100 words: other

100 words: version other

Sometimes JC whispers things to Justin. Things no one else can hear-- soft, secret things in a low voice, things that make heat shimmer along his skin, pulse in his belly. Things that make Justin bite his lip hard enough to taste blood, long enough to silence the soft noises his body is thrumming with.

Later, JC murmurs, and soon, he promises, words slipped into Justin's ear, against his mouth, wrapped in a warm breath, a flutter-quick slide of tongue.

Yes, Justin answers, his fingers curled in the small of JC's back, already waiting for the crowd to melt away.

He breathes in tiny threads of silver smoke, and watches the sun slink lower, casting shadows across distant mountains. The last of the day bleeds through his fingers, pale indigo staining his skin, spilling across the curve of his shoulder as he turns from the window.

"I don't think any of this is real," he says softly, and JC shifts restlessly on the bed, legs tangled in blood-red sheets. Silk, just like he insisted on, and Justin is too tired to argue anymore.

"It never was." Warm skin ripples beneath his hands, presses close against his back. "But I am."

"You'll never make it up there." It's late and you're too far gone, too stupid-tired to move, to think. To even be here with him. Yet, you are. "It's just. You won't."

You say what you shouldn't, the knowing in your head dulled by the burn of liquor in your blood.

He remains stubbornly silent when you're expecting fierce indignation, and your words hang heavy in the air, their aftertaste suddenly thick and sickbitter in your mouth.

When you look up again barely a moment later, what you see in his eyes makes you want to cut out your tongue.

snippy; dilemma; ignite

"Well, what a dilemma. I mean, really." Lance doesn't even glance up from the screen of his laptop, continues to type, and the muted click of the keys sounds more like an insult to Chris than words ever could.

He huffs impatiently and flings an arm around Lance's neck, stoops down to flick a tongue in his ear. "Oh c'mon now," he murmurs, wriggling closer until he's half-on, half-off Lance's lap, precariously balanced. "You know just how to ignite my passion."

"I do?" Lance arches a brow, batting his hands away.

Chris grins. "Yeah. It's called being a snippy bitch."

chaotic; beer; glistening; petty

"Here." Chris holds out the bottle and Lance sees condensation glistening on it, fat drops of moisture sliding slickly across Chris’ fingers. They’re icy cold when they trickle over his fingertips too, cold like the beer against his tongue when he raises it to his mouth.

"I didn’t come here to get drunk," he says and it sounds petty even to his ears. So many things he should have said instead, all the words jumbled together in the chaotic space inside his head.

Chris smiles; takes the bottle from his lips, cool glass replaced by hot, sweet breath. "Then don’t."

He sweats glitter, and his eyes are smudged with thick, black liner. You run the pad of your thumb across one lid, a brief ghostflicker of lashes as he blinks, gone again when you trace a finger across the sweep of painted cheekbone, down to touch stickygloss lips.

Your hand slips lower still, glides over cool silk that whispers under your fingertips, slipping up to reveal the hard, flushed skin beneath.

His mouth opens with a soft sigh; your fingers curl around his hips as he arches upward, and the taste of him across your tongue is like coming home.

insatiable, lipstick

Long, long eyelashes rest on the gentle curve of a flushed cheekbone, and as Lance draws closer, they flutter open to reveal startling blue eyes.

"You're insatiable," he whispers, drawing out the syllables until they're a caress on his tongue, letting them flow like warm honey into a mouth sticky-stained with lipstick, wet-swollen from long, slow kisses.

"I know," comes the soft reply, a drift of warm breath against his throat, while long fingers trace around a nipple, trail heat across his skin. "It's my turn now."

Lance nods, pushes the skirt up JC's thighs, and slides to his knees.

The question is whispered low, so quietly that Lance almost misses it the first time. The second time, though- oh yeah, he hears it.

His eyes slip closed and a shiver ripples through him, red-hot, head to toe, and there's a smell in the air just like just before it rains. A soft touch against his face and his eyes flicker open again, he blinks once to focus, and then- there.

Yes, now.

He barely breathes the words, but they're strangely loud in the silence, and JC's smile is sly and sure as his hand wraps gently around Lance's throat.

Sometimes you watch him and you forget how to breathe.

"Hey," he says, fingers warm on your arm, "you okay?"

And you nod and smile, ignoring the flutter in your belly, the ache in your chest; talk too loudly of things that mean nothing and taste of bitter acid against your tongue.

Until one day he stands just a little too close, so you whisper the words in your head, slip them under his skin. He smiles as he touches your face gently, because he knows. He's always known.

"Just breathe," he says, and you close your eyes and do.

JC wishes he could remember what it is to feel whole. To not have pieces of himself snatched away, bit by bit-- to feel like there's something solid inside all the emptiness.

There was a time he used to feel like that-- before his world went mad and changed the rules on him somehow.

"Where have you been?" Joey asks one day, and when he turns to look at JC, his face shifts and ripples like a pond that's had a pebble dropped into it.

"I never left," JC says softly, and feels his skin slide silently to the floor.

He knows Lance is fluent in Russian-- but the knowledge is somehow different to actually hearing him speak it. Different, because the guttural words Lance murmurs slip into Justin's head, dance along flushed skin, expand inside him until he's filled from the inside-out with strange wild heat.

"I missed you," he whispers, biting the absence into Lance's collarbone, marking the long months out with stabs of sharp teeth into pale-gold silken flesh.

Lance speaks softly to him in this strange new language, but the feel of him-- the way he tastes and smells-- is still the same as Justin remembers.

Justin's drunk just enough to be pleasantly buzzed, and he's heavy-limbed and warm all over. "Hey," he murmurs as he hooks his chin over JC's shoulder. "Whatcha doing?"

"Sandwiches," JC replies, opening and closing cupboard doors at random. "But...there's no bread." He frowns.

"Hmm." Justin reaches round JC, grabs the container of honey. Dips his finger in, and then sucks it clean. Scoops out another fingerful and slips it into JC's mouth, leans close to slide a tongue along his lips. Soft, slow sticky-sweet kisses that leave them both breathless.

"Don't need bread," Justin whispers, and kisses him again.

"Close your eyes and make a wish." JC finishes lighting the candles on the cake, and places it in front of Justin. It sits there, slightly lopsided, icing swirled in little peaks.

"Pink icing?" Justin pokes a finger at it hesitantly. "Pink?"

"Shutup and make a wish, or you won't live until your next birthday."

Justin closes his eyes, puffs out his cheeks and blows out the flickering candles. He opens his eyes again, smiles at JC. "Done."

"What'd you wish for?"

Justin pulls him close until they're hip to hip, kisses him gently. Murmurs against his mouth, "For you."

husky; deep; monochrome

When he first opens his eyes the room is monochrome, before the colours slowly bleed into his vision. Red, gold and purple, echoing the colours on his skin.

He speaks, and his voice is husky and raw, from sleep and from something else. Something at the edge of his memory, something that twists a spike deep in his belly when he presses two fingers to the mouth-shaped bruise on his inner thigh.

"I should go." And he starts to stand, but there's a hand around his wrist, fingertips mirroring the dark smudges there.

"Stay," JC murmurs, and so Lance does.

[ inspired by the LILY video]

He watches himself on television, hears the words that fall from his lips, saying what they want to hear. What they want him to say.

"I dreamed about this," he says, and she's on his lap, and his mouth is close to hers, his fingertips skimming over her face. She's beautiful, and he's a star, and together they're perfect.

He turns away from the images on the screen, reaches out to touch the sleeping form beside him. Wraps his arms around warm, familar skin, breathes in deeply and smiles.

"I lied, " he murmurs, as JC stirs. "I dreamed about you."

There's never enough time, and JC can't seem to say what needs to be said.

He tries, and when Joey turns to him and smiles, he knows that he hasn't found the right words. They're on the tip of his tongue, he can taste them, feel them curve inside his mouth.

"Miss you too," Joey says, and that's almost it. Almost but not quite.

Then comes one long night that drifts softly into morning, and the slow slide of a tongue against his.

"I love you," JC breathes against Joey's neck, and suddenly there's all the time in the world.

JC's teeth glide across flesh, stinging, snapping. Marking his way.

Justin's muscles tense, contract- his belly quivering where JC's fingers touch, goosebumps rising.

"Yes," he murmurs, and wraps long legs around JC's waist, grasps slender hips in strong hands.

JC's movements are smooth and unbroken, and he's warm like honey against Justin's skin. Blue eyes meet deeper blue, blink away sweat-slicked curls. JC's throat pulses as he growls deep and low, nonsense words falling from lips curled back to reveal sharp teeth, pink tongue.

"Shh," Justin whispers against JC's mouth, breathing in his words and making sense of them.

He takes it for as long as he can.

Which, in the end, is longer than anyone gives him credit for. And in the end, that's what gets him through.

"I didn't know," Justin says, and it's not a lie, because he honestly didn't know. The fact he should have thought to ask doesn't even cross his mind. "I'm sorry," he whispers, and there's a fleeting expression on his face that JC almost thinks might be regret, but it's come and gone so fast he's suddenly not sure if he really saw it at all.

So JC closes his eyes.

He traces patterns on your back, fingertips warm as they glide over your skin, and you can feel his breath slipping along your spine. You’d open your eyes but you’re far too drowsy; the song he’s softly singing wrapping you in gentle heat from head to toe. You can see him inside your head anyway; sleep-tangled curls, a half-smile curving his lips.

"Will it always be like this?" you’d asked him earlier-- a lifetime ago-- and he’d waited just a beat too long before answering.

"I hope so," he’d said softly, and you’d known, right then, that it couldn’t be.

Peppermint and cinnamon, and the way the light falls through the leaves and onto his shoulders, and it freezes the breath in your lungs every time.

"I'm late," he says smiling, teeth and tongue and you remember the way his skin tastes when the moon hangs pale silver in midnight blue. You can't see his eyes, but feel the way his mouth curves against yours, then presses close to fit the dark hollow of your throat, and it's his pulse you feel beating flutterquick against your fingertips when your hand circles his wrist.

"I don't mind the wait," you say.

rain, crystal, violet

He tastes like rain against your tongue, wrapped around you, fingers tangled in your hair, his breath slipping under your skin.

His waist curves like glass to fit your hand, and when you dip your head, the hollow of his neck is sweet and dark and secret.

You trace across his wrist, pale violet beneath your fingertips, feel his pulse flutter and skip as you move against him slowly, carefully. "I won't break," he whispers, curling his fingers around your hips, pulling you closer still, and he lies beneath you smooth and clear as crystal, just waiting to be shattered.

"I don't want to."

He speaks the words softly, just to hear the sound of them. He blinks once, twice and the colours shift, drift across his words, changing them into something he no longer recognises.

"There's this party- this guy, he's a friend of mine."

"There's gonna be plenty of names and faces, man."

"Hey, everyone who's anyone will be there."

He presses erase, sends all the voices into oblivion. Walks over to the front door and locks it, draws the curtains.

"I don't want to," JC says again, smiling, and this time the words don't change at all.

JC paints his house, each room a different colour. The kitchen, a rich red that makes the handstripped woodwork warmer somehow. He paints the dining room a soft buttery yellow, pale like candlelight. His study is deep maroon, and he just smiles when Lance says it's depressing. For JC, it's dark and safe, a place to hide from the world. Somewhere he can lose himself in books and words and secrets. Just for him.

And when he's in his house, he feels alive- because he's painted it with the colours that whirl inside his head when he closes his eyes.

pretty boy; dangerous; merlot

He quickens his pace, doesn't look around. Feigns indifference with the tilt of his head, half-closed eyes. Shoves his hands deep into pockets, so the clenched fists don't show. Easy. It's all so easy.

"Such a pretty boy." The voice is low, dangerous, and Justin feels the wall pressing against his back as fingertips scrape gently at the soft flesh of his hips. He shudders and lets his head fall back and his mind empty.

Half an hour later, and there's a glass of merlot at his elbow. When he lifts it to his mouth, it stains his lips red.

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