Sorry it's been so long, whoever has been waiting for me to write. But this is for all you canon shippers out there, though it does have a certain strange twist to it.

Title: Too Much Red

Fandom: RHPS

Characters: Riff/Magenta

Prompt: 011. Red.

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Richard O'Brien is god. Not me. And I suppose 20th Century Fox will get on me if I don't mention them, too.

The night he found her with Columbia, everything changed between them. The moon was his only companion, staring in smug voyeurism through the window and illuminating their pearly skin.

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He stood alone in her room, the silk curtains fluttering like fragile wings in the tentative breeze, the lights covered in flowing scarves that tinted the light a bloody red. The scent in the air was some strange combination of exotic and musty, and it made his head spin and his blood sing in all the wrong ways. He turned toward her dresser, the only thing their mother had really valued, and began reaching for bottles.

The hair was easy, at some level—anything that was even remotely red went on, though there was nothing to be done about the stubborn greasiness of his own locks. His skin was pale enough, certainly, and he painted his thin lips with what was left of the deep red color that she favored.

Puckering his lips mockingly at his own reflection, he reached for her apron and dress, laid across the back of a chair. He didn't have the perfect curves of her body, of course, but with a bit of yanking and wrestling with the dirty cotton he managed to make it do.

He was just peering back into the mirror again, realizing how very little they looked alike, despite being brother and sister, when the door creaked open. He didn't need to look up to see that it was her.

He turned, and her warm hands were on his face, her breath following close behind, an anxious whisper, "Oh, Riff…What are you afraid of?" The words threw him—this wasn't how it was supposed to be, not at all…

"I love you." The words that shouldn't need to be said. "And if you don't want to love me, can you love you?" He spread his arms imploringly, feeling the dress slip lower on his chest.

She dropped onto the bed, fingers dragging distractedly through her hair. "Riff…It's not that I don't love you—" His heart skipped a beat, the hope fluttering back to life before he could stop it. "I just can't love you..." Her beautiful lips quivered, but she pulled herself together with some effort.

"You can…" he whispered, raising her chin in his hands, "And now I know you do." The hope was singing through him now, and he had to kiss her. They fell backward onto the bed, hands making short work of clothing—it didn't matter whose.

She sat up suddenly, throwing him off balance and almost sending him to the floor. "You've done this before, haven't you? With a woman?"

He couldn't look at her, feeling the flush start in his cheeks and spread across his whole face. "No. Frank. But what does any of that matter now?"

It would matter, in the end, but neither of them really considered that as they kissed again, the reality of the situation lost in a haze of red.