Cherry
Copyright © 2001 Em

For Willa. For Jamie. For Dazi. For anybody who has ever lusted after Lance and thought, "I wanna...."

Lance tastes a bit like salt, lips slightly chapped despite the cherry-flavored Chapstick he's wearing, and when you kiss him you taste both, the waxy feeling sliding over your tongue as you slip it just between his lips. He hasn't opened his mouth to you yet, because he likes it to be slow, sometimes, for you to court him. And so you do, resting one hand along the side of his neck, fingers curling around the nape. You pepper his mouth with gentle pecks and rub his jawline with your thumb; his stubble is bristly against your skin, and your fingers may begin to move up into his hair -- you're not sure. It's sort of an instinctual thing you do. Habit.

When your tongue finally glides inside, just barely between his teeth, he nips at you and you tighten your grip on his neck, and he opens wider, jaw working to let you in. Your nose is pressed against his cheek, and he smells like the Neutraderm he uses, and definitely tastes like cherries, and the Coke he drank with lunch. His fingers finally brush your shoulder, that tentative touch, fluttering around you, before he runs his hand down and around so that it's on your back, pulling you closer. His hand is hot against your back; you can feel the imprint through your shirt, and you palm his waist with your other hand, wanting him to touch you again, wanting his hand to skate over your head, maybe rub the stubble on your head in the wrong direction.

He sighs against your skin and touches the roof of your mouth with his tongue, and there's a rumble down somewhere between your chests, and that's it, that's all it takes, and you're hard, just like that. You hitch him closer by the waist again, until you know he can feel you against his hip, and he huffs a little, through the nose and through the mouth. The other hand comes up, cupping your face, fingers trailing over your brow like he's learning you by braille.

He's hard, too.

You suck on his tongue hard, fiercely, breathlessly, and worm your hand down between your bodies. Hard, yeah, and getting harder; you can feel the outline of his hardon through the denim. His back arches a little when you stroke it with the backs of your fingers, and he makes a little sound that you can't summon the word for, but it makes you want to grind yourself against him and your hand; and so you do, for a moment -- a few rapid thrusts while you grunt softly, tearing your mouth from his, and he gasps, his lips wet against your cheek.

You need both hands, you find, to undo his belt, and rest your forehead against his while you do; your fingers brush against the dark hairs beneath his navel when you tug the fly open and the buttons away from his stomach. "Oh, God," he murmurs softly, when you slide down the length of his body and pull his jeans and briefs down with you, and his hands light on your shoulders, tracing distracted patterns. You only rest on one knee, leaning in to him, and you don't waste time studying him, because you know him by heart; you lick your lips before you go down, though, and you swear that his grip tightens on your shoulders just from seeing you do it.

His scent is always clean, but unmistakeable, and you love that about him; you inhale deeply as you swirl your tongue around him, and he moans low and bucks a bit when you curl your fist around his length. You have tricks, you know what he likes, when he's in the mood for this or something else, but today you just want you both to get off, now, and you keep it simple, working the head and pumping your hand as much as you can. Lance huffs again, and you're rewarded with just a hint of salty-sweet on the tip of your tongue; his hips twist against you, and you debate holding him still with your free hand for a moment, before you reach down and unzip your own fly. You know he'll understand.

At what point he stops merely kneading your shoulders and starts to lean on them outright, you don't know, but by the time you become aware of it his hips are moving in shallow thrusts, in time with his breaths, the 'huh' sound he makes that is both a whimper and just shy of one. He never fucks your face. You know he wants to, but he never does, and you love that about him, too. You get another taste of him, and your hand tightens compulsively around your dick, stroking faster, because he is there, he is almost there, and you don't want to get there alone. You tighten around him, too, though, unconsciously, and it takes his pokes in the shoulder before you realize that that last whimper was of discomfort and not pleasure, and loosen up.

"J, huh," he says, "oh. God," and digs his fingers into your shoulders, weight heavy across your back, and you strain your eyes to look up at him; his head dips, his jaw slack, his lip curling. He licks them. "Uhhhhhh," he says, less a vocalization than a groan, and bites his lip, worries it between his teeth as his forehead begins to wrinkle. His eyes are closed, are always closed when he's not watching you, and his eyelashes flutter from the effort of holding it together. "Fuck," he whispers, and shakes his head as though he's trying to get away from something, and with a final stroke of your hand, you're coming, on the edge, and it's funny, you think, that he's been building up this long and you were still first. And then when your mouth is filled with him, you drink it down, the cherry from his Chapstick still on your tongue, and you think you're going to have to get a stick of your own, and remember moments like this every time you use it.

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