The morning alarm sounded, and Adam groped blindly for it. Godforsaken hour of the day to get up. "Grrrrrrr."
There was an interrogative murmur from the lump next to him under the covers.
"I hate photo shoots," he explained.
A small eruption in the bed, and Lance's face emerged, hair every which way. "What's so bad about photoshoots?" he asked, sleepily. "You like dressing up. Who's this one for, anyway?"
"The Vogue interview. I think they're going to want some, um. Skin on display." Which was, of course, the problem.
"Mmm, nice," said Lance.
"Oh, yeah, right. Because I just love showing off all my flaws at once. Give me full coverage and sixteen layers of Max Factor any day."
"I like the natural look," said Lance. Looking at him. With appreciation.
"That's different. You're supposed to. You love me."
"That I do. Come here."
"I have to get—mph!" Okay, being kissed was not exactly a hardship, but—"I have to shower." He slid reluctantly out of bed and headed for the bathroom.
"I really hate photo shoots," Adam repeated as he came back into the bedroom, clean and damp, and scuttled across to the dresser to root out clean underwear. He'd been instructed to wear Speedos to the shoot, or something else that wouldn't leave a line. He had a gloomy foreboding about this. They'd want to put him in plastic shorts, or fish scales, or whatever. Something a little bit ridiculous, with a thong underneath if he was lucky. At least he wouldn't need a sock.
"You don't have to do anything you don't want to."
"No, I guess." Except he kinda did. Fucking Vogue. If their photographer wanted to shoot him stark naked in full sunlight, that would be what happened. "I just... I wish..." He straightened. "I wish this wasn't part of the deal, you know?"
"I don't really understand what you're so scared of. Seriously. You are beautiful, you know."
"Mm."
"You are. Can all those screaming fans be wrong?"
"They can keep right on thinking I'm beautiful if they only see me with my clothes on."
"Full coverage and the Max Factor, I know." Lance sat up. "You really don't need it."
"Oh, God, I do. I really do. I'm fat, I have horrible skin, I have a million freckles ten seconds after the sunlight hits my back. Nobody needs to see that." He turned back to the search for the right underwear.
"They should slip me the camera," Lance said. "Looks just fine from here."
Adam looked over his shoulder, irritated. "Sez you, the guy with perfect skin and a tiny waist and amazing arms."
"And a lazy eye, and wide, womanly hips and stumpy little legs."
Adam stared at him. "That's ridiculous." He sighed. "Look, maybe I'm okay looking now. I mean, the hair's a big improvement over my days as a redhead." Lance muttered something that was probably I like your red hair, but Adam decided to ignore it. "It's just, I spent the whole of high school being fat and ugly. It's kinda hard to get past that."
"You're talking to the guy who spent half his teenage years looking like an alien, or Ellen Degeneres' girly kid sister. And being photographed next to Justin Timberlake."
"You were cute," said Adam.
"I was an alien," Lance said, firmly. "Besides, you're not a teenager now. And you've done lots of photo shoots. What's the big deal?"
"I just. It's. I don't. I feel sexier with a—a costume. You know?" Silk and leather, chains, feathers, something stylized, something like a disguise, something that would hide Adam inside Glambert. Glambert was sexy, Glambert was a performance. Adam didn't want to be on display. Well, he did, but not naked.
"Okay." Lance threw back the covers. He was so fucking beautiful. It was easy not to be scared of photoshoots when you looked like that. "I have something for you." And Lance folded to his knees and opened his mouth, warm and welcoming, over Adam's cock.
"I don't, um. Have time for." Although, not like they were going to start without him... he could eat breakfast in the car. "Oh. Mmmm. Baby. Mmm." He leaned back against the dresser and stroked Lance's hair, soft and product-free after last night's shower, and let Lance bring him up. Prickles of stubble against his shaft and balls, saliva-slick lips mouthing down and up and over and around, hot velvet tongue everywhere. Lance's hands took firm hold and his mouth moved sideways, kissing the soft skin just inside Adam's hipbone, nipping sharply. Sucking. Hard. "Ow!" Adam looked down in dismay. "That's gonna bruise!"
Lance inspected his work. "Yep." He levered himself to his feet. "And you'll feel it. Any time you stop feeling like you're the sexiest man in the world—which by the way you are—you put your thumb right here," he guided Adam's hand to the tender spot, "and remind yourself."
"Ow!"
"And when you need to think about something other than what you're doing for the camera, think about what you're going to do to me tonight to pay me back for not finishing you off now."
"Mmm, I—what?"
"You don't have time," Lance said, gently. There was an evil gleam in his eyes. "You mustn't be late. It's not professional."
*
It wasn't the worst photo shoot in the world after all, even if Steven—the photographer—was a lunatic. At least, Adam got the underclad boys, though he could have done without the comparisons, but why were there Greek nymphs?
The bruise on his hip went a long way to help Adam forget he was surrounded by perfect bodies while clad in drapery that had apparently been attacked by locusts. To distract himself from the cameras, he developed several complicated revenge scenarios for later.
After the third bewildered giggle from one of the female models, and the second direct proposition from one of the guys, Adam decided not to think so, er, hard about retribution for Lance. This was not that candid a photo shoot, even if he was wearing something more like a shredded tennis net than actual clothing.
Eventually the array of models went off to get dressed and they were into the final set-up of the day, Adam's solo shots. And if there was anything worse than being photographed alongside a dozen or so spectacular bodies it was being photographed solo while wearing macramé. So it was either think about what was happening or think about giving Lance exactly what he deserved. Forget the complicated scenarios, Adam decided, he'd keep it simple. Spread open, tied to the four bedposts, and begging. Lots of begging.
Adam contemplated a bit more and added a cock ring, black leather, to the honey gold image in his mind. Perfect.
Adam smiled.
"Perfect. Fucking perfect," said the photographer.
On to The Adam Lambert Experience