nsync in black and white

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

Riff Raff

part one of the loosely-themed Lance's Halloween Party trio
if you notice any Rocky Horror Picture Show borrowings, good for you

There are some people who say that life is an illusion, and that reality is simply a figment of our imaginations.

And they might have a point, or so Chris was beginning to believe. Except he wasn't sure his imagination was up to conjuring anything like this, so it had to be real.

JC was pouting. JC's lips were crimson right now, and glistening, and pouting. What's more, JC's eyes were outlined in black and emphasized with entirely too much makeup, and about twice their actually quite unreasonable normal size, and was he wearing false eyelashes? And he'd done something to his hair, the curls were all fluffed up and incredibly soft-looking.

So who in the name of all that was holy had told JC to come to this party in a corset? A black, sequinned corset with lacings down the front. And elbow-length black gloves. If this was Lance's idea, he was an evil genius. Or something.

And dear sweet lord, when did JC's legs get so long? It was, Chris thought, probably a trick of the eye brought about by those ridiculously high heeled shoes dangling over the arm of the chair, or, more probably, by the sheer black stockings, and the taut, stark line of garter belt cutting across JC's pale, silky thigh, even silkier than the stockings. Chris just knew it would be even silkier than the stockings. It gleamed, dammit.

"I thought you were coming as Riff Raff," JC said, reproachfully.

The words registered in Chris's brain about five minutes after they reached his ears. He was not salivating. Or if he was, it wasn't his fault! Not with JC lying there, dressed like Porn Star Barbie. How did he manage to look so natural like that? Garter belts were not comfortable. Chris knew this because his own was itching like crazy against the tender, freshly-shaved (and what an ordeal that was) skin of his own thighs.

"I am Riff Raff," he said, indignant.

JC sighed. "You don't look like my faithful manservant," he observed. "Aren't you supposed to be all scruffy? Lance said you were going to show up in a long, black coat and a ripped shirt." His gaze drifted thoughtfully over Chris's costume again.

"This is from the end," Chris said, stoutly. "Where Riff Raff goes all masterful space alien and takes everyone back to Transylvania. See, this is my giant space prong of doom." He gestured with the pitchfork thingy, and JC snickered. Which wasn't any kind of a surprise, Chris thought, he'd probably snicker himself if he could see him right now, in a tiny, quilted, gold dress—Marion from Wardrobe over at Universal might call it a tunic, but Chris knew a dress when he saw one—and giant black shoulderpads and crazy gauntlets with black sleeves that felt like that stupid collar he'd had to put on Busta that time to stop him scratching himself after the operation.

Oh, yeah, and the stockings. Which itched. Fucking fishnets.

What Chris couldn't figure out was, how come JC, who was at least arguably in an even more feminine outfit than his own, with the makeup and all, managed to look so incredibly male?

Possibly it was the indecently tiny black briefs which were doing so little to hide JC's, uh, essential masculinity.

Possibly it was that predatory look in his eyes as he beckoned Chris closer. Chris went, because he couldn't help it.

Possibly, he thought vaguely as JC's hands insinuated themselves under his dress—his tunic, Chris reminded himself—and started doing incredibly dirty things, it was that the whole ensemble totally shrieked Sex! and since JC could do that too by just existing, the Frank outfit amplified the whole effect until an ordinary person, like, say, Chris Kirkpatrick, was just overwhelmed.

But most likely, it was because Chris was crazy in love with JC, and JC knew it.

 

 

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