You

I Need You Tonight, a slashfic in four parts, first in the "Living" series

Rating: NC-17 for graphic male-male sex

Pairing: JC Chasez/Justin Timberlake

Disclaimer: The young men who comprise *NSYNC, the Backstreet Boys, 98 Degrees, and Five; and the various blonde females mentioned here, are their own people. The author has not met anyone here described, nor does the author mean to suggest that these people act this way in real life. This writing is a work of fiction. I make no money from this venture.

Dedication: This slashfic is for Ewan McGregor and the Savage Garden slashers. Also for Nick Carter, who said, "Things are made to be broken."

Wherein the author makes himself sick by being mean to Britney, being mean to Brian, and writing a songfic.

Notice: I've toyed with the real-life timeline, but that's okay, because this is fiction, so deal with it. Also, as I wrote this JC hit his 24th birthday, which makes Justin 19, if you wondered. Part three, "You," takes place the morning after part two, "Need."

"I Need You Tonight" Part Three: You

I awaken first. I usually do, these days. A good orgasm - - or two, or three, or four - - knocks you right out, makes you sleep harder and longer. I don't mind. It's hard to pull away from you, though. You're right here, in my arms, naked, golden, beautiful. Warm and alive. I'm so close, you're so close, that I can inhale your every exhalation. Is that sick? Is that intimate or just disgusting? I don't know, anymore. I've lost all sense of proportion when it comes to you.

I don't know how it happened, or when. I've known you for years. We've worked together all of that time. We're friends, we're bandmates, we're partners, and now, now I'm so in love with you that I'm not sure who you are anymore. I know who I am; I'm solidly grounded in myself. But I don't know about you. Whether you're as fun and naive and sincere and beautiful and talented and interesting and graceful as I believe you to be. Whether what I see when I look at you is what anyone else sees. Whether you're the same with me as you are with everyone else, as you used to be.

I am able to leave the bed. I can visit the bathroom; pee, shower. I come back to the bedroom and there you are, asleep, cosy. You look vulnerable. And you're beautiful as always, but you look normal when you're asleep, you look like you could be anyone's little brother. I thought of you as my little brother, before. I hope that it doesn't sound patronizing when I think of you that way. It's just that you're younger than I am, and generous, and I feel protective. I don't want any harm to come to you.

I came in here to dress. I am dressed, basically, in my jeans and T-shirt, but I can't stay away from the bed. I'm drawn to you. I can remember easily how warm you were sleeping beside me. I want to feel you that way again. I sit on the edge of the bed without conscious thought, my hand reaching out to you.

You're warm from sleep, and your skin is silky. Your eyes, often serious, are relaxed now, closed. I wonder what you think about when you get that serious look on your face.

Your curls are soft and a little disordered. My fingers like to play in them. I could occupy myself there for hours.

I think you're waking. I'll stay.

Your hand slides along the mattress, seeking, until it bumps into my leg. You grope up and over my thigh. Your brow wrinkles in a frown. You don't like it when I'm up and dressed, I know. You prefer me naked first thing in the morning. You grope up some more, and after a heart-stopping pass near my groin you've reached my waist, where you burrow in and find the edge of my T-shirt and pull it up until you can get your fingers under my shirt and against my skin.

Now blue eyes open. You're still half-asleep. Your eyes close and you find a beltloop, tugging. You want me to lie with you. I smile and give in, give in not only to you but to myself, as I lay down beside you. You burrow in against me, young and slender, tight hard body with soft smooth skin. You're waking up now, hands pressing against my ribcage under my T-shirt. You inhale against my neck. Smelling me, or just breathing? Probably the former.

"Good good good good good good morning," you say.

I'm hardly one to disagree.

"If you call me your baby, can I call you mine?" Your eyes are open now and you've backed off enough to look at me.

"Sounds fair," I say. It sounds more than fair; it sounds just right. Endearments are easy to use with you. They spring naturally to my mind, to my tongue, when I'm with you. Baby. Angel.

"It's my turn."

"Your turn for what?" I ask. Your fingers are burrowing inside my jeans, in between my legs, running through my pubic hair and stroking along my cock. I can't believe how hard you make me, and how quickly. Your sleepiness is bypassing seduction and heading straight for sex. Which, I suppose, is highly flattering.

"You got me off last night. Now it's my turn."

"You don't have to."

"You know I want to."

Which is, in itself, highly flattering. Not only flattering but amazing. It's astonishing, really; you could have anyone you want. You have fans, male and female, all over the world. I am, according to statistics, the second most popular member of our band, but you're the first by far, and you could be waking up with anyone you want. But here you are, with me, consistently and by choice. You want to be with me. You want me. You've committed yourself to me, to my body, to my heart.

You're turning me onto my back and rising over me, stripping me. One kiss so slow and deep it feels drugged. I feel drugged, at least; your tongue flickers in my mouth to taste me, and I realize where this is going. The idea of it sends my already hard cock throbbing.

It turns out that I am right, which is highly, highly, satisfying. You slide down my body to settle between my thighs. Without waiting you dart in and lick over the flared head of my cock. Oh, Justin, I don't know how to say this without sounding crude or condescending, but you are one pretty little cocksucker. You treat my cock like it's a delicious candy treat, licking it and sucking at it and giving it sweet kisses from your pretty reddened lips. You haven't quite mastered deep-throating, but you won't get any complaints from me. Although I'm guessing that when you do learn it, I'll appreciate it, judging from your responses when I swallow you.

It's incredible to me, to look down and see you, you, of all people, sucking my cock. Cute blonde Justin Timberlake. Fun athletic talented beautiful Justin Timberlake, all ready to swallow my cum. I don't know what to do with that idea. I can't believe it, not quite.

It feels...good is hardly the word. I've been using amazing, incredible, astonishing. Fantastic? In the original sense, then, of something unreal, a fantasy come true, perhaps, but not quite true, because it's too perfect to be true, this can't possibly be happening, Justin Timberlake is sucking my dick.

Except you're not, not anymore. Now you're crawling over me and smiling and running a hand through my hair. I just lie and gaze up at you. You kiss my mouth and rub your hard cock against mine so I can feel you, so I can feel the size and heat and hardness. "Fuck me," you say, more request than order. As if I'd ever say no.

You smile, that smile of amusement that lights your eyes. "JC." I love how all of your teeth show when you smile. You're very open and free sometimes.

"What?" I ask, smiling back. I always smile back, at you.

You kiss my mouth. "You can make love to me, too, if you want, if you don't tell anybody I asked for it."

"I won't tell," I promise. Make love. I get to make love to you.

It always has been making love, between us, simply because I love you so much that it can't be anything else. But we're young men; we don't think in terms of making love, except in song lyrics. When we think about sex, it's sex, it's having sex, getting off, fucking. Making love is for those trashy romance novels with windswept heroines and bare-chested Fabios. Making love is for girls. Men fuck.

But if I'm allowed to make love with you, and if I'm allowed to call it that - - but today, this morning, I want to make love to you. It's a selfish desire on my part, but I don't think that you'll protest. I don't think you've protested a thing I've done - - unless I don't let you come as soon as you want. But I know that you'll admit that you enjoy that, too: the suspense, the anguished ecstasy of prolonged pleasure, the torture of anticipation.

The anguished ecstasy of prolonged pleasure? Speaking of trashy romance novels...

I suppose you have that effect on me.

And yes, I do think that it's fair to blame you. Having you around screws with my thought processes. You're a source of musical and lyrical inspiration, yes, but you're also extremely distracting.

I roll us over so that you're beneath me. You like to be beneath me. I know that we both, to make an understatement so incredible it's a disservice, like it when you fuck me. But I think that you like being on the bottom. My baby Justin's just a bottom boy at heart. That's all right. I'm devoted to you; I'll fuck you whenever you want. How generous of me.

We've discovered, to our mutual delight, that you're one of those wonderful boys who can come just from being fucked. If I trigger your prostate enough, you'll come for me without having your cock stroked. It's amazing to watch. It's amazing to cause.

I lean down and kiss your neck, kiss up, capture your earlobe with my lips, suck it, earring and all, into my mouth, just to make you moan and rub against me.

Sometimes when we're onstage, I'll look over and see you entirely focused, concentrating inwardly on your performance. You don't do that during sex. When we're in bed together you're entirely open, sharing the experience with me. I derive much of my own pleasure from you, and you seem to derive your pleasure from knowing that you're affecting me in that way. It makes for a convoluted experience, but it ensures that we're both turned on all of the time.

Which sounds great, and is, very often, but sometimes I'd just like to do my work or hold a conversation without getting hard just knowing you're in the room and knowing that if I suck your collarbone you'll spread your legs.

I don't know what it is about that. Every time I suck your collarbone you spread your legs, even when we're standing. It's some sort of automatic response. I do it now, and there you go, and I slid my hand down there and reach behind your balls. Your legs spread further in conscious invitation.

Yes, sweet baby Justin's a bottom boy, all right.

I want to take my time, to enjoy you, so I remove my hand. You push your ass against the sheets a little, missing my touch. I kiss across your jaw and taste my way down your neck, down farther until I reach your nipples. I sigh in satisfaction before licking the right one.

I feel your hand come to the back of my head, rubbing through my short hair, restlessly encouraging me. I taste your skin, sweet boy mixed with the salt and musk of man. Your legs are wrapping around me, thighs squeezing my hips, body arching against me. I lap and suck at your other nipple, my fingers reaching down to play with your balls. You breathe my name after an aching moan. Then I hear, "Oh, ah, baby...," and the sound of it vibrates in my balls.

"Justin." I kiss your pelvic bone. "Justin."

"JC," you whisper, rubbing your naked foot over the back of my thigh.

"You need to slow down."

"No way."

I kiss up your abdomen and press my lips over your heart. Resting my hand on your chest lightly, just to keep in close physical contact, I stretch to the nightstand for the lubricant. I feel your heart racing beneath my hand, the beat speeding suddenly. "Justin?"

Your legs spread high and wide.

Oh. The lubricant. Right. Okay. I move back a bit, on my knees between your thighs, getting a bit of lube on one finger. I reach down and push my finger into your body.

You moan. "God, JC."

I don't know of any production trick that will make any sound as sexy as an aroused Justin Timberlake. You're amazing.

You feel amazing, too. But if I want to make it inside of you, I'll have to get you looser. I thought that after being used somewhat regularly, these muscles would become more relaxed. Yours don't seem to be doing that. I don't hurt you, but I do need to prepare you fully before penetration, and every time you're as tight as the first time. And that tightness gripped around my cock feels more wonderful than you'd believe.

Although, judging from your responses to fucking me, maybe you would believe.

I work in a second finger. You're sighing and gasping now, and your cock is drooling precum, and your body's twitching. Too close, you're too close. I don't want you to come yet. And the sight of that liquid coming from your erect cock is making my mouth water.

"Justin, baby, calm down a little."

"So good, feels so good."

I sink my fingers just a bit deeper and you moan, hips moving to meet my touch. Carefully I pull my fingers from you before returning in the next second with three, working them in slowly, watching you twist on the bed, listening to you moan. "JC...please...oh J...J...C..." You thrust on my fingers, trying to force them deeper. I know that you want something else, now, that you're moving beyond impatience. I stroke your prostate and watch you start to do a slow full-body writhe, your mobile dancer's grace showing itself once more. Relenting, I move away from you and get a bit more lubricant. Your eyes open slowly as your body tries to settle, deprived of my touch. You see me carefully applying the lubricant to myself and you stare, mouth opening slightly, eyes widening, color heightening. "JC."

"Come here." I come over you, kiss your mouth, run my hands over your sides. "Sshhh, baby, it's okay."

"I need you," you say against my mouth, sounding just a little frightened, sounding that way only because I know you better than anyone does.

"Sshh, Justin, angel, I'll take care of it. You just relax." I think that I'd better stop the endearments; every time I say one your cock twitches. I move back into position, resting my cock where it belongs. Your legs settle over my shoulders. You're not breathing quite right; too quick and shallow, not even. I give a push, my hot hard cock against your hot tight ass, and we're both slick now, and I enter you nice and slow and as deep as I can.

Listen to that groan.

I move back and reseat myself, going deep, knowing exactly what I need to trigger and where it is. You're beautiful beneath me, shuddering and gasping, sweat running down from your temples, pouty pink lips parted.

You need this, you need this badly, this connection, being entered and known, being treasured and loved, being taken and possessed. You know that I love you and I know that you love me. Anyone who's spied on us when we're left for five seconds alone in a room together knows that we want each other. And I need you, I'm obsessed with you, I'm completely infatuated. I need to give you this pleasure. I need to know that you've been given this pleasure, that you've been made to feel like this; and knowing that I'm the one doing it, god, what it does to me to know that I'm the only who makes you this way.

This isn't impatience any longer and it's gone beyond desperation. You're needy now, and you'd be begging if you could form words. The shuddering is a low-grade, constant tremble. The panting is a regulated gasping, with the inhale on every thrust. Your heartbeat is racing and your pupils have dilated and your hands on my forearms are shaking. I kiss your mouth and you scream. I can feel the hot pulses of semen against my chest.

I keep going. How can I not? You're moaning softly, and it turns into a whimper, and I can tell that you're getting turned on again despite yourself. Your body's not ready for it, but you want me still, again.

"JC."

"What?" I ask, knowing that if you distract me I'll lose control and come.

"Don't," you arch and moan, "stop."

That wasn't a "don't, stop," that was a, "don't stop." You want this. You want more. You want me to fuck you, make love to you, still and again.

I'll keep going as long as I can, but I'll have to come sometime. It's been trouble for me to keep it up this long - - it would be very, very easy to come right now, or minutes ago, or when I first entered you.

I thrust a little harder but slower.

"Oh, yeah."

And then the world spins, and after a moment of confusion I'm on my back and you're rising over me, still on me. Oh no, I can't take this, Justin, you can't ask me not to come and then do this to me.

You're riding me slowly, steadily, head tilted back a little, eyes closed, lips parted, one hand on my chest, the other on my hip. Lance is the equestrian of the group but you do this very, very well. You're making a rhythmic "oh" sound, which turns into my name.

It's hard not to notice, from this vantage point, that you're getting hard again. My fingers leave off clutching the bedclothes and make a move to your cock. When I touch you you roll us over again until you're spread beneath me.

"Please, please, JC."

So I let you come again, and I come immediately after. It's a great relief to unload my balls after that marathon.

We curl up together, spooned, me behind you. I pet your hand and hold you close.

"JC?"

"What?"

"You are the sexiest person I know."

Your back is smooth, and damp with sweat. "Thank you. You're the sexiest person I know."

"Isn't that weird?"

"Considering we spend all of our time with, let's see, Joey, no, it's really not."

You laugh. "I'm going to tell him you said that."

"You know, I got up and took a shower."

"You need another one."

"You need one."

"No kidding," you agree, sounding more content than disgusted.

"You go first. I'm going to lie here in the after-glow."

"You lazy bum."

"Justin?"

"What?"

"I love you."

"Good."

I press my nose to the back of your neck and inhale. "Justin."

"What?"

"I love you."

You turn in my arms until we're nose-to-nose. "JC."

"You're beautiful."

"Josh, baby, I know you love me. It's okay. And I know you're..."

"Obsessed."

"Yeah. And I know you think I'm perfect - - you know I'm not perfect, you spend way too much time with me and know me way too well to think I'm near perfect - - but still, you have me on this pedestal. You don't have to."

"I love you."

"I love you. You're obsessed and I'm needy greedy, which works out really well." You smile.

"Yeah." I pet your thigh.

"As long as we're already naked and sticky, you want one more before we shower?"

"I'll suck you."

"Only if I get to suck you, too. No fair coming without me."

"Okay." I kiss your soft lips. "Love you. Justin baby."

You laugh. "I was just trying it out."

"You're right. I know you're not perfect. But you seem flawless to me. I can't explain it."

"You don't have to."

"I don't want you to feel like I expect too much, like you have to live up to some ideal Justin living in my head."

"I don't. I did, at first, right in the beginning, I was worried that you'd realize who it really was you were kissing. But I think...remember the piano bench that night?"

"How could I forget?"

"I think I saw it all right there, before you kneeled down, when I looked at you and I just...I mean, you're so in love with me you can't do a thing about it. And you want me, I mean, you seriously want me. And that kind of love, you're not getting over it like ever. Which is good, since I won't ever let you leave me."

"I didn't mean to fall in love with you."

"Don't you dare tell me you're sorry for it."

"Never."

"I like this. When I can feel your heart beating."

"Yeah."

"Okay. Time for sex now?"

"Time for sex now," I agree, and kiss you.

"Me first."

"I came twice and you only came once, so it'll take longer for me to-"

"That is such a lie." I'm amused that you think you can get away with that.

"Give me a break. Can I help it if you make me horny?"

"It is not my fault that you're oversexed."

"It's totally your fault. You're the one who's sexing me," you accuse.

"What?"

"Stop laughing at me."

"Love you."

"You'd better. Now roll over. I need to practice."

"You can practice whenever you want," I say, settling on my back and closing my eyes.

matthew@matthewtime.com
"I Need You Tonight" Part Four: Tonight
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