fic: Paint It Black

Title: Paint It Black
Author: pulaski_casimir
Rating: PG13 for language & also Adam is a slut
Summary: “How the hell do you wear this stuff?” I can hear Kris grunting through the bathroom door as he struggles with the zipper. "I think my balls have gone internal." My idea of what went behind that nail polish.
Notes: I wrote this in a bit of a rush, but I had to get it out. Total crack!fic. Title from "Paint It Black" by The Rolling Stones


“How the hell do you wear this stuff?” I can hear Kris grunting through the bathroom door as he struggles with the zipper, and I have to shove a knuckle in mouth to stop my laugh. I’m still not sure how I did it—I think my tongue may have been involved—but I somehow managed to talk Mr. Southern Gentleman into trying on my skintight striped pants for my duet with Allison tonight. By the sound of it, the boy’s having a bit of a rough go of it. “I think my balls have gone internal.”

“Want me to check?” I offer, always the helpful one.

“Hands off, Lambert,” he retorts, albeit totally unconvincingly. “I’m gonna need my energy tonight.”

“You bet you are.” I’m pretty sure he can sense the suggestive wiggle of my eyebrows from the other room.

“Could you stop thinking about sex for, like, two seconds?” Kris asks.

“Hmm. Nope,” I reply. “Now get out here and show me those pants.”

“Adam,” he hesitates, “I don’t think you realize—“

“Uh-uh, no excuses,” I cut him off, leaning back on his bed with one foot propped up on his guitar case. “I want to see that ass.”

“Haven’t you seen it enough already?” he shoots back. I laugh to myself, because, whoa, sweet little Kris Allen makes dirty jokes now. I like to think I bring out the bad in him.

“Never,” I tell him. It’s true. “It’s an adorable ass, baby.”

“Fine,” he says after a moment. “But you’re gonna laugh at me.”

“Me? Laugh?” I stage-gasp. “That would be so unladylike.”

But then he’s coming out of the bathroom and… holy shit.

Those… are some pants.

“You,” I manage.

I mean, those are some pants.

“Those.” What? Words? How—what?

They’re a little too big for him, too long in the leg, not quite snug enough around the hips, but…

“Pants.” Dear God, I think my mouth is hanging open. Fuck.

Those are some pants.

“I knew it,” he says, apparently misinterpreting my complete inability to string together a coherent sentence. “I look ridiculous, don’t I?’

“Kris. It is…” something finally snaps on in my brain, or maybe snaps off, I don’t know, “…obscene how hot you look in those pants.”

He rolls his eyes at me, because, of course, he’s Kris, and he has no idea how much he has going for him. Not just anybody could make me forget how to talk. “Come on, don’t patronize me.”

“Honey, I am so serious,” I reassure him, sitting up on the bed. “Like, I’m trying really hard not to jump you right now.”

He narrows his eyes, skeptical. “You’re joking.”

“I’m so not.” Suddenly I’m springing into action, full-on stylist mode, or maybe just sweet-Jesus-my-baby-is-sex-on-legs mode, I don’t even know anymore, because, well, Kris, and, um, those are some pants. “Oh my God, you have to put on the jacket.”

“What—why?” He’s like a deer in headlights, but he catches the matching jacket I throw at him nonetheless.

“Just put it on!” I urge him. He complies begrudgingly, shoving his arms through the sleeves like he thinks this is the most pointless activity ever. Honestly, the boy just doesn’t get it.

“Ta-da,” he says dryly, holding his arms out for my benefit.

I take one look at him—zippers dangling, black suede settled onto the slopes of his shoulders—and, um, yeah. “Okay, that’s it. You’re wearing that. I’ll find something else.”

“What?” He has to say it to the back of my head, because I’m already rummaging through the random assortment of my clothes that have accumulated on his bedroom floor, looking for a replacement outfit. “No, no, do you have any idea—?”

“If you go onstage like that tonight, you’re going to make America shit its pants,” I tell him honestly over my shoulder.

“I’m not sure that’s the effect I’m going for,” his answer is sarcastic, but he’s looking at me like I’m out of my mind, like I’m suggesting that he romp around onstage naked, and hey, that’s actually not a bad—no, no, task at hand, task at hand.

“Kris Allen.” I turn around and fix him with a look straight into his eyes. “You look like a rock star right now.”

He pauses for a moment, works his bottom lip between his teeth in that way that drives me crazy, then turns to consider himself in the mirror. “No. No way in hell. You can practically see my—Oh, God, no. Not happening.”

“Please?” I have a feeling he’s going to make this more difficult than it should be, but that’s okay. It won’t be the first time I’ve persuaded Kris to break his own rules. “For me?”

“You’re doing the pouty lip, aren’t you?” he says without turning around.

“Maybe,” I mumble. I totally am.

“I’m not looking,” he says flatly. Damn. He knows me too well. “No. Final answer. You can’t make me.”

“So, then, what?” I reply, switching gears. “You’re just going to wear your plain old t-shirt and jeans again?”

“They’re black jeans this week,” he tells me sheepishly.

“Ooh, edgy,” I mock him.

“I have a leather jacket too…” He’s starting to sport a pretty nice pouty lip of his own.

“Oh, my God, I might faint,” I breathe in my most scandalized voice—can’t say I have much cause to use that voice often—and wave my hands around my face as if I have the vapors.

“Shut up!” he’s going all pink in the face now, like he does whenever I kiss him right behind the ear.

“Come on, honey,” I reason. “Just let me glam you up a little.”

“Glam?” he repeats, and the word just sounds so funny in that little drawl of his. “Oh no, you’re not coming near me with eyeshadow.”

“Nothing that extreme. Just…” I’m casting around for an idea when my eyes fall on my own fingernails. “Nail polish! Let me give you some nail polish.”

“Nail polish?” he repeats again, looking wary. “No. Don’t you think that would be a little…?”

“Badass? Yes.”

“I was going to say ‘blatantly obvious,’” he replies. “I mean, seriously. Everybody’s going to think we’ve been having slumber parties down here.”

“Well, we have,” I remind him.

“Yeah, but, not…” He’s getting flustered now. “Just, no.”

“Kris.” Initiate pouty lip sequence… now.

“Oh, God, don’t—!” he’s flinching away like he’s looking directly into the sun, but I know it’s too late because I know that smile. “Dammit, you need to warn me when you’re gonna do that! It’s not fair!"

“Please?” I’m winning, I know it.

“Fine,” he concedes. “You can paint… one nail."

“Just one?” I ask, disappointed.

Kris shoots me a warning look. “Don’t push it, Lambert."

“That’s not what you said last night.” Devious smile, devious smile.

“Oh my God, how old are you?” he laughs, rolling his eyes again, blush blush blush.

“Older than you, my tasty little friend,” I say, sitting back down on the bed. “Now grab my black polish of the counter and get your ass over here.”

“Just keep it in your pants until after the show,” he says as he leans over to get the bottle in question. The pants stretch over his thighs as he reaches, and all of the sudden I’m thinking that maybe the nail polish can wait. I mean, we’ve got another two hours, and he’s gonna have to give me those pants back, anyway.

“I’m not making any promises,” I say.