nsync in black and white

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

Midnight Rodeo

Basically, fic_requests is an endless source of plotbunnies.

"You are insane. You know that, right?"

"And you're here with me because—?"

Lance groaned, but quietly. "Because you made it abundantly clear that I'm not getting off tonight until we at least try this. I'm switching to women, I swear."

"Nah, because you know, hormones and stuff. Wild mood swings, unpredictable behavior."

"Which is different from you exactly how?"

"Well, they don't have my enormous—Ooh, hush!" Chris gestured imperiously. "Security, over there. If we wait till he goes round the corner—"

"Moron," said Lance, grabbing his lunatic by the belt and hauling him forward. "Hi," he said, as they neared the imposing figure. "It's, uh, Mitch, isn't it? Lance Bass." He held out his pass for Mitch-the-Security-Guy's startled inspection. "This is Chris Kirkpatrick, but I don't know if he remembered his pass. Will you take my word for it, we're not trying to vandalize anything or steal souvenirs?" He smiled winsomely.

The big guy relaxed. "You need to get inside?" he asked in a gravelly but friendly voice.

"Please, if you wouldn't mind. I know it's a pain."

The security guard communicated briefly with whoever was in charge, then nodded at them. "Follow me."

Receiving with benevolent tolerance their assurances that they wouldn't be long, Mitch assured them he would inform his colleagues of their authorized presence in the arena, and strode back to patrol his allotted area.

"Smooth, Bass." A grudging compliment from Chris.

"That's me," Lance agreed, fishing a flashlight out of his back pocket as they slipped through the door that led under the massive stage.

"Ooh, a man who comes prepared!" Chris paused for a moment. "Please tell me you brought lube," he added in a small voice.

"If you had to place a small wager on that," Lance said, an audible grin in his voice, "which way would you bet?"

Chris smacked him lovingly. "Yay for Mr Organized."

"Is that my cool new superhero name?" Lance said dryly. "Here we are." The flashlight's slender but mighty beam illuminated the vast backstage storage area in oddly abstract segments, but Lance had a fair idea where to look, and identified horns a scant millisecond before Chris's excited squeak identified them too. They picked their way carefully over to the bulls.

"Which one's mine? Can you tell? Can we turn it on? I wanna ride!"

"And what are you gonna be if you grow up?" Lance muttered under his breath. He had located a power switch. Anthony was going to kill him. Chris, too, for being the instigator, but him definitely because Anthony would know perfectly well which of them was smooth enough to actually get in here at ass o'clock in the morning and mess about with the meticulously arranged equipment under the rehearsal stage. Hoping he'd done enough good things in his life to merit a kindly welcome at the pearly gates, Lance flicked a switch.

The things a man will do to get laid.

"Yay!" Chris was a happy bunny. Already he was up astride the stupid giant space bull with the flashing red eyes and the horns and god, they were going to look dorkish beyond belief when they did this on stage. He should have fought harder. He should have persuaded Johnny that they really couldn't justify the cost of five—no, ten— mechanized bulls... "Can you make it buck?" Chris called. After some investigation, Lance discovered that he could. There were squeals of joy.

"C'mere, Bass!" Chris caroled. In this mood, he was irresistible.

Laughing helplessly, Lance made his way through the stacks and scaffolding. "You expect me to get on that thing while it's moving, do you?"

"Wimp! If you stop it, who's going to get it started again so we can fuck?"

"I really, really don't think..." Lance rolled his eyes. If Chris seriously thought they could connect satisfactorily while the damn bull was spinning around and moving up and down, he was wrong. However, nothing on this earth was going to convince Chris of that except a practical demonstration. Lance propped the flashlight handily, picked his moment and swung himself aboard behind Chris. There wasn't a lot of room for two asses on this bull—and that's asses in more than one sense of the word, Lance thought to himself.

"C'mon, c'mon," Chris was lifting himself on the running board so he could shove his butt towards Lance. This was nice. Even in this ludicrous situation, Chris's ass was very nearly Lance's favorite thing in the world, surpassed (arguably) by Chris's cock and of course his own matching equipment, and even though he was struggling not to choke on his own laughter, Lance couldn't deny he was as horny as, as the stupid bull. With just the one horn, obviously. He reached round, undid Chris's jeans, and pulled them down as far as possible.

Hmm. Okay, not very far, with Chris's legs spread wide across the seat. But something might be managed. "Turn around, then," he gasped, unzipping his own pants. This was Chris's fantasy, and if this was what Chris wanted... "You okay like that?"

"It's not like the thing's really trying to buck us off," Chris pointed out, impatiently hauling at Lance's pants. "We have to work damn hard to make it look dramatic."

Lance grinned, and handed over the lube. "Lemme get a foot through the handle," he said, struggling to lie back with his legs clamped around Chris's body and his arms braced down the sides of the bull. Awkward, but doable. Moments later, despite the distractions of lurching motion, a friendly, well-slicked finger found its way inside Lance, who groaned happily. This was a... not unpleasant sensation.

Fucking, however, was a whole new kind of challenge. What with the situation, the motion of the bull, Chris's infuriated commentary, and the way Lance was laughing so much he could hardly breathe, it really was impossible. Chris wasn't someone who gave up on a fantasy because of a few mild impracticalities, but in the end he had to admit that this just wasn't going to work. Grumbling, he dismounted from the bucking bull, and made his way over to the control panel.

Lance lay back, helpless with giggles, as the mechanical monstrosity stilled.

Chris looked very put out, and there was a trace of wistful disappointment in his eyes that made Lance want to pet him better. "Get up here, Kirkpatrick," he ordered, sitting forward so that Chris had to mount behind him. "Now fuck me, before security gets here and we have to spend our tour profits keeping this out of the tabloids."

"You sweet talker, you." Chris sounded a good deal more cheerful. As Lance bent forward to grab hold of the bull's horns, and felt the head of Chris's cock pressing at his ass, he felt that perhaps this wasn't an idea entirely without merit, after all. Chris certainly seemed—whoa! cowboy!—inspired. Lance was spread wide, perforce, to straddle the bull, and Chris's enthusiasm for the job in hand was always contagious. "Imagine," said Chris's voice in his ear, "the screams if we put this in the show."

"Yeah," Lance gasped, "who d'you think'd be—loudest, Justin or—Joey? Oh, fuck, that's good."

"You'd look so fuckable in nothing but sparkly chaps." Chris liked to chat at the oddest times.

"Laundry bills," Lance managed, then Chris's hand closed firmly round his erection and he gave up conscious thought, though the words "Ride me harder" may possibly have been uttered at that point. Imagining a stadium full of bright lights and wild applause, Lance bucked and climaxed, spilling over Chris's fingers and the shiny metal of the bull's head. Chris thrust urgently and muffled his shout in Lance's shoulder as he came.

* * *

At rehearsal next day, Justin was in critical mode. "You know, Lance, you hafta be a bit more enthusiastic here. I mean, this is supposed to be over the top, yo? You gotta work it! Bounce that booty, man! And, hey, Anthony, could you get someone to give the bulls a polish sometime? Mine looks a bit smeary. Thanks."



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