[Text!fic} - I Wrote Things
I wrote a thing. Or two things, actually. Uh, the first was for jblostfan16, because right after James released the Clarity cover she pointed to her theory that he wants to be Miley Cyrus. Yeah, I don't know. The second was for breila-rose because...uh, because she was bored and I had Lucy feelings. They are things. That I wrote. Via text message, so unedited, etc. Don't judge me.
Title: You Got The Virus (Shake It LIke Cyrus)
Author: garnetice
Pairing: Kendall/James
Rating: M
Word Count: 4,386
Summary: James has the Miley Cyrus Virus. Whatever that means.
---
Kendall doesn't think anything of it the first time he walks in on James watching Hannah Montana.
Sure, it's a little odd - James, alone in his room with all the lights out, humming along to Best of Both Worlds - but Kendall's a pretty big closet Lizzie McGuire fan, so who is he to judge?
Mind you, when he finds James singing along to Let's Get Crazy during study hall, he gets slightly more judgmental, but whatever. James has quirks. Kendall has long since learned to accept them and move on.
There are little things after that, like how James cries every time The Climb comes on the radio, his random outbursts accusing Nick Jonas of heartless assholery, that forced outing to see The Last Song (James tells their dates it was all Kendall's idea), or that one, extremely weird time he tried to rock long brown hair extensions for a week, but they're tiny, isolated incidents. Even when James hums Party In The USA the whole plane ride to California, Kendall never makes the connection.
He's just being James, right?
Kendall begins to have the smallest suspicion that something is off when James goes through his grunge phase. Up until then, James considered punk rock a dirty phrase and was convinced Nirvana was the Spanish word for orange. It’s disconcerting to see him don leather jackets and pyramid studded boots.
Kendall isn’t sure where it’s coming from until he sees a picture of Miley in his mom's US Weekly, clad in a Cheap Trick t-shirt and enough metal to kill a man. Could it be- no, that's ridiculous. So ridiculous.
As a joke one year, Kendall does bribe Miley Cyrus tickets out of Gustavo and presents them at James's birthday party with flourish.
Bad idea. There's a tense moment where Kendall is thoroughly convinced his best friend in the entire world, his exceedingly straight best friend, is going to kiss him.
The near lip collision is concerning. Kendall is concerned. He only grows more so when he opens his eyes and looks - really looks - at James's Miley Cyrus addiction. An investigation of his room reveals more sequins and glitter than any one man should own, deluxe editions of each of Miley's albums, a Hannah cardboard cutout that watches Kendall with accusation in it's eyes, and, most unnerving, a picture collage made entirely of various outfits Miley has worn, ringed by a creepy frame of her eyes. His iPod has a playlist called HBIC QUEEN OF THE UNIVERSE LIGHT OF MY LIFE !!!1!!1!!! that contains nothing but Miley demos, and Kendall can't even think about the things he found on James's laptop. He finds the whole fanfiction thing too scarring, and why would Miley even have an orgy with David Henrie, Selena Gomez, Demi Lovato, and James?
(The worst part is how Kendall's pretty sure someone other than James wrote it. His grammar is just not that good.)
That's it, Kendall decides. James needs an intervention. But trying to say, "James, you have the Miley Cyrus Virus," out loud is hard. It sounds stupid.
Maybe Kendall's overreacting. There's nothing wrong with a little hero worship.
He manages to live out the delusion until BTR's KCA performance, the one where, upon being introduced to the Jonas Brothers, James punches Nick in the face.
The rest of the night becomes a whirlwind of reporters asking about the poor, swollen Jonas jaw. Gustavo is not pleased.
"Why would you do that?" He demands, outraged.
Completely genuine, James retorts, "I can't be tamed."
Then he snaps his fingers sassily and stalks off towards the restrooms, because apparently his bladder can't be tamed either.
"You better talk to him," Gustavo blusters at Kendall. And Kendall tries, okay, he does.
He tries in the BTR-mobile, when James is driving him to Toluca Lake in the hopes they might make a miam sighting. He tries when Griffin scores them tickets to The Hunger Games premiere and James lights up brighter than a firework. He even tries when he finds James fast asleep with a battered copy of Miles To Go propped on his stomach.
(Okay, the first chapter is battered. James isn't much for reading.)
But Miley just makes James so happy. How can Kendall take that away from him, when he's spent most of his life trying to put a smile on that pretty face? Who cares if James tries to kidnap Noah for trick or treating? He gives her back at the end of the night. No harm, no foul, although there is that teeny, tiny promise that Billy Ray makes to castrate James if he ever sees him again. And that time after the Oscars where he wants to teepee Emma Watson's hotel room doesn't amount to more than a minor arrest.
"Fix. Him," Gustavo screeches through gritted teeth, his face redder than Kendall has ever seen it before.
He gets it, he does. No one fucks with those Harry Potter kids. The Big Time fan forum has been getting hate mail all day. So Kendall tries again.
"James. Why did you prank Hermione Granger?"
James, occupied by Miley's issue of Cosmo, seemingly very interested in the sex tips, sniffs. "Bitch messed with Liam."
"How do you know that?"
"Blind items, duh." James gives Kendall the most disparaging look he's ever been on the receiving end of, and okay, this needs to stop.
"James. You have to stop stalking Miley Cyrus."
James blinks. "I'm not stalking Miley Cyrus, dude."
"Uh, I think you are."
"Am not," he says vaguely, already more absorbed by the reverse cowboy python - what, is that position even possible?- than in focusing on Kendall's stern face.
Painstakingly slow, Kendall lists off James's offenses, at least the ones he knows about. James starts paying attention around the time Kendall recounts the sheer number of selfies he took with Miley's wax figure at Madame Toussad's.
"You make it sound like I'm in love with her."
"Well, aren't you?" Kendall retorts, and that is not jealousy creeping into his voice. Absolutely, positively not. To reassure himself, he continues, "Look, I understand." He most certainly doesn't. "You can't help who you love."
Sagely, James nods his head, finally dropping the magazine in his lap. "Love is bigger than us."
That's deeper than James usually gets. Meaning...
"You just quoted a Miley song at me, didn't you?"
A smirk tugs at James's lips. He leans forward until Kendall can feel his breath gust hot and damp against his belly. He peers up through his thick eyelashes, capturing Kendall's full, undivided attention. "The honest truth is, I don't know who owns my heart..."
Kendall holds his breath, trying very hard not to look even remotely turned on.
James says, "It might be love or it might be art."
Goddamnit.
"You're grounded," Kendall tells him flatly.
"What?" Now James isn't smirking. So there. "You can't ground me. I am a man."
"And I don't want you to be a man with a restraining order against him, so I say you're on house arrest for the foreseeable future."
"Kendall!" James is outraged, reeling back and away, far enough that he's definitely not paying attention to the partial chub in Kendall's pants. "I swear, I'm not in love with Miley Cyrus."
Sadly, Kendall replies, "I wish I could believe you."
So that happens.
James confined within the Palmwoods is basically the worst experience of anyone's life. He drives every single resident crazy, with the notable exception of Kendall, with whom he is currently not on speaking terms.
"He knows you don't actually have the power to ground him, right?" Kelly asks at one point, on a quiet limo ride back from the studio.
"Shhhhhh!" Kendall exclaims, clapping his hand over her mouth before James hears.
James can't be let back out into the wild yet. He might childishly run away and accidentally on purpose set up his tent on Miley's front yard or abscond with one of her dogs, or worst of all, meet her.
Kendall knows exactly what will happen then; she'll decide she likes James every bit as much as James likes her, and they'll have sweet little children with soft southern drawls and crazy Mohawks. Because James is charming and gorgeous, and very, very, likeable. Screw Liam with his abs and his Aussie accent, James is James. There's no other possible outcome.
Kendall clutches his fists in his jeans and tries not to worry.
The niggling fear plagues him all through the night, so much so that he's still wide awake at four thirty in the morning, when he gets up to take a piss. He always knew he'd lose James to some grand, romantic romance, he just thought he'd have more time and the object of James's affections would be less famous. Kendall can't compete with Hannah Montana.
She's cute, she's fierce, she owns thigh highs. Kendall doesn't own thigh highs. His thighs are too thin to hold a pair up. Trust him, he's tried. And dont even get him started on the studded bustiers. He feels hopelessly inadequate with Miley to measure up to.
Kendall's so absorbed in his tragic fears that he walks straight into the bright lights of the bathroom without consciously recognizing the lights are even on. He bumps into something hardsoft, angles jolting his ribs, dampness seeping into his shirt.
His first instinct is to yelp and search for a weapon, and his second instinct is exactly the same because that is definitely a mostly naked James-shaped thing in front of him, but it cannot actually be James.
"What are you doing?" The creature demands shrilly, taking no care for the other sleeping members of 2J. His chest is shower-slick and obscenely well defined, but Kendall's jaw drops open for a different reason.
"What am I doing? What are you doing?" Horror growing, he demands, "What did you do to your hair?"
"Oh." James preens, fluffing it into wet spikes, which does not draw Kendall's attention from its new white-blond hue like, at all. "Do you like it?"
"I don't understand why it exists!" Kendall retorts, glancing from James to the at-home hair dye mix resting on the counter to the still dripping faucet of the shower.
And then back to James's blindingly bright head again because what.
Serenely, James molds his hair into spikier platinum spikes. He says, "I told you. I'm not in love with Miley Cyrus." Satisfied with the condition of his fauxhawk, he eyes Kendall levelly. "I want to be her."
Kendall has no actual idea how to reply to that.
James asks, "Am I allowed to go out now?"
Mortified, Kendall replies, "Not like that you aren't."
"Why not?"
"For one? Because Gustavo will lynch you. Change it back. Change it back now!"
James hums in consideration. "I'm thinking...yeah, no."
This is the worst thing that has ever happened to Kendall. "Why would you want to be Miley anyway?"
"Why wouldn't I?" James snorts. "She's gorgeous, she's talented, she's got the catchiest songs." A bit dreamily he fluffs his hair and says, "I'm going to be a pop sensation, just like her."
"I...I..." Kendall gawps.
"Close your mouth, man, you're going to let flies in," James instructs, stepping closer, and oh yeah, he is only wearing a towel, isn't he? Kendall manages to draw his eyes away from the travesty of blond and glance down. And down. And down some more. Wow, that's distracting.
Kendall stumbles a step back, but James catches his arm. "Where are you going?"
"To grab my sunglasses. Your hair's giving off UV light," Kendall jokes lamely, incredibly aware of the flex of James's palm.
A drop of water beads its way down James's jugular. It would be so easy to lap it up, the salt of his skin pooled against Kendall's tongue. He swallows thickly.
James says, "I need you to start respecting my life decisions."
Kendall says, "Um."
"I can be whoever I want to be."
"Okay," Kendall agrees, squirming under his gaze. The inches that separate them aren't enough, the air in the apartment running short. He's panting, maybe; dying, definitely.
"I can be Miley Cyrus if I want to," James continues, and it's the most ridiculous statement that anyone has ever made, but yeah, sure, whatever, Kendall will put a crown on him and call him Queen Elizabeth if it gets him some breathing room.
"Right. Of course."
James angles his face across the gap between them, pressing his mouth into Kendall's cheek, his words tumbling huskily up against Kendall's ear when he says, "You're still staring."
Kendall tilts his head until his own jaw is brushing James's. He smells shower clean and a little bit delicious.
He thinks and he acts at exactly the same time, brushing his lips above James's chin. James's skin is flushed warm. Kendall lingers there, his mouth in one spot, unmoving, merely touching, James's exhalations soft against his ear.
It lasts for long, still seconds on end. Then James's hands go up to clutch at Kendall's side, digging into his nightshirt as he pulls Kendall closer, their bodies lined up from chest to thigh. James's lips touch against Kendall's jaw, moving down the line of it and up to the corner of Kendall's lips, until he's kissing him wet and deep.
Kendall moans automatically and sinks against James, gripping at his biceps. He kisses him exactly the way he's dreamt about a thousand times, and yeah, James is considerably blonder than he expected in his fantasies, but he's just as naked as Kendall always wanted, so that has to count for something.
James tongues his way inside Kendall's mouth, licking out at his teeth, massaging his fingertips up beneath the hem of Kendall's shirt, counting out his ribs. They tussle for dominance, James coming out in control because Kendall's too busy clinging to his skin, his muscle, his bones, with nothing else to anchor him to the earth.
The towel slips to the ground, James laid bare, hot, real, there. This time when Kendall moans, James makes a pained noise and tugs persistently at his tee until it's off.
Up against Kendall's throat, he mumbles, "Tonight, you're going to get this."
Kendall growls, "I better not find out that's another Miley song."
James beams against his skin, so Kendall musses his hair and grabs James's ass. His skin's firm, his muscle tight. James grinds back into Kendall's hands, then thinks better of it and ruts forward, kissing him open mouthed and sloppy. Kendall can feel the hot drag of his cock against his own, separated only by the thin cloth of his pajama bottoms.
James forces groans down Kendall's throat that taste like sparks and thunder. The reverb thrums through Kendall's chest, a crashing crescendo that shivers through his heart and turns his bones liquid and golden.
"I want you to fuck me," James tells him languidly, but between halting breaths, an uh-uh-uh that belies his desperation.
His hands wend back, kneading against Kendall's spine, hitting tiny pressure points that melt Kendall's knees. Kendall tugs James even closer, too much friction thick and heady between them, James's wet hair dripping in Kendall's eyes.
"Kendall, just-" James drops back, spins so quick that Kendall's hands accidentally graze his cock, smearing precum against the lifeline of his hand. James wantonly grips the sink, and all Kendall can do is stare openly at every notch of his spine, disappearing down into the swell of his ass.
Kendall can barely hold himself up, weak kneed and wanting, lust spiking higher and higher through his sluggish bloodstream, eradicating the last of his sleepiness. He sets his hands on James's hips, strokes his thumbs down and in, spreading James just enough that he can see. James keens and strains back, his blond hair making him a stranger, the knots and lines of his shoulders and neck marking him as familiar and beloved.
Kendall loves him, he loves him, he loves him so damn dearly. This is a fever dream, it has to be, because otherwise it means that while he's been waiting around for James, James has been waiting back.
Kendall mouths against the nape of his neck, asks him, "Why are you doing this?"
Craning his head back, bright eyed in the stark white luminescence of the overhead lights, James says, "Isn't it obvious?"
His biceps are straining, supporting his upper body against porcelain and his cock is thick, pink-red, bobbing in and out of Kendall's vision. His own dick throbs, straining against his pants. He wants to palm himself, but he doesn't want to let go, in case this opportunity slips away. He teases his thumbs against James's asshole, watches him shake in response.
They have their own cocoon here, in the early morning hour, surrounded by dissipating steam, the sweet, fruity perfume of shampoo, and the sharper tang of bleach.
It's not the sexiest place on earth, but it's isolated and theirs.
Kendall touches his mouth to James's and he replies, "Not to me."
James smiles against his lips, one of those brilliant grins that Kendall treasures, forever the most breathtaking thing he's ever seen. He licks at the seam of Kendall's lips, but instead of answering the question, he murmurs gently, "I knew it would be like this. When we kiss, I'm hypnotized."
And maybe that’s answer enough. Kendall presses the dry tip of his right thumb inside of James, watching him wince at the pinch of nail, entrance drawing taut. He says, “I didn’t know. That you were waiting for anything.”
Inside, James is hot, smooth, painfully tight. Kendall’s going to fix that last part, going to loosen James up on his cock until he’s begging for it, but he’s not ready to break this moment yet, where they’re naked and close and agonizingly vulnerable.
James blinks at him pretty, mouth bitten red. He retorts, “There are a lot of things you don’t know.”
“Sure,” Kendall replies easily enough. “But I don’t want you to be one of them.”
The grin James gives him is lopsided and fond, his still-wet hair finally falling back against his forehead, spikes losing their shape. He is messy, unperfected, still the guy that Kendall grew up with, the one that will disappear behind his Hollywood mask once day breaks over the horizon. Kendall takes him like this, first with a single, dry finger, and then - at James’s suspiciously knowledgeable prodding - with a bottle of lube that he pulls from a back corner of the shelf beneath the sink.
They all know it’s hidden there; even Kendall’s mom. Four guys in one tight space don’t have a lot of options as to where they get alone time. But isn’t sure if any of them have ever gotten the opportunity to use the Astroglide exactly like this.
Kendall’s only got the vaguest notion of how gay sex works, but he knows James is ready once he’s keening against him, grinding back on his slippery fingers and panting, “Okay, yeah, now, Kendall. Please.”
He whimpers in disappointment when Kendall pulls back, shoving his pajama pants down his hips to take his neglected cock in hand.
Kendall strokes himself once, twice. The familiar lines and calluses of his palm do nothing to soothe the crazy ache coiled at the base of him, this quicksilver need compelling him to drive up into James right damn now. He ignores it, spreading James's ass cheeks until he can tease himself between them, smearing glistening beads of precome and lubrication against the red-pink of James's asshole.
James twitches against him, stretched loose and slick. Kendall slips into him, half an inch at most, but it's still enough to make them both moan low. Which, this is bad, because Kendall has all these grand, romantic plans - he wants to make love to his best friend, okay, dont judge him - but James feels so good.
Kendall drops his forehead against the nape of James's neck, breathing in the fresh shower scent of his skin, pinpricked with sweat. He can hear the way James's breath sobs through his lungs, the rapid thudthudthud of his heart. In the corner of his eye, Kendall can see that James's knuckles are white against the porcelain of the sink.
"Kendall," James pleads again, high and needy. His face is a silhouette in the medicine cabinet mirror, becoming steadily clearer as the steam dissolves into the ether.
He's half a luminescent eye, the corner of bruised lips, a flash of blond hair.
He is the only thing Kendall wants in this world.
Kendall settles his hands at the base of James's spine, sinking further inside of his best friend at the same time as James squirms back against him.
He is electric on Kendall's cock, pushing hot and eager around him, until Kendall isn't sure hell be able to stand it anymore. He pants, "You have definitely done this before."
"Maybe." James grinds back against him until his ass is against Kendall's balls. Fuck.
His fingers tighten to the point of bruising on James's hipbones as he withdraws in measures. He watches the way his own skin tugs at James, the rim of his asshole taut around Kendall's shaft. When he pistons forward, he does it hard, liking the way James exhales harsh.
Kendall licks out at James's skin, muttering, "Yeah? With who?"
It's a dare more than an honest question. Kendall isn't interested in hearing James's sexual exploits with anyone other than him. He wends his arms around James's waist possessively, pumping into him easy and deliberate. Dragging his open mouthed kisses up James's neck, he instructs huskily, "Tell me."
"Bossy," James retorts, but then he makes a startled, pleased noise as Kendall angles into him exactly the way he wants.
The sound chases lightning through Kendall's veins, makes him go a little harder, a little more reckless. James lifts one hand off the sink and starts to touch himself, muttering expletives under his breath, his long fingers darker than the flush of his cock.
Kendall lifts his eyes, meeting James's hazy gaze in the finally clear mirror. He moves his own hand down until he's touching James too, controlling the action, making it too slow for what James wants. He matches the lethargic pace with his hips while James protests, "No," and, "Kendall," and, "Faster."
Kendall tells James's reflection, "I'm not hearing an answer."
"Dude," James tries, attempting to shake off Kendall's fingers so he can get some friction. His dick is achingly hard beneath their twined fingers, but Kendall is unmoved, focused unwaveringly on James's face in the mirror.
Which probably isn't the best idea - James looks wrecked, abused, messy. Completely unlike himself, but better, almost, because this is what Kendall does to him. And Kendall's self control is tenuous at best, each short, shallow thrust into James driving him out of his mind with how not enough it is, but this is a matter of honor. Of James admitting he's the bitch in this relationship. And other stuff.
He squeezes against James, letting his fingertips skid against feverish skin, promising great things if James would just be a good boy and fess up.
Cheeks red, eyes narrowed, James huffily concedes, "Fine! I met up with Nick once. Or twice. Or more."
Kendall blinks. "Who?"
"Nick!" Frustrated at Kendall's blankness, James grinds out, "Jonas? Now will you get back to fucking me already?"
Kendall would very much like to do that, but no, what?
"You punched him," he informs James, bewildered.
"Then I sucked him off in the bathroom. Look, I told you I want to be Miley, okay, just-" he ruts back against Kendall again and this time he gets what he wants, the head of Kendall's cock jolting deeper. James gasps, "There," and Kendall decides he can let this slide, one more weird thing on top of a mountain that makes James James.
He moves James's hand over his own cock rough, takes him rougher from behind. James provides a soundtrack that is lengthy moans and guttural grunts, punctuated by the slap of their skin and the occasional endearment or curse that slip uninvited from Kendall's mouth.
James is searing on the inside, bearing down on Kendall hard before he lets go of the sink and sags back, coming spectacularly over their deft hands.
As he rides out his orgasm, his muscles flutter and pulse, pulling Kendall in even when he tries to withdraw. He ends up losing it against the sweet fever of James's skin, stretched tight around him. He buries his head against James's newly blond hair as he comes, overwrought by his scent and his taste and James.
They separate tenderly, James flinching through the process. Kendall coerces him to hop in the shower a second time, with his added company, so they can get clean quick and easy.
They're both exhausted, but James still gets distracted once Kendall's wet and sudsy. The shower ends up being not so quick, even if Kendall is surprisingly easy. By the time they stumble into the hallway, their apartment is lit with dawn, golden and rosy.
James makes to go back to the room he shares with Carlos, but Kendall tugs him insistently back to his and Logan's room.
"But he'll see," James protests, wrapped again in nothing but a towel.
Kendall shrugs, features lit mischievously. "Give him a thrill."
What? It's not like Kendall's going to be the one shirtless and on display. He happily begins the short walk to his room, but at the door, he pauses.
"Oh, and, James?"
"Hmm?" James drapes his arms around Kendall's shoulders, his presence comforting and familiar.
"If you ever let Nick Jonas fuck you again, I'll give him an olive and an arrow through his eye socket."
James gapes. Then he gapes some more. "You're not...a...a Nick Jonas fan, are you?"
Kendall is so not going to invite the ridicule answering that question would lead to. He retorts, "Dye your hair back. The bleach is affecting your brain."
"You are," James crows, and if he was less nakedish Kendall would definitely be mad about this. Instead he tilts his head back and kisses James, because he can, and then replies indulgently, "At least I didn't kidnap Frankie."
The End.
---
Title: It Don't Mean A Thing If I Give You My Heart (If You Tear It Apart)
Author: garnetice
Pairing: Lucy/Mercedes, onesided Lucy/Kendall
Rating: M
Word Count: 1,742
Summary: Lucy isn't happy about being forced to rebrand (and maybe she's a little torn up about the blond that got away). Mercedes decides to help. With her tongue.
---
Lucy didn't want to celebrate her first single hitting the airwaves.
She said so, several times, and was summarily ignored. No one cared that there was a sense of loss there, in making Kendall's rejection permanent and in trying to let go. Especially not the record label invitees, filling her Barbie Party with their scary-white teeth and their perfect hair.
Someone hands Lucy a glass that sparkles beneath the silver stars that spin, dizzying across the club's ceiling. Lucy tries to ask what's in it, but whoever offered it up is already gone.
That’s how things happen in Hollywood; way too fast, but Lucy hides behind her facade and refuses to show any fear, just like a good (former) rocker girl. It's not tough as nails to be scared of these people, with their perfect plastic skin and their perfect plastic lives.
But Lucy is. She really, really is. Every time they flash smiles her way, she feels like they might eat her for breakfast. They won't - they can't - because she's useful for now, with her skyrocketing fame. But one day, Lucy knows they'll try.
She's intimately familiar with people like these, the kind that didn't make her time at high school hell, never mocked her red hair or guitar-callused fingers. They never picked her last in gym class or made sure nobody asked her to school dances. It was worse than all the movie clichés; people like these never did anything to her at all.
They didn't know she existed. They ignored her.
They made her feel small when all she wanted was to be big and loud. She's in Hollywood to make her presence known to all the people who ever crushed her down, and right now, she's succeeding. But this town's a slippery slope, leading right back into anonymity.
She knows that better than anyone, after her label bullied her into rebranding.
Whatever. She can handle this. She's a (former) rockstar, a warrior goddess, and this is one little party. She can survive - with a little bit of help - so she chokes back the drink.
Whiskey, ugh.
It's about then that some guy walks up and asks for her autograph, but before he can finish the question, his date cuts in, "Who's this? And what is she wearing?"
Lucy scowls. "I can hear you, you know."
The girl meets her gaze imperiously, refusing to back down. Her eyes are warmer in the flashing lights of the club than Lucy expects. They're not anything like plastic.
Lucy says, "I'm Lucy Stone."
Fanboy's date replies, "And that’s supposed to mean something to me?"
The autograph asker decides that is the moment to make himself scarce, abandoning them both to each other. Lucy hopes the girl, with her glossy blonde blow-out and her designer clutch purse will take the hint and skedaddle, but no such luck.
She says, "Wait. You're the girl who wrote that song about Kendall Knight."
"It wasn't about Kendall," Lucy replies immediately, the lie metallic on her tongue.
The pretty girl rolls her eyes, shifting in a way that makes her sequined top blinding. "Yes, it was. Don't worry. I used to date Kendall too." She pauses and then adds brightly, "But I left him for another him. My name's Mercedes."
Mercedes is one hundred percent Hollywood born and raised. She walks, talks, and breathes entitlement. If Lucy hadn't figured that out within five seconds of their conversation, she would have picked it up now, when Mercedes snatches her drink out of her hand and takes a deep swig.
"Grody," she spits afterwards, making a comical face. "Don't you have vodka at this shindig?"
"Want me to buy you a Cosmo?" Lucy shoots back sarcastically, deeply protective of her personal space.
Mercedes is completely oblivious, replying, "Cosmos are so 2004."
Lucy snorts. In 2004, Mercedes couldn't have been older than like, ten, and probably had no idea what a Cosmo was. Lucy was eleven back then, dreaming of fifty thousand dollar axes and her big break, and she knew, but only because her mom liked a nightcap during the evening mews.
"I'm walking away from you now," Lucy decides, because this girl is an utter brat, the kind she's intent on avoiding.
Only Mercedes grabs her wrist, her palm warm and soft, but string. She corrects, "No, I think you're buying me a drink."
And for reasons Lucy will never understand, she caves, leading her brand new tormentor over to the bar and rummaging around behind it when the bartender isn't watching. She comes away with a bottle of Ketel One and a triumphant grin.
Mercedes has the nerve to look pleased, a beatific grin transforming her face from indifferent to gorgeous.
That is when Lucy begins to suspect she's screwed.
They find a back corner table and take turns drinking down Lucy's contraband, laughing low beneath the constant thud of a bassline. Lucy almost feels bad about it - people are on the dance floor, milling near the bar, everywhere saluting her single, while she's getting totally hosed with this girl she's only just met.
"What's it like to have your name up in all those lights and glitter?" Mercedes inquires wickedly. "Everything you hoped for?"
"Better," Lucy says, even though she's not sure that's true.
Shrewdly, Mercedes tells her, "No one blames you for cutting Knight down to size, you know. He's an ass. He needs to be told that every once in a while."
"I don't care about blame," Lucy replies, because she's been taking responsibility for her own life decisions since the day she decided to quit classical music. Writing the song was impetuous and a little mean, but it's also one hundred percent true. She won't ever apologize for that.
Mercedes takes a long pull from the vodka. Wiping her hand across her hot pink lips, she asks sensibly, "So what do you care about? Because look, I work in the record industry, and you are not wearing the Hells-Yeah- I'm-On-The-Radio face."
Lucy winces.
"I guess...I'm mad I fell for his act in the first place."
"Why did you?"
Good question. Lucy's type usually includes tattoos and scruff or fishnets and cigarette smoke. She's into devilish boys and wild girls; Anyone who looks like they might be bad news. Kendall, by contrast, is cornfed all American, the kind of guy whose big into traditions - lights off, missionary style.
Butterfly kisses and holding hands during the act have never been Lucy's thing, but she thought with Kendall, it could've been. She thinks of moonlight and rose petals and the stutter-pump of hips, so very vanilla but also somehow sexy.
It makes her feel stupid.
She challenges Mercedes, "Why did you?"
Smartly, Mercedes retorts, "I didn't. I left him, remember?" She considers, "But I guess I could have, eventually. He's not exactly hard to look at, is he?" When Lucy grimaces, Mercedes straightens and announces, "This isn’t working for me."
"What isn’t?"
Mercedes gestures vaguely at her. "All this sad sack moping. Look, I can fix this."
"You can-" Lucy's words cut off sharply as she catches the vodka bottle Mercedes shoves at her.
Because she can't hold it, climbing under the table and everything.
"What are you doing?" Lucy hisses, glancing out toward the dance floor, at all the strangers throwing down. More immediately, she looks two booths down, where her manager and her producer are engaged in a somewhat heated argument that probably involves convincing Lucy to wear pink.
Mercedes’s mouth touches the inside of Lucy's knee, and she instantly regrets allowing herself to be forced into a dress. In a perfectly normal tone of voice, the other girl says, "I'm showing you how to live a little." And then she inches Lucy's skirt up her thighs, while Lucy squirms and tries to figure out where she stands with all of this.
It's about the time that Mercedes puts her mouth against the thin cloth of Lucy's underwear that she settles on it being an excellent life decision. She clutches the stocky neck of the Ketel One bottle, watching the lights clustered on the ceiling flash in time to the latest dance music while Mercedes laps at her in short, teasing touches.
It doesn't take long for her to grow bored of the taste of lace. She pushes Lucy's panties aside, dragging her tongue long and slow against her. Lucy watches the curve of Mercedes's ankles and the curl of her toes in peek toe platforms, jutting out from under the table while she dips her tongue inside of her. The slick wet of it shoots through her bloodstream, forcing her to clench her fingers and swallow down a moan.
Mercedes isn't so courteous, humming way too enthusiastically about eats Lucy out. The reverberations tremble through Lucy's muscles, intermingling with the heavy bass, making it better.
Mercedes licks soft circles against Lucy's clit, the hazy silhouettes of dancers and industry supporters floating away, until all Lucy can concentrate on are glimpses of Mercedes's blonde hair beneath the table. She sips from the vodka bottle, the burn chasing down the noise she nearly makes, because Mercedes is introducing get fingers into the equation.
Her stomach tightens hot and uncomfortable, and she wants, she wants, she wants. Mercedes touches Lucy deep, working her manicured fingers in time with her tongue, and Lucy can feel her smiling against her skin. Lucy abandons the vodka completely, settling the half empty bottle on the table and wending her hands in Mercedes's expertly tousled hair. She fucks herself against Mercedes's fingers and mouth until her vision starts to darken at the edges, molten heat in her lower belly pulling tight.
She doesn't even realize her song's blaring over the speakers when she comes, everything too hot, too intense, too much. Her body goes rigid. Her toes curl in her boots. Mercedes's lips and her clever tongue guide her through it, both of them deaf to the sudden applause for the hip new single that Lucy created. She trembles through the last melodic strains, hauling Mercedes up from beneath the booth table and kissing her hard.
Her manager’s approach for congratulations - and abrupt departure - goes unnoticed, because Lucy is occupied licking herself off of Mercedes's clever tongue.
A touch too sassy, Mercedes pulls back and asks, "Feel better?"
Lucy blinks, hypnotized by the honey brown of her laughing eyes. "About what?"
"Exactly."
~Finito
Title: You Got The Virus (Shake It LIke Cyrus)
Author: garnetice
Pairing: Kendall/James
Rating: M
Word Count: 4,386
Summary: James has the Miley Cyrus Virus. Whatever that means.
---
Kendall doesn't think anything of it the first time he walks in on James watching Hannah Montana.
Sure, it's a little odd - James, alone in his room with all the lights out, humming along to Best of Both Worlds - but Kendall's a pretty big closet Lizzie McGuire fan, so who is he to judge?
Mind you, when he finds James singing along to Let's Get Crazy during study hall, he gets slightly more judgmental, but whatever. James has quirks. Kendall has long since learned to accept them and move on.
There are little things after that, like how James cries every time The Climb comes on the radio, his random outbursts accusing Nick Jonas of heartless assholery, that forced outing to see The Last Song (James tells their dates it was all Kendall's idea), or that one, extremely weird time he tried to rock long brown hair extensions for a week, but they're tiny, isolated incidents. Even when James hums Party In The USA the whole plane ride to California, Kendall never makes the connection.
He's just being James, right?
Kendall begins to have the smallest suspicion that something is off when James goes through his grunge phase. Up until then, James considered punk rock a dirty phrase and was convinced Nirvana was the Spanish word for orange. It’s disconcerting to see him don leather jackets and pyramid studded boots.
Kendall isn’t sure where it’s coming from until he sees a picture of Miley in his mom's US Weekly, clad in a Cheap Trick t-shirt and enough metal to kill a man. Could it be- no, that's ridiculous. So ridiculous.
As a joke one year, Kendall does bribe Miley Cyrus tickets out of Gustavo and presents them at James's birthday party with flourish.
Bad idea. There's a tense moment where Kendall is thoroughly convinced his best friend in the entire world, his exceedingly straight best friend, is going to kiss him.
The near lip collision is concerning. Kendall is concerned. He only grows more so when he opens his eyes and looks - really looks - at James's Miley Cyrus addiction. An investigation of his room reveals more sequins and glitter than any one man should own, deluxe editions of each of Miley's albums, a Hannah cardboard cutout that watches Kendall with accusation in it's eyes, and, most unnerving, a picture collage made entirely of various outfits Miley has worn, ringed by a creepy frame of her eyes. His iPod has a playlist called HBIC QUEEN OF THE UNIVERSE LIGHT OF MY LIFE !!!1!!1!!! that contains nothing but Miley demos, and Kendall can't even think about the things he found on James's laptop. He finds the whole fanfiction thing too scarring, and why would Miley even have an orgy with David Henrie, Selena Gomez, Demi Lovato, and James?
(The worst part is how Kendall's pretty sure someone other than James wrote it. His grammar is just not that good.)
That's it, Kendall decides. James needs an intervention. But trying to say, "James, you have the Miley Cyrus Virus," out loud is hard. It sounds stupid.
Maybe Kendall's overreacting. There's nothing wrong with a little hero worship.
He manages to live out the delusion until BTR's KCA performance, the one where, upon being introduced to the Jonas Brothers, James punches Nick in the face.
The rest of the night becomes a whirlwind of reporters asking about the poor, swollen Jonas jaw. Gustavo is not pleased.
"Why would you do that?" He demands, outraged.
Completely genuine, James retorts, "I can't be tamed."
Then he snaps his fingers sassily and stalks off towards the restrooms, because apparently his bladder can't be tamed either.
"You better talk to him," Gustavo blusters at Kendall. And Kendall tries, okay, he does.
He tries in the BTR-mobile, when James is driving him to Toluca Lake in the hopes they might make a miam sighting. He tries when Griffin scores them tickets to The Hunger Games premiere and James lights up brighter than a firework. He even tries when he finds James fast asleep with a battered copy of Miles To Go propped on his stomach.
(Okay, the first chapter is battered. James isn't much for reading.)
But Miley just makes James so happy. How can Kendall take that away from him, when he's spent most of his life trying to put a smile on that pretty face? Who cares if James tries to kidnap Noah for trick or treating? He gives her back at the end of the night. No harm, no foul, although there is that teeny, tiny promise that Billy Ray makes to castrate James if he ever sees him again. And that time after the Oscars where he wants to teepee Emma Watson's hotel room doesn't amount to more than a minor arrest.
"Fix. Him," Gustavo screeches through gritted teeth, his face redder than Kendall has ever seen it before.
He gets it, he does. No one fucks with those Harry Potter kids. The Big Time fan forum has been getting hate mail all day. So Kendall tries again.
"James. Why did you prank Hermione Granger?"
James, occupied by Miley's issue of Cosmo, seemingly very interested in the sex tips, sniffs. "Bitch messed with Liam."
"How do you know that?"
"Blind items, duh." James gives Kendall the most disparaging look he's ever been on the receiving end of, and okay, this needs to stop.
"James. You have to stop stalking Miley Cyrus."
James blinks. "I'm not stalking Miley Cyrus, dude."
"Uh, I think you are."
"Am not," he says vaguely, already more absorbed by the reverse cowboy python - what, is that position even possible?- than in focusing on Kendall's stern face.
Painstakingly slow, Kendall lists off James's offenses, at least the ones he knows about. James starts paying attention around the time Kendall recounts the sheer number of selfies he took with Miley's wax figure at Madame Toussad's.
"You make it sound like I'm in love with her."
"Well, aren't you?" Kendall retorts, and that is not jealousy creeping into his voice. Absolutely, positively not. To reassure himself, he continues, "Look, I understand." He most certainly doesn't. "You can't help who you love."
Sagely, James nods his head, finally dropping the magazine in his lap. "Love is bigger than us."
That's deeper than James usually gets. Meaning...
"You just quoted a Miley song at me, didn't you?"
A smirk tugs at James's lips. He leans forward until Kendall can feel his breath gust hot and damp against his belly. He peers up through his thick eyelashes, capturing Kendall's full, undivided attention. "The honest truth is, I don't know who owns my heart..."
Kendall holds his breath, trying very hard not to look even remotely turned on.
James says, "It might be love or it might be art."
Goddamnit.
"You're grounded," Kendall tells him flatly.
"What?" Now James isn't smirking. So there. "You can't ground me. I am a man."
"And I don't want you to be a man with a restraining order against him, so I say you're on house arrest for the foreseeable future."
"Kendall!" James is outraged, reeling back and away, far enough that he's definitely not paying attention to the partial chub in Kendall's pants. "I swear, I'm not in love with Miley Cyrus."
Sadly, Kendall replies, "I wish I could believe you."
So that happens.
James confined within the Palmwoods is basically the worst experience of anyone's life. He drives every single resident crazy, with the notable exception of Kendall, with whom he is currently not on speaking terms.
"He knows you don't actually have the power to ground him, right?" Kelly asks at one point, on a quiet limo ride back from the studio.
"Shhhhhh!" Kendall exclaims, clapping his hand over her mouth before James hears.
James can't be let back out into the wild yet. He might childishly run away and accidentally on purpose set up his tent on Miley's front yard or abscond with one of her dogs, or worst of all, meet her.
Kendall knows exactly what will happen then; she'll decide she likes James every bit as much as James likes her, and they'll have sweet little children with soft southern drawls and crazy Mohawks. Because James is charming and gorgeous, and very, very, likeable. Screw Liam with his abs and his Aussie accent, James is James. There's no other possible outcome.
Kendall clutches his fists in his jeans and tries not to worry.
The niggling fear plagues him all through the night, so much so that he's still wide awake at four thirty in the morning, when he gets up to take a piss. He always knew he'd lose James to some grand, romantic romance, he just thought he'd have more time and the object of James's affections would be less famous. Kendall can't compete with Hannah Montana.
She's cute, she's fierce, she owns thigh highs. Kendall doesn't own thigh highs. His thighs are too thin to hold a pair up. Trust him, he's tried. And dont even get him started on the studded bustiers. He feels hopelessly inadequate with Miley to measure up to.
Kendall's so absorbed in his tragic fears that he walks straight into the bright lights of the bathroom without consciously recognizing the lights are even on. He bumps into something hardsoft, angles jolting his ribs, dampness seeping into his shirt.
His first instinct is to yelp and search for a weapon, and his second instinct is exactly the same because that is definitely a mostly naked James-shaped thing in front of him, but it cannot actually be James.
"What are you doing?" The creature demands shrilly, taking no care for the other sleeping members of 2J. His chest is shower-slick and obscenely well defined, but Kendall's jaw drops open for a different reason.
"What am I doing? What are you doing?" Horror growing, he demands, "What did you do to your hair?"
"Oh." James preens, fluffing it into wet spikes, which does not draw Kendall's attention from its new white-blond hue like, at all. "Do you like it?"
"I don't understand why it exists!" Kendall retorts, glancing from James to the at-home hair dye mix resting on the counter to the still dripping faucet of the shower.
And then back to James's blindingly bright head again because what.
Serenely, James molds his hair into spikier platinum spikes. He says, "I told you. I'm not in love with Miley Cyrus." Satisfied with the condition of his fauxhawk, he eyes Kendall levelly. "I want to be her."
Kendall has no actual idea how to reply to that.
James asks, "Am I allowed to go out now?"
Mortified, Kendall replies, "Not like that you aren't."
"Why not?"
"For one? Because Gustavo will lynch you. Change it back. Change it back now!"
James hums in consideration. "I'm thinking...yeah, no."
This is the worst thing that has ever happened to Kendall. "Why would you want to be Miley anyway?"
"Why wouldn't I?" James snorts. "She's gorgeous, she's talented, she's got the catchiest songs." A bit dreamily he fluffs his hair and says, "I'm going to be a pop sensation, just like her."
"I...I..." Kendall gawps.
"Close your mouth, man, you're going to let flies in," James instructs, stepping closer, and oh yeah, he is only wearing a towel, isn't he? Kendall manages to draw his eyes away from the travesty of blond and glance down. And down. And down some more. Wow, that's distracting.
Kendall stumbles a step back, but James catches his arm. "Where are you going?"
"To grab my sunglasses. Your hair's giving off UV light," Kendall jokes lamely, incredibly aware of the flex of James's palm.
A drop of water beads its way down James's jugular. It would be so easy to lap it up, the salt of his skin pooled against Kendall's tongue. He swallows thickly.
James says, "I need you to start respecting my life decisions."
Kendall says, "Um."
"I can be whoever I want to be."
"Okay," Kendall agrees, squirming under his gaze. The inches that separate them aren't enough, the air in the apartment running short. He's panting, maybe; dying, definitely.
"I can be Miley Cyrus if I want to," James continues, and it's the most ridiculous statement that anyone has ever made, but yeah, sure, whatever, Kendall will put a crown on him and call him Queen Elizabeth if it gets him some breathing room.
"Right. Of course."
James angles his face across the gap between them, pressing his mouth into Kendall's cheek, his words tumbling huskily up against Kendall's ear when he says, "You're still staring."
Kendall tilts his head until his own jaw is brushing James's. He smells shower clean and a little bit delicious.
He thinks and he acts at exactly the same time, brushing his lips above James's chin. James's skin is flushed warm. Kendall lingers there, his mouth in one spot, unmoving, merely touching, James's exhalations soft against his ear.
It lasts for long, still seconds on end. Then James's hands go up to clutch at Kendall's side, digging into his nightshirt as he pulls Kendall closer, their bodies lined up from chest to thigh. James's lips touch against Kendall's jaw, moving down the line of it and up to the corner of Kendall's lips, until he's kissing him wet and deep.
Kendall moans automatically and sinks against James, gripping at his biceps. He kisses him exactly the way he's dreamt about a thousand times, and yeah, James is considerably blonder than he expected in his fantasies, but he's just as naked as Kendall always wanted, so that has to count for something.
James tongues his way inside Kendall's mouth, licking out at his teeth, massaging his fingertips up beneath the hem of Kendall's shirt, counting out his ribs. They tussle for dominance, James coming out in control because Kendall's too busy clinging to his skin, his muscle, his bones, with nothing else to anchor him to the earth.
The towel slips to the ground, James laid bare, hot, real, there. This time when Kendall moans, James makes a pained noise and tugs persistently at his tee until it's off.
Up against Kendall's throat, he mumbles, "Tonight, you're going to get this."
Kendall growls, "I better not find out that's another Miley song."
James beams against his skin, so Kendall musses his hair and grabs James's ass. His skin's firm, his muscle tight. James grinds back into Kendall's hands, then thinks better of it and ruts forward, kissing him open mouthed and sloppy. Kendall can feel the hot drag of his cock against his own, separated only by the thin cloth of his pajama bottoms.
James forces groans down Kendall's throat that taste like sparks and thunder. The reverb thrums through Kendall's chest, a crashing crescendo that shivers through his heart and turns his bones liquid and golden.
"I want you to fuck me," James tells him languidly, but between halting breaths, an uh-uh-uh that belies his desperation.
His hands wend back, kneading against Kendall's spine, hitting tiny pressure points that melt Kendall's knees. Kendall tugs James even closer, too much friction thick and heady between them, James's wet hair dripping in Kendall's eyes.
"Kendall, just-" James drops back, spins so quick that Kendall's hands accidentally graze his cock, smearing precum against the lifeline of his hand. James wantonly grips the sink, and all Kendall can do is stare openly at every notch of his spine, disappearing down into the swell of his ass.
Kendall can barely hold himself up, weak kneed and wanting, lust spiking higher and higher through his sluggish bloodstream, eradicating the last of his sleepiness. He sets his hands on James's hips, strokes his thumbs down and in, spreading James just enough that he can see. James keens and strains back, his blond hair making him a stranger, the knots and lines of his shoulders and neck marking him as familiar and beloved.
Kendall loves him, he loves him, he loves him so damn dearly. This is a fever dream, it has to be, because otherwise it means that while he's been waiting around for James, James has been waiting back.
Kendall mouths against the nape of his neck, asks him, "Why are you doing this?"
Craning his head back, bright eyed in the stark white luminescence of the overhead lights, James says, "Isn't it obvious?"
His biceps are straining, supporting his upper body against porcelain and his cock is thick, pink-red, bobbing in and out of Kendall's vision. His own dick throbs, straining against his pants. He wants to palm himself, but he doesn't want to let go, in case this opportunity slips away. He teases his thumbs against James's asshole, watches him shake in response.
They have their own cocoon here, in the early morning hour, surrounded by dissipating steam, the sweet, fruity perfume of shampoo, and the sharper tang of bleach.
It's not the sexiest place on earth, but it's isolated and theirs.
Kendall touches his mouth to James's and he replies, "Not to me."
James smiles against his lips, one of those brilliant grins that Kendall treasures, forever the most breathtaking thing he's ever seen. He licks at the seam of Kendall's lips, but instead of answering the question, he murmurs gently, "I knew it would be like this. When we kiss, I'm hypnotized."
And maybe that’s answer enough. Kendall presses the dry tip of his right thumb inside of James, watching him wince at the pinch of nail, entrance drawing taut. He says, “I didn’t know. That you were waiting for anything.”
Inside, James is hot, smooth, painfully tight. Kendall’s going to fix that last part, going to loosen James up on his cock until he’s begging for it, but he’s not ready to break this moment yet, where they’re naked and close and agonizingly vulnerable.
James blinks at him pretty, mouth bitten red. He retorts, “There are a lot of things you don’t know.”
“Sure,” Kendall replies easily enough. “But I don’t want you to be one of them.”
The grin James gives him is lopsided and fond, his still-wet hair finally falling back against his forehead, spikes losing their shape. He is messy, unperfected, still the guy that Kendall grew up with, the one that will disappear behind his Hollywood mask once day breaks over the horizon. Kendall takes him like this, first with a single, dry finger, and then - at James’s suspiciously knowledgeable prodding - with a bottle of lube that he pulls from a back corner of the shelf beneath the sink.
They all know it’s hidden there; even Kendall’s mom. Four guys in one tight space don’t have a lot of options as to where they get alone time. But isn’t sure if any of them have ever gotten the opportunity to use the Astroglide exactly like this.
Kendall’s only got the vaguest notion of how gay sex works, but he knows James is ready once he’s keening against him, grinding back on his slippery fingers and panting, “Okay, yeah, now, Kendall. Please.”
He whimpers in disappointment when Kendall pulls back, shoving his pajama pants down his hips to take his neglected cock in hand.
Kendall strokes himself once, twice. The familiar lines and calluses of his palm do nothing to soothe the crazy ache coiled at the base of him, this quicksilver need compelling him to drive up into James right damn now. He ignores it, spreading James's ass cheeks until he can tease himself between them, smearing glistening beads of precome and lubrication against the red-pink of James's asshole.
James twitches against him, stretched loose and slick. Kendall slips into him, half an inch at most, but it's still enough to make them both moan low. Which, this is bad, because Kendall has all these grand, romantic plans - he wants to make love to his best friend, okay, dont judge him - but James feels so good.
Kendall drops his forehead against the nape of James's neck, breathing in the fresh shower scent of his skin, pinpricked with sweat. He can hear the way James's breath sobs through his lungs, the rapid thudthudthud of his heart. In the corner of his eye, Kendall can see that James's knuckles are white against the porcelain of the sink.
"Kendall," James pleads again, high and needy. His face is a silhouette in the medicine cabinet mirror, becoming steadily clearer as the steam dissolves into the ether.
He's half a luminescent eye, the corner of bruised lips, a flash of blond hair.
He is the only thing Kendall wants in this world.
Kendall settles his hands at the base of James's spine, sinking further inside of his best friend at the same time as James squirms back against him.
He is electric on Kendall's cock, pushing hot and eager around him, until Kendall isn't sure hell be able to stand it anymore. He pants, "You have definitely done this before."
"Maybe." James grinds back against him until his ass is against Kendall's balls. Fuck.
His fingers tighten to the point of bruising on James's hipbones as he withdraws in measures. He watches the way his own skin tugs at James, the rim of his asshole taut around Kendall's shaft. When he pistons forward, he does it hard, liking the way James exhales harsh.
Kendall licks out at James's skin, muttering, "Yeah? With who?"
It's a dare more than an honest question. Kendall isn't interested in hearing James's sexual exploits with anyone other than him. He wends his arms around James's waist possessively, pumping into him easy and deliberate. Dragging his open mouthed kisses up James's neck, he instructs huskily, "Tell me."
"Bossy," James retorts, but then he makes a startled, pleased noise as Kendall angles into him exactly the way he wants.
The sound chases lightning through Kendall's veins, makes him go a little harder, a little more reckless. James lifts one hand off the sink and starts to touch himself, muttering expletives under his breath, his long fingers darker than the flush of his cock.
Kendall lifts his eyes, meeting James's hazy gaze in the finally clear mirror. He moves his own hand down until he's touching James too, controlling the action, making it too slow for what James wants. He matches the lethargic pace with his hips while James protests, "No," and, "Kendall," and, "Faster."
Kendall tells James's reflection, "I'm not hearing an answer."
"Dude," James tries, attempting to shake off Kendall's fingers so he can get some friction. His dick is achingly hard beneath their twined fingers, but Kendall is unmoved, focused unwaveringly on James's face in the mirror.
Which probably isn't the best idea - James looks wrecked, abused, messy. Completely unlike himself, but better, almost, because this is what Kendall does to him. And Kendall's self control is tenuous at best, each short, shallow thrust into James driving him out of his mind with how not enough it is, but this is a matter of honor. Of James admitting he's the bitch in this relationship. And other stuff.
He squeezes against James, letting his fingertips skid against feverish skin, promising great things if James would just be a good boy and fess up.
Cheeks red, eyes narrowed, James huffily concedes, "Fine! I met up with Nick once. Or twice. Or more."
Kendall blinks. "Who?"
"Nick!" Frustrated at Kendall's blankness, James grinds out, "Jonas? Now will you get back to fucking me already?"
Kendall would very much like to do that, but no, what?
"You punched him," he informs James, bewildered.
"Then I sucked him off in the bathroom. Look, I told you I want to be Miley, okay, just-" he ruts back against Kendall again and this time he gets what he wants, the head of Kendall's cock jolting deeper. James gasps, "There," and Kendall decides he can let this slide, one more weird thing on top of a mountain that makes James James.
He moves James's hand over his own cock rough, takes him rougher from behind. James provides a soundtrack that is lengthy moans and guttural grunts, punctuated by the slap of their skin and the occasional endearment or curse that slip uninvited from Kendall's mouth.
James is searing on the inside, bearing down on Kendall hard before he lets go of the sink and sags back, coming spectacularly over their deft hands.
As he rides out his orgasm, his muscles flutter and pulse, pulling Kendall in even when he tries to withdraw. He ends up losing it against the sweet fever of James's skin, stretched tight around him. He buries his head against James's newly blond hair as he comes, overwrought by his scent and his taste and James.
They separate tenderly, James flinching through the process. Kendall coerces him to hop in the shower a second time, with his added company, so they can get clean quick and easy.
They're both exhausted, but James still gets distracted once Kendall's wet and sudsy. The shower ends up being not so quick, even if Kendall is surprisingly easy. By the time they stumble into the hallway, their apartment is lit with dawn, golden and rosy.
James makes to go back to the room he shares with Carlos, but Kendall tugs him insistently back to his and Logan's room.
"But he'll see," James protests, wrapped again in nothing but a towel.
Kendall shrugs, features lit mischievously. "Give him a thrill."
What? It's not like Kendall's going to be the one shirtless and on display. He happily begins the short walk to his room, but at the door, he pauses.
"Oh, and, James?"
"Hmm?" James drapes his arms around Kendall's shoulders, his presence comforting and familiar.
"If you ever let Nick Jonas fuck you again, I'll give him an olive and an arrow through his eye socket."
James gapes. Then he gapes some more. "You're not...a...a Nick Jonas fan, are you?"
Kendall is so not going to invite the ridicule answering that question would lead to. He retorts, "Dye your hair back. The bleach is affecting your brain."
"You are," James crows, and if he was less nakedish Kendall would definitely be mad about this. Instead he tilts his head back and kisses James, because he can, and then replies indulgently, "At least I didn't kidnap Frankie."
The End.
---
Title: It Don't Mean A Thing If I Give You My Heart (If You Tear It Apart)
Author: garnetice
Pairing: Lucy/Mercedes, onesided Lucy/Kendall
Rating: M
Word Count: 1,742
Summary: Lucy isn't happy about being forced to rebrand (and maybe she's a little torn up about the blond that got away). Mercedes decides to help. With her tongue.
---
Lucy didn't want to celebrate her first single hitting the airwaves.
She said so, several times, and was summarily ignored. No one cared that there was a sense of loss there, in making Kendall's rejection permanent and in trying to let go. Especially not the record label invitees, filling her Barbie Party with their scary-white teeth and their perfect hair.
Someone hands Lucy a glass that sparkles beneath the silver stars that spin, dizzying across the club's ceiling. Lucy tries to ask what's in it, but whoever offered it up is already gone.
That’s how things happen in Hollywood; way too fast, but Lucy hides behind her facade and refuses to show any fear, just like a good (former) rocker girl. It's not tough as nails to be scared of these people, with their perfect plastic skin and their perfect plastic lives.
But Lucy is. She really, really is. Every time they flash smiles her way, she feels like they might eat her for breakfast. They won't - they can't - because she's useful for now, with her skyrocketing fame. But one day, Lucy knows they'll try.
She's intimately familiar with people like these, the kind that didn't make her time at high school hell, never mocked her red hair or guitar-callused fingers. They never picked her last in gym class or made sure nobody asked her to school dances. It was worse than all the movie clichés; people like these never did anything to her at all.
They didn't know she existed. They ignored her.
They made her feel small when all she wanted was to be big and loud. She's in Hollywood to make her presence known to all the people who ever crushed her down, and right now, she's succeeding. But this town's a slippery slope, leading right back into anonymity.
She knows that better than anyone, after her label bullied her into rebranding.
Whatever. She can handle this. She's a (former) rockstar, a warrior goddess, and this is one little party. She can survive - with a little bit of help - so she chokes back the drink.
Whiskey, ugh.
It's about then that some guy walks up and asks for her autograph, but before he can finish the question, his date cuts in, "Who's this? And what is she wearing?"
Lucy scowls. "I can hear you, you know."
The girl meets her gaze imperiously, refusing to back down. Her eyes are warmer in the flashing lights of the club than Lucy expects. They're not anything like plastic.
Lucy says, "I'm Lucy Stone."
Fanboy's date replies, "And that’s supposed to mean something to me?"
The autograph asker decides that is the moment to make himself scarce, abandoning them both to each other. Lucy hopes the girl, with her glossy blonde blow-out and her designer clutch purse will take the hint and skedaddle, but no such luck.
She says, "Wait. You're the girl who wrote that song about Kendall Knight."
"It wasn't about Kendall," Lucy replies immediately, the lie metallic on her tongue.
The pretty girl rolls her eyes, shifting in a way that makes her sequined top blinding. "Yes, it was. Don't worry. I used to date Kendall too." She pauses and then adds brightly, "But I left him for another him. My name's Mercedes."
Mercedes is one hundred percent Hollywood born and raised. She walks, talks, and breathes entitlement. If Lucy hadn't figured that out within five seconds of their conversation, she would have picked it up now, when Mercedes snatches her drink out of her hand and takes a deep swig.
"Grody," she spits afterwards, making a comical face. "Don't you have vodka at this shindig?"
"Want me to buy you a Cosmo?" Lucy shoots back sarcastically, deeply protective of her personal space.
Mercedes is completely oblivious, replying, "Cosmos are so 2004."
Lucy snorts. In 2004, Mercedes couldn't have been older than like, ten, and probably had no idea what a Cosmo was. Lucy was eleven back then, dreaming of fifty thousand dollar axes and her big break, and she knew, but only because her mom liked a nightcap during the evening mews.
"I'm walking away from you now," Lucy decides, because this girl is an utter brat, the kind she's intent on avoiding.
Only Mercedes grabs her wrist, her palm warm and soft, but string. She corrects, "No, I think you're buying me a drink."
And for reasons Lucy will never understand, she caves, leading her brand new tormentor over to the bar and rummaging around behind it when the bartender isn't watching. She comes away with a bottle of Ketel One and a triumphant grin.
Mercedes has the nerve to look pleased, a beatific grin transforming her face from indifferent to gorgeous.
That is when Lucy begins to suspect she's screwed.
They find a back corner table and take turns drinking down Lucy's contraband, laughing low beneath the constant thud of a bassline. Lucy almost feels bad about it - people are on the dance floor, milling near the bar, everywhere saluting her single, while she's getting totally hosed with this girl she's only just met.
"What's it like to have your name up in all those lights and glitter?" Mercedes inquires wickedly. "Everything you hoped for?"
"Better," Lucy says, even though she's not sure that's true.
Shrewdly, Mercedes tells her, "No one blames you for cutting Knight down to size, you know. He's an ass. He needs to be told that every once in a while."
"I don't care about blame," Lucy replies, because she's been taking responsibility for her own life decisions since the day she decided to quit classical music. Writing the song was impetuous and a little mean, but it's also one hundred percent true. She won't ever apologize for that.
Mercedes takes a long pull from the vodka. Wiping her hand across her hot pink lips, she asks sensibly, "So what do you care about? Because look, I work in the record industry, and you are not wearing the Hells-Yeah- I'm-On-The-Radio face."
Lucy winces.
"I guess...I'm mad I fell for his act in the first place."
"Why did you?"
Good question. Lucy's type usually includes tattoos and scruff or fishnets and cigarette smoke. She's into devilish boys and wild girls; Anyone who looks like they might be bad news. Kendall, by contrast, is cornfed all American, the kind of guy whose big into traditions - lights off, missionary style.
Butterfly kisses and holding hands during the act have never been Lucy's thing, but she thought with Kendall, it could've been. She thinks of moonlight and rose petals and the stutter-pump of hips, so very vanilla but also somehow sexy.
It makes her feel stupid.
She challenges Mercedes, "Why did you?"
Smartly, Mercedes retorts, "I didn't. I left him, remember?" She considers, "But I guess I could have, eventually. He's not exactly hard to look at, is he?" When Lucy grimaces, Mercedes straightens and announces, "This isn’t working for me."
"What isn’t?"
Mercedes gestures vaguely at her. "All this sad sack moping. Look, I can fix this."
"You can-" Lucy's words cut off sharply as she catches the vodka bottle Mercedes shoves at her.
Because she can't hold it, climbing under the table and everything.
"What are you doing?" Lucy hisses, glancing out toward the dance floor, at all the strangers throwing down. More immediately, she looks two booths down, where her manager and her producer are engaged in a somewhat heated argument that probably involves convincing Lucy to wear pink.
Mercedes’s mouth touches the inside of Lucy's knee, and she instantly regrets allowing herself to be forced into a dress. In a perfectly normal tone of voice, the other girl says, "I'm showing you how to live a little." And then she inches Lucy's skirt up her thighs, while Lucy squirms and tries to figure out where she stands with all of this.
It's about the time that Mercedes puts her mouth against the thin cloth of Lucy's underwear that she settles on it being an excellent life decision. She clutches the stocky neck of the Ketel One bottle, watching the lights clustered on the ceiling flash in time to the latest dance music while Mercedes laps at her in short, teasing touches.
It doesn't take long for her to grow bored of the taste of lace. She pushes Lucy's panties aside, dragging her tongue long and slow against her. Lucy watches the curve of Mercedes's ankles and the curl of her toes in peek toe platforms, jutting out from under the table while she dips her tongue inside of her. The slick wet of it shoots through her bloodstream, forcing her to clench her fingers and swallow down a moan.
Mercedes isn't so courteous, humming way too enthusiastically about eats Lucy out. The reverberations tremble through Lucy's muscles, intermingling with the heavy bass, making it better.
Mercedes licks soft circles against Lucy's clit, the hazy silhouettes of dancers and industry supporters floating away, until all Lucy can concentrate on are glimpses of Mercedes's blonde hair beneath the table. She sips from the vodka bottle, the burn chasing down the noise she nearly makes, because Mercedes is introducing get fingers into the equation.
Her stomach tightens hot and uncomfortable, and she wants, she wants, she wants. Mercedes touches Lucy deep, working her manicured fingers in time with her tongue, and Lucy can feel her smiling against her skin. Lucy abandons the vodka completely, settling the half empty bottle on the table and wending her hands in Mercedes's expertly tousled hair. She fucks herself against Mercedes's fingers and mouth until her vision starts to darken at the edges, molten heat in her lower belly pulling tight.
She doesn't even realize her song's blaring over the speakers when she comes, everything too hot, too intense, too much. Her body goes rigid. Her toes curl in her boots. Mercedes's lips and her clever tongue guide her through it, both of them deaf to the sudden applause for the hip new single that Lucy created. She trembles through the last melodic strains, hauling Mercedes up from beneath the booth table and kissing her hard.
Her manager’s approach for congratulations - and abrupt departure - goes unnoticed, because Lucy is occupied licking herself off of Mercedes's clever tongue.
A touch too sassy, Mercedes pulls back and asks, "Feel better?"
Lucy blinks, hypnotized by the honey brown of her laughing eyes. "About what?"
"Exactly."
~Finito