Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/168311.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Other
  Fandom:
      Popslash
  Character:
      Chris_Kirkpatrick, Justin_Timberlake, Lynn_Harless
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-03-07 Words: 2136
****** on the dark side of the bed. ******
by halowrites
Summary
     written for the Boys In Their Dresses challenge.
"I knocked," Chris says, and of all the things he should have said, it barely
even rates. Yet those are the words that slip from his mouth, are all he can
think of to say.
"I heard you." Justin half-turns, the movement strangely graceful, and Chris’
breath catches in his chest, his fingers curling hard and fierce into his
palms. Deep rich red silk panties, and Justin is wearing them, is smoothing his
hands over the softly-gathered waistband, tilting his hip so the fabric flares
slightly, and Chris has to drag his gaze away from where silk meets shadow at
the pale crease of Justin’s inner thigh.
"I’ll just—" Chris says, not even realising he’s been slowly moving toward the
door until he feels it against his back, smooth and cool and solid, and he
hears his teeth snap together, prickles of heat rippling between his
shoulderblades.
"It’s okay," Justin says quietly, "you can stay." He sounds strange and
faraway, almost like he’s talking to himself, and this is wrong, Chris thinks.
I shouldn’t be here.
"Justin, I really—"
"Stay." Spoken a lot closer than a moment before, because Justin’s on the bed
now, sitting on the edge of the mattress, red silk pulled taut across the tops
of his thighs.

French knickers

, Chris thinks, that’s what they’re called. The absurdity of the thought
strikes him, and he swallows down the nervous laughter he can feel bubbling
just under his skin. "Okay," he manages, hoping his voice sounds halfway
normal, wondering if it betrays the pulse skittering in his throat, "okay, but
just for a moment."
"Sit down if you want to," Justin says, but Chris stays where he is, back
pressed flat to the door, his skin tight and thrumming. "And you can touch,"
Justin says softly, and this time it is to himself, the words whispered as he
falls back slowly onto the bed, his eyes fluttering closed, his hands slipping
beneath the waistband of the panties.
Chris doesn’t want to watch, but he can’t not watch, can’t move his eyes away,
not when it’s taking him all his time to stay standing. Brilliant red bleeds
beneath the curve of Justin’s wrist, and Chris concentrates on the row of tiny
dark hairs where skin slips into more skin, pale and cool. Milk, he thinks,
pale like milk.
Not like milk at all, but it’s in his head now, unbidden, jittering behind his
eyes and it won’t go, can’t get rid of it, it’s just there, and if he could
move, could move away, he’d write it down, store it away for later, to be taken
out and examined in someplace that is not here and not now.
But it is here and now, and the slow whisper of skin across silk is soft and
hypnotic, and Chris wraps his fingers tightly in the hem of his t-shirt to keep
them still, to stop from touching himself. He’s so hard he wants to cry. The
cotton is scratchy-slick against his fingertips, catching on a hangnail, and he
swears softly under his breath.
Another soft noise and Chris sees that on the bed, Justin has opened his eyes
and is watching him carefully. He’s still stroking himself slowly, a strange
and heady mix of coquettish and sly beneath thick black lashes, long legs
spread beneath him, and he shouldn’t look like this at all, shouldn’t sound
like that—
And Justin’s fingers, not awkward or clumsy at all, deftly working to cup and
stroke and then splay across his belly, to slip once again beneath the
waistband of the panties. "Watch," Justin whispers, and Chris can’t do anything
but, can’t look away from the slow, shadowed movements. Heat flares again,
thick and sudden, and he bites back the noises he wants to make as he watches,
swallows down the words he wants to speak even as his lips move soundlessly to
form around them.

Watch

, Justin said, and so Chris does. Watches the way Justin is moving, almost
shimmying on the bed, twisting his body every which way, silk pulled tight
against his belly, across the plane of his hips. "Feels good," Justin whispers,
barely a breath, but Chris hears it, feels the words burning into his skin,
slipping along his spine.
Justin shifts a little, sliding himself higher on the bed, tilting his hips and
arching his back, and still, the slow, measured glide of his hand beneath the
sheer fabric. He sets a rhythm, back and forth, rocking into his own curled
fingers, the tip of his cock appearing slick and obscene on each upward stroke.
"Chris," he gasps, his hand moving faster now, his breath choppy and uneven and
as Chris watches, Justin’s body bows and curves, the muscles in his thighs
locking as he shudders through his orgasm, wetness slowly blossoming across red
silk like blood.
Chris bites hard into his lip, concentrates on the sharp, bright pain, his
fingers still tightly curled in his t-shirt, tight enough to burn and sting. He
closes his eyes, counting slowly in his head, and waits, even though he’s not
even really sure what he’s waiting for. Something, anything, other than this.
"mmm," he hears—Justin, and he’s moving again, shifting on the bed. Chris
blinks, focuses, and Justin has rolled onto his stomach, hands tucked under his
head, legs curled up. A tiny slice of panic in Chris’ belly, and he breathes
through it, clears his throat softly. "Justin, c’mon--"
"Shh," Justin murmurs, voice thick and drowsy, "'m sleeping, Chris—"
"Justin, you have to— the panties. Ms Harl—yourmom, she can’t. Justin, she
can’t see you like this—"
"’kay," Justin sighs softly, and with eyes still closed, he lifts his hips off
the bed a little, hooks his thumbs into the waistband and slides them down,
stopping only when they get twisted around his feet. "Stuck," he mumbles, face
pressed into the pillow, and he looks so awkward for a moment that Chris almost
takes a step forward to help him.
Almost.
"C’mon, J," Chris says quietly, "nearly there, alright?"
Justin’s reply is grunted softly into the pillow, his movements slow and
dreamlike, but he finally manages to pull the tangle of silk and lace free,
kicking it away with a half-hearted flick of his foot. He says something Chris
can’t quite hear, tiny nonsense words, heavy with sleep and heat, then rolls
over, curling an arm under his pillow. Deep, even breaths, and Chris knows he’s
asleep already, has listened to those same sounds countless times before.

Go

, he thinks, get out and just go. He’s still hard, almost painfully so, and for
a moment, even walking seems beyond him, too much sensation to handle, his skin
hot and shimmering with each and every breath he takes. One step, then another,
and Chris shifts away from the door enough to find the handle. Go, he thinks
again, go now, and he does, pausing only to take the crumpled panties off the
bed and slip them into his pocket.
 
*
 

No

, he hears, murmured soft and low somewhere in the dim room, no, it’s okay.
Slow down.
His own voice and Chris barely recognises it, can hardly hear anything over the
blood pounding in his head, throbbing between his legs.

Slow down

. And he does, pulse stuttering in his throat, deep, even breaths, closes his
eyes as he lowers his head, down and down and down, until he feels his lips
touch damp scarlet.
The silk tastes of nothing at all against his tongue, even though he’d thought
of blood oranges, of thick, ripe watermelon flesh, of tart and shiny apples
slick and slippery between his teeth. It tastes of nothing at all but feels
like glass splinters shattering in his mouth, bright slivers that bleed the air
from him in tiny hitches, stretch his lungs and make light spark and flare
behind his eyes.
His fingers feel clumsy and awkward and wrong, the heat that’s coiled low in
his belly slowly turning to something crawling and heavy. Too heavy, and he
can’t, he can’t—
He fumbles at the waistband of his sweatpants, managing to drag them down to
his knees, trying not to trip over as he leans back against his bedroom door.
Soft, smooth fabric twisted between his fingers and then it’s silk against skin
once more, his strokes rough and urgent, and he bites into his forearm to keep
from making a noise. When he comes, barely moments later, it’s hard and fast
and it’s all he can do to keep standing upright.
 
 
*
 
 
"Chris, honey," Lynn says, "can I have a word with you?"
She’s folding laundry, long nails flashing scarlet against white cotton, sheets
neatly squared away with a practiced flick of her wrist. Behind her, Justin
sits at the kitchen table with a stack of schoolbooks, one open in front of
him. He looks over at Chris and grins, and Chris has to look away. "Sure, " he
says, and his throat is dry and tight. "What’s up?"
"In here," she says, and her fingers are wrapped around his wrist, leading him
into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind them. "It’s nothing, really,"
she says, smiling, a mirror of Justin’s grin. "Don’t look so worried, okay?"
"Okay." But Chris’ heartbeat is still doing double-time in his chest all the
same, and it’s stupid, because it’s just Lynn, and there’s nothing—
"I found these," she says quietly, and Chris doesn’t even have to look, sees
the shimmer of red in her hand, and his belly flips over and over, something
cold and solid in the pit of it. "In your room, when I was gathering up your
laundry."
"I can—"
"No, honey—it’s okay." She places a finger against his lips, and makes a small
hushing sound. "Really, it’s okay. I’m not angry. I just." She smiles again,
glances down at the small crumple of silk in her hand, absently tracing over
the intricate lace with a long, scarlet fingernail. "I don’t mind you bringing
girls to the house."
Chris bites back the small sound of relief he wants to make, slips his hands
into his pockets so she won’t see how much they’re shaking. He doesn’t trust
his voice, but he has to say something, because she’s looking at him, waiting.
"Girls," he says, "yeah. I’m. I should have said."
She shrugs, a tiny shiver of her shoulders. "Don’t worry about it," she says in
a low voice, like she’s spilling secrets. "I know you must need—well. I just
want you to be careful. With, y’know--" --a small tilt of her head toward the
closed door-- "--Justin. He’s still so young, and all. You know how he looks up
to you."
Chris nods, and his head feels as if it might float away at any second. Just
come loose from his body and roll away along the hallway. It wouldn’t be any
more bizarre than this conversation, he thinks, and curls his fingers hard into
his palm to focus. "Sure," he says finally. "Sure, Ms Harless—I understand."
"I knew you would," she says, and reaches for his hand, slides it right out of
his pocket. "And it's Lynn." Silk, smooth and cool against his skin, slipped
between his fingers and the sudden shock of lace makes him gasp a little. "I
thought you might want them back. They certainly don’t fit me." This time Chris
can’t speak, so he nods again. "I washed them," she murmurs, and watches him
for just a moment too long, then leans close, close enough he can smell the
waxy-sweet scent of her lipstick, can feel the brush of her lips across his
cheek. Warm breath slipping into his ear, her fingers pressed against his back,
and, "you’re such a good boy," whispered low and secret before she slips away,
leaving him standing alone in the hallway.
 
*
 
Justin looks up when Chris walks into the kitchen, silhouetted against the late
afternoon sun, a carton in his hand. "Mom’s gone out," he says after a mouthful
of milk, sharp white teeth and impossibly pink, pink lips, his tongue snaking
out to lick them clean. "Here. Dinner might be a little late."
An apple, tossed across the counter, and Chris snatches it out of the air
almost by reflex. He cups it in the palm of his hand, turning it round and
round, cool and smooth and red beneath his fingertips. "Justin," he says
softly, only because he thinks he should.
"She’ll be an hour or so, she said." Justin brushes past, his skin stained
scarlet and gold in the half-light. "Wanna come watch some tv in my room?"
Chris lets his teeth sink into the apple, perfect flesh crisp and melting
bittersweet across his tongue. "Sure," he says, and follows Justin through the
door.
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