January 10, 2004

Disclaimer: Fred Flintstone is really straight. Written because Ian McKellen thinks it's better to channel aggressive impulses into writing smut, and I am his willing slave. Do not archive this story without permission.

Potato chips and roulette wheels

It's late, or maybe it's early, and JC's dry-eyed with fatigue but there's an itch right under his skin, keeping him awake. He's looking at pictures, prom queens with implants, wide-eyed anime girls with their spines unreally arched and twisted, hopelessly complicated bondage with boyscout-earnest knot-tying instructions. The internet is totally letting him down with all this boring porn and he doesn't know why he keeps on clicking, except it's a bit like eating potato chips, each one leaves a slightly bad aftertaste and a stupid hope that the next one will be better.

And then his phone rings, and he doesn't want to answer it, but hell, this really isn't working for him anyway. Maybe, considering what time it is, someone is calling him to tell him about a burglary or the end of the world. JC looks at the display and shakes his head. Probably not the end of the world, then. "Hey, J. What's up?"

"Nothin'." Justin yawns. "Just woke up. Whatcha doing?"

"Looking at porn on the internet."

Justin laughs a little. "Any good?"

"No." JC clicks on yet another link and a zillion popup windows burst out all over his screen like flowers in one of those freaky fast-forward-through-the-seasons nature programs. "You wouldn't believe how bored they all look."

"Oh, yeah, I would. Dude, seriously, get a girlfriend. Or whatever."

"Whatever?" JC stares at a picture of something with way too many tentacles, and wonders what a tentacle gets out of being stuffed into a random orifice. He leans closer to the screen. "Shit, she's got one in her ear."

"I don't want to know," Justin says. There's a rustle of sheets. "Do I?"

"I didn't even want to know." JC leans back in the chair and puts his feet on the desk. "Okay, I'm swearing off the porn for tonight. Talk dirty to me, bay-bee."

"Porn porn porn fuck fuck fuck," Justin says. "That'll be a hundred dollars. Visa or MasterCard?" He yawns again. "Listen, I had a great idea, I'm going to Vegas in two weeks for the charity auction and I've got three whole days, you wanna meet me there? We can hang out and waste money and visit historic sites."

"They have historic sites in Vegas?" Then JC gets it and grins. "Okay, I promise to take your picture right where Brit got married."

"'Sides," Justin says, "Vegas is kind of like porn. Like, at the slot machines, you have to try again. You keep thinking the next one will be really good."

JC squints at the screen, where a pop-up Fred Flintstone is banging Wilma in lousy animation. So it isn't just him, then. "That's not a good line if you wanna sell me on going."

"Okay, okay. Fuck suck lick oh baby what a big boy you are, is that better? That'll be another hundred dollars. I'm thinking roulette."

JC grins. "I'm thinking National Enquirer. Justin Timberlake sells phone sex to finance gambling habit! All it needs is some drugs to be the perfect scandal."

"Gay phone sex," Justin points out, "unless you had a sex change and didn't tell me. That oughtta make up for the lack of drugs."

JC can hear him stretching and turning over. Really great cell phone reception, especially for an international call. "Tell me what you're wearing."

"A pink lace negligee, garters, black stockings, and four-inch spike heels." Justin snorts. "I'm in bed, okay? I just woke up. I'm wearing a sheet and a cell phone."

"Yeah, you're really turning me on, here."

"Hey, maybe you have a cell phone fetish." The sleepy morning burr is clearing from Justin's voice. "I'm hot, you freaky phone sex customer, you better believe it. And if you really want me to be wearing four-inch heels you called the wrong phoneline."

"You called me," JC says. "Pretty aggressive marketing."

"I'm going to Vegas, I need the money. Fuck fuck moan fuck moan ooh baby yeah fuck moan. That's three hundred you owe me now."

"Totally worth the money. You sound like you're so into it." JC snorts. "Moan."

"I knew you were getting off on this." Justin chuckles. "Look, I gotta go, I need breakfast. I'll email you with all the Vegas details. Give your right hand a kiss from me."

"Fucker," JC says affectionately.

"Love you too," Justin says and hangs up.

JC turns his phone off, if the world ends he's sure to notice anyway, and tosses it down to lie on his sweater on the floor. He unbuttons his jeans and slides a hand in to squeeze his dick. He's really hard now and it has nothing to do with Fred Flintstone, thank God. He strokes himself, pretty fast, he's tired and his eyes are gritty and there's no point in drawing it out. He pictures Justin in bed, naked, just a sheet tangled around him. Bed-warmed skin. Sleepy sexy eyes.

Then there's a giant black spike-heeled boot in the bed, too. Imaginary Justin grins at JC and says fuck fuck fuck moan groan fuck love you big boy, and when JC comes, he's laughing.

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