By Minim Calibre
Notes: Popslash drabble. Justerbation happens. Justin/Himself, PG-13.
Justin had tapes of all the guys’ TV appearances, each one labeled by name, and most of them filed away without ever being watched.
Most of them.
His dark secret, the thing that had driven a wedge between him and Britney, the thing that lead to him getting a P.O. Box under an assumed name, was, as he liked to call it, The Lance Files. Justin liked to watch Lance. He liked to watch him dance, newly-buff body flapping around like a chicken who’d taken lessons. There wasn’t a single tape of Lance he hadn’t worn out and needed to replace.
Brit got $2000 a month in unmarked bills to keep her mouth shut, and Justin got to watch the Lance Dance in the privacy of his own room without having to worry about Lance ever finding out. He pressed rewind on the remote, watched those full, girlish lips part in a smile, and settled back with his cock in his hand to enjoy the night.