![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The Tilt-Outs
Popslash
Pairing: JC/Ricky Martin
Rating: Hard R
Warnings:Unbeta-ed smut and randomosity.
When I was writing Tilt, I had to stop and figure out Ricky and JC in my head, not just filtered through Tyler. And their voices had to be as strong as his, so I actually ended up writing some of it. And now, I'd like to get them out of my head, because there are toooo many people talking in there--but still keep them safe (and yes, I *do* know how bonkers I'm sounding, but...::shrugs:: I just go with it these days) so I'm posting them here.
One-Night Stand
The party's loud, and not in the good way. Not in the way where the vibe is infectious and the mood is all about people loving what they're seeing and hearing. This one reminds JC of his first life in LA, of walking into parties with Tony, anxious and on edge, knowing that the clock was ticking and every second without a gig was one more drop on the scale against him.
He's got a drink and there are a couple of people he's seen that he should say something to, and then he can think of a dozen places he'd rather be than here.
He's mostly on autopilot, nodding whenever someone looks familiar without stopping to think who they really are, so there's a little delay before his brain clicks over that the dark-eyed guy next to him is Ricky Martin.
It's a little bit longer of a delay before he's sure that, yes, he's being cruised, but if there are a half-dozen plausible explanations for the way Ricky's eyes sweep over him, or the way he leans into listen to JC's answers, just a fraction of second too long, a fraction of an inch too close, they all pretty much get lost by the way his eyes darken when JC looks back or the way he shifts closer when JC answers.
It's been years, since Chris, and with the way the heat sparks through him, maybe it's been too long. JC forgets about the noise and desperate people and lets himself get lost in the rush that those dark eyes promise.
He knows the routine from the other side, knows the card key that's slipped to him is a temporary space, a diversion made necessary by who and where they are; hesitates only long enough to make sure that Ricky knows that, too, then slides it into the back pocket of his jeans and walks off.
The people he needs to talk to are still around, and maybe he's got an extra edge from knowing what's happening later in the night, or maybe it really is just his lucky night, but everyone says what he wants them to say, everyone knows the right guy to hook him up with and by the time he's finished and waiting for the valet to bring his car around, the adrenaline of a good good party is singing through his veins.
The hotel the card key belongs to pops up with no problem on the GPS, just like he knew it would, because this night is golden and everything's going his way.
The room isn't a room, it's a suite and that's a detail that JC appreciates. It's always nice to have someplace other than the bed to sit, even if it's not necessary in this case. When Ricky asks him if he wants a drink, he shakes his head and steps up into his personal space.
"Just this," he says, and leans up to taste that mouth for the first time.
Chris and Tony, Bobbie and Eva, all were familiar and known, even before he kissed them. The girls he's known on the road were interchangeable and familiar in their strangeness. This is different. Not familiar, wholly unknown, so that every shift of skin and muscle against him, every touch, every breath sparks across his nerves.
Ricky slides his hands down JC's back, rests them on his hips so that JC can feel their weight and heat before they pull his shirt free and move up and under the cloth to trace a long, slow path back up his spine.
He'd thought it might be rushed, that hot, frantic urgency of a first physical encounter, but there's a different energy in the room. Hot, yes, but a slow, controlled burn that shimmers and dances just outside his regular vision as Ricky presses him backwards, step by step, until there's a wall at his back and there's nowhere else for him to go.
Even then, there's no hurry, just long, rough kisses, and strong hands on his hips, lifting and holding him so that he can get both legs wrapped hard around Ricky's waist. Ricky takes his weight easily, tilts his head back in an invitation that JC has no intention of ignoring.
Ricky's cologne is expensive and subtle, but still leaves that faint trace of bitter for JC to taste on his skin. JC bites not-quite-gently under the strong jaw, breathes in the soundless moan that vibrates against his mouth. Ricky's hands move then, stripping JC's t-shirt over his head with urgent carelessness before sliding into the back of his jeans to pull JC's hips hard against him.
Ricky's shirt is brushed cotton, silky and soft against his skin, but he wants to see if the rest of Ricky is as hot as the arms and hands that hold him, to trace all of the ink that dips low out of one sleeve, to find out if there are other talismans hidden under shirt and jeans.
Ricky lets him ease the shirt off his shoulders, shrugs so that it slides to the floor, then sets JC on his feet and steps back a bit. JC stays where he is, back to the wall, and watches appreciatively as Ricky steps out of his jeans and stands naked in front of him.
"What do you like?" Ricky asks, sliding his hands down his belly to just barely skim over his cock.
"Everything." JC grins, because holy hell, did this night ever get turned around in a hurry.
Ricky laughs softly, his hands still teasing at his cock. "What do you want, then?" he says, and his voice has gone soft and hoarse, and JC wants to hear how it will sound when it's his mouth on Ricky's cock. He wants to know how he'll sound when that cock is in him, wants to feel those hands on his own cock.
He tells Ricky all of that, doesn't try to hide his clumsiness as he tugs at his jeans to stand naked under Ricky's eyes, pinches his nipples and then the head of his cock, hard, like he does when he's alone, when he has the time to indulge himself, the way no one, not even Chris, has ever known he's liked.
Ricky surges forward, pins JC to the wall, slapping JC's hands away from his cock and taking it in his own, testing its hardness with squeezes and light slaps before he settles into a rough, punishing rhythm that's just slow enough that JC knows he won't be coming any time soon.
"Is this what you wanted?" Ricky whispers in his ear, right before he catches the lobe between his teeth, biting down sharp and hard and growling when JC moans. "Is it?"
"Yeah," JC gasps. "Fuck, yeah, so good." It is; good like JC hasn't had in forever. Ricky holds him against the wall, makes him take it however Ricky wants to give it to him, whispers low and dirty how hot JC is making him, how JC's going to lift his ass and beg for it before Ricky lets him have his cock and JC can't do anything but let the words flow over him, let the big hands play with cock, squeeze his balls, tease him until he's screaming in his head, his jaw clenched hard to keep in all but the faintest of whimpers.
"Let me hear it," Ricky says. "Show me how pretty you can beg for it."
JC shakes his head, forces his eyes open.
"You know you want to," Ricky murmurs, his strokes slowing maddeningly as he holds JC still easily. JC doesn't kid himself that he won't be begging by the end of the night, but the need he sees in Ricky's eyes makes it easy to let go, to gasp, "god, please."
"What do you want?" Ricky asks again, and when JC answers with a low wordless moan, he leans in and covers JC's mouth with his own, tongue sweeping along JC's, tasting and claiming and thrusting with the same strong rhythm that he's finally, finally working JC's cock with and it all hits JC like a lightning bolt, sweeps over him until he can't see for the jagged streaks, can't stand except for Ricky's arms holding him up, can't breathe except for Ricky doing it for him.
His heart is still pounding when he slides to his knees. Later, he'll take his time, taste as much of the smooth, expensively cared for skin as he can; now, he wants a cock down his throat. Ricky eases back, enough that JC can slide his hands up the strong thighs in front of him, taste the cooling bitterness of his own come layered over the salt and musk of Ricky's skin.
He licks slow and teasing up the hard length in front of him, swirls his tongue around the head, once, twice, and then Ricky's hand tangles in his hair, pulling tight, holding him in place to take the cock that's slamming into his throat. Ricky fucks his mouth hard and rough and JC can't tell whether the noises he hears are coming from him or Ricky. He can't breathe and he's close to gagging and it's been so fucking long since he's done this, since he's let anyone do this. He wants this, all of this, he could do it all night, but Ricky doesn't want it to last, not the way he won't slow down.
Ricky comes just as JC's vision is starting to blur out, hot bitter salt spilling on his tongue, down his throat. Ricky keeps him pinned, long enough that JC knows this is just the beginning, they're not done yet, and then tightens his hand in JC's hair and half-pulls him to his feet.
"Bed," JC says, panting. His voice catches in his throat, hoarse and raspy, his first memento of the night. He slides past Ricky and sprawls out the big bed, looking back over his shoulder. "You haven't fucked me yet."
Ricky crawls over him, pushes him down into the mattress, leans down to whisper, "You haven't begged yet."
JC smiles and stretches and hums agreeably. They have all night. No need to rush at all.
*
The amenities of the suite aren't limited to the Pratesi sheets or the room service that delivers artisanal breads and cheeses at four in the morning. The shower is wide and tiled, with a ledge deep enough for Ricky to sit on, for JC to straddle him and lean into him, hands sliding along skin, into hair.
He begged well enough to get fucked twice during the night, hard and deep and merciless. His body is aching and sore now, red sparks of hurt spiking through the shivery pleasure of sinking down onto Ricky, shifting and twisting until Ricky can't be any deeper in him. Ricky keeps him vertical, strong arms holding him up, holding him close, and JC doesn't have to move much at all.
They stay like that, hot water beating down on them, until JC's thighs are nearly screaming in pain. Ricky shifts, fingers rubbing quick and firm over bruises left during the night and the dull throbbing aches build and build, until JC is shaking with need. Ricky doesn't make him ask this time, just drags his thumb the length of JC's cock, scrapes his nails across the head, swallowing JC's moan and coming hard with him.
*
Ricky frowns at him from the bed, but JC is good without breakfast. His clothes are wrinkled but together; it's easy to pull on jeans and shirt and slide his feet into flip-flops. What's not so easy is actually leaving; for the first time, JC's not sure what to do, how to act.
Ricky catches his wrist as he walks past the bed. "Again," he says, and the question is in his eyes.
JC hesitates, but when Ricky's hand falls away from his skin, he nods and scrawls his private number on a piece of hotel stationery.
Count
exactly 250 words
The second time they hook up, they're fucking before JC gets three steps inside the suite, the marble floor cold and hard against JC's skin, Ricky hot and slick inside him. The third time's like that, too, and the fourth and the fifth.
The sixth time, JC's late, enough that Ricky doesn't think he's coming, but not so much that JC thinks he should've. Ricky's a shouter, sheer volume expressing his anger and hiding his hurt; JC hisses and snaps and can lower the temperature of a room with a single sneer. When Ricky pushes him to his knees, JC goes willingly, sucks him off fast and nasty, leaves without another word.
JC isn't sure the seventh time counts. Awkward hellos at a premiere probably shouldn't, but it leads to the eighth and ninth--dinner at a Cuban place in SoBe--so he decides it's a bridge.
The tenth time, JC's not sure Ricky will show until he opens his front door to find him dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, clutching a bottle of very good Cabernet hard enough to turn his knuckles white. His hands are gentle when he touches JC though, tentative and hesitant, and his mouth moves with a surprised gratitude on JC's.
It's almost midnight before JC thinks to put dinner in the microwave, and two in the morning before they stop long enough to eat. JC watches the sunrise from where he's wrapped up in six-plus feet of warm, strong man and stops counting.
Random drabbles
kissing---kinda
JC likes to mess around in the kitchen. Nothing elaborate, but Ricky would just as soon call for take-out as scramble eggs. The money doesn't matter, even JC admits that; they don't save that much time, but JC wants it and Ricky's long since given in.
What he'll never admit is that he likes it, too. There's always an opportunity to slide up behind JC, press close and bite soft kisses into the back of his neck; and when nothing needs stirred or flipped, the counter is the perfect height for JC to wrap his legs hard around Ricky's waist.
goes with this picture
The day Ricky stumbles in, almost asleep on his feet, JC understands. Photoshoots are part of the job, always have been. JC gets through most on autopilot but the good photographers skip right over that defense to find his soul; find it and take a little piece of it. Those shoots--exhilarating when they're happening--leave him empty, exhausted.
The proofs come by courier before Ricky stirs. In his head, JC can look at them and admire--even desire--the man he sees. In his gut, his heart, he's much happier with the snapshots Danny sends him from the road.
and this one matches up with this one
JC likes clothes, but Ricky's serious about them. Even when he's only wearing jeans and t-shirts, the fabric matters, and the cut and the style.
Black's almost always the color of choice. JC has eyes, he gets why; but occasionally he's compelled to mention that Ricky's all grown up now and can wear something other than black and white Garanimals.
That usually gets him pinned against w wall for demonstrations of exactly how grown up everyone is. Fun all around, but when a stylist gets Ricky to wear the lavender, JC considers it his mission to provide the positive reinforcement.
this one was for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
darkseaglass's birthday
Life's always been a balancing act--they both knew what they were getting into--but he never expected this.
If he's honest, it started as nothing more than a dare, a fuck-you to the trade-offs he's lived with since childhood. He'd looked and wanted, and when JC looked back, no one on Earth could have stopped him from taking what was offered.
JC moans under him; he stills and leans forward, tastes the long curve of spine. He's spoiled; Carlos tells him that daily. It's not untrue, but he won't let them take this away. No matter what the cost.
Pairing: JC/Ricky Martin
Rating: Hard R
Warnings:Unbeta-ed smut and randomosity.
When I was writing Tilt, I had to stop and figure out Ricky and JC in my head, not just filtered through Tyler. And their voices had to be as strong as his, so I actually ended up writing some of it. And now, I'd like to get them out of my head, because there are toooo many people talking in there--but still keep them safe (and yes, I *do* know how bonkers I'm sounding, but...::shrugs:: I just go with it these days) so I'm posting them here.
One-Night Stand
The party's loud, and not in the good way. Not in the way where the vibe is infectious and the mood is all about people loving what they're seeing and hearing. This one reminds JC of his first life in LA, of walking into parties with Tony, anxious and on edge, knowing that the clock was ticking and every second without a gig was one more drop on the scale against him.
He's got a drink and there are a couple of people he's seen that he should say something to, and then he can think of a dozen places he'd rather be than here.
He's mostly on autopilot, nodding whenever someone looks familiar without stopping to think who they really are, so there's a little delay before his brain clicks over that the dark-eyed guy next to him is Ricky Martin.
It's a little bit longer of a delay before he's sure that, yes, he's being cruised, but if there are a half-dozen plausible explanations for the way Ricky's eyes sweep over him, or the way he leans into listen to JC's answers, just a fraction of second too long, a fraction of an inch too close, they all pretty much get lost by the way his eyes darken when JC looks back or the way he shifts closer when JC answers.
It's been years, since Chris, and with the way the heat sparks through him, maybe it's been too long. JC forgets about the noise and desperate people and lets himself get lost in the rush that those dark eyes promise.
He knows the routine from the other side, knows the card key that's slipped to him is a temporary space, a diversion made necessary by who and where they are; hesitates only long enough to make sure that Ricky knows that, too, then slides it into the back pocket of his jeans and walks off.
The people he needs to talk to are still around, and maybe he's got an extra edge from knowing what's happening later in the night, or maybe it really is just his lucky night, but everyone says what he wants them to say, everyone knows the right guy to hook him up with and by the time he's finished and waiting for the valet to bring his car around, the adrenaline of a good good party is singing through his veins.
The hotel the card key belongs to pops up with no problem on the GPS, just like he knew it would, because this night is golden and everything's going his way.
The room isn't a room, it's a suite and that's a detail that JC appreciates. It's always nice to have someplace other than the bed to sit, even if it's not necessary in this case. When Ricky asks him if he wants a drink, he shakes his head and steps up into his personal space.
"Just this," he says, and leans up to taste that mouth for the first time.
Chris and Tony, Bobbie and Eva, all were familiar and known, even before he kissed them. The girls he's known on the road were interchangeable and familiar in their strangeness. This is different. Not familiar, wholly unknown, so that every shift of skin and muscle against him, every touch, every breath sparks across his nerves.
Ricky slides his hands down JC's back, rests them on his hips so that JC can feel their weight and heat before they pull his shirt free and move up and under the cloth to trace a long, slow path back up his spine.
He'd thought it might be rushed, that hot, frantic urgency of a first physical encounter, but there's a different energy in the room. Hot, yes, but a slow, controlled burn that shimmers and dances just outside his regular vision as Ricky presses him backwards, step by step, until there's a wall at his back and there's nowhere else for him to go.
Even then, there's no hurry, just long, rough kisses, and strong hands on his hips, lifting and holding him so that he can get both legs wrapped hard around Ricky's waist. Ricky takes his weight easily, tilts his head back in an invitation that JC has no intention of ignoring.
Ricky's cologne is expensive and subtle, but still leaves that faint trace of bitter for JC to taste on his skin. JC bites not-quite-gently under the strong jaw, breathes in the soundless moan that vibrates against his mouth. Ricky's hands move then, stripping JC's t-shirt over his head with urgent carelessness before sliding into the back of his jeans to pull JC's hips hard against him.
Ricky's shirt is brushed cotton, silky and soft against his skin, but he wants to see if the rest of Ricky is as hot as the arms and hands that hold him, to trace all of the ink that dips low out of one sleeve, to find out if there are other talismans hidden under shirt and jeans.
Ricky lets him ease the shirt off his shoulders, shrugs so that it slides to the floor, then sets JC on his feet and steps back a bit. JC stays where he is, back to the wall, and watches appreciatively as Ricky steps out of his jeans and stands naked in front of him.
"What do you like?" Ricky asks, sliding his hands down his belly to just barely skim over his cock.
"Everything." JC grins, because holy hell, did this night ever get turned around in a hurry.
Ricky laughs softly, his hands still teasing at his cock. "What do you want, then?" he says, and his voice has gone soft and hoarse, and JC wants to hear how it will sound when it's his mouth on Ricky's cock. He wants to know how he'll sound when that cock is in him, wants to feel those hands on his own cock.
He tells Ricky all of that, doesn't try to hide his clumsiness as he tugs at his jeans to stand naked under Ricky's eyes, pinches his nipples and then the head of his cock, hard, like he does when he's alone, when he has the time to indulge himself, the way no one, not even Chris, has ever known he's liked.
Ricky surges forward, pins JC to the wall, slapping JC's hands away from his cock and taking it in his own, testing its hardness with squeezes and light slaps before he settles into a rough, punishing rhythm that's just slow enough that JC knows he won't be coming any time soon.
"Is this what you wanted?" Ricky whispers in his ear, right before he catches the lobe between his teeth, biting down sharp and hard and growling when JC moans. "Is it?"
"Yeah," JC gasps. "Fuck, yeah, so good." It is; good like JC hasn't had in forever. Ricky holds him against the wall, makes him take it however Ricky wants to give it to him, whispers low and dirty how hot JC is making him, how JC's going to lift his ass and beg for it before Ricky lets him have his cock and JC can't do anything but let the words flow over him, let the big hands play with cock, squeeze his balls, tease him until he's screaming in his head, his jaw clenched hard to keep in all but the faintest of whimpers.
"Let me hear it," Ricky says. "Show me how pretty you can beg for it."
JC shakes his head, forces his eyes open.
"You know you want to," Ricky murmurs, his strokes slowing maddeningly as he holds JC still easily. JC doesn't kid himself that he won't be begging by the end of the night, but the need he sees in Ricky's eyes makes it easy to let go, to gasp, "god, please."
"What do you want?" Ricky asks again, and when JC answers with a low wordless moan, he leans in and covers JC's mouth with his own, tongue sweeping along JC's, tasting and claiming and thrusting with the same strong rhythm that he's finally, finally working JC's cock with and it all hits JC like a lightning bolt, sweeps over him until he can't see for the jagged streaks, can't stand except for Ricky's arms holding him up, can't breathe except for Ricky doing it for him.
His heart is still pounding when he slides to his knees. Later, he'll take his time, taste as much of the smooth, expensively cared for skin as he can; now, he wants a cock down his throat. Ricky eases back, enough that JC can slide his hands up the strong thighs in front of him, taste the cooling bitterness of his own come layered over the salt and musk of Ricky's skin.
He licks slow and teasing up the hard length in front of him, swirls his tongue around the head, once, twice, and then Ricky's hand tangles in his hair, pulling tight, holding him in place to take the cock that's slamming into his throat. Ricky fucks his mouth hard and rough and JC can't tell whether the noises he hears are coming from him or Ricky. He can't breathe and he's close to gagging and it's been so fucking long since he's done this, since he's let anyone do this. He wants this, all of this, he could do it all night, but Ricky doesn't want it to last, not the way he won't slow down.
Ricky comes just as JC's vision is starting to blur out, hot bitter salt spilling on his tongue, down his throat. Ricky keeps him pinned, long enough that JC knows this is just the beginning, they're not done yet, and then tightens his hand in JC's hair and half-pulls him to his feet.
"Bed," JC says, panting. His voice catches in his throat, hoarse and raspy, his first memento of the night. He slides past Ricky and sprawls out the big bed, looking back over his shoulder. "You haven't fucked me yet."
Ricky crawls over him, pushes him down into the mattress, leans down to whisper, "You haven't begged yet."
JC smiles and stretches and hums agreeably. They have all night. No need to rush at all.
*
The amenities of the suite aren't limited to the Pratesi sheets or the room service that delivers artisanal breads and cheeses at four in the morning. The shower is wide and tiled, with a ledge deep enough for Ricky to sit on, for JC to straddle him and lean into him, hands sliding along skin, into hair.
He begged well enough to get fucked twice during the night, hard and deep and merciless. His body is aching and sore now, red sparks of hurt spiking through the shivery pleasure of sinking down onto Ricky, shifting and twisting until Ricky can't be any deeper in him. Ricky keeps him vertical, strong arms holding him up, holding him close, and JC doesn't have to move much at all.
They stay like that, hot water beating down on them, until JC's thighs are nearly screaming in pain. Ricky shifts, fingers rubbing quick and firm over bruises left during the night and the dull throbbing aches build and build, until JC is shaking with need. Ricky doesn't make him ask this time, just drags his thumb the length of JC's cock, scrapes his nails across the head, swallowing JC's moan and coming hard with him.
*
Ricky frowns at him from the bed, but JC is good without breakfast. His clothes are wrinkled but together; it's easy to pull on jeans and shirt and slide his feet into flip-flops. What's not so easy is actually leaving; for the first time, JC's not sure what to do, how to act.
Ricky catches his wrist as he walks past the bed. "Again," he says, and the question is in his eyes.
JC hesitates, but when Ricky's hand falls away from his skin, he nods and scrawls his private number on a piece of hotel stationery.
Count
exactly 250 words
The second time they hook up, they're fucking before JC gets three steps inside the suite, the marble floor cold and hard against JC's skin, Ricky hot and slick inside him. The third time's like that, too, and the fourth and the fifth.
The sixth time, JC's late, enough that Ricky doesn't think he's coming, but not so much that JC thinks he should've. Ricky's a shouter, sheer volume expressing his anger and hiding his hurt; JC hisses and snaps and can lower the temperature of a room with a single sneer. When Ricky pushes him to his knees, JC goes willingly, sucks him off fast and nasty, leaves without another word.
JC isn't sure the seventh time counts. Awkward hellos at a premiere probably shouldn't, but it leads to the eighth and ninth--dinner at a Cuban place in SoBe--so he decides it's a bridge.
The tenth time, JC's not sure Ricky will show until he opens his front door to find him dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, clutching a bottle of very good Cabernet hard enough to turn his knuckles white. His hands are gentle when he touches JC though, tentative and hesitant, and his mouth moves with a surprised gratitude on JC's.
It's almost midnight before JC thinks to put dinner in the microwave, and two in the morning before they stop long enough to eat. JC watches the sunrise from where he's wrapped up in six-plus feet of warm, strong man and stops counting.
Random drabbles
kissing---kinda
JC likes to mess around in the kitchen. Nothing elaborate, but Ricky would just as soon call for take-out as scramble eggs. The money doesn't matter, even JC admits that; they don't save that much time, but JC wants it and Ricky's long since given in.
What he'll never admit is that he likes it, too. There's always an opportunity to slide up behind JC, press close and bite soft kisses into the back of his neck; and when nothing needs stirred or flipped, the counter is the perfect height for JC to wrap his legs hard around Ricky's waist.
goes with this picture
The day Ricky stumbles in, almost asleep on his feet, JC understands. Photoshoots are part of the job, always have been. JC gets through most on autopilot but the good photographers skip right over that defense to find his soul; find it and take a little piece of it. Those shoots--exhilarating when they're happening--leave him empty, exhausted.
The proofs come by courier before Ricky stirs. In his head, JC can look at them and admire--even desire--the man he sees. In his gut, his heart, he's much happier with the snapshots Danny sends him from the road.
and this one matches up with this one
JC likes clothes, but Ricky's serious about them. Even when he's only wearing jeans and t-shirts, the fabric matters, and the cut and the style.
Black's almost always the color of choice. JC has eyes, he gets why; but occasionally he's compelled to mention that Ricky's all grown up now and can wear something other than black and white Garanimals.
That usually gets him pinned against w wall for demonstrations of exactly how grown up everyone is. Fun all around, but when a stylist gets Ricky to wear the lavender, JC considers it his mission to provide the positive reinforcement.
this one was for
darkseaglass's birthdayLife's always been a balancing act--they both knew what they were getting into--but he never expected this.
If he's honest, it started as nothing more than a dare, a fuck-you to the trade-offs he's lived with since childhood. He'd looked and wanted, and when JC looked back, no one on Earth could have stopped him from taking what was offered.
JC moans under him; he stills and leans forward, tastes the long curve of spine. He's spoiled; Carlos tells him that daily. It's not untrue, but he won't let them take this away. No matter what the cost.
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JC as the gateway drug. It suits him.
It was fun to re-read these. Thanks for posting!
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It was good to see all of these together, rather than just my collection of links.
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Yes, and to see people liking them. It's good.
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hee. um, yeah, it's not the usual, this is for sure. But I'm glad you liked Tilt and enjoyed these little bits.
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goes with this picture
*laughs and laughs and laughs* You're kidding, yes? Ricky has a naked lady on his shoulder? *snorffles* I do like the drabble; such a sense of soft domesticity behind it.
JC considers it his mission to provide the positive reinforcement.
Heh. He just doesn't want to be the only one who wears pink. ;)
I really enjoyed Count - I love that their relationship has a rocky start, weaves back and forth, with the yelling and making up, and finally finding that comfortable pace when it just works.
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And YES, naked!lady on Ricky's arm. ahahahaha.
Ricky really doesn't get photographed in many colors; JC just had to say *something* ;)
And Count is what did it for me--it put *them* into my head, ups and downs, rock and a hard place, but still not walking away.
Thanks for letting me know these worked for you; I wasn't sure about posting them.
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Ricky really doesn't get photographed in many colors
He does look gorgeous in black, though. :)
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And y'know, JC duly appreciates the black, he *really* does, especially when it's leather, but, hey, it's his job to give Ricky shit about stuff. The garanimals crack was the proverbial fish in the barrel. =)
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I will, I really will. I'm always stunned to realise I have limits, and this is possibly one of them. For now. I think. You and
The garanimals crack was the proverbial fish in the barrel. =)
Heee!
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I'll put my efforts into those *other* limits of yours, because I know I'll have a whole lot of fun there.