Title: Shower Scum and Rotting Corpses: The Secret Life of Adam Lazzara
Pairing: Adam Lazzara (TBS)/John Nolan (SLR)
Rating: NC-17 for badly written boysex
Summary: Contrary to popular belief, Adam is not just any underpaid, overworked hotel maid. No. Secretly, he's Adam Lazzara, Protector of the Living, Sworn to Destroy Any and All Supernatural Forces That Threaten the Health and Safety of the Human Race. At least, that’s his official title...
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these people, and if zombies ever attack, I sincerely hope they aren't our last line of defense.
Warnings: Boysex. And talk of killing zombies.
Word Count: 2,932
Author's Notes: This was BETAed by the lovely frequencies. And, yes, after many months of lying dormant, I have decided to revive this story. I missed it too much! Updates will probably not be even remotely timely, but this chapter's been written since August, so I figured I should just post it and get it over with. Enjoy! Or, you know, something like that...
This chapter is for the fanfic100 prompt Lovers.
You step out of Jesse’s car, and wince as your shoe makes a sick squelching noise when the zombie guts coating the bottom of it collide with the pavement. John steps out of the passenger seat and wraps an arm around your shoulders. You sigh gustily and lean into him whining, “Johnny, today sucks.”
“Why does it suck, Laz?” he asks soothingly, leading you up to the front door of your condo.
“I’ve been up since 5, some idiot in room 417 overflowed his toilet and I had to clean it up, there was enough hair in one of the showers to make two full wigs, I found a naked zombie under a bed, I just bashed my manager’s head in, I’m dirty, I’m tired, I’m hungry, and all I want is a nap. Instead, we have to go back there and battle more evil. It’s not fai—”
“Oh, shut up, whiny,” Jesse interrupts.
“Just ignore him,” John coos into your ear as you snap your head around to glare at him.
“John, don’t encourage him,” Jesse says, poking him in the back. “And, listen, Mr. Whinypants, we all just had to fight those zombies, so I’d appreciate it if you’d just quit your bitching.”
“Oh, sorry,” you snap sarcastically, “I’d forgotten how taxing it is to be unemployed and sitting on your ass all day playing video games.”
John unlocks the front door and ushers you in, helping you out of your hairnet as you go.
Jesse turns an unusual shade of fuchsia and mumbles, “Not unemployed. Soul searching. Finding my true calling and whatnot.”
You roll your eyes and snort, “Whatever. If anyone wants me, I’ll be in my room taking this damn uniform off and possibly throwing myself out the window,” then storm off to your bedroom, undoing the clasp of your itchy pants as you go.
Jesse calls out after you, “You live in a one story condo, genius,” and, as you slam your door behind you, you can hear him and John bickering about whether playing Nintendo qualifies as soul searching or just plain laziness.
After grumpily kicking off your pants and hurling them into the hamper, you flop down on your bed and slowly unbutton your shirt. You stop midway through, and pull yourself into a sitting position, resting your forehead on your knees, willing away the tears of exhaustion and frustration that are starting to prick the insides of your eyelids.
You hate when Jesse gets like this. It’s not that you don’t love the boy to death, but he really has no idea what your life is like. He lives with John in an adorable little house his parents bought him so he’d finally move the fuck out and leave them in the relative peace of having only 6 children to take care of. And he doesn’t have to work either. The combination of John’s paychecks and his parents’ seemingly endless generosity keep him more than comfortable. If he had any idea what it’s like to work 10 hour days and come home to a shitty condo with a mailbox full of bills and evil to battle, he’d realize that, all things considered, you’re pretty much a saint. Besides, it’s not like you don’t already feel like crap for dragging him, for dragging all of them, into this shit. If you could do it alone, you’d be more than happy to. He doesn’t need to remind you of your inability to do your job by yourself.
You wipe away a solitary tear that’s managed to defy your awesome willpower and escape down your cheek, then move to finish unbuttoning your shirt.
As you’re undoing the last button, someone knocks softly on the door. You clear your throat and call out, “Come in.”
It swings open and John pokes his head in.
“Hey, Johnny,” you sigh.
“Have you been crying?” he asks, concerned, and walks in, closing the door behind him.
“A little,” you concede, tossing your soiled shirt on the ground.
“Aw, Adam, why?”
His voice is soothing and all you want to do is hold him forever and forget about this whole zombie thing, and when he sits down next to you and rubs your back, it’s all you can do to keep from burying your face in his neck and sobbing outright.
“Life sucks sometimes, John,” you sigh, leaning into him.
He kisses your cheek softly and nods, “Yeah, I bet it does. You work really hard.”
“I know! And Jesse’s such a little shit. Why did I have to choose such a dick for a best friend?”
“Come on, Adam, you know he means well. He just…” John pauses for a minute, presumably trying to figure out how to explain the enigma that is Jesse Lacey, “He doesn’t handle stress well. You know that. And he can’t stand seeing you so worn out. He’s just worried about you.”
“Well, he’s doing a shitty job of showing it,” you grumble.
“He’s just—you know how he is. He’s Jesse. He sucks at this stuff. But he really is worried. I’m worried. I’ve never seen you like this before, babe. You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” you snort, “I must say, Johnny, you really know how to make a guy feel special, you know that?”
He kisses your neck, laughing, “Oh come on, you know I always think you’re sexy. But you just look so tired. And you never wanna do anything but sleep anymore. We haven’t done more than kiss in a month! You used to be all over me, but you just don’t have the energy anymore. I understand and stuff, and I’m not like pressuring you or anything, but I just miss you.”
He’s right, of course. You are too tired to do anything, and whenever you have the energy you have to use it to battle the undead or clean out trashcans instead of ravishing your boyfriend like he deserves.
“I’m sorry, Johnny,” you sigh. He rubs your thigh gently and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s so close to you and you’re only wearing your underwear and he’s really pretty and… See? You’d be more than willing to get down and dirty with him right now, but you have to go fight a hotel full of zombies instead. It’s official. God hates you. And why is John’s hand creeping farther up your thigh? Oh, this is just not fair.
“Is that a flashlight in your boxers, or are you just happy to see me?” John teases, hand still moving up your leg.
You groan. “John, not fair. You’re taking advantage of me in my weakened state.”
“That’s how you like it,” he smirks, moving his hand to the top of your inner thigh, and massaging small circles into it with his thumb.
You whimper softly, torn between what you should do (namely, kill a hotel’s worth of zombies) and what you want to do (namely, John). “But, but, John, hotel…” you protest weakly, making a halfhearted attempt to bat his hand away.
He just shakes his head. “Adam, I know protecting mankind is important and all, but you need a break. Even if it’s just for an hour. You need a break, and I,” he pauses, removing his hand and straddling your waist all in one quick, smooth movement, “need you, Mr. Lazzara. I need me some Adam Lovin’, and, by god, I’m gonna get it.”
You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re utterly insane, you know that?”
He smiles down at you again, but now there’s a sort of hungry look in his eyes, and when he speaks his voice is low and husky. “It’s your fault. You just drive me crazy.” He licks his lips quickly, then leans in and kisses you passionately.
It’s right about then that any desire to make fun of his blatant cheesiness dies, consumed by the sheer force of the kiss. You close your eyes and open your mouth, and it’s almost obscene, the way your tongues lap against each other. And somewhere around the time he starts sucking on your tongue and moving his hips down into yours, you decide that, really, the zombies can wait. You’re sure the human race is self-sufficient enough to fight off the undead for a little bit without you. At the very least, they will have seen the damned Buffy show, so they’ll know to go for the brains. You have plenty of time to—“Oh god, John…”
He’s moved from your mouth and is currently sucking on the side of your neck with such fervor that you can feel the hickey forming, while simultaneously rocking his hips down into yours in a way that should make it perfectly clear that your boxers are completely flashlight-free.
You push his shirt up his back, digging your nails into his skin as he nips at the sensitive skin behind your ear. He raises his arms and you pull the thin (somewhat gory) fabric over his head, tossing it to the side, and scoot back on the bed, pulling him with you. He pushes you onto your back and climbs on top of you, spreading your legs with one hand and positioning himself between them. You take the hint and wrap your ankles around his calves, pushing your hips up into his and grinding against them. You hear his breath catch, and it’s pretty much the hottest thing ever, so you grind up into him again, and why in god’s name is he still wearing his pants?
He seems to be thinking pretty much the same thing, because, as he leans down to capture your lips with his, his hands trail down your body and move to the clasp of his jeans. He undoes them with one hand, and you fight to keep your eyes open as he tugs them off, all the while kissing you over and over again until your lips are swollen and red.
You pull your mouth away from his, chest heaving as you gasp for air. “Shit, Johnny, why has it been so long?”
He grinds down into you, rubbing the growing bulge in his boxers against your more developed erection, and you moan out loud as he chokes out, “I have no fucking clue.”
You wrap your legs back around his, and he pushes his hips down into yours again, planting his forearms on either side of your head. You lick your lips and rub up against him in time with his movements down into you. He kisses you almost roughly, biting at your lips, and makes these amazing breathy whimpering noises, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut tight to remind yourself that you’re not in high school anymore, and that coming right now, before you’ve even really started, is not okay. But damn, it’s hard to remember when he moves his kisses from your mouth to your neck and nips at that spot by your ear that he knows makes you go crazy.
“Shit, John, seriously, I—you—zombies…”
He just makes shh-ing noises against your neck and moves down into you more forcefully, making your eyes roll back in your head in ecstasy as you let out a horribly unattractive squeaky whimper.
“I want you, Adam,” he mumbles into your ear. “I want you so bad.”
You move your hips up into his and pant, “Fuck me. Now.”
He responds by tugging your boxers off your hips and down your legs, then shimmies out of his, sitting up and straddling your waist. He wraps his hand around your erection and starts to pump you slowly, giving you a crooked grin. You gasp and buck up into his hand. “Johnny, please,” you moan, wrapping your hand around him and loosely mirroring his movements on you, twisting your wrist on the down stroke, and squeezing lightly before moving back up again.
He pants softly and nods, taking his hand off of you. “Condoms”
You keep stroking him and nod in the direction of your nightstand. “Drawer. You should know that by now.”
He grins down at you, “Well, you know, it has been a while.”
You glare at him and bite his shoulder a little roughly. “John, really, you’re about to get some for the first time in weeks. If I were you I wouldn’t try my luck.”
He laughs and shrugs, “I think I’ll take my chances.”
“You would,” you mutter under your breath, trailing your spare hand up and down his back.
He winks at you and grins again. “I like to live dangerously.”
You roll your eyes and nibble at his earlobe. “Well, Mr. Daredevil,” you whisper, “if you don’t get a move on, you might be living dangerously by fighting zombies with blue balls, because I’m getting impatient.”
“Patience is a virtue, Adam,” he teases and gingerly removes your hand from him. He feigns composure as he sprawls across the bed to get to your nightstand, but you notice he opens the drawer a little more quickly than usual, and doesn’t bother sorting through your myriad of colored and flavored condoms like usual, just grabs one arbitrarily and tosses it next to you along with a small squeeze bottle of lube.
“Who said anything about being virtuous?” you grin, wrapping your hand back around him and twisting gently. He gasps and stares down at you intently, trailing a hand up your side. “Because, really, John, I don’t think virtue has anything to do with sex. Not the kind we’re about to have anyway.”
“No,” he laughs, voice catching a little, “I guess not.”
You lick your lips and grin up at him before picking up the bottle of lube with your free hand and holding it out to him. “Do the honors, sir.”
He nods and squirts a little into the palm of his hand. You let go of his erection and pull your knees up to your chest, scooting down on the bed a little. With a practiced movement, he coats two fingers in lube and gently presses them inside of you. His eyebrows knit together in concentration as he flexes them back and forth, stretching you out as much as possible. You take long, shaky breaths, trying to stop the room from spinning around you as he slides in a third finger and twists his hand in some way that makes your body lurch with pleasure.
“John, please,” you whimper, pushing back against him and digging your nails into your shins.
He bends down and kisses your knee, nipping at the skin lightly, then slowly slides his fingers out of you, whispering endearments against your calf. You grope at the sheets next to you until you find the condom, then rip the foil package open and hand it to him almost reverently, whispering, “Here.”
He rolls it on quickly but carefully, and you hear him squirt more lube into his palm, and the next thing you know he’s pushing into you and oh, god, it hurts. The damn zombies have been taking up so much of your time and energy that your body’s almost forgotten how to adjust to having a large foreign object thrust into it. Almost.
You grab fistfuls of bed sheet and take slow, deep breaths, trying to ignore the pain and relax a little. You feel John shaking above you from the effort of keeping still while you adjust. “It’s okay,” you whisper. “You can go. I’m fine.”
He doesn’t say anything, just exhales slowly into your ear, and starts to rock forward into you, being as gentle as possible. You bite back another whimper of pain and shift your weight underneath him, trying to get more comfortable.
By the time you’ve found a nice position and adjusted to the pain, John is thrusting into you more quickly and panting softly, face flushed and shining with a thin sheen of sweat. You wrap your legs around his waist to pull him deeper into you, opening your mouth to tell him just how sexy you think he looks. However, “Shit, John, you look fucking hot,” winds up coming out as more of a strangled scream, because this time when you move under him, he does this thing, and somehow manages to hit your prostate dead on.
He laughs through heavy breathing and gasps, “Adam, shh. Do you want Jesse to come in?”
The mere thought of that is almost enough of a bonerkill to make you want to stop right then and there, and if John wasn’t still grinding against your prostate and sucking at the hollow of your neck in that special way he knows makes you squirm, you just might have. You settle for shaking your head vehemently and pulling him in for a kiss, letting your moans get lost in his mouth.
He starts to thrust into you faster and wraps a hand around your dick, and within a few minutes you’re both tensing up and moaning obscenities, and then he’s tying the condom into a knot and tossing it into the garbage can next to the bed while you stare at his ass intently and wipe off your stomach with tissues, grinning in post coital bliss.
He crawls back over to you and you wrap an arm around him and pull a blanket over your lower bodies, cuddling into him and kissing his chest sleepily.
“You know,” you sigh, “we really should go fight those zombies.”
“Adam?” he whispers, tracing patterns on your still sweaty chest.
“Shut the fuck up.”
So you do.