biebraun

something i have not yet proofread. sort of part 4/a side thing i guess

justin/scooter
warnings: prostitution, rape/non-con fetish, actual rape/non-con, hurt/comfort


It’s not the crying; Justin almost always cries. And it’s not the inscrutable way he (always) looks at him afterward, like Scooter is something alien to him, some strange and potentially dangerous animal. He’s so wary, and Scooter has never known whether to believe in that look or in the words I trust you, I do off Justin’s full lips.

No, it’s not that - that’s not what has Scooter running cold water over his hand, fingers pink with heat where he’d distractedly reached bare-handed to take the teakettle off the stove. “Shit,” he breathes, kills the flame and wraps a towel around the pot-handle to move it. Justin had been fine.

Better than fine, actually. Not shaky, not gasping and shuddery the way he always is - dead calm, totally steady. Righting his clothes with careful, deliberate gestures and excusing himself to the bathroom with a quiet I’ll just be a moment, go ahead downstairs.

It shouldn’t be so unsettling. He should be used to this by now, to being with someone almost impossible to read - someone he’s more comfortable holding down

over the back of the couch as Justin struggles, one of Justin’s wrists caught in his fist and held pinned against the upholstery, other hand clapped over Justin’s mouth - fingers curling in against the warm wetness of his tongue, unconsciously mirroring the movement of his hips as he thrusts, never gentle -

than talking to, sometimes. He should be used to second-guessing everything out of Justin’s mouth, wondering how much is real and how much is - just humoring him. He should be used to wondering whether the person he’s growing to care about so much really exists.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he’s gasping into the sweat-damp skin of Justin’s neck, bare above the collar of the shirt Scooter didn’t even try to get off him - just shoved it up out of the way to palm at his abs, chest, the peaks of his nipples. “I want you so much, give it up to me - ” He’s fucking him, taking him, pushing for something real and visceral and honest. “I have to have you, baby, you’re perfect,” he’s saying, maybe a little desperate because sometimes it feels like the closest he’ll ever get.

“Is that for me?”

Scooter looks up from where he’s found himself curling his still-throbbing fingers (familiar gesture) around a cube of ice from the freezer. There’s a mug of tea on the counter steeping, chamomile like Justin makes himself before bed sometimes, the cheap store brand Justin once joked made him homesick and then shut his mouth like he hadn’t meant to say the words aloud. Justin does that more and more lately - tells him things by accident. Scooter won’t let himself believe it means anything yet, but he stores away every little detail like if he collects enough of them he’ll be able to stack them up into a person, someone whole and present and permanent.

But right now there’s tea. He made Justin tea, somewhere between burning his hand and opening the freezer door. “Uh. Yeah, that’s for you.”

He watches as Justin picks up the cup. His fingers are longer than Scooter’s, overlap as he cradles it and blows over the rim lightly. He has pretty hands - artistic, like a musician’s. Everything about him is pretty, which is an understatement. It would be distracting (it usually is) if Scooter weren’t already preoccupied.

“Are you okay?” They both say it at the same time. Scooter is caught off-guard, stutters and stops short; Justin is calm, indecipherable. Or maybe not. Scooter isn’t so far away he can’t see ripples forming on the surface of Justin’s drink. Justin is breathing slow and deep like it takes effort, not quiet enough to be lost under the drip of melting ice water from between Scooter’s fingers.

Scooter repeats the question, alone this time. “I’m fine,” Justin says, but he cracks a little bit more, bends his face down over his mug so he can pretend Scooter won’t see him blink back tears.

Scooter doesn’t move; he’s afraid if he reaches for Justin he’ll close up, shrug and flash that thin, hard smile that means Scooter would have better luck asking him to marry him on the moon than repeating whatever question he’d just asked. So Scooter stays where he is, helpless dread congealing in the pit of his stomach because he’s almost not even surprised when Justin finally says:

“I wanted you to stop.” He doesn’t say it like an accusation, just a fact, a line in a conversation he’s having with the mug in his hands and not the man a few steps from him (he might as well be in another house altogether). “I wanted to say - you know, the word, but. Your hand.”

“Justin - ” Scooter is suddenly conscious of that hand, the throbbing ache in his fingers and sliver of half-melted ice that he flings into the kitchen sink in disgust. The sound makes Justin suck in a short breath, startled, and Scooter is struck by the reality of what he is to Justin, what he just did to him.

He takes a step back. “I - the car, I think I left the windows down, I should - ” and he’s striding quickly (running away) toward the garage, needing to be alone (needing Justin to be safe).

Justin’s eyes are red from crying, but he’s smiling that lazy half-smile of his, hair bath-damp and wearing one of Scooter’s old t-shirts instead of his own. “You’re always so sweet to me after,” he’s murmuring, perched on Scooter’s lap and reaching to clasp his hands behind Scooter’s neck.

“Is it because you want to be or because you feel guilty?”

His breath is warm against Scooter’s skin and he says it lightly, like a joke, but Scooter shakes his head. “I’m sweet to you after,” he replies, “because that’s when you let me be sweet to you.”

“Don’t feel guilty,” Justin says as though he didn’t even listen to Scooter’s response (as though he sees through him like glass). Presses his mouth to Scooter’s for a second. “I can take it. Maybe I even like it sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Scooter asks, sharply, but Justin’s gone sphinx-like and only shrugs, stifles a yawn.

“So how about another one of those great massages while you’re being so sweet?”


Justin’s fingers are cool around Scooter’s wrists, gently pulling his hands from where they’d been covering his face. “Don’t,” Scooter says, but Justin only looks at him, eyes red but dry, and says “Come inside, I’m not wearing shoes.”

“I’m sorry,” is all Scooter can manage, and he’s not sure whether he’s referring to Justin’s bare feet on the dirty concrete floor of his garage or to what he can’t name, can only keep thinking about around its edges (I’m sorry for my fingers in your mouth, I’m sorry you couldn’t tell me to stop, I’m sorry I didn’t make sure you were okay -). “I’m so sorry, Justin - ”

He lets himself be pulled toward the doorway for a few steps and stops. “Do you want to go home?” Justin looks at him sharply so he continues, “If you don’t want to sleep here, I can drive you home or call a cab or - whatever.” He’s suddenly sick with the thought that Justin has spent the past hour under the obligation to spend the rest of the night sharing a bed with someone who.

He shudders with it, but Justin only stares at him, looking numb. “This is home. Come on, already.”

Justin/Scooter, "Where There's Gold" Part 2

Where There’s Gold (There’s a Gold-Digger)
Justin Bieber/Scooter Braun
Part 2 (part 1 is here)
Warnings: prostitution, non-explicit underage sex (Well, technically 16+ is legal in the state of Georgia), lots of random religious allusions/references
Summary: Classic hooker!fic. Scooter pays for sex, Justin does what he must and tries not to think too deeply about things. Love blossoms under even the strangest of circumstances
A/N: Justin’s Hebrew Jesus tat really can be read as the name “Joshua.”

“So,” Scooter starts, voice weighted with the exact air of light conversation he’s been using for weeks to coax Justin into telling him things, “Why did you leave wherever it is you left?”

All Justin has for him is a slight smile and shoulder half-shrugged. He’s getting better at not answering the unexpected questions (It’s not that he doesn’t like talking to Scooter; there are just some things that aren’t part of his history anymore). “I guess I thought I’d like here better.”

“You don’t like to talk about yourself much, do you?” Scooter covers Justin’s hand with his on the tabletop like the gesture means something - ownership, Justin would guess, or maybe just a lengthy lease.

“I’m not rich enough to talk about myself.” Justin turns his hand so it’s palm up, flat against Scooter’s, and finishes the sentence with a smile that flashes his teeth. It’s a good line, delivered right; most people laugh and let the subject change.

“Pretend.” Scooter’s fingers curl loosely around Justin’s wrist, thumb to his pulse. “You’re eating lobster ravioli at La Grotta,” he nods at their uniformed waiter (he’s been calling Justin Mr. Braun’s young nephew all night) for a dessert menu. “It shouldn’t be hard.”

“It’s dull.” Justin pulls his hand away. “Origin stories are only interesting if the person telling them is somewhere different now than where he began.” He doesn’t wonder if he really believes that about himself; it’s not important.

“All right,” Scooter sits back himself, straightening to pick up a cocktail list as it’s offered. “Just making conversation.” He leaves the topic alone for the rest of the meal, and for that Justin feels only relief.



It’s only a temporary reprieve. Everyone talks too much in that post-coital stretch between orgasm and sleep.

“If you really thought your past wasn’t worth remembering,” Scooter murmurs that night, usual habit of idly measuring Justin’s tattoos with spaced fingers, “You wouldn’t put reminders on your body like this.”

It would be easy to tell him something - maybe even something true. He can’t (has already said too much, frightens himself with the sum of every small detail he’s offered up over the past month alone). “It’s personal,” Justin says with firmness usually reserved only for statements like yes, that price is final and no, I don’t like handcuffs. For a satisfying moment he thinks he’s settled the matter.

Then Scooter pulls away, stands up. “I should shower.”

Justin tells himself he won’t read into that air of finality, but he’s almost resigned to it anyway by the time Scooter returns wrapped defensively in a towel and the news he’s leaving town on business the next morning. These things come up, you know.

Justin isn’t invited, but he already guessed that. He goes through the usual expressions of regret and understanding, packs his new Louis Vuitton overnight case (Scooter hadn’t even looked at the price tag before swiping his card) while Scooter fills his own luggage, and orders a taxi back into the city.

He gets a quick kiss goodbye on the curb and Scooter draws breath to say something (I’ll call you, maybe, or even I’ve changed my mind, come with me - or just thanks, have a nice life), but Justin pulls the door shut he can hear it.

The cabbie switches the station to religious talk radio and glares capital-J Judgment at him in the mirror the whole route back, so Justin counts the contents of an envelope stuffed with bills and makes sure to tip him handsomely. Moral compromise isn’t just for the whores, he’d say if anyone was around to listen when the taxi pulls away from the curb, paid and then some. Blessed are the hypocrites.



He thinks about Scooter a lot, in weird places - mostly bedrooms, mostly on his back. Nobody else ever asks him where he comes from (only what it takes to make him come).

Benefactors develop and lose interest all the time; Scooter’s no exception. Justin’s sure he only thinks of him still because he’d been around for a while - just a habit. “It’s strange what people choose to grieve,” he mentions to his newest companion and in response gets a monologue on a recently- and dearly-departed housecat and later a rather large tip for the emotional catharsis.



He almost doesn’t pick up the phone when Scooter calls again - it feels so close to unfair, getting something he hasn’t been allowing himself to want for weeks. He looks at the screen and thinks for a beat that he could always just let it go to message, have Scooter’s voice recorded to his inbox for the next time he’s feeling destructively bored and obsessive. Wonders what’s wrong with himself and hits SEND. “Hi.”

“Oh, this is a real number.” It sounds like he’s smiling, and Justin feels his own mouth quirk upward at the side in automatic response. “I was afraid I’d get directory services.”

“No,” is all Justin lets himself say. He adjusts the phone on his shoulder so he can pull open his closet door in search of a nicer shirt. “It’s really me.”

“You’re always so talkative,” Scooter says, but he’s still smiling so Justin doesn’t dwell on the bitter edge to it. “So what are you doing tonight?”

Who, you mean. Justin tabs through his iPhone calendar to verify it’s nothing (no one) he’d feel bad about cancelling. “Nothing, right now. Sleep.”

“You could come do that with me,” Scooter supplies immediately on cue. Laughs, under his breath the way he does.

“When?”

“How soon can you have your bag packed?”

Justin already has it lying open on the bed, clothes piling next to it on the sheets as he pulls them from his closet. “Two hours,” Justin says because he needs a shower and styling and time to make that cancellation call before the taxi comes.

Scooter grunts agreement, not surprised. “I’ll make dinner reservations.” He pauses. “I like those gold shoes you wear. With the velcro straps.”

Justin nods and almost drops his phone with the movement. “Okay. 7:00?”

“7:00.”

He hangs up, stares at the phone for a moment, wondering how or why this feels different to him. Then he orders a taxi and goes to look for his Supras.



“I told myself I shouldn’t see you again,” is the third thing Scooter says to him at dinner (after hello and what are you having?). It’s apparently Justin’s night for dashed hopes and sharp disappointments. He isn’t sure how to respond, smiles tight with teeth grit so he won’t frown or say the wrong thing and waits for him to continue.

“You frustrate me,” Scooter says. “I told myself that something I do to relax shouldn’t frustrate me.” He looks to Justin and the only thing he can think to do is nod in dumb agreement. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He shrugs, “So I called.”

“Why me?” Justin asks before he can think of a question less openly suicidal. He might as well have offered to jump online and find his own replacement immediately.

Scooter smiles like Justin just made his point for him. “You’re not like the other - people I’ve met.” Justin would have a snide comment about the euphemisms in that sentence if he weren’t so busy worrying a hole through the threads of the cloth napkin in his lap.

“I want to know you, I want to know about you. Your tattoos, the way you sometimes start to tell a story and stop,” Scooter grimaces, reaches to pull his own napkin from its folds and drops it into his lap. “You’re so opaque. I don’t think I’d ever hear the answers I want. I’m not sure I’m entitled to them, anyway.”

“Oh.” Justin looks down at his hands, manicured nails someone else paid for, and takes a breath. Scooter has it backwards; the hard part has always been not telling him things. “It’s not that I don’t - well. It means Joshua,” he says, because doing has always been easier than talking about it. “Yeshua, the Hebrew name. My tattoo.”

“Your real name?” Scooter’s expression isn’t quite legible to him, surprise and something else. Justin shakes his head. “No, from the Bible. The one who left Moses in that shithole desert and made it to the Promised Land.”

Scooter laughs, and it’s a nice sound. “That’s not how my rabbi ever told that story,” he murmurs.

“I like my way better,” Justin says, and he thinks Scooter might just understand. He tells himself he doesn’t feel any different having said it, but that’s a lie. “And my name really is ‘Justin.’”

“It suits you,” Scooter says. “All of it.”

This time Justin’s the one who reaches for his hand. “I know.”