Work Text:
the bass riff shudders through the basement. it's a low yet restless growl that digs into your bones. the neck of the bass is warm under your palm, sweat-slick even, the wood vibrating hard enough to send a dull throb up your forearm. your left shoulder aches under the weight of it, it's a slow and punishing throb earned from forcing yourself through an all-night rehearsal. you could’ve stopped hours ago—everyone else wanted to—but tomorrow isn’t just another gig. it's your one way ticket out of this town, out of the mess you call home. so you didn’t let anyone leave. you kept them awake, kept the basement lights buzzing, kept drilling the same section until the strings burned into your fingertips.
the syncopated riff of your chorus is jagged, dissonant, all stuttered tremors that feel more like warnings than melody. you pluck each note with too much force, fingertips buzzing, strings snapping back with a sharp metallic ring that barely has time to breathe before adam’s scream cuts in behind you. his voice tears through the stale air, a guttural burst that shoves the whole room forward.
your hips lean into the body of the bass, swaying to the beat as the sound snarls out of the amp. you dig your thumb harder into the back of the neck, knuckles turning into a white sheet of skin as you try to force the damn thing into obedience. the haunting melody bleeding out of your bass cuts off hard when adam jumps in too early and a bead of sweat slides down the center of your already-knotted brows.
you turn towards him, shoulders slumping as the heat climbs your cheeks, the sticky strands of hair plastered to your back making you shift impatiently. “i think you need to watch your lines,” you snap, venom rolling off your tongue without concern for who it hits.
adam’s knee bounces, restless, as he drags a towel across his forehead, sweat trailing down the stitches of his bare arms. he’s in a muscle tee tonight, his hair shoved into a messy bun, and the stitches along his skin gleam under the basement light. the threadwork, a hush of faded lilac and moth blue, the colours of dried flowers crushed flat in someone's long forgotten book as you've described it to him one evening. it was normally hidden beneath bandages, a substitute for armor against eyes that shouldn’t pry. but you’ve always preferred them uncovered.
“i think you need to watch your mouth,” he snaps back, low and gravelly, a growl that settles into the hollow of your chest and thrums in your ears. it’s a voice that builds heat, dragging the air into a fever pitch until reasoning feels impossible. a smirk—although imperceptible, almost hidden by the flush creeping across your face—flickers there for a heartbeat.
“or what?” you draw the last word out as you drag the mic stand toward him, chest and shoulders angling in his direction, forcing him to meet you head on. you thrive on this—the little game you play, pushing and prodding when he’s already frayed. adding a spark to the quiet inferno you’ve both learned to ignore with little success.
without a word, you return to your bass, letting your fingers crawl across the frets like a spider as you trace the familiar curves of each bar while threading the riff together with a precision that feels almost possesive and challenging. there’s a wildness in the way he watches you. lean and hungry, like a predator tracking something it already considers its own. adam watches you as if waiting for the smallest slip to lunge and claim you for every taunt you’ve dared to offer. you, his little lamb, undone by its own teasing.
“brat,” he hisses, the word sharp and loud enough for you to hear, his stick striking the cymbal in perfect rhythm with the kick drum. he leans into the mic, neck arched just enough to look almost yielding, a faint submission. but you know it's all a deception for it demands your gaze and nothing else. every muscle on his neck is tight, his stitches darkening from today's labour and you feel guilty for having a hand in that, the faint bloom of guilt mixing with something hotter. your gaze drifts down instead, memorizing the landscape of his body without permission, even as your fingers threaten to slip from the strings.
adam doesn’t break eye contact, side-eyeing you with a feral intensity that makes your chest tighten and your calloused fingertips burn, his nostrils flaring as the words leave him slowly, dripping with a kind of weight that feels ancient, almost religious, making your mouth go dry and your pulse spike. the song coils into its final measure and with one last sharp blow, the riff ends in a high pitched ring. it leaves the room suspended in a heavy and trembling silence, your breaths finding the same ragged rhythm, short and shaky, so close that it feels like you could drown in the space between him and you.
“good boy,” you breathe out, chest rising and falling as you finally put your guitar down, rolling your shoulders back to ease the tension built from hours of rehearsal. adam perks up with that praise and there's a low yet resonant purr that rolls through his chest. it’s ridiculous, really, how easy he makes it for you. how he lets you tug him from rage to reverence. he feels insane by the way you push him up to the edge, letting him taste that dizzying burn, then dragging him right back down where you want him. but he never resists. he likes playing this game with you. likes being the piece you move across the board. he’s starved for your attention and proud to be fed by your hand alone. you give him your water bottle and adam slyly brushes his hands over your knuckles as he takes it, lingering just long enough to make every nerve in your body ignite.
he stands up, body towering over you, and for a moment your knees buckle at the sudden proximity. well, if it isn’t the consequences of your own actions biting back. of course adam doesn’t back down from a challenge—if anything, he thrives in it. he feeds on your pseudo confidence.
“careful,” he murmurs, voice velvet dark as he sets your water bottle on the table behind you, his other hand finding purchase at the small of your back. your skin tingles as you try—and fail—not to flinch.
“call me that again and you won’t make it to the door.” he laughs softly, taunting you with his worn-out voice, but it only drives you even more insane.
you clear up your throat and turn away, trying to find footing as the floor suddenly feels uneven. your final words to the band float across the room, ignored by the shuffle of everyone packing up as they are eager to escape and go their separate ways.
you stand by the door with your arms folded across your chest, waiting, as anticipation sits tight in your stomach. your gaze drifts over his silhouette, then back to the door. the second it clicks shut behind the last person, something in you loosens; a slow smile unfurls, meant only for the two of you now that the room is finally empty. he "pavlov'ed" you, as your friends would say, a pattern so subtle it almost feels like instinct. it started when he insisted on opening the door for you every day, for no reason at all. you’ve mistaken it for kindness, but now it has seeped into your routine, your body refusing to open that slab of door even though you are perfectly capable of doing it on your own. adam knows this, as if his plan has been perfectly laid out and you complied unknowingly. he loves doing things for you without you asking, already knowing what you need just by looking at you.
“your hair looks really nice like that,” you softly say, watching the expanse of his back flex as he wraps wires around his palm. you follow the white streak in his hair, a few strands escaping adam’s messy bun.
“i put that up for you.” he turns around with a smile, walking toward you with an arm beckoning you closer. adam pulls you into him, making it very clear that he’s much bigger than you. you curve softly against him and surrender to his kiss, his lips brushing softly on your forehead as he smoothly grabs your backpack and swings it onto his shoulder.
he opens the door for you like it’s second nature, and you slip your hand between his large ones, thumbing over the ridges of his mismatched skin with a softness that makes adam melt. the breeze is cool as you both walk toward your car, your heart lingering on the edge of combustion.
"don't get too comfortable." adam teases but his voice rumbles low, a weight in the air that presses against your ribs. it makes your stomach flip as you're reminded of your little exchange earlier. a nervous giggle slips past you, echoing faintly in the empty parking lot as he leans down to kiss your cheek. his lips trailing down to your neck. you can feel the weight of his smile pressing down as he nuzzles you, nose buried in your scent. the air between you feels charged, a warning that he isn’t done and neither are you.