Adams slammed the door to his apartment and threw himself onto the bed. It had been another long, hot day. He had, once again, brought a resolution for independency before Congress, who had, once again, shot it down. A depressing wave of negativity washed over him, drowning his thoughts. He felt so alone, so utterly alone in his fight for freedom. He had on his side, at best, New Hampshire and Rhode Island. Unfortunately, both delegations had very strong relationships with liquor. And as for Virginia, well, between Jefferson's silence and Lee's complete lunacy, it wasn't much help. All in all, Adams felt devastatingly lonely. He had noticed several times, to his extreme embarassment, the prickling warmth of lust creeping through his body as he struggled to arouse America's pathetic excuse for a Congress to action. There were times, he could swear, when Dickinson stood a good deal closer than strictly necessary. And he was certain that Rutledge had brushed a hand across his backside this morning when he'd been fighting his way through the crowd of bodies congregated in front of the doors. Adams knew that such simple, innocent things shouldn't bother him. He forced himself to believe that it was because he hadn't seen Abby in God knows how long. He convinced himself that he was simply beginning to feel the resulting effects of their distance. Good God, he hadn't been able to, well, in over a year. But if that was the case, why Dickinson? Why Rutledge? Why not that tall, brown-eyed Professor's daughter he saw wandering around Carpenter's Hall with her nose in a book, or the barmaid at Bunch of Grapes? Why was he feeling so oddly towards men he hated so much?
Or, he thought he hated them. Goddammit, he used to be so sure that he despised those cool, considerate men. But lately he found it becoming harder and harder to believe that his feelings towards them were so one-dimensional. Good God, as much as their obstinate obstruction of freedom bothered him, he admired their devotion. Dickinson, though his cause was completely opposite Adams', was equally dedicated to it. And Rutledge, though John personally found the practice of slavery disgusting, was unbelieveably devoted to protecting that same despicable practice. Adams shook his head. What the hell was wrong with him? There was something wrong, he knew that. No sane man would feel this way. No sane man would lust after people he disliked so thoroughly. He breathed in deep and slowly exhaled, trying to clear his head.
Knock, knock, knock. Three sharp thuds in quick succession fell upon the thick wood of his door. Damn. Groaning, Adams heaved himself off the bed, not bothering to adjust his rumpled clothing and mussed hair.
"What do you WANT?!" he bellowed at the door, yanking it open in annoyance. "I'm in no mood to entertain any---" but Adams voice died with a small sputter as he realized who was standing in the evening humidity outside his apartment. Dickinson, dressed in his familiar green ensemble, was twirling his cane lazily, staring at nothing, while Rutledge lounged casually against the brick wall beside his doorframe. Adams blanched, completely at a loss for words.
"Mr. Adams," Dickinson began in a smooth tone, locking eyes with John. "Mr. Rutledge and I have come to a conclusion that we desire some...New England noise." Dickinson let the corners of his mouth creep upwards in resemblance of a smirk. There was a soft chuckle at Adams' right from Rutledge, followed by a flash of white as the southerner sprang forwards and, placing a hand on John's chest, pushed him into the apartment. Adams stumbled backwards, cursing loudly as he tripped and fell hard on his tailbone.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" he barked, his voice strained. His mind was running wild. He was annoyed beyond reason with this unexpected visit and the rude manner in which it was taking place; and at the same time, his entire body was tingling quite pleasantly. Confusion clouded his senses, except, it seemed, the throbbing pain in his coccyx. In one swift movement, before Adams could dodge it, Rutledge had dropped to the ground and knelt so he was straddling Adams' outstretched legs. John was vaguely aware of the door clicking shut as Rutledge leaned dangerously close to his face. So close that John could feel hot breath on his cheek. He felt an odd sensation in his stomach, as if he had just missed a step while going down a flight of stairs. Adams felt a shiver run down his spine; his entire body trembled. Rutledge cocked an eyebrow, grinning.
"Ah you afraid of me, Mistah Adams?" he drawled, slowly parting his lips and licking John's blushing cheek.
Adams gasped. This wasn't happening to him. No sir, these men were not in his chambers, and they were certainly not making...sexual advances towards him. No sir. Eyes wide in astonishment Adams scrambled to his feet, nearly kneeing Rutledge in the chin as he did so. Rutledge threw himself backwards to avoid making contact with John's flailing limbs, landing softly on his back some distance away. He didn't rise, but rather watched with amusement as Adams frantically planted his back against the locked door.
"What is the meaning of this?!" he demanded, his voice wavering uncharacteristically. This was too much for him to handle, too frightening and too tempting.
Dickinson, who had been watching silently, stepped forwards. John immediately regretted putting his back to the door; he had nowhere to go as the Pennsylvanian closed in on him. Dickinson deftly seized Adams' shaking hands, forcefully pinning them above his head. Adams, unable to break away from the stronger, larger man, felt his heartbeat racing. His breathing was rough and uneven. He was frightened; he was petrified to his very core. And at the same time, he could feel himself becoming aroused. Good god. He could feel Dickinson's knee pressing between his legs. Taking Adams wrists in one hand, Dickinson began to stroke John's side with the other. Even through his waistcoat and chemise, Adams could feel his skin tingling at Dickinson's touch. He was beginning to lose himself, his sense, in the moment. Suddenly, the Pennsylvanian released Adam's hands and grabbed the bulge in his breeches. Adams, unable to contain himself any longer, let out a soft moan as his eyes rolled upwards in pleasure. Dickinson grinned devilishly.
"Well, Mr. Adams," Dickinson said coolly, gently squeezing Adams' bulge. "It seems that Mr. Rutledge and I aren't alone in our desires." It wasn't a question. Adams gave in then and there. What good would it do him to refuse? He might be from Boston, but he knew that only bad could come of refusing such strong desires. Just look at Jefferson, for God's sake. The man's a mess without the ability to bed his wife; barely ever speaks, and when he does it's only to complain about the length of time he's spent without her company. Quite bothersome for everyone. Adams knew what he wanted, as strange as it was for him to admit. And he wanted these gentlemen. Without another word, Adams closed the short distance between Dickinson and himself. He kissed the Pennsylvanian hard, burying his hands in the taller man's hair. Dickinson kissed him so roughly; it felt terribly odd, after a lifetime of Abby's gentle, womanly kisses. Adams decided he preferred Dickinson's style, and kissed back fiercely, enjoying the feeling of their bodies against each other. Dickinson, who was nibbling on Adam's bottom lip eliciting a series of soft gasps from John, suddenly bit down hard. Adams tasted blood as Dickinson pulled away; apparently Rutledge, feeling left out, had grabbed Dickinson's backside to get their attention. Adams smiled, his eyebrows furrowed. He wasn't sure how it would work, but he knew that he wanted both men. Rutledge clearly had some sort of plan, because as soon as Dickinson yielded Adams to him, he took charge. John felt himself thrown backwards onto his bed, and quickly found Rutledge on top of him, planting kisses along his jaw line as he expertly unbuttoned John's waistcoat and pulled off the underlying chemise. The Bostonian moaned and closed his eyes as Rutledge began to suck on his neck, and didn't notice that his breeches had been removed until he felt a hand wrap around his erection, which caused him to breath in sharply. His eyes flew open to find a completely naked Edward Rutledge sitting astride him, kissing his bare chest and gently stroking his cock. He let his head fall back to the bed, lost in ecstasy. He felt lips on his, and opened his eyes to find Dickinson kneeling beside his torso, kissing him as he undressed himself, throwing his clothes unceremoniously over his shoulder into a green pile. When Rutledge abandonned Adams' prick Dickinson took up the task, stroking with a practiced expertise that made Adams' quiver.
"John, John...ohhh..." Adams murmured. Nearly incapacitaced by sheer pleasure, he wondered distantly where Rutledge had gone. Then, without warning, the Southerner entered him. Adams gasped loudly, feeling his stomach contract in pain. He grunted, overcome by the painful sensation. But after a while the pain finally melted into a euphoria Adams had never felt before as Rutledge thrusted into him rhymically.
"Oh! Edward!" he screamed, digging his fingers into his quilt. He moaned loudly and arched his back, not sure if Dickinson's passionate kisses, the fondling of his cock, or Rutledge inside him gave him more pleasure, completley intoxicated by everything. When Adams finally came, with one final scream, he let himself fall back against the bed, completely exhausted by his pure delirium. His heart was beating faster than he'd ever thought possible, and his chest was heaving. He was aware of a warm liquid on his shoulder as Dickinson continued kissing him, and realized that the Pennsylvinian had come simply from pleasuring him. Dickinson stretched out beside Adams, stroking his abdomen and sucking gently on his jaw. Barely a minute later he felt Rutledge come inside him, and gently pull out. The Southerner then threw himself on the other side of Adams, and proceeded to plant a trail of soft kisses along John's neck and chest.
"Incredible," Adams whispered, staring at the dark ceiling. He wasn't aware of how much time had passed since he'd opened his door to find the very two men he wanted so badly, only that the warm glow of the summer sunset had been replaced by darkness. John stared at the ceiling, trying to calm his breathing.
And that was how John Adams, the great John Adams, almost disbelieving of what had just taken place, found himself in bed between a Proprieter and a Slave-owner. Two Loyalists and a Patriot; North, South, and in between; strange bedfellows, but all three completely smitten with unlikely desire and affection.
"I told yuh he'd be a screamuh," drawled Rutledge, sucking on Adams' neck.