strollonso ficlet; ~1k, E, outsider pov, dryhumping, needy lance
When Stoffel visits Lance and Fernando—nothing formal, just a few close friends on the team coming over for a drink and a chat—he finds that Lance seems to have permanently attached himself to Fernando’s lap.
He manages to look supremely casual about it, too; Fernando sits with one leg propped on the other knee at the end of the couch, and when Lance finishes giving people their libations of choice, he doesn’t waste a second before sprawling out on Fernando’s lap, leaning himself on his forearm on the arm of the couch so he can look out at the rest of the room and longingly up at Fernando in equal measure. His long legs extend far past Fernando’s lap, one crossed casually over the other in his soft-looking gray sweats.
Neither Fernando nor Lance bats an eye when Lance sits down like this; even as Lance shifts around and makes himself comfortable, Fernando’s attention doesn’t break from the group’s conversation. The only noticeable change is how his arm falls from its resting place on the back of the couch to splay on Lance’s thigh. When Lance moves, Fernando’s hand momentarily tenses, tendons rising up under skin.
Lance is talking and laughing, his smile an easygoing one, and his whole body is loose. Stoffel notices that Lance likes to look at Fernando when Fernando laughs. Lance’s face tilts up, and his deep, soulful irises touch his top eyelids, blanketing on thick, dark eyelashes that cut like darts through the dots of light reflecting off of his eyes.
Stoffel can’t help but notice another habit of Lance’s. Sometimes, Lance will go quiet, the comfortable, easy expression on his face turning to something almost concerned; his eyebrows furrow and he chews on his lip. He’ll get increasingly squirmy, hand gripping tightly over Fernando’s on his thigh as he shifts again and again. He’ll tuck his knees up to his chest just to give Fernando’s now-fallen hand a dismayed look and return to his old position, albeit tenser, less natural, like he’s trying and failing to look casual
It’s a few minutes of that—of his constant squirming and steadily reddening face—until he’ll turn over in Fernando’s lap so his face is pressed into the crook of Fernando’s neck. He’ll awkwardly rest one knee in the triangle formed by Fernando’s legs while keeping the other leg pivoted out, letting him rest his weight on Fernando’s thigh while still fitting into the space carved out by Fernando’s body.
Lance will keep still—so still that he looks frozen—for a minute, maybe two, although it feels like forever to Stoffel, now checked out of the conversation (which Fernando still follows as if nothing is happening) and watching raptly. Then, almost imperceptibly, Lance will move.
It’s the tiniest motion at first that looks a lot like another shift—Lance’s hips sliding half an inch up Fernando’s thigh—but everything else looks different. Lance buries his face further into Fernando and grips hard to whatever parts of him he can reach, and Fernando, with a short but unmistakable glance and warm smile down, will settle his hands on Lance’s lower back and waist.
Lance will move like that again, and again, and again, building up a bit of a rhythm for himself, but his movements become shakier and shakier like he’s holding himself back. He’ll rut his hips just a little farther into Fernando’s body this time—and that breaks the dam. His back rises and falls with his quickening breath as he trembles all over, knuckles going white, and he ruts maybe just a little faster, maybe just a little harder.
It’s not in stages, but instead it’s a slow build, his movements going from hesitant and tiny to desperate and impossible to miss: he bucks his hips against Fernando’s body, tense legs flexing, and little whines become just barely audible over the sound of fabric sliding together. It’ll be minutes of this—minutes of Lance making himself feel good as Fernando encourages the motions with steady hands on his hips and ass but otherwise pays him no mind, continuing to talk like normal. Whenever he laughs and jostles Lance, Lance’s body jerks, and his hips press forward hard, staying there for a second or two until he picks his normal rhythm up again.
No matter how long it lasts—and it can certainly last long—Stoffel always feels like it’s done too soon when the pace of Lance’s hips speeds up to frantic, and then he freezes, squeezing Fernando’s thigh between his own and digging his fingernails in as his grip gets impossibly tighter and his body gives an animalistic shudder.
Every muscle in his body will relax, and during the short time afterwards where he’s catching his breath, Fernando will drop a kiss on Lance’s hair and softly call him a good boy before helping him turn back over to his usual position, red-faced and sweaty, brown irises usurped by blown black pupils. Fernando will pet soothingly over the middle of the fresh wet patch on the crotch of Lance’s sweats, just once, and then leave Lance to recollect himself. Lance will slowly uncurl himself from Fernando’s warmth, and before Stoffel knows it, Lance is back to normal. That’s usually when Stoffel (and sometimes another guest or two) chooses to excuse himself to the bathroom.
If he takes a while in there, there’s a 50-50 shot that when he comes back, Lance will have started up again, and Stoffel settles in his chair, more than happy to watch his favorite show all over again.
liked the ficlet? you’ll probably like take a seat (time to feast) as well xoxo
origamiaround
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vaporwave
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