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Lance looks good sprawled out on his sheets. Shiro stares at him, chest tight, throat like a vise, and just lets his gaze roam a moment, hungry to record this visage so that he never forgets. “Shiro,” Lance whines, hesitant, “are you -- what are you --?”
Swallowing hard, Shiro says, “Yeah. Sorry, I just -- you look amazing.”
And that, of course, has Lance shifting, stretching, chin tilting coy and pleased, like he cannot help but try and preen at the praise. “Oh,” he grins. “Want to take a picture? It might last longer.”
“Don’t tease,” Shiro fusses, pressing at Lance’s thigh to get him to lift it, mostly so that Shiro can watch the muscles tense and bunch, and glory in the way Lance moves beneath his direction so easily, so willingly. God. He keeps encouraging, touch light, until Lance has his leg pulled up against his chest, and he does it without a wince, and for a second Shiro can’t quite breathe because he remembers the splits Lance performed midair and oh, oh fuck.
“You’re incredible,” he finally manages on a shaky exhale, trying to stay on task. “You’re really going to let me?”
“Well, yeah,” Lance blusters, rolling his eyes.
But there it is again -- that hint of uncertainty. Because Lance has never done anything with another guy before, and he’s never actually tried more than the briefest press of finger to hole. This is new, and uncertain, and Shiro knows he may not like it, but Lance is still willing to let him try, to open him up with lube and patience and see if its something that can make him come undone or not.
Shiro bites his lip against a shudder, heat throbbing through him. He’s so hard at just the permission that he’s aching, nearly uncomfortable with it. “All right,” he manages to choke out, voice gone to gravel and darkness. “I’ll go slow. Tell me if you need me to stop.”
Nodding, Lance bites his lips, shifts his hips, flushed all over with nerves and only half-hard, but trusting.
God, Shiro needs to give it to him until he screams.
He settles for rubbing his thumb against the tight pucker of Lance’s entrance, slicking him with lube, before carefully pressing his finger inside. Lance stills, head tilting back like he’s trying to move away from the sensation, gaze flickering wildly. “You okay?” Shiro asks.
“Y-yeah,” Lance says. “Does it always feel like that?”
“Like what?”
“It’s just your finger,” Lance babbles, maybe to keep from thinking too hard, getting too nervous. His hands are tensing against the underside of his thigh where he’s holding on, keeping himself open. “But it’s -- way too big, that’s what it feels like. And the -- ah -- the burn, that was, holy shit, weird, okay? Weird and -- I don’t know. Kind of -- oh! -- g-good? I think? It -- uh.”
Shiro can’t stop staring at where his finger disappears inside of Lance, and his blood is rushing, roaring through him, and he interrupts Lance to tell him: “Your ass is greedy for this, baby. Can’t you tell? God, it’s just -- sucking me right in. Clenching so tight, like you don’t want to let me go.”
“Uh,” Lance gasps, sounding strangled.
With a careful pump of his hand, Shiro starts to fuck him -- slow, lingering. Wants to give Lance a chance to become intimate with that sweet burn, of being penetrated, and the way his hole resists relaxing. It’s just one finger, but Lance is shivering, twisting, near riotous at the intrusion, at the strange good-weird confusion of heady sensation, and Shiro takes his time until he can’t resist, can’t help stroking along the tight, silken channel until he can find --
Lance shoots up, curling around Shiro, his folded leg banging into Shiro’s shoulder, hard, with a startled yelp. “What the fuck is that?”
Ah, there it is.
Shiro braces against him, the grasping hands, the shuddering hips; all the little flinches away and towards. “Relax,” he murmurs, sliding a wet kiss along Lance’s jaw, twisting his wrist to get the angle right again and pressing down, firm and deliberate. Shiro’s heart is pounding, hoping, waiting for the reaction --
“O-oh.”
Lance is still except for how his entire body is one ceaseless shiver.
Again, Shiro skates along his prostate, his finger barely moving in the tight clamp of Lance’s ass, Lance’s body drawing him in and keeping him there. Will he like it? Not all guys are sensitive, and even still, not everyone likes the sensation of it. Maybe Lance won’t, maybe --
Lance breathes out, and the sound that escapes on the end of his sigh is a garbled mess, spine arching and pressing him chest to chest with Shiro, arms wound tight around Shiro’s neck. Then he says, “Again. Do that -- do that again, Shiro, oh my god, what --”
Laughing, Shiro presses Lance back down into the sheets, slides his finger out and pushes it back in, jolting him with a firm caress that ends only when Shiro gets his prostate again just so, firmer pressure, and Lance fucking keens, face so surprised --
Fuck, fuck.
Shiro glances down, gratified to see that Lance is fully hard, now. “You like that,” he whispers, low. Can’t stop the smile that takes over his face, and adds happily, “Good. I’m going to make you come just like this, Lance. One finger fucking you open just right. I’m not even going to touch your erection. Sound good?”
Lance wheezes something enthusiastic.
“Next time,” Shiro decides, speaking slow, a little slurred with the delirium that comes from getting to have this, to have Lance hungry to be fucked by him, “I’ll see how many fingers you can take. Just because you look so pretty taking them, Lance. And if you do well, I’ll reward you with my cock, how’s that sound?”
From the noises Lance makes, it sounds pretty damned good, apparently.