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“Finally,” Ronan said, exasperated, as Adam shifted the BMW to park in front of the Barns, “You drive like you’re in a funeral procession.”

Adam shot him a sideways look of irritation in the last few seconds that the overhead light stayed on, “Sorry I won’t take a winding road at eighty-five miles per hour in the dark,” He said, not sorry at all.

Ronan shrugged, “Not like you’ll hit anyone.”

That was likely true, but Adam rolled his eyes nonetheless. Whether there were stray persons or animals wandering around the edges of the Lynch property or not, he didn’t want to take any chances that could turn a simple trip to the grocery store into a tragedy. They’d all had more than enough of that to go around already.

As Adam turned off the car, the logo on the steering wheel caught his eye, the silvery letters standing out starkly in the dark. He remembered, quite suddenly, driving Ronan’s car to visit his parents, their matching looks of distrust, the scorn in his father’s voice when he acknowledged the vehicle parked outside.

There were a great many things Adam’s father had said that were conveniently stored away in his memory, readily available to be played on repeat in moments of insecurity and hurt and anger, to ring out as warnings of what he never wanted to be and serve as reminders of how much he had already fought through to get to where he was. There were words, phrases, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to shake, and that was often unfortunate. But not everything to come out of Robert Parrish’s mouth had been necessarily bad.

“...driving your boyfriend’s beemer-”

Adam caught himself smiling at the memory in the rear view mirror of the BMW- Ronan’s BMW, his boyfriend ’s BMW.

He didn’t honestly give a shit about the type of car he drove; wheels were wheels, and even when it came to luxury brands, status was status. The BMW wasn’t even his , which should have filled him with the familiar creeping bitterness that came from borrowing, from being dependent on any other single person, but for once he couldn’t find a trace of shame or resentment to curl himself around.

He was parking Ronan’s car in the driveway of the Barns; his boyfriend’s car, his boyfriend’s home, places and things that he was welcome to, because Ronan wanted him there, wanted him at the wheel and at the front door and in his bedroom and in his life, because Ronan wanted him , just him, Adam Parrish-

“What are you smirking at?” Ronan asked from the passenger seat, waiting with the door cracked ever so slightly open.

Adam turned to look at him, shook his head gently, “Just remembering something my dad said,” He admitted, and unbuckled his seatbelt.

Ronan’s eyebrows rose a fraction. He said nothing, confused at the freak occurrence of Adam approaching any memory of his father with nostalgia, and kicked the passenger door the rest of the way open, stepping smoothly out of the car and propping the seat forward to reach the bags of groceries in the back.

Adam took the key from the ignition and followed Ronan out of the car, coming around to his side with every intention of carrying at least one of the three bags available. Ronan met him with a stern expression, groceries in hand, and made no move to hand any of them off.

“You good?” He asked simply, looking for confirmation, not pressing for an explanation, not pushing at all, and the clear concern in his tone made Adam’s throat go tight.

“Fine,” He said, and took one bag from Ronan’s hand, fitting his fingers under the thin plastic cutting into Ronan’s skin, and, after a moment’s hesitation, the straps of a second bag as well. Of his own volition, because he wanted Ronan to hear, because it actually felt good to repeat, he clarified, “The last time I saw him, my dad made a remark about me showing up in my boyfriend’s beemer .”

And it was probably meant to hurt, to shame, to make him feel sick with himself. But it didn’t hurt him at all. It was simply the truth.

Ronan scoffed a laugh, “Holy shit,” He said, feigning shock, “It is my beemer,” He bumped his shoulder against the doorframe, proud, “He was actually right about something.”

Adam felt warm all over, the same two words sounding off on loop in his head; your boyfriend, your boyfriend, your boyfriend -

“Hard to believe,”He said wonderingly, then, tentative, “You got a minute?”

Ronan looked, very briefly, petrified. He seemed to steel himself against the possibility of what a minute might contain, probably talking, probably something difficult, and eventually said, “Got more than that. What do you want?”

Adam’s breath caught. His mind was a buzz of remembered things, small and insidious but quieting a little more every day he spent away from a place that had never been home; he didn’t get what he wanted, no one cared what he wanted, what he wanted didn’t matter -

Your boyfriend, a sneer, as cold as anything else Robert Parrish had ever said to his son, but it resounded louder, clearer now that he was away, standing in the driveway of a place that felt almost terrifyingly like home ought to, beside his boyfriend’s car, with his boyfriend -

What do you want? Adam knew.

He ran a mental checklist of what they’d gotten at the grocery store; several boxes of macaroni, a pack of sour gummy worms for Opal, a few apples, instant coffee, dish soap. Nothing perishable, nothing that couldn’t wait. He took the last bag from Ronan, ignoring his half-hearted snort of protest, and deposited all three of them right back in the car, leaning in through the open passenger door and across the center console, dropping them gently on the driver’s seat.

He stood back up in front of Ronan, kissed him softly on already-parted lips before any indignant questions or snarky comments could be voiced, “I want,” He told him, speaking low as if they weren’t the only human beings (maybe, sort of, kind of, close enough,) around for miles, “To fuck my boyfriend in his beemer.”

The change in Ronan, from tentative concern to strong and sudden desire, was a shiver that rolled over his shoulders, down his spine, intense and immediate, “I’ve got time for that.”

It shouldn’t be so easy- Adam had never imagined anything could be so easy, but Ronan went pliant at his touch, let himself be pushed into the back seat, straddled and pinned down without a second thought to the inherent awkwardness of climbing over seats and finding space to spread out and the sudden shrinking of the world to the space between them once the passenger door was pulled shut. His gaze turned upward, eager, and Adam felt the rush of being in control.

He leaned down to kiss Ronan, one hand pressed to a leather seat, the other stroking Ronan’s cheek, his neck, fingers tracing muscle under skin and feeling the minute movements as he swallowed, sighed.

“I guess you like the official title, then,” Ronan suggested with a breathless laugh, “Or is it a possessive thing?”

Adam’s cheeks went hot, “No,” He said immediately, but couldn’t find the words to follow up, to properly dispute it, “I don’t- it’s not that I want to have you,” God, that was a whole other can of worms. People weren’t things, weren’t meant to be had like possessions, like resources. But the sound of it, your boyfriend , the acknowledgement of something they were sharing, a named thing-

“Tough shit,” Ronan said, “You’ve got me whether you want me or not.”

Adam swallowed hard, “I want you,” He reassured, though he didn’t think Ronan really needed reassuring when he was tenderly stroking his cheek, staring into his eyes through the dark, “Sorry, I’m overthinking. I do like the title.”

“I’ll let Sargent know so she can get to work on our matching shirts,” Ronan said dryly.

Adam smiled and kissed him, imagined hand-lettering on dark cotton; If found please return to Adam Parrish. They kissed slow, lazy, taking full advantage of a moment alone, parting only to allow Ronan to tug Adam’s shirt impatiently off, draping it over the driver’s seat headrest.

“This must be like a wet dream come true for you,” Adam teased, pushing Ronan’s own shirt up to trace scars, then ribs, like ripples moving out from the center of a pond, “A cliche backseat makeout session,” He turned his attention to Ronan’s neck, nipping his skin in small, sharp bites. He followed a path of faint marks, all his own, and possessive or not, he couldn’t help feeling a little proud of the map he was maintaining.

“I don’t have wet dreams,” Ronan said snidely, “I have death dreams. And I don’t dream about you like that anyway, fuck you very much. As if my piece-of-shit brain would ever let me have something as nice as-” He choked on the words, on a gasp, “As you.”

Adam stilled, processing, short nails digging in at Ronan’s hip. He pressed a kiss to an old bruise against Ronan’s collarbone, gentle, and spoke against his skin, so muffled that he might as well be speaking to himself, “You deserve nice things.”

Ronan didn’t argue the point. He didn’t say anything at all, just scratched his fingers through Adam’s hair, nice and soft.

“You do,” Adam said, more clearly. He kissed the hollow of Ronan’s throat, the edge of his jaw, just below his ear, “You’re working so hard. You’re so good , Ronan.”

Ronan shuddered underneath him, “Bullshit,” He protested weakly.

“You’re good for me ,” Adam offered, and Ronan’s answering whine was desperate. His hips bucked under Adam’s weight, nowhere near an alignment that would do much for either of them, but the helpless motion made Adam smile appreciatively. He lowered his voice to a whisper, the vowels dragging as slow as they were naturally inclined, “Do you wanna be good for me?”

Ronan’s hips bucked up again, “Fuck,” He swore loudly, then softer, his fingers tightening in Adam’s hair, “Yes.”

“Keep doing what you’re doing,” Adam told him, petting at Ronan’s hip, his belly, catching his thumb on the waistband of his jeans and moving to unfasten the button on them, quick and easy, “Tell me where I can touch you.”

“Anywhere,” Ronan answered immediately.

Adam waited, zipper-pull pinched between thumb and forefinger, and repeated, “Tell me where.”

Ronan tipped his head back in a frustrated groan, bordering on a growl, “Do I look like I care? Pick a hole, Christ.”

Adam leveled him with a serious look, making it clear he wouldn’t be moving an inch until Ronan complied. He watched as Ronan silently debated the matter with himself, squirming in discomfort at the necessity of communication, at the decision itself. Eventually he took hold of Adam’s hand and guided him, coaxing his fingers into his jeans, his underwear, to fit his palm between his thighs.

“There,” He said decisively, and rolled his hips up, pressing hot and wet against Adam’s fingers, “You don’t have to- Just- Just there,” He held Adam’s hand in place a moment longer, his breath catching when he let go and Adam slid his fingers up a fraction, calloused tips dragging enough to turn his next exhale into a groan.

“Right here,” Adam confirmed, fingers sliding quick and easy over slick skin, “Just like that,” He said, watching Ronan cant his hips up to meet him, “Good boy,” and Ronan’s broken whine lit him up from the inside, splitting the difference somewhere between the tight affection in his chest and the heat that moved lower. They settled easily into a rhythm, pressing fingers, rolling hips, murmured praise, hitching breaths that came faster, faster.

“Oh fuck,” Ronan gasped, and grabbed for Adam’s other hand, raising it to his lips, “Fuck, here too,” He said, both a request and permission granted, and his lips stayed parted for Adam to slip two fingers into his mouth, muffling a satisfied moan. He swallowed around Adam’s fingers, coaxing with his tongue, silently begging active participation, and Adam gladly obliged in the slow, careful thrust of his fingers into Ronan’s mouth.

“You’re doing great,” Adam told him, breathless at Ronan’s increasingly desperate sounds, the flutter of dark lashes and quick glimpses of blown pupils. When Ronan came, biting down lightly on Adam’s fingers, stifling a whimper, Adam talked him through it, wringing the most he could out of Ronan’s body even as his hand cramped, till Ronan took hold of his wrist, signalling to stop.

Ff-ffuggh- ” Ronan groaned, probably intending to curse, but the word didn’t quite form while he still had Adam’s fingers in his mouth. He tried again, once Adam had slid split-slicked, slightly bitten fingers out from between his lips, “Fuck,” Much clearer that time, “Let me up.”

Adam laughed at the phrasing, like they’d been wrestling instead of fooling around in the backseat, and took his weight off of Ronan, propping himself up as gracefully as he could manage in the relatively tight space.

Ronan sat up slowly, almost dizzy, and gestured for Adam to sit back down across from him. He closed the space between them, still shaky, and asked, “Do I get to jerk my boyfriend off in the back of my beemer now?”

Heat filled Adam’s face, his belly, another toss-up between ridiculous, butterfly-light joy and fast, heady desire. God, that word- boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend .

It wasn’t until after Ronan kissed him lightly that Adam realized how dumbstruck he must have looked. He nodded quickly, trying to regain some semblance of the cool control he’d had moments ago, “Yeah,” He said, “That’d be nice.”

Ronan kissed him again. He ran his hands down Adam’s chest and one stayed, conspicuous, laid over his heart. The other dropped to undo his jeans, work around his boxers.

Ronan’s hands were so much softer than Adam’s own, no matter how hard he fought to rough them up. His touch was soft too, gentler than Adam would have ever expected, but he had already become used to it, craved it. He arched into that touch, breath catching in his throat, teeth catching Ronan’s bottom lip when he moved to break the kiss.

He wanted Ronan’s mouth in reach, to muffle the low sounds he couldn’t stifle on his own, to keep his tongue busy so it wouldn’t betray him. But Ronan turned his head, leaving Adam to pant against his ear, and he said something, halting, spoken on the wrong side, out of range for his good ear with so many sounds already dulled by his own rushing blood.

“What?”

Ronan leaned away enough to speak clearly, face to face. If he was bothered at having to repeat himself, he didn’t show it, “Say it again,” He asked on an upward stroke, “That I’m your…”

He trailed off and Adam’s mind rushed to fill in the blanks; good boy, favorite person, dream come true-

“You’re my boyfriend?” Adam tried, breathless, and Ronan’s smile was sharp, satisfied.

“Fuck yes I am.”

Adam’s laughter stuttered with his breath as he was caught off guard by Ronan’s fingers fitting tighter around him, “You are,” He agreed, “You’re my boyfriend.”

Ronan kissed him again and Adam groaned in relief, gripping Ronan’s hips for leverage as he thrust into his hand. The phrase echoed in his thoughts, his own voice now, his own words; my boyfriend, my boyfriend, my boyfriend-

He could swear that Ronan moved on purpose, not to catch his breath but to listen for Adam’s moan, the compulsive murmur of his name as Adam came in his hand. Sure enough, seconds later Ronan was kissing him, soft and sweet and reluctant to stop.

“So you,” Adam cut in, when he had a moment and when he could speak evenly, “You like the official title? Or,” He hesitated, cursed himself for having such a sharp reaction to Ronan’s same question before; wouldn’t it be just like Ronan to have a possessive thing , for Adam to inadvertently make him feel like shit about it? He forged ahead, repeating, “Or is it a possessive thing?”

“Asshole,” Ronan scoffed, but he sounded borderline adoring as he rested his forehead against Adam’s, “It’s a you thing.”

“Oh,” Adam said softly, and though it was something he had already known, every time Ronan reminded him felt like a revelation. It felt like being welcome, being wanted, being loved.

“The title’s alright though,” Ronan added, and, after a moment of consideration, “And I do like you driving my car.”

“Gives you more opportunity to stare at me,” Adam reasoned.

“Fuck off, Parrish,” Ronan said, not denying a word of it. He put space between them, wiping his hands on his shirt in a way that made Adam cringe, “Are we good?” He asked, and it took Adam a moment to sort through the multiple unspoken meanings; were they both satisfied, was there a discussion to be had, could they go inside and make some damn macaroni already?

Adam kissed Ronan lightly in confirmation and reached past him to get his shirt off the headrest, “We’re good.”

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