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"And there's Nick Carter at number 3," chirps Nick's headphones, fading out halfway through the last verse and pounding painfully into All The Things She Said, "and before that, Eminem, who's spent the week directly underneath him at number 4. Now on to those scandalous schoolgirls--"
It's a drone, but it's keeping his attention away from the fact that he's at an industry event and Justin's around here somewhere and hasn't got in touch, and the fact that Aaron is demanding a signed copy of Without Me and looks set not to shut up until Nick's gotten hold of one.
The performance was fun, at least, but since then? Nick's not having a good night.
Though it's not like he needs Justin to call, nah.
Nick's happy to call Justin.
Later. Maybe a lot later.
Last time they met up, there were onlookers and bodyguards and Lance and JC, and Nick had behaved, smiling for the camera instead of for Justin.
Maybe post-drinks later, actually. Could be wise.
"--running through my head," TATU pant, "running through my head," and Nick yanks out his headphones and glares around the empty corridor. He's supposed to be looking for Eminem's room. He's even holding the damn CD, stripped of cellophane. He wants to be interrupted by the buzz of his phone - but he's supposed to be looking for Eminem's room, because that's what good big brothers do.
The phone still hasn't rung five minutes later, by which point he's been standing in front of Eminem's door for about two-hundred seconds and has just started worrying about CCTV. Get your shit together, Carter. C'mon. Jesus.
It's not locked. He pushes in and asks cheerfully, "You enjoy your week directly underneath me?" and Eminem's head slams up, his mouth going cold and hard. Nick feels something inside him relax.
"What the fuck?"
Nick shrugs, leaning on the doorjamb, feeling his eyes all bright. Bring it on. "Your week underneath me?" he says innocently, and nods West. "You know. In the UK."
Eminem stares at him for a full three seconds, before shaking his head in disgust, laughing, pure contempt, "what crack are you on." He's getting warily to his feet, though, leaving a half-tidied pack of playing cards by an unopened Carling six-pack. Caught him off-guard and alone, Nick thinks, stepping into the room. Okay. This might be fun after all.
He makes his eyes huge. "Last week!"
"What the hell are you talking ab--"
"You forgot your week directly underneath me already? I'm hurt--" and Eminem's got him by the throat, eyes as slits, shoving him against the wall.
"You shut the fuck up already," he orders, deliciously bewildered, scrappy fingernails grating into the smooth skin beneath Nick's jaw. "What the fuck are you on, you freakin' pussy punk?"
Oops? Nick thinks mirthlessly, tense now, feeling his eyes rock-hard, his hand lifting swift-deliberately and fisting the material at the back of Eminem's neck. Eminem doesn't flinch, and Nick's thinking about the marks he might be left with and the others he sorta wants to collect. This is what he needs, this evening, yeah. Clear his head.
He jerks the back of Eminem's collar back hard, and Eminem makes a sharp strangled noise, outrage and surprise as Nick's other hand snatches his wrist-- and maybe he hadn't noticed Nick's broader these days, broader and taller, that for all Eminem's got the rep of being a wiry fucker there's not much that argues with pure dense strength.
"Get off me," he breathes, and Nick doesn't know if it sounds soft because the hem of his top's jammed against his voicebox or because Eminem's gone genuinely sinister right now. His eyes are certainly no clue.
"Touchy," Nick says mildly, letting him go all at once, and Eminem backs up a step and glares at him, singsong gaze all over him like heat.
He didn't expect this, didn't think Eminem would give him more than the finger, once, as he ambled out of sight. Didn't think he'd be so deliciously volatile in real life.
Nick thinks, a moment later, that Eminem would probably object violently to being thought of as an ambler.
"I don't like being paid that sorta attention," Eminem's saying, pointedly, and Nick's brain veers sharply, and suddenly he's wondering what it'd be like to pay him that sorta attention, to pay him slow velvety pulls and maybe get that lower lip against his cock.
"You're a walkin' invitation," Nick says, and only realises when Eminem's eyes spit frost that it's highly likely they've not jumped to the same page.
"You fucking with me?" Eminem demands, stalking closer, getting in Nick's face, and Nick can taste danger when he breathes, knows that smell, knows he's probably better off backing away right now. AJ taught him to fight, and he can probably match this guy, but he's not entirely confident of switchblades.
"Chill out." He keeps his voice curt, lazy. No thrill of fear here, no sir. No heat in the gut, definitely no syllables like an-ti-ci-pa-tion patting through his brain.
Eminem stares at him for a long moment, long enough for Nick to notice the way the air's thrumming like the space above a hot stove, and then Eminem laughs. "Go fuck your brother," he drawls, then bites his lip like guilt, which looks incredibly ridiculous on a face trained to scowl, and, "oh wait, didn't I already do that tonight?" and Nick's fist's shoving into Eminem's stomach without a thought.
Mistake, he thinks, in some sort of strange distant place where he's not setting about instinctively to pulp this guy into next week, and he registers a whiplash crack as Eminem slams right back against him, and then the heels of his hands are driving against Eminem's shoulders, and Eminem's suddenly panting and four feet away.
"Now who's touchy," he says, and Nick feels his lip curl. Catch him asking for a signature tonight.
"Yeah, you had somewhere to be," Eminem agrees, voice indolent and mean, and Nick gets it, yeah, and it's not like AJ's never joked that your brother, man, if he were a few years older I could do something with that-- but then AJ's not been courting controversy for the last three years, isn't possibly rawly twisted right through.
And for chrissakes, AJ's never been laughing like he wants to sting. "I could put it off, if you got something you got to say to me," Nick says, setting his shoulders.
Eminem doesn't blink. "Man, you don't learn. Get out my face."
"I'm the one against the wall," Nick says, and that's true, but it hasn't felt like a disadvantage before.
Isn't, actually, a disadvantage now, unless you count not being able to bar Eminem's way if he tries to leave. And since it's his room - heh.
"You want me out your face, go," Nick suggests, cold, and this time he's testing the air, not even surprised by the way he's hoping Eminem won't leave. The air's pretty thick, pretty blue, and the undercurrent's still free-flowing. Nick could do with this tonight.
"It's my turf, you asshole," Eminem says, and Nick has to suppress a smile. Justin's said that before.
"Maybe I like it here."
Eminem laughs nastily. "Yeah, I know what you'd like," he says, giving the crotch of his baggy pants a quick, suggestive squeeze that finds the bulk within, and Nick lets himself stare openly.
He enjoys the moment Eminem freezes, face going absolutely still.
Eminem's hand drops to his thigh. "No way," he mutters, eyes narrower than they've been all night, "you're fucking with me," and Nick feels it hum inside.
He lets a tiny edge of his smile come to the surface. "What d'ya think?"
"I think you're a fucking faggot," Eminem breathes, and it means, Nick notices, nothing from him, just another dictionary definition. "You're sick."
"You're not leaving."
"I'm not giving ground to a-- no way," Eminem says, and he's scoffing but maybe Nick should've been a lion tamer, because he's beginning to feel completely fucking high. If Eminem tells anyone, people will just nod and smile. There there, dear. Of course he did. Those boybanders, honestly!
There's power in that.
There'd be more power in getting him on his knees.
"Well, neither am I," Nick says, pleasantly, and Eminem stares at him for a vacant moment before getting it, before he's going for his pocket like a snake biting and there's a flashsnap of metal as Nick grabs his wrist out the air.
"Don't you fucking insult me," Eminem's hissing, and Nick twists his arm hard and the knife clatters at their feet.
"Don't fucking threaten me," Nick retorts genially, kicking the blade to skitter into the corner, and it's instinct to grab Eminem's other hand, to hold his fists clear of his skin.
It tugs Eminem against him, that hard - wiry - body frozen in indignant lines. "I'm gonna slay you," Eminem says, and that makes Nick laugh. C'mon, sweetie. We're popstars.
"I better not let go of you, then," he settles for saying, trying to feel if Eminem's hard without making it obvious, "if my safety's in question."
Eminem twists viciously, trapped bleached weasel with septic incisors, and Nick holds his breath and grits his teeth and makes damn sure that he doesn't give an inch of ground. He keeps his eyes on Eminem's face, the angry strain in his jaw, the girlish pink of his mouth half open. He imagines ducking and catching at Eminem's mouth with his tongue, imagines tasting the curses-- and his cock, yeah, his cock knows it's pretty intensely interested by now.
Only way to get a guy like this is to make it seem like his idea, though, and it's kinda late for that. Nick braces himself to shove and let go, tries to think of a decent last retort to cover his exit. The door's still slightly open - he can just bolt, if necessary. Eminem's gaze is like warm pressure everywhere. Okay, he thinks, catching his breath. He'll get out of here and jerk off and then call Justin ostensibly to gossip about it-- and then Eminem's growling and wrenching their hands down to their sides, and his body sways direct against Nick's from chest to thigh.
"What the fuck," Eminem blurts, threatening, but for all he's wearing baggy pants Nick can still feel firmness in all the right places, and oh. This is new and interesting and jesus, pretty hot, and all former plans go out the window; he lets go of Eminem's wrists to secure his hips instead. Instinctive. "Hey--"
"Hey," Nick agrees, making it warm and low, and Eminem makes a short stark outraged noise as Nick nudges them together, his cock meeting the bulge in Eminem's pants in a slow, delicious slide.
"Get the hell off of me," Eminem whispers, glancing urgently at the door, and Nick crooks his leg around the back of Eminem's knee and then turns, deliberately, until Eminem's the one pressed against the wall. He can reach the door now, send it shut with a hard pass of his hand, and it's all the more satisfying to hear it click -- locked? -- when it's in conjunction with crushing Eminem smooth enough to get a groan.
"It's okay," Nick says, letting his voice slip down the register until it's a lot like he's talking to a startled girl. Or Justin. "C'mon, we just - then you give me the CD and we can get back out there, and I'm sure not tellin' anyone--"
"Sick," Eminem mutters, and his hands are in Nick's shirt, and Nick's eyes fall half-closed when Eminem uses those hips of his to grind. Nick wonders if he's done this before, decides he hasn't because the idea he's the first is just so cool, and he pushes his hands under the cotton beneath the hoodie - wifebeater? sheesh, man - and rubs his fingertips over the warm skin. He decides Eminem will probably slug him if he starts actively thinking about Justin.
Eminem's got his eyes closed and his head tilted back against the wall, and he scowls prettily when Nick slides one hand down between them and gropes him for real. His mouth opens a little, too, and his breath comes like little puffs of ash, soft and dry. Nick looks at the pale slant of neck, the pulse panicking in there, wants to press his mouth to it but would that get him thrown out? and then, heh, he's got the guy's dick against his hand, can't see much getting him thrown out at this stage.
It'd be good to feel skin, though, and he wants to see Eminem's face when he does it. Kiss him after, if ever. He squeezes carefully, working his way up, finding the button at the top, nudging it open with his thumb, and Eminem clicks, freezes, tendons coming visible in his throat. His hips can't keep quite still, but they're trying, and the idea of that, oh, gorgeous.
Nick slips his fingers in under the notch of the zipper and guides it down like that, safe, spreading his knuckles so Eminem's cock fits between them. Still the underwear, but that's soft too, and very fine, and Nick thinks mildly that they've got a wicked thread-count in the ghetto. The heat eases through, blushing his fingers, and Eminem's still trying to hold his hips silent, still not quite succeeding.
First time Nick did this, Justin was in charge - before Justin got serious with JC, before he'd gotten serious with anyone. Justin was wild, and had something to prove, and Nick saw stars the first time, and tasted them every night after. Before, Nick hadn't even wondered if JC's eyeliner was indicative of anything else. That clueless.
"You want me to...?" Nick asks, playing his fingers against the hot material of Eminem's - underwear? Nick bets it's Ralph Lauren - and he thinks he might be pushing it, but nowadays that's his style.
Eminem makes a noise in his throat that sounds pretty discontented, and Nick smiles, ducking his head so Eminem won't see. He figures he can get away with a lot, but being genuinely mocked simply ain't sexy.
"C'mon," Nick mutters, "ask me," rubbing the backs of his knuckles in slow, taunting slides, "I mean, I don't want you denying it la--"
"For chrissakes-- do it, you fucking piece of shit," Eminem says, voice cracking, and it's like he's hardwired or something, and that's about as interesting as Eminem's gonna get.
Nick contents himself with a soft, "Nice," and figures he'd better stop teasing; he dips one hand inside to steady the situation while the other works the waistband down to Eminem's thighs.
There's a moment where he can almost hearing the world updating its records, a moment of no breath. And it's never gonna lose its charm, Nick thinks dizzily, holding another guy's cock in his hand. The heat and the incredibly hard softness - Nick's never felt silk exactly like it, but it's close, taut and slightly damp - filling his hand. Overfilling. Incredible.
He starts stroking, enjoys that hitch of breath that Eminem's maybe still trying to hide. Yeah, baby, you're not enjoying this at all. He thinks about pressing his own cock alongside, stroking them together, feeling the pulse flicker between then-- but there's still the fear that Eminem will bolt, and-- and.
He gets a flash of Justin, that first time, blowing him and then kissing him, salt thick in his mouth, cock gleefully conspicuous against Nick's thigh. Justin's fingers had eased inside him during the kiss, not the blowjob, and Justin had said later, c'mon, it wasn't like you weren't gonna notice and then let me anyway. That only happens in porn.
Nick's never seen porn like that, but he also figures Eminem's not gonna bolt. He's towering over the guy and they're both panting, he thinks slowly, and the chances that Eminem's been secretly lusting after a domineering woman of his build are pretty damn thin.
He pushes them a little firmer against the wall, concentrating on the sweet inch just below the head of Eminem's cock, and it follows to lick his neck when he gasps, so he lets that happen as well. Eminem tastes pretty generic, but it's salt and Nick's craving now and he works his mouth along Eminem's jaw, kids himself that he can feel the pulse against his lips.
Eminem curses against his cheek, soft, "fuck, you," and cuts off, and Nick wonders if that was going to be a compliment; he'd talked a lot to God, his own first time, because Justin's mouth put such things in mind.
Eminem's mouth conjures something else entirely; he's the twenty-third-fallen-archangel, the guy that polishes Lucifer's boots, all resentful spiteful mutters and sulphur-stained wings. Nick speeds his hand up a little and feels a tiny song of surprise when Eminem's first kiss tastes perfectly, sleekly human.
Nick catches himself before he can make a pleased noise; no need to let anybody know how hot this makes him feel. It's not a good kiss, but it's desperate on Eminem's side, gnawing and difficult and undeniably sexy, making Nick clutch and crush closer and burn inside. It's like a coming-out kiss, and Nick wonders if this is what he felt like to Justin, a trembling maelstrom of unbalanced anger and stunned groping hands. Maybe. Smiling against Eminem's teeth, jerking his grip until he feels Eminem begin to slide down the wall, Nick feels like he's returning the favour to the universe.
Justin had asked him things, impatient - knocked on the closet door until it cracked open, then wriggled his way inside and screwed Nick against the metaphorical coathangers. Not a bad way to discover yourself, golden mouth coaxing you to surrender, although Nick sometimes wonders what it'd have been like to discover it the slow way, noticing one inch of unattainable male skin at a time. The fear's nudged him a couple of times that maybe he wouldn't have noticed. Maybe he'd have meandered along, girl after girl, assuming the missing element from his celebrity relationships was privacy. Thank god for Justin.
Nick, getting his free hand across the back of Eminem's neck and tugging him onto the floor and rolling so he's mostly on top, still kissing, letting go of Eminem's cock to anchor his own crotch there instead, has an inkling that Eminem's never going to thank the heavens for him.
But what the hell.
He watches for the moment Eminem realises he's actually pinned to the floor now; he gets rewarded with a hiss, soft lips parting under Nick's tongue and spitting fury, and it's all too easy to lick deep, to align his hips and grind down deliberately, to turn the only path that Eminem can follow into supplication.
He supports himself on one hand and runs the other down Eminem's side, tilting his head measuredly and sucking Eminem's tongue, using his teeth and feeling Eminem twitch and plucking open certain buttons until he can slide his naked cock against Eminem's skin. Oh yeah, baby. Meet me.
Again, it takes a couple of seconds, and then Eminem tenses hard beneath him, making unwilling noises that drive Nick halfway mad. Nick gives him a couple of thrusts, back and forth, curtly and quickly, his belly a rigid mess of hot muscle as he orders his body not to just ride it out and come all over this pretty little rapper right fucking now.
Then Eminem's hips are rising to greet him, giving the friction back twice as hard, and Nick has to stop kissing him because his mouth's gone dry. Throat, he aims, and Eminem bares it for him, twisting and panting. He growls when Nick licks the base of his neck, and then louder when he bites down. Can't go lower because of the thick hoody barrier, so Nick contents himself with worrying up a mark to leave Eminem something to scowl about later; and now he's beyond the session that Justin gave him, far beyond.
Justin only marked Nick up when Nick expressly asked him to.
"Ah, c'mon," Eminem mutters, and Nick has a curious snap-back-to-reality moment - whoops, gravity, heh - because it takes him a second to realise that Eminem's not asking to be bruised by Nick's mouth, and instead is, ah, got it: asking to be sucked off. Eminem's fist is round Nick's beltloops at the back, and Eminem's other hand has curled round Nick's shoulders to urge him downwards, and Nick grins against Eminem's throat and imagines folding for him, and simply knows that that's not how this game will be played.
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