a pop story
by dirty diana
For Edie in the Lance slashficathon. She requested Chris, happiness, and porn. Beta'd by sf fan, bless her.
Lance was always cold. In hotel rooms, in stores and restaurants and airport terminals, where the temperature was always something below Mississippi in July, Lance was always cold. He'd leave his room in the middle of the night, after he'd cranked the space heater as far up as it would go. Bringing all his blankets with him, wandering barefoot across the worn hotel carpets that all looked the same, into Chris' room to crawl underneath the covers.
Chris would complain, as he moved over to make room from him. He left the sheets warm behind him, pausing as he shuffled over to poke Lance sharply in the ribs.
"Fuck off," Lance would drawl, with his back turned, and then fall abruptly back to sleep.
Chris was always moving. All of him, his fingers and feet and hands, and thoughts behind dark eyes. He would wake Lance up as soon as it was light out, the mattress dipping beneath Chris' constantly shifting weight. His hands touched Lance all over, the parts turned towards him, traveling up and down over the curve of his spine. Up and down, back and forth.
"'M sleeping," Lance would murmur, at the intruding sensation of Chris' hands on his skin.
In response Chris pinched him, just below the hem of the cotton shirt that Lance was wearing, slipped up around his midsection. Chris watched in satisfaction as Lance jerked slightly, cursing underneath his breath.
"I'm sleeping," Lance repeated, louder, then kicked Chris soundly in the shins. Chris would tackle him then, wrapping him up in the blankets and pinning him to the mattress.
He ignored the sleepy, mumbled sounds of protest, as Lance wriggled underneath him. Chris only laughed, his hands tight on Lance's warm skin, until Lance shook his head and gave up.
Lance was always talking. Whispering, low in Chris' ear, gentle instructions as Chris kissed him. With Lance's hands caught inside his own, so that Lance couldn't move, couldn't think or breathe, as Chris' mouth traced a pattern just below Lance's left ear.
"Move," he would order, forcing Chris to roll until they were side by side, facing each other, barely breathing. Lance's mouth was still creased with sleep, green eyes dark as he watched Chris. Chris shivered just slightly, watching him back.
Chris was always looking, always watching. Watching as Lance woke up by turns, eyes first, wide and dark. Breathing faster, leaning into Chris as Chris kissed him. Softly to begin with, mouth easy and teasing. Then the kisses came harder, faster, a greedy chain across Lance's mouth.
Lance was always apologising. Always pulling Chris towards him, and then pushing him back again. Always needily dragging his teeth along the edge of Chris' collarbone, finding the most sensitive spot, sharp fingers digging too hard into the skin of Chris' hips. Then he would murmur quiet excuses against Chris' skin, a breathless string of 'I'm sorry's'.
"Shut up," Chris would murmur affectionately, hips jerking hard against Lance's body, without warning. Earning a gasp, a moan, and then Lance's fingers pressed roughly into the small of Chris' back, mouth against warm mouth until Chris could barely breathe.
Chris tugged at the waist of Lance's pants, pulling the fabric down. He drew rough fingers across the inside of Lance's thighs, Lance drawing up his knees and pulling Chris closer. Legs tangled together, dragging the heat and friction down, as Lance's open mouth lured Chris in for one more kiss.
Soft hands pushed their way roughly down Chris' body. Chris moaned when Lance's fingers found his cock, stroking the length with the smooth edge of his thumb. His eyes were bright and fully awake now, leaning in to bite gently at Chris' lower lip.
Lance's fingers pulled lazily at Chris' cock, hardness trapped inside his palm. Chris moaned, pushing impatiently against him. Lance ignored him, dragging his fingers in a slow, tender rhythm, listening as Chris' breathing sped up, quick shallow breaths that were warm on Lance's skin. Chris pressed his lips close together in an effort to hold on as Lance's fingers slid across the head of his cock. Then he closed his eyes and came, shaking and silent, in the palm of Lance's hand.
Chris' mouth was always willing and wet, and Lance gasped out loud when his lips closed tightly around his cock. Chris' mouth moved over aching and sensitive skin, dragging his tongue hungrily along the underside.
Lance grunted, his fingers gripping Chris' shoulders tightly as Chris sucked him off, gently, with no rhythm or pattern. Lance sighed, thrusting into him. His mouth moving, muttering an inaudible string of curses, until Chris' tongue moved against him one last time. Lance was always quiet when he came, making just a whispered, helpless whimper.
Chris was always sleepy afterwards, wriggling between the sheets on Lance's side, with one arm around him. Both of them warm and heavy, both of them oblivious to the impending interruption of their morning wakeup call.
"You woke me up," Lance complained gently, as Chris' head came to rest comfortably on his shoulder.
"Didn't," Chris said. "You were awake."
"Because you were poking me."
"You were too," Lance whispered.
Lance was always cold. He elbowed Chris over, until there was enough room under the blankets, then burrowed into the safe hollow of the bed, curled into a ball against Chris' side. Chris was always complaining, threatening to send Lance away, back to his own room. Chris couldn't sleep, he said, if Lance wouldn't fucking stay still. Lance ignored him, soaking up Chris' body heat, feeling the warmth down to his fingertips. Listening as Chris drifted back to sleep, covered completely by Chris' weight and the sound of his relaxed and even breathing. Lance closed his eyes, letting the light drift over his eyelids, as Chris began to snore. Underneath the covers Lance was warm, balanced on the edge of the morning.