fic: Peeping Tom [Adam Lambert]
[re-posted and edited from aianonlovefest]
Tommy freezes the moment he hears the door handle turn. There's a rustling as Adam enters the hotel room and closes the door behind him. Thinking fast, Tommy reaches for the edge of the closet door and swings it in toward him, just shy of clicking shut. He's not-so-soundly sealed inside.
He crouches there, trying to breathe as quietly as possible, still clutching Adam's camera. Giggles are bubbling up in his chest, and he debates whether to give himself up -- maybe burst out of the closet and spook Adam? -- or hold out long enough for Adam to leave so he can finally delete those goddamn photos of him puking all over Monte's shoes (and the sidewalk, and hell, the bathroom sink) from last night. He decides to go for a scare; he can always get the pictures later and the look on Adam's face is sure to be well worth the delay.
Adam enters Tommy's line of sight from the crack between the closet doors and pads around the room, throwing his jacket down and dropping off his bag. Tommy reaches out, getting ready to spring out in the most terrifying way possible -- he wants a legitimate shriek from Adam, maybe some pissed pants, if possible -- when Adam pulls his shirt up over his head and throws it on the bed. Tommy's hand stills. Huh. Adam kicks off his shoes next, and then he's flicking open his belt and pushing his pants, along with his briefs, down to the ankles and stepping out of them. Tommy can feel his eyes go wide, and, wow, now would be a really good time to make his presence known; it's not too late. He's probably have some explaining to do, but it won't be as creeptastic as he knows it will get if he lingers longer. But he feels rooted to the spot; frozen.
Adam's circling the room now, grabbing shampoo from his luggage and a pair of slippers, naked. Adam. Naked. Tommy's eyes shoot to his crotch, and there it is, his dick. Just there. Tommy tries not to be overly impressed, for a number of reasons. And he's surprised but not surprised to find that Adam's pubes are actually fair and coppery colored, coiled tight and soft around the base of his dick. Adam scratches his ribs and fluffs up his hair and pets his cock a little, idly, rubbing it fuller. Tommy tries to slow his quickening breath down to a crawl as his fingers tighten painfully around the camera. This has kind spun out of control, and it's happened really fast. Is it too late to give it up now? Tommy watches as Adam walks away, bare ass right fucking there, and, yeah, too late.
Adam leaves the door to the bathroom wide open. And honestly, why would he close it? He thinks he's alone. No one's supposed to be hiding in the corner, spying on him like some fucked up weirdo, Tommy's mind unhelpfully supplies. He decides that the right thing to do would be to look away. He turns his head and quietly, quietly, backs further into the corner, not allowing himself a view any longer. This is the high road and you can bet he's going to take it. He's going to be decent, for a change. When Adam finishes and leaves the room, Tommy is going to get the fuck out of here and never speak of this to a soul.
But Adam takes his time, and the water doesn't run, and eventually Tommy grows nervous. What's he doing? Does he sense something strange? His curiosity wins out. He positions himself back in front of his veritable peephole and peers out, cautious and guilty and mind-bendingly nervous.
Adam's standing in front of the bathroom mirror, playing with his hair and examining his reflection. He's completely unaware, completely relaxed, and Tommy's never seen Adam preen and assess his own appearance so overtly, although he always knew that Adam must have.
He allows himself to really look at Adam. He's completely covered in freckles. His shoulders and arms are more built than Tommy expected them to be, and his thighs are leaner, more cut. He's a touch soft in the middle, and Tommy grins because Adam's always going on about losing his gut, but really, it's not a gut at all.
Then his eyes are drawn once more, treacherously and inexorably, back down to Adam's cock. Tommy swallows unconsciously and finds his throat a little dry. This is so fucking awkward. He feels so goddamn creepy and his cheeks burn a little because Adam is the nicest, coolest guy in the world and he doesn't deserve to have someone violate his privacy like this. Tommy's pretty sure he's in major violation of every friend and man code in existence. Plus this is just super fucking gay.
'Homolicious', as his friend Lushes would say.
And yet, he can't stop looking.
Adam's practicing posing now. He pulls some faces, cocks his hip and switches weight from one leg to the other, mouthing lyrics to some silent song and holding an invisible mic to his mouth. He lowers his gaze to the mirror, pouts his lips, raises his brow and gives one of the most coquettish Elvis impressions Tommy's ever seen. Tommy grins a little, despite himself. It's just so Adam.
But that doesn't stop Tommy's heart from trying to beat out of his chest. He can hear it. He's nervous and uncomfortable and his pulse is really starting to race. His hands are clammy and there are sweat prints on the camera screen by now, no doubt.
Adam finally turns on the water on and jumps into the shower. And goddamn, it's one of those floor-to-ceiling clear glass stalls. Once he's inside, the water immediately soaks his hair, darkening and flattening it against his face. He moves an arm and some water sprays against the glass, fans out and runs down in this shimmery blur, veiling Adam's fair, flesh-colored skin behind it. It's like a scene from Spice channel. Tommy's dick perks up, just a little, and he's aghast. No fucking way.
Adam soaps himself up, touching everywhere, and the clouds of soap suds drift down his body and dissolve at his feet like butter. His hair clings wetly to the back of his neck and his back and ass and legs are shiny with running water. Clumps of white bubbles caress the curve of his ass.
Tommy rests a hand on the front of his pants. It feels really hot and kind of damp down there. He refuses to touch himself. Refuses. He feels really, really trapped.
Then Adam turns around, and bam, Tommy gets a picture perfect, full-frontal view of Adam stark naked. His cock is flaccid but it hangs long and thick between his wet thighs. He's got his legs apart, long muscles in his thighs flexing,and Tommy can see the hang of his balls. His hands are in his hair, shampooing, and he tilts his head back to catch some water in his open mouth.
And that's the last of it, the last thing that happens before Tommy goes from mildly, weirdly interested into popping a full-on, legitimate hard-on. It turns his stomach and the hairs on his neck stand on end but he can't see past the aching strain of the tent in his pants.
He clenches on the Oh my God behind his teeth, incredulous.
He balls his fists and rubs them against the tops of his knees, trying to smooth out his pants, flatten his erection, anything. He closes his eyes and wills his dick to relax, thinks of dead puppies and baseball and grandmas, but the image of Adam soaked shiny and completely, vulnerably oblivious keeps skirting back. He waits long minutes, trying to outlast his throbbing dick. It doesn't work.
He gives into it.
Without looking away from Adam, eyes perfectly trained on his slippery wet form, gently blurred behind the fogging, watery glass, Tommy unzips, reaches into his pants and grabs himself.
The relief is so immediate and powerful that he almost whimpers, but clenches his jaw to keep silent. It feels so fucking good.
At first he just holds himself firm, feeling the damp weight and hardness of his own dick in his sweaty palm. This is about to get really fucked up, he knows this. He starts squeezing and wringing, and his whole body starts to clench and release along with it; everything feels so damn good -- illicit, private, nasty. The pleasure of his hand on his cock totally tears down the wall he built for his thoughts and they start to run away: he can see himself fisting his hands in that thick hair, or licking the water and soap out of Adam's ass crack, or feeling those puffy pink lips stretched around his dick, the shaft sliding wetly against his tongue again and again. The thoughts are all wrong, he knows this even as he thinks them, but they feel so delicious creeping up the inside of his brain, unwanted and gross and graphic, that it just makes him harder.
A tiny little moan escapes his lips, and he eases his legs further apart, closes his eyes and lets his head fall back. He really goes for it now, jacking hard and fast. The picture of Adam's naked body is bright in his mind and his dick feels heavier and wetter in his hand than it usually does. He's jacking himself off in a dark, dank little closet to images of his boss, his friend, in the shower; he's spying on him, and this is so fucking wrong and so fucking hot and he secretly secretly hopes that Adam finds him in here and kicks down the doors and backs him into the corner, rips off his pants, holds him down and slides that long, velvety soaped up cock--
Tommy comes in his hand, milky white spilling over and staining his pants, and the guilt is thick in the back of his throat, sour and bitter at the same time and mixing with the shivery, sated feelings spreading throughout the rest of his body.
He slumps against the wall, and still hearing the water running in the background, he lifts his hand to mouth and begins to lick.