally looks you in the eyes, and now there’s a fire blazing there. “You think I haven’t missed you every fucking second since we said goodbye?” His voice is a whisper, barely more than a breath, and for once, you’re listening.
The bottom of your stomach drops out.
***
You get him up to your hotel room in ten minutes flat.
You push him down onto the bed, and yeah, okay, you know nothing’s really changed. He’s still married, and you don’t hate Katy. Honestly, she’s a sweet girl. And you two still have a myriad of problems that didn’t go away just because Kris admitted he still wants you. But he leans forward, grasping your t-shirt and pulling you down, and you kiss him. His tongue is against yours, his teeth scraping your bottom lip, and you tell yourself that you won’t care if it hurts in the morning.
His shirt is taken care of easily enough, tossed aside and forgotten, and yours joins his moments later. It’s like he’s never stopped working out, the muscles at his stomach hard, his biceps just strong enough to threaten that he could turn the tables and take control in a second if he felt like it. But you know he wouldn’t, because Kris always bottomed for you - he liked being a bit submissive most of the time, and as your tongue swirls against his, you pull a familiar moan from him and you know he wants this to be like it was back then.
You’re straddling him, hips pushed firmly down to keep him in place as your lips leave his. His insistent whine only spurs you on, your mouth licking across his jaw, descending down his neck. You’re searching, and there - yes, that’s it, that’s the whimper you remember - you lick the spot once, and then sink your teeth into the sensitive flesh.
He tenses and yelps, but you lave the bite mark with your tongue, paying special attention to the grooves, and the yelp turns to a low, long moan. He’d always liked this, being marked, claimed. Katy had never done that for him - didn’t want to hurt him. You did, because you knew how much he got off on it. Your teeth scrape across his shoulder and a garbled groan slips past his lips. Running over the same spot with your tongue, you can’t help but wonder with a smirk of satisfaction if that was a noise Katy had ever heard.
You pepper a few more nips across his shoulder, switching to the other and paying it similar attention. You find a particularly soft spot and latch your lips onto it, sucking at the skin. You know he’s going to have red marks all over him tomorrow, and you wish you could feel guilty. But you can feel him growing hard beneath you, and you find it impossibly difficult for you to worry about that at the moment.
His hips are still trapped beneath yours, but he’s starting to push up against you, insistent. Your left hand snakes down between you to palm his erection through his jeans, and when he whines, you smile against his warm skin.
You remove your hand and roll your hips down, rubbing against him. He’s starting to writhe a little bit, but you’re not done with him yet.
“Hold still,” you order in a whisper, your hands planting his arms against the mattress.
And then your mouth is moving again, across his neck and shoulders and chest, seeking out memories. Here on his collarbone - Portland, the first day of the tour - your teeth sink in, receiving a groan in return. Up by his ear - the night after top four performances, to help him de-stress… his left shoulder… below his ribs… San Jose… Pittsburgh… Manchester…
“Adam… fuck, please…”
You run your tongue over Vancouver one more time and then pull back, meeting his lust-filled eyes.
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, god yes.” His hips rock up against you again, and that’s really all it takes.
You can’t remember the last time you’ve removed your pants this quickly, and his take only a second longer to be tossed to the floor. And then he’s naked and hard against you, pressing up insistently, but you need to take a second and just… look. You run your eyes over his tanned skin, his flushed face, his hairline dotted with sweat, and you just know. This is how it’s supposed to be.
He’s impatient, swatting away your hand when you try to prepare him. He shakes off your incredulous look, because surely he hasn’t done this in ages. “It’s fine,” he says, proving that he hasn’t lost the talent for reading your mind. “Just do it.”
You want to look away from the pain that crosses his face when you press into him. Your hips almost still, but his hands are there, guiding you forward, and if this is really what he wants, you’ll give it to him. Your mouth comes down to seal over his as your hips move, exploring his mouth and finding that you still remember every inch of it. He’s moving against you, hips pressing up, and for a few seconds it’s awkward and out of practice. But you soon sink into it, rocking against one another, and it’s hard and hot and fast and so much better than you ever remembered.
He breaks the kiss to breathe, exhaling on a long moan, and you take the opportunity to attach your lips to his neck, sucking once more. He’s whining again, the pitch rising the more you move your hips. You reach a hand down to pump him, and his thighs begin to tremble.
“I missed you,” he keens, and you gasp for breath.
“Don’t leave me.” In any other state, you never would have asked. But he’s tight around you and he’s moaning and it’s good, so good. Better than it ever was. You move your mouth again to nip at his collarbone, and -
“Okay,” he gasps out, hips pressing up into yours more insistently. “Okay. Okay.”
He’s repeating it like a mantra as he comes in hot spurts between you. Your forehead sinks into his shoulder, and one, two more thrusts and you’re there too, coming with a long moan.
Once you catch your breath, you pull out and curl up next to him, smiling a little in relief when a soft, content murmur leaves his lips as he presses his face into your shoulder. Neither of you have the energy to discuss what he’s just agreed to - the magnitude of what he’s just agreed to - and instead you settle for sleep. As you’re drifting off, you feel Kris’ hand find yours, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist once more.
***
You wake up in the morning to an empty bed and an awful feeling in the pit of your stomach.
There’s only one set of clothes on the bedroom floor - yours. And the lack of Converse by the front door dashes any hope that Kris is hiding in the kitchen making breakfast for two.
So when you find the note stuck to the bathroom mirror, you’re not even surprised. You just hate yourself for letting this happen all over again.
'I can’t.'
end.
Author: kissoffools / wakeyourheart
Pairing: Adam Lambert/Kris Allen
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Set about two years into the future, Kris and Adam meet for drinks for the first time in one year, four months, and twelve days.
Disclaimer: So not real, the time frame in which it exists hasn't even happened yet. Okay? And as always, if you got here by Googling yourself or someone you know, please hit the Back button. Trust me, it's better for everyone that way.
Notes: Written for the ontd_ai Kink Meme challenge. The prompt was "Kradam, biting, bite marks". I took that prompt and made it half about that, and half about the angst. There's a lot of angst. Whoops.
You don’t quite know what to do with yourself when the email arrives.
You haven’t heard from him in one year, four months and twelve days (no, you haven’t been counting, shut up) and now that you do, it’s in the form of one innocent email in your inbox? ‘From: Kris Allen’ shouldn’t be scary, but it is, and there’s a brief moment where you consider dumping it into the trash without reading it. But you can’t, because dammit if you’re not the most curious person you know. Yeah, curiosity. At least, that’s the reason you give yourself for opening the email.
’Heard you’re recording in NYC. I’m gonna be there for a press tour this weekend. Friday night’s free. Drinks?’
That’s it? Sixteen fucking months and that’s the best he can do?
You hate yourself for how fast you send back a ‘Yes'.
***
It hits you about .5 seconds after Kris walks into the bar that this was a terrible idea.
You see him before he sees you, because of course the universe wants to give you those extra few seconds of agony - just a little bit more than Kris gets. Always a little bit more than Kris gets. He’s looking well, you note - the exhaustion in his eyes isn’t apparent from a distance - and the way his lips curve up as he spots you is enough to send your brain reeling.
But no, you’re Adam Lambert, and you are nothing if not capable of keeping your cool. Your smile matches his as he makes his way to your small table, and you hug him back even though you haven’t done this in a year and a half and it just doesn’t feel the same. You eye the clock above the bar as he settles himself - 9:13 pm - and then your eyes sweep over to the gold band around his finger.
“Two vodka sevens,” you signal to the waitress. “Doubles.”
You can bail after an hour.
***
Small talk, you realize, sucks.
You’ve been there for forty-nine minutes and you’ve felt every one of them. You two have covered family, friends, music, careers, touring, and the latest celebrity scandals (okay, you knew more about that last one than he did), and if you’re not careful, you’ll end up moving on to the damn weather. To Kris’ credit, he’s avoided any mention of that little gold band, and for that, you’re grateful. You’d never delude yourself into forgetting it exists (well, not anymore. You’re wiser than that now, or at least you’d like to think you are), but it helps that he’s not rubbing it in your face. Almost.
But then he slips up and mentions the beach house that he and Katy bought.
You’re not listening anymore. You may as well not even be in the bar, because you’re back on that damn tour bus again, pressed up against Kris’ side in a bunk bed barely designed to fit one man, let alone two. His thumb’s stroking the inside of your wrist in that way that he knows soothes you, and he’s whispering things like, “When this is all over, and we’ve gotten through this, we’ll get a place by the beach. Just you and me and the white sands, the blue water, the long grass blowing in the breeze… our very own paradise where judging eyes can’t get us,” and fuck it all, your heart is still panging at the memory. It’s still raw, and dammit, you thought that was gone.
“The fuck are you trying to do to me?” You spit the words at him before your brain can tell you that this is probably a bad idea.
Ever the human emoticon, Kris’ surprise could be read by everyone in the bar. His neck flushes and if your stomach wasn’t churning so badly, you’d probably feel bad. “I - what? I’m not trying to do anything, man.”
No, because he’s Kris Allen, and Kris Allen never purposely tries to upset anyone. “We go a year and a half without speaking because it’s better for you, for your marriage, and then you drop in on me out of the blue and expect no hard feelings?” You can’t help but let a derisive little laugh slip out. “Come on, Kris, you’re not that stupid, I know you’re not.”
He’s shrugging and running a finger around the rim of his glass, eyes downcast. “I was just in town and I wanted to see you. Is that a crime?” There’s a bit of a pout in his voice, and that pisses you off. He’s not the fucking hurt party here.
“After you asked me to stay away? Yes, it’s a fucking crime. You can’t do that to someone.”
“You’re acting like you’re the only one that got hurt back then.”
“Oh, don’t you tell me it hurt you too. You had no problem going back to Katy and pretending like we… like I didn’t -”
“It wasn’t that simple.” When you’re mad, your voice gets louder, raises for the whole room to hear. His quiets right down, forces you to concentrate and feel every damn word. You always hated that.
“Oh, no, I’m sure it wasn’t.” And now your voice is mocking. “You got to go back to your cozy little life, with your cute little wife and your recording and your fucking beach house, and I got to put my heart back together again and try not to miss you every damn day!”
He finally looks you in the eyes, and now there’s a fire blazing there. “You think I haven’t missed you every fucking second since we said goodbye?” His voice is a whisper, barely more than a breath, and for once, you’re listening.
The bottom of your stomach drops out.
***
You get him up to your hotel room in ten minutes flat.
You push him down onto the bed, and yeah, okay, you know nothing’s really changed. He’s still married, and you don’t hate Katy. Honestly, she’s a sweet girl. And you two still have a myriad of problems that didn’t go away just because Kris admitted he still wants you. But he leans forward, grasping your t-shirt and pulling you down, and you kiss him. His tongue is against yours, his teeth scraping your bottom lip, and you tell yourself that you won’t care if it hurts in the morning.
His shirt is taken care of easily enough, tossed aside and forgotten, and yours joins his moments later. It’s like he’s never stopped working out, the muscles at his stomach hard, his biceps just strong enough to threaten that he could turn the tables and take control in a second if he felt like it. But you know he wouldn’t, because Kris always bottomed for you - he liked being a bit submissive most of the time, and as your tongue swirls against his, you pull a familiar moan from him and you know he wants this to be like it was back then.
You’re straddling him, hips pushed firmly down to keep him in place as your lips leave his. His insistent whine only spurs you on, your mouth licking across his jaw, descending down his neck. You’re searching, and there - yes, that’s it, that’s the whimper you remember - you lick the spot once, and then sink your teeth into the sensitive flesh.
He tenses and yelps, but you lave the bite mark with your tongue, paying special attention to the grooves, and the yelp turns to a low, long moan. He’d always liked this, being marked, claimed. Katy had never done that for him - didn’t want to hurt him. You did, because you knew how much he got off on it. Your teeth scrape across his shoulder and a garbled groan slips past his lips. Running over the same spot with your tongue, you can’t help but wonder with a smirk of satisfaction if that was a noise Katy had ever heard.
You pepper a few more nips across his shoulder, switching to the other and paying it similar attention. You find a particularly soft spot and latch your lips onto it, sucking at the skin. You know he’s going to have red marks all over him tomorrow, and you wish you could feel guilty. But you can feel him growing hard beneath you, and you find it impossibly difficult for you to worry about that at the moment.
His hips are still trapped beneath yours, but he’s starting to push up against you, insistent. Your left hand snakes down between you to palm his erection through his jeans, and when he whines, you smile against his warm skin.
You remove your hand and roll your hips down, rubbing against him. He’s starting to writhe a little bit, but you’re not done with him yet.
“Hold still,” you order in a whisper, your hands planting his arms against the mattress.
And then your mouth is moving again, across his neck and shoulders and chest, seeking out memories. Here on his collarbone - Portland, the first day of the tour - your teeth sink in, receiving a groan in return. Up by his ear - the night after top four performances, to help him de-stress… his left shoulder… below his ribs… San Jose… Pittsburgh… Manchester…
“Adam… fuck, please…”
You run your tongue over Vancouver one more time and then pull back, meeting his lust-filled eyes.
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Yes, god yes.” His hips rock up against you again, and that’s really all it takes.
You can’t remember the last time you’ve removed your pants this quickly, and his take only a second longer to be tossed to the floor. And then he’s naked and hard against you, pressing up insistently, but you need to take a second and just… look. You run your eyes over his tanned skin, his flushed face, his hairline dotted with sweat, and you just know. This is how it’s supposed to be.
He’s impatient, swatting away your hand when you try to prepare him. He shakes off your incredulous look, because surely he hasn’t done this in ages. “It’s fine,” he says, proving that he hasn’t lost the talent for reading your mind. “Just do it.”
You want to look away from the pain that crosses his face when you press into him. Your hips almost still, but his hands are there, guiding you forward, and if this is really what he wants, you’ll give it to him. Your mouth comes down to seal over his as your hips move, exploring his mouth and finding that you still remember every inch of it. He’s moving against you, hips pressing up, and for a few seconds it’s awkward and out of practice. But you soon sink into it, rocking against one another, and it’s hard and hot and fast and so much better than you ever remembered.
He breaks the kiss to breathe, exhaling on a long moan, and you take the opportunity to attach your lips to his neck, sucking once more. He’s whining again, the pitch rising the more you move your hips. You reach a hand down to pump him, and his thighs begin to tremble.
“I missed you,” he keens, and you gasp for breath.
“Don’t leave me.” In any other state, you never would have asked. But he’s tight around you and he’s moaning and it’s good, so good. Better than it ever was. You move your mouth again to nip at his collarbone, and -
“Okay,” he gasps out, hips pressing up into yours more insistently. “Okay. Okay.”
He’s repeating it like a mantra as he comes in hot spurts between you. Your forehead sinks into his shoulder, and one, two more thrusts and you’re there too, coming with a long moan.
Once you catch your breath, you pull out and curl up next to him, smiling a little in relief when a soft, content murmur leaves his lips as he presses his face into your shoulder. Neither of you have the energy to discuss what he’s just agreed to - the magnitude of what he’s just agreed to - and instead you settle for sleep. As you’re drifting off, you feel Kris’ hand find yours, his thumb stroking the inside of your wrist once more.
***
You wake up in the morning to an empty bed and an awful feeling in the pit of your stomach.
There’s only one set of clothes on the bedroom floor - yours. And the lack of Converse by the front door dashes any hope that Kris is hiding in the kitchen making breakfast for two.
So when you find the note stuck to the bathroom mirror, you’re not even surprised. You just hate yourself for letting this happen all over again.
'I can’t.'
end.