nsync in black and white

Fiction by Pen . . . . . not real, made up, purely intended for entertainment

With Food on the Table

Fic_requests again!

Licking whipped cream off willing women with tight firm abs and gravity-defying silicon breasts is supposed to heal the heartbreak when you and your hot girlfriend, the one everybody wants to sleep with, have finally called it a day. Justin knows that, and he's grateful to Lance for being the one who'll go along with the cliché, who'll drag him off to clubs, and make sure he doesn't get so smashed he'll actually try and sleep with any of those women, because that would not be the way to make Justin feel good about life. If he was that drunk, he probably wouldn't be able to—and that would do nothing good for his reputation.

Lance dragged him out of the club and back to the car. They held each other up, and staggered, and laughed, and waved at the girls with little traces of whipped cream still smeared on their bellies, but once they got into the car they'd been able to drop the show, be only as drunk as they actually were, and only as merry, too. Justin had leant his head on Lance's shoulder, and Lance had petted him a bit, and it was nice.

And now here they are in his kitchen, knocking back chilled bottles of mineral water. Justin hates that tight feeling around his brain that comes with a hangover, and Lance says he's hungry and is looking in the refrigerator and in the kitchen cupboards.

Soon there's a collection of things to eat in the middle of the table. Justin isn't really interested in the food, but he's awake now, there's no chance he'll fall asleep if he goes to bed, and Lance is so much fun when he's just a little bit drunk, just drunk enough to forget about being rich and famous and compulsorily beautiful. Just enough to want to nibble on some of the assortment on the table.

"You shouldn't keep these in the refrigerator," Lance says, holding up a ripe, lush strawberry by its little stalk. "They should be warm, like they've been in the sunshine." He opens his mouth for the strawberry, and his eyes close as he inhales the scent of it, and closes his lips slowly around it, and there's such an expression of bliss on his face, Justin is mesmerized. Lance moans happily. "Mmm. Perfect."

Then his eyes are open and he's looking over what's on the table. There's a small carton of yogurt, the macrobiotic kind. Lance opens it, and dips the next strawberry into it, and the strawberry goes into his mouth white and comes out clean and red, and then he bites slowly into it, and swallows, and Justin watches the ripple of Lance's throat as he eats, and he doesn't know why it should be so hot, he was watching Lance licking girls earlier and it didn't do this, it wasn't like this.

Now Lance is dipping his forefinger into the yogurt and licking it clean, and Justin is riveted, he can't stop watching. It doesn't even occur to him to think ew, and fetch Lance a spoon, like he'd do at any other time. Lance's tongue, sliding up the sides of his own finger. Lance's lips, sucking the tip clean. Lance's finger, sinking back into the yogurt and being licked again.

"That's better," says Lance, and his tongue flicks out over his pretty lips and catches the little traces of yogurt, and the thought skids across Justin's mind that he could have done that, licked the little white flecks from Lance's lips, but he's too late, Lance is looking predatorily at the food again, and he's found a couple chicken wings left over from lunchtime, sticky with barbecue sauce, and he's nibbling at them with his perfect pearly teeth and getting sauce on his honey-smooth cheek and Justin really really wants to help him with that because it's gotta taste better than any sauce he's ever had, but then Lance reaches for the fruit bowl, and picks out a peach, tests it in his hand then picks out another, and he's standing there with his two peaches, weighing them, until one goes back into the bowl and the other into his mouth, and it's bursting with juice and makes a sucking sound as he bites into the flesh, and there's a sweet rivulet running down his chin and he looks up and sees Justin staring.


And Justin stands up so fast his chair falls backward with a clatter, but he's nudged the peach out of the way with his head, and he licks the syrupy trail that's dribbling down Lance's chin, and mouths over the smears of sticky sauce until his lips and tongue are on Lance's lips and devouring, and he's sucking the strawberries and peaches and spicy sauce and the traces of the night's alcohol, sucking them all out of Lance's mouth along with the sweet taste of Lance's rich, warm whimpering.

Then he's ripping his shirt off, doesn't care where it lands, it's more important to get Lance's T-shirt over his head and off, and everything about Lance is cream and honey and salty with the sweat of dancing and a little bit smoky from the club, and he tastes so good Justin moans too, flattening his tongue in broad sweeps over Lance's neck and collarbone. Then Lance pushes him backwards, down onto the table, something falls onto the floor, there's a splat and the tinkle of glass on stone but he'll think about that later, because now Lance is squeezing the peach so that sweetness drips down onto Justin's belly, and he drops the peach and puts his juice-covered palm onto Justin's mouth to lick, and Justin does, cleaning every trace of peach, sucking on the fingers one by one, and quivering as he lies back on the table because Lance is cleaning him, his slick, determined tongue chasing every trickle.

He's going to burst, his hips are writhing helplessly, pressing up into the air. Justin fumbles at his own flies, drags out his cock and pleads against Lance's palm, please, please.

Something cold, smearing his shaft, it's intense and unexpected but it cools him just a little, enough that he can open his eyes and see what Lance is doing, just in time to see Lance bring his mouth down. Lance's tongue, licking up the length of his cock in broad strokes. Lance's hot mouth sucking the cool white yogurt from the tip, Lance licking round and round the strawberry head as though Justin's cock were an ice cream cone, dripping in the heat. Then swallowing his length in a sudden overwhelming motion that has Justin crying out and thrusting helplessly against the strong hands that hold his hips to the table as Lance takes him in again and again until he comes, rich, bountiful spurts into the eager warmth of Lance's mouth. And Lance sucks him clean as though he were the tastiest treat on the table.

There are still traces at the corners of Lance's mouth, and Justin sits, his peach-sticky abs curling him easily upright, and carefully he licks the little white flecks from Lance's lips.



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