Out Not In
mprov by Julad

Georgina is a fucking devious bitch. That is all I have to say.

"If you'd just wai--"

Justin was already gone, flouncing through the door with primadonna curls bouncing in all their glittery, shiny glory.

Lance looked around the hotel room and swore.

He couldn't bear to spend the night in this concocted homey-ness, with its antique coffee table so artfully matching the entertainment unit, its designer bedspread so tastefully matching the curtains. He also couldn't bear one more minute of whining misery from the three bedridden Incredible Sulks. Not to mention that they were gross and he didn't want to catch it. He also couldn't go to Justin's bar with his hair looking like it was.

His options, though, were limited. He peered in the mirror again, cursed his hair again, cursed his life again, cursed Justin again, and then put on his jacket and left.

The Machiavelli was Justin's kind of place--way too hip to be discreet (even if Lance wasn't, really), way too cutting-edge to be a good cruising joint (even if Lance's hair didn't look like Geroge Clooney on an even-worse-than-usual day), way too loud and flashy to just hang and meet people (even if Lance was in a good mood). It pretty much sucked like Lance wasn't going to.

All that, and Justin wasn't even there when he arrived. He'd either decided, in the three minute limo ride, that some other place was now cool enough to warrant his presence, or more likely he'd come, seen, and conquered, not necessarily in that order. The little shit, no doubt, had already eloped with some to-die-for Gucci model or three, and was right this minute getting the blowjob of Lance's dreams in the limo on the way back to somebody's penthouse apartment. Lance cursed his life again, and Justin, and his hair for good measure, because he was getting stares that were not exactly appreciative.

The drinks were good, though.

Lance resolved to have just one more daiquiri and then find someplace where he could get laid, but the bartender (who had his credit card) suggested a Soft Sand, which was pretty nice, and then a Python Squeeze, which was even nicer, and then a Bliss Bomb, which was "really fucking faaaaabulous", he found himself saying, after his third.

"Nice hair, honey," said a voice at his shoulder, and Lance was so excited to have somebody talk to him that he turned around, beaming, before his brain managed to process the three words and the sneer and label them INSULTING in big red capital letters.


Oh, and it got worse, Lance realised as the face drifted into focus. It was Howie fucking D smirking at him, and his hair looked great. "Love yours," he said, and drained his glass. "It's so much better than your real hair." He wasn't so drunk that he didn't know to quit while he was ahead, so he got down from his stool with as much dignity as he could manage and walked off. Where he was going didn't matter until he got to the other side of the tiny club and was forced to turn around, still feeling narrowed eyes on his back.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he said aloud, trying to remember where the exit was.

"Losers go that way," a blond Adonis said, pointing helpfully to the door.

"Thank you," Lance told him, wishing he had Justin's talent for conveying that he was a rich and famous superstar and that the whole club should be queuing on its knees for him.

"Hey, Boyband," another sneered as he pushed towards the glowing exit sign. Lance turned around to punch whoever it was, because starting a brawl was exactly what he was in the mood for, but nobody was looking at him. Two muscled clones had cornered one Nick Carter, who seemed as far out of context as Lance felt. His peeved and befuddled mind struggled for a reaction, and all it came up with was "faaaaabulous".

He elbowed his way between the clones and slung an arm around Nick's neck, ignoring his astonishment. "Just shut up," Lance told him. "Let's go fuck."

And wasn't it nice that Nick looked at him like he was the best thing that had happened all night.

"Oooh, they're multiplying!" one of the clones said, and since they were only two yards from the door, Lance smashed his fist into... into the other one's nose, since he was closer.

"Fucking Howie!" Nick shouted as they sprinted away from the shouting bouncers.

"Fucking Justin!" Lance shouted back, checking over his shoulder. Their pursuers had given up already, and that gave Lance a warm glow of satisfaction--fuck them all, because these boyband types could outrun any gym queen who cared to chase them.

He dragged Nick into a side street and then into a doorway, and noted with glee that they weren't even out of breath. Nick's glittering eyes said he was thinking the same thing. Well, that, Lance thought, as Nick slammed him against the door and kissed him like he was starving, or he was thinking something else.

Nick was a good kisser, Lance thought then. And, Nick felt great, grinding against him. And, Nick had a faaaaabulous hand, a simply marvellous set of fingers, and, ooh, yeah, baby.

Lance thought it was entirely possible that he was saying all this aloud.

It was good, it was great, it was hot and rough and eager and fantastic, and this was what Lance wanted, this was what he was into. Unlike Justin, who seemed to be gay mostly for the clothes and the music, Lance loved sex, and fucking, and screwing and handjobs and making out in dark alleys with men who smelled like men and felt like men and tasted like men. And if Nick fucking Carter hadn't featured high on his list of people with those qualities, well. He did now.

"Lets get a room somewhere," Nick said, and bit his ear.

"Sure," Lance said happily, squirming his hand down Nick's pants.

Nick grabbed his wrist, panting. "No, I mean, like, before I come in Kevin's precious Polo jeans that I'm not allowed to borrow."

"EW!" Lance shouted, and yanked his hand away.

The made out some more in the taxi, though, and Lance was wearing his own pants, thank god, and didn't mind coming in them when Nick pushed him across the back seat and pulled his legs apart and ground his palm down onto Lance's cock and watched appreciatively as Lance ground up in response.

Nick didn't care about his hair, Lance thought, staring up at a sweaty, red face and grinning like a fool.

They got a room at a seedy hotel and agreed that Nick's people could pay off the hotel staff and Lance's people could pay off the cab driver. Then they fucked on the already-rumpled bed and did it again on the gritty carpet, and made out in the grimy shower with sore mouths and aching tongues.

"I don't wanna sleep there," Nick said when they got out, staring at the bed that now looked even filthier than the rest of the room.

"Yours or mine?" Lance said, pulling on his sticky jeans.

"Gee, let's see," Nick said. "Do I want to eat breakfast with you and a hungover asshole and two bible-thumping assholes and the queen bitch who dragged me to that hole and dumped me there, or with you and three freaky space monkeys and the queen bitch who dumped you there?"

"I haven't got a clue," Lance said, "but mine's got a jacuzzi."

Nick brightened. "There's always room service."

Justin sauntered into the suite lounge at eleven, looking as immaculate as he had when he'd left twelve hours earlier.

"Did you have a good night?" he asked, as a courteous prelude to telling Lance about all the glamourous and trendy things he'd just done with beautiful and stylish people.

Lance stretched his abused body until it was glowing all over again. "Yes, thank you. I did."

Words provided by Georgina's Wonder Mprov Machine(Tm) (beta): context, bedridden, concoct, elope. Edited somewhat.