BadBatz said: Lance in nothing but those red-pointy boots.

by Lesa Soja

This time was a good one, Chris thought, it was going really well. He had Lance moaning louder and louder, "Fuck… fuckfuuuck," until they heard pounding on the wall and JC's voice yelling,

"Keep it down, you freaks! Some of us are trying to sleep!"

and Lance shuddered at that, and Chris frowned. He wrenched his fingers out and reached wildly, blindly for the nightstand, where his hand knocked something smooth, and there was a slosh and a smash and the stink of bourbon and a hundred pieces of glass on the floor.

"Fuck," Chris said.

"What?" Lance asked, lifting his head to look over his shoulder.

"I, uh," Chris said, looking at the lube oozing onto the carpet from a fresh gash in the tube.

Lance turned and sat up, following his gaze. "I've got more," he said. He reached over the side of the bed for his boots and pulled them on.

Chris watched Lance walk across the room, crunching the glass underfoot. Those boots should have bells on the toes, he thought, and the red of the leather looked horrible next to the slight flush under Lance's fair skin.

Lance dug around in his bag and finally turned around with the bottle in his hand. Chris took a deep breath and tried to smile. "Come here, baby," he said.

But Lance shook his head. "Hunh-unh," he said. "You come here."

Chris looked at Lance, and at the floor, and at his own sneakers lying in the doorway of the bathroom and under one of the chairs. And at the wall behind him. And at Lance's faint smile.

He got up and walked over to him.

Lance put his hands under Chris's arms and hoisted him up onto the credenza. Then he crouched down and took Chris's right foot in his hands, and carefully pulled a shard of glass from the sole, and very carefully licked away the trickle of blood from the split skin. And Chris moaned very, very quietly.