tfh smut

Jan. 3rd, 2017 07:15 pm
britomarts: (boys)
[personal profile] britomarts
this is uh shameless poorly written smut but you guys Asked For It so here's an adansey sex scene from the tattoos for homes universe that i wrote while trying to hit my nanowrimo word count last year. 

Gansey could never get enough of Adam’s hands. It was a cliche—falling in love with an artist’s hands—but Gansey’s life was made up of cliches. There was no use in denying their effectiveness now, not when Adam could tear him to pieces with such simple touches. 


It had been going on all morning—Adam’s hand brushing lightly over his when Gansey showed him a new design, Adam’s hand finding the sensitive place between Gansey’s neck and his shoulder, his thumb pressing lightly into Gansey’s pulse point, Adam’s hands touching his hip to reposition him. It was all rather unnecessary, and the slight smirk on Adam’s face made Gansey sure that he knew exactly what he was doing. If the smirk hadn’t been enough, the way that Adam had inched a hand up Gansey’s thigh under the table an hour ago, never quite going high enough, would have told Gansey everything he needed to know about the situation.


Blue and Adam teased him for being so sensitive to touch, so quick to find them maddeningly attractive, but Gansey couldn’t help it—the two of them were achingly beautiful, to the point where Gansey was constantly waiting to wake up. There was not a world in which he deserved either of them separately, let alone the two of them together. There was not a world in which it made sense for Adam and Blue to find room in their lives for him. And yet, more often than not, they were looking to him.


Adam had been touching Gansey the whole day, subtle things meant to distract and tease him, meant to get Gansey flushed and thinking about where else those hands could be. And then he would turn back to his client, or his sketches, or his lunch, and leave Gansey wanting. Now, Adam’s hands were free, and they were alone in the apartment, and he was still not touching Gansey, which Gansey took as a bit of a personal affront. “Adam,” he said, keeping the whine out of voice by sheer force of will. 


“Yes?” Adam asked. He was the picture of innocence, all wide eyes and raised eyebrows, but Gansey could see the smirk threatening to pull up the corners of his mouth. 


Gansey huffed an aggravated sigh and grabbed Adam lightly by the wrist, pulling him into the bedroom and kicking the door shut behind him. He leaned against the door, glaring up at Adam. Adam stood a few paces away, looking deliriously handsome in his jeans and his white t-shirt, with his hands in his pockets and his posture easy. “Touch me,” he said. 


Adam’s eyebrows raised, the smirk unfolding completely. He rolled his shoulders, easy and beautiful, and peered out the window. “We should wait until Blue gets back,” he said, tone casual. 


Blue was driving home from her mother’s; it would be at least an hour until she was home. Gansey had been waiting all day; he was not going to wait another hour.


Gansey’s head hit the back of the door with an audible thunk. “Adam,” he said.


“That’s not very convincing, Gansey,” Adam said.


Gansey tugged his shirt up over his head, only briefly becoming tangled up with his glasses, and threw it at Adam. “Okay, well,” he said, undoing his belt. “I’m going to have an orgasm. Feel free to join in when it suits you.”


For a moment, Gansey thought that Adam would call him on his bluff, make him stand there and get himself started while Adam watched, and the idea of it left him flushed halfway down his chest.


Adam crossed the room in a few strides. He gently pinned Gansey back against the door by the hips with one hand and gripped his chin with the other, lifting Gansey’s face up so that he could kiss him. The kiss was searing, filled with the want and need that Gansey had felt all afternoon. Adam bit Gansey’s bottom lip as he shifted his other hand, scratching Gansey’s side. Gansey gasped, rocking his hips forward, but Adam moved back to keep him from getting the friction he so desperately needed.


“Bed,” Adam said, nodding toward it. “C’mon.” He slipped a finger through one of Gansey’s belt loops, purposely keeping his hand from brushing against Gansey in a more helpful manner, and tugged him forward until Gansey got the hint. Gansey stumbled forward to the bed, letting his belt fall to the floor, and climbed up, relieved when Adam put a hand to the center of his chest and pushed him back against the array of pillows and blankets. 


Adam was on him in a moment, straddling Gansey’s hips and sucking at his neck. Gansey clutched at whatever his hands could find—a fistful of Adam’s shirt, and the back of his neck—and let out a moan as Adam bit down on his neck, just hard enough to be painful without breaking the skin. Gansey pushed his hips up, and Adam put a hand to his stomach, holding him down. Gansey would never be able to explain just what it did to him for Adam to touch him like this—Adam was only a matter of inches taller than him, but that was still more than enough when it came to pushing Gansey around.


Adam bit and sucked his way across Gansey’s neck and torso, drawing an embarrassing amount of noise from Gansey. Gansey’s jeans were painfully tight, now, and he couldn’t stop shifting his hips, pushing up into the friction provided by his cotton and denim prison. It didn’t take long for Adam to catch on to what Gansey was doing, and he sat back, still not touching him. Gansey let out an aggrieved noise. “Come back,” he said.


“Nope,” Adam said. “I think you’re doing just fine on your own, there.” And then he pulled his phone from his back pocket, leaving Gansey gaping in outrage. Gansey scrubbed his hands over his face, and let them drop, breathing heavily and staring at Adam. It wasn’t like he’d never touched himself before—but he’d never done so with an audience, especially an intentional one, one that should be doing this for him. 


He let his hand trail down his own chest, the sensation not electrifying as it was when Adam did the same. He remembered the old wive’s tale about people not being able to tickle themselves because they could always sense what was coming—it was the sudden, unpredictable nature of Adam’s touch that always set him ablaze. Adam glanced at him over the top of the phone, the light casting him with fluorescent brights and deep shadows, and Gansey grit his teeth.


He reached the button of his jeans and popped it, noting the way Adam’s eyes followed his hand. Maybe, he could get back a little control of the situation. (He wasn’t sure that control of the situation was what he even wanted, honestly.) He unzipped the jeans slowly, and looked up at Adam through his lashes. “I can do the rest,” he said, letting a bit of the raggedness he felt come out. “But get my jeans off.” 

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