nsync in black and white

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


Lance hadn't said anything more on the matter. This annoyed Chris, who felt that he should have been offered more information on this extremely confusing subject. He didn't want to ask, and he couldn't stop thinking about it. Questions rioted in his head, questions like, how long had Lance been a vampire, like how often did Lance have to feed, would Lance suffer any, any difficulties if he did not have fresh blood, and did it hurt a person when Lance—when a vampire fed from him?

He couldn't stand it. He had to know.

The next night, when Lance headed for the bathroom, Chris sat on the couch biting his nails fretfully and trying to nerve himself. Lance had let him take the first post-show shower, and he'd dressed again, clean jeans and a faded gray T-shirt, because he was too wide awake to sleep yet and besides, he liked to sleep in just boxers and he couldn't sit around in just boxers, not on Lance's bus.

Twice he got up from the couch and took a step towards the bathroom, only to talk himself out of it. None of his business what Lance did, what Lance was. He was still *Lance*, and he might not appreciate...

But what if Lance needed someone? What if Lance needed him to...

What if Lance was hungry?

Chris got to his feet and went to the bathroom.

"Hey," he said, poised in the doorway.

Lance, frothing and rabid, just waved.

Chris watched the meticulous ritual. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest as he stood there, trying to breathe slowly, carefully, through his nose. His pulse thundered in his ears. It seemed bright in the bathroom, too bright for the feeble yellow strip above the mirror, and the main light wasn't on at all. Lance, calmly polishing his dog teeth, his vampire teeth, was—impossibly—brighter than the light shining on him. Damn it, what had he said about the laws of physics?

"I was wondering," Chris said, and berated himself inwardly for sounding so tentative, "if you need... because, if you do, need to, uh, feed, then I don't mind.."

Lance looked at him, consideringly. "That's not how it works. I told you yesterday." He smiled, a gentle, bright smile. "You have to ask."

Chris took a step forward. "Well, do you want to?"

Lance's gaze drifted to Chris's throat, and his head tilted slightly, but he made no move.

He had to ask. Of course. Or, he could go right now, back to the couch, back to the Playstation and forget this, and Lance would never—"Bite me," Chris said. "If you want, if you—please."

Lance made a tiny sound deep in his throat, and stretched a hand towards Chris, who stepped uncertainly towards him.

"Since you ask so nicely," Lance said in his low murmur, and Chris tensed, low in his belly. "Come, stand here with me. Look in the mirror."


Lance didn't answer, just smiled faintly, and Chris looked in the mirror, where he was standing in front of Lance, and Lance was smiling over Chris's right shoulder, and the air around them seemed to crackle and spark.

Lance licked Chris's neck. A slow, hot glide that left a trail of slick fire, and Chris stretched helplessly away, offering better access, and Lance licked him again, and Chris wimpered.

"Hush, there, ssshhh," murmured Lance, and set his mouth against the tendon of Chris's neck, and pressed careful kisses up to his jaw. His left arm was strong around Chris, holding him upright, almost, because Chris's legs were strangely weak, and Lance's right hand feathered over Chris's cheek, his thumb drifted across Chris's mouth and slid along his lower lip. "You have such a pretty mouth," he whispered. "See how beautiful you look?"

Chris stared at their reflections, his eyes wide and glazed, Lance's eyes gleaming, intent under their heavy lids. He watched helplessly as Lance's mouth opened and those sharp, white teeth parted, watched as the points dented his flesh, then his eyes fluttered closed as those points pierced and sank deep into him.

The pain was terrible, like a stiletto to the neck. Chris couldn't breathe. Panic flooded though him, and he tried to struggle, but his bones were turned to water. Lance's arm firmed around Chris's chest, and Lance's right hand came up to rest against his throat and jaw, gentle and warm, reassuring. The panic settled, a bit, and the trembling in his legs stilled, and he gasped for air.

Every inch of his body seemed more alive than it had ever been, he could feel it all, from the prickling sweat in his hair to his tightly curled toes on the cold floor. All that tingling awareness was nothing, though, compared to the intensity of that place where Lance was joined to him, the heat of it, the hot flow of blood, the pain so sharp it was ecstasy. "Please," Chris moaned, and wasn't even sure what he was pleading for. Stop? Don't stop?

All he could do was feel, and breathe, and give.

Chris had no idea how long he stood there suspended between hands and mouth, pleasure and pain, but at last he realized that it was finished, that Lance was licking carefully over the tender spots where he had bitten. Chris levered his eyelids open and saw Lance's reflected tongue-tip trace a stray trickle that had run unnoticed down his neck and blotted itself in his T-shirt. He let out an incoherent noise, gratitude or protest, whatever, it was done. Lance kissed his way back up Chris's neck to the corner of his mouth.

"Let's get you to bed."

Not exactly walking, not exactly being carried, he stumbled out of the bathroom, and Lance helped him to lie down on his bed, and carefully removed his jeans. Chris had not even noticed that he was hard until he felt Lance's mouth sucking on the tip of his cock, warm and insistent (with not a hint of teeth), and the uprush of his orgasm surprised him.

Lance settled carefully next to Chris, and kissed his ear. "Thank you," he said, gruffly. "Thank you."

Chris was asleep before he could work out whether to reply.



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