nsync in black and white

Fiction by Pen . . . . . not real, made up, purely intended for entertainment

Sit! Stay!

This had the potential to be a very good day, Lance thought. If—and okay, it was a pretty big if—if JC did not get completely caught up with micromeasured, unrecognizable-except-to-bats adjustments to his existing tracks, they could probably go back upstairs before Lance fell asleep, and have great sex.

Lance had been reflecting on the many benefits of having JC as an occasional lover ever since JC called yesterday. Well, this morning. Or maybe it counted as late last night, really, since neither of them had had any sleep at that point. Whatever. They wouldn't be getting much sleep tonight, either, at least, Lance hoped not, because JC had a wicked tongue, and skillful hands, and those astonishing elasticated hips which could wriggle like... like nothing else could wriggle, in Lance's not inconsiderable experience.

Just so long as he didn't get too caught up. Lance watched him carefully, which was never a hardship, and always sweet when JC was really concentrating on his music. Right now, JC's face was wrinkled with almost parental anxiety. He hated to release a song from his custody. He was never quite convinced that it was really done. There had been times, during Celebrity, when he'd had to be dragged, whimpering and pleading, out of the studio: Chris had told Lance all about it, with a great deal of eyerolling and hyperbole, and loud complaints about Lance and Joey being in Toronto and getting out of JC-duty.

And now here was JC in his own studio, and Lance had no backup. Not that he was worried. Sex, Lance thought, would be an effective lure. But he'd best remind JC that he was there, and readily available, so he coughed meaningfully and started to approach the mixing desk.

"Hey, no touching!"

"What, not... ever?" Lance did his best to look pleading, but from JC's reproving expression, suspected the effect was actually slightly comical. JC knew him too well to fall for the innocent act.

"Later." JC eyed him affectionately, but Lance could tell that for the moment, his attention was for his music.

"Okay," he replied in a carefully lowered voice. "I'm here. When you want me."

JC slithered out from behind his desk and grasped Lance firmly by the shoulders, turned him around and marched him back to the wall. "Sit!" he commanded. "Stay!"

Lance opened his mouth to protest, but found that he had folded obediently to the floor.


He gazed at this new, unexpected JC, who had returned to his task and was, apparently, taking no notice of Lance right now. Lance watched the long, strong limbs, the capable hands moving with assurance over the sliders. Stretch of denim over thighs, cling of loose T-shirt against flat, perfect stomach. The line of his neck, the curve of his ear. Tiny pink sliver of tongue edging between his lips.

Lance shifted.


Lance froze.

He sat, obedient, hardly moving, for what felt like hours, while JC played tracks, and meddled with them, and played them again. Asked his opinion, which Lance gave as honestly as he could, as coherently as he could, but all the while with a prickling under his skin which had nothing to do with music and everything to do with JC, who was making him sit, and wait, and who knew exactly what he was doing.

He didn't even dare put his hand where he wanted it, because the one time he did, JC ordered him to keep still and do as he was told.

At last, though, at last JC flipped the off switches, and pulled the covers down, and came over to where Lance was still sitting, waiting. Lance looked up.

"Very good," JC told him.

"Ah, uh. Do I," Lance's mouth was suddenly dry, "do I get a reward?"

JC gave a tiny, wicked smile, as he unfastened his taut jeans.




Back to Popslash Index
Back to Alternative Popslash Index