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Fic: If Blood and Love Taste So Sweet - Adam/Tommy

Fic: If Blood and Love Taste So Sweet - Adam/Tommy

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For [personal profile] wynkat, who asked for deliciously delicious deliciousness. :d

If Blood and Love Taste So Sweet
Glamdom. Adam Lambert/Tommy Joe Ratliff. NC-17. ~2400 words. Blade/bloodplay.
He wants to wear Adam's mark like ink but deeper, carved into flesh the way Adam's carved into his heart.


If Blood and Love Taste So Sweet

For days, weeks and months after, Tommy couldn't stop touching. The first day, Adam caught him peeling the bandage away to finger the wounds, heat in Adam's eyes even as he carefully flattened the gauze back out, used fresh tape to secure it in place on Tommy's hip. Then, when they became a neat line of seven scabs rough beneath his fingertips, Adam would hold his hand and trace along with him, press in slowly to make them ache and kiss him the whole time. He got Tommy off like that twice, nothing but pressure and memories and whispered praises.

Now the wounds are neat, tidy scars, straight lines of white slightly raised like Braille on his belly, and Adam is kissing them again. The sharp smell of the antiseptic open on the bathroom counter is some sort of fucked up aphrodisiac, thick in Tommy's lungs and crawling through his insides, nesting down low. The floor's hard beneath the bundle of towels he's spread out on, Adam between his legs, shirtless, and the overhead light is bright, harsh. His moans echo off the tile as Adam sucks, drawing blood even closer to the surface beneath his scars.

"Be still for me," Adam says, a lighter, gentler kiss pressed below his bellybutton.

"Sorry." Tommy twists the old tee shirt bundled up in his hands tighter. They'd thought about cuffs for this, but those felt too scripted when Adam had started buckling them on, too much like Adam's making Tommy take this instead of the other way around. The shirt is better. Softer, more give, Adam's cologne still clinging to the cotton.

"Don't apologise," Adam says, and reaches for the antiseptic. He generously douses a cotton pad with it and scrubs his kiss from Tommy's skin, getting ready to give him a deeper, longer-lasting one. The blade they've found for this is an old straight-razor finely honed back to a gleaming edge, a square point to fit their purpose. Adam wanted something deadly-sharp and easy to control; Tommy wanted something innocuous sitting out in plain sight, never hidden away. "Just be still."

The antiseptic is chill, almost stinging after Adam's hot mouth. Tommy breathes in slowly, holds it for a count of five, releases. Adam smiles, digging out a fresh pad for his fingers and one for the razor. It gleams dangerously in unforgiving light. Adam sets the razor's edge to the first pale scar in the set of seven, drags along it once so lightly Tommy's skin barely pinks.

"Ready," Tommy says, and makes sure his hold on the shirt is solid, breathes in again and holds it.

Like the first time they did this, the pressure registers, then the hot sting, the mellow burn as blood wells to the surface in a perfect straight line obscuring the first of Tommy's scars. The air in his lungs leaks free in a quiet groan, his cock resting thick and leaking above the crook of his thigh.

"Good?" Adam asks, hand skimming close to the wound, wanting to touch while knowing better. "Another?"

No hesitation, Tommy says, "All of 'em." He wants to wear Adam's mark like ink but deeper, carved into flesh the way Adam's carved into his heart.

Expecting Adam to be the one hesitating, Tommy only has a grateful moan when he says instead, "Tell me if you need a break."

Not when, but if. Last time, Adam needed a moment to steady his hands between cuts. To make certain Tommy was alright, wanting to be sure Tommy was still there with him. Like everything Adam does--singing, stage choreography, friendship--he sticks with it until he gets it right. That's when he really starts working, making it better, making it perfect, so the next time the blade kisses Tommy's skin, it's sharp-hot-gorgeous curling Tommy's toes, his whole body clenching up for a split-second before he relaxes, breathes again.

Rubbing close to the twin wounds, Adam says, "You love this."

Biting his lip as the razor comes back for a third pass, Tommy nods carefully. Tiny little firecrackers, like the ones he set off after dark in the middle of the park when he was a little shit making trouble, burst beneath the shallow cut. He arches up on instinct, barely catching Adam's hiss as the razor's yanked away from the tender skin of his belly.

"Sorry," Tommy gasps before Adam can tell him to settle down or that's it, they're done, "sorry, s'fucking good, won't do it again."

"No you won't." Like the blade in the light, determination glints in Adam's eyes as he pushes Tommy's knees back down, swings his leg over one thigh and taps the other with the razor's handle. "Together."

Tommy groans a curse and closes his legs, groans another as Adam sits down on them. More than he ever has while cuffed and roped, he feels pinned down and weirdly, startlingly safe when Adam bringing the razor back. The cutting edge grazes along his side, his hip, a thin trail of red smeared across his belly to where four more scars wait. Dropping his hands above his head, shirt stretched taut between his fists, Tommy closes his eyes and waits.

The razor finds the next scar down. One pass, another, both without the bite of skin slashed, cranks up the anticipation swimming in Tommy's blood until it hits the low, steady whine of an electric current. The strain of keeping still, waiting for it, is killing him. His fingers ache clamped around the shirt, seams straining as he fights the urge to grab onto Adam's arm, make the razor slice into skin. He made that mistake last time. There's a tiny hitch in one of his scars because of it, barely noticeable. Adam's panicked yelp cut deeper than the razor ever could.

"So good, baby," Adam says, and finally the blade cuts in, swift and sure, then another quick swipe after it before the first has mellowed, two fresh lines of blood stark against pale skin. Only two left. Just two. The razor comes back again, ready. "Can you handle it if I go slow?"

"Oh fuck, please." Tommy wouldn't have asked. He wouldn't. Getting Adam this far had been so much already. Even with his eyes closed it feels like the room is spinning, world shifting out of time to leave them suspended here.

"Don't move," Adam warns. "Don't even breathe."

"Please," Tommy says, breath catching in his throat, lungs half-full.

Slowly, so slowly Tommy swears he can feel skin parting like the teeth on a zipper, Adam cuts into him. Before the sting fades the burn flares, making it worse, better, pure endorphins flooding his veins. It crests in waves, close to mellowing when Adam sets the razor to flesh again, cuts along the last and final scar slower still. Tommy can't move, caught in a delicate web, savouring it, and the only way he's ever going to breathe again is when Adam tells him to.

"Done," Adam says softly, and Tommy's stale breath whooshes free. He gulps down more, heady and thrilling scented with his blood, and looks down to where the seven red lines are blurred on his belly. Blinking his eyes back into focus, he misses Adam going for the antiseptic again, catching only the medical-spike of it in the air seconds before Adam's wet palm presses to his side, blood smeared beneath it.

"Holy shit," Tommy hisses, twisting against the hold Adam has on his wrist. It's not antiseptic at all but the shocking bubbly fizz of peroxide on Adam's hand. It doesn't hurt, not any more than having raw skin touched usually does, but it's fucked up and weird and when Adam rubs a little, really fucking fucked up. "Gotta fuck me now. Christ, Adam, gotta do it now."

Adam says, "Up," easing off far enough for Tommy to scramble up onto his knees, spread his legs wide. He's so focused on holding the crumpled shirt he forgets he doesn't have to anymore, he could reach back, show Adam where he's still shiny and wet from Adam fingering him out in the bedroom. "Do you need-"

"No, fuck, no, I'm loose enough, c'mon." At the snick of Adam's zip, Tommy twists around, watches him pull his cock out one-handed, adding only a bit of spit for extra slick. "Fuck, yeah, c'mon, fucking gorgeous dick. Put it in me."

"You and your fucking dirty talk," Adam says, fitting the head of his cock to Tommy's hole, pushing in a fraction to wedge him open and no more. "Drives me crazy."

Tommy gasps, "I know, fuck, I know," shaky smile clinging to the corners of his mouth. "Love it when you do me raw. Feels like you're gonna shoot in me so deep you're gonna fuck me awake the next day on it."

"Fucking porno," Adam says, the start of a laugh flipping over to a rougher noise as he forces his way inside, sweet tiny fucks of his hips getting him a little deeper, a little more. Tommy's not loose enough for it at all but he's plenty wet, and willing, so fucking willing to take Adam's dick inch by slow inch if that's the way Adam's gonna play it. It feels so fucking good getting screwed open that Tommy wants to cry. Maybe, though, that's the pain talking, Adam's fingers on the cuts on his belly and gently digging in. He's sure, so fucking sure, it's an accident until Adam says, "You like that?" nails scraping over fresh-made cuts shocking a startled noise out of Tommy's throat.

Tommy hits the floor on his elbows, moans so loud he flushes red when the noises echos back at him. "Fuck," he spits, head bowed, shuddering as Adam's hand clamps to the back of his neck holding him down, the other still on his side, stroking gently now over his opened scars. "Jerk me off, Adam, please fucking jerk me, wanna come so bad."

"Wait for it, baby," Adam tells him, all short, sharp thrusts as he fucks in, out, in again so far Tommy chokes. Tommy can't fucking believe what his body is telling him, so he turns his head, blinks at the mirror on the far side of the room until the hazy outlines resolve into him almost bent double beneath Adam's solid weight, elbows tucked to his chest and spine in an arch so sharp it should be killing him, but all he can feel is Adam's fingers on his side, Adam's dick in his ass, Adam's voice crawling under his skin on all the dirty, filthy praises in the world, telling him he's so good, so tight, squirm if he wants, all he wants, Adam's not letting him go.

Next thing Tommy knows Adam's jacking him and he's in the middle of coming so fucking hard he can't breathe. Like there's no air left in the world let alone this fucking room, and he's trying to gulp down great big mouthfuls of it anyway, gasping so hard his chest aches, whole universes imploding inside the cage of his ribs.

When he goes down, all the way down, Adam rides along, pins him to the come-soaked towel and keeps fucking him, sparking a steady humming thrum of too-much all along Tommy's nerves. He tries gasping for Adam to wait, give him a second, and all that comes out is a hitched and broken whine. He gives up trying and just takes it, teeth grit, not at all ready for when it slinks back over to not enough, he wants more. Maybe he wants it to never stop. When Adam's rhythm goes sloppy, brutal hard snap of hips, that's exactly what he starts begging Adam to do, don't stop, just a little more, never fucking stop. Grabbing onto the shirt still twisted between Tommy's hands, Adam yanks it out from under him, stretches him all the way out because he won't let go, can't. Adam is heavy on top of him, a fucking ton crushing him down, and he loves it, it feels so fucking good, amazing, he could blissfully pass out right here and now and sleep the whole fucking night away.

"Tommy," Adam says, muffled and hazy. "Fuck, Tommy."

"M'okay," Tommy mumbles, too much effort to lift his head, even open his eyes. "Oh fuck, Adam."

Gentle hands comb sweaty hair back from Tommy's face. "Roll over, baby. Let me get a look at you."

"Can't," Tommy says, and he really honestly fucking can't, but Adam's insistent hands are all over the place urging him onto his back. He flops over, half on the towels, half on the shocking-cold tile, muttering a pained complaint when Adam pries the crumpled tee from his grip. His hands are going to be aching worse than the rest of him in the morning. He's so fucking glad there's no practice or a show or fucking anything tomorrow. He'll be lucky if he can hold his toothbrush.

"Easy," Adam warns, a few seconds delayed as he wipes a warm, clean cloth over Tommy's stomach. "You okay for a minute if I clean these?"

"Peachy fucking keen." Lazily stretching out again, Tommy watches through heavy-lidded eyes as Adam kneels up to wash his hands, softening cock thick between his legs. He can't remember Adam coming but he must've; he's moving with the same slow satisfaction he always has after a really good fuck. The antiseptic is cold on Tommy's wounds, a welcome relief from the stinging burn, and the ointment Adam spreads over them afterwards quickly numbs the worst of it. As Adam smooths a fresh bandage over them, he says, "Gonna scar pretty good."

"I don't think I tore them," Adam says, not looking up as he snips off more tape. "Should be okay."

"Hey. Hey," Tommy says, nudging Adam's leg with his toes until Adam risks a glance his way. "That was fucking perfect, okay? The marks don't have to be."

Bandage taped securely down, Adam runs his fingers around it, gently over it. There's blood still caught beneath one of his nails, startling to see when they're unpainted for once. "I didn't mean to fuck you so hard."

"Glad you did." And Tommy is. So fucking glad Adam got into it so much he forgot himself, just fucking went for it. He bumps Adam's leg again. "'Cause sometimes, that's the kinda shit I like. Gonna give me a kiss?"

Smiling, Adam crawls up, gives him one soft and slow and lingering, probably trying to make up for the aches and pains Tommy's never going to complain about. Not as long as Adam's okay with lugging his exhausted ass off to bed.

Adam laughs straight into Tommy's mouth. "I guess I can do that."

"Awesome," Tommy sighs, slinging both arms lazily around Adam's shoulders, "kiss me some more."


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