Trickyfish Ficlet

[mickeym]

Another kiss ficlet! For Heather, 'cos she has the book *g*

**********


By Kim G.

"I think you're getting way too used to this." You leaned back and nudged Lance's thigh with the back of your head, grinning when all he did was rumble a soft agreement.

"Mmhmm."

It'd become a post-show habit, all of you collapsed around the room, piled over one another on the beds, or the floor, whatever surface was handy. Joey'd been the first one to shove his feet into your lap one night, asking if you could rub his feet, the muscles aching with too many hours of practice and performance. You'd teased about foot odor and catching strange diseases, but it wasn't a problem to help him out. He returned the favor without blinking, then moved away to curl up with JC, Justin stretched out in their laps, watching TV with eyes mostly closed.

Lance followed Joey a few nights later, hesitant and shy, like he was asking a big deal out of you. You'd assured him it was no big deal; his feet weren't any worse than Joe's, after all -- *after* a shower -- and gave him a quick, thorough massage.

And it gave you a chance to touch him, which was all you asked for these days. You lived for the moments when you got to stroke that warm, smooth, nearly flawless skin, with no one the wiser, including Lance.

Once in a while became every night. Which landed you straddling the knife edge of pleasure and pain. Pleasure, to touch him; pain, because it was a freakin' foot massage.

And then he got creative with positions, eschewing the standard feet-in-lap formula. Which was where you were now, completely in hell, surrounded by Lance, alone with Lance. One small couch in the room, and he was on it, his legs draped over your shoulders so you both could face the TV, could both watch the badly-dubbed Star Trek marathon currently playing. With Lance wearing *shorts*. While you massaged his feet. Life was horribly unfair at times, you decided, still rubbing and stroking his feet, trying to concentrate on Worf's speech about Klingon honor.

Unfair or no, you couldn't think of one other place you'd rather be. If his feet were all you got to touch, so be it. It was better than nothing, right? And--bonus, tonight. None of the J's were present. Just you, Lance, and a foot rub.

Lance's fingers tickled your head, twirling through the dreads that were your current fashion statement -- mostly because management hated them. "But you're good at it." A pause, the length of a couple heart-beats, and he twirled another dread, his voice a half an octave lower when he added, "It feels good, too. Your, um. Hands."

This time you laughed out right, trying to ignore the catch in your chest. His voice. Fuck, you wanted to worship when he rumbled like that. "Got a massage fetish, Bass?" You kneaded his feet again and he laughed with you. If his voice were higher you'd call it a giggle, but voices like Lance had didn't giggle. It just didn't work.

"If you were the masseuse, I might develop one."

You tilted your head back to see his face, wondering if you heard what you thought you heard in his voice, but he was concentrating on the TV, only the faintest tinge on his cheeks giving anything away. Interesting. Too bad he didn't appear inclined to move so you could, say, climb up over him and kiss him senseless.

The sound of his breathing increased slightly, a little louder, a little harsher. He shifted his legs once, restlessly, and warm skin, lightly roughened with fair hairs, brushed your cheek. His natural body musk was all around you, a combination of salt and sweat, and heat and soap, and you took a deep breath, filling your lungs. Your stomach coiled tightly when he moved again, and you found yourself sliding your hands up his calves, stroking him lightly. Above you, all movement and sound ceased; the only thing you could hear now was Captain Picard shouting something to Riker and Data. You didn't think Lance was even breathing, right now.

You turned your head just a little, fingers still teasing gently at the soft spot behind his right knee, and pressed your lips to that spot, open and vulnerable, and so sweet-tasting you wanted more instantly. He moaned softly and twitched under your lips when you increased the pressure, sucking lightly on his skin, a wet, open-mouthed kiss to sensitive skin. His fingers tightened in your hair.

"Chris--"

Fuck. His voice was hoarse, rough with--something. You pulled back and licked where you'd kissed, then kissed once more, further up on the side of his thigh, conveniently bared to you. His skin was warm beneath your lips, so warm, and you wanted to see if his mouth was just as warm. If it was slick and hot and welcoming. You pressed one more kiss to his inner thigh, breathing in deeply, and the sound of his strangled moan -- your name -- ripped through you like a lightning bolt. You twisted around and pushed up onto your knees, his legs falling away, and he met you halfway, his mouth already partly open, more than ready for you.

It was as hot and wet and wonderful as you'd imagined, his mouth open and inviting, tongue stroking over yours teasingly, darting around your mouth eagerly. You loved the sounds he made when you pressed him back on the couch, Star Trek forgotten, nothing for either of you just now but the two of you pressed together, mouths feeding off each other.

But you thought you might always like kissing the back of his knee, just for the reaction it got that first time, when it was unexpected, and brand-new.

~fin~

Comments

[evilprettykitty.livejournal.com]

That was very awesome.