nsync in black and white

Fiction by Pen . . . . . not real, made up, purely intended for entertainment

Happy Birthday, Kirkpatrick

 

Chris was disturbed.

No, that wasn't right. Chris was... unnerved? No, not that either, because Chris had nerves of steel, everyone knew that. Unsettled, maybe? That was closer, he had a right to be unsettled, because this just wasn't the kind of thing he was even supposed to expect.

Disconcerted. That was it. He was disconcerted. It was a good word, it was the right word for the circumstances. A JC kind of word, which was completely appropriate because this was a JC kind of girl. In fact, Chris had to keep checking over his shoulder that JC, who really should be on the other side of the country right now, oblivious in his studio, had not shown up at Chris's house, because this girl, this woman, actually, kept sending him these Looks. Big bright intensely focused I want you inside me right now looks. And while he was more than happy to get looks like that, it was... disconcerting.

Thing was, this was not the kind of girl who usually gave him that look. The usual kind of girl was, honestly, trashy. Which, you know, okay, a man couldn't really expect that kind of look from a, hmm, a 'nice girl', when she didn't even know him and hadn't so much as said a word to him. The girls who threw him that look just wanted to be fucked by someone famous, they were the same girls who five, ten years ago would have been handing him magic markers and asking him to autograph skin, while the nice girls were blushing and stammering and offering their CD covers.

This girl, this woman, did not look like she ever blushed, sure, but she was very much not the trashy kind. She was class. Poised. Figure like a model. Stunning. Absolutely the kind of woman who inevitably went home with JC, from her shiny shoulder-length hair to the tips of her expensive shoes. Classy. Aristocratic, even. The cheekbones, the straight, thick black brows—Chris kinda liked that she didn't have her eyebrows plucked into a haughty arch, she didn't need to, anyway, not to convey the haughty—and those incredible, compelling eyes. Staring at him. At him.

It was. Disconcerting.

* * *

It took hours to persuade everyone to leave. His friends never paid attention to what he said—like, No, I'm not gonna bother with a birthday party this year. Okay, the party was a day early. It had surely been a surprise, and since they'd not bothered to bring their own liquor, a not entirely welcome one.

Chris hid the last crate of beer, and lied outrageously when somebody mentioned pot—like he was really gonna run out!—and with a considerable struggle persuaded the invaders to check out some club he'd heard of which was the place to go, this week. He didn't know anything about it, he'd just picked up a flyer somewhere he couldn't even remember, but the name popped into his head and right now anything, anything that got these people out the door would be good.

He closed the door on the last of them, and took a deep breath. There was something strange going on, why would this woman, this JC kind of woman, be waiting for him? He actually gave a minute—okay, thirty seconds—of serious consideration to the possibility that she might be a vampire, but hell, she wasn't going to find a lot of blood in his neck because it was elsewhere right now, in the part of him that was saying yes yes yesfuckyes and frankly didn't much care if he was left drained and limp afterwards, in fact, would be very disappointed with anything else.

She was in the kitchen, waiting for him, taller than Chris even though she had slid her elegant feet out of their fancy designer sandals.

"Hi," he said, trying for suave.

Her husky "Hello" went straight to his groin.

"Uh. Have we met? You look kinda familiar. Are you a model, or, something? I'm Chris. " And I'm babbling, he thought, but her cynical little smirk was doing things, disconcerting things, to his brain. And his auxiliary brain.

"I model... sometimes. You can call me K," she said, and now she was standing right up close and personal, and sliding her hands up under his T-shirt, and then down to his zipper, and then slithering down his body and kneeling right there in front of him. Chris clutched at the countertop and tried not to buckle, as she gave him the most spectacular blowjob of his life.

* * *

Dawn was doing its best to sneak in through the heavily armored windows. It wasn't a thing Chris very often witnessed, not from this side of sleep. He ought not to be witnessing it now, but (a) the drapes weren't properly closed, and (b) even though he should by rights be completely exhausted and fit for nothing for the next week or so, Kay was still here, face down in the bed beside him, and Chris was not one to waste an opportunity.

"Hey, beautiful," he husked suggestively, running a hand up her long, silken back.

There was a resigned huff of air into the pillow, and she turned.

"Hey yourself," said Kevin Richardson.

Chris shrieked.

Kevin slapped a large, entirely masculine hand over Chris's mouth and kept it there until Chris bit him, at which point he withdrew his hand with a yelp, and glared. "Bitch!"

"What the fuck? How did you—and where—and why—and gah!!!"

"Okay, I'll explain," said Kevin. "Lou Pearlman made a pact with the devil."

Chris scowled horribly.

Kevin smirked. "That was the condensed version," he said, shifting on to his side to look at Chris, who clutched protectively at the covers, a move which unfortunately revealed quite a lot of Kevin flesh, including some things Chris really didn't need to see right now. "From what I've been able to find out, in the past few days," Kevin went on, "the fat bastard wasn't allowed to sell anyone's soul but his own—"

"Doesn't have one." Hey, it had to be said.

"No, probably not. So he made a bargain that each of us would turn female on our thirty-fifth birthday. I guess he figured he wouldn't need us anymore once we hit thirty-five. Apparently, this is some kind of entertainment for demons. Like a sit-com. Dare say they don't have TV in hell."

"Reality shows," Chris muttered, unable to stop himself.

"Quite," Kevin said dryly. "Meanwhile, Pearlman's pop groups made him millions. How bizarre is that? Did you never wonder why Pearlman's bands always seemed to strike gold? I mean, what the fuck did Lou ever know about music?"

"Nothing!" said Chris, indignantly. "But we were good! We just needed someone to get us started. Our bad luck it was that fat bastard. Besides, we got away—just like you did."

"Didn't stop paying him, though," Kevin observed. The two of them almost bonded in shared resentment, for a moment there, but Chris snapped out of it.

"So you're saying, there's, like, a curse on us all?"

"Uh huh. Luckily, I figured out what was happening and found the cure." He fell back against the pillows and lay there, looking smug.

Chris stared at him for a long moment, thinking that the cheekbones, the self-satisfied smirk, and the eyes, had translated across gender pretty well—and then he realized what a crock it all was. "Fuck you, Richardson! No way am I falling for that shit!" He leaped out of bed. It was time to get out of range of those long, graceful limbs. Also, he needed to pee.

"Kirkpatrick?" He didn't look the slightest bit repentant, lying there all stretched and sleek with his arms behind his head. "Happy birthday."

Chris had got as far as the bathroom door before he processed that.

* * *

"No!" Chris shouted.

"You have to come out sometime." Kevin, on the other side of the bathroom door.

Chris disagreed. He could live in the bathroom. No problem. "Do not," he called. Hollered, even.

"I can help," said Kevin. "But you have to come back here. We can't fuck through the bathroom door."

"Who says we're going to fuck?" Chris yelled indignantly.

"I thought I explained. If you want to get back to normal..." There was a bit of a mumble after that, Chris decided to ignore it.

"Why does it have to be with you?" he asked instead.

"It doesn't." The reply came with unexpected promptness. "But remember, right now, there's only two people in the world who know you turned into a woman. You wanna bring someone else in, go ahead."

Hmm. He did have a point. Chris could think of a scant handful of people he could trust with this... Lance was no use, obviously, JC and Justin were on the other side of the country (if Justin was even in the country, damn that boy, gallivanting all over the globe when his best friend might change sex at any moment) and Joey, who was convenient, might find it awkward to explain to his wife. Now what did that remind him of?

"You're married," he stated.

"On, mm, hiatus. Kristen freaked. Which was kind of a shame," Kevin said, "because really, making out with my wife while I was female—let's just say could have been a memory to treasure. I was going to suggest we video—but anyway, she said to come back once I got things, um, straightened out."

Oh, hell yeah. Kristen and Kay—Chris realized where his mind was going with this and told it to stop. Not least, because he ought by now to have been getting hard, and in his current condition that just wasn't going to happen.

Things had definitely gone beyond disconcerting. In fact, he wasn't sure there was a word for this.

Chris went back to the mirror and looked at himself again. It was actually a bit scary. He looked like, he looked, there was no escaping the fact. He looked like his mother. Like she had looked maybe twenty years ago, and he began to appreciate what he'd never allowed himself to think about before, that maybe his mother had been kinda... kinda hot.

He whimpered, just a little bit.

But the woman in the mirror, with her bright, brown eyes and her dark, wavy hair and her clear, pale skin and her frankly fantastic breasts, round and full and satiny, overflowing handfuls even if his hands had been their normal size, dammit... she was definitely. Hot.

Which was of course not surprising, not one bit, because Chris was also hot, except that he'd never truly thought he was hot just for the way he looked. He frowned.

And now he really, really looked like his momma and he needed to get far, far away from the mirror.

Engulfing himself in the bathrobe—shit, he was inches shorter, he was tiny—he opened the bathroom door and stepped through with head high, the epitome of feminine dignity until he tripped over the trailing belt of the bathrobe and fell right into Kevin's arms.

"Well," said Kevin. "Here we are."

Chris looked up (a neck-crickingly long way up) into stunning green eyes with hypnotic, black pupils, and admitted to himself what he had known for at least the past hour, that going to bed with Kevin Richardson was, for a variety of reasons, a damn fine idea.

"Oh, all right then," he said, irritably.

* * *

Disconcerting was getting to be a way of life, Chris thought muzzily. Sex from this side of the equation, well, Chris knew all about sex, of course, but the bits of him that he knew most about just weren't there any more. And there had been the, and then up and down, and then yes, and then with the licking, and then. Yes.

It was. Disconcerting. Chris lay there, and breathed.

Beside him, Kevin appeared to be admiring the effect.

"Wait," said Chris. "Why am I still a woman?"

"I guess, because it's still your birthday," said Kevin, agreeably.

"Oh," said Chris.

"It's possible you'll stay that way until Howie turns thirty-five—"

Chris sat bolt upright.

"—but I don't think so. According to the minion I contacted, it's just a matter of spending the night with a guy."

That was a relief. Chris did consider, briefly, objecting to Kevin's behavior—rank seduction, dammit!—on the grounds that it was not yet night. However, he could hardly deny that he'd been pretty damn receptive, and indeed he was now feeling stirrings of impatience at masculine frailty, so he figured whining about going to bed in the daytime would just make Kevin laugh. Also, looking down with pride at his magnificent rack, Chris concluded it was only reasonable and proper that Kevin had been impatient to get his hands on them.

Kevin swung his long legs out of the bed. "Be right back," he said.

"Wait! Is that—is that blood?" Chris could feel the color draining from his cheeks. Blood was not a problem, of course it wasn't, but he had a feeling this was his blood, and that was a whole different thing.

"Well... what did you expect? It was your first time."

"You mean, I was a virgin?" Chris was outraged. He hadn't been a virgin in twenty years. Give or take.

Kevin glared. "So was I," he said, coldly. "Did you not notice?"

There had been an outraged "Ow!" as Kay-Kevin lowered her—his—her glorious self onto his erection, Chris remembered, but he'd thought at the time it was his unfortunate elbow action that was to blame. Oops. "Sorry," he muttered. Maybe it hurt more if you were on top, though, because Chris hadn't really noticed, when he, when Kevin. Um.

Kevin was not entirely mollified. "If you're scared of a little blood, good thing you're not going to be a woman for long," he said meaningfully.

It took a moment, and then Chris emitted an "Augh!" and dived under the bedcover. He did not wish to know—even to think—about such things. He had sisters. He knew all a man needed to know—he did not require personal experience. He sang, loudly, and clutched the covers round his ears.

And now there was a hand stroking his ass. Stroking all over, and trailing fingertips like lines of electricity, and smoothing over the curves, and that really wasn't... fair... The covers lifted.

"You have the most amazing butt," Kevin remarked.

Chris growled. He was not at all turned on, not at all. Not one bit. Not one quivering little bit.

"You know what?" Kevin murmured. "It'd be a shame to waste this. We got the rest of the day, and night. You want to figure out the best stuff about being a woman?"

Chris's reply, "Shopping!" was muffled in the blankets. There was a sharp impact on his ass, and he kicked furiously, his left knee connecting with flesh and eliciting a most satisfying squawk.

"Sorry, sorry, must have mis-heard you there," said Kevin, sounding not at all repentant. His large hand soothed the sting, and traced down between Chris's thighs. "I was thinking more about how women can go all night, you know? You got any toys, Chris? It's okay if you don't, 'cause I got fingers and a tongue, so. Wanna find out if all that talk about multiple orgasms is true, maybe?"

Chris mostly assumed women were exaggerating that stuff. Of course, none of his partners had ever not, obviously, but multiple? He didn't think so.

Still...

* * *

"You are obsessed with my ass, you know that, right?" Not that Chris actually objected, no, because Kevin had good hands, Kevin in fact had fucking amazing hands, and having one of them on his ass again was really not a problem. But, he was awake, so it was right and proper to comment.

"It is a very, very fine ass. Always thought so." Kevin's hand was a very, very fine hand. Perhaps Kevin could leave it here. That'd be cool. Chris wriggled happily, and became aware of something that had been missing last time he checked.

Ah.

He raised a hand to his chin. Yep, beard. And yet, there was Kevin, facing him from the other pillow and stroking his ass. Interesting.

"Although," said Kevin, "as I recall you have a fine cock, too." No wonder that blowjob had been so spectacular, Chris thought. "You want I should remind myself?" And as Chris rolled onto his side, one of those hands was sliding down and doing really very encouraging things. "Of course, you wore me out last night, so I guess..."

Thirty-five, Chris decided, was going to be a good year.

 

 

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