Resort

by Calico

Note: set just before MTV-Icon show.

Yeah, it's another one julad fuelled. it's a good system. =)


JC just stares at him. "Oh you fucking-- forget it. I don't have to hear this," and unexpectedly, that calms Lance right the fuck down.

Lance fixes him with a dark, unruffled gaze, and the inside of JC suddenly feels lead-coated. "No, you don't," Lance says quietly, violence melted from his voice, and nods at the door. "And if you go out there? baby, you won't hear it at all."

The lead stifles his lungs, making him feel lightheaded with panic. It's not heavy, just like, brittle, but he can't get the concentration to breathe in hard and crack it like a snailshell so it's just tightening steadily harder and harder; "You want me to leave?"

His voice is steady, at least; no sign of the growing oxygen-debt sighing painfully through the pit of his stomach. Lance quirks an eyebrow and looks down at his fingernails, lips calm, and the light's falling on him just right, tawny eyelashes slanted against autumn skin. "I really couldn't care less," he drawls, and curls his hand into a loose fist, and crosses his legs at the ankles, and looks bored.

JC finds it utterly difficult to believe that two hours ago Lance's voice had been curling against his ears like a cat on heat, singing Janet with more breath than tone and feeling him up in the break. Only rehearsal, after all. "I love the hair," he'd murmured, with a long lick up the side of JC's face, and JC had preened because it was new and tilted his head in a way he felt was vaguely wanton, and Lance had liked that, and told him so.

Right now, if Lance told him he looked good and slid eager destructive fingers into his hair and pulled his head back sharply and pressed adoring soft kisses up the side of his jaw, JC would just collapse with surprise.

"What about the show?"

Lance shrugs, like he has absolutely no interest in the show, or their future, or even their history. "Oh, we'll fuck it up and everyone will know," he says offhandedly, then looks at JC directly, eyes narrow and scornful, and scoffs, "c'mon, what are you, retarded? As if we'll fuck up. Like these shows aren't a breeze. Like we couldn't do them with our eyes closed. Please."

"Fuck off," JC snaps back, hearing the words too loud, then regrets it, because this is just Lance being pissy and sardonic -- and it sucks, but if he leaves it alone it'll pass whereas now? Now, Lance has a reason to keep it up.

Another reason.

"You fuck off. Go write something -- I mean hell, JC, look around." He smiles nastily. "We're here doing a cover, and it's the best material we've had in months." He glances idly at the ceiling. "Maybe even years."

JC felt it like a wash of icy mist, instantly permeating everything, turning his skin numb. "You're a fucking prick," he hears himself say harshly, trying to fight it off; "but while we're looking around, yeah, let's take a proper inventory. I make it, we got a guy with talent who's carrying this group-- and a guy with a voice that sells because teenies are too young for real porn."

If anything, the mist thickens.

Lance has inhaled sharply and the noise whispers round JC's head in mocking circles. "You're the prick," Lance says quietly, voice brittle; "Get the hell out."

"Hey, I don't think I'm the only bad guy here," JC says, and he was scrabbling for words but those are so the wrong ones, because Lance's face darkens and something appalled filters into hard, angry eyes.

"It's fucking Janet Jackson," he snarls, hands whip-cording out from his sides in an aborted lunge, and then he shakes his head disgustedly and laughs harshly and looks away, staring through the table, jaw set like stone.

JC feels a hot, skittery panic start to climb in his gut, and the silence stretches on and on like a muffling white carpet of nails. Lance has all the Jackson CD's, even brought them on the bus. Lance bit his lip and shook his head and said no, it's fine, and laughed, honestly, I'll just buy a new one, when Justin cracked Design of a Decade. "Lance," JC says, and Lance raises vehement eyes to his and shakes his head, very slightly.

"I don't want to hear it."

His voice is quiet, and knocks the strength out JC's knees. "No, I mean," a guy with a voice that sells because, "the songwriting, it's just, you know it's important," teenies are too young for real porn "just, like, you hit a nerve, and. fuck. Lance."

It's not even close to the truth, either, but there's no point saying that now. "It's not true," he says anyway, desperation audible and Lance smirks to himself without any lightness of laughter at all.

"Thanks, JC," he says, offhand again, "because you know, right before a show where I have, oh, another three lines? I really needed to be told I had zero talent. And that my voice is. fuck. just get out, could you?"

JC scrubs a hand raggedly through his hair, feeling the unfamiliar thickness, the silky weight that Lance had been breathing into earlier, had been stroking and nuzzling and fuck, this has gone so hideously wrong, spiralling out of control the moment he opens his mouth and so someone shoot him now because he's about to do it again; "I can't leave."

"Sure you can. One foot in front of the other."

"I mean, it's not even that that was unfair because that implies like there was some truth in it and there wasn't at all, there just wasn't, I was shooting off--"

"Then open the door, and step through; you can manage that, right?"

"I'd never mean it; I fucking love you--"

"What is this, Oprah?"

"and I'm so fucking sorry. Look at me."

Lance looks at him. "You didn't mean it. Whatever."

"I didn't."

"Yeah, ok, I know. You didn't mean it."

"I didn't," JC insists, and he has a feeling Lance believes him now.

For one, the incredulous-scalded-hurt has gone, irritation surging visibly to take its place. "JC, ok, I get it, you're sorry; you hate yourself. Now could I have some air?"

He looks disinterested and cruelly hot and frighteningly mature, and JC wants the old Lance with sun-blond frosting and a baby's jaw and apple green eyes, wants him fiercely, because fuck, he can deal with that Lance. This version is volatile and caustic and gives incredible head with sugar-soft hair now the bleach doesn't eat it away.

His eyes are darker, too, and he sends a cascade of shivers across JC's back when the rough jaw scrapes the middle of his shoulderblades, the unmanicured nails digging deep into his hips.

And right now? He looks grimly collected and utterly breakable and like some hot dangerous stranger JC's only just met. "I don't wanna go."

Lance laughs. "Ok, JC, let's look at this: I tell you you're not as good as like a legend, and you tell me my voice has the same value as some two dollar whore." He raises a hand sharply when JC opens his mouth, eyes glittering, "I know, I know, you're sorry, you didn't mean it, bring on the violins. But baby, come on, you owe me bigtime. So get out."

So get out. Fuck. JC wants to reach out and lean on the table and just, like, cry or something, just to break the tension. Except then Lance would gather him close and stroke his hair and JC'd feel cheap like the two-dollar whore Lance was talking about for using, like, the emotional equivalent of a safeword.

Maybe Lance is right, and he should leave, and get some air, and come back later with the others and do the show. Maybe the space will do them both good. Maybe--

Fuck it. Instead, he walks slowly towards Lance and sinks to the floor and puts a hand on his knee. "I don't wanna leave," he says again, looking up, trying to make his eyes as earnest as possible.

Lance laughs shortly and shakes his head, disbelieving; "you wanna blow me? Now?"

"I wanna make it up to you," JC says, looking at the line of Lance's jaw, cut harsh against the brown suede of his collar, turned from him.

Lance quirks his lips grimly. "Don't bother."

JC ducks his head and kisses Lance's knee, just pressing his lips into the soft warm fabric, breathing in the odd bitter tinge that says they're new pants, fresh on today, the lingering saran-wrap quality that in a few days time will be obscured by the scent of dust and fabric softener. And sweat, if JC has anything to do with it.

Lance sighs, irritable, but he doesn't push him off, and JC stares at the smooth tan material blurry in front of his eyes and figures that if Lance is gonna protest, he'll do it in the next couple of seconds.

He doesn't want to give him the chance, though.

"You don't have to do anything," he promises, lifting his head, bringing his other hand up and gently, firmly pulling Lance's legs apart. Lance doesn't let him, clamping his knees back together, and JC's palms slip on the fabric and he grits his teeth because god help him, he wants to do this, and he's going to do this, and eventually Lance makes a scornful noise in his throat and relaxes, something relaxes in JC's stomach as well.

And fuck, it's hot, having him reluctant like this. Not like it isn't hot generally, Lance bucking eagerly under him and wrapping his ankles round JC's back with his hands playing across JC's face, carding through his hair and fluttering against his ears, but. This is kinda specially hot.

He edges forwards between Lance's thighs, risking a glance up and seeing Lance isn't even looking at him; that jaw's locked even harder, and JC wants desperately to lick it and feel the heat and stubble abrade his tongue, but that doesn't seem to be a good idea right now, so he doesn't.

One of Lance's arms is resting on the table and the other's crooked along the back of his chair; he's open to JC, providing no physical obstacles, but blank as hell.

JC almost shivers, ducking his head back down, pushing up Lance's pale shirt with cautious fingers and lapping at the skin beneath. Lance's stomach twitches, muscle tightening, and the taste makes the back of his mouth ache. He draws a careful line around Lance's navel, figuring this is a time to play all his aces, one after another.

"For god's sake," Lance's voice comes, acidly, "if you insist on doing this, don't fuck around, ok? Get on with it."

JC swallows, and closes his eyes briefly, muttering "uh-huh" and "ok" against Lance's stomach. Leaning back enough to get his hands against Lance's fly makes his head swim; like it or not, at least one of them hasn't got much blood in his brain, and unfortunately for the schedule it's the guy on his knees.

His fingers work for him; that much is a blessing. He pulls the fly right down, dipping his fingers into the muggy heat of Lance's crotch, and thinks wildly that this is the first time he's been happy to find Lance half-hard.

For a moment there, he'd been fearing the worst.

Lance doesn't say anything as JC lowers his head, lips brushing the heavily silken skin of his dick, squeezing low with his fingers and feeling something dangerously close to euphoria go through him when it tightens against his mouth.

Time to find how deep that indifference goes, sugar.

He backs off again, then hears Lance's scoffed, "oh, excellent, you really give head like a pro, Jayce," and ducks deeper, tilting his head to lick the base of Lance's cock, letting it lie against his cheek, knowing Lance always loves this view.

If he's looking, of course.

He feels the swirl of a pulse against his mouth and laps harder, rubbing until his tongue stings from rasping firmly across wiry hair, breathing in hard and almost swaying with the musk of it. He feels Lance's dick getting heavier on his cheek, and mouths his way up it, distantly happy to be licking naked skin again.

Lance shivers slightly when JC starts sucking slowly at the tip, and JC looks up eagerly, unable to resist, then scowls with his salt-stained mouth still working filthy kisses across taut skin, because Lance's just looking at his hand on the table. Apparently, the indifference goes pretty fucking deep after all.

He sucks harder, wondering why the hell this makes his dick ache more than if Lance was writhing and screaming, and feels a precious thread of shiver go through Lance again, and it's not fucking enough, and he decides to back off. See how distant he is after the sort of treatment JC never usually gets round to, because Lance's usually shot and pliant by now-- or rolling him over, telling him to take the weight off his knees, telling him to spread 'em instead.

He feathers his fingertips up and down until he tastes another grudging spread of bitter-salt, then pushes them into his mouth, knowing Lance can feel his knuckles rubbing firm and his lips working to accommodate it all.

He listens for a change in breathing, faintly amazed that sucking his own fingers is making his cock thrum angrily, then makes it worse by imagining Lance doing this.

Lance sighs deeply, a shade too shuddery to be boredom. Gotcha.

Wet fingers trail better, definitely -- but his head's spinning, because he doesn't like breathing through his nose, prefers the heady rush of sucking hard and killing braincells. He draws back, lips sliding licentiously as he drinks in great gulps of air and then finds the skin sticky beneath his tongue, drying in his breath.

Lance makes a noise deep in his throat, the sort of noise a gagged man might make if someone bit his ear while fucking him with just enough pressure to nearly push him over the edge.

Abruptly frantic, JC's hand scrambles down to cup his dick, his stomach jerking with the need of it, and he wishes someone else was here too, like, Justin or someone, except that that's really not the kinda thought he needs if he wants to last as long as Lance is managing to--

He forces his hand away again, anchoring it on Lance's thigh, and the muscle there is hard and trembling and good, the reaction's coming through, this is more like it, this makes it worth while.

He grins against Lance's cock, working his way down and then back up with long, indecent licks, feeling the blood seethe beneath his tongue. As if it could ever not be worthwhile, he thinks dizzily, wondering if he's got any hope in hell of getting Lance's foot to shift round and rub against his crotch and take the edge off this boiling shimmering thing he's got going on.

But-- he has a feeling Lance isn't going to do a thing for him until this is over.

Fine.

Play the last card.

Not that that's a chore, he thinks distantly, then exhales sharply and just does it, shivering with the thick, stunning glide of it as he pushes down and down -- it's the same every time he does this, the unholy thrill of finding his forehead crushed against Lance's stomach and his throat full and his tongue pinned to the base of his mouth. The tiny jump in Lance's hips just makes it that much better.

He starts twisting his head from side to side, forehead sliding in the sweat on Lance's stomach. Lance makes a whole lot more cut off noises and JC feels a hand skate over his head, just skimming his hair before melting away again and that's so fucking hot, feeling Lance's struggle from all sides.

He realises he's rubbing uselessly at the air with every nudge of Lance's hips, then realises with a bizarre secondary exhilarated reflex that yeah, and response, and feels sweat breaking down his back, and almost chokes, eyes prickling, hauling back and dragging in deep gasps of air.

Lance's hand's curled in a fist on his thigh, and his hips rise plaintively as JC catches his breath, and it's intoxicating like nothing else.

He looks up, and Lance's eyes are closed, his mouth slightly open, jaw lax. His shoulders are rising and falling softly, swiftly-- ok, he's not screaming JC's name, but it's a fucking lifetime away from the you-roll-around-naked-and-I'll-file-my-nails front he was getting earlier.

JC grins up at him, feeling savage, and gives his dick another long, loving glide of his tongue before exhaling as much as he can and reeling with dizziness and having to stop again.

Fuck. The dizziness swirls lazily through his vision, and he blinks hard. Gotta get back in the rhythm, because if he loses it now and Lance has time to recover, the others are so gonna be coming back and he'll have lost this fucked-up battle, whatever it's about now.

Wryly, he realises this time he's the one panting, and that's just a fucking joke since by this time normally Lance has come and JC's buried inside him to the hilt-- and that thought doesn't help either, but it's enough to make him need Lance's hands on him herenowyesterday, so he's swallowing him down again and redoubling his efforts with every shiver, snatching skeins of oxygen between tangled breaths of musk, and then his ears are ringing with the pure sweet indescribably sweet sound of a low, quiet, deftly-shuddered moan.

His mind starts spinning crazily as he deep-throats for longer than he should, eyes watering and he slams them closed and can feel the moisture sticky around his eyelashes, but the tremors going through Lance's cock are sighing against his tongue so it's ok, it's fucking brilliant, he knows Lance loves this and it's his last card so fuck it, he'll play as long as Lance wants him to.

He feels the hand skim the back of his head again, and he bucks irritably back into it, and then Lance sinks possessive fists into his hair, slamming his hips up and the window for argument is over, gone, dead. JC squeezes his eyes tight and tries to roll with it, and Lance ignores his twisting and just fucks his mouth hard, and it's going on forever, for like a year, battering the back of his throat every time he tries to breathe and his scalp's stinging and he's squeezing Lance's solid thigh in time with the rocking fury of it, and he loves it.

"Fuck," Lance chokes quietly, as he comes, and JC reels and swallows and blinks hard, over and over. Fuck is right.

"Mm-huh," he manages, sitting back and wiping his mouth, which feels huge and red and whatever; he doesn't care. Makeup will care. He really couldn't give a shit.

He looks up, and Lance's head's fallen back against the wall, and his eyes are closed, and he's having vague trouble doing up his pants and he's still breathing far too deeply for the camera's comfort. JC wants to kiss him.

More than that, of course, he wants to stand Lance up and turn him to the wall and kick his legs apart and fuck him and bite the back of his neck-- but Lance doesn't look like he can stand right now. Not to mention they haven't got enough time.

JC grins, and Lance's hand swings lazily by his shoulder, pads of his fingers brushing the nape of JC's neck, coaxing him up into his lap.

"Hey," Lance whispers, stealing his arm down round JC's waist, and JC shivers and half slides off, Lance's fingers settling tantalisingly close to his cock but not. fucking. close. enough.

"Get me off," JC whispers back, closing his hand over Lance's and trying to steer it into his lap, almost growling when Lance twists it free and laughs softly in his ear.

"You never said this was a two-way thing," he points out sweetly, and JC grits his teeth and tries not to groan and wonders how the hell he's supposed to turn this one around.

"I'll go find Justin, then," he hears himself say, and it sounds teasing and jovial but that doesn't fucking matter because Lance's tensed up beneath him again and shit, if it's even a sore subject when Lance is still sweaty from sex then could JC have made a worse mistake? No?

"Justin stays out of this," Lance is saying flatly, and JC wants to turn over and rub into him but instead feels incredibly awkward and like he's half falling out Lance's lap.

"I--"

"I don't care. JC, Justin's... he's off limits. Okay?"

JC swallows, almost feeling his tongue split into two smooth forks. "I don't see why." After all, it's not like he's off-limits to Lance, is it?

"He's young."

"You're young."

Lance licks his ear, slow and obscene. "I don't act young," he tells JC, and that voice is probably causing massive electrical upheaval two blocks down.

"You're sleeping with him," JC manages, shuddering, and Lance makes a low humming noise and sticks the tip of his thumb into JC's zipper and slowly, steadily draws it down. The briefest skim of heat against his cock makes JC hiss, and his teeth click together.

"In five minutes, the others are gonna come back in," Lance says quietly; "so now? you've got a choice." With deadly slowness, he pushes all four fingers into the gap of JC's fly and wraps them around his dick, startlingly firm, heartbreakingly hot. "Either," he continues, same steady voice, determinedly louder as JC starts to breathe heavily, "we can finish this here, now, and get back to talking later, or, we can argue about Justin and I'll zip you right back up and you can spend the next two hours nursing a hard-on. On screen." A slither-flick of wetness against his ear. "Not that you haven't done that before, of course..."

JC's head swims as Lance starts squeezing his cock gently, every other heartbeat. "You," he begins, and Lance instantly lets go, fingers hovering just above the skin, soft blast of residual heat fading quickly up JC's spine. And fuck, it hurts. "No," he says quickly, tasting the word only after it's left his lips, and Lance licks his ear again, wet and lavish and he wants to spin in this chair and pin Lance down with his knees either side of Lance's thighs and push his dick forcefully into that obscenely liquid mouth and brace himself against the wall and fuck Lance's face no hands.

"No?" Lance demands softly, and one fingertip dusts across JC's cock, backing off again when JC rears up needily.

"Goddamn," JC growls, feeling like his head's gonna explode, like the air pressure's zoomed up until his lips are numb and his skin's gone stupid and the only thing in the world that's still sane is the soaring freakish urgency that's taken over his fucking life-- "Fucking touch me."

"Say please."

"Please," JC agrees instantly, and it's insane but he thinks he can feel Lance's fingers move a little closer, ghost-heat sending sensation shivering headlong through him and if Lance doesn't do something soon he's going to die.

"And we're talking about this later," Lance insists, a curl of humour in his voice, and JC reaches down and crams his Lance's hand against his dick and Lance's other hand grabs his wrist hard and jerks it back. "My way," he snarls, and JC shudders, fucking incoherent with it, and chokes out

"yeah, ok, anything,"

and Lance strokes him hard and fast and absolutely fucking perfect at this and JC comes in about twenty seconds flat with Lance's hot wet tongue pushing lasciviously deep into his ear.


I know, I know. he has a grey shirt. but it's brown in my picture. (plus, brown+tan looks a lot better than grey+tan. and I know I'm being hopeful, but I thought Lance had got a bit better at the coordination thing. <looks around hopefully> Yeah? yeah. uh. no. ok. oh well.

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[pic borrowed with permission]