Adam
Copyright April 21, 2002 by Matthew Haldeman-Time
Rating: NC-17 for graphic male-male sex
Pairing: Nick Lachey/Lance Bass
Disclaimer: The young men who comprise *NSYNC and 98 Degrees are their own people. The author has not met anyone here described, nor does the author mean to suggest that these people act this way in real life. This writing is a work of fiction. I make no money from this venture.
Wherein Nick is Nick Lachey, from 98 Degrees, not that other Nick guy.
Notice: A non-slash friend is writing her first novel. Since I'm one of the greatest writers of our time, she's asking me for help along the way. This afternoon I was reading what she'd most recently written, and I found an interesting sentence. It forms the first sentence of this story. My apologies to her for borrowing her work. Especially for something she won't approve of.
But there was no anchor. There was only himself, and his needs. Lance, and Lance's wants. Lance was not only tied down tonight, but blindfolded as well. He couldn't see Lance's eyes, couldn't watch the changing shades of green, couldn't see the emotions passing through those windows to Lance's soul. But the sight of Lance in the blindfold was worth it. Black against Lance's passion-flushed skin. The blindfold, as it hid Lance's eyes, drew more attention to everything else that he could see in Lance's face. The movements of Lance's lips as Lance went from silent begging to desperate need. The furrowing of Lance's brow as Lance strained for each new stimulus.
Lance was allowed to speak. There was no gag, either material or domination-enforced. But Lance didn't say much in bed. His body said it all.
Nick fucked him again. Hard, fast, with no regard for his dignity. There was enough silent dignity in the naked, blindfolded figure on the bed as it was. Nothing that he did ever degraded Lance. Nothing he ever did seemed to take away Lance's dignity. Maybe because that wasn't his goal. Maybe because there was something about Lance...
Nick slammed his cock into Lance as hard as he could, driving it deep, his balls hitting Lance's ass. His fuck was fast; it always was. He liked it fast. Tonight, he wanted it fast and hard. Really hard. So hard he had to be hurting Lance; he was hurting himself. The pounding of his heart, the harshness in his lungs, the burning in his muscles, reminded him of the results of a panicked, desperate chase.
He'd bitten Lance in more than one place tonight. He would say that he'd done it during foreplay, only it couldn't be termed as such. It had been too rough. Too demanding. Demanding of Lance. He was demanding a lot tonight. He was demanding that Lance submit to him, accept him, cater to him. And Lance was doing it. It seemed like Lance always did.
How had they come to this place? Why was it a familiar part of his life, to fuck Lance, to have Lance tied to his bed, to take Lance savagely like an untamed thing?
He'd never been like this with anyone else. Sure, he liked to fuck fast. Not because he was a minute man, but because he liked the rush to orgasm. The quick drive towards fulfillment. But a quick screw was nowhere near the same as what he wanted from Lance. What Lance gave to him.
There was something about Lance.
When it was finally over, when he'd fucked Lance until his cock felt scraped raw and the sheets were drenched with sweat and his fingers were cramped from their latest grip on Lance's hips, Nick collapsed onto Lance's nude form. His head was pounding. His stomach hurt. He closed his eyes.
Lance's fingertips drew lazy
patterns over his naked back.