Written for boys in their dresses: a popslash crossdressing challenge
His To Take
There's a sea secret in me
It's plain to see it is rising
But I must be flowing liquid diamonds
Justin pushes the door open and there's Chris, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He doesn't get up, or even move. He just looks up at Justin, standing there in the doorway with one hand still on the knob, and Justin flushes. He knows how he must look, but he's nowhere near as naïve as all those photoshoots would have the country believe, and no one believes that anyway.
"Coming in, J?"
Justin's eyes lift from the quirk of Chris' mouth to find JC standing by the window, back to the room, and it's to his dim reflection that JC speaks. Justin would meet his eyes in the glass if he could, but it's dark in the room, only the one lamp by the bedside switched on, so he looks back to Chris and answers with a nod.
"Then come in," Chris tells him, and his voice isn't rough, but it's not gentle either. He's not nervous about this, Justin would be able to tell if he was nervous, but the hunch of his shoulders says that he's worried Justin might be. Justin isn't. Justin wants this more than anything, more than success, more than his momma's approval. Which is damn fortunate, he thinks as he steps into the room and lets the door fall shut with a soft click and a promise.
It's exactly six steps from the door to the bed, but every step feels like a desert mile, with Chris' eyes hot on him, and JC's back still turned, one hand pressed to the glass where Justin's watery image crosses it. It's the intensity of Chris' gaze that tells Justin he's not the only one who wants this; it's the way JC doesn't move to meet him that tells him JC wants it as badly as Chris.
When Justin reaches the edge of the bed, he stops. He wants to say something, licks his lips to say it, but there aren't any words in his throat when he opens his mouth. He's not sure how to begin this, even though it's already begun. He wants Chris to take control, to grab the situation and jimmy it along how he usually does, but the initiative is his to take, always has been, ever since turning eighteen. So he takes a breath and crawls onto the bed, hands and knees towards Chris, who scoots back towards the headboard until his back's against it, and Justin's crouched right there in front of him, so close he can see the thoughts run across Chris' face, the way his eyes widen and darken when Justin licks his lips again, the way the muscle of his jaw tenses and jumps when Justin doesn't move in.
"C." Justin doesn't look over, but he knows JC's watching now. He can feel it. "C?"
"Go on," JC says steadily, the quiet anticipation in his voice tugging at Justin, makes his stomach drop out just a bit, because yeah he wants this.
"Yeah," Chris breathes. "Come on," and his chin tilts up like a challenge, like a summons, and it's one that Justin's been wanting to meet for years, and it's all right here and right now, and the blood pounding through his body tells him to go, go, go, so he shifts forward to close the gap, and then he's kissing Chris. Chris kisses him back, and Chris has kissed him before, but never like this. His kisses before have always told Justin to wait, wait. This kiss tells Justin not to wait anymore, and he's suddenly so grateful, because it's been years of watching Chris and JC together, years of watching and miserable wanting, years of JC's soft, sympathetic eyes, of slight shakes of Chris' head.
He's breathless with the push of Chris' tongue into his mouth, inhaling sharply at the rush. Their mouths are the only parts of them touching, but Justin knows that if he leaned forward and flattened Chris' body with his own, Chris wouldn't push him away. Chris would touch him. And just like that, he's hard.
He pulls back, just a bit, and Chris lets him, watches him. "Is he-?"
"Ask him yourself."
Justin keeps looking into Chris' eyes. "Are you?"
JC doesn't answer, but Justin can hear him leaving the window, moving to the edge of the bed. He is; he has to be.
Justin remembers, because it's impossible to forget, and it wasn't that long ago anyway, after wrap was called on the shoot, and the dressing room wasn't locked because they knew he'd come find them. He had pushed open the door, Joey and Lance's laughter over their wigs still ringing in his ears, and they were in a chair together, JC on Chris' lap like he wasn't a million miles taller, curled around Chris, legs drawn up and Chris' hand smoothing over the black silk that covered JC's thigh as his mouth worked at the soft underside of JC's jaw.
'You didn't change," he had said stupidly when they had looked up at him. "We have to . . . we're going, and . . . " His words had bled away because JC's leg was still curved around Chris' waist and the tensed line of muscle was stark and perfect beneath the sheer stocking. "It's time to go," he had finished lamely, his eyes still following the circles Chris' fingertips were drawing.
"Ok, Justin," JC had said gently. "We're coming in a minute." And then he had arched, clenching his teeth as Chris nipped at his neck, and Justin had backed away, closed the door, down the hall, straight into the waiting car even before Lance, and had sat very still, with his fists on his knees, breathing very steadily. When he had gone to sleep that night, he had dreamed of pale hands against a black, satin canvas, stars shining between the fingers, far-off light and strange mystery.
Later on, when they had finally said yes and Justin had been stammering in his expectation, Chris had mentioned that day, and the fire of Justin's face had made them look at each other, and back at him.
Justin turns, sits, pulls at Chris' legs so they cradle his body, and his back is warm against Chris' chest. His knees are drawn up, and his arms go around them automatically, and yes, JC's at the foot of the bed. JC in his long-sleeve white shirt that's so soft and thin that Justin's wanted to steal it a million times, and his jeans with the fringed holes at the knees, except did he patch the jeans?
Justin knows he didn't.
"Go on, C. He's been waiting." Chris' breath hits the back of Justin's neck, and it almost distracts him from the easy flex and pull of JC's shoulders as he lifts the shirt's hem up and over his head, exposing smooth skin and the ridges of his ribs as his arms go over his head. The shirt collar musses his hair, curls it and fluffs it out, and he shakes it out of his eyes. Justin hugs his knees tighter, and Chris puts his hands on the flare of Justin's hips, not squeezing or pressing, just there, as if Justin could forget.
JC stands still for a minute, bare-chested, his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his jeans, and he looks so different from the JC Justin met a million years ago, but he really looks just the same. He still looks like someone Justin could trust. Justin does, and as he watches JC look past him to Chris, he smiles, because no matter how different this is, they're still looking to Chris for the go-ahead.
Chris doesn't say anything though, and JC waits, and Justin waits, and all the air in the room is still and heavy. Chris doesn't say anything at all, and it takes a long, long moment for Justin to realize that it's still his initiative to take. He looks at JC, draws in a breath. "Go on, C." He skims his hands down his calves, grips his ankles. "Please."
JC nods, moves his hands to the front of his jeans, and Justin knows that Chris' eyes are drawn there just as helplessly as his own. The way JC undresses is always graceful and unashamed when it's just them, when no intrusive cameras are there to document the revelation. His fingers crook and his knuckles bend, the button sliding out, and his thumb and forefinger grip the zipper and pull it down, and his hands are on his hips, pushing down and he twists just a bit, lifting one long leg, then the other, and Justin draws in another breath, quickly and harshly, because yes, he is. He's wearing them. For him.
Black stockings, sheer stockings, and they should look ludicrous casing JC's lanky legs like that, molding unforgivingly to the knob of his knees and the slimly muscled bends of his thighs, but the dim light catches the material, and JC's shining, his pale chest and his hair and his eyes, and his legs, oh his legs, so beautiful and hidden, but every detail, every sinewy inch just waiting.
JC's still standing, chin up and eyes steady, arms by his sides, when Chris lifts a hand from Justin's hip and beckons him forward. "Here, C. Let him touch you." JC obliges, sliding easily onto the bed and coming to a stop before Justin, a study in contrast, his skin and the stockings and his legs and his face all right there, and Justin wouldn't know where to touch first, except that he does, of course he does.
He reaches out, his hand not shaking at all, and his fingers slide onto JC's slim calf. So thin, even before the dancing defined the muscle, and the silky black fabric beneath his fingers makes it easy to glide upwards, under the crook of JC's knee, along the trembling underside of his thigh, and his thumb rubs over JC's hipbone as his fingers curve around, and Chris is hard behind him, and JC's hard in front of him, and Justin wants, wants, wants, so he leans forward, his hand slipping around JC's ass, his fingertips inching into the elastic band of the stockings, along the smooth, warm skin, and his mouth is open, needy, breathing warm and fast air onto the bulge that is JC's cock, trapped and confined and so, so hard behind a layer of damp silk.
JC's mouth falls open and his eyes fall closed. One hand comes to grip Justin's shoulder; Justin imagines that the other is on Chris somewhere, fingers tangling in the dark hair, or clenching Chris' shoulder through his shirt, or resting along the broad sturdiness of Chris' chest. JC rocks gently, his hips thrusting ever so slightly, and Justin's mouth is hungry, eager, tracing the shape of JC, his tongue running flat and wet against the crotch of the stockings.
"Tell me," JC whispers, when Justin's fingers begin to pull the waistband down. "Why do you like this? Me and Chris, me like this, why do you like it?"
Justin pulls back for a moment, and Chris' hands have moved to the small of his back, kneading gently, rubbing up the vertebrae, slowly gliding upwards to cup his shoulder-blades, back down along his sides where he used to be ticklish. JC's hand comes down to lift his chin, and then JC's mouth is on his, sweet and hard, tangling his tongue with Justin's as if the answer to his question lay somewhere in Justin's mouth.
"Because," Justin says into the kiss, the words swallowed and hushed and incoherent, "because I do, because I want you, I don't know."
"Ok," JC says, his lips leaving Justin's to burn a trail along Justin's jaw, and when he lifts off to kiss Chris, Justin still feels the shape of his mouth on his skin. He listens to the slick, soft sounds, closes his eyes to hear them better, and when they stop, Chris is asking him what he wants, and Chris' hands are back on him, steady and careful and moving so, so slowly down over his chest, over his stomach.
"Do you want to fuck me?" JC asks, and the words reverberate in the air as Justin shakes his head.
"What do you want?" Chris asks, his fingers smoothing over Justin's cock. Justin shudders and arches upwards, pressing his face into JC's neck, his hands tightening in the silken fabric at the rise of JC's ass. Chris' hands move back around, tug at Justin's pants, and they're being pulled off, and somehow his shirt's gone, and this is really happening, he's naked, and Chris is hard and hot behind him, and JC-
JC knows what he wants, and JC's hands turn him around, stretch him out on the bed, pausing to stroke up the length of his back, to run his nails over the fine, downy hairs at the nape of his neck, to palm his head beneath the curls that rest on Chris' thigh, and every inch of Justin's skin is electric and glowing, he could light up Los Angeles, and his arm wraps over Chris' legs and his face presses into Chris' warmth, and he wonders if they can hear him when the "please" escapes him. He didn't mean to say it; he knows it's not necessary. But he says it again, "please, please," when he hears Chris suck in a breath of air, and again, "oh, please, now, please," when JC's hands move back down, over his ass for a lingering moment before their pressure vanishes.
He hears a rustling, softly scraping noises, and Chris makes a dissenting hum. "Leave them, C. Just, just down enough, ok?" Chris' voice is ragged, and it catches as Justin rearranges his arm so that it presses against the solid bulge of Chris' cock. "Christ, god. Leave them, yeah." Chris touches a careful hand to Justin's hair. "You see him, J?"
Justin can't see JC, but that's not what Chris means, Chris means can he picture him, and he can, yes he can, lean bare ass and cock hard and red, and his legs beneath him, smooth and sheer silk, black and shining as he lines up.
"Justin." JC's hand is back, warm on Justin's side. "You want me?"
'Please," Justin mutters, and it's been so long, it's been forever that he's been wanting this, he doesn't know how to want anything else, Chris next to him, JC above him, god, JC with those long, unbroken lines, JC's leg curved around Chris, taut muscle, so beautiful in silk, and Justin can't even think of anything else when JC pushes, pushes, brightly burning into him.
"Baby," JC whispers, and god, oh god it hurts, but JC's hand is steady on the small of his back and Chris' fingers play lightly on his cheek, and he is surrounded, just surrounded, and he barely even notices when Chris slips his leg between Justin's, but his body knows to grind down, oh sweet, so hard, oh shit, and his hips push back towards JC, and he's caught between the two of them, where he always wanted to be.
JC's fucking into him now, and it doesn't hurt anymore, not when Chris is firm beneath him, and JC's got his hand on Justin's spine as he slides in, rhythmic, pulls out, and Justin reaches out blindly and his fingers brush the smooth silken slide of JC's thigh, where the stockings press into his skin, Justin whimpers and his body is jackknifing between the two of them, and he presses down and bucks up, his skin is on fire, he'll never dance as good as this movement, as sure and perfect.
"I love-" he gasps out, and JC thrusts, thrusts, and Chris is holding him, their words overlapping, they're saying, what are they saying, and god, he's overflowing, can't contain it, and he's coming, he's coming, and he hears them as JC comes, frantic and groaning, and Chris' lap is warm and damp, and god, his vision blacks at the edges, sparks behind his eyelids, every single part of him howling and howling because he's never felt this good, ever.
"J," he hears, from very far away, and he can feel hands on his back, on his arms, moving him, turning him, and he doesn't want to go to sleep. So he opens his eyes and sits up, like it's every day he does this with his friends, like he's used to it.
He could get used to it.