new fic
So, okay, yes. Writing.
It's not my fault, people! Sometimes Certain Albums come with extremely pretty interior and publicity pictures, and. well. I'm only human. Jeez.
steal your soul
by Gale
SUMMARY: Let's play dress-up.
Justin likes it when JC plays Rock Star.
He doesn't do it often, of course; he's not comfortable with it, not really, and even after all these years in the spotlight he still occasionally gets twitchy when he has to do press or make appearances. But he's gotten better about it over the past year, and Justin likes to think a lot of that has to do with him.
The proof is in the proofs in front of him.
JC faxed them over last night, but between flying from Toronto to New York and then to Chicago, he didn't have time to look at them until this morning. He almost spit out his coffee when he saw the back page, the one with the video screens.
The goddamn fucking video screens.
The goddamn fucking video screens with JC on them, looking like half a dozen dreams Justin's had in the past two years, the ones where he wakes up sweaty and sleepy and vaguely embarrassed he's sleeping on hotel sheets. They leave his mouth feeling cottony and his neck empty, like there should be a collar around it, or maybe a wide leather strap. Something to mark him.
Justin doesn't like to think about that part of the dream too much. He settles for thinking about the rest of the dream instead, like the part where JC's only wearing a tank top and a lot of gel in his hair, some leather cuffs around his wrist, sneering and making him kneel.
He likes that part of the dream. He likes it a *lot*. It's how he got through the VMAs last year without wiggling too much. Hard to give a crap about your ex-girlfriend French-kissing Madonna on national TV when you're trying to mask an erection in seven-hundred-dollar pants.
He's never gotten JC to do it in real life, though he's tried a few times. But JC's still not comfortable, and that doesn't change once the cameras and bodyguards go away and they're alone in the bedroom. He's done it for JC a few times, though. JC likes it when Justin puts on show clothes and waits for him at the hotel, nursing a drink and smiling indulgently. It's now how Justin's ever been with an actual groupie, but he never tells JC that. It'd be like spoiling Christmas or something.
He wants to see what JC would be like with a groupie, but without the whole having-sex-with-another-person part. He wants to know if JC would be dangerous, or dirtier than Justin's used to, or if he'd be very gentle. He sort of doubts that last one, but he doesn't *know*, and that's what's driving him nuts.
Justin would do anything, if JC just asked him to. He'd submit, he'd take over - shit, he'd have other people there, if JC looked him in the eye and asked him for it. But he doesn't, he never asks for anything, and Justin can't bring himself to ask him for it. He doesn't know why. He just can't.
Maybe, he thinks, it's got something to do with Britney, and the one time he asked her to do it, things got - weird. Weirder than he liked, in the end, and he's still not entirely sure it didn't have something to do with them ultimately breaking up.
The other photos make him sweat, too. Especially the one where JC looks like an extra from Gladiator, except more gay. He makes a mental note to ask JC if he kept that outfit. He's pretty sure Lonnie could get him something like it in less than 24 hours, and they've always got oil on hand for one reason or another.
Wrestling and playfighting, followed by dirty Roman gladiator sex. There's no wrong there.
Or there one where JC looks like Don Juan DeMarco, only *better*. That one's half a shoutout to him; the first movie they made out to was Don Juan DeMarco, and Justin can't help but shiver when JC speaks Spanish. Justin remembers JC showing him those proofs one night, grinning a little and looking nothing at all like the man in the pictures in his sweatshirt and faded jeans.
He looks *better*, because the guy in the pictures was sexy and aloof and dangerous. And JC's all of those things too, but he's also the guy who still only manages not to ruin a Hot Pocket nine times out of ten and has a coupon book for when he goes grocery shopping.
Still, Justin's favorite is the back cover, and not just for the screens. JC's lying down, holding a camera up to himself, and that image - resonates. It's the sort of thing he'd like to write a song about, or make into part of a song. Another song, anyway; the first time he saw JC like that, he was humming "and don't it make you sad about it" before he could stop himself.
It's another week until he can see JC, and even then it's just overnight. There's a hotel room in London reserved under the name Gary Anderson, one of JC's tour aliases. Justin can never remember if that was the first guy JC ever kissed or the first guy he *wanted* to kiss; it's one of those. Justin prefers Adam Green - easy to sign, easy to remember.
But until then, he's got the proofs, and JC's voice in his ear talking about kitchen counters and schoolgirls. He'll make do.
It's not my fault, people! Sometimes Certain Albums come with extremely pretty interior and publicity pictures, and. well. I'm only human. Jeez.
steal your soul
by Gale
SUMMARY: Let's play dress-up.
Justin likes it when JC plays Rock Star.
He doesn't do it often, of course; he's not comfortable with it, not really, and even after all these years in the spotlight he still occasionally gets twitchy when he has to do press or make appearances. But he's gotten better about it over the past year, and Justin likes to think a lot of that has to do with him.
The proof is in the proofs in front of him.
JC faxed them over last night, but between flying from Toronto to New York and then to Chicago, he didn't have time to look at them until this morning. He almost spit out his coffee when he saw the back page, the one with the video screens.
The goddamn fucking video screens.
The goddamn fucking video screens with JC on them, looking like half a dozen dreams Justin's had in the past two years, the ones where he wakes up sweaty and sleepy and vaguely embarrassed he's sleeping on hotel sheets. They leave his mouth feeling cottony and his neck empty, like there should be a collar around it, or maybe a wide leather strap. Something to mark him.
Justin doesn't like to think about that part of the dream too much. He settles for thinking about the rest of the dream instead, like the part where JC's only wearing a tank top and a lot of gel in his hair, some leather cuffs around his wrist, sneering and making him kneel.
He likes that part of the dream. He likes it a *lot*. It's how he got through the VMAs last year without wiggling too much. Hard to give a crap about your ex-girlfriend French-kissing Madonna on national TV when you're trying to mask an erection in seven-hundred-dollar pants.
He's never gotten JC to do it in real life, though he's tried a few times. But JC's still not comfortable, and that doesn't change once the cameras and bodyguards go away and they're alone in the bedroom. He's done it for JC a few times, though. JC likes it when Justin puts on show clothes and waits for him at the hotel, nursing a drink and smiling indulgently. It's now how Justin's ever been with an actual groupie, but he never tells JC that. It'd be like spoiling Christmas or something.
He wants to see what JC would be like with a groupie, but without the whole having-sex-with-another-person part. He wants to know if JC would be dangerous, or dirtier than Justin's used to, or if he'd be very gentle. He sort of doubts that last one, but he doesn't *know*, and that's what's driving him nuts.
Justin would do anything, if JC just asked him to. He'd submit, he'd take over - shit, he'd have other people there, if JC looked him in the eye and asked him for it. But he doesn't, he never asks for anything, and Justin can't bring himself to ask him for it. He doesn't know why. He just can't.
Maybe, he thinks, it's got something to do with Britney, and the one time he asked her to do it, things got - weird. Weirder than he liked, in the end, and he's still not entirely sure it didn't have something to do with them ultimately breaking up.
The other photos make him sweat, too. Especially the one where JC looks like an extra from Gladiator, except more gay. He makes a mental note to ask JC if he kept that outfit. He's pretty sure Lonnie could get him something like it in less than 24 hours, and they've always got oil on hand for one reason or another.
Wrestling and playfighting, followed by dirty Roman gladiator sex. There's no wrong there.
Or there one where JC looks like Don Juan DeMarco, only *better*. That one's half a shoutout to him; the first movie they made out to was Don Juan DeMarco, and Justin can't help but shiver when JC speaks Spanish. Justin remembers JC showing him those proofs one night, grinning a little and looking nothing at all like the man in the pictures in his sweatshirt and faded jeans.
He looks *better*, because the guy in the pictures was sexy and aloof and dangerous. And JC's all of those things too, but he's also the guy who still only manages not to ruin a Hot Pocket nine times out of ten and has a coupon book for when he goes grocery shopping.
Still, Justin's favorite is the back cover, and not just for the screens. JC's lying down, holding a camera up to himself, and that image - resonates. It's the sort of thing he'd like to write a song about, or make into part of a song. Another song, anyway; the first time he saw JC like that, he was humming "and don't it make you sad about it" before he could stop himself.
It's another week until he can see JC, and even then it's just overnight. There's a hotel room in London reserved under the name Gary Anderson, one of JC's tour aliases. Justin can never remember if that was the first guy JC ever kissed or the first guy he *wanted* to kiss; it's one of those. Justin prefers Adam Green - easy to sign, easy to remember.
But until then, he's got the proofs, and JC's voice in his ear talking about kitchen counters and schoolgirls. He'll make do.