Snow drabble for KC
I was ordered to do this on pain of death, and I happily obliged.
For my wonderful msktrnanny, in celebration of her upcoming birthday:
The first time it was funny. He screamed like a girl. Thinking back, that was probably his big tactical error.
The second time it was… sorta funny. The scream was more of a squeak this time, but that wasn’t necessarily better.
The third time, he almost saw it coming. But not quite. Afterwards, he got up and moved to the other side of the yard and tried not to look too embarrassed.
The fourth time, he tried retaliation. The results were rather abysmal.
The fifth time, he very calmly asked if it could please stop now, thank you. He was starting to get paranoid.
After the sixth time, Lance sat very still as the cold water slid down his neck, soaking cold into the back of his green t-shirt. Chris had already run off, cackling and flicking the excess snow off his fingers onto Justin. That very second, Lance decided he hated Sweden. He hated the constant stream of fish at every meal, and the pounding disco beats, and the weirdness of the language. He hated that they had to come here to record when there was a perfectly acceptable studio in Orlando. What he hated most, though, was that it was April, and Chris could still manage to get his hands on tiny balls of snow to sneak down the back of Lance’s shirt. Daily. On street corners, or off bushes they passed on the walk from the hotel to the club, or taken from the bumper of a car they were climbing into in the morning.
Snow. In April. Down Lance’s shirt.
It had to stop.
In the end, the solution was brilliantly simple. He just had to wait. Wait through attacks number seven through twelve. Wait through teasing from Joe, and JC’s laughing eyes. Wait through Chris slapping him on the back and saying, “Bass! You are so damn easy!”
Just wait. Eventually, the solution was right there in front of him. Passed out.
*
Chris opened his eyes slowly. His nose itched. But for some reason, his arm wouldn’t obey him when he reached to scratch it. Wow, he thought fuzzily. I must be a whole hell of a lot drunker than I thought. He tried again, but this time, his wrist felt tight, bound.
“What the…?” he blinked in the dim light of the hotel room. His hotel room. He was in bed, stripped to his boxers and his hands were tied snuggly to the bed frame. He tried moving his feet experimentally. No luck there either.
This was Not Good.
“Hello?” Crazy ass rabid fans got in! Crazy ass rabid fans who could possibly be hot Swedish twins but were probably a pair of toothless hillbillies who were about to make him squeal like a pig! Chris decided screaming was an option, but as he opened his mouth, a small light clicked on across the room.
“I really wouldn’t do that.”
Lance! Lance was the crazy stalker…? “Lance? My hands don’t work.”
Lance chuckled. “Nope. They really don’t.”
There was a clinking sound, like glass.
“Lance? Why am I tied to my bed?” Chris was always good about skipping right to the important questions.
“Mmmmm. That’s a good question.”
Damn it. Lance was very good at avoiding the important questions.
Lance stood from his seat and walked toward the bed, pushing something on wheels. As it got closer, Chris could see a silver tray with champagne glasses and chocolate-dipped strawberries on it. A bottle of champagne stuck out of the bucket hanging from the side.
There really had to be another to-the-point searching question here. Chris was mostly naked and Lance was there. With champagne, and strawberries, and a Cheshire cat grin. There had to be some sort of… oooohhhhh. It was all clicking into place. He’d sort of seen it coming, with Lance’s longer-then-necessary hugs, and his staring at Chris a lot, and, well, Chris flirting with him more than was probably appropriate considering. But yes. Chris was mostly naked, and Lance was there, and this was starting to make all kinds of sense.
Though Chris wouldn’t have bet money on the tying him to the bed part. Kinky.
Chris smiled. “Lance. Is that champagne?”
Lance grinned some more. “It is, indeed.”
“And strawberries. I love strawberries.”
“It was kind of a package deal.” Lance turned the tray so that the bucket was close to the side of the bed. He climbed up and straddled Chris’s thighs. Chris noted with some disappointment that Lance was still fully dressed. Not that it would matter in the long run. Hell, he could probably get Lance to do a little striptease thing! Lance was a cheap drunk when it came to champagne.
“Are there other packages in this deal?” Chris was grinning now, and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Lance reached out to tug the tray a fraction closer. “No, really. I couldn’t leave you alone in here once you were tied up, and I needed the bucket from room service, but it only came as a honeymoon deal. With strawberries.” He reached for the bottle… and pushed it out of the way. Digging into the bucket, Lance pulled out a handful of small, sharp ice cubes. “I figured what the hell.”
Lance’s hand was hovering above his torso now, dripping freezing water onto his hipbone. He tapped his chin thoughtfully with the other hand. “Where should I start, then?”
*
Lance remembered too late that Chris really DID scream like a girl. The ice was a brilliant idea, but it wouldn’t be a proper retaliation if Tiny walked in before the bucket was empty. Chris insisted after fifteen minutes of repeated attempts to smother him with his pillow that there was only one way to shut him up. It wasn’t until an hour later, when Chris’s now-untied hands were doing unspeakable things to unmentionable parts of his body, his tongue still happily, quietly in Lance’s mouth, that Lance remembered the tray of strawberries.
For my wonderful msktrnanny, in celebration of her upcoming birthday:
The first time it was funny. He screamed like a girl. Thinking back, that was probably his big tactical error.
The second time it was… sorta funny. The scream was more of a squeak this time, but that wasn’t necessarily better.
The third time, he almost saw it coming. But not quite. Afterwards, he got up and moved to the other side of the yard and tried not to look too embarrassed.
The fourth time, he tried retaliation. The results were rather abysmal.
The fifth time, he very calmly asked if it could please stop now, thank you. He was starting to get paranoid.
After the sixth time, Lance sat very still as the cold water slid down his neck, soaking cold into the back of his green t-shirt. Chris had already run off, cackling and flicking the excess snow off his fingers onto Justin. That very second, Lance decided he hated Sweden. He hated the constant stream of fish at every meal, and the pounding disco beats, and the weirdness of the language. He hated that they had to come here to record when there was a perfectly acceptable studio in Orlando. What he hated most, though, was that it was April, and Chris could still manage to get his hands on tiny balls of snow to sneak down the back of Lance’s shirt. Daily. On street corners, or off bushes they passed on the walk from the hotel to the club, or taken from the bumper of a car they were climbing into in the morning.
Snow. In April. Down Lance’s shirt.
It had to stop.
In the end, the solution was brilliantly simple. He just had to wait. Wait through attacks number seven through twelve. Wait through teasing from Joe, and JC’s laughing eyes. Wait through Chris slapping him on the back and saying, “Bass! You are so damn easy!”
Just wait. Eventually, the solution was right there in front of him. Passed out.
*
Chris opened his eyes slowly. His nose itched. But for some reason, his arm wouldn’t obey him when he reached to scratch it. Wow, he thought fuzzily. I must be a whole hell of a lot drunker than I thought. He tried again, but this time, his wrist felt tight, bound.
“What the…?” he blinked in the dim light of the hotel room. His hotel room. He was in bed, stripped to his boxers and his hands were tied snuggly to the bed frame. He tried moving his feet experimentally. No luck there either.
This was Not Good.
“Hello?” Crazy ass rabid fans got in! Crazy ass rabid fans who could possibly be hot Swedish twins but were probably a pair of toothless hillbillies who were about to make him squeal like a pig! Chris decided screaming was an option, but as he opened his mouth, a small light clicked on across the room.
“I really wouldn’t do that.”
Lance! Lance was the crazy stalker…? “Lance? My hands don’t work.”
Lance chuckled. “Nope. They really don’t.”
There was a clinking sound, like glass.
“Lance? Why am I tied to my bed?” Chris was always good about skipping right to the important questions.
“Mmmmm. That’s a good question.”
Damn it. Lance was very good at avoiding the important questions.
Lance stood from his seat and walked toward the bed, pushing something on wheels. As it got closer, Chris could see a silver tray with champagne glasses and chocolate-dipped strawberries on it. A bottle of champagne stuck out of the bucket hanging from the side.
There really had to be another to-the-point searching question here. Chris was mostly naked and Lance was there. With champagne, and strawberries, and a Cheshire cat grin. There had to be some sort of… oooohhhhh. It was all clicking into place. He’d sort of seen it coming, with Lance’s longer-then-necessary hugs, and his staring at Chris a lot, and, well, Chris flirting with him more than was probably appropriate considering. But yes. Chris was mostly naked, and Lance was there, and this was starting to make all kinds of sense.
Though Chris wouldn’t have bet money on the tying him to the bed part. Kinky.
Chris smiled. “Lance. Is that champagne?”
Lance grinned some more. “It is, indeed.”
“And strawberries. I love strawberries.”
“It was kind of a package deal.” Lance turned the tray so that the bucket was close to the side of the bed. He climbed up and straddled Chris’s thighs. Chris noted with some disappointment that Lance was still fully dressed. Not that it would matter in the long run. Hell, he could probably get Lance to do a little striptease thing! Lance was a cheap drunk when it came to champagne.
“Are there other packages in this deal?” Chris was grinning now, and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Lance reached out to tug the tray a fraction closer. “No, really. I couldn’t leave you alone in here once you were tied up, and I needed the bucket from room service, but it only came as a honeymoon deal. With strawberries.” He reached for the bottle… and pushed it out of the way. Digging into the bucket, Lance pulled out a handful of small, sharp ice cubes. “I figured what the hell.”
Lance’s hand was hovering above his torso now, dripping freezing water onto his hipbone. He tapped his chin thoughtfully with the other hand. “Where should I start, then?”
*
Lance remembered too late that Chris really DID scream like a girl. The ice was a brilliant idea, but it wouldn’t be a proper retaliation if Tiny walked in before the bucket was empty. Chris insisted after fifteen minutes of repeated attempts to smother him with his pillow that there was only one way to shut him up. It wasn’t until an hour later, when Chris’s now-untied hands were doing unspeakable things to unmentionable parts of his body, his tongue still happily, quietly in Lance’s mouth, that Lance remembered the tray of strawberries.