Various Drabbles in the Key of C(rack), Part 1
I just have to point out that y'all are insane. Part one of the crack drabbles.
Various Drabbles in the Key of C(rack)
Fandoms: CWRPS, popslash, SPN, and every crossover in between
Ratings: Sex, drugs, and POP
Comments: Y'all are insane. Some of these are from the Project Mayhem 'Verse, ie Dirty Pop: The Worst Case Scenario Guide to Surviving A Boy Band, and if you haven't read that, these won't make sense. Possibly that is a good thing.
Further comments: The Chad/Justin dance off bandana battle of doom is all madame_d's fault. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Justin Timberlake/Chad Michael Murray | for stupidtrucks | Project Mayhem 'verse
The twelfth rule of being in a boy band is: never get involved in a dance off when magical artifacts are at stake. No, never get involved in a dance off, ever. Mainly because the whole idea of a dance off is, for one thing, really fucking stupid (like, so stupid it even looks bad in movies, and when you can make something look ridiculous to an audience that's already suspending its disbelief re: the ability of Jessica Alba to do anything but stand there and look hot and maybe get naked, it's pretty fucking stupid), but also-because Chad can't dance.
Not that Chad would ever admit to it. He thinks he's the next Paula Abdul or something, only without the pain medication and the tendency to clap like a seal. But really, he's not. He can't dance, and he can only sort of sing, and when it comes right down to it, no one's really sure how he even got in the band much less manages to snag all the good solos, but it probably has something to do with Jeff liking to get his dick sucked and Chad's willingness to put just about anything in his mouth.
So. So the twelfth rule says never get involved in a dance off, and usually this isn't a hard rule to live by because seriously? Who really has dance offs? No one, that's who, because re: dance offs and their inherent stupidity, see above. Only. Only Chad wasn't so much counting on the wild card factor of Justin Timberlake, a magical bedazzled bandana of awesomeness, and the thrall of the 7-11 parking lot at night. I mean, of course he wasn't counting on that, because like, seriously? Who would?
It all starts with a corndog. Because Jared thought they should all go to the beach and get high the night before their second album drops, which is like, fine or whatever, and Chad spends maybe ten minutes or an hour feeling the sand beneath his feet, which is pretty cool actually, but then Jensen's all, "I'm hungry" and Mikey's all, "I'm bored" and Tommy's all, "Let's find some hookers" so naturally, they end up at the 7-11.
Only this is like, their most unlucky day or something, because the next thing he knows, Chad's corndog is hitting pavement and he is challenging Justin Timberlake to a dance off for ownership of a seemingly innocent white bedazzled bandana, but Chad knows better, and he's pretty sure that that head gear is like, the source of Timberlake's powers because like, check it. The boy can't sing-like, even worse than Chad can't sing-and he totally abandoned the Rules, plus he actually likes Nelly, so like, obviously? His popularity is some kind of plot against teenage girls everywhere, which is totally not cool. Chad has been a teenage girl, so he knows.
"The thing is," says Chad, while Jared makes choking noises like he might be dying and Jensen, that asshole, just grins and leans against the side of the building like this is some kind of free show. "The thing is that. That it's not okay, you know? To like, deceive the fans like that. And someone has to defend their honor, so I guess. I guess it's gonna be me."
Timberlake rolls his eyes. "Um, okay dude. What are you smoking, yo?"
"Pot. But like, that's not even. Look. This'll go better if you just give up the bandana, and then I don't have to kick your ass. I'm the bad one."
"Well, you ain't the smart one, that's for sure." Timberlake folds his arms over his chest and looks him over. Chad thinks that maybe possibly the bandana works on more than just teenage girls, because he sort of kind of wants to make out instead of dance, but he wants the bandana even more, plus Jensen would never let him live it down if he actually made out with Justin Timberlake. Every time they got in an argument it'd be all, "Well at least I never made it with Justin Timberlake!" which would totally trump Chad's whole, "Well at least I never blew Christian Kane!" argument, because Kane might be evil, but he's just normal evil, not like, magic evil. Plus, Kane plays the guitar. Justin probably plays like, the harmonica or something.
"Dance off!" says Chad. "For the bandana!"
"Dude, seriously? This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard of," says Timberlake, right before he turns into a goat. And maybe. Maybe that's just the pot, or maybe someone spiked his lemonade with something else, but even if Timberlake isn't actually a goat, he totally looks like one and he definitely sounds like one, so it's all good, because if there's one person Chad can actually beat in a dance off, it's Justin Timbergoat. Goatlake. Whatever.
"So like, who's he talking to?" he hears Jared whisper loudly from the sidewalk, where he is being no help at all with the quest for the thing with the stuff and-yeah. Chad glares at him. Doesn't he understand that Chad has to do this for the safety of all girl-kind?
"Man, I don't even fucking know," says Jensen. "The lamp post, I think?"
"Maybe I shouldn't have roofied his drink," says Mike, but he's grinning like really, he thinks that's the best idea he's had pretty much ever.
"Oh no," says Tommy. "Now he's dancing."
"It could be worse," says Jensen. "At least this time he didn't wake up a woman."
*
Jared/Justin | they're bringing sexy back | for seedyapartment | Project Mayhem 'verse
"So I hear you're like, personally bringing sexy back. How's that working out for you?" Jared can't help it, he maybe smirks a little at the pissed-off expression on Justin's face. But it's just so easy.
"Fuck you, Padalecki." A midget dances by and Justin's eyes follow him. Justin's pupils are huge, totally blown, and he looks like he just did all the drugs in the state of California. He looks like Mister Burns in that episode of The Simpsons with Mulder and Scully. Jared really likes that episode, even after seeing it about a thousand billion times on the bus, because The Simpsons is the only thing they show in every country that he understands no matter what language it's in. "Fuck you," Justin repeats, fingers tugging at the hem of Jared's shirt. They're both wearing pink. Jared thinks maybe it's a sign.
"Now that. That would be sexy."
*
Lance Bass/Sam Winchester | for lazy_daze
Justin and Chris are playing Halo and Justin is totally kicking Chris's ass for once when JC walks into the room, drops the tray of beer and snacks on the floor, and tries to kill them both with his bare hands.
"What the fuck?" Justin gasps, trying to hold a snarling JC down while simultaneously preventing him from hurting himself.
Chris calls Lance.
"JC is like, possessed or something," he explains.
"I know a guy," says Lance. "I need to make some calls."
By the time Lance calls back, they have JC locked in Justin's winter coat closet. Justin looks like he might throw up, especially when JC starts scratching pitfully at the door and saying things like, "Please Justin? I'm okay now, I swear. I just had some bad shellfish. I'm good now. Please? Just let me out. Let me out before I decide to kill you slowly with a thousand knives."
"What's he doing now?" Lance asks.
Chris turns his back to the door. It feels weird talking about JC like he's not there, even if he isn't, really, because-demonic possession. "He's begging. And threatening Justin with knives and a slow, painful death. It's fucking pathetic, man. Please tell me you got something."
"They'll be there in a few hours. I'm coming over. Don't let Justin talk to him, okay? This is serious stuff."
"Serious as in, 'Oh shit, our best friend is totally possessed,' or serious as in, 'this is merely a harbinger of the apocalypse, I am the Gatekeeper and Keymaster'?"
Lance just laughs, but he doesn't sound amused. "I'm coming over."
+
The guys that Lance knows are, well. Not what Chris was expecting. For one thing, they're hot. For a minute Chris suspects foul play, like Lance thought maybe "JC is possessed" was actually code for "send me some manwhores," but then the short one (ha! Short! Because they are both frigging giants) strolls in like he owns the place and wants to know where they're keeping "the victim," which Chris really doesn't like because it sounds like JC's going to show up on whatever the supernatural version of a milk carton is-grape kool aid maybe.
"Dean," Lance says, stepping forward to shake the guy's hand like this is just some kind of normal, everyday business meeting and one of their friends isn't locked in a closet with the skis Justin never uses anymore speaking in tongues and probably vomiting pea soup all over Justin's winter coats. Maybe his head is even spinning around backwards, although Chris is pretty sure that not even JC is that flexible, no matter what claims he makes about being able to suck his own dick. "Who's this?" Lance asks, jerking his head at the taller guy, who's staring at them like maybe he should know who they are but just can't place it.
"That's my brother Sam," says Dean. "He's pretty much useless, but he looks pretty so I let him come along. Charm the ladies." Dean flashes what is quite possibly the smarmiest smile Chris has ever seen. He thinks maybe he's a little in love. And then JC starts pounding on the closet door and screaming again, and the fear and panic is back, full force.
"He'll get along well with Justin then," says Lance, and they smile at each other like they're sharing some big secret and JC isn't being all possessed and shit in Justin's hall closet.
Sam just rolls his eyes like he's heard this a thousand times and pulls out a leather-bound journal. "Whatever, Dean. Maybe if you'd learned Latin like Dad said to… no wonder I'm his favorite."
A lot of things happen very quickly, and Chris thinks later that maybe he blacked out in a moment of total panic. One second, Dean is lining the closet threshold with salt and Sam starts chanting in Latin, and the next thing Chris knows, Lance is trying to climb Sam like a tree while simultaneously shoving his tongue down Sam's throat and his hand down his pants. Why, Chris wonders, he couldn't have blacked out that sight he doesn't know, except that maybe God is trying to punish him for being so rich and successful. Chris sort of thinks being short and weird-looking is punishment enough, but then again, he is really, really rich.
"Lance!" Justin yells, hands waving in the air like he wants to pull Lance off, but doesn't really want to touch him when he's macking on some guy. "What the fuck, dude?"
"Sorry," Lance mutters, letting go of Sam, who looks shell-shocked, and like he sort of wishes Lance didn't stop. "What?" Lance smiles slyly. "I was possessed!"
*
J2 | No paper or letters / We pass just close enough to touch | for varity
Jared doesn't know how it happens exactly, except that it's slow and everything is so cold that winter. It seems like he's always shivering now, even wearing three shirts and a heavy coat, and he doesn't think he'll ever get used to being up North. He misses Texas, misses the consistency and the warmth and the too-bright sun on his face. He even misses LA sometimes, a lighter warmth, washed out but at least it's still warm and not this, not seeing your breath in the air, teeth clenched together, cheeks burned red with wind.
So he doesn't know how it happens, exactly, except that it has something to do with this: standing in the deserted parking lot at four in the morning, the first flakes of snow painted yellow in the streetlights, Jensen's cheeks red and his lips chapped and dry when they press against Jared's, once. Sometimes he's not even sure it happened, or maybe it happens all the time; every time, in the sodium wash of the lamp lights, gloved hands slipping against each other, hot breath against his neck and it's almost. Almost like coming home.
*
More later. For now I am all cracked out.
Various Drabbles in the Key of C(rack)
Fandoms: CWRPS, popslash, SPN, and every crossover in between
Ratings: Sex, drugs, and POP
Comments: Y'all are insane. Some of these are from the Project Mayhem 'Verse, ie Dirty Pop: The Worst Case Scenario Guide to Surviving A Boy Band, and if you haven't read that, these won't make sense. Possibly that is a good thing.
Further comments: The Chad/Justin dance off bandana battle of doom is all madame_d's fault. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.
Justin Timberlake/Chad Michael Murray | for stupidtrucks | Project Mayhem 'verse
The twelfth rule of being in a boy band is: never get involved in a dance off when magical artifacts are at stake. No, never get involved in a dance off, ever. Mainly because the whole idea of a dance off is, for one thing, really fucking stupid (like, so stupid it even looks bad in movies, and when you can make something look ridiculous to an audience that's already suspending its disbelief re: the ability of Jessica Alba to do anything but stand there and look hot and maybe get naked, it's pretty fucking stupid), but also-because Chad can't dance.
Not that Chad would ever admit to it. He thinks he's the next Paula Abdul or something, only without the pain medication and the tendency to clap like a seal. But really, he's not. He can't dance, and he can only sort of sing, and when it comes right down to it, no one's really sure how he even got in the band much less manages to snag all the good solos, but it probably has something to do with Jeff liking to get his dick sucked and Chad's willingness to put just about anything in his mouth.
So. So the twelfth rule says never get involved in a dance off, and usually this isn't a hard rule to live by because seriously? Who really has dance offs? No one, that's who, because re: dance offs and their inherent stupidity, see above. Only. Only Chad wasn't so much counting on the wild card factor of Justin Timberlake, a magical bedazzled bandana of awesomeness, and the thrall of the 7-11 parking lot at night. I mean, of course he wasn't counting on that, because like, seriously? Who would?
It all starts with a corndog. Because Jared thought they should all go to the beach and get high the night before their second album drops, which is like, fine or whatever, and Chad spends maybe ten minutes or an hour feeling the sand beneath his feet, which is pretty cool actually, but then Jensen's all, "I'm hungry" and Mikey's all, "I'm bored" and Tommy's all, "Let's find some hookers" so naturally, they end up at the 7-11.
Only this is like, their most unlucky day or something, because the next thing he knows, Chad's corndog is hitting pavement and he is challenging Justin Timberlake to a dance off for ownership of a seemingly innocent white bedazzled bandana, but Chad knows better, and he's pretty sure that that head gear is like, the source of Timberlake's powers because like, check it. The boy can't sing-like, even worse than Chad can't sing-and he totally abandoned the Rules, plus he actually likes Nelly, so like, obviously? His popularity is some kind of plot against teenage girls everywhere, which is totally not cool. Chad has been a teenage girl, so he knows.
"The thing is," says Chad, while Jared makes choking noises like he might be dying and Jensen, that asshole, just grins and leans against the side of the building like this is some kind of free show. "The thing is that. That it's not okay, you know? To like, deceive the fans like that. And someone has to defend their honor, so I guess. I guess it's gonna be me."
Timberlake rolls his eyes. "Um, okay dude. What are you smoking, yo?"
"Pot. But like, that's not even. Look. This'll go better if you just give up the bandana, and then I don't have to kick your ass. I'm the bad one."
"Well, you ain't the smart one, that's for sure." Timberlake folds his arms over his chest and looks him over. Chad thinks that maybe possibly the bandana works on more than just teenage girls, because he sort of kind of wants to make out instead of dance, but he wants the bandana even more, plus Jensen would never let him live it down if he actually made out with Justin Timberlake. Every time they got in an argument it'd be all, "Well at least I never made it with Justin Timberlake!" which would totally trump Chad's whole, "Well at least I never blew Christian Kane!" argument, because Kane might be evil, but he's just normal evil, not like, magic evil. Plus, Kane plays the guitar. Justin probably plays like, the harmonica or something.
"Dance off!" says Chad. "For the bandana!"
"Dude, seriously? This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard of," says Timberlake, right before he turns into a goat. And maybe. Maybe that's just the pot, or maybe someone spiked his lemonade with something else, but even if Timberlake isn't actually a goat, he totally looks like one and he definitely sounds like one, so it's all good, because if there's one person Chad can actually beat in a dance off, it's Justin Timbergoat. Goatlake. Whatever.
"So like, who's he talking to?" he hears Jared whisper loudly from the sidewalk, where he is being no help at all with the quest for the thing with the stuff and-yeah. Chad glares at him. Doesn't he understand that Chad has to do this for the safety of all girl-kind?
"Man, I don't even fucking know," says Jensen. "The lamp post, I think?"
"Maybe I shouldn't have roofied his drink," says Mike, but he's grinning like really, he thinks that's the best idea he's had pretty much ever.
"Oh no," says Tommy. "Now he's dancing."
"It could be worse," says Jensen. "At least this time he didn't wake up a woman."
*
Jared/Justin | they're bringing sexy back | for seedyapartment | Project Mayhem 'verse
"So I hear you're like, personally bringing sexy back. How's that working out for you?" Jared can't help it, he maybe smirks a little at the pissed-off expression on Justin's face. But it's just so easy.
"Fuck you, Padalecki." A midget dances by and Justin's eyes follow him. Justin's pupils are huge, totally blown, and he looks like he just did all the drugs in the state of California. He looks like Mister Burns in that episode of The Simpsons with Mulder and Scully. Jared really likes that episode, even after seeing it about a thousand billion times on the bus, because The Simpsons is the only thing they show in every country that he understands no matter what language it's in. "Fuck you," Justin repeats, fingers tugging at the hem of Jared's shirt. They're both wearing pink. Jared thinks maybe it's a sign.
"Now that. That would be sexy."
*
Lance Bass/Sam Winchester | for lazy_daze
Justin and Chris are playing Halo and Justin is totally kicking Chris's ass for once when JC walks into the room, drops the tray of beer and snacks on the floor, and tries to kill them both with his bare hands.
"What the fuck?" Justin gasps, trying to hold a snarling JC down while simultaneously preventing him from hurting himself.
Chris calls Lance.
"JC is like, possessed or something," he explains.
"I know a guy," says Lance. "I need to make some calls."
By the time Lance calls back, they have JC locked in Justin's winter coat closet. Justin looks like he might throw up, especially when JC starts scratching pitfully at the door and saying things like, "Please Justin? I'm okay now, I swear. I just had some bad shellfish. I'm good now. Please? Just let me out. Let me out before I decide to kill you slowly with a thousand knives."
"What's he doing now?" Lance asks.
Chris turns his back to the door. It feels weird talking about JC like he's not there, even if he isn't, really, because-demonic possession. "He's begging. And threatening Justin with knives and a slow, painful death. It's fucking pathetic, man. Please tell me you got something."
"They'll be there in a few hours. I'm coming over. Don't let Justin talk to him, okay? This is serious stuff."
"Serious as in, 'Oh shit, our best friend is totally possessed,' or serious as in, 'this is merely a harbinger of the apocalypse, I am the Gatekeeper and Keymaster'?"
Lance just laughs, but he doesn't sound amused. "I'm coming over."
+
The guys that Lance knows are, well. Not what Chris was expecting. For one thing, they're hot. For a minute Chris suspects foul play, like Lance thought maybe "JC is possessed" was actually code for "send me some manwhores," but then the short one (ha! Short! Because they are both frigging giants) strolls in like he owns the place and wants to know where they're keeping "the victim," which Chris really doesn't like because it sounds like JC's going to show up on whatever the supernatural version of a milk carton is-grape kool aid maybe.
"Dean," Lance says, stepping forward to shake the guy's hand like this is just some kind of normal, everyday business meeting and one of their friends isn't locked in a closet with the skis Justin never uses anymore speaking in tongues and probably vomiting pea soup all over Justin's winter coats. Maybe his head is even spinning around backwards, although Chris is pretty sure that not even JC is that flexible, no matter what claims he makes about being able to suck his own dick. "Who's this?" Lance asks, jerking his head at the taller guy, who's staring at them like maybe he should know who they are but just can't place it.
"That's my brother Sam," says Dean. "He's pretty much useless, but he looks pretty so I let him come along. Charm the ladies." Dean flashes what is quite possibly the smarmiest smile Chris has ever seen. He thinks maybe he's a little in love. And then JC starts pounding on the closet door and screaming again, and the fear and panic is back, full force.
"He'll get along well with Justin then," says Lance, and they smile at each other like they're sharing some big secret and JC isn't being all possessed and shit in Justin's hall closet.
Sam just rolls his eyes like he's heard this a thousand times and pulls out a leather-bound journal. "Whatever, Dean. Maybe if you'd learned Latin like Dad said to… no wonder I'm his favorite."
A lot of things happen very quickly, and Chris thinks later that maybe he blacked out in a moment of total panic. One second, Dean is lining the closet threshold with salt and Sam starts chanting in Latin, and the next thing Chris knows, Lance is trying to climb Sam like a tree while simultaneously shoving his tongue down Sam's throat and his hand down his pants. Why, Chris wonders, he couldn't have blacked out that sight he doesn't know, except that maybe God is trying to punish him for being so rich and successful. Chris sort of thinks being short and weird-looking is punishment enough, but then again, he is really, really rich.
"Lance!" Justin yells, hands waving in the air like he wants to pull Lance off, but doesn't really want to touch him when he's macking on some guy. "What the fuck, dude?"
"Sorry," Lance mutters, letting go of Sam, who looks shell-shocked, and like he sort of wishes Lance didn't stop. "What?" Lance smiles slyly. "I was possessed!"
*
J2 | No paper or letters / We pass just close enough to touch | for varity
Jared doesn't know how it happens exactly, except that it's slow and everything is so cold that winter. It seems like he's always shivering now, even wearing three shirts and a heavy coat, and he doesn't think he'll ever get used to being up North. He misses Texas, misses the consistency and the warmth and the too-bright sun on his face. He even misses LA sometimes, a lighter warmth, washed out but at least it's still warm and not this, not seeing your breath in the air, teeth clenched together, cheeks burned red with wind.
So he doesn't know how it happens, exactly, except that it has something to do with this: standing in the deserted parking lot at four in the morning, the first flakes of snow painted yellow in the streetlights, Jensen's cheeks red and his lips chapped and dry when they press against Jared's, once. Sometimes he's not even sure it happened, or maybe it happens all the time; every time, in the sodium wash of the lamp lights, gloved hands slipping against each other, hot breath against his neck and it's almost. Almost like coming home.
*
More later. For now I am all cracked out.