nsync in black and white

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


ficlets too small to merit their own pages

Up on the Roof (a little something written for fic_requests on LJ)

You know, I didn't think those two got along these days. They were definitely avoiding each other since the party start—no, not since it started, but since he arrived. I thought Lance would go right over and say hi, but he didn't, and you know what, I saw Lance move away from the VIP spot and go down to the bar just when he was heading up the stairs.

Of course I didn't look at them all night. I'm here to have my own fun, I'm not just some celebrity-watcher, I got friends and we know how to have a good time. But you know, they get to be celebrities for a reason, they got that extra little something that makes you want to look at them.

So I noticed when he went up to Lance and said hi. I saw how Lance jumped, nearly spilled his drink, I knew there was something strange going on between them because why would Lance be so surprised? Wonder what it was he said. Lance didn't look too happy at first, he looked up and shook his head but then his expression changed, he looked like he was maybe interested after all.

I did not follow them up to the roof. I like it up there, such a great view, and it was getting real hot inside. So yeah, I noticed they went up. Like I said, you get drawn to celebrities, you notice them.

And yes, I noticed they were over in the corner, beyond the lights. I noticed they were standing awful close. I noticed the way his hand went to Lance's hip, how they looked like they fit together, how Lance kinda leaned in towards him just a little bit so he could whisper in his ear.

I wasn't staring. I looked away. I talked to some girl who was up on the roof, I told you, I wasn't the only other person up there.

When I looked back, I almost didn't see them, but they were there, right in the shadow, and I saw. Lance was on his knees. I know you won't believe me, but I know what it looked like, I know what it was. Lance was giving him a blowjob, that's what was happening. I mean, I was shocked, I never thought he swung that way. No, I couldn't see details, like I said, they were in the shadow, but Lance was using his hands, too. And Lance must have been real good at it. I saw the expression on his face when he came, and then a moment later, the way he looked down at Lance, like Lance was... like he loved him.

It was sorta embarrassing to watch. And sorta... I don't know... sweet?

Okay, I knew you wouldn't believe me.


A while ago I did a writing meme which amounted to "find the most ridiculous thing you can for me to write". The next three items resulted from it.

Ephemera asked for: gratuitous Joshtin kink pwp

"Have you been a naughty baby?" Josh said sternly. Justin looked up at him from the bed, his blue eyes wide and innocent. Josh frowned, but really, his lover was just so adorable, it was hard to be cross with him. "Do I need to spank your bottom?"

"No, I've been very good," Justin replied in a small voice. "But I need to be changed, please, Josh."

"Very well," said Josh. "Go fetch the basin."

Eagerly, Justin padded into the bathroom to fill the basin. By the time he brought it through, Josh had set out the mat and the wipes and the powder, and everything was ready. After placing a soft kiss onto his lover's lips, Justin climbed onto the table and lay down on the mat.

He loved to have his diaper changed.

Turlough asked for: Kevin Richardson and Eminem are FBI agents

"Just suck it up and deal," Agent Richardson snarled, exasperated. The sooner his partner got out of the hospital, the happier he'd be. They'd both be, he supposed; couldn't be much fun for Maclean either, what with the hole in his guts, an' all. But Maclean didn't have to work undercover with this asshole from Michigan.

Agent Mathers expressed his opinions of their target, of Richardson, of the section head who'd given them the assignment, and of each and every homosexual in the contiguous United States, in seventeen pungent but unprintable words. According to his profile, Mathers was pretty damn smart. He could speak like a normal human being. He just never did. One of these days, Richardson was going to smack him.

Probably with a tire iron.

Today, though, was not one of those days. Today... looked like being fun, provided he could keep a straight face, and Agent Richardson was very good at doing that. He leaned back in his chair and glared at his temporary partner. "Yeah, well, seems you, me and this assignment are a match made in heaven. I mean, the man has rhythm, but can you see Agent Mosley being taken on as a stripper in a gay nightclub?"

Terri asked for: The one where JC has an intimate relationship with a silver space bull, and how he describes how he got rust on his dick.

"You know what? I don't think they keep the space bulls maintained like they ought. I mean, it's important, right? They have to be properly, like, oiled and everything, or they might go wrong during a show. What if one of them seized up when we were performing? Seriously, this is big. And I'm not just thinking up problems out of nowhere, because I happen to know that my bull is rusting on the inside, and it's just wrong. It's not like he'd ever seize up on me on purpose, but you know, if there's something not being oiled properly, I mean, I oil him, obviously, but—you know that bit right at the back, under the tail? Well, right there. I got rust on my dick. On my dick! I mean, if the bulls are getting rusted up inside, then chances are they're gonna go wrong and it'll be a disaster. Besides, they shouldn't have rust, it's not nice, you know?" He paused. Four pairs of eyes were staring at him in blank astonishment. "What? What?"

Lance cleared his throat. "JC? Do you, um, use a condom, when you—"

"A condom? No, of course not. It's not like my bull's been with other—or do you mean that he, that someone else—?"

"No, it's just—JC, if you're, um, you know, without a condom to, you know, keep things tidy—why d'you *think* it's getting rusted up in there?"

Never Before

Eyes peered up at him, mysterious as water at midnight.

Joey gazed, astonished, caught by the intense, myopic stare. Black eyes, he thought irrelevantly, or some other color there wasn't a name for.

"Hello," he said, and his voice cracked like a teenager's. Embarrassed, Joey remembered to breathe, and his second greeting was solidly masculine, but nothing was going to stop the tears flooding his eyes until the tiny round face blurred and he felt wet trickling down his cheeks. He kept talking, and breathing, gulping in enough air to fuel the helpless gush of words, telling her she was beautiful, perfect, wonderful, the best baby in the world, Daddy's precious little girl. He promised her rash things he could never deliver, except that now, with his baby girl's eyes on him, he wanted, no, he intended, to be Superman for real. How terrifying it was, this tiny life in his hands, brand new. That this little piece of heaven was his, and he must never fail her. "I won't," he told her, "I won't."

Briahna did not seem impressed. Her perfect porcelain eyelids closed and she was instantly asleep. He felt bereft, and relieved. He felt strange inside, unco-ordinated and full, as if a new heart had grown in his chest the moment his daughter looked at him. It was immense. It was... he didn't know what it was.

He'd never been in love like this before.



He'd never really understood starfuckers, but they had their uses. That light in the eyes, that ohmygod ecstasy bubbling just inside the mouth—the ones that actually said it were mostly autograph hunters and a lot easier to get rid of—that ridiculous willingness to do anything, anything at all. And for what? He supposed they got off on the fact that he was famous. It wasn't through any effort he put into it, because he didn't. Let them do the work.

This one, though, mouthing his way down over Will's abs, this one was just a little bit special. This one was proof—not that he needed it, but a little extra affirmation never hurt anybody—proof that he was A-List indeed. Besides, Southern white boys were always good. They had so many hangups, so many contradictions inside their pretty little heads, on their knees in front of him and loving it.

This one might have a different kind of kink, from what little Will knew of him, but he didn't much care. The kid was made for this. Those lips. They closed over his cock, now, and damn, that felt good. Lily-white hands, big hands, good hands, spread out over his hips, and the kid's mouth working so hungrily, sliding up and down his cock then taking him inside, hot and slick.

Will rested his hand on Timberlake's soft curls, and leaned back against the wall. Yeah.

Starfuckers had their uses.


Author's Note: Just after Christmas 2009, Lance Bass posted the following: Next Christmas... no more cards with glitter! Banning them as of now! My car looks like a fairy had a rough night trapped inside it!

Fairy Dust

"So. Thanks for the ride. I'll... see you around?"

"Uh. Yeah. You're welcome," Lance says. He's trying to be cool, but frankly, he's still a bit stunned.

"You got my number." A wide, wicked grin, and he's gone.

Lance pulls himself together and struggles back into the driver's seat. It's not until he turns off the engine in his own brightly-lit garage that he sees the full extent of the—not damage, but it's going to take hours to get it cleaned up, and he can't take it to be valeted, because how can he explain?

Adam Lambert jizzes glitter.


A little less conversation

"Hi, babe!" JC stretched out on the couch and unzipped his jeans with one hand as he pressed the iPhone to his ear with the other. Lance had the best voice for phone sex. "So... what do you want me to do?"

"JC, you're straight."


"You're straight. It's what you told that DJ, isn't it?"

"Well, sure, but—"

"So we're not lovers any more."

"Oh, come on, babe, I have to say that stuff. You know it doesn't make any difference to us."

"It wasn't a question, JC."


Disappointed, JC extracted his hand from his pants.

Wait. What?

And afterwards, there's darkness

"It's not you." Chris slumped onto the bed and sat staring at his clenched hands. "It's me." Waves of guilt surged in his stomach, but he pressed on. "We've always—I remember how it was at the beginning, everything was shiny, you brightened up my whole life. I never thought I'd want anything more."

Silence. Not like he'd expected anything else.

That was the problem, really.

"We've had our good times. Great times. Great sex." He'd never been so satisfied, so replete. "But... I'm sorry. Ultimately, that just isn't enough."

Chris stood.

"It's over."

He bent, and pulled the plug.

The snowboarding auction


A slew of white spray shot into the air was the only warning he had, before a long body, encased in the very latest and best skiwear that money could buy, hurtled through the air and landed on top of him.

"Sorry!" panted Justin. “Lost control there.”

“No, really?”

“So why are you lying in a snowdrift?”

“It was there?” Lance suggested.

Justin showed no inclination to get up. “You’re supposed to be snowboarding, man. Paid a lot for the privilege.”

Lance grinned. “Yeah. But this is the best bit.”

“Lying in the snow being crushed?”

“Worth every cent.”

The Lancelot Incident

"It wasn't like that at all! Look, I was not enamoured, they just handed me this thing—“


"— and someone said smile so I backed up a little because, not exactly the right image, y’know—"


"—and how was I supposed to remember they had candles all over the store, who the fuck needs *lighted* candles in a sex shop anyway, and my coat caught on fire—"

—on fiyah!—

Lance sighed. On the phone, his bandmate’s shrieks continued.

“But,” he added, brightening, “they gave me a free Lancelot.”



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