pop_tarts

J finds her smoking against the wall at alarm, six hours before Busta gets to work. "What are you doing here?"

A shrugs; "can't go home," she says, and then hesitates. "You ever see someone die because they were sick before?"

J leans on the wall beside her, and takes her cigarette. They're sweet, dandelion maybe. Real tobacco is too expensive for her tastes. "Once," he tells her. "When I was a kid. Rich people die because they get sick, sometimes, and the surgeons can't put them back together again."

She stares down at her arm. The scar, from where the doctor had to restitch her bone up from the inside out, was obvious in the sunshine. Her skin is faint pink beneath the brown tan, the leathery skin. J has a thousand scars on himself. "You ever get sick?" she asks him. J shakes his head; Christina says, "Mer's dead," and gulps.

--

This is something I swore up and down to throughadoor I would never let her talk me into. But hey, the curtain's drawn back on everything, including celebrity. it's been a year since we posted the cult of Timberlake story, and I guess that's as good a time as any to talk about it some more.

Which is to say, kel talked me into:

Flesh Mechanic: Not an AU - Member Commentary.


Really, this is much less interesting than it could be. I mean, this thing has been talked to death. but there's nothing like flogging an already corpsified horse. Especially if his name is J. Timberlake.

something I just had to do. ( remember Alarm? just me? okay. )

I'm not posting any popslash wip's right now because I have about ten thousand. my 'discard' folder is eons bigger than my in progress folder - maybe it anyone's interested, I might later. but, instead, here's this.

--

Paris flops down, trying to keep the towel wedged firmly around her breasts while still laying spread eagle on the hotel duvet. They always get a suite; not the nicest suite, but one with a sitting room and one with a full kitchen. She doesn't know or care what her parents think about always demanding a suite. Paris likes to be able to make eggs in the morning if she wants to. They usually don't, but it's nice.

Nick is at the desk, listening to some track and making notes. When she finally rolls over, with a little tuck of the towel, he pulls his headphones off. "Good shower?"

Paris nods. They make sure to always get the duvet covers washed too. Owning the hotel has some nice perks. Paris makes sure that anyone who does it without complaining gets a raise. She tells him, "I need more mousse though."

Nick's pushed his notes away already, come over to sit on the bed. He starts playing with the hem of her towel. "we can go to that salon down the street."

Paris loves him because automatically he knows the only store in Beverly Hills that carries her mousse; she rolls over, on top of him, and plants her face in his stomach, arms wrapped around his waist. Into his tee shirt she says, "I was thinking about you yesterday. in, uh, in the limo."

"oh?"

She has to move her face or stop breathing. when Paris looks up, Nick's head is tilted down to look right at her, right into her eyes. "Yeah," and then she says, "I think, I dunno." She shrugs. "Something was on the radio, Sheryl Crow or something? and I was like, 'I'll call Nick because I miss him', except then I remembered you'd still be in the air and your phone would be off."

He smiles, and looks pleased. "Yeah?"

Paris nods. It's the truth. "but you were flying to see me."

"I was," he says. "of course I was."

I know I don't post much here, and that's because I haven't written anything in a long while, but sometimes, sometimes there are things you have to share, for the good of humanity. from a review of JC's club show:

I finally was able to read what JC's jacket said in the opening number "ADIDAS," - "I sold my soul to the beat '03".

has anyone seen chris since the '03 vmas? no? you know why? we hesitated, and now it's too late.

I'm dying. Dying, I tell you! melted utterly, into a little puddle of "oh my god socutesocute!" it's sad and pathetic. Lance! where have you been all these months!!

--

"Who's this?" Justin said, and held up a somewhat tattered picture so Lance could inspect it. "He's pretty cute."

"Umm," and Lance squinted at the photo. "a guy I used to know?"

Justin peered at the guy. He was cute, and attentive. "Old boyfriend?" Lance shrugged; Justin decided. Old boyfriend. "It's a really good picture. You should put it up."

"Um," Lance said.

"I know," and Justin hopped up off the floor, abandoning the box he was sifting through. "People always think it's weird to put up pictures of themselves, or put up pictures of ex's. Did you hate him at the end?"

Lance held a green and orange lamp up; Justin shook his head, cringing, and Lance put it in the box for the garage sale. "I actually still like him quite a bit. He moved across town. He frames artwork for a living."

"You should get a frame for this and hang it up," Justin said, nodding. "If you don't, I will." He tucked the picture on Lance's kitchen table, into a pile of important papers and a cutout magazine article on gay detroit that for some reason Lance was obsessed with. Justin sat down at the table, stacking the papers and the photo in reverse-size order.

Lance came to stand behind him, and both his hands came to rest on Justin's shoulders. "you'd hang a picture of me and an old boyfriend up?" he asked Justin.

Justin put his hand on Lance's, shrugging. "You look happy in it, you look good. Why not?"



etc. I don't know! throughadoor owes me social!worker!au scenes, which this was supposed to be. so since this sucks, you should all tell her to write some instead.

two things before we begin: a. I don't think this is very good at all - just another body-swapping scene - but it's all I've managed to write today.

b. this actually is because in the shower, I was struck with the best icon idea ever, from the Eminem lyric "I'd rather put out a motherfuckin' gospel record" than shut up. and then I sent an email, describing the livejournal post that I would make, if I had time to write. and it went something like:

'I have this incredible urge right now to make an all-eminem icon set, or at least an icon that says "gospel record", and then weigh in on every single thing that crops up on livejournal. but since nothing will ever make me ever give up the cult icon set, there's only ( this scene.' )

you know, I was called white trash when I used to say Lynn was hot when we watched "we are nsync".

--

"Stop saying that Lance," Justin said, and put a towel over his head. This tour was never, ever going to end. He didn't really appreciate how incredibly much he depended on the support of his mother being around until she ended up getting a surprise trip across the country.

Trace walked by. "You ready to go yet?"

"nearly," Justin said.

"Yo, Lynn," and Trace drank from Justin's water. "You coming with us tonight?"

"Hell, why not," Lance said, and gave Trace a dazzling smile. Trace blinked a few times, looked at Justin, scratched his head, and then announced his intention to find Steve. "Did I say the wrong thing?"

"My mom probably wouldn't come," Justin said, towel still on his face. "But it doesn't matter. Trace has seen my mom do some weird shit."

"You know," Lance said thoughtfully, "since you called your dad and told him, no one would be weirded out if I picked someone up." Justin sat up so fast his spine cracked. "Lynn's pretty fine."

Justin put the towel back on his face.

"No, really," Lance said. "I bet I could get some decent action with these." Justin didn't move, and actually closed his eyes as well, because if Lance was gripping his mother's breasts - no, there was no 'if' about it.

--

you know, I remember a time when I was funny. ah well. sorry. :D

memo to me and throughadoor: title the hooker AU "sleep on the loveseat". title the college AU "cooking with the devil", "frying down in hell" or possibly "taco stand".