No Such Thing Oh, for god's sake.
"I'm fucking coming already!" he yells into the darkness and scrambles out of bed. If this is some weirdo stalker, he's gonna give her the Eminem treatment, swear to fucking god.
Bang bang bang bang.
"Stop hammering on that thing," he mutters and opens the door to a crack. It's Justin. Of course. "Jesus Christ, it's three am, man."
"Let me in, dude, come on." And he does, because, hell. It's Justin.
"What's up?" Justin almost falls into the hall. "What are you-- are you drunk?"
"Not really. Well. A little."
"Uhuh. Let me make you some coffee." He grabs Justin's arm and tugs him along into the kitchen.
"Wait, wait. Chris, man. I wanna--"
"What?" Justin balks in the doorway. He's looking down. Blushing. Honest to god scraping his foot. "What is it?"
"uh. yeah. uh. man. um. dude." He takes a deep breath and blurts it out in a blur of words. "Can I give you a blowjob? Cause I gotta learn how by Thursday."
Chris blinks. Justin's still blushing and looking at his feet. Chris blinks again. Nope, the scene is still the same. "Come again?"
"I'm sorry, man. I know it's kinda weird," Justin says, straightening up. He meets Chris' eyes. "But it's a question of ... honour! It's about honour. My sense of, uh, manly pride. And stuff."
"I'm not following you. In what way does your manly pride connect to your ability to suck cock?"
There's more blushing and foot-scraping, and Chris goes to put the coffee on. Now he needs it for himself. Coffee or a stiff drink. Either or. Maybe both. Hmm. Does he have any Scotch?
"Um. Lance kinda. BetmeIcouldn'tdoit," Justin mumbles from his place in the doorway. He seems to be hanging onto the doorframe for dear life.
"Kid, how many times have I told you never to make bets with Lance? He always wins. It's like a rule."
"Well, I was drunk," Justin says with a sniff. "And he was being a pain in the ass."
"You're a pain in the ass, dude."
"I'm sorry. I'll just go out and find a hustler, then. I mean, seeing as you don't want a blowjob and all."
"Justin. Shut up and ... have some coffee. Christ." The coffee machine's still bubbling away, but he pulls the pot out and pours Justin a cup anyway. "Drink."
"There's no sugar in this."
"Oh, for fuck's sake." He gets the sugar and drops in two. Three. Four cubes. "Happy? Drink it."
He gets a cup for himself and gulps it down. Black and sugarless and chock-full of caffeine. He feels it zinging through his brains. Who needs illegal drugs? Coffee gets him going just fine, and it's cheap and legal and blessedly available.
"Okay," he says after a while. He's already feeling a lot better. Awake. Ready to get this latest crisis out of the way. "What exactly was this bet about?"
Justin's looking a lot less like he's about to pass out cold. "We were just talking. And I may or may not have said I was better than him at everything." Chris only has time to raise his eyebrows before Justin goes on, hastily, "I didn't mean it! I was drunk. And he was bugging me. I think."
"I can see where this is going. Justin, you're a moron. Lance is less a moron than you. See? You can go tell him that, and you'll be even."
"I can't!" He hangs his head. "There was a witness. Possibly. Possibly more than one."
Chris groans. Justin has a special skill for getting himself into trouble. He shouldn't be allowed to drink. In fact, he shouldn't be allowed to go out at all without a babysitter. Especially not with Lance. "Okay," he says. "Okay. You wanna learn? I'm good to go. Just - go to town."
"Yeah?" Justin looks hopeful for about two seconds before his eyes cloud over with knowledge. Guess he finally finished the thought, Chris thinks and waits. "Fuck," Justin says. "Dude."
"Can't do it?"
"Fuck. I know I can. I know. I can. I'm good." Chris can almost hear the rest of it. I'm good because I'm Justin Timberlake and that's what I am. Justin buys a lot of his own hype and spends an inordinate amount of time trying to live up to it. It's interesting to watch him talk himself into things like this. Failure is not a word in his vocabulary. "Okay. Okay. Let's do it."
"Here?"
"Dunno, dunno. It's a little weird." The look he's giving Chris is an endearing mix of nerves and tooth-grinding determination, and Chris thinks now would be a very bad time to laugh. So he bites his lip and says,
"Okay. Let's go to the living room."
They sit on the couch, and by now, Chris is starting to feel pretty weird himself. Maybe this is something best done while shitfaced drunk. Maybe this is something best not done at all. Justin has a romantic streak. Chris doesn't think he does casual sex much. This is a stupid fucking idea, but Justin has made up his mind, and he's blushing and - face it, Kirkpatrick - looking pretty damn cute doing it. Cute. Hell, hot. He's got a mouth on him; one made for more than talking trash, that's for sure.
"So," Chris says. "Um. Obviously you know this, but there really is no such thing as a bad blowjob."
"I know. I know."
"And you'll be good. Really. You have a--" Jesus Christ, "--good mouth."
"Yeah?" He's taking that as a compliment. Yay for solid self-esteem.
"Yeah," Chris says. Justin is still looking at him with bright eyes. Expectant. Puppy waiting for a treat. Chris sighs and says, "shit. C'mere," and reaches for him. He can't quite bring himself to just pushing the kid down. They're friends. So he pulls Justin close and kisses him, and somewhere between opening his mouth to deepen the kiss and threading his fingers through tangled curls, he forgets about the artificial situation and gets into it. And realises that he would very much like Justin to suck his cock right now. Cause the kid really does have a good mouth. I'm going to hell, he thinks distractedly and puts his hands on Justin's shoulders.
He doesn't have to push, though, because Justin simply glides down without any hesitation and goes for his fly. With commendable enthusiasm.
Chris looks down to see him close his eyes and bow his head. And fuck, but it is blessedly true: there is no such thing as a bad blowjob, and god love the boy, he's always prepared to put in that little bit of extra effort. When he feels he has something to gain, or something to prove, or just wants to show off. Chris does understand where Lance is coming from. It can be annoying to get this rubbed in your face, this constant overachieving.
But - Jesus! - Chris is not a hundred percent sympathetic at the moment. Maybe not even fifty percent. Twenty. And then he stops thinking about percentages; that thought flutters away on a rush of other, stop-start-confusing thoughts and he tries to pull it together, because damnit, he's supposed to be, like, teaching here.
"Uh," he says. His voice has dropped an octave. Or two. He thinks about Lance again, briefly. The guy must sound like fucking Barry White when he's getting head. Then Justin pushes down - ooh, ambitious - and pulls back quickly - too ambitious - and Chris mumbles, "don't try. Too ... hard, you don't. wanna--" but he loses his train of thought before he reaches the end of the sentence. What was he saying again? He pets Justin's head, tries to concentrate on the springy texture of the curls rather than on tongue, lips, tongue, mouth, tongue again, hotwarmwet, Jesus fuck--
He catches the tail end of a thought and says, "--wouldn't wanna. Shit-- wouldn't wanna gag on--" but Justin is definitely testing the limits and Chris decides that natural talent in combination with a stubborn streak a mile wide more than makes up for lack of experience any old day, and there really isn't anything Justin can't do, is there? This is going fast, though, way fast, rushing, roller coaster fast, and Chris looks down again and that's, that's really fast. And, and, "you'll wanna back off if. You don't wanna- wanna--" but Justin just hangs on and Chris tightens his fists around thick strands of hair and comes, car-crash sudden.
Justin stays where he is, rides it out before backing off slowly. He looks up and meets Chris' eyes under lowered lashes. Wipes his mouth, his red, deliciously swollen mouth. Even fucking licks the corners, and his fingers, still looking up with an expression just this side of debauched. Or possibly crossing over. Debauched. Oh, Christ.
Justin blinks and the corner of his mouth - his goddamn red, pretty mouth - curls a little. "How'd I do?" he asks, and there is a hint of self-satisfaction in his tone. He knows how he did. Of course he does, it's gotta be stamped all over Chris' flushed face.
"Good--" Chris tries. Has to stop and swallow and collect himself. Get his voice to sound like his voice again. "You did good, man. Um. For a beginner."
Justin is sitting back on his heels, both attendant and smug. Chris feels like he should be contributing with some more input here. He's not coming up with anything useful, though. Maybe once his brain starts firing on all cylinders again.
"That was fun," Justin says suddenly. "I thought it was kinda. Fun." He seems to be having some kind of moment there. Revelation. Chris feels altruistic again. Magnanimous, even. And red-lipped and kneeling is a good look for Justin, and it's late and Chris just had a huge cup of coffee and an orgasm and they're battling for dominance in his body right now - sleep or spazz out, sleep or spazz out? He settles for pulling Justin up and into his lap and kissing him, kissing his red, wet mouth. Justin squirms in his lap, delicious small movements and Chris realises that yeah, the kid really liked doing that, no question, and coffee plus orgasm equals boundless altruism, so he pushes Justin down on the sofa and strokes him through his pants, not too hard. Justin hisses and arches his back and doesn't seem to have any objections.
Maybe a more hands-on approach to teaching, then. An example. It's been a while, but they say it's like riding a bicycle. Or something. It's not, though. Riding a bicycle just isn't this, this fun. He gets Justin's fly undone and his pants tugged down - no underwear, nature boy? - and it's all about reciprocation. And the fact that he does think this is fun, too.
Justin's not going to hold on for very long, though, because he's already shivering and seems to be trying very hard to be a good boy and not just let go and thrust up. Chris pulls back and whispers, "go on, don't hold back," because he's not a beginner and can handle it, and it's - good. Good to feel Justin relax for a second before arching and bucking and writhing. There's also gasping and possibly whimpering going on and Chris grabs the sharp curves of his hipbones and hangs on and takes it.
A short, sharp cry and that's it, he can gulp it down and breathe and crawl up along Justin's long, trembling body and smile at him - maybe not hitting quite the same mix of innocence and seductiveness as Justin, but close enough - and kiss him and say, "like that. You'll do good."
"Good," Justin says, already sleepy. "Good."
Chris rests his head on Justin's chest for a while. Justin's breathing slowly, steadily, and one of his hands is stroking Chris' hair while the other one's rubbing his back. It's all very comfortable. Sweet. Comfortable. Sweet.
Very sweet.
Quick rewind, because Chris' brain is still well-caffeinated: Lance. Bet. Blowjob. What the fuck?
"Justin?" he says.
"Hmmm?"
He pushes himself up a little. Justin is looking at him with his blameless blue eyes.
"What?" Justin says when Chris keeps on looking at him. Chris holds his eyes for five seconds more, until Justin breaks eye contact and mutters, "what are you staring at, man."
"That wasn't really your first blowjob, was it?" Chris asks. Justin's eyes widen. He blinks rapidly, butterfly flutter of long lashes against his cheeks. Then he shakes his head mutely. "And the bet?"
Justin squirms in his seat. He's looking at his hands. When he looks up at Chris, helplessly, Chris just raises an eyebrow. "No bet," Justin mutters.
"You're a sly little motherfucker, aren't you?" Chris says, shaking his head. He gets off the sofa, stretches. No way is he sleeping there. He'll be twisted into a pretzel come morning.
Justin sits up and buttons his pants. His eyes are downturned, and he's looking a little scared, suddenly. "Are you gonna kick me out now?"
"No," Chris says.
"Are you pissed?"
"No."
"Are you--"
"What kind of dumb-ass story was that?" Chris interrupts. He's trying not to roll his eyes.
And now Justin looks up, and he's looking like a puppy that just got a wallop with the rolled-up newspaper. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he says.
"A good idea."
"I didn't think you'd go for it--"
"Stupid boy," Chris says - this sounds exactly like something Justin would cook up at three am, after five shots. "You didn't have to lie."
He thinks about his bed. The caffeine is settling, and the bed is starting to feel like the most viable option. Soft down and cotton, warm and snug. "I'm going to bed," he says.
"okay," Justin says quietly. He's chewing on his lower lip. Chris wants to kiss him.
"Are you coming?" he says, instead, and Justin lights up, summer morning bright. He's up off the sofa in a smooth, easy movement.
"is it okay?" he asks.
Okay? Okay? Jesus. Chris thinks about his bed again. Warm and snug. With a warm and sleepy boy to share it with. Okay? "It's okay," he says and smiles. Justin smiles back.
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