brandywine28 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
brandywine28) wrote2014-08-28 04:12 pm
brandywine28) wrote2014-08-28 04:12 pm
Entry tags:
It's porn-quel time!
Here it is, folks -- the timestamp no one asked for!
A little background: I wrote this for the 'Tis the Season to be Steamy challenge over at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
popsoundboard, the point of which is to write an X-rated "deleted scene" from one of your already existing MtYG fics. I went with my entry from 2011, If You Can't Stand the Heat (Stay Out of the Kitchen). For those of you who don't feel up to refreshing yourselves, here's the breakdown: it's a Trickyfish High School AU, lots of longing looks from across the Home Ec. classroom, garden variety teen angst... You're not missing much.
Lance isn’t really the type to throw a stereotypical drunken rager – red plastic cups bobbing sadly on the surface of the above ground swimming pool the morning after, cheerleaders puking on the lawn, under the carport – so it seems like a no-brainer; when he sidles up to Chris outside chem lab Thursday morning and announces that his parents are going away for the weekend (“Come over,” he says. “We can play house.”), Chris’ first thought is “best idea ever”. His second, after Lance gives him the tiniest of hip checks, private and subtle, tiny smile, and then drifts away toward the library, is a nonverbal jumble of exclamation points, with a couple of ‘guh’s tossed in there for good measure.
And that’s how he ends up rounding the corner onto Lance’s street at six thirty on a Friday afternoon, his right hand doing a clammy rat-a-tat-tat thing against his thigh. Lance’s house is a lot bigger than he was expecting. He hunches his shoulders a little and hopes the neighbors don’t think he’s casing the joint. Maybe black pants, a black hoodie and black sneakers were a bad idea. Maybe he should’ve brought flowers. Or a stuffed animal. Or written a sonnet. Maybe.
And then Lance is swinging the door open and saying “Honey! You’re home!”, and Chris takes in his pink flowered apron and the feather duster he’s holding and suddenly, he finds himself wishing for a pony keg with a funnel attachment.
Because, man, at a house party? Forget about it. Chris is the guy. He’s the man to be. No one’s jokes are funnier. No one’s keg stands are more graceful. What’s not well-trod territory, not yet anyway, is this new boyfriend he’s somehow aquired, this serious, sweet-faced kid who’s sometimes shy, sometimes almost unnervingly quiet, but who’s never managed to bore him, not even once.
The apron’s one of those Donna Reed-like, retro deals with a full, swishy skirt on the bottom -- basically an assless dress. “How was your day?,” Lance asks him, and when he has to lean down, just a little, to smack a wet, chaste kiss on his cheek, it occurs to Chris that he’s wearing heels. Heels, along with his sensible Gap jeans and off-white polo shirt.
“Uh…y’know. The usual,” Chris says, a little faintly, letting Lance to pull him across the threshhold. “Unless I fell and hit my head on one of your lawn gnomes out there and I’m actually passed out in the back of an ambulance right now. Which I’m thinking…” He gives Lance another once-over, and yup: housewife chic, heavy on the testosterone. The boy’s got pearls on, for Christ’s sake. Pearls. “…is pretty damn likely.”
“Oh, Chris,” says Lance, shaking his head fondly. “You’re such a riot.” He seizes Chris by the wrist and drags him farther into the house. Chris, stumbling along behind, gets a bit too caught up in the click-and-sway of Lance’s perky new lady walk; he doesn’t see the big, grey easy chair until Lance, hands on Chris’ shoulders, actually shoves him down into it.
“Sit,” says Lance. Chris wonders if this is where Lance’s father usually sits, then wonders if that’s a creepy thing to be wondering about.
“Yeah, OK. Sure,” says Chris. “Might as well be comfortable while I hallucinate myself even further into Nick at Nite: the drag show. Just – don’t make me wear a sequined dad cardigan or anything like that, okay?”
“I won’t.” He clucks his tongue and looks mildly, fondly exasperated, but underneath that? Lance is utterly poker-faced. Chris can’t get a read on him.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I did today?” asks Lance, arms akimbo. And the thing is, this really isn’t something Chris’ mind would’ve invented on its own. It’s too wholesome, too square and, frankly, kinda junk-shriveling. Which means…maybe he wasn’t hit on the head?
Well, fuck. So…what, then? He kind of doubts pod people are to blame so the only other option is that his boyfriend has been hiding some seriously pointy edges.
Still waters run deep…and are terrifying: he’s pretty sure he read that in a fortune cookie once.
“Oops,” says Chris. “Sorry. Hit me. No, wait, don’t hit me, since there’s still a chance I might be concussed and all. Lemme guess. Uh…you vacuumed the house in a pillbox hat and gloves? You made a pie with the help of some animated bluebirds?”
Lance smiles – bright and open and alien – and swats at Chris’ arm with the feather duster. “Cheeky.” He plunks himself down on Chris’ lap and daintily crosses his ankles. “Well, since Chris Jr and Christina are with their grandparents tonight, I was thinking –“ and here he lowers his voice to a loud whisper, like he’s afraid someone might overhear. “…maybe we can push the twin beds together?” Which, Chris thinks, is either a wildly brilliant suggestion -- the apron’d have to come off in order for the sexiness to commence, right? Logically? – or the cruelest euphemism Chris has ever heard.
He leans in and nips at Lance’s lower lip, because it’s either that or laugh himself to death, but when he reaches out to cup the back of Lance’s neck, Lance leaps up, smoothing down his apron and blushing – for real, the apples of his cheeks are tinted bright pink - and good God, if C and Fatone, those artsy fuckers, could see Lance now, they’d swoop in and kidnap him in the name of the drama club and Chris’d probably never see him again.
“But first,” he says. “I’m cooking dinner! Roast beef, potatoes, carrots – the works! It’s almost ready -- you just relax, darling. I’ll take care of everything.”
And with that, Lance turns and disappears into a room Chris assumes must be the kitchen, clack-clack-clacking all the way. That’s when it hits him: Playing house. Jesus.
Let it never be said that Chris Kirkpatrick is a spoilsport. He’s a big believer in equal opportunity insanity – a basic law of Kirkpatrickian reciprocity that states, more or less, that if he expects everyone around him to tolerate his own quirks (and God knows he does), he’s got no business at all harshing anyone else’s good time. And it’s a good thing, too, ‘cos by the time he’s been there around forty-five minutes or so, and nodded politely at Lance’s idea of small talk (“The Weatherston’s want us to come over for bridge next Tuesday night! Won’t that be lovely?”) and obediently lifted his feet so Lance could dust underneath the ottoman ( “And everyone said my roses were the prettiest ones on the whole block! Can you believe it?”), it’s become pretty clear that Lance doesn’t plan on dropping the happy housewife act anytime soon. There’s not even a hint of a smirk on his face, no wry curl to his lip – nada. The boy’s in it to win it…whatever “it” is.
It’s starting to look like this is gonna be one long, winding ride to Crazytown. It’s lucky he’s an open-minded guy, and Lance is cute.
“Chris, dear!” Lance calls, and a voice as deep as Lance’s shouldn’t be able to lilt, should it? “Come taste this, please! I need to make sure it’s not too salty!”
“Uh…” Chris shuffles into the kitchen – a sleek silver and chrome affair that doesn’t really jibe with Chris’ mental image of pie-making woodland creatures - to see Lance holding out a big wooden spoon, the kind his grandma used to brandish at him whenever he’d get on her nerves – which was always. “Sure thing, babe.” He considers making some crack about spanking, just for the hell of it – asking whether he’s been a “naughty boy”, maybe tossing out some dumb comment about how kitchen sex is skanky and unsanitary, but for Lance he’ll make an exception, but…Lance’s face just looks so damn earnest that he’s kind of ashamed of his brain for even taking that tack, and the idea withers away before he can say a word.
“Here, try this. And be honest.”
The sauce, or whatever it is Lance is making him taste, is pretty pleasant, a little creamy, understated, but it barely even registers because Lance’s eyes are right there, unreadable as ever, that freaky absinthe-green that’s only recently stopped wigging the bejesus out of him and started seeming like a reasonable color for eyes to be, and Chris swallows with a way-too-loud gulping sound ‘cos Lance’s fingertips are suddenly on his face. For a second he thinks he’s dribbled the whatever-it-is all down his chin, but no, Lance is tracing his lips, his jaw, gently but with purpose and when Lance leans in and outlines the exact same path with his tongue Chris hears himself gasp – still waters can mask a crapload of prurience, it looks like – and then he’s falling and oh, it’s okay, it’s more than okay because–
This is -- finally, something familiar. Truth is, they haven’t gone too far yet, but sometimes Chris wonders if that’s not at least partly because the kissing is so damn good. Hours lost to it, whenever they can carve out a spare chunk of time, under the bleachers before school, after hours in the third story janitor’s closet (“Dude, we’re in the closet, like, literally,” Chris says, every single time and Lance always, always laughs), and for the last month or so they’ve had an unofficial standing date during Monday afternoon assembly, kissing until their mouths are raw and red, holding one another loosely in the emptied out Home Ec. classroom while the rest of their year learns about the dangers of smoking and driving drunk.
Lance’s fingers are still on his cheeks, lightly stroking, and Chris turns his head and bites the pad of Lance’s thumb, and then, a little harder, the meaty part near the base of his hand. Lance hisses quietly, but doesn’t pull away; instead, Chris finds himself sucking on Lance’s fingers, first two, then three, sliding his tongue over and around Lance’s bony knuckles while Lance makes tiny whimpering noises and licks sloppily at his neck. Chris is deep into what he thinks of as his zen, floaty makeout zone when Lance starts fumbling, one-handed, with Chris’ button fly, drawing him out of his boxers with spit-soaked fingers and Chris can feel his eyes roll back into his head. He realizes, dimly, that Lance has backed him up against the drying rack, and that his hand is starting to move with something resembling intent, in slow, experimental strokes. Lance’s face is still buried in the crook of his neck and Chris can actually feel his own warm saliva on his dick, which is just blowing his mind, and --
“Fuck! The roast!”
And…nothing. Because Lance is pushing him away, tearing across the room toward the oven and the first thing Chris notices when he comes back to his senses is that his breathing sounds wheezy and kinda scarily loud in the now-silent kitchen. Lance has his back to him, fiddling with the various knobs and dials and not saying anything and fuck. Did the smoke alarm go off? Probably, if the acrid, plasticky smell in the room is any indication. Damn. He hadn’t even noticed. Yup, Chris thinks. Fuck the roast.
Chris waddles over to the oven and wraps his arms around Lance’s waist from behind. His pants are pooled around his ankles and his hard cock is in full view and still, this is only, like, the fourth or fifth stupidest thing about the whole situation.
“Lance,” he pleads, hooking his chin over Lance’s left shoulder. “Baby. Please, please don’t make me fuck Ma Brady. ‘Cos I won’t lie, I’ll probably be able to get it up, but man, I will never, ever forgive you.”
Chris can’t see Lance’s face, but he’s vibrating a little in Chris’ arms, so he’s probably either laughing or having a nervous breakdown. He slams his palm down on the countertop and spins around. “You,” he says, “are an absolute freak.” And yup, laughing, thank God, and even better, he’s Lance again. Chris wants to be all indignant, wants to get up in Lance’s grill and say “I’m the freak? Me?”, except Lance’s arms are locking in place around his neck and they’re kissing again, and it just really, really doesn’t matter anymore.
Lance is pushing him backward and scrabbling at the ties on his apron at the same time; when Chris just yanks the entire thing up and over Lance’s ears and tosses it to one side, messy but effective, Lance makes a breathless sort of sound and just fucking glues himself to Chris’ torso. “I was going for more of a June Cleaver thing, actually,” he bites out, between frantic kisses. “More classic, more…y’know. Iconic.”
“I don’t care, I don’t care,” Chris gasps, as Lance starts in on his earlobe. “I just want you.” And wow – how the hell did they get back in the living room? Because there’s the easy chair again, materializing behind Chris’ knees just in time to catch him before he trips over his pants and breaks his neck and Lance has to answer the door for the EMTs in nothing but pearls and pumps -- and wouldn’t that be a fun way for them to come out to their families? Lance clambers onto his lap and attacks his mouth again. His hips are rolling minutely and he’s apparently given up trying to get them both naked; he’s clinging and mewling into Chris’ mouth and he smells like clean laundry and boy-sweat.
The ability to elegantly and swiftly change positions mid-gropefest does not happen to be one of Chris’ sexual superpowers; their legs end up pretzeled together in an impossibly twisty configuration of shins and ankles while he tries to maneuver Lance to one side. His knees hit the carpet, hard, a minute or two later - seven and a half seconds of pure, searing agony which are quickly forgotten, ‘cos Lance is groaning and edging his ass toward the border of the chair cushion and now it’s Chris’ turn to fumble with buttons and zippers.
“Relax, baby. I’m gonna take care of everything, okay?”
Blowing Lance is way hotter than Chris was prepared for. Like, crazy hot. For one thing, the pumps – a basic black pair with some kind of strappy ankle-thing, now that Chris is seeing them up close – have managed to stay on Lance’s feet and it feels like a filthy, filthy Christmas miracle, ‘cos yeah, even though they’re gouging painful little divots all up and down his ribs (‘cos of Lance’s seeming determination to be a wriggly little shit), it’s just – whoa. Very whoa. Kinky in a way Chris can barely even process. For another, when Chris chances a glance upward, he sees that Lance’s eyes are screwed shut, his face is slack, neck red and blotchy – that weird, buttery smooth housewife façade is gone, gone, gone. By the time Lance growls “Chris, Chris -- fuck!” and tilts his head back and keens, Chris has already come in his pants and gotten hard again.
Later, after they’ve re-pretzeled and no one’s kicking anyone in the gut anymore, Lance sighs into the quiet and mutters, “Florence Henderson popularized that awful half-mullet hairdo. Like three of my aunts still wear their hair that way. I’d never dress up like her. I don’t condone that shit.”
“Oh. Right. Cool,” Chris says after a minute. He doesn’t open his eyes. “Only I kinda thought you maybe had a thing for us crazy-haired types?” He feels Lance’s hand carding lazily through his braids and grins.
“Yeah, well. I guess you’ve made me rethink a lot of things.”
“Yup. That’s ‘cos you’re totally nuts about me. You wanna marry me underneath a rose-covered chuppah. You tried to wow me with your wifely prowess.”
“Shut up,” Lance says, slapping Chris’ forearm. Chris can hear the smile in his voice. “So, truth time: this was, like, the dumbest idea ever, wasn’t it?”
“Nah,” says Chris. “I’m impressed, actually. It takes a special kind of whackjob to out-psycho Chris Kirkpatrick.”
Lance hums contendedly, still petting Chris’ hair with slow, even strokes. “And…I did, right? Out-psycho you?”
Jesus. Chris rolls off of Lance, snickering. “Oh, awesome. Not just a whackjob – a competitive whackjob! I sure know how to pick ‘em!” He holds his stomach and rolls from side to side, laughter mounting.
Lance stretches, giggling a little, but his eyes aren’t smiling. “Having second thoughts?”
“Nope,” says Chris, wiping tears off his cheeks. “I’m just glad you’re not gonna make me play bridge for real.”
“Ah,” Lance says. He reaches up and starts to unfasten his pearls. “C’mon. I’ll order a pizza, and then we’ll go upstairs and I can wow you some more.” Which, Chris supposes, is probably the best thing about not really being an old married couple: ultra-short refractory periods, God bless ‘em.
“Yes, dear,” says Chris.
A little background: I wrote this for the 'Tis the Season to be Steamy challenge over at
popsoundboard, the point of which is to write an X-rated "deleted scene" from one of your already existing MtYG fics. I went with my entry from 2011, If You Can't Stand the Heat (Stay Out of the Kitchen). For those of you who don't feel up to refreshing yourselves, here's the breakdown: it's a Trickyfish High School AU, lots of longing looks from across the Home Ec. classroom, garden variety teen angst... You're not missing much.Lance isn’t really the type to throw a stereotypical drunken rager – red plastic cups bobbing sadly on the surface of the above ground swimming pool the morning after, cheerleaders puking on the lawn, under the carport – so it seems like a no-brainer; when he sidles up to Chris outside chem lab Thursday morning and announces that his parents are going away for the weekend (“Come over,” he says. “We can play house.”), Chris’ first thought is “best idea ever”. His second, after Lance gives him the tiniest of hip checks, private and subtle, tiny smile, and then drifts away toward the library, is a nonverbal jumble of exclamation points, with a couple of ‘guh’s tossed in there for good measure.
And that’s how he ends up rounding the corner onto Lance’s street at six thirty on a Friday afternoon, his right hand doing a clammy rat-a-tat-tat thing against his thigh. Lance’s house is a lot bigger than he was expecting. He hunches his shoulders a little and hopes the neighbors don’t think he’s casing the joint. Maybe black pants, a black hoodie and black sneakers were a bad idea. Maybe he should’ve brought flowers. Or a stuffed animal. Or written a sonnet. Maybe.
And then Lance is swinging the door open and saying “Honey! You’re home!”, and Chris takes in his pink flowered apron and the feather duster he’s holding and suddenly, he finds himself wishing for a pony keg with a funnel attachment.
Because, man, at a house party? Forget about it. Chris is the guy. He’s the man to be. No one’s jokes are funnier. No one’s keg stands are more graceful. What’s not well-trod territory, not yet anyway, is this new boyfriend he’s somehow aquired, this serious, sweet-faced kid who’s sometimes shy, sometimes almost unnervingly quiet, but who’s never managed to bore him, not even once.
The apron’s one of those Donna Reed-like, retro deals with a full, swishy skirt on the bottom -- basically an assless dress. “How was your day?,” Lance asks him, and when he has to lean down, just a little, to smack a wet, chaste kiss on his cheek, it occurs to Chris that he’s wearing heels. Heels, along with his sensible Gap jeans and off-white polo shirt.
“Uh…y’know. The usual,” Chris says, a little faintly, letting Lance to pull him across the threshhold. “Unless I fell and hit my head on one of your lawn gnomes out there and I’m actually passed out in the back of an ambulance right now. Which I’m thinking…” He gives Lance another once-over, and yup: housewife chic, heavy on the testosterone. The boy’s got pearls on, for Christ’s sake. Pearls. “…is pretty damn likely.”
“Oh, Chris,” says Lance, shaking his head fondly. “You’re such a riot.” He seizes Chris by the wrist and drags him farther into the house. Chris, stumbling along behind, gets a bit too caught up in the click-and-sway of Lance’s perky new lady walk; he doesn’t see the big, grey easy chair until Lance, hands on Chris’ shoulders, actually shoves him down into it.
“Sit,” says Lance. Chris wonders if this is where Lance’s father usually sits, then wonders if that’s a creepy thing to be wondering about.
“Yeah, OK. Sure,” says Chris. “Might as well be comfortable while I hallucinate myself even further into Nick at Nite: the drag show. Just – don’t make me wear a sequined dad cardigan or anything like that, okay?”
“I won’t.” He clucks his tongue and looks mildly, fondly exasperated, but underneath that? Lance is utterly poker-faced. Chris can’t get a read on him.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I did today?” asks Lance, arms akimbo. And the thing is, this really isn’t something Chris’ mind would’ve invented on its own. It’s too wholesome, too square and, frankly, kinda junk-shriveling. Which means…maybe he wasn’t hit on the head?
Well, fuck. So…what, then? He kind of doubts pod people are to blame so the only other option is that his boyfriend has been hiding some seriously pointy edges.
Still waters run deep…and are terrifying: he’s pretty sure he read that in a fortune cookie once.
“Oops,” says Chris. “Sorry. Hit me. No, wait, don’t hit me, since there’s still a chance I might be concussed and all. Lemme guess. Uh…you vacuumed the house in a pillbox hat and gloves? You made a pie with the help of some animated bluebirds?”
Lance smiles – bright and open and alien – and swats at Chris’ arm with the feather duster. “Cheeky.” He plunks himself down on Chris’ lap and daintily crosses his ankles. “Well, since Chris Jr and Christina are with their grandparents tonight, I was thinking –“ and here he lowers his voice to a loud whisper, like he’s afraid someone might overhear. “…maybe we can push the twin beds together?” Which, Chris thinks, is either a wildly brilliant suggestion -- the apron’d have to come off in order for the sexiness to commence, right? Logically? – or the cruelest euphemism Chris has ever heard.
He leans in and nips at Lance’s lower lip, because it’s either that or laugh himself to death, but when he reaches out to cup the back of Lance’s neck, Lance leaps up, smoothing down his apron and blushing – for real, the apples of his cheeks are tinted bright pink - and good God, if C and Fatone, those artsy fuckers, could see Lance now, they’d swoop in and kidnap him in the name of the drama club and Chris’d probably never see him again.
“But first,” he says. “I’m cooking dinner! Roast beef, potatoes, carrots – the works! It’s almost ready -- you just relax, darling. I’ll take care of everything.”
And with that, Lance turns and disappears into a room Chris assumes must be the kitchen, clack-clack-clacking all the way. That’s when it hits him: Playing house. Jesus.
Let it never be said that Chris Kirkpatrick is a spoilsport. He’s a big believer in equal opportunity insanity – a basic law of Kirkpatrickian reciprocity that states, more or less, that if he expects everyone around him to tolerate his own quirks (and God knows he does), he’s got no business at all harshing anyone else’s good time. And it’s a good thing, too, ‘cos by the time he’s been there around forty-five minutes or so, and nodded politely at Lance’s idea of small talk (“The Weatherston’s want us to come over for bridge next Tuesday night! Won’t that be lovely?”) and obediently lifted his feet so Lance could dust underneath the ottoman ( “And everyone said my roses were the prettiest ones on the whole block! Can you believe it?”), it’s become pretty clear that Lance doesn’t plan on dropping the happy housewife act anytime soon. There’s not even a hint of a smirk on his face, no wry curl to his lip – nada. The boy’s in it to win it…whatever “it” is.
It’s starting to look like this is gonna be one long, winding ride to Crazytown. It’s lucky he’s an open-minded guy, and Lance is cute.
“Chris, dear!” Lance calls, and a voice as deep as Lance’s shouldn’t be able to lilt, should it? “Come taste this, please! I need to make sure it’s not too salty!”
“Uh…” Chris shuffles into the kitchen – a sleek silver and chrome affair that doesn’t really jibe with Chris’ mental image of pie-making woodland creatures - to see Lance holding out a big wooden spoon, the kind his grandma used to brandish at him whenever he’d get on her nerves – which was always. “Sure thing, babe.” He considers making some crack about spanking, just for the hell of it – asking whether he’s been a “naughty boy”, maybe tossing out some dumb comment about how kitchen sex is skanky and unsanitary, but for Lance he’ll make an exception, but…Lance’s face just looks so damn earnest that he’s kind of ashamed of his brain for even taking that tack, and the idea withers away before he can say a word.
“Here, try this. And be honest.”
The sauce, or whatever it is Lance is making him taste, is pretty pleasant, a little creamy, understated, but it barely even registers because Lance’s eyes are right there, unreadable as ever, that freaky absinthe-green that’s only recently stopped wigging the bejesus out of him and started seeming like a reasonable color for eyes to be, and Chris swallows with a way-too-loud gulping sound ‘cos Lance’s fingertips are suddenly on his face. For a second he thinks he’s dribbled the whatever-it-is all down his chin, but no, Lance is tracing his lips, his jaw, gently but with purpose and when Lance leans in and outlines the exact same path with his tongue Chris hears himself gasp – still waters can mask a crapload of prurience, it looks like – and then he’s falling and oh, it’s okay, it’s more than okay because–
This is -- finally, something familiar. Truth is, they haven’t gone too far yet, but sometimes Chris wonders if that’s not at least partly because the kissing is so damn good. Hours lost to it, whenever they can carve out a spare chunk of time, under the bleachers before school, after hours in the third story janitor’s closet (“Dude, we’re in the closet, like, literally,” Chris says, every single time and Lance always, always laughs), and for the last month or so they’ve had an unofficial standing date during Monday afternoon assembly, kissing until their mouths are raw and red, holding one another loosely in the emptied out Home Ec. classroom while the rest of their year learns about the dangers of smoking and driving drunk.
Lance’s fingers are still on his cheeks, lightly stroking, and Chris turns his head and bites the pad of Lance’s thumb, and then, a little harder, the meaty part near the base of his hand. Lance hisses quietly, but doesn’t pull away; instead, Chris finds himself sucking on Lance’s fingers, first two, then three, sliding his tongue over and around Lance’s bony knuckles while Lance makes tiny whimpering noises and licks sloppily at his neck. Chris is deep into what he thinks of as his zen, floaty makeout zone when Lance starts fumbling, one-handed, with Chris’ button fly, drawing him out of his boxers with spit-soaked fingers and Chris can feel his eyes roll back into his head. He realizes, dimly, that Lance has backed him up against the drying rack, and that his hand is starting to move with something resembling intent, in slow, experimental strokes. Lance’s face is still buried in the crook of his neck and Chris can actually feel his own warm saliva on his dick, which is just blowing his mind, and --
“Fuck! The roast!”
And…nothing. Because Lance is pushing him away, tearing across the room toward the oven and the first thing Chris notices when he comes back to his senses is that his breathing sounds wheezy and kinda scarily loud in the now-silent kitchen. Lance has his back to him, fiddling with the various knobs and dials and not saying anything and fuck. Did the smoke alarm go off? Probably, if the acrid, plasticky smell in the room is any indication. Damn. He hadn’t even noticed. Yup, Chris thinks. Fuck the roast.
Chris waddles over to the oven and wraps his arms around Lance’s waist from behind. His pants are pooled around his ankles and his hard cock is in full view and still, this is only, like, the fourth or fifth stupidest thing about the whole situation.
“Lance,” he pleads, hooking his chin over Lance’s left shoulder. “Baby. Please, please don’t make me fuck Ma Brady. ‘Cos I won’t lie, I’ll probably be able to get it up, but man, I will never, ever forgive you.”
Chris can’t see Lance’s face, but he’s vibrating a little in Chris’ arms, so he’s probably either laughing or having a nervous breakdown. He slams his palm down on the countertop and spins around. “You,” he says, “are an absolute freak.” And yup, laughing, thank God, and even better, he’s Lance again. Chris wants to be all indignant, wants to get up in Lance’s grill and say “I’m the freak? Me?”, except Lance’s arms are locking in place around his neck and they’re kissing again, and it just really, really doesn’t matter anymore.
Lance is pushing him backward and scrabbling at the ties on his apron at the same time; when Chris just yanks the entire thing up and over Lance’s ears and tosses it to one side, messy but effective, Lance makes a breathless sort of sound and just fucking glues himself to Chris’ torso. “I was going for more of a June Cleaver thing, actually,” he bites out, between frantic kisses. “More classic, more…y’know. Iconic.”
“I don’t care, I don’t care,” Chris gasps, as Lance starts in on his earlobe. “I just want you.” And wow – how the hell did they get back in the living room? Because there’s the easy chair again, materializing behind Chris’ knees just in time to catch him before he trips over his pants and breaks his neck and Lance has to answer the door for the EMTs in nothing but pearls and pumps -- and wouldn’t that be a fun way for them to come out to their families? Lance clambers onto his lap and attacks his mouth again. His hips are rolling minutely and he’s apparently given up trying to get them both naked; he’s clinging and mewling into Chris’ mouth and he smells like clean laundry and boy-sweat.
The ability to elegantly and swiftly change positions mid-gropefest does not happen to be one of Chris’ sexual superpowers; their legs end up pretzeled together in an impossibly twisty configuration of shins and ankles while he tries to maneuver Lance to one side. His knees hit the carpet, hard, a minute or two later - seven and a half seconds of pure, searing agony which are quickly forgotten, ‘cos Lance is groaning and edging his ass toward the border of the chair cushion and now it’s Chris’ turn to fumble with buttons and zippers.
“Relax, baby. I’m gonna take care of everything, okay?”
Blowing Lance is way hotter than Chris was prepared for. Like, crazy hot. For one thing, the pumps – a basic black pair with some kind of strappy ankle-thing, now that Chris is seeing them up close – have managed to stay on Lance’s feet and it feels like a filthy, filthy Christmas miracle, ‘cos yeah, even though they’re gouging painful little divots all up and down his ribs (‘cos of Lance’s seeming determination to be a wriggly little shit), it’s just – whoa. Very whoa. Kinky in a way Chris can barely even process. For another, when Chris chances a glance upward, he sees that Lance’s eyes are screwed shut, his face is slack, neck red and blotchy – that weird, buttery smooth housewife façade is gone, gone, gone. By the time Lance growls “Chris, Chris -- fuck!” and tilts his head back and keens, Chris has already come in his pants and gotten hard again.
Later, after they’ve re-pretzeled and no one’s kicking anyone in the gut anymore, Lance sighs into the quiet and mutters, “Florence Henderson popularized that awful half-mullet hairdo. Like three of my aunts still wear their hair that way. I’d never dress up like her. I don’t condone that shit.”
“Oh. Right. Cool,” Chris says after a minute. He doesn’t open his eyes. “Only I kinda thought you maybe had a thing for us crazy-haired types?” He feels Lance’s hand carding lazily through his braids and grins.
“Yeah, well. I guess you’ve made me rethink a lot of things.”
“Yup. That’s ‘cos you’re totally nuts about me. You wanna marry me underneath a rose-covered chuppah. You tried to wow me with your wifely prowess.”
“Shut up,” Lance says, slapping Chris’ forearm. Chris can hear the smile in his voice. “So, truth time: this was, like, the dumbest idea ever, wasn’t it?”
“Nah,” says Chris. “I’m impressed, actually. It takes a special kind of whackjob to out-psycho Chris Kirkpatrick.”
Lance hums contendedly, still petting Chris’ hair with slow, even strokes. “And…I did, right? Out-psycho you?”
Jesus. Chris rolls off of Lance, snickering. “Oh, awesome. Not just a whackjob – a competitive whackjob! I sure know how to pick ‘em!” He holds his stomach and rolls from side to side, laughter mounting.
Lance stretches, giggling a little, but his eyes aren’t smiling. “Having second thoughts?”
“Nope,” says Chris, wiping tears off his cheeks. “I’m just glad you’re not gonna make me play bridge for real.”
“Ah,” Lance says. He reaches up and starts to unfasten his pearls. “C’mon. I’ll order a pizza, and then we’ll go upstairs and I can wow you some more.” Which, Chris supposes, is probably the best thing about not really being an old married couple: ultra-short refractory periods, God bless ‘em.
“Yes, dear,” says Chris.