DISCLAIMER: I don't own the young ones or any of the characters mentioned within this fic, I've merely borrowed them for a bit :)
Ok so I think I should explain this a bit, I kinda noticed the character Rick had some rather effeminate manerisms and then theres the whole matter of the dress in 'NASTY' and I just wanted to explore that side of him a little and where/ why he would get the notion to wear that dress in the first place as it seemed a slight curve ball in the episode and series. this is only the first installment, there will be more, I apologise in advance if any of it seems out of character...
This wasn't normal surely, slim fingers smoothed over slightly rough fabric, pausing a moment and tracing the gingham pattern Rick pondered his actions…he knew this wasn't right. Boys didn't wear dresses, and if for some reason they did they certainly didn't enjoy it as much as he was…
A stir in his groin caused colour to flush to his cheeks despite the fact he was completely alone, locked in his room, only his few wall posters bearing witness to his shameful pleasures…Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of his Lenin poster pined to the back of his door and felt shame heat his cheeks once more and hurriedly looked away, fingers still lingering around his waist idly stroking across the fabric in small motions still. The dress cut in tight around his middle and gave him the illusion of having a cinched waist, the A-line the skirt of the dress fell in giving his slight frame the illusion of curvaceous hips. Slipping his eyes shut he tried to imagine how his figure must look, his waist would appear much smaller, hips and even perhaps the impression of a slight (probably unimpressive) bosom.
Rick wished he still had his full length mirror so he could actually see the transformation the dress had performed upon his wiry body, his fingers slipped from his waist down across his hips, only lightly not wanting to ruin the effect the dress was making and keep his curvy body for as long as possible. His blue eyes fluttered open and stared into the empty mirror framing, only a few shards still clinging into the bottom of the frame, desperately trying to stay in place Rick remembered Vyvyan slamming his doc martins into the glass and laughing as it shattered and fell to the floor in an almost musical crescendo. Stupid punk.
Swinging his hips slightly he watched the fabric billow and shift with his body's movements, loving the way it wrapped slightly around his freshly shaven legs (He had figured if he was going to do this he may as well do it properly. He'd even bought stockings but hadn't quite gotten up the courage to put them on yet.) He bent slightly as his fingers slipped from the skirt of the dress onto the now smooth skin of his legs, he had to use his safety razor to shave his legs, he hadn't wanted the others to get suspicious of a spare razor hanging around the bathroom, let alone a ladies one. It had amazed him how fiddly it had been trying to shave around the back of his calf, he was pretty sure he'd nicked the back of his knee but wasn't overly fussed. He'd hardly felt the sting of the blade breaking his skin, his adrenaline had already been pumping through his veins as he'd sat in the bathtub apprehension and exhilaration that after all this time planning this he was finally going to do it.
The smooth skin was a foreign sensation to him; almost erotic…A small hitched breath escaped his lips as he slid his hands up under the dress and up his hairless thighs, eyes sliding shut once more. He'd told himself he was only doing this to get inside a girls mind…he tried to tell himself he was imagining a woman's thighs in his hands, not his own. He certainly wasn't imagining his hand's where someone else's, someone with large palms and strong arms that could lift him off his feet as easily as a parent would lift a child. Someone with stiff gelled hair and grungy denim clad thighs and chest….
Rick snatched his hands away from his thighs and forced his eyes open, dispelling those thoughts, they were unhealthy and unproductive…no matter how tempting the fantasy. Ricks body trembled slightly as his heat settles in the pit of his stomach, heat that had flared like a fanned fire at his previous thoughts, his teeth bit viciously into his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood if he applied himself to the task. Rick glanced down at himself once more; the previously pleasurable image now left a bitter almost acrid taste in his mouth, the pinched waist and pretence of breasts and figure looking comical now. His hands shook as they fumbled for the zip at his back, his heart beat heavily in his chest as the previous arousal flagged and waned.
"For Cliff's sake!" The zip tab continuously eluded his trembling digits as they grabbed for the small metal rectangle, his entire body now heating and trembling with embarrassment and panic until his sweaty fingers finally closed around the smooth coated metal tab and tugged. The reassuring sharp sound of the zip sliding down its track, the feel of the dress slipping from his shoulders, allowing his chest to expand in a full breath and shoulders drop into their natural slope rather than the tight posture the dress had forced them into was a shallow relief to Rick. He stepped out of the dress as it pooled around his feet, now standing completely undressed he gingerly picked up the delicate item of clothing and placed it onto a hanger, re-zipping the back, absent-mindedly admiring the way the fabric fell before placing it inside his otherwise empty wardrobe.
The dress settled in its place and hung elegantly from the rail, reminding Rick of the memory that had started this entire ordeal in the first place…
Rick had always admired his mother's vanity table and its contents, as a child he would often sit upon the bed and watch as she carefully transformed herself, styling and combing her hair before delicately applying the exact art that was her make-up. He could still remember like it was yesterday, the smell of the powders, the sound of the spritzer spraying the perfume into the air, Roses and honeysuckle. The scent was still comforting to this day. After she had applied the fine layer of mascara her manicured hands would reach for the mother of pearl inlaid box that always sat before the mirror of the vanity, the small golden key always found on a fine chain around his mother's neck. The jewellery box was a family heirloom, it had been his grandmothers before his mothers, and her mother's before her and so and so forth. He didn't know exactly how old it was only that he wasn't allowed to touch it as a child, his parents worried he would damage the box. The silken lining would shine in the sunlight, a rich teal with golden stitching; a single tier would lift to reveal a hidden lower, wider tray within which his mother kept her boxed jewellery, the items too valuable to be worn every day. Rick loved that box, not because it was valuable or because the contents where but because it was so elegant, so effeminate, so beyond his own reach.
He used to sneak up to his parents room when he was left alone in the house (which was far more often that he would have ever cared to admit), as quietly as he possibly could, unable to shake the fear of being caught despite knowing he was alone, he would jump the squeaky step on the second landing and tiptoe across the dense carpeting that muffled his light footfalls. Once he was inside his parents' bedroom his feet always made a bee-line for the vanity, the pale varnished wood and matching stool seemed to call to him, tempt him closer and closer until he was sat in his mother's seat, staring into the vanity mirror at his own face, his mother's cosmetics spread out across the surface before him, that smell of powder and perfume so strong and comforting, it was like it wrapped around him cradling him and telling him that this was ok, it was perfectly natural for him to be curious…
As a child he was extraordinarily cautious about touching the cosmetics, he never put them on but he liked to look, liked to pull the tops from the lipsticks and look at the colours, ranging from deep red all the way down to a soft peach, always being careful to put them back in the same place he found them. He would do the same with the powders, unscrew the lids and inhale the soft scent, run his fingers over the brushes and look at himself in the mirror and imagine…
He carried on this way all throughout his childhood watching his mother apply her make-up, admire her elegance until his early teens he stopped watching his mother's morning routine, but still snuck into the room when alone, sitting still at the vanity and simply pretending. It was the new lipstick that was the turning point, the soft pink/ lilac one that his mother bought three of because she liked the shade so much (it highlighted her eyes she said). The tube was a brassy colour; he could still remember, it reflected his own face back at him 'Clair De Lune' the name was engraved along the lipstick tube in an elegant script.
Despite his sweaty fingers and shaking hands he'd popped the top and gently twisted the base, the lipstick emerging, only just enough, his eyes flitted back to his pale face in the mirror, and lifted his trembling hand to his lips. He couldn't remember when admiring the make-up and simply enjoying observing the process had changed to a desire to experience it himself, teenage hormones or discomfort with his own appearance could have been only two of the possible reasons he had finally taken the step but for whatever reason Rick found himself, on that November evening gingerly slicking a thin layer of lipstick over his lower lip.
He felt like he was colouring, trying to stay within the lines like the picture books his parents would buy him as a child as he applied the lipstick. He couldn't do it nearly as well as his mother, but he hadn't really expected to be able to, the edges where slightly rough but for a first time he felt he'd done rather well. Pressing his lips together like he'd seen his mother do he admired the rather radical effect the lipstick had upon his features
"Wow…" He breathed softly, blinking, eyes almost Bambi wide as he looked at himself in the mirror, it was strange, he could feel the lipstick coating his lips as if he'd brushed paint onto them, however as opposed to paint that would dry out the lipstick remained slick. He rubbed his fingers against his cheeks, bringing blood to the surface and creating the effect of a blush, his painted lips tugged upwards in a timid smile. "It really does bring out my eyes…." His complexion was far paler than his mothers, but they shared their eyes and the soft pallor of the lipstick really did bring out the different tones in his eyes, and, with a slight surge of vanity, he noticed that the colour looked better against his pale skin than it did his mother's lightly tanned complexion. The timid smile broke into a bright grin. For the first time in his life Rick felt elegant.
Rick slid between his bed sheets, the cool cotton refreshing against his heated skin, and pushed one hand beneath his pillow, fingers searching out and closing around a cool tube he had kept with him, keeping hidden and safe, knowing that if it was discovered everything he had built for himself would crash and burn around him. Rick pulled the brass coloured lipstick tube from beneath his pillowcase, the engraved cursive 'Clare De Lune' shone back at him as he stared at the now empty cosmetic tube. He'd stolen one of his mother's spare tubes, she'd never even noticed it had gone missing She went off the shade a few weeks after Rick had taken the tube and she no longer wore it. Rick had though; he'd worn the lipstick in his room of a night at home, washing it off before going to bed. He'd never dared wear it at the house, Vyvyan far too prone to breaking down his door at random hours for Rick to feel safe wearing it for any amount of time while he shared this house, instead he would run the cosmetic across the back of his hand, enjoying the feel of the lipstick on his skin, remembering the way it had made his eyes brighten and changed his face.
Rubbing his thumb along the smooth metal rick lay his head against his thin pillow, closing his eyes and remembering the texture of the paint on his lips, the slickness, the smoothness, the elegance.