Dripping In Sin
Flynn gave his reflection considerable thought. He frowned. The tuxedo was not him, never had been, and definitely never would be. He looked utterly ridiculous. With a snap of his fingers the Oscar worthy outfit vanished to be replaced with a pair of khaki slacks and a burgundy sweater. The top complimented the dark brown of his hair and the burnished shade of his horns, but the khakis were worse than the tux, prompting him to stick out his tongue. Another snap of his fingers put him back in his usual outfit; a pair of leather pants, undone and slung low on his hips. He smiled coyly at his reflection, definitely more his style.
Of course, that was part of the problem. Chest bare, pants barely there, his beloved had already seen him in such a state as well as in much less.
