A/N (Edited 06/05/2015): First ever Degrassi fanfic. Adam's probably my favorite new Degrassi character ever. Have been watching older episodes of Degrassi lately and Jesus Christ Adam is a sweet poor baby and I love him so fucking much JESUS.
Summary: The words, the glare, they're meant to deter him, make him recoil but they only pull him closer. He feels the same thing she feels when he sees himself in the mirror and he can't help but want her more for that.
Follow Up A/N: I keep editing small bits of this, I wonder if that's a good thing...
Adam's eyes, blue, downcast, wish to catch hers from across the room. He watches her from under short, dark eyelashes. She flips her long hair and shoots the entire room a scowl that makes his spine vibrate and his cheeks burn. He knows he likes her, but right now she's ignoring him. He watches her strut confidently across the room. She gives some acquaintance sly grin, snaking her arm around Fitz to grab the Heineken from behind his unsuspecting back. He musses her curls, she swats his hand away, and blindly takes a swig from the bottle. Adam's stomach tightens and he swallows his nerves while turning to talk to a friend.
He's trying to ignore her, trying to keep his eyes off of her. But he always follows the room back to her, his eyes grafted to her presence. He wonders if she could shapeshift, match the walls, if he'd still map her movements. He doesn't want to admit that he knows what will happen when she catches him staring. That he can't already hear her jabs in his ear, feel her nails scraping blood from his arms while she shoves him away. Someone hands him a drink as he watches her slink across the room from the corner of his eye. Eli makes a joke and Adam laughs at it, the sound a bit hollow, even to his own ears. For a few brief and glorious seconds he takes his eyes off of her.
Of course his eyes drift back, watching her slink around in a short skirt and a tight shirt, miraculously not showing anything that she doesn't want seen. She's got people crowding her and he watches her trying to slip out, a chuckle playing on his lips. She's walking like she owns the house, the party and all the people in the room. She doesn't bother acting in any way that she doesn't think suits her and honestly he can relate to that. He thinks she's a walking bomb in a pair of stilettos. She's slipping through the crowd, and, suddenly, she's right behind him, with an arm slinking around his chest, and her chin on his shoulder.
It's a spiteful utterance, her breath easing across his ear and sending coiling shivers to his stomach. He pulls away to turns and sees her glaring. Her eyes dark, lovely and so enticing, are a spiraling void of spiteful, hateful confusion. The words, the glare, they're meant to deter him, make him recoil, but they only pull him closer. He feels he can relate to that, the disgust, the spite, the disappointment. He feels the same thing she feels when he sees himself in the mirror, and he can't help but want her more for that. He wants to choke on her words, but he still thinks it's sick that she can openly express her emotions and he's left stunted.
He opens his mouth, wanting to say something, but words refuse to leave his lips. Which are surprisingly tight considering the alcohol ingested. Her eyes harden and she grabs his wrist, dragging him off. He goes willingly, hoping she's not setting him up to get jumped. Her hate he can handle, anyone else's would be too much to deal with right now. But that might be because she fills him up to the brim, so much that he's threatening to spill over. Her cup is poison and he will still drink every last drop. He licks his lips more out of nervousness than anything.
She's stumbling through the crowd, grace and slinky movements left behind for blind speed and brute force. She's shoving bodies and he's trying to help. People gape at them, too shocked to move. But they can all tell from her eyes that she's drunk and they know he's just confused and maybe, just as drunk as her. Eli sends a warning glare to her and she growls something about Eli's girlfriend, who she vehemently dubs Saint Clare. Her voice is riddled with resent, he wonders if she hates Clare for being so innocent despite the shit thrown at her.
The catcalls are surprisingly absent while they walk, and it seems to take twice as long to get to the destination. She drags him outside, where they're alone. She pushes him against the wall and takes a step back. She eyes him up and down, and he draws short, sharp breaths. He doesn't know what she wants, but he's burning to find out. She lurches forward, leaning on him. Her body presses against his and her face is in his neck. Her breath tickles and burns, he feels fire spreading through him. He's been melting on the inside since he caught sight of her, and his stomach clenches with dread at the thought of her finding out. Her hand slips down the waistband of his jeans and she lets a finger run over one of his slick folds.
She's startled at first, jumping back at the initial touch. He wants to scream when she circles his clit, she's barely done anything and he's already overheated and over stimulated. They're ducked to the side of the house, away from the party and too near to the street, but thankfully ducked in the corner. He braces his arms against the walls, breath caught in his throat while she pulls her hands out of her jeans tugs at his zipper. She makes room for herself this time, tugging his jeans down to his thighs. She pulls his boxer briefs back and peeks down inside of them.
She giggles and takes a small lick at his neck, obviously enjoying the shiver while she lets his underwear snap back against his skin. "It's still there, that's so weird."
His hands want to wander, but he's afraid of scaring her off. She obviously she has no qualms about scaring him. Her hands scope and scale his treacherous body, wondering at the hardened muscles that clench at her slightest touch. Fingertips walk across goosing skin and her soft little giggles coat his ears. Her hands find the binder that hold down his chest and she sighs.
"So much easier to deal with if you were just gay." she says, voice breathy with a hint of want behind the otherwise annoyed tone.
He knows she's drunk but she's struck a cord. It's a line he's not new too, he's heard it so many times. So many times he's been asked to please, please just be gay because it's something everyone can deal with it. He's tried it before, back when being Gracie was all he could do. But now he can't do it, now he can't deny the fact that he feels so distorted as anything but himself. What lies between his legs does not define him, but it cages him. He hates all of it, more than he hates himself for not wanting it. He's hyper-aware of it now though, when she dips her hand back into his boxer briefs and sets to exploring the most intimate and dreaded part of his body.
"Why?" His voice cuts her and he knows it, every time he speaks she recoils further. Yet the words make her choke on a giggle and she groans, pressing closer. Still, as he asks his voice cracks in the best way and his eyelids flutter shut.
Her breathing is uneven and edgy, like he can hear the number of glasses she's downed clinking in her voice, "Because I can," she answers with a slur. She bites at his neck, hard, and he hopes it leaves a scorching mark that she can't avoid looking at.
The words burn him in the best way. Starting in his chest and spreading slowly, eating at him. She's glaring at him now, and he wants her to burn like he does. He wants her to feel just as needy and broken. He can see it built already in her, the format to self-destruct programed. He sees regret ringed in her irises. He wants to milk it, make it worse, make it hurt. But he doesn't, because she can hate him all she wants if it means he won't have to do it himself anymore.
There are a million questions he wants to ask her, 'what if's ceaselessly swirling inside his mind. But the only one he can choke out is, "What if I was just gay?"
She laughs, hollow and angry. "We won't know now, will we?"
Her eyes are unfocused, he wants to talk but he doesn't know what he could say. She's right, he knows it. She presses her hips into his, noticing the similarities. They disturb her, but she's determined to figure this out in her current state and he knows this. Every time she sees him he confuses her and she's getting tired of that. She wants to try the sex, to see if she can figure it out in that way, since sex is something she can understand. But he won't have sex with this body, not until he feels complete inside of it. She knows she's getting away with a lot just standing there, stroking his clit and clumsily grinding against him for the hell of it. He'd have her if genetics hadn't screwed him over, passing over that much needed Y chromosome for another X.
She stops playing with his sorely unwanted sex and grins sloppily at him. "You want me," she says huskily, walking her free fingers up his constricted chest, "but you don't want to use this," she flicks her fingernail back over his clit crudely, and the sharp pain is so pleasantly dizzying, "'cuz you hate it. Did I get it right?"
He just nods, his hands clenching into tight fists against the wall. He feels blood blossom under his nails and she sighs at his very small, pained whimper. She decides to soften, kissing his neck, feeling him whimper and pant against her skin while she works his clit and pumps a finger inside of his wetness. He can't tell if her wants her to stop or if he wants an orgasm anymore. He masturbates, he's a teenager for christsakes, chromosomes be damned he has needs; but he's never had anyone else touch him. He's never quite been comfortable with going this far, in the sense that he still feels like a stranger in his skin and he doesn't think anyone else can make him feel at home. But Bianca's doing her damn hardest to make him forget that, and fuck him because it's working. So of course, when she pulls her hand away, he groans; and he can't place if it's wracked from the loss or relieved from it.
She stares him dead in the eyes while she sucks her fingers clean. She grabs the back of his neck with one hand, nails digging into his scalp and pulls him in for a kiss. She kisses hard, pushing pasts his lips to lick at the inside of his mouth, suck his tongue. He brings his hands down, grabbing her hips and keeping her tethered to him. She bites at his lip and slams him back into the wall, hard, pulling away and wiping at her mouth. She glares at him, and holds his gaze steady by grabbing his jaw and forcing him to look her in the eyes.
"You don't tell anyone about this." She hisses, and he nods. She scrapes her nails along his jaw, nearly drawing blood, before she drops it.
He watches her slink away, and she's gone before he can really register the loss of her heat. He numbly tugs his jeans back up, sliding down the wall before he does them back up. He stares blankly out at the yard, the grass shrouded in velvet darkness and wet with dew already. He closes his eyes and imagines the press of her body under a softer pretense, without drunken fumbling and venom. He imagines her letting him drop to his knees for her. Flipping them around, holding her hips to the wall and ducking his head under her skirt. He wonders if she'd be soft and breathy or if she'd be loud and groaning; if she'd be still and helpless or if she'd squirm and grind into his face.
He doesn't torture himself with thoughts of what could be for too long. He hears Eli calling for him and does his pants back up. He's still on the ground by the time Eli rounds the corner, understanding clouding his face. Eli helps him stand up, and dust his shoulders off. Eli's nice enough to not ask any questions as he guides them back into the house. Eli's stone cold sober, thank god, and he steers Adam away from the booze. They catch a glimpse of Bianca on their way out, she's sitting on a couch arm in the living, eyes following Adam out the door. He can't help but feel the tiniest bit smug.
A/N (Edited 06/05/2015): Made some major changes to the ending. I will never be done working on this, this thing is my baby.