nsync in black and white

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

Option B

with thanks to Madame D for the beta

"Hi."

"Chris?"

"You should have your eyes checked out, you know. If you can't be sure it's me, from a distance of, what, three feet?"

"Of course I'm—it's just I wasn't—but it's great to see you."

"Gonna let me in, then?"

"Absolutely." When would he ever not be happy to see Chris? Okay, true, there might have been times when a bandmate on his doorstep would have been less than welcome, times only last week when it had been bliss having the house to themselves, hardly bothering with clothes, fucking in every room in the house (there were probably still condom-and-lube stashes all over the place, he'd have to do a proper sweep, else he'd forget and next time Mom came to visit—well). But that was last week, before the Asshole had indicated that a shiny new BMW would be appropriate, now they were having sex.

Lance wasn't broken-hearted. The Asshole hadn't been around long enough for that. But it stung .

Also, he'd gotten used to the sex.

But here was Chris, bouncing on his toes on the doorstep, all bright eyed and, well, if he *had* a tail, obviously it would be bushy. Lance grinned at him, feeling suddenly lighter, and pulled him into a hug.

"So what brings you here?"

Chris shrugged. "I was bored."

* * *

Lance very quickly realised that having Chris in the house was the best cure he could have found for a, hmm, a somewhat bruised heart and a distinctly dented ego. With Chris around, the time just wasn't available for moping, because Chris filled it with his insane tangential discussions on the insanity of LA, the perfect composition of Chinese takeout, precisely why Foxxy was even cooler than Veronica, and how to bring about world peace through judicious use of X-Box technology. Lance had missed him. Lance missed all the guys—except Joey, whom he saw so much of that there was seldom time to miss him at all.

Sometimes, though, Lance had stuff to do at home in the evening, stuff that was not compatible with keeping Kirkpatrick entertained. Tonight, for instance. Lance was sitting with his computer on his lap, doing some catch-up work. And Chris was, regrettably, bored. And twitching.

"Why don't you watch a movie?"

"Seen 'em all."

Lance doubted that, but okay. "PS2?"

"Nah."

"Read a book, then."

"Not in the mood. I want company, Bass. Entertain me."

Lance sighed. "I'm sorry, Chris, I'm going to need another hour here before I'm done."

"But I'm your houseguest. Entertain me!"

It wasn't going to get done tonight, not while Chris was awake, anyway. And even an uninvited, unexpected houseguest... was still a guest. Lance rolled his eyes, mentally upbraided his mother for indoctrinating him so thoroughly, and closed his laptop. "So, what d'you want to do?"

Chris shrugged, and made hopeful entertain-me eyes.

"Go out? Shall we find a club, or check out who's got a gig on tonight?" Usually Chris would have brightened at that thought, he had a fine instinct for locating obscure bands in tiny venues; tonight, however, he voted in the negative, and declared that he didn't want to go out.

"Play cards? Pool? You wanna swim?" Every suggestion met with a woeful negative. It looked as though Chris was in one of those moods. All set to make life difficult. There was probably something, one particular thing, that he was determined to do, but Chris-like, was equally determined not to suggest. Lance went through all the at-home options he could think of, and got nothing. Eventally exasperated, he could think of nothing to offer, since his company and conversation alone were plainly not entertainment enough.

"Well, damn," he said at last. "I guess it has to be sex, then. You wanna come up to my room? Or should we make out on the couch?"

He expected shrieks of outrage, or gleefully sarcastic remarks about how Chris had always known Lance coveted the fine Kirkpatrick ass. Instead, Chris sniffed, considered, and said, "Okay. Sex it is."

"Okay?" repeated Lance, startled.

Chris smirked. "Hey, sex! Sex is good. And doing it with you can't be that different from doing it with a girl, can it? I mean, look at this place!" His hand swept round, encompassing the careful, comfortable and, well, yes, somewhat opulent decor in a broad, dismissive gesture, presumably to indicate that Lance was, in fact, possessed of feminine parts.

"Oh, Chris. Chris. Shall I explain in detail exactly how wrong you are?" Lance bared his teeth in a smile. "Or shall I demonstrate? Or, shall I perhaps get on with my work? Yes, I think I'll go with Option C." He opened the laptop again, and had just updated his browser window when Chris replied.

"I vote for Option B."

Lance stared. He tried to make himself concentrate on the screen, but it was not possible, with Chris being, being, being unpredictable, which was, now he came to think about it, only to be expected. How did Chris manage to keep coming up with new and exciting ways to startle him? Because this one...

"You want to have sex with me. Man sex," he stated.

Chris shrugged. "Should be more interesting than watching you type," he said. "At least, I hope so. If there's any truth in advertising." His gaze wandered over Lance's body, perfectly respectably clad in jeans and T-shirt.

"Advertising." Lance kept his voice level, though he dearly wanted to ask.

"I'm told you give great head," Chris told him without a hint of apology.

What exactly was Chris's game, here? And who the hell had he been talking to? Lance was lost, but was not going to let it show. If Chris was trying to push him off balance, or just waiting for Lance to take him seriously before roaring with laughter and seizing on the whole incident as mockery-fodder for the next time they got together with any of the other guys... hah. Chris wasn't going to win that game. Lance was going to call his bluff. He sent his laptop to sleep and got to his feet.

"In that case, bedroom. Might as well do the thing properly."

Besides, he did give great head.

* * *

"Damn, you got rid of the furry bedcover," Chris observed. There had been a lot of teasing over that bedcover, when the photos came out, but Lance had loved the feeling of soft fur against his naked skin. Jesse had looked spectacular on it, too, he remembered wistfully. Been a long time. Unfortunately the cleaning bills had been preposterous, so in the end it had to go.

"What, you wanted camouflage? I bet you thought you'd blend right in," he snarked. Chris was down to his boxers, and there was a good deal of curly black hair on display. It had, Lance thought, considerable appeal. More than he had expected.

"Some of us don't do depilation, Bass. I know you wax all over—"

"I do not!" Lance said, indignant. "I have people to do that for me."

Chris giggled.

He sounded a touch nervous. Maybe, Lance thought evilly, Chris was beginning to figure out that of the two of them, Lance was by far the least likely to have problems with the idea of sex with a hot guy. The intelligent part of his brain was telling him this was certainly going to be one of Chris's very bad jokes, but the intelligent part of his brain wasn't quite getting the blood supply it needed to keep functioning properly. Meanwhile the dumb animal part was shouting Sex! Yay! Sex! With Chris!

And another little voice in his head was pointing out that Chris had stripped pretty fast, there. Lance didn't want to let himself believe that it meant anything, but, well. Maybe. Damn. And yes, any second now Chris was going to announce that hah! he had just been jerking Lance around, and fall about laughing... but until the hah! moment arrived, Lance might as well make the most of the situation.

Besides, it seemed he had a reputation to maintain. Lance took off his T-shirt and placed it neatly on the nearest chair.

"So," said Chris, expectantly.

Lance frowned at him. "I don't think much of your seduction technique so far."

"Hey, I'm already in your bedroom, Bass. You invited me. If you were a girl, that's practically mission accomplished. 'Course, it might be different here, since you tell me you're not really a girl."

Lance looked down at his own chest, smooth, lightly tanned, and breast-free. "Seems not."

"You keep saying that. I'm not convinced yet."

Time to lose the jeans, then. And was that really a gleam of interest in Chris's eyes as he pretended not to be looking at what Lance had in his charcoal grey boxer briefs? But Chris still wasn't making a move. Damn it, if this was a joke, it really was time for the punchline. Or, to take command of the situation.

"So," Lance said carefully, "if I were in fact a girl, what would you be doing right now?"

"Probably buying you an expensive dinner," Chris answered. It was not yet nine o'clock.

"See the advantages of being with a man," said Lance. "You want sex, you don't have to sit through three courses of artistically arranged vegetables with overpriced wine before you can get him into bed."

"No, just a lot of talk. Are you actually going to hnnngggh!"

Lance, with Chris's thickening but not exactly hard cock engulfed in his mouth, would have grinned with smugness but that he had other things to concentrate on right now. Giving Chris the best blowjob of his life had become a matter of honor, and Lance applied all his considerable technique to the task. Chris's noises became louder, with cursing, praise and pleading in roughly equal measure, succeeded by complete and gratifying incoherence.

Chris came with a helpless whimper. It was rather sweet, Lance thought, swallowing, and standing up to steer his wobbly-legged, wide-eyed victim to the bed. Chris collapsed on to it gratefully, and lay back in unaccustomed silence. Lance shucked off his own underwear and stretched out beside him, leaning on his elbow, and watched him with interest for several minutes. Your move, Kirkpatrick, he thought.

"Yeah." Chris broke the silence, eventually. "That was, um, pretty fair. Probably above average. Yeah. Uh..."

"Is there a problem?" Lance assumed his I'm so innocent I can't imagine what could be wrong tone. If Chris was having second thoughts about being blown by a bandmate/another man/Lance, he was just going to have to deal.

"Just that, uh. If you wanna fuck, I'm not gonna be... Or you could fuck me. If you do that. Do you do that? I mean, if you want me to, just have to wait a while. Fuck."

"It really isn't necessary."

"Hey, trying to be polite here. Reciprocate."

"Reciprocation is appreciated, but there are different kinds. There's the hand job, simple but classic. You really don't need to feel obligated to fuck or be fucked."

"Sounds like you're trying to talk me out of it."

"Look, if you—"

"If you don't want to fuck me," said Chris, and he sounded remarkably cross, Lance thought, "then fine. Fine! Are you even interested?" A hand groped in the direction of Lance's groin.

Lance caught the flailing hand and introduced it, carefully, to his erection. "See? Interested. Okay?"

"So prove it," Chris said. He still sounded cross. But his hand was very friendly.

"Have you even done this before?"

Chris's eyes shifted. "Does it matter?" he said. Lance looked at him sternly. "Okay, okay. No. But fingers feel good, so I'm guessing a cock would feel good too."

"Fingers, hmm?"

"Some of my girlfriends have been willing to—unlike a certain gay man who I would have thought would fucking get on with it and not keep trying to talk! I stand by what I said before, Bass, you are a girl."

"God, you're irritating!" Lance slid off the end of the bed and went round to the bedside table for supplies.

"Now where are you going? Come back here!"

"Despite what you see at the movies, Chris, a spit and a prayer isn't fun for anyone. Turn over and spread 'em."

"Turn over? Why? What's wrong with being face up?"

"Because," said Lance, patiently, "I'd like to admire this FKA you boast about. Probably isn't anything special, but..."

Naturally, Chris turned over. He was muttering about fools who could not appreciate perfection, but Lance ignored him in favour of opening the condom and rolling it into place. Better now than breaking the action when it got really serious. Then he lubed his fingers and started to play. Really, it was a very fine ass indeed, and deserved a good deal of attention from his unslickened left hand, and meanwhile the slippery fingers of his right made their way down, to tickle elusively until Chris grunted and started with the abuse again. Then Lance slid a finger deep inside, and Chris squirmed appreciatively for several minutes.

"If you only need to use one, I think I'm going to be disappointed."

"You get laid often?"

"Certainly!"

"Yeah, but do they come back for more? 'Cause you are the most annoying..." Lance slid back in, two fingers now.

"The word you're looking for," Chris said loftily, "is memorab—ohshitfuckGod! Jesus! Do that more!"

"Greedy fucker," said Lance, doing it again. This was fun. He did it several more times. Chris moaned and pushed eagerly back onto Lance's fingers.

"Hey—don't stop now!"

"Not stopping. Just need a bit more lube, for three."

"Three? Geez, can't we get on to the main event here?"

"Don't be so impatient. If I'm going to deflower you, I'm doing it properly."

Chris squawked furiously. "Deflower, my ass!"

"Yeah, that—" and Lance was shaking, laughing so hard he had no hope of doing anything useful with those slippery fingers. He collapsed onto the bed next to Chris, snorting helplessly into the comforter. Wheezing in his ear confirmed that Chris's brain had caught up with his mouth, and he was helpless too.

"Oh, man," said Chris, ruefully, when they had both calmed down enough to speak. "Way to kill the mood, huh?"

Lance looked into the bright eyes only inches from his own. "Not necessarily," he said slowly. Why his breath should catch at the sight of Chris so close, he didn't know: it was just Chris, even if his pupils were huge and black in those incredible eyes, and his pale skin was sweat-sheened and salty and a little bit sandalwood and totally lickable... "That is, if you really want to do this." He hoped Chris wanted to do this. He really, really hoped so.

"Yes. I do."

"You are sure?"

"Absolutely."

Lance leaned closer. "Okay, then," he murmured, and slid sideways across the bed until their mouths met. There was a brief duel for nose position, then Chris rolled onto his back and Lance covered him and they kissed avidly. Chris's beard was surprisingly soft against Lance's chin, and his moustache prickled Lance's upper lip with tiny darts of sensation. Teeth, tugging gently, the hot slippery slide of tongues, and the tangled silk of Chris's hair between his fingers. Coarse curls, rough against his chest, smooth slick belly beneath his own, and now Lance regretted the condom, because it meant his cock wasn't sliding on Chris's skin.

Chris was hard against his hip, though, with hands dug into the firm flesh of his butt, urging him closer. "Wait, wait," Lance mumbled, wriggling backwards get his feet on the floor, and pulling Chris towards him. "Here, put your legs, yeah, like that." He braced his arms on the bed and leaned closer. Chris was taut with anticipation. "Hey there, relax, or I'll tickle you."

"So fucking romantic," Chris muttered, but he did relax, and Lance pushed gently forward, intent on Chris's face, watching for every flicker of discomfort. Shifting his weight, Lance stroked Chris's thighs and idled a hand towards his groin, sliding carefully deeper as he rocked his hips. It felt incredibly good, and he found that he was telling Chris so in obscene and eager detail. Chris's gasps turned to moans as Lance matched the rhythm of penetration with two-handed pumping on his cock, slow and deliberate, so he kept it going until Chris writhed and lifted his hips and begged him to fucking do it harder.

He did his best to hold back, but the sight of Chris shuddering and coming, the pearly flood hot and silky over his fingers, the way Chris tightened helplessly around him—Lance thrust frantically until his climax left him breathless and hoarse.

His knees seemed to have melted. Lance didn't think he had the strength to make it all those yards to the bathroom. What the hell. He knotted the condom with trembling hands, hurled it vaguely towards the trash basket, and crawled onto the bed. Chris had found his way back up to the pillows and was sprawled there with eyes closed and stomach still gleaming. Lance groped for his pajama bottoms and wiped him clean, then hauled the comforter over them both.

Chris was asleep already, breath huffing out deep and regular. Overwhelmed, Lance just stared. It was still Chris, familiar as always, thick eyebrows, oddly wonky nose, ever so slightly uneven goatee—and he was the hottest thing Lance had ever seen.

"Incredible," he said to himself, and snuggled happily.

"You're not so bad yourself."

"I thought you were asleep."

"Eh. Nearly."

Lance paused. "Chris? Why—I mean, not that I'm complaining, but, why?"

"Thought we'd be good together. Had to get in fast, before you found another starfucking asshole to mess you around."

"Huh." Lance thought about it. "Chris?"

"Are you sure you're not a girl? Because, geez."

Lance poked him. "You need more proof? 'Cause I can do that."

Chris grunted. "Sleep now. Sex later." An arm slid around Lance's shoulders, and they resettled themselves comfortably.

"Chris."

"Oh, fuck, what now?"

Lance grinned. "You were right."

"Well, duh."

They slept.

 

 

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