Rosa <-- cool de-Brit-ing individual
Georgina <-- delightful betaie individual
Nemo <-- priceless encouragement-of-smut individual
Julad <-- individual who wanted this a lot darker than it actually is, for which I love her, and hope she doesn't mind my blithe ignoring of lots of useful suggestions
Cal <-- grateful.
There is no aphrodisiac like the cold, stiff silence tumbling around the room as the phone by JC's ear clicks dead. Enough with the conversation, Justin had said, two rooms away, obscenely close in JC's ear. He could almost feel the breath, hot and musky in his ear.
JC finds his fingers wrap too eagerly around the phone to replace it in the cradle. It's been ages; a few slick gropes on the bus, then a reckless blowjob in the elevator yesterday, Justin groaning loudly and cramming the Stop button right into the wall, and nothing more, for fucking days, for almost a week, and it's making JC itch.
Pop's stuck in his head, beating over and over, with none of the gliding comfort of hearing his own songs.
Also, even though he's been wearing these pants all day and they've had plenty of room, right now they feel kind restrictive, taut over his hipbones, a roving heat against his dick. His heartbeat folds round the silence, slitting it over and over, and the silence banks right back down over him, and it's like the bed's pushing up insistently.
After spending the day watching Justin flirt with Lance --
"--Lookin' good, Lansten."
"Yeah-- hey, JC, don't you think Lance looks good?" followed by a sleek tiger grin, "Maybe I finally got competition, yo," and Lance smiles crookedly and apparently doesn't even notice the slur on JC --
-- he's not sure if he can stand to wait the seconds it takes Justin to walk down to his room.
He will wait, though. Of course. It's what he does.
Listening to the muted click of his hotel room lock, JC thinks wryly that he's gotten used to this incoherent hunger, this lightning-flash cramping as the door opens like oil and then shuts again almost silently, leaving the room stuffed with tension.
Yeah, well. When Justin finds a baseline that works, he sticks to it -- it's just the embellishment he fucks with. Tonight, it's the usual, stealthy sinner padding into the darkness with a confidence that makes JC bite down hard on his lip; Justin never hesitates, moving on blithely-assured paws.
The soft, steady footfalls come straight to the end of the bed, the mattress tilting by JC's feet, making him want to hug his knees. There's a pause, two, three, four-- and then JC inhales abruptly, because Justin's flipped his covers off, and the breeze makes him shiver even as the blankets crumple to the floor.
Warmth enfolds his ankle, and he can see Justin's hand in his mind's eye: large and angular, with stern short nails and square knuckles and skin that feels like cream and tastes of rust. His fingertips touch, spanning JC's ankle. JC's hand will only just enclose his own wrist.
"You pleased to see me?"
I can't see you, JC wants to retort, but he has a feeling that wouldn't go down well. "Yeah."
Justin tugs shortly at the bottom of his sweatpants. "This what you were wearing earlier?"
"Yes," JC says, softly. The twitch of fabric against his legs makes familiar anticipation grind up another notch. He tries not to wriggle.
"I know it is," Justin interrupts, curtly slapping the sole of JC's foot, and JC hears the snap a fraction after feeling it, a bright blaze of sensation melting almost instantly away. He feels warm, and wants to rub his feet together, and the cuff of Justin's grip on his ankle is sending undeniable pressures through his groin.
Justin lets go of his ankle, and JC feels more than hears him crawl properly onto the bed. His knees make deep slopes in the mattress that scale down from either side of JC's thighs. He unbuttons JC's pants, calm, and starts sliding them down. "Did you shower?"
His voice is closer, and businesslike. JC shifts his hips, then lifts his feet agreeably and hears the whuff as Justin drops his pants to the floor, sharing a smile with the darkness. "You told me not to."
"So did you?"
JC shakes his head twice and then catches himself: "mm, no."
"Good," Justin says, as the bed shifts again, and then there's a faint sensation of heat across JC's face and he realizes, shit, he's leaning over me, he's stretched out over me and I can't see him and God help me but I don't dare reach up and find out, and then the light snaps on, blinding him.
No, not blind. Scalded. JC's forehead screws up and his eyes slam closed and he wants to cover them but Justin's grabbed his hand, and first violent contact always paralyses him.
"Don't do that," Justin says, and he's close enough that JC convinces himself he can feel his breath on his cheek. "look at me."
"Yeah, no. lemme adjust to the light," JC says, buying time.
"Ah." The bed shifts again, and then Justin's sitting on his thighs, making instinctive panicky heat sing through JC's stomach. "Maybe I'll leave."
"Look at me."
Justin's straddling his thighs, just like JC thought he was. The top button of his Levi's is open, and his chest is gloriously naked, but the expression on his face doesn't make JC think of sex at all. It's unnervingly still, his chin tilted up, eyes narrow and contemplative and sourly lazy. His mouth is closed, and that jolts through JC like fear -- he's used to seeing Justin singing or babbling or panting, but this? this sets his teeth on edge.
His eyes sting. He's been in the dark too long to cope with this unrelenting four-hundred-watt glare.
"What?" JC hears himself ask, and Justin lifts one finger sharply and raises up on his knees, towering over him, then settles his palm very deliberately over JC's mouth. His face doesn't change.
"You want me to leave?"
The taste of Justin's sweat seeps through his closed mouth because Justin's pressing down pretty hard and JC's bottom lip's askew, and he realizes Justin hasn't showered either, that he's still got residue of overwork all over him, salt sprung up everywhere to clothe his skin.
The thought of that is oddly erotic, that if he licks away all the salt he'll have explored Justin on an inch-by-inch level. His mind flicks channels; like a bath, he thinks. I'm a fucking kitten.
If Justin returned the favor, it'd be a full-body brand.
"You want me to leave," Justin says again, firmer, and JC wants to tell him to change the fucking record but instead he shakes his head, then tries not to gasp when Justin says, "good," and lowers himself back down again and just happens to sit on the panicked bulge of JC's crotch and move around a little.
There's a moment when JC can't see for the glassy sparks scattering across his vision, and then he blinks, and tries not to rub himself against the deliberate taunt of Justin's ass. His lips feel moist and deeply hot under Justin's palm.
Justin's looking at him critically. "Your hair's weird. the curls. What's that about."
A couple of seconds later, Justin smirks to himself and removes his hand from JC's mouth. There's no apology. "Maybe I like them," JC says eventually, trying not to lick his lips too much.
Justin squints at him, tilting his head. "You look kinda trashy, actually." He smiles slightly, kinda cruel. "Like a whore dressed up as a secretary. Hmm."
JC shivers, because he's never been called trashy to his face before -- especially not by someone who shifts his ass languidly against JC's cock as he says it, voice dragging suggestively on every second word. He realizes his hips are pushing up guilelessly when Justin pauses, and raises one eyebrow, and delicately slides forwards onto the bare skin of JC's stomach. Hot denim feels coarser than it looks.
"Nuh uh," he tells him, shaking his head slightly. "You don't want me to feel like you're just using me for my body, do you?" and JC stares at his sly little grin and wants to throw chunks of concrete at his perfect teeth. "So hows about we have a conversation."
"Tell me what you want me to do to you."
The right answer's whatever you want, and the wrong answer is cut the crap and fuck me already, and JC knows this but God fuck damnit, Justin makes it hard sometimes to remember. "Keep going," JC manages, wishing the weight of Justin on his stomach wasn't making him so fucking hard he could hang up coats.
"You want me to get you off?"
"Yeah," JC says, and this isn't new, this is exactly what he was expecting, so why does it still make him feel like he's seeing one of Jamal's more complex spins for the very first time? "Please."
Justin licks his own hand, once, from the base of his palm to his fingertips, JC feeling the entire slow slide of his tongue. Not new, not new. He feels it every time, the mythical wet stroke-- and next, Justin will flex his fingers and then pretend to lose interest, and fuck him instead. A taunt, a broken promise, just spicing things up a little, making JC feel small. He likes JC feverish when he gets inside.
Justin finds his melody and plays it every time, plays JC every time, with identical results. "I'm gonna get you off twice, actually," Justin says, reaching behind himself and unpeeling JC's boxers and holding his cock in damp fingers, then flashes a lightning grin. "Don't move."
"What's wrong, huh?" Justin asks, smiling, and JC wants to know why they're doing this different, wants to know if he can thrust up into Justin's hand, wants Justin to get his weight off JC's stomach so that thrusting process is no longer impaired--
"That's right," Justin murmurs, stroking properly now, and JC doesn't understand how Justin can make this angle work, with his hand twisted behind his back, but shit, it doesn't seem to bother Justin that much, and the warm fingers around his cock certainly aren't doing any damage, and the languorous deliberate strokes definitely have an edge of purpose.
"Fuck," he gasps, when Justin's fist grinds down hard.
"Fuck," he whispers, on the next twisting glide of it, and his hips are still pinned but he can make tiny desperate circles against the grain of Justin's strokes; not enough; having to be enough. The energy distills inside him, a wrathful red tide humming around his guts, and he's panting and shuddering and still too fucking immobilized to do anything but let the sensations swell and take the friction of Justin's grip at the pace Justin chooses to offer it.
"I said, shut up," Justin repeats, squeezing hard in perverse emphasis, and JC swallows his groan and tries to spread his legs, hampered by the tangle of his boxers biting in mid-thigh. The added restriction makes heat thrash behind his groin, and he bucks upwards, getting a sharp flash of pleasure skating out from Justin's thumb.
It makes him groan again, and Justin adjusts his weight briskly, pinning JC more firmly and leaving a rush of friction-heat from the grind of denim. He can feel it building now, the red tide twisting in on itself, corkscrewing into his dick to make it burn and ache with impatience--
"Yeah, c'mon, good boy," Justin whispers, "look at me, good boy," and JC forces his eyes up to see Justin's tight little grin, the blur of his arm muscle pumping away behind his back, the possessive delight in Justin's gaze.
"Why now?" he manages, hips trembling with the need to get free and just thrust already, breath lurching as Justin's grip moves faster against the whole sweet nerve of it. He's not sure he makes sense, but as it rises, rises, Justin's grin widens into a white picket fence of perfect teeth, and he figures he must've -- "oh god, yeah, yeah" -- must've been at least -- rocking up, helpless, squirming -- must've been at least partly coherent--
"This time, I want to fuck you until you come, from a standing start."
--and that's it, he's over the edge, tide cresting violently and he's moaning before he can stop himself, loud and long, right now not fucking caring if Justin objects to the noise.
Justin drops JC's cock with a final incendiary squeeze and covers his mouth instead with the flat of his palm, thumb digging into the underside of his cheekbone. JC half-chokes, inhaling too hard, shuddering in the throes of it and totally viscerally overwhelmed. "Aw," Justin says, after a couple of seconds, darkly approving. JC swallows, trying to control his breathing, feeling the last sweet aftershocks of orgasm threading through his limbs. "Look at you," Justin says. "all quiet."
A few weeks ago, JC might have tried to lick Justin's hand; tonight, he tries not to squirm enough to piss Justin off. He blinks, instead, dizzily remembering a program where lemurs blink at each other to suggest peace and submission. Look, look, I trust you enough to close my eyes.
Justin doesn't blink back.
"You're a kid who blew his way to the top," Justin murmurs, and JC realizes there's absolutely no way Justin was thinking about lemurs. A kid who--
He frowns, and Justin grins and strokes his hand down slightly, prying open JC's mouth with the sheer pressure of his palm, and then folds two fingers obtrusively into JC's mouth. "Getting down on your knees" he muses, "in corridors and offices... mmm," and JC tries to breathe softly, not to bite down on Justin's fingers, Justin's long, thick fingers, trying not to gag when musky fingertips brush slyly against the back of his throat. The same fingers that were wrapped round his cock; clever fingers, decisive, strong. "You think you can be that for me?"
JC's pretty sure he doesn't want to, because it's so... cheap. Then it's like a mountain of irony, because he's here sucking willingly and in the elevator yesterday he'd gotten the gag reflex almost totally beat, and if he'd said no then it's pretty unlikely Justin would be here tonight. So. He manages a nod, and Justin twists his fingers deeper, curving down the back of JC's tongue, nails bumping against the frill of his throat.
"Yeah, I thought so."
JC swallows convulsively and tries to breathe, and only the thinnest strings of air reach his lungs-- Justin slides his fingers out again, looks at them thoughtfully, then reaches down to his waist. JC watches Justin's wet fingers undo his fly and take out his cock, and only a fraction of his brain continues to function long enough to wonder if denim chafes.
"I've got a job for you," Justin says, like an experiment. JC almost cringes, catches himself in time. "There's this... vacancy."
He's touching himself, a wandering grope that drops out of JC's view and then crawls back up to the head of his cock, and JC licks his lips almost without thinking, watching, unprepared when Justin chuckles.
"Oh, you're so good at this," he murmurs, and that's wrong, because JC isn't -- he's not roleplaying or fantasizing or whatever the fuck Justin thinks they're doing; he's not, because it feels trashy and predictable and lame -- and then it strikes him that no, he's convincing Justin without even trying, he's genuine where Justin's projecting artifice, and surely that makes him filthier than even Justin knows.
"I'm not even pretending," JC hears himself confess, and Justin's smile is delighted and crooked.
"Yeah, yeah," he says, nodding and breathing through his mouth, edging his knees closer and sliding his free hand under JC's head. "That's good, say stuff like that," and lifts slightly, until JC has to tilt his head to see Justin's face.
"I'm not," he insists, because it's oddly important to him, and Justin visibly shivers and holds his cock up near JC's mouth.
"You want this job, then?" he drawls softly, and JC swallows and gives up; "it's bad pay, and long hours, but if you're a good boy I might even let you... kneel under the table and suck me during long board meetings. You wanna be a good boy, Mr. Chasez?"
JC has a feeling Justin's not much in touch with the modern workplace, but it's oddly hypnotic, and he's gotta admit that Justin's scornful delivery of his last name sort of makes him ache to be held down and used. "I... yeah," he whispers, feeling Justin's hand curl into a fist in his hair.
"See, I'm not sure if you're good enough," Justin adds, and JC knows he oughta roll his eyes at that but he can't, can't imagine anything but staring at Justin's fingers on Justin's cock and waiting for it to move closer so he can explore good and hard. "I'm thinking, if you don't give me a demonstration then I'm gonna look elsewhere."
"Anything," JC mumbles, and wets his lips again, no longer even trying to look at Justin's face.
"You have to do it, but you like it, too," Justin says, shifting closer again, and JC's circle of attention focuses in on the warm menacing scent of Justin's erection swaying just a fraction above his lower lip. His tongue tingles, wanting to taste, to feel the weight filling his mouth, to hear Justin's gasp because JC'll have learnt how to suck him exactly fucking right.
He opens his mouth, leaning up to lap at it, and Justin's fist tightens in his hair, jerks him back. The thought of what he must look like makes his head swim.
"Eager, hmm?" Justin says, then adds sharply, "Say it."
"Yeah, I am," he says, and suddenly it's like he's stepped back and the detail of what they're doing's crashed over him and he's left thinking jesus fuck, is Justin gonna be spanking him and demanding to be called Daddy next? and then Justin's hand lifts his head slightly and there's heat against his lips and he tastes a musky dart of salt and abruptly can't find the rest of the words.
"I can't get enough," he blurts, feeling the heavy plush weight nudge forwards on his lower lip, and Justin's eyes slit glitter and malice.
"Nice improv," he mumbles, and JC opens his mouth because it's pretty damn obvious that's his cue, and then his eyes fall closed despite himself because if he has to watch the twitching heaven of Justin's stomach draw close as Justin pushes his cock into his mouth then he might just spontaneously come again, embarrassing and unlikely though that would be. "Amusing that it's true."
It's-- something like bliss. The angle's all wrong, and his eyes smart with water. His chest's cramped, clutched in the warm steel of Justin's thighs, but that doesn't matter since he can hardly breathe anyway. Not for the first time, he reflects on the appropriateness of Justin's large hands.
"Mmmh, yeah," Justin breathes, kneading the back of his head, jostling his hips a little; JC's throat closes abruptly, bringing actual tears to his eyes. He blinks hard, feeling hot thin moisture gather along his lashes, catching glimpses of the smooth tan expanse of Justin's stomach with every blink like the first porn they'd seen in Germany, all odd camera angles and excessive strobe.
"You're beautiful," Justin says, and JC almost bites him in terror as he feels Justin's thumb swipe along his eyelashes; he opens his mouth wider instead, and Justin laughs softly, the nudging pulse in his hips turning to a rhythmic grind. "Totally beautiful like this."
JC wonders what song Justin's moving to -- it's not JC's heart, which is sending blood tumbling over itself in an effort to get enough oxygen to his brain, and it's not Justin's, either, which JC can feel sweetly frenzied against his tongue.
Beautiful like this somehow doesn't have the same ring to it.
There's a tug on his hair, and he freezes. Back off? I don't want t--oh, fuck, okay already. He opens his eyes again, and blinks a couple more times. They still sting.
A moment later, he closes his eyes again, feeling a familiar sense of faint disappointment; that's how much he managed to take into his mouth? Not enough, man. Still some work to do before it's possible to make him shriek from this position--
--and it's not like Justin's ever gonna let him get that good. Sometimes, JC suspects that Justin likes making him struggle to accommodate more than actual competence.
"Open your eyes," Justin says, shifting back and rearranging until he's kneeling between JC's thighs, reaching with both hands for JC's wrists, and JC's head bounces slightly against the mattress. He's no idea where his pillow's got to. "That's pretty good."
Am I hired? JC thinks mirthlessly, staring at the ceiling, thinking that only he'd be sick enough to put up with Justin's fucking job. "Thanks."
"I wouldn't mind trying the rest of the goods," Justin says, and it's not phrased as any sort of question as he gathers JC's wrists together into one hand and reaches down between JC's legs with the other. "I don't like having loose employees."
"Oh, I've never been had in my life," JC retorts, before he can stop himself. The tips of Justin's fingers stop circling and start poking purposefully instead, and JC immediately regrets the blatant lie.
Justin's eyes had flashed, but now they're clear and darkly amused again. "You'll probably whimper when I fuck you, then," he bites off, twisting one fingertip inside and grinding JC's wrists into the top of the mattress. JC's knuckles brush the cool paint of the wall, and his spine's tight in a stricken arch. "Being a virgin," Justin adds, pushing that finger deeper, "and all."
JC grits his teeth and tries not to whimper already. "Uh huh," he says, and Justin lets go of his wrists and digs his fingers into his jeans' pocket instead, working out a silver-white square. Trembling, JC keeps his hands folded above his head.
"Bite," Justin says, holding the sachet to JC's mouth, and JC closes his teeth on the corner. Justin nods, like he's pleased with his handiwork, tears it open. A cool swipe of oil against JC's lips makes him swallow, and he shifts uneasily -- wanting to spit out the fragment of plastic, somehow not wanting to show discomfort to Justin.
Justin reaches down, sitting back on his heels with splayed knees and arranging JC's legs over his thighs. He's... pretty fucking exposed, and Justin's fingers are suddenly slippery against his ass, sliding in smoother, making him arch for more.
He wishes for some sort of bar above his head, so he could hang on. Tight. "Oh," he sighs, when Justin scrunches up the soft hotel covers and pushes them under the base of his spine, tilting his hips so they agree more with letting Justin's fingers sweep inside. Not as good as a pillow, because the blankets' creases make it lumpy and not entirely comfortable, but it's no pain to Justin, so.
"Shut up," Justin says, and JC doesn't know if it's an invitation to disobey so Justin can rough him up some more or an actual demand, and then Justin's squeezing in three fingers and it's not like JC has control of his voice--
"Fuck, fuck, aw--"
Justin makes low thunder in his throat and slaps JC's face, once, hard, leaving a greasy sting of a hand print that pulses across JC's cheek and jaw in time with the thud of the blood in his cock. Justin's fingers disappear, playing across his thighs, then sliding his legs wide apart until they feel like they might just snap off. Justin lies between them.
The compact weight of him makes JC want to grind up. His fingers are wedged down the top of the mattress, crushed between the cold wall and the firmness of the bed, and his ass tilts towards Justin's cock plaintively, and he shudders and breathes hard when he feels the slick press of Justin lining up with both hands curled against the sides of JC's chest.
"Audition," Justin whispers, licking the edge of the hand print JC can still feel glowing on his cheek; a moment later JC realizes the lack of enthusiasm the word calls up in him must've shown on his face, because Justin scowls and crams the side of his hand against the base of JC's throat, just enough pressure to make the air trickle to a halt and his heart pump hard until he almost squeals with sensation as Justin's cock pushes decisively inside.
"Fuck," he gasps, and then his head's spinning because that's all the oxygen gone, and he starts shaking with it before Justin pulls halfway out and relaxes his chokehold. Air rushes back into his lungs, too affecting, too loud, and then he's losing it all again as Justin thrusts in like he's the only guy with needs in the world.
"Yeah," Justin agrees, pausing again and kissing his mouth like a demand, and if it wasn't for JC's legs being splayed so wide it'd be like Justin's just lying on top of him, belly to belly, mouth to mouth. JC kisses back, feeling the rhythmic shuffle of Justin's hips deepen in response, and then Justin's mouth breaks away and his hand presses down on the space between JC's collarbones again, just a little too low to be dangerous.
JC's hands ache, locked above his head, and Justin turns his mouth to the sleek inner slope of JC's bicep and bites sharply, making JC whimper and thrust back at him, so fucking turned on he thinks he won't even care if Justin makes him wear sleeveless tops for the next three days to show off the bruise.
Justin's hips meet him twice at every slide, juddering gracefully faster than JC can reply in this position, the thick push of his cock creating a spreading stain inside him, crimson ink drifting and swelling deep.
He's gasping, fast and unashamed, sucking air deep inside him and feeling his head spin with oxygen overload; curses mutter out with every second stroke. Justin's stomach is a cushion of starched muscle, silken with sweat, gliding against JC, punishingly sweet. JC twists up blindly, and his teeth graze Justin's shoulder.
There's a frozen moment, Justin buried deep inside him, that red tide churning fitfully in JC's stomach, and then Justin's teeth click together and the heel of his hand suddenly weighs three tons and ok, the space between his collarbones? still dangerous, and the oxygen? his head spins worse without it.
Justin starts fucking him again -- like he ever stopped, fuck -- and JC tries to drag in a breath and fails, and then he's kicking the air, shocked over and over by the thud of Justin's pelvis slamming against his ass, writhing until he's getting friction burns up his back from the fucking sweat-damp sheets. It feels like the bed's glowing, like the air's closing in on him, the oxygen debt squirreling down his limbs and misting over his vision and making him tremble all over like prolonged electrocution.
The world's starting to slip blackly away before Justin lets up, just enough that JC can beg some oxygen from the air, not enough that his vision clears or his pulse stops battering him from the inside or that his sphere of awareness can encompass anything more than Justin moving inside him--
--and Justin's so fucking good at this, JC wants to hate him or fear him or fall into fucking head-over-heels devotion so he can convince himself it's all a game, but the slam and grind of it's working, and he's hard again, totally and fervently, and Justin's noticed and he's murmuring, "oh, resilient, I knew I could do it," and JC's concentrating too hard on trying to get enough air to stay conscious to be able to reply.
"Shit, shit," he mouths, when Justin starts licking at his ear, and then the blood's twisting and thundering through his body and his vision's whiting out again and it's building, building-rising-sailing--
"You're totally hired," Justin whispers, and JC has time to think wildly that if Justin really wants to humiliate him he should say something at this point like he's not hired because he's too easy, and then he's coming, vicious and scratching, and it's enough; what Justin gives him's always enough.
It started innocuously enough, smoking grass in the two-man bus, giggling and opening the windows so the air could blast through and lift the smell away even as they exhaled. It hadn't worked, and JC was rooting around for Febreze in deference to Justin's highly probable claim that if the others found out they'd be bitched at for not sharing, and then he felt Justin's fingers brush down the back of his neck.
"What's up?" he asked, straightening, fuzzily aware that if Justin was touching him then he'd need to start thinking up girls' names to chatter about, so he'd have something to blame his body's reactions on.
"I'm hungry," Justin said, humor brimming in his voice, and it was easy to grin at him, and try and ignore the dilated pupils that made Justin look fiercely aroused, try and ignore the way Justin was now holding onto his shoulder for balance.
"Munchies," JC heard himself say, widening his eyes innocently when Justin narrowed his eyes at him, not sure why. He felt kinda guilty, because he'd had a feeling recently that he'd be able to steer Justin into his bed, had a feeling that that had been behind his suggestion of getting the gear in the first place, and now he was here it was really incredibly tempting to see if he actually could -- but Justin couldn't see that, could he? No reason to act innocent.
"Something like that," Justin said, and the smoke had made his voice drop, and JC's brain wondered quickly if they'd be able to sing tomorrow and then detoured into a long and indulgent representation of how Justin's voice would probably be in bed, interrupted when Justin tilted his head like he was listening to the bus' engine and then pushed his fingers up into JC's hair and slid their mouths clumsily together.
Oh yeah, and, ok, go with it, JC agreed, helplessly -- retrospectively, still thinking he was the one taking advantage, forgetting Justin had been the one insisting they smoke the stuff when the others weren't there.
Any day now, JC had thought, leaning his head against the cold wall; any day now, Justin will get bored or this'll get old or we'll meet someone else and it'll stop. Three weeks of vacillating undercurrents and incrementally hotter sex -- how long could something like that last? It'd have to be over soon, he had decided, firmly. Have to finish.
But it hadn't, and even then he'd been waiting, pleading a headache to the others and letting them all prance off onto the dancefloor while he ducked out of their bodyguard's line of vision and slipped out the back where Justin had said he'd be in three minutes.
As if, JC had thought, pressing for backlight on his watch and scowling, dick pressing insistently against his zipper and telling him loudly about how it wanted to slip into something hot and restlessly liquid and hey, wouldn't Justin's mouth be a prime candidate? and then he was looking up sharply as Justin appeared next to him, all shuddery with alcohol and urgency, cut boldly out of shadow and moonlight. He had crushed JC back into the wall and rubbed aggressively into him, muttering trash in his ear and making him pant and bite down hard on his puffed-up unforgiving shoulder, then slowly but surely added pressure until he was forced down on his knees.
The water had soaked instantly up, and he'd definitely noticed, it was just that he didn't much care when Justin's hands were buried roughly in his hair and he was having to undo his fly with his teeth and that was a bitch because the denim was coarse on his lips but then he had them open and yeah, cold knees definitely didn't figure on his list of priorities.
The force of his expectation was the worst-- JC couldn't even comprehend saying no, because Justin couldn't comprehend it either.
They checked in, and JC was just kneeling in front of his TV and wondering exactly which button he was supposed to push to get cable when Justin walked in without knocking, waving a tape. Trust him to have the spare key card. "Hey," he said, in a different voice from the everyday voice, and JC's dick twitched before he'd placed it as Justin's let's-fuck voice, and then Justin was approaching him with determined delight in his eyes and it was menacing and breathtaking and pretty damn obvious.
"Fuck, I love you," Justin whispered, when JC didn't resist being sat on the edge of his crisp hotel bed and shoved slowly back until he was kinda splayed horizontal with his feet on the floor, being groped one-handedly. "The others are getting smashed, but I can't drink bourbon any more without wanting to fuck you."
JC heard his breathing change, tighten into short, hard panting as Justin crawled onto the bed and crouched low over him like some large, predatory animal, one knee nuzzling insistently between his legs. He opened his mouth eagerly to Justin's tongue, sucking, biting back, grinding down on Justin's knee. The love thing didn't even phase him -- Justin says it easily, all the fucking time as far as JC can tell, to pretty much anyone who'll blow him without complaining about having to swallow. JC had a feeling there were about a thousand chicks wandering around convinced they were gonna be Mrs. Timberlake someday.
Justin tasted of bourbon, and his knee was trained in corruptive arts. "Hey," JC managed, the sudden certainty that he was gonna come some time in the next few minutes making him want to draw back a moment, take it slower, "what's on the tape?"
Justin made a low noise in his throat, drawing back reluctantly, and JC opened his eyes and looked at him uncertainly. A growl? Okay, yeah, Justin was definitely channeling something tonight-- not lion, exactly, because that implied some screwed up idea of nobility. More like wolverine, brutal and determined and depraved.
Was it fucked up that that made him want to roll over and spread his legs?
"I was gonna crawl up you, pin you with my knees and make you suck me off no hands," Justin said, looking him shamelessly direct in the eye, "but yeah, let's watch the tape."
"I never said we should watch it," JC said quickly, then caught himself, thinking what? and don't fucking encourage him, and Justin grinned.
"I can do that later," he said, then shrugged lightly, explaining, "I'm gonna stay the night."
JC raised an eyebrow, wanting to ask exactly who'd granted him that permission, and heard himself say, "So is it porn?"
Justin's grin was lazy, approving. "Mmm. Kinda."
JC hated himself for doing it, but Justin peeled himself off of him and slunk over to the TV, shrugging out of his clothes with a desolately attractive shimmy and pushing an unlabeled tape lovingly into the machine. It really wouldn't be logical to keep his clothes on.
Justin's said it before, how much he loves touching himself, feeling the dense, silken muscle on his stomach, luxuriating in his own body. He loves digging his nails in and feeling silver-sharp lines melting out from point of contact, loves the tangy salt he can rub off after he's jerked off with nasty slowness -- and as he's listed every point, he's demonstrated it for JC, kindling the sort of shimmering smolder deep in his guts that only needs Justin to quirk his lips like that and it'll flare up and consume him.
So yeah, JC knew Justin was vain. But this was-- this was fucking different, this was like something out of Amsterdam, Justin getting JC sit in his lap, cock hard and insistent against the ridge of his spine; Justin licking the side of his neck and feeling him up and aiming the remote at the TV and flicking it on, and JC actually feeling the surge in Justin's cock as the human beatbox claimed the stage.
"See that?" Justin asked softly, as his hips worked the crowd deftly into a wailing frenzy-- and it sounded strange, too, because JC was expecting him to say hear that?
It was kinda too convenient, as well; the tape had started in the middle of his solitary performance, and JC wondered exactly what had made Justin press eject just here and bring it to JC's room.
Justin's hands crept round his hips, kneading restlessly, his hips beginning a shifting nudge against JC's ass. JC stared at the screen and wondered if it was sick that this was turning him on, that Justin could get away with this--
Oh, but he could.
Justin inhaled sharply against the hinge of his jaw, and JC focussed on the screen again, crazy shivers looping across his skin except for where Justin was touching him, where the contact was still enough to melt them into a rich, tingling satisfaction.
Then he saw the screen, properly, saw Justin's hips shuddering with remorseless grace and felt Justin's echo against him, grindier and sweatier and god help him sexier, and he found himself wriggling back in time with the beat from the TV. So cheap, he thought, making helpless little noises when Justin's hand closed greedily around his cock, and hissing, loudly, when Justin muttered "fuck, look at how I move" and bit his neck hard enough to piss off the makeup guys tomorrow morning.
"Yeah," he heard himself agree, as the onscreen Justin did everything but actually get down and give head to the mike. "You're fucking hot."
Justin made a noise deep in his throat that turned into a croaked "uh-huh, yeah," and let go of JC's cock.
"Hey," JC protested, then shut the fuck up when the hand moved to press hard into his stomach, cramming him back against Justin's dick, and he exhaled in a low moan and imagined it pushing up inside him, the bulk and the heat, and Justin's wicked hips shoving it deeper.
"You're so up for this," Justin whispered, licking his own fingers, then reaching forward between JC's legs and stirring a warm finger against his balls and then wriggling it up inside him -- and it was impatient and a bad angle and painful, and fuck but JC wanted more than that.
"Uh-huh," he managed, nodding, eyes falling closed as Justin stabbed deeper and then stole his finger back away.
"Yeah," Justin said, shuffling his hand out of JC's vision, and then JC blinked because the TV was rewinding and Justin was rubbing his cock impatiently into the small of JC's back and then he'd hit play, and the last strains of a song were fading out, and the stage was getting dark.
Justin froze for the screaming, all of it, and JC had never hated their fans more.
Yeah, he thought brightly, a moment later; Justin's fans sure did scream a lot.
Prepare yourself; it's the human beatbox.
Justin licked a long hotwetgolden stripe up his neck and breathed out, "yeah that's me," and JC started panting, feeling hypnotized, the ache of his cock spinning from head to toes.
"You like it?" Justin demanded, as the piano beat struck the room hard and shattered most of the rest of JC's coherent thoughts. Justin's hips started undulating beneath him, note-perfect, a precisely choreographed full-body shudder going over and over.
JC thought distantly that he might die soon. "You know it..."
"Yeah," Justin said. "Now prove it."
"Why?" JC asked, trying not to sound like he was gonna come if Justin's TV double did one more of those fierce little scowls, and then Justin's big hands were clamped round his ribcage and lifting him until he felt the blunt wetness of Justin's cock sliding against his ass, and then it was pressing up and forcing insistently and it hurt, goddamnit, really fucking burned, the muscle giving grudgingly, sinking him down hard onto Justin's dick.
The unbearably hot breath was panting harshly in his ear. "Fuck, yeah," Justin gasped, and JC didn't need to look back to know Justin's eyes were glued to the screen, which was lucky really given that he couldn't take his eyes off Justin's hips either.
"That's not a reason," he managed, then groaned loudly as Justin bucked up beneath him, pain splintering up his spine like a whip.
"You talk too fucking much." Justin's nails dug into his hips, striking sting of pleasure like an afterthought to the thundering ache of being pulled down hard onto Justin's cock, again and again, and it was going up so fucking deep even his ankles were shuddering. "But you love it when I fuck you."
JC groaned again, grinding down and arching his back and then groaning over and over when Justin's hips started moving in earnest. "Fucking beatbox," he hissed, and Justin laughed shortly and clamped one hand over JC's mouth, heel stuffing saltily between his teeth.
"Babe, it's hot and all," hips moving faster, still not bothering to touch JC's cock and going too determinedly at the wrong angle to do anything more than drive him swiftly insane with frustration and then up on Justin's whimsy and the thrill of letting Justin have exactly what he wants for a predictably-nuclear meltdown, "but with you making all that noise, I can't hear my words."
And, oh, yeah. Because the only person Justin told he loved and meant it that way was himself.
JC stares up at the darkness, sleep mouthing a siren song from restless hours away. Justin's apparently perfectly comfortable next to him, but the bed's a shade too warm for JC's liking, and he can't help but keep thinking the childlike steady deep breath is vastly wrong to come from Justin's body.
They've never done the beatbox thing again, but he has a feeling Justin's been thinking about this cocksucker's audition for long enough that they might end up doing it again sometime. It'll be just as cheap as tonight, JC's pretty sure -- and knowing that, being aware of the cheapness, that's not gonna make a blind bit of difference because he'll always get off just as hard as Justin wants him to, and he accepts that now, knows himself too well to fight it.
Justin's staying the night, which shouldn't thrill JC any more, but it does. He's always staying, these days, unless it's gonna be too difficult in the morning -- and Justin's idea of difficult is different from JC's. Justin's idea of difficult doesn't include the uncomfortable feeling JC got when he'd looked up from scarfing his breakfast and caught Chris and Joey watching him intently, let alone the frankly bizarre sensation of promptly having a brightly attentive Chris on hand whenever he wanted it for the next three days.
Tomorrow won't be Justin's idea of difficult, either.
Justin's idea of difficult is when JC found a Samaritan's card on the perfect, uninterrupted curve of his pillow when he'd snuck back to his hotel room one morning, when it took them a full twenty minutes before they could be certain it was an impromptu gift from Joey and not some terrifyingly apt security breach. They'd almost had to out themselves to Justin's bodyguard. JC had ripped up the card, and Justin had still stalked round like a glossy thundercloud for the rest of the day. That was difficult.
As for tomorrow... tomorrow, JC has a feeling Joey's gonna give him a long look, like he did when he caught them kissing in the green room when they'd thought the others had hit the showers. Justin's hand had been slipping proprietarily up under his shirt, and he'd gotten a little rough when JC tried to pull away, because Justin hadn't noticed the door open like JC had. It had made JC dizzy, afterwards, realizing that he'd had all of Justin's attention.
It isn't that Joey completely disapproves, but he's cautious, and think it's unstable. He's earnestly concerned that JC is... what's his word? convenient. JC hasn't told Joey that's bullshit -- because it's not, totally -- but he's also not told Joey that Justin's pretty convenient too, because he has a feeling that's something the others won't entirely understand.
Plus, if Justin finds out he feels that way? then Joey'll have his reasons to feel cautious. Until then, JC thinks, trailing a finger down the smooth ridge of Justin's spine, there's no reason to rock the boat. The odd session of midnight-unquiet isn't enough to make him push Justin out of bed and go back to nameless men who can't do it thoroughly enough to justify their arrogance.
JC had once walked in on Chris shaking his head angrily at Justin and growling, "it's just, it's fucked, and you can't say it's not," and then caught sight of JC and of course they'd been talking about the performance of some football team last night, of course.
Justin mutters something and wriggles closer, struggling blindly when the sheets twist round his hand, pulling free and draping himself over JC's chest. He settles again, heavy and oblivious. His mouth's open, that childlike sultry breeze rhythmical against JC's throat. It's definitely too hot now.
JC closes his eyes and strokes Justin's shoulder and figures that if this is fucked, it's the sort of fucked he can live with.