[ real/fake ]


*


"It's here," Chris says, peering through the haze of smoke at the sleek, black car that has just pulled up in JC's driveway, then at the phone in his hand. "Wow, that was fast. C'mon. Outside.'

"You have a limo service on speed-dial?" JC supposes he should be more surprised, but he's just stoned enough that everything is surprising on the same kind of level. Things like Chris pulling him to his feet and then leading him out the door and the damp grass of his front yard beneath his feet-- JC's very surprised that he can feel that through his shoes, until he looks down and realises he's not wearing any.

"It's your phone," Chris says, slipping it into his pocket, and that's not surprising at all, just sorta funny-- so JC laughs, a huge braying honk of a sound, and it's Chris' turn to look surprised. Maybe even a little startled. "Shoes," Chris says suddenly, and JC's favourite pair of flip flops come sailing toward him to land at his feet. He puts them on and smiles, because JC never knew Chris was such a boyscout. It's actually kinda hot.

"Shoes." He points to his feet and wiggles his toes just enough to make his toe-ring sparkle.

"Pants," Chris says, almost to himself, and JC's a little alarmed for a moment, until he glances down and is relieved to see that yes, he has got some on. Sometimes he forgets-- but not this time.

"Pants," JC repeats, in case it's some kind of test. He stands there, patting the colourful naked ladies fondly, murmuring, "and always be prepared," until Chris grabs his hand and whispers, "stop it."

"'kay," JC says agreeably, and climbs into the cool, expensive-smelling car, Chris following close behind.

"Right," Chris says, sounding very authoritative, a champagne flute in one hand and a bottle in the other, "we're out of here." He passes the bottle to JC, and hits a button. JC watches the window slide closed, shutting them off from the driver as the limo glides smoothly away from the curb.

"Are we there yet?" JC sing-songs, not able to help himself.

"No," Chris confirms, settling himself down in the seat opposite.

Soft black leather everywhere, the glorious clink of bottles on ice, all the time in the world and Chris grinning across at him like the Cheshire Cat. It's times like this, JC really, really loves his life.




*




"Ever done it in a limo?" Chris is sitting with his head tipped back against the seat, the almost-empty bottle of champagne propped between his legs rocking gently with the motion of the vehicle.

JC snorts, like the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. "Maybe," he says, non-commitally, and raises an eyebrow.

But Chris is insistent. "No, seriously. Blowjobs don't count. I'm talking actual, real sex."

"As opposed to fake sex?" JC has no idea what fake sex actually is, but it makes perfect sense in his head. Then again, so did Space Cowboy, until he actually wrote it down on paper. He hums the chorus under his breath softly, feeling the human spirit shimmering through him from head to toe. Pot always makes him horny. He'd wiggle his toe-ring, but he can't actually feel his feet.

"JC?"

"I think all the blood's rushed to my dick," JC says conversationally, and looks at the joint he's holding for a moment, before taking a long, slow drag, slitting his eyes as the fragrant curl of smoke hits the back of his throat. "Blowjobs really don't count?" he says, the words floating out on an exhale of breath.

Chris shakes his head, slipping the now-empty bottle into the container of ice. "Handjobs, either."

"Huh." Images flutter through JC's head when he closes his eyes-- the dark fan of Bobbie's hair across his thighs, his hand warm against the back of her neck, soft leather on bare skin. Another time, her hand slipped inside his barely unzipped pants, a sharp press of fingernails, the lights beyond the tinted glass a never-ending slow blur of silver and gold. Close, but-- "I guess not," he says, and Chris grins, his teeth a brief glitter in the dim light.

"Right," Chris says for the second time that night, leaning forward to pluck the joint from JC's fingers, and that seems to be the end of the conversation.

Of that particular conversation, maybe. JC watches through half-lidded eyes as Chris takes a mouthful of the sweet smoke, holding it in as he leans forward once again, this time to place his hands on JC's thighs. He lifts a hand to tap JC's jaw softly, and JC lets his mouth fall open, a soft thread of something warm fluttering in his belly. He can feel Chris' lips barely brushing against his own, the warm drift of breath and smoke into his mouth, Chris' fingers warm and heavy where they rest.

"Shotgun," Chris whispers, the word shimmering from his lips to JC's, no more than a drift of smoke between them. "My favourite part." He takes another toke and breathes it into JC's waiting mouth, stars across his tongue and Chris' hands sliding further up his thighs to trace over the outline of his dick. Wow, thinks JC, and shotgun's suddenly his favourite part, too-- next to the slow, deliberate circles Chris' fingers are making over his hard-on, that is.

JC closes his eyes as the pot swirls through him, a soft burn chased by Chris' tongue, then Chris' teeth nipping at his lower lip. Chris, JC thinks, smiling into the kiss, losing himself to the warm, insistent press of Chris' body against his own. Chris tastes sharp like the champagne on his tongue, the roof of his mouth pale smoke when JC licks across it. A soft moan, and JC does it again, slower this time, tracing over Chris' lips, dipping his head to gently bite the soft skin under his jaw.

"Fuck," Chris murmurs, his fingers curling around JC's hips, hissing out another breath when JC scrapes his teeth along the line of his throat.

"Yeah," JC agrees, and this time it's his hands wrapped around Chris' hips, pulling him forward and down, tipping them both backward against the soft leather seats. It's awkward and there's not nearly enough room, but JC could care less right now, wanting nothing more than Chris' warmth against him, Chris' mouth, his quick, clever fingers. He slips his leg between Chris' thighs, rolling over and tilting his hips a little, and can't stop the low moan of pleasure slipping from his throat when Chris shifts just enough to create a delicious friction against JC's cock.

Chris rocks upward as JC rocks down, a basic quick and dirty rhythm that doesn't take much thought at all, and JC concentrates on the sweet, wet glide of Chris' tongue, the taste that fills his head, the heat that swirls in his belly. The car turns sharply, and JC can taste copper, slick and bright in his mouth as Chris pulls back, swearing softly.

"Y'okay?" JC asks, and Chris nods, his eyes hot and bright, his lower lip glistening in the low light.

"Just a little blood," he says, wiping a hand across his mouth then licking his fingers, and JC's belly flips with a whole new heat, everything outlined in sudden brilliant clarity.

"C'mere." JC curls his hand around the back of Chris' neck, pulls him back down, shimmying his hips up and up and up, until he hears Chris' soft gasp. "Chris," he murmurs, "I want--"

"Here," Chris says, "let me, I can--" and his fingers are tangling with JC's, fumbling, pushing between them, skimming over JC's stomach where his t-shirt's ridden up, searching for his zipper. JC shifts on the seat, lifting his hips, trying to help, but not really wanting to stop for even a moment.

"Got it," Chris says, "I, yeah. okay," and he's tugging on JC's zipper, hot breath against JC's neck, rocking against JC's hip, tugging it down and down, and--

JC moans softly as Chris' fingers brush over his cock -- not enough, no, not nearly enough-- and then again, moments later, as Chris' grip tightens, his wrist moving warm and sure against JC's belly.

JC braces one foot on the floor, the other against the seat opposite, pushes against it and up into the slow, sure curl of Chris' hand, lets his head fall back as Chris licks wet heat along the line of his throat. He's humming under his breath and JC can feel it buzzing along his skin, shimmering in the air around them. He closes his eyes and all at once everything sharpens, slipping into a whole new focus, taste and touch and sound, the slow glide of Chris' hand at the centre of it all.

"Yeah," Chris is murmuring, soft and low and secret, "yeah, JC," over and over, whispering it into JC's skin, his hand moving a little faster, his other hand and those clever, clever fingers tugging gently on JC's balls, slipping lower, lower still, teasing, gliding, then slipping inside. JC's world narrows even further, nothing existing but Chris' touch, and he can't help the wanton spread of his legs, the way his thighs fall open even further, his whole body tight and thrumming with pleasure. He's rocking up into Chris' hand now, then back onto the careful press of his finger, heat building with every movement, gathering in the pit of his belly until it's too big, too much and it spills over, pleasure spreading whiplash fast along his spine, through his limbs. Chris holds him close, moving with him as JC shudders through his orgasm, thick, lazy pulses of wet heat he can feel spreading across his belly.

JC's still now, his limbs heavy and honey-warm with pleasure, but next to him, Chris is moving with more urgency, his hands slipping from JC's slick cock and from between his legs to grasp his hips, fingers curled bruise-tight. "I want," he says, no more than a low growl, the rest of his words muffled as he drops his mouth to JC's shoulder, hot breath and the sudden sharp press of teeth. JC half-turns and pulls Chris closer, shoving a hand between them, cupping the thick outline of Chris' cock beneath the denim of his jeans.

"Chris, yeah, if you just-- "

"I can't, I'm gonna--oh," Chris gasps, with something like surprise, the last word tapering off into a soft moan as he thrusts forward into JC's hand, his body pulled up tight like a wire. There's a long moment when he draws back again once more, then curls forward, his hips arching from the seat, rocking against JC. The sounds Chris is making, the sure knowledge he's coming in his pants because he's too turned on to wait any longer, and JC feels a slow, hot curl of arousal, leftover sensation bleeding through him in tiny shivers. He goes with it, lets his body carry him through, lacing his fingers with Chris' until there’s no movement but the gentle rocking of the car, no sound but the muted rumble of the tires on the road.

"Bad news," he says softly, brushing Chris' hair out of his eyes, "going by your earlier definition, that wasn't actually real sex --though it didn't feel that fake, either."

There's a soft huff of breath against his neck as Chris laughs. "No. But the good news is, there's still plenty of time to get it right. We're not there yet."

"That is good news." JC props himself up on one elbow, and Chris settles his head in the crook of JC's arm, his eyes closed, a look of satisfaction on his face. JC knows just how he feels. "I have to say, though-- fake sex or not, I'm kinda hungry."

Chris' eyes flicker open, and he grins up at JC. "So, ever taken a limo to Taco Bell?"

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