(a million miles, a million miles)
“Okay, so, hi.”
“Hey,” Chris said cautiously, setting aside his Walkman and stuffing a pillow behind his back. That little line between his eyes, the muscle tensed in his jaw — clearly JC had made up his mind about something, and that could never be good.
“How are you,” JC said, crossing his arms and frowning.
“Um… good?”
“Good.”
“…Yeah,” Chris said after a few seconds. “Well. Always nice talking to you, C, but, ah –”
“I think we should sleep together.”
Chris’s spine snapped bolt-straight and he could feel his jaw actually drop. “Say what,” he managed, and how on earth could JC be looking so pissed off at him, when he, um — when he — um.
“Don’t even pretend you haven’t been coming on to me, Chris,” pissy, and oh shit, with the wild hand gestures, serious DEFCON eleven here. JC’s hair was lifting up off his head, and his eyes were shooting sparks, practically — that long, lean body tense and trembling — and it was all so very fucking — sometimes he made JC laugh, maybe. Shit.
“JC –”
JC nodded sharply. “That’s right,” he said, and pulled his t-shirt up over his head.
“No — seriously, JC –” Shit, sweatpants! Boxers! He wasn’t hard, not even a little bit; actually, he looked kind of cold, goosebumps rising on his arms and along the pale skin of his thighs; grim expression on his face, like he was padding across the gaudy hotel carpeting to his doom. “Seriously, JC –” The bed dipping slightly, holy fuck. There he was, JC Chasez — bandmate? good friend? — naked and crawling toward Chris on his hands and knees.
At the first touch of his hands, Chris jumped a mile. Cold as ice, fuck. JC immediately fumbled one hand up under his shirt to shiver across his ribs, and slid the damp fingers of the other over his face and into his hair, and before Chris could duck JC kissed him, kind of crouching there next to him on the bed.
And then sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth on his wrist. “Sorry,” he said, looking away and biting his lip. Standing up. Chris watched him pull on the sweats and t-shirt, unable to think of a single thing to say, because shit — chapped lips and pale, skinny thighs, trembling — and then it didn’t matter anymore, because JC slipped around the edge of the door like he thought he had to sneak out or something.
For a long time, that “sorry” was the worst part of it.
………
(down down baby)
Seriously, he could keep going like this for hours. Balls down in Chris’s tight, hot ass — pulling out, just a bit, just enough for a hint of that sweet, sweet slide, then pushing in deep again — mouth open at the back of Chris’s neck, against the slow wash of pleasure, never quite receding, getting him there so slowly — yeah. Exhaling into the damp hollow behind Chris’s ear; Chris’s full-body shudder, rocking him. Seriously. Best thing in the world.
“God, JC, you have to let me come,” Chris groaned, scrabbling at the sheets. “No,” JC hissed, closing his eyes briefly at the liquid pulse in his hips, “wait for it,” and he jerked Chris’s hand out from under him and pinned it to the bed.
“Fuck.” Chris let his head drop. “Fuck.”
“It’s good,” JC said. “See? Like this, it’s so — like this.” He pushed once, a quick taste, and had to freeze absolutely still against the wild rush to fuck. “No,” he whispered, “nonono no.” Chris made the most amazing noise deep in his throat and bucked up once, muscles tight in his arms and back and ass. “Oh fuck,” JC said, trying to hold his breath, “it’s good.”
He let himself start again when Chris relaxed his grip on the sheets. Nice and easy, barely out and right back in, minute hitches of his hips. Easy. Seriously, he could do this forever. Warm waves spreading through his thighs, slipping along his spine — gathering in his balls — wait for it —
Until Chris threw back his head and grunted and seized up all over his body, oh jesus fuck — and JC drove in hard and kept on pushing, until the pleasure crashed through him and took him right down.
Kept him down, too, for a long time, just drowsing, feeling it. Finally Chris writhed under him and heaved, and JC let go of his wrist and fell over on his side, hissing, fumbling to hold the condom in place. Tossing it overboard, finally, and with the last of his strength, rolling back.
Chris had that little catch in his throat like a shudder every time he inhaled, and his lips were swollen and shiny and a flush of red spread across his cheekbones. JC couldn’t stop watching him, even when he opened his eyes. Couldn’t help kissing him, open-mouthed and deep like they were just getting started, plastered against him and just — god, he was exhausted, but — touching Chris, sliding over him, moving with him. Palms over his heaving flanks, fingers through the crisp, damp hair on his abdomen and chest and arms — lips to the thrumming skin under his jaw — all the time in the world, it felt like, but soon Chris turned his face away and — yeah. The night was wearing on.
“So. I better get going,” Chris muttered, pulling himself up, scratching through his hair.
“Okay.”
“All… righty, then.” He frowned.
“Mm, what,” JC said, feeling a little blurry at the edges.
“Nothing.”
He stood up, and JC’s eyes were closing, no more fighting it. Except the bed lurched suddenly and there was Chris, sort of lunging at him, and before JC could react Chris grabbed hold of his knee and pressed a quick, hard kiss to his inner thigh.
“See ya, JC,” he said, slapping JC’s ass and bouncing away.
JC didn’t feel like sleeping for some time after that, but that was so amazingly fucking okay. It would come.
August 2009
lost rooms 