Title: Dirty Blues II (B-Side)
Author: Leela (leela_cat)
Pairing/Characters: Tommy, Adam
Rating: R
Word Count: 9x100
Content/Warning(s): None
Author's notes: Written for glam_100, prompt #073: rhythm 'n booze Many thanks to aislinntlc and florida_minxie for the preread.

The lyrics are from John Lee Hooker's version of Crawlin' Man Blues.


The music greets Brian as he steps off the elevator. The bass line thumps in his chest. The guitar riffs tug at his heart. The rise and fall of the keys get his fingers tapping his thigh.

"Welcome home," he mutters as he slots his key into the door.

There's a bottle and a pair of glasses on the table. The living room's lit by streetlight, the flames in the fireplace, and the multi-colored LEDs that decorate the speakers of his stereo and blink in time to the beat.

John Lee Hooker's voice interrupts Brian before he can say anything.

*

"You know I'm a crawlin' king snake, baby—"

Brian smiles as he sees a shift in the shadows by the windows. Shrugging his overnight bag off his shoulder, he lets it and his jacket drop to the floor. The thud they make is lost beneath the beat.

Watching, waiting, he toes off his shoes and socks.

A flash of red neon from across the street catches in blond hair, and Brian smiles. "Hey, baby," he whispers, not loud enough to be heard over the music. "Did you miss me?"

The only response is Hooker singing, "And I rules my den—"

*

Hips moving to the music, Brian saunters over to the window. He sings along with Hooker, his voice almost a growl.

"You know I'm a crawlin' king snake, baby—"

When he gets close, Tommy moves out into the faint light. Tommy's fingers are working the air, playing an invisible guitar.

"And I rules my den—"

Brian breathes the words onto Tommy's skin, licks them from his mouth, bites them into his lips, and Tommy bites, licks, sucks them back. He's warm in Brian's arms, tasting of red wine and home, solidly real and grounding after the crazy, turbulence-filled cross-country flight.

*

"I don't want you hangin' around my mate—"

Brian splays his fingers wide and slides his hands down Tommy's back. He presses a leg between Tommy's, pulls Tommy close to him, and grinds against him slowly, matching the backbeat. Heat sizzles up Brian's spine.

His incoherent curse lost in the dirty slide of a guitar riff, Tommy grips Brian's hips and drags him even closer. There's barely a molecule of air between them, just the way Brian wants it.

"Wanna use her for myself."

Mouth against the shell of Tommy's ear, Brian repeats the line, "Wanna use him for myself."

*

Hooker keeps on singing. Brian growls the harmony, low and filthy. He dances to the music, rocking, sliding, rolling his hips. Tommy's riding Brian's thigh. Brian's dick is rubbing against Tommy.

Then Tommy's lips part on a breath, and his head goes back, exposing the arch of his neck. Suddenly it's nowhere near enough for Brian. It's been weeks since he was home, and he needs to get his mark back on his boy.

With a nip at Tommy's earlobe, Brian backs up a step. Tommy's eyes go wide, and Brian shakes his head, bites a kiss onto his lips.

*

"You know I'm gon' crawl up to your window, baby—"

Brian spins Tommy around, smiling when Tommy just goes with it, and he pushes Tommy up against the window.

It's dark inside, bright outside. No one can see as Tommy presses his hands against the glass to brace himself. No one can see as Brian slides a hand over Tommy's belly and pushes the loose, worn sweatpants off Tommy's narrow hips and down.

No one can see the rush of want-fuck-need that overwhelms Brian when he realizes that Tommy's not wearing underwear, that his dick is right the fuck there.

*

"Wanna crawl up to your door—"

Tommy's dick is hot and hard in Brian's hand. He squeezes, once, tugs lightly, and Tommy groans, pushes up into Brian's grip.

Opening his jeans one-handed, shoving them and his briefs down, Brian slides into place behind Tommy. He lines his dick up with the cleft of Tommy's ass, and he rubs up against him.

"Fuck." It's barely a word in Tommy's mouth, little more than a gasp of air.

In answer, Brian sucks a mark just below Tommy's ear and breathes the next line against his skin.

"You got anything I want, baby—"

*

Tommy's answer is a rough, dry thrust into the circle of Brian's hand and a rock back against Brian.

Sliding his hand up Tommy's dick, Brian lets precome slick his hand for the ride down. He repeats it, over and over, jacking Tommy to the music, to the slowest of slow rhythms.

For himself, though, Brian wants the dryness, wants to feel the skin of Tommy's ass dragging and pulling against his dick with each roll of his hips.

Neon flashes red, not quite matching the beat, as heat gathers in Brian's balls, as Tommy's dick hardens in his grip.

*

"I'm just gonna keep on crawlin' now, baby—"

"Yeah," tumbles out of Tommy's mouth. "God... just... fuck."

Brian speeds up, catches the mid-beat, and Tommy sags forward, rests his forehead against the glass.

That moves him too far away, so Brian crowds in, presses closer. He curves his free hand around Tommy's throat, angling his head, exposing his neck.

And as he comes, as his hands tighten, around Tommy's dick and throat, as Tommy curses out his orgasm, Brian digs his teeth into the curve of Tommy's neck.

"Because I'm a crawlin' king snake, baby, and I rules my den."


.