6 October 2002 popslash Rating: NC-17 love me like you mean it, baby In the dark. Goes with Clockwork. Colourblind
Lance doesn't have his tie anymore, because he used it to truss up JC. It was this sick, twisted, almost-funny moment: Lance pressing JC into the topiary, whispering porn and lashing him to an overhanging branch with a necktie. Fucking sexy in a way Joey's still trying to sort out. The wide-eyed, scurrying event planners who put this particular party together are definitely going to their very own version of heaven. In the spirit of thinking outside the box, they actually moved the whole thing out of New York City. An hour and a half by limo convoy to this tangle of Westchester brick and ivy and water. Every legal chemical extant is on offer inside, the music doesn't suck, and the great outdoors beckons. He wonders whether Lance has been here before, or whether he's finding his way by instinct. Lance pulled Joey out of the party after an hour, kissed him in the rain. Warm wind and water soaking both their jackets. He followed where Lance pulled him and wound up knee deep in a lake, kissing his way down toward his boyfriend's heart. One of his rolled-up pantlegs slid down into the water, and the rain pooled in their shoes, and he didn't care. There are other people in the garden, but they're mostly making out or just quietly fucking against convenient walls. No one even looked at them until JC did. And JC's tied and quiet now, waiting for the next knight in shining armour, with or without princess in tow, to let him loose. Lance kisses him in the shadow of the house, in the lake, between the hedges, under a dozen big trees, against a potting shed whose dirty windows don't quite reflect the lights from the house. Joey kisses Lance every ten steps across the lawn, under the balcony, on a log at the lake's edge, against the dark french doors. Tongue in his mouth, lips moving across his face. Touching him quietly, under his clothes and along his back. Warm hands on his hips pushing him inside. Everything's unlocked. There's so little personality he thinks no one must live here at all. It's just a house, permanently full of anonymous people playing hide-and-seek-and-fuck in the dark. Upstairs, there are suites with no locks on the doors and no personal touches. Some pieces of furniture have sheets thrown over them. There are all the necessary beds, and sometimes there are soft breath sounds coming from behind closed doors. Joey has fantasies about being able to curl up with Lance in a corner of the real party, away downstairs, and kiss him quietly all night. He remembers Anna Kournikova spread across Enrique Iglesias' lap, close to losing her pants and smiling down at him, and yeah, there are pictures of that, but just for Rolling Stone. Tabloids'll save the shot to doctor for her next rumour. But he remembers the Oscar party they went to last year, where actresses just settled on top of their husbands in chairs and held perfectly normal conversations with people and reporters, and nobody cared. Joey's stupid, because he wants these things and he makes decisions that ensure he won't get them. In this particular guestroom, it's dark and the lights won't come on. Joey thinks there might not even be bulbs in the sockets. He likes it. He can hear it raining -- the water hitting glass is louder than the music. Or different, at least. The rain's somewhere up in tenor range; the music is bass. It slides through Lance's voice, whispering soft affection to him. Naked skin against his shirt whispers in the middle of the kiss. Their clothes are soaking wet. Everything smells like cologne and wet wool and skin. Lance tastes citrus-y -- something he drank earlier, lemon twisted into rum and coke. He rubs Joey's stomach, tracing muscle-shapes under the soft flesh. Hooks a finger in Joey's navel and twists until he feels it. Kinky, sexy, sneaky fucker. Possibly the hottest fucking thing he's ever touched. Lance is quiet on his feet, fast out of a chair, and soft and smart on his back. He fits into Joey's body every time they're close enough to touch. Kisses him every time no one's looking. Joey knows the taste of the palm of Lance's hand as well as he knows the taste of his mouth. Wrapped around kissing him, rubbing down his side. If Joey was braver, he'd have gone digging through one of the bathrooms in this shell of a house until he found something slick enough to let them fuck. Without it, they're only touching. Close and slow and sweet, both of them on their sides, Joey's thigh between Lance's. And Lance may be the engineer of their universe, but this, at least, is something Joey created. He taught them this, how to make sex last for hours. Slow and dirty make-out sessions as good as or better than sex. He remembers Lance at eighteen, shirtless and wrapped around him, growling at him to hurry up and fuck already. What he looked like when Joey held him down and kissed his throat and laughed at him. Lance's fingers are in Joey's mouth when the door opens. Wrapped up so tight that Joey isn't totally sure which legs are his, it feels so fucking good. He sees it first, twitches, feels Lance still and tense. He goes to look, but Lance tugs down and kisses him. This careful, cradling touch around his ear while Lance whispers, "Don't look," into his mouth. The hall isn't bright, but Joey can still see the open door cracking light across Lance's skin. A dark body he doesn't get to identify, because Lance won't let him loose. Don't look. Don't. don'tlookdon'tlook. Kisses him until he relaxes again, moves into the body against him. Don't look don't care don't let go of me. That mouth, the body, this guy he thinks he might be fucking in love with fighting against every nerve in his body screaming caught caught caught. Relax. I love you. Don't look. And. He was waiting for words, for a camera flash, for the someone in question to leave, but they (he/she/demon it) don't. Lance is warm and soft against him, whispering filthy things into his skin. He grinds against Joey's cock until he can't think about anything else. Frantic thrusts that push their cocks together. Lance's hand on Joey's thigh slides in and rubs behind his balls. Good like he might go blind. Lance drives against him, pushes just right, and Joey comes. Groans quietly against warm skin. He goes to pull back and bend, go down on Lance and show him exactly how good that just felt, but Lance holds him in place. Kisses him again and rubs frantically until he comes too, then lies in Joey's arms, panting. They're quiet like that for a while, tangled and breathing down from the sex-high. Nuzzling each other. Lance says, "Satisfied?" Joey flinches. He'd be lying to claim he ever really forgot, but he was successfully not-thinking about their watcher. Tense again, waiting for the (large, possibly atomic) shoe to drop. "It would make more of a statement if you did it in public." The voice is a soft English growl he should know. He can feel Lance arch against him and then loosen enough that Joey can look where he wants. So he looks. Silhouetted, blurry. Messy hair, cheekbones that he'd kill for. And he should know who this is, but his sex-soft brain isn't providing anything as useful as a name. So he just looks. Holds his face in an expression that he hopes is more 'fuck you' than 'what the fuck'. Lance is writing letters onto his hip, telling him. D-A-V-I-D B-O-W-I-E. For a minute or so, the letters don't make any sense, and Joey hopes the confusion isn't showing on his face either. He tries to look blank. Waits for him to leave. Except he doesn't. Just stands there like this whole thing's a play and in a minute Joey or Lance is going to remember they have a line and keep going. Until Lance gets out of bed and picks up his boxers, walks to the door holding them, still naked. Lays both hands against that skinny chest and pushes him out. Slams the door and leans against it. Joey gets himself pulled together and over to Lance about the time Lance's knees give and he slides to the floor. Both of them tangled again, on the floor, hugging quietly. Lance's boxers are draped over their thighs. They do get up, eventually, and feel feel around in the dark for the rest of their clothes. Rub themselves down with the bedspread. Joey prays they can find a bathroom between here and downstairs, because they both smell more like sex than he ever wants to in a public place. Kissing while they button each other up, but mostly not touching. Lance is shakier than he's letting on, or maybe hysterical, because every so often he lets out something that might be a laugh. Neither of them tucks their shirts in, but he thinks the party's probably reached the point where formalwear starts to look pretty post-sex even on the people who kept their clothes on. He should probably be grateful he's in an industry full of guys who live in t-shirts and jeans. It makes his occasional fashion disasters less important. Just. At the top of the stairs, in the dark, he wraps himself around Lance and hugs him for ages. Face in his hair. He could back up now. Step into the light and pull Lance with him, and they could kiss in a place where everyone can see them. He really feels like he could.
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