New Fic: Testing Boundaries, TrickCLa
Mar. 24th, 2003 10:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mickeymTesting Boundaries, NC17. Chris/Lance/JC. PWP, nothing redeeming to this story. Don't look for plot, you won't find any. Minor kink warning for some cross-dressing, gender-bending goodness *g* Oh, and, euro!puppies.
Happy belated birthday to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
viasaintpaul. *smooches* I'll finish that other one, one of these days, too ;)
Note: inspiration from this entry inadelate's LJ. Blame her ;)
The music pulses all around him, flows up from the floor through his legs, pours into his pelvis. Gyrates his hips. Percolates his blood. Chris licks the drops of sweat off his upper lip and shivers; they've been here for hours and he hasn't needed to drink anything, the beat and the rhythm are enough. He's beyond intoxicated; he's about as high as a guy can get.
It's not all from the music, though. He kinda wishes it was; it'd be easier to ignore the boner trying to split his pants open, if it were.
Some of it's the rhythm, sure. The rest of it's wiggling an incredibly sexy ass right in front of him.
Lance.
But not just Lance, no, this is a Lance who wants to "test boundaries. Explore limits. C'mon, Chris, you do it with JC—"
It's easy to indulge JC. They have a—thing. But Lance is – well, Chris doesn't have a thing with him. Lance is, or should be, hands-off like he's plutonium; he's too young, too pretty, too impressionable. He couldn't possibly know what he wants yet, could he? So Chris says no, a couple of times. Or he means to. Tries to.
Apparently, though, Chris is actually incapable of saying no to him – and meaning it – which is how he ends up here, on the dance floor of one of the local gay nightclubs with both Lance and JC; Lance decked out like the prettiest dyke he's ever seen, in a velour tank and leather mini. He doesn't want to think about what's under the short skirt, since JC helped dress him; JC has…things, in his bag, things Chris tries not to think too much about too often, because his brain will short circuit if he does. Chris also tries not to think about how Lance's face is painted like something that's a cross between an angel and a whore, his eyes smudged dark, lips shinywet, glossy red.
He leans his head back against Chris' shoulder, tips it just so, the graceful arch of his throat and neck almost more than Chris can stand, and there's the realization that all their dancing has really been nothing more than musical foreplay. When JC leans forward and licks slowly up that arch, Lance grinds his ass back against Chris' crotch, and he's no longer half-hard, mostly turned on. No, he's fully erect, arousal fizzing through his blood like champagne bubbles.
When JC reaches Lance's mouth he kisses him, slowly, slickly. Chris sees a flash of tongue, sees wet, red mouths working at each other, and shakes against Lance's back. JC shifts closer and kisses Chris then, his lips soft, tasting sweet, like cherry-flavored lip-gloss, when Chris licks at his mouth.
They're pressed all together, a Chris and JC sandwich, with Lance filling. Chris licks at JC's mouth again, hisses when JC bites at his lips. They feel puffy, swollen, achy—like his dick and balls, actually—when JC moves away. Chris watches him, shudders at the slutty, tarted-up boy-girl looking back at him. As much as Lance looks like a girl, JC…doesn't. He's not dressed up, only wearing makeup tonight, but—he's caught in that androgynous place, not feminine, but not completely masculine, either, and the dichotomy is almost more than Chris can stand. He stares, fumbles one hand up touch JC's face, fingers stroking over a blushed cheek, until he feels JC's hands on his hips, dragging them closer together.
When Lance rolls his head and licks Chris' throat, he can see the smudges, where there'd been perfect lines, earlier.
JC's makeup is smudgy, too, though Chris remembers doing that. Licking his thumb and dragging it lightly over the sharp, black lines, muting it, smearing it just a little. Lance makes a soft sound and nuzzles – fucking nuzzles – at Chris' throat. He wants to kiss him so bad he can taste it.
"You're a slut," he whispers, instead, turning his head just—so. Lance sighs softly and nods, smiles and licks at Chris' mouth. It makes his blood burn, his brain buzz. Vaguely Chris is aware they're practically making out on the dance floor, the three of them, but he can't bring himself to care. No moms here, no manager, no one who knows who they are – or if they do, no one who cares. Just the three of them, grinding together, touching, kissing, pushing boundaries.
"He wants you to touch him, Chris," JC says quietly. "Wants it so bad, dontcha, pretty baby?"
He wants you to touch him. Chris wonders if JC touches Lance, and that picture makes his stomach flip-flop violently, as heat surges through him.
"Yes." Lance whimpers, catches the hand still caressing JC's face, and brings it to his mouth. Chris shivers when his fingers slide past glossy lips into wet warmth. Lance licks at his fingers once, and Chris grinds forward against Lance, cock throbbing behind his jeans. He can practically feel that mouth on him, sucking him. Wonders if Lance has ever sucked cock before, then shudders with the thought.
"You're such a dirty little boy—girl," he growls softly when Lance takes his hands and strokes them down over his slender torso. Chris can feel the hard points of Lance's nipples beneath the velour top, and the contrast of soft and nubby against hard, but yielding makes his head spin.
"Wanna suck you—" Lance gasps the words against Chris' throat, and they burn, god they burn. Sear into his skin, and swear to god, he feels his dick jump against the fly of his jeans, metal from the zipper biting into him. "Please, Chris."
"Bathroom," JC murmurs – or does he? Maybe Chris just imagines he reads those lips forming that word. Lance makes a soft noise, shudders against him when JC licks his throat again. Chris shakes his head. They can't; Lou would kill them if they got caught. But god, what a thought, shoving Lance into the bathroom and--
"Not in here." The rhythm shifts beneath his feet, pounds up into him, each beat of music throbbing through him. His cock pulses in time with the music, with Lance's words, the soft plea scorching through him.
He shifts so he can kiss Lance, tastes those soft, slick lips against his. JC moves closer, guides Lance's hips against his while Chris kisses him. Chris wonders what they look like, to anyone who might be watching, closes his eyes and pictures red, swollen lips, mouths open and moving against each other, flashes of dark pink tongue, wet and lewd. They're not dancing any more; they're honest-to-god making out on the dance floor, three mouths working, three sets of hands stroking, teasing, light touches that enflame rather than satisfy.
Someone bumps into him – them – and barks several harsh words, which Chris answers back. His blood is high, hot; he's ready to use the adrenaline rushing through him, looking now for a fight or sex. Doesn't care which. JC tugs on him, one hand already pulling on Lance, and Chris looks away from the guy now eyeing Lance a little too friendly-like, and mutters, "Let's get out of here."
~~~~~
They stumble 'round the side of the club into the shadows of the alley behind it. It's dark, just a bit of light from the moon above, playing peek-a-boo with the clouds. The cool air feels good on Chris' face, and it's just enough of a bite to bring him back under something passing for control—at least until JC pushes him against the wall of the building and kisses him, hard and deep, tongue stroking around inside his mouth. Lance presses up tight against them, taking his turn at Chris' mouth when JC turns away to bite at the silver hoops in Chris' ear. Slender fingers skate down over his chest, cup his cock through his jeans, stroke him gently, teasingly.
"Do it," he gasps against Lance's mouth, hands coming up to push on shoulders, arms, anything to get Lance down.
JC kneels with Lance, behind him, bunches the leather mini upward so Chris can see there's nothing under it but Lance. That, combined with the rush of cool air against fever-hot skin is almost enough to make him come even before Lance's mouth closes over him, wet and hot and oh, so good.
Chris touches Lance's face, looks down to see his cock slowly disappearing, reappearing, glossyslick lips opening, stretching to take him in and let him go. Shadowy eyes watch him; Chris knows if there was more light, he'd be able to see green, like a cat's eyes. Feline, hungry, sly, that's how Lance looks right now. Along with slutty, debauched, lewd. Delicious. Chris' hips twitch forward on their own; he's on autopilot now, watching, listening to the wet sounds, the soft slap of flesh-against-flesh as JC strokes and teases Lance, while Lance sucks him.
And oh, yes, Lance has definitely sucked cock before. The vague musings of guilt and uncertainty thrumming alongside the hunger and arousal are muted, because this is so obviously not something new. Chris watches, pumps forward slowly, sees Lance readjust to the slow, steady thrusts. He leans his head back against the building wall and closes his eyes to better feel the sensations. A slick, wet tongue, licking at him, laving over the head of his cock. Suction, pulling him deeper, wet heat caressing down the length of his dick. Warm fingers cupping and tugging on his 'nads. Lance looks up, meets his eyes, then lets him slide out of his mouth, a long thread of spit connecting them. Chris shudders, reaches down to fist his fingers into silky soft blond hair. On some level he recognizes his voice, hears the words, but this is almost surreal and he feels disconnected, aware primarily of the hunger arcing through him. "Suck me, baby. Little cocksucker…baby slut…"
He hears JC's voice, but not the words, just the soft murmur in Lance's ear, looks down to see JC's weight pressing Lance forward. Onto his cock. Sees a now-swollen mouth open to take him, feels Lance shudder in a breath and swallow him down slowly, completely, until he's surrounded, 'til Lance has him deep-throated. When he swallows Chris groans, twitches his hips forward. Wants to fuck him, his throat, hard and fast. Feel it tighten and loosen around him. Wants to shoot down that slick, tight tunnel and feel Lance swallow it down. Then he wants to kiss him, taste himself mingled with cherry lip-gloss.
He tightens his fingers and thrusts, hears Lance's soft grunt. The vibration travels up through him, into him, and Chris gasps, fucks his hips forward again. Again. Loses himself in the heat, the rhythm. Growls when JC stands up and kisses him, tongue slicking into his mouth in the same rhythm he's fucking Lance's mouth. Hot. Hot. Heat gathering in his belly, his groin, a volcanic pressure building up, spiraling outward. He shouts into JC's mouth in surprise when a single finger rubs behind his balls, presses against tight muscle there, shouts again when JC bites him and he comes, shooting down Lance's throat like he'd envisioned.
Lance fingers him almost gently and Chris growls, shudders, pants into JC's mouth as wave after wave of sensation boils over him, out of him. Lance murmurs something very softly, and JC licks Chris' mouth before pulling away, bending down to hear him.
Chris is fine with the surcease; he sags back against the wall and pants, softly, tries to catch his breath. Here he'd been worried about sex – anything, really – and Lance basically rocked his world completely.
"Lance wants to fuck you." JC's voice is thick, heavy with lust, low in his ear. Chris quivers as the words, the tone, slide through his brain, wrap themselves around his nervous system. "Think about it, man…pretty boy looking like a pretty girl…I know you like that."
And fucking Chasez, he does know. Intimately. It's one of Chris' favorite things, actually, to have JC fuck him when he's all dolled up.
JC licks Chris' ear, tongue teasing over the outer edge, jangling his hoops. He looks down at Lance, still kneeling, skirt rucked up as he strokes himself. Lance's eyes are hot. Fiery hot. Chris shudders. "Yes," he says hoarsely. "God, yeah."
"Turn around." JC has that voice down pat, and gentle-rough hands help him turn, press him against the brick. It's rough, but it's good, and Christ, this is like fantasy come to life. "Spread 'em." Fingers bite into his asscheeks, then delve between, and Lance – Lance? Or JC now? – is fingering him again, something cool and slick easing the way, making Chris twist and wriggle, trying to get more, deeper, faster.
"Who's the slut, now?" Lance kisses the back of his neck, voice low and rumbly, soft thunder echoing around him. "God, Chris."
"Never said—ah!" Two fingers, pressing deeper, and oh, god, it feels good. "Never said I wasn't."
He hears, distantly, through the roaring in his ears, the soft sound of someone opening a rubber. And then there's a void when Lance slides his fingers out, and Chris misses the pressure, misses the friction, until something hotter, thicker, harder pushes against him. Against him, into him, and thank-fucking-god for lubed condoms and spit and the fact that JC fucks him regularly. Because oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, and fuck again.
Lance is—god. Big. Huge. Filling him, absolutely. Chris groans, growls when Lance bites his neck, sucks at the spark of pain. Then warm fingers lace with his and Lance thrusts, going deeper, and oh, god. This could be something he'll never get enough of. He shudders and opens his eyes – when did he close them? – and stares at JC, who has his pants open, cock in hand, stroking slowly, deliberately. Heat crawls through Chris, ribbons off through his veins, his nerves, until every part of him is tingling, vibrating.
"Hot," JC rasps, the word slow, sexy. Chris nods and licks his lips, squeezes Lance's fingers.
"Kiss him," he growls, not sure who he's talking to. Just—them. JC flashes him a grin and moves closer, shoulder bumping against Chris as he works himself. Chris hears the wet sounds of fucking, of kissing, shudders and shoves back at Lance. "More," he says hoarsely, close to begging. Hell, he'll beg if they want him to. This is worth begging. "Faster. Please. God, Lance."
"Fuck him hard, baby. Harder. He likes it rough." JC's voice is tight, he's bumping against Chris faster now, harder, and Chris strains his neck so he can watch JC's dick disappearing in and out of the tunnel of his hand. He imagines seeing Lance fucking him, watching him disappear in and out of Chris' body, and groans. Too hot. Closes his eyes and pictures smudged make up, and pretty clothes draped over a body that's not feminine, but is, a beautiful boy-girl face with a cock that's going to drive him insane. His thoughts swirl out further, wider, until he's not thinking any more, just feeling, lost in the sensation of hard and soft, faster, harder, heat pressed against him, pressing into him, friction so quick and hot it's like electricity thrumming through him.
"Chris—" Lance bites down on his neck again, and Chris is struck by the urge to tip his head back, bare his throat.
He hears, feels, the groan rumble out of Lance and into him, branding his skin somehow. Marking him. And then Lance fucks him hard, fast, fingers tight on his, teeth bruising tender skin, and he's coming, they're both coming, then JC too, his soft cry mingling with theirs.
Chris stays pressed against the wall even after Lance pulls out, needing a moment of support until his legs stop shaking enough to hold him up. He turns, slowly, watches Lance tug his skirt down. Nothing beneath it but stockings and a garter belt, obviously; no panties. In spite of coming twice in about twenty minutes, maybe, a streak of—something—moves through him. He watches through hooded eyes while Lance licks JC's fingers clean, then tugs him close to kiss him slowly, thoroughly. He tastes JC, and himself, mingled with the cherry lip-gloss. Tastes the heat of Lance's mouth, his own flavor layered beneath the others. JC fastens his pants, then zips Chris up gently before leaning in to lick where Chris and Lance are joined, lips swollen, pressing gently, carefully.
"We need to go," Chris says at last. "Anyone could come by—"
"God." Lance darts a glance at the street not very far away. "Lou would—"
"Kill us." Chris finishes that thought succinctly and frowns. "Not a good thought."
"We could. Go back to our room," JC's voice is soft, almost lazy. He definitely looks post-sex satisfied. "We need to get Lance cleaned up anyway."
"We could shower." Chris blinks and leans in to kiss JC. Softer, with less sex and more affection. He loses himself in that kiss for a moment, then kisses Lance again, the same sort—affection. Want. Not so much sex, but he thinks that'll come again.
In fact, thinking about it as they make their way out of the alley and then toward the hotel, he's pretty damn sure he wants to test some more boundaries again—as soon as possible.
~fin~
Happy belated birthday to
viasaintpaul. *smooches* I'll finish that other one, one of these days, too ;)Note: inspiration from this entry in
adelate's LJ. Blame her ;)The music pulses all around him, flows up from the floor through his legs, pours into his pelvis. Gyrates his hips. Percolates his blood. Chris licks the drops of sweat off his upper lip and shivers; they've been here for hours and he hasn't needed to drink anything, the beat and the rhythm are enough. He's beyond intoxicated; he's about as high as a guy can get.
It's not all from the music, though. He kinda wishes it was; it'd be easier to ignore the boner trying to split his pants open, if it were.
Some of it's the rhythm, sure. The rest of it's wiggling an incredibly sexy ass right in front of him.
Lance.
But not just Lance, no, this is a Lance who wants to "test boundaries. Explore limits. C'mon, Chris, you do it with JC—"
It's easy to indulge JC. They have a—thing. But Lance is – well, Chris doesn't have a thing with him. Lance is, or should be, hands-off like he's plutonium; he's too young, too pretty, too impressionable. He couldn't possibly know what he wants yet, could he? So Chris says no, a couple of times. Or he means to. Tries to.
Apparently, though, Chris is actually incapable of saying no to him – and meaning it – which is how he ends up here, on the dance floor of one of the local gay nightclubs with both Lance and JC; Lance decked out like the prettiest dyke he's ever seen, in a velour tank and leather mini. He doesn't want to think about what's under the short skirt, since JC helped dress him; JC has…things, in his bag, things Chris tries not to think too much about too often, because his brain will short circuit if he does. Chris also tries not to think about how Lance's face is painted like something that's a cross between an angel and a whore, his eyes smudged dark, lips shinywet, glossy red.
He leans his head back against Chris' shoulder, tips it just so, the graceful arch of his throat and neck almost more than Chris can stand, and there's the realization that all their dancing has really been nothing more than musical foreplay. When JC leans forward and licks slowly up that arch, Lance grinds his ass back against Chris' crotch, and he's no longer half-hard, mostly turned on. No, he's fully erect, arousal fizzing through his blood like champagne bubbles.
When JC reaches Lance's mouth he kisses him, slowly, slickly. Chris sees a flash of tongue, sees wet, red mouths working at each other, and shakes against Lance's back. JC shifts closer and kisses Chris then, his lips soft, tasting sweet, like cherry-flavored lip-gloss, when Chris licks at his mouth.
They're pressed all together, a Chris and JC sandwich, with Lance filling. Chris licks at JC's mouth again, hisses when JC bites at his lips. They feel puffy, swollen, achy—like his dick and balls, actually—when JC moves away. Chris watches him, shudders at the slutty, tarted-up boy-girl looking back at him. As much as Lance looks like a girl, JC…doesn't. He's not dressed up, only wearing makeup tonight, but—he's caught in that androgynous place, not feminine, but not completely masculine, either, and the dichotomy is almost more than Chris can stand. He stares, fumbles one hand up touch JC's face, fingers stroking over a blushed cheek, until he feels JC's hands on his hips, dragging them closer together.
When Lance rolls his head and licks Chris' throat, he can see the smudges, where there'd been perfect lines, earlier.
JC's makeup is smudgy, too, though Chris remembers doing that. Licking his thumb and dragging it lightly over the sharp, black lines, muting it, smearing it just a little. Lance makes a soft sound and nuzzles – fucking nuzzles – at Chris' throat. He wants to kiss him so bad he can taste it.
"You're a slut," he whispers, instead, turning his head just—so. Lance sighs softly and nods, smiles and licks at Chris' mouth. It makes his blood burn, his brain buzz. Vaguely Chris is aware they're practically making out on the dance floor, the three of them, but he can't bring himself to care. No moms here, no manager, no one who knows who they are – or if they do, no one who cares. Just the three of them, grinding together, touching, kissing, pushing boundaries.
"He wants you to touch him, Chris," JC says quietly. "Wants it so bad, dontcha, pretty baby?"
He wants you to touch him. Chris wonders if JC touches Lance, and that picture makes his stomach flip-flop violently, as heat surges through him.
"Yes." Lance whimpers, catches the hand still caressing JC's face, and brings it to his mouth. Chris shivers when his fingers slide past glossy lips into wet warmth. Lance licks at his fingers once, and Chris grinds forward against Lance, cock throbbing behind his jeans. He can practically feel that mouth on him, sucking him. Wonders if Lance has ever sucked cock before, then shudders with the thought.
"You're such a dirty little boy—girl," he growls softly when Lance takes his hands and strokes them down over his slender torso. Chris can feel the hard points of Lance's nipples beneath the velour top, and the contrast of soft and nubby against hard, but yielding makes his head spin.
"Wanna suck you—" Lance gasps the words against Chris' throat, and they burn, god they burn. Sear into his skin, and swear to god, he feels his dick jump against the fly of his jeans, metal from the zipper biting into him. "Please, Chris."
"Bathroom," JC murmurs – or does he? Maybe Chris just imagines he reads those lips forming that word. Lance makes a soft noise, shudders against him when JC licks his throat again. Chris shakes his head. They can't; Lou would kill them if they got caught. But god, what a thought, shoving Lance into the bathroom and--
"Not in here." The rhythm shifts beneath his feet, pounds up into him, each beat of music throbbing through him. His cock pulses in time with the music, with Lance's words, the soft plea scorching through him.
He shifts so he can kiss Lance, tastes those soft, slick lips against his. JC moves closer, guides Lance's hips against his while Chris kisses him. Chris wonders what they look like, to anyone who might be watching, closes his eyes and pictures red, swollen lips, mouths open and moving against each other, flashes of dark pink tongue, wet and lewd. They're not dancing any more; they're honest-to-god making out on the dance floor, three mouths working, three sets of hands stroking, teasing, light touches that enflame rather than satisfy.
Someone bumps into him – them – and barks several harsh words, which Chris answers back. His blood is high, hot; he's ready to use the adrenaline rushing through him, looking now for a fight or sex. Doesn't care which. JC tugs on him, one hand already pulling on Lance, and Chris looks away from the guy now eyeing Lance a little too friendly-like, and mutters, "Let's get out of here."
They stumble 'round the side of the club into the shadows of the alley behind it. It's dark, just a bit of light from the moon above, playing peek-a-boo with the clouds. The cool air feels good on Chris' face, and it's just enough of a bite to bring him back under something passing for control—at least until JC pushes him against the wall of the building and kisses him, hard and deep, tongue stroking around inside his mouth. Lance presses up tight against them, taking his turn at Chris' mouth when JC turns away to bite at the silver hoops in Chris' ear. Slender fingers skate down over his chest, cup his cock through his jeans, stroke him gently, teasingly.
"Do it," he gasps against Lance's mouth, hands coming up to push on shoulders, arms, anything to get Lance down.
JC kneels with Lance, behind him, bunches the leather mini upward so Chris can see there's nothing under it but Lance. That, combined with the rush of cool air against fever-hot skin is almost enough to make him come even before Lance's mouth closes over him, wet and hot and oh, so good.
Chris touches Lance's face, looks down to see his cock slowly disappearing, reappearing, glossyslick lips opening, stretching to take him in and let him go. Shadowy eyes watch him; Chris knows if there was more light, he'd be able to see green, like a cat's eyes. Feline, hungry, sly, that's how Lance looks right now. Along with slutty, debauched, lewd. Delicious. Chris' hips twitch forward on their own; he's on autopilot now, watching, listening to the wet sounds, the soft slap of flesh-against-flesh as JC strokes and teases Lance, while Lance sucks him.
And oh, yes, Lance has definitely sucked cock before. The vague musings of guilt and uncertainty thrumming alongside the hunger and arousal are muted, because this is so obviously not something new. Chris watches, pumps forward slowly, sees Lance readjust to the slow, steady thrusts. He leans his head back against the building wall and closes his eyes to better feel the sensations. A slick, wet tongue, licking at him, laving over the head of his cock. Suction, pulling him deeper, wet heat caressing down the length of his dick. Warm fingers cupping and tugging on his 'nads. Lance looks up, meets his eyes, then lets him slide out of his mouth, a long thread of spit connecting them. Chris shudders, reaches down to fist his fingers into silky soft blond hair. On some level he recognizes his voice, hears the words, but this is almost surreal and he feels disconnected, aware primarily of the hunger arcing through him. "Suck me, baby. Little cocksucker…baby slut…"
He hears JC's voice, but not the words, just the soft murmur in Lance's ear, looks down to see JC's weight pressing Lance forward. Onto his cock. Sees a now-swollen mouth open to take him, feels Lance shudder in a breath and swallow him down slowly, completely, until he's surrounded, 'til Lance has him deep-throated. When he swallows Chris groans, twitches his hips forward. Wants to fuck him, his throat, hard and fast. Feel it tighten and loosen around him. Wants to shoot down that slick, tight tunnel and feel Lance swallow it down. Then he wants to kiss him, taste himself mingled with cherry lip-gloss.
He tightens his fingers and thrusts, hears Lance's soft grunt. The vibration travels up through him, into him, and Chris gasps, fucks his hips forward again. Again. Loses himself in the heat, the rhythm. Growls when JC stands up and kisses him, tongue slicking into his mouth in the same rhythm he's fucking Lance's mouth. Hot. Hot. Heat gathering in his belly, his groin, a volcanic pressure building up, spiraling outward. He shouts into JC's mouth in surprise when a single finger rubs behind his balls, presses against tight muscle there, shouts again when JC bites him and he comes, shooting down Lance's throat like he'd envisioned.
Lance fingers him almost gently and Chris growls, shudders, pants into JC's mouth as wave after wave of sensation boils over him, out of him. Lance murmurs something very softly, and JC licks Chris' mouth before pulling away, bending down to hear him.
Chris is fine with the surcease; he sags back against the wall and pants, softly, tries to catch his breath. Here he'd been worried about sex – anything, really – and Lance basically rocked his world completely.
"Lance wants to fuck you." JC's voice is thick, heavy with lust, low in his ear. Chris quivers as the words, the tone, slide through his brain, wrap themselves around his nervous system. "Think about it, man…pretty boy looking like a pretty girl…I know you like that."
And fucking Chasez, he does know. Intimately. It's one of Chris' favorite things, actually, to have JC fuck him when he's all dolled up.
JC licks Chris' ear, tongue teasing over the outer edge, jangling his hoops. He looks down at Lance, still kneeling, skirt rucked up as he strokes himself. Lance's eyes are hot. Fiery hot. Chris shudders. "Yes," he says hoarsely. "God, yeah."
"Turn around." JC has that voice down pat, and gentle-rough hands help him turn, press him against the brick. It's rough, but it's good, and Christ, this is like fantasy come to life. "Spread 'em." Fingers bite into his asscheeks, then delve between, and Lance – Lance? Or JC now? – is fingering him again, something cool and slick easing the way, making Chris twist and wriggle, trying to get more, deeper, faster.
"Who's the slut, now?" Lance kisses the back of his neck, voice low and rumbly, soft thunder echoing around him. "God, Chris."
"Never said—ah!" Two fingers, pressing deeper, and oh, god, it feels good. "Never said I wasn't."
He hears, distantly, through the roaring in his ears, the soft sound of someone opening a rubber. And then there's a void when Lance slides his fingers out, and Chris misses the pressure, misses the friction, until something hotter, thicker, harder pushes against him. Against him, into him, and thank-fucking-god for lubed condoms and spit and the fact that JC fucks him regularly. Because oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, and fuck again.
Lance is—god. Big. Huge. Filling him, absolutely. Chris groans, growls when Lance bites his neck, sucks at the spark of pain. Then warm fingers lace with his and Lance thrusts, going deeper, and oh, god. This could be something he'll never get enough of. He shudders and opens his eyes – when did he close them? – and stares at JC, who has his pants open, cock in hand, stroking slowly, deliberately. Heat crawls through Chris, ribbons off through his veins, his nerves, until every part of him is tingling, vibrating.
"Hot," JC rasps, the word slow, sexy. Chris nods and licks his lips, squeezes Lance's fingers.
"Kiss him," he growls, not sure who he's talking to. Just—them. JC flashes him a grin and moves closer, shoulder bumping against Chris as he works himself. Chris hears the wet sounds of fucking, of kissing, shudders and shoves back at Lance. "More," he says hoarsely, close to begging. Hell, he'll beg if they want him to. This is worth begging. "Faster. Please. God, Lance."
"Fuck him hard, baby. Harder. He likes it rough." JC's voice is tight, he's bumping against Chris faster now, harder, and Chris strains his neck so he can watch JC's dick disappearing in and out of the tunnel of his hand. He imagines seeing Lance fucking him, watching him disappear in and out of Chris' body, and groans. Too hot. Closes his eyes and pictures smudged make up, and pretty clothes draped over a body that's not feminine, but is, a beautiful boy-girl face with a cock that's going to drive him insane. His thoughts swirl out further, wider, until he's not thinking any more, just feeling, lost in the sensation of hard and soft, faster, harder, heat pressed against him, pressing into him, friction so quick and hot it's like electricity thrumming through him.
"Chris—" Lance bites down on his neck again, and Chris is struck by the urge to tip his head back, bare his throat.
He hears, feels, the groan rumble out of Lance and into him, branding his skin somehow. Marking him. And then Lance fucks him hard, fast, fingers tight on his, teeth bruising tender skin, and he's coming, they're both coming, then JC too, his soft cry mingling with theirs.
Chris stays pressed against the wall even after Lance pulls out, needing a moment of support until his legs stop shaking enough to hold him up. He turns, slowly, watches Lance tug his skirt down. Nothing beneath it but stockings and a garter belt, obviously; no panties. In spite of coming twice in about twenty minutes, maybe, a streak of—something—moves through him. He watches through hooded eyes while Lance licks JC's fingers clean, then tugs him close to kiss him slowly, thoroughly. He tastes JC, and himself, mingled with the cherry lip-gloss. Tastes the heat of Lance's mouth, his own flavor layered beneath the others. JC fastens his pants, then zips Chris up gently before leaning in to lick where Chris and Lance are joined, lips swollen, pressing gently, carefully.
"We need to go," Chris says at last. "Anyone could come by—"
"God." Lance darts a glance at the street not very far away. "Lou would—"
"Kill us." Chris finishes that thought succinctly and frowns. "Not a good thought."
"We could. Go back to our room," JC's voice is soft, almost lazy. He definitely looks post-sex satisfied. "We need to get Lance cleaned up anyway."
"We could shower." Chris blinks and leans in to kiss JC. Softer, with less sex and more affection. He loses himself in that kiss for a moment, then kisses Lance again, the same sort—affection. Want. Not so much sex, but he thinks that'll come again.
In fact, thinking about it as they make their way out of the alley and then toward the hotel, he's pretty damn sure he wants to test some more boundaries again—as soon as possible.
~fin~
