#The outlined eyeliner is cause the eyes looked weird without it

[blendedmangobreeze]

@zoe-oneesama’s Chat Noir (aka, from a chapter so enjoyable that I finished a piece for the first time in months)

So excited to see how the story ends! I’m going to miss it so much <333

[iam93percentstardust]

Written for @cap-ironman bingo square: repression, found on AO3 here. Look out for the read more

Steve hates his job.

To be perfectly fair, he’s pretty certain that most people hate their job but he’s equally certain that he hates his job the most because his boss is Obadiah Stane. Steve’s been Stane’s PA for almost five years and Stane still hasn’t bothered to learn his name. He fetches coffee and lunch. He fires people because Stane can’t be bothered to do it himself. He’s worked birthdays and holidays and once, memorably, a funeral because Stane hadn’t gotten around to signing off on his bereavement leave until three days after the funeral. He puts up with Stane’s nonstop patronizing because obviously Steve’s just a dumb jock, right? 

He’d leave if he could but no one seems to want to hire an art major whose most notable show was almost eight years ago in college. And rent in Brooklyn is expensive so it’s not like he can just quit without having another job lined up. Besides, for all of Stane’s faults, Stark Industries has always been known for treating its employees fairly. He gets great health insurance, fantastic dental, and his paycheck is enough to keep him in the apartment he loves.

So what if Stane’s patronizing? So what if he calls Steve by the wrong name? So what if he keeps Steve at work so late that the subway to his apartment no longer runs and he has to walk three miles from the closest one? So what if he dangles the threat of firing over Steve’s head to keep him working like a dog? It’s worth it.

Right?

Sometimes, he thinks that he might just give up and quit anyways if it weren’t for the man at his subway station.

SI is an expansive campus, spanning multiple city blocks with its own subway station intersecting three lines, one coming in from Brooklyn, one from Queens, and one from Manhattan. The station’s got an aboveground portion too because SI has some sort of train system to run across the campus. The train’s got two lines- one going to the West Campus and one going to the East. Steve works in the West Campus, which handles the business side of Stark Industries. The man works in the East Campus, which handles all research and development, or at least he takes the East Campus train every morning so Steve thinks he works there.

Steve first met the man three years ago. Well, he says “met” but they haven’t said more than a handful of words to each other. He still remembers the day vividly. It had been early. Stane had kept him there so late the night before that Steve had ended up sleeping at his desk (Stane hadn’t; Stane had dumped an entire ream’s worth of paper on his desk, needing to be filed asap, and then waltzed out the door) and had just enough time to run back to his apartment to grab a change of clothes. He had been yawning wide enough that he could feel his jaw crack.

“You too, huh?” a voice beside him said.

Steve had jumped and then turned to the man beside him. His first immediate thought had been Gorgeous. The man (or Pretty Boy as Steve sometimes shamefully thought of him) had been about Steve’s age, maybe a few years younger. He had thick brown hair, an intricately styled goatee, and the prettiest Bambi eyes Steve had ever seen. More importantly though, he’d been wearing a bespoke suit that Steve was pretty sure cost his entire yearly salary and so his second thought had been Out of my league.

They’d stood there in silence as Steve gaped at the man. Finally, Pretty Boy had shifted uncomfortably and said, “Well, this is me,” right as the East Campus train had pulled in. He’d given Steve a tiny wave and been whisked away by the train.

And Steve had beaten his head against a pole for failing to talk to him.

They’d run into each other a lot over the following three years, not every morning but most morning, and always on the platform. Mostly, they don’t talk and what they do say was usually pretty inane. Steve doesn’t even know Pretty Boy’s name, just that he works at SI probably somewhere on the East Campus, which is huge.

He does know that Pretty Boy likes to wear makeup, usually just enough to give his cheeks some color and to outline his eyes (though Steve’s pretty sure that more work goes into it than that, judging by Nat’s makeup routine). Every once in a while, though, he shows up with bright red lipstick, winged eyeliner, the whole shebang. Pretty Boy’s always got a sly smirk on his face those days like he’s planning some sort of mischief. He’ll glance at Steve, give him a wink and a cheeky wave, and then disappear onto his train. Steve always just shifts his briefcase in front of him and smiles after him dopily.

So maybe he has to push his feelings down about his job. So maybe Bucky says that he’s repressing himself, stifling his creativity in this soul-sucking work environment. But every time he sees Pretty Boy smile at him, he remembers why he stays here.

Tony wishes he knew Hot Guy’s name. He thinks he’d like to ask him out but he can’t do that without a name. Unfortunately, the time to get that name passed like three years ago. At this point, it would just be awkward for him to ask for it. So instead, he smiles at him whenever he sees him, enjoys the sight of Hot Guy’s blush (and pretends like he doesn’t want to see how far down that blush goes), and resolves that next time, he won’t say something stupid. He never manages to though.

It could be worse though. At least he usually just ends up tongue tied. On bad days, he babbles. Hot Guy always just stares at him with this impossible to place look in his eyes. Tony can’t quite figure out if Hot Guy thinks he’s crazy or just plain weird, not that either one’s any good. 

One time, Pepper offers to go with him so she can see what Tony’s been gushing about it for three years (“He gets you to come in to work early, Tony. I want to see what’s so great about him.”). Tony almost agrees too but then he thinks about all the times he’s called Pepper the light of his life.

“No!” he yelps.

Pepper has this annoyingly knowing look on her face but she doesn’t say anything about it and she doesn’t track down Hot Guy so Tony thinks it works out okay.

He’s on the phone with her this morning, arguing about how he doesn’t want to go to his meeting with Obie. Obie’s been with the company for ages, practically since Howard had started it and certainly since before Tony was born. And Tony likes Obie, he does, but Obie wants the company to keep making weapons and Tony…doesn’t. They’ve been arguing about it for almost six months. Tony’s almost at the point where he’s going to have to pull rank, which is going to go over like a lead balloon, he just knows it. It is his company and it is his name on the building but Obie’s his CEO. Having to pull rank is going to cause one hell of a rift between them.

He’s coming up the stairs to the platform, phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear, clutching onto the files he’s compiled to prove his point to Obie. Pep’s giving him more statistics but Tony’s only half paying attention because it’s windy and his files are trying to escape.

Hot Guy’s standing up there, looking incredibly tired. Tony’s figured out by now that Hot Guy works as a PA for someone in the company but he can’t figure out who. He wishes he knew. He’d totally fire them. Hot Guy doesn’t deserve to look that tired. No one does.

Tony is busy watching him and doesn’t notice that his grip is loosening on the files. He does notice it though when a strong gust blows through the platform and he completely loses his grip on one of the papers.

“Gotta go, Pep,” he blurts out and hangs up to chase after the wayward paper. Fortunately, it blows right into Hot Guy’s arm, slowing it down enough that he can catch up to it when it flutters away. He grabs onto it, tucks it back into its folder, and offers Hot Guy a sheepish smile.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters.

Hot Guy shrugs. “No worries. Didn’t do any harm.”

They stand there in silence for a moment. Tony can’t stop stealing quick little glances at him, looking away when it looks like Hot Guy’s going to glance at him. Then Tony notices the papers that Hot Guy’s carrying. 

“Got a meeting or something?” he asks. He winces as soon as he says it. Of course Hot Guy doesn’t have a meeting. He’s a PA. Although now that Tony’s thinking about it, he can’t help but remember all the times he’s sent Pepper to one of his meetings instead.

Hot Guy doesn’t seem to mind though. “Or something,” he says tiredly but he smiles as he says it.

Tony thinks about saying something, maybe asking what the meeting’s going to be on. Maybe asking who Hot Guy works for so he can fire them. But just as he’s starting to open his mouth, Tony’s train pulls into the station, stirring up another strong breeze. One of Hot Guy’s papers tugs free and blows right into Tony’s face. He’s startled silent.

“Sorry!” he hears and then Hot Guy’s hand is on Tony’s face, pulling the paper away.

Holy shit. His hand is on Tony’s face. This is the best day of his life.

He blinks his eyes back open and looks first at Hot Guy. Then a bright red mark on the paper catches his eye. Tony freezes. He always wears red lipstick on the days that he meets with Obie, mostly because it pisses Obie off, but it’s never backfired like this. He can’t help it. He lets out a helpless little laugh because what else is he supposed to do? He hopes the paper wasn’t important.

Hot Guy looks at him confusedly so Tony nudges his head in the direction of the paper. Hot Guy immediately looks at it. Tony wants to wait to see what his reaction is- this might be the most interaction they’ve ever had- but he hears, “Final boarding call for the East Campus,” over the loudspeaker and dashes for the train. He can’t miss this one. If he misses it, he won’t be able to finish the miniaturized arc reactor in time for his meeting with Obie and he has to have that or else all his arguments on turning the company’s focus to clean energy will be for naught.

He throws one last regretful look behind him as the train pulls away but Hot Guy’s still chuckling over the lipstick mark on the paper.

~

Steve looks up, intending to laugh about the lipstick mark with Pretty Boy- but Pretty Boy’s gone. The train’s gone too, the last car leaving the station as he watches. He thinks he catches a glimpse of Pretty Boy through one of the windows but he can’t be certain.

He sighs, pushes all the warm, fuzzy feelings from the interaction down deep inside so he can obsess over them tonight, and prepares for yet another day with Obadiah Stane.

~

Steve reprints another copy of the lipstick-stained paper when he gets to the office. It’s an important paper, one that Stane needs for some meeting he’s got today, but Steve can’t hand him the one that Pretty Boy had marked. That one’s special. It deserves to be framed or something.

Stane walks through the door at nine exactly. Steve’s been there for almost two hours by that point. “Good to see you, Sam,” Stane booms because he’s incapable of doing anything but boom. Steve grits his teeth against the words that want to break out, insist that Stane calls him by his actual name, but he swallows them. He can’t lose this job. He can’t, not when Bucky’s still being denied his benefits by the VA, not when his rent’s just gone up.

“I’ve got a meeting with Tony this morning over in the East Campus,” Stane informs him.

In all his years of working at SI, Steve’s never met Tony Stark, the elusive owner of the company. Stark supposedly spends all his time down in R&D. He occasionally has meetings here in the West Campus but he’s never once shown up to them, preferring to send his own PA, Virginia Something-or-other, to attend. He and Virginia have laughed about it a few times.

“Tony’s a good kid,” Virginia’s assured him more than once. “He’s just got a lot to deal with.”

Steve guesses he can understand that. He remembers hearing about Tony Stark about six months before he came to the company. Stark had just lost his parents, had just finished his PhD, and now had an entire company thrust onto his shoulders. He’d given a couple interviews for Time magazine and the like. His tone had always come across as a little overwhelmed and bewildered, even in print.

Stane sighs. “You got kids, Simon?”

Steve shakes his head.

“Good. You should keep it that way,” Stane says. Steve represses his unimpressed frown. “I don’t have kids myself but Tony’s as good as, you know? Tony- Tony’s got a good head on his shoulders but he’s just a little too high in the clouds. Needs to come back down to earth, realize that these dreams of his are pointless. We’re iron mongers, he and I. This company was built on weapons and that’s the way it should stay.”

Steve’s read the proposals that Stark sent over for this meeting. He thinks Stark’s proposals would be a big change for the company but a good one. But Stane doesn’t want to hear that. Stane wants to hear that Stark’s an idiot, which he clearly isn’t. He presses back the words and silently hands him the files. Stane doesn’t even thank him. He just takes them and goes into his office. He comes back out and drops a huge pile of papers on his desk. “These need to be taken care of by the end of the day,” he says. “I’m headed out. Be back in a few hours, maybe a few minutes, depending how idealistic Tony’s gotten.”

Steve resolutely does not groan. The stack is at least two hundred pages thick. It’ll take him most of the day and that doesn’t even include everything else that he has to get accomplished. Looks like it’ll be another late night. He tugs the lipstick-marked paper out from under the bottom of the pile and smooths it out on the desk.

Stane keeps it warm in the office (Bucky jokes it’s because he’s the devil and this is his natural environment) so, as soon the door closes behind him, Steve opens the window beside him.

Of course, as soon as he does, the incoming breeze picks up Pretty Boy’s paper and attempts to carry it out the window. Steve lunges for the paper, catching it just before it floats out the window. He distractedly glances out the window. There’s a man in the building just across the street, working on something glowing. Steve’s building butts right up against the edge of the main R&D building in the East Campus and so weird sights and sounds are pretty normal coming from that building. He usually just ignores them.

Today should be like any other but something stops Steve. He looks again at the man. He knows that outline.

It’s Pretty Boy.

Pretty Boy’s window is also open and so Steve can just barely hear every time he swears at the glowing thing. Just as important, he can see the defeated look on his face. Pretty Boy shouldn’t look that dejected. He should be smiling always. Steve wants to make him smile. 

He sits back at his desk. The problem is he can’t just yell “Pretty Boy” across the street. That would be rude and a little bit too much like objectification for his taste. But he wants to make him smile.

He looks down at the lipstick-stained paper and starts to reach for it, the barest traces of an idea coming to his mind. But then he stops. He can’t waste this paper. Pretty Boy touched this paper. It’s special.

He reaches instead for one of the ones that Stane dropped on his desk. Stane’s notorious for giving him busy work and this stack of papers is no different. They’re nonessential; Stane won’t know if they get filed or not. Quickly, he writes out the word Hi and a smiley face on the paper. He folds it into a paper airplane and labels one of the wings with Open me. Then he stands, aims, and launches it out the window.

It goes two feet and then spirals down to the ground.

Steve watches it go, slightly stunned. He’s got great aim. He can’t imagine why he missed this time. He sits down and tries again. This one sails all the way across the street- and crashes into the wall beside the open window.

The next flies into the window just below Pretty Boy.

The one after that gets caught by the man in the office next to him. He opens it, reads the message, and waves eagerly at Steve. Steve weakly waves back. He stops writing the messages after that. He can always write one on the second one he sends after Pretty Boy gets the first.

One gets sideswiped by a flock of birds.

Steve’s getting ready to launch the thirty-fifth- maybe? He’s lost track of how many he’s sent out the window- when the door to Pretty Boy’s office opens. From this angle, Steve can’t tell who enters but he can tell by the look on Pretty Boy’s face that he’s nervous. He considers not throwing this one but, in the time that he’s deliberating, the other person leaves. Pretty Boy’s shoulders slump and he slouches into his chair. The glowing thing gets tossed in the trash where the light flickers and dies.

Steve throws it.

It crumples against the wall below the window.

Above the window.

Into the lamppost a hundred feet away because the breeze picks up.

Two of them manage to sail through the open window but they go right behind Pretty Boy and land in the trash can and he never sees them.

Stane comes back. There’s a look of surprise on his face about how much Steve has seemingly accomplished. The reward is another stack of papers. Steve swallows the words he wants to say about Stane being a bully and sends him a silent prayer of gratitude for the extra paper airplanes.

He keeps throwing them.

They keep missing.

Steve bangs his head against the wall but he keeps trying. At this point, he’s making them practically without looking, instead keeping his gaze fixed on Pretty Boy, making sure he doesn’t leave.

And then his hand bumps into the paper tray, sending it crashing to the floor. Steve winces, anticipating the inevitable flurry of papers flying into the air. But it doesn’t happen. The tray’s empty. Steve stares at it. He’s used up all of them making paper airplanes for Pretty Boy. He doesn’t even want to think about how many paper airplanes are littering the street currently.

“What’s going on out there?” Obie yells.

Steve can’t tear his eyes away from the empty paper tray. He doesn’t even know why it’s so important that he get an airplane to Pretty Boy, only that he wants to make him smile and something is telling him that this is the best way to do so. Inevitably, his gaze slides to the lipstick-marked paper. He takes a deep breath and sits down.

Quickly, he draws out a sketch of Pretty Boy on the platform. There’s only one instance in their entire three years that Pretty Boy had gotten to the platform before Steve. Steve had come up the stairs and there Pretty Boy had been, silhouetted against the rising sun. He’d been the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen. He draws out that scene quickly, drawing from his memory. He doesn’t have his colored pencils with him here but he can do a decent job of shading with the ink pens on his desk. 

He finishes the drawing, folds the paper into the airplane so that the lipstick stain is on one of the wings, and stands to take it over to the window. He stands there for a moment, taking a deep breath. This is his last shot. This is-

The wind picks up, yanking the airplane out of his hand. Steve desperately tries to grab for it but it soars away and out of sight. He watches his last hope go and then looks up just in time to see Pretty Boy leave the room.

He sighs again, depressed this time. Well, that was it. He turns away from the window and jumps.

Stane’s standing right behind him with another stack of papers and a nasty smile. “Since you’re such a busy worker today,” he says and drops the stack onto Steve’s desk with a thud, “you can do these too. And remember, Sebastian: you’re replaceable.”

Steve thinks about swallowing back his words. But he’s tired of this, tired of taking Stane’s abuse lying down, tired of repressing his feelings and swallowing back his words so he can keep a job he despises. So when he sees Pretty Boy exiting the building across the street, he looks Stane in the eye and says firmly, “My name is Steve. And I quit.”

He grabs his jacket and runs out the door. He takes the stairs because the elevator takes too long, praying that Pretty Boy hasn’t gotten too far away yet. Except when he bursts through the doors, Pretty Boy’s nowhere in sight.

He sprints across the street, glances down a few alleys, but there’s no sign of him. Steve thinks again about the dejected slump to Pretty Boy’s shoulders and runs his hands through his hair. He can’t fail now. He’s come too far to fail. But Pretty Boy’s nowhere around. The only sign of the day that Steve wasted is the paper airplane with the lipstick mark sitting on a mailbox outside the building. Steve glares at it. It’s not special. Not anymore. Not now that he’s failed. He snatches it up and launches it into the air, the way he wishes he could have before the wind had taken it. The airplane soars away, disappearing above the building.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and begins walking toward the train station.

~

In an alleyway some blocks away, a paper airplane with a lipstick stain comes to a rest in a pile of other paper airplanes. It sits there for a moment.

Then it tilts to one side.

It tilts to the other side.

It does a quick little shimmy forward.

It hops.

It hops again, gaining more height.

It lifts into the air and flies around the alleyway, stirring the other airplanes into flight. It lifts higher and higher, moving faster and faster as more and more paper airplanes join it, forming a whirlwind of paper airplanes.

And then, as a blond man stalks by the alleyway, a veritable thundercloud on his face-

The paper airplanes follow.

~

Steve hears a slight rustling behind him but figures it’s just someone walking so he ignores it. But then something presses against his leg, pushing him back. He looks down to see the paper airplane with the lipstick mark.

It’s too little too late. He tosses the airplane aside and keeps going.

The trail of paper airplanes doesn’t like that and five of them promptly attach themselves to his chest, halting him in his steps. He shoves them all away but he can’t even take a single step but more of them fix themselves to him, surrounding him in a cloud of paper airplanes.

They’re shoving him in a direction but he doesn’t know where. He doesn’t know how the paper airplanes are doing this and he’s not entirely certain he even wants to know, less certain that he wants to follow them but they’re not giving him a choice. They push him into the street, bounce him across to the other side, and pull him down another road.

The first of them- the one with the lipstick mark- detaches from his chest, zips around his head, and then zooms away out of sight. The others keep prodding him down the road they want him to follow.

Steve gives a resigned sigh- and follows.

~

Tony’s debating getting flowers for Pepper to thank her for all of her hard work. He knows that the meeting went poorly- God, it went poorly- but she’d done an excellent job. It isn’t her fault that Stane had dismissed everything they’d compiled, dismissed the arc reactor, dismissed Tony.

He’d even patted Tony on the head like he was a misbehaving child.

He’s just getting ready to point to small spray of pansies when a paper airplane flies past his head and lands in the flowers. That alone would be enough for Tony to take notice but then he spots the lipstick mark on one of the wings. He leans closer, intent on a closer look. It can’t really be-

The airplane shivers and then launches itself out of the flowers. It circles Tony’s head once and then flies off. After a moment, it comes back and circles him again. Tony laughs delightedly, not certain why a paper airplane is flying on its own, but it’s too cool an opportunity to miss- so he follows.

~

Steve’s still bouncing down the street. Sometimes, one of the paper airplanes falls away from him but they stay where they land. Steve can’t figure out any sort of rhyme or reason to it. But he does know one thing- it’s irritating being herded across the campus for absolutely no reason.

~

The airplane zips around the corner of the staircase to the train platform Tony normally gets off at in the mornings. Usually, when he leaves in the evening, Happy picks him up so Tony’s never gone up there in the evenings, just the mornings (he never tells anyone that the only reason he takes the train in the mornings is so he can see Hot Guy but he’s pretty sure they all know anyway). Tony follows it up the stairs.

~

The airplanes are tugging Steve up the stairs of the platform. He’s so absolutely confused and overwhelmed and he grabs onto the first post he can, holding onto it for dear life. The airplanes lift him into the air, swirling around him, loosening his grip on the post. He makes a grab for the railing as soon as he lets go of the post but misses.

~

Tony chases the airplane around the platform but it keeps darting out of his reach. The next train arrives. The airplane flies inside and sets off flying down the train. Eagerly, Tony follow, trying to catch it as it moves from car to car.

“Sorry!” he calls as he trips over someone’s bag but it doesn’t stop him.

~

Steve tries to catch the doors to the train as he’s pulled in but the paper airplanes are a lot stronger than he is and he’s forced inside. He sits grumpily on a seat near the doors, arms crossed, wondering what his life has come to that he quit his job and got attacked by magical paper airplanes in one day. 

The paper airplanes are unmoving against him. He thinks about trying for another escape attempt while they’re still but, as soon as he gets up, they come back to life and force him back into his seat.

He crosses his arms again and pretends that he doesn’t notice the young woman three seats away getting up and moving to another seat.

~

The paper airplane has stopped moving, coming to rest on a seat. Tony picks it up and sits down. He’s got the time now to look at it. It does seem to be the same paper that had flown into his face this morning. He smiles to himself. He’d had no idea that Hot Guy was so whimsical.

There’s some sort of sketch folded into the airplane, Tony notices. He carefully opens the airplane to see himself working on the arc reactor, drawn in pen. The artist had drawn him in painstaking detail, making him absolutely beautiful. Tony would have called it lovingly drawn if he’d known anything about how Hot Guy felt.

“Oh,” he whispers. He traces the tip of his finger over the bright red lipstick Hot Guy had given him and ducks his head to hide his blush despite being alone in the car. There’s a message written above the sketch that simply says, “Sorry you had a bad day.”

Tony blushes deeper and quickly folds the airplane back into its shape. They’re pulling into the station where Tony sees Hot Guy in the mornings. The airplane’s still not moving but something tells Tony that this is where he’s supposed to be. He bounces the airplane in his hands as he leaves the train, double checking that it’s not going to take flight again.

There’s a soft rustle behind him and then another paper airplane flies by his feet, followed by a dozen more. Tony turns to see Hot Guy standing there, looking incredibly sheepish and maybe a little hopeful, completely covered in paper airplanes. Tony can’t help but wonder if they were all meant for him.

“Hi,” he says softly.

Hot Guy brushes the paper airplanes away from him and steps closer. “Hi,” he replies. He holds out his hand and then tugs Tony closer when he takes it. Tony goes willingly. After all, this is something that they’ve been building up to for three years. “I’m Steve.”

Tony smiles. “Tony.”

[artificialqueens]

try to praise the mutilated world 2/2 (bianca x adore) - goneawaygirl

A/N:

But here’s the thing: while Adore can flounce and flirt with lascivious abandon, Danny is sometimes terrified of Roy. And here’s the other thing: Danny sucked Roy’s dick.

I’m back back back back back again. Here’s the sequel to Raja and Adore stirring their cauldrons and cackling maniacally. I mean, basically. Featuring another 5k of Everyone Knows Adore Has the Hots for Bianca; Bianca is intuitive as hell; and Raja just wants people to have a little more (literal) magic in the bedroom.

First chapter is here

Cw: weed, orgasm denial, minor dom/sub undertones

If there’s one thing Adore Delano excels at, it’s calling Bianca del Rio’s bluff. Most of the time, a protective shield of eyeliner, fishnets, and a lace front are enough to boost Adore to a superstardom attitude (chill superstardom, though. she’s a hoodrat, not a diva). Sure, she knows she’ll never be as searingly quick, or referentially witty as Bianca, but the longstanding oeuvre of Adore makes her just dumb and bold enough to throw a joke about sucking Bianca’s dick to a whole auditorium of ravenous fans.

And Bianca may play it off as a joke, sure, but she says nothing to Adore for the rest of the night, instead disappearing into Katya’s room. The day after, completely back to normal, and Adore goes back to prodding and teasing and blinking angelically, as she is wont to do.

But here’s the thing: while Adore can flounce and flirt with lascivious abandon, Danny is sometimes terrified of Roy. And here’s the other thing: Danny sucked Roy’s dick. Adore and Bianca had nothing to do with each other that evening, which is perhaps why Adore is so easy to slip on; to fool around with and be boldly, stupidly ignorant of any potential consequences.

So, Adore pursues Bianca with the coy, ever-challenging attitude of a flight of fancy, and Danny lusts after Roy behind the guise of a friendship that’s perhaps a little too infatuated. And for years, for thousands of individual texts and group chats and phone calls and exchanges of barbed showmanship, that’s all there is.

———————

“That bitch is 800 years old, and she still hasn’t learned her limits.”

Yes, as luck, fate, ye Gods of Mischief Above (fuck those guys) would have it, the next time Adore and Bianca see each other, it’s for Raja’s birthday.

They’re in someone’s spacious, gorgeous home in the Hollywood Hills — Adore thinks it must be one of Raja’s mysteriously wealthy arts patron friends — and Raja is flitting, floating — definitely intoxicated — about the living room amidst cute musicians and performance artists and fashion designers. At one point, soft, tasteful music; a sonata, or some shit like that; had infused the air, but now a weird mix of punk and riot grrl and Bjork are flowing through the living room, infusing the guests with hyperactive energy.

“It’s cute how you guys have known each other for like, two thirds of that time,” Adore quips.

“Two-thirds? Two-thirds? Grandpa here is immortal — Raja used to babysit him and his pet brachiosaurus,” Katya says, tumbling onto the long, L-shaped couch where Adore has been continually poking fun at Bianca.

“Hey! Get your ass off this leather, hooker — no one wants your stink all over it,” Bianca says, swatting at Katya good-naturedly.

Katya merely folds her legs under her in an incredibly uncomfortable-looking position, cracks her neck, and purrs at Bianca. Bianca rolls her eyes, glancing at Adore with an “are you getting a load of this?” expression that puts Adore’s insides on tumble-dry.

The couch now contains a funny mix of costuming — Bianca still in her full face, having come straight from a top-secret project that everyone has been attempting to wheedle out of her, but wearing jeans and a black hoodie. Katya is all the way in drag — just for the hell of it, Adore assumes — all huge, perfect, tombstone-shaped teeth and red lips and black, black eyeshadow underneath a short, banged and bobbed blonde wig. She’s wearing — well, Adore doesn’t really know how to describe it. It looks like a medieval tapestry-turned-Lycra creation. Adore’s kind of into it.

And Adore — she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t feeling her best grunge self. A cut-up Hole tank top with gaping sides that showcase a lacy black bandeau, a pair of black jeans artfully ripped to high heaven, and a half-circle flower crown on a long, black wig. Her shoes are absent; kicked off an hour ago, but damn, she still feels seven feet tall.

Maybe that’s because Bianca is so tiny; without her hair and in her douchebag Nike sneakers, her exaggerated facial features are disproportionate to her thin-boned body. Adore feels like she could scoop her up, and put her in her pocket.

Bianca and Katya are laughing now, Katya flopping onto her stomach, dangerously close to having her head in Bianca’s lap. Adore has lost track of the conversation, but she catches words like metaphysically and prehistoric and whore, so she’s sure it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

Then Katya reaches up, and tugs on the strings to Bianca’s hoodie, and rather than bat her away with a joke about how Katya couldn’t afford, Bianca just smiles that brilliant, evil, teeth-baring smile. And then she tugs on Katya’s wig in retribution, painted fingernails curling around a strand.

Fuck Valentina. Fuck Linda Evangelista. So they’re not getting out of bed for less than 10K? Well, Bianca’s smile is the most recklessly beautiful expressionknown to man, and she doesn’t have to get out of bed for 50K. For a million fuckin’ bucks.

Adore stands up. She needs out.

“Drinks?” She asks, then turns and fumbles her way around the couch, not waiting for an answer. She thinks Katya may be calling after her, reminding Adore of Katya’s sobriety, but it’s not like she’s coming back anytime soon anyhow.

She practically runs toward the sliding glass doors that lead to an enormous infinity pool, where the crowd is a little sparser. Toward fresh air. Fresh air in the heart of Los Angeles is questionable at best, but it’s cool and crisp and it allows Adore’s heart to constrict a little less. Goddamn, she wants a cigarette, but she’s weaning herself off of them — spliffs, too. Raja’s gotta have a joint floating around somewhere, though.

“Are we having fun yet?” Raja materializes next to Adore, her voice rough and devastatingly inviting. And fuck a duck, she has a joint, which she hands to Adore without so much as a query on Adore’s part.

“How do you do that?” Adore laughs, plucking it from her thin fingers gratefully. She inhales, holding the smoke longer than usual as she passes it back to Raja.

“Don’t change the subject,” Raja says, smiling softly. “It looked like you found a spot you liked.”

“Yeah,” Adore says through a mouthful of smoke, watching it dissipate slowly over the lighted pool, playing with the steam from the water’s surface. She turns back to see Raja’s gaze intent on her face, and not for the first time, she feels compelled to give Raja everything.

“Motherfucker,” Adore says, laughing as Raja’s smile only grows. “You stop that shit right now. I’ve got your number, bitch.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Raja says, turning back to watch the water and the steady lights of a city ruined by urban sprawl. With that joint held aloft, she looks like something out of a Fellini film. Plunging, gold Josephine Baker dress, wine-stained lips, eyes that could kill a man — she is long-limbed temptation at its most benevolent.

“Don’t you have better things to do? It’s your pity party, old man,” Adore says. Raja smiles, eyes still on the city.

“Ain’t my funeral,” Raja replies. “Besides, you haven’t given me a gift yet.”

“You want your present to be what, exactly? You get to annoy the fuck outta me?” Adore asks.

The tip of the joint glows brightly as Raja takes a hit, and turns back to Adore. She gives her an appreciative once-over, coming back to focus on Adore’s lips. Raja luxuriates in her own movements, reaching toward Adore’s face and blowing the smoke back into her mouth as she grasps Adore’s chin and brings her in for a kiss.

Adore shudders, a cool spark traveling between them, a crackling like ice cubes dropping into hot water. Raja’s hand travels to Adore’s throat as they kiss, tapping at the vee of her collarbones, and Adore groans.

God.

Raja smiles against Adore’s mouth, as her electricity twists down from Adore’s chest, making a serpentine path to her cock. She breaks away slowly, and Adore lets out a petulant whine. Raja stops it with a finger to Adore’s lips.

“You could put what I taught you to use, Adore,” Raja says, and Adore swallows. “That would be the perfect gift.”

Adore nods, caught up in the tilt of Raja’s  wrist, the drawl and grate of her voice. Raja drags her thumb across Adore’s lips, smudging the meticulous outline, and Adore has a vision, apropos of nothing, of Bianca doing the same.

“Don’t flake out on me this time — if you’re half as good as when I had you, he’ll propose tomorrow morning,” Raja says, and Adore doesn’t fight the shiver that runs across her shoulder blades at the memory of Raja’s hands and lips, of Adore’s mouth all over Raja’s lanky, sun-kissed body.

“Now get back in there, you dumbass,” Raja says, the spell breaking abruptly.

“I—,”

“Thanks for coming,” Raja says, pushing Adore back toward the doors. Adore flips her the bird, even as she turns, heading back to the party.

“You’re only getting away with this ‘cause you’re dying soon, puta,” Adore tosses over her shoulder.

“I’m going to live forever, bitch,” Raja replies, laughing. As Adore leaves, she watches two tall, leanly-muscled men wander over to Raja, and she nearly yells at them to be careful, to stay away from this goddamn true-to-life bruja, but thinks better of it. It is Raja’s birthday — she can do whatever she wants and Adore won’t say boo.

Approaching the couch, Adore spies what can only be described as a mess — Katya now has her legs in boy Trixie’s lap, and Trixie is blushing and shrieking in equal measure as Courtney seems to be attempting a lap dance to earn Trixie’s baseball cap. Willam is at the far end of the couch, Louboutins abandoned on the deep, soft-fibered rug. She’s cuddled up to Bianca, looking blissed out and more like a propped-up, popped-up blow-up doll than the unceasingly aware douchebag she really is. And Bianca looks…tired. Exhausted, really.

And listen, Adore knows that Willam and Bianca are not a thing, will never be a thing, are too goddamn smart to ever get together, but something in Adore’s stomach twists as she watches them, curled around one another and clearly judging the spectacle fetiche playing out before them. Willam is a match for Bianca — the business savvy, the intelligence, the “hateful” heart.

As Adore turns away, she tells herself it’s because she’s sleepy. She’s ready to go home. It’s not because of an irrational fear that William’s going to suck Bea’s dick, and then have a comprehensive conversation about the current political landscape in the morning. A hand pulls her back by her shoulder.

“Take a chance, mama,” Katya says, eyes bright with suppressed laughter. She’s left Trixie to the wiles of Courtney, apparently.

“What?”

“All I’m saying is that if you start to actually say your goodbyes, rather than leave us all in the dust, there is one particular rotted, mulch-based, unsavory character over here that would miss you. That might want to walk you outside,” Katya says, then hugs Adore quickly and tightly. “Might want to eat your ass, too, is all I’m saying.”

Adore nearly chokes as, out of Katya’s view, Bianca meets her eyes. Katya lets go, flouncing back to Trixie, and Bianca stands, gently shrugging Willam off with a squeeze to his shoulder.

Adore wants to at least pretend to busy herself with her phone as Bianca approaches, but she just watches her instead.

“You just gonna leave?”

“Can I stay with you tonight?”

The two sentences come out simultaneously, and Bianca seems baffled for a moment, before grinning and hooking a finger into Adore’s empty belt loop.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Bianca says. “Then we’re both leaving.”

A chorus of goodbyes erupt from the couch, in varying states of comprehensibility, as Adore retrieves her shoes. Willam is passing out, but Adore knows he’ll get home (or to Courtney’s apartment) fine. Maybe she should text Alaska —

“You coming?” Bianca has put her ridiculous sunglasses on, already tapping at her phone for a Lyft, and it takes all of Adore’s willpower not to make it a euphemism, to shake out the tension that’s starting to buzz across her cheekbones.

“Yeah,” Adore says, ignoring Katya’s manic grin as she watches them. Adore can feel eyes on her, and she turns just in time to catch Raja smirking — one arm on each of the men from the pool — before Adore follows Bianca toward the front door.

“Happy birthday, puta madre,” she mouths, and a pinprick of indignation breaks through her nervousness as Raja waves languidly. What right does this motherfucker have to push her in the direction she…ok, yes, she definitely wants to go in anyway. Bitch.

A spark crackles as Bianca grabs Adore’s hand.

“Don’t get lost,” Bianca murmurs.

Too late.

———

“Do you believe in — in weird things?”

The air flowing through the kitchen windows of Roy’s Los Angeles apartment is sweeter and cooler than anything in Hollywood. It’s loosening Adore’s tongue — making her sweat a little less and smile a little more. She should really look into renting a place in Los Feliz, or Silverlake. Getting to gigs might be hell, but at least she’d have room to breathe.

“I believe in you, don’t I?”

Roy emerges from the bedroom, scrubbed clean, his hair damp, and his lips shining. He grabs a glass from a cabinet, taking a moment to stare out the window before filling it from the sink and placing it in front of Adore. She rolls her eyes, but accepts it.

“Ha, ha. No, I mean, like, unexplainable things. Supernatural.”

“Uh,” Roy sounds distracted, standing up and wandering back into the bedroom. Adore follows, abandoning the glass.

“Brujas. Magic,” Adore jumps on Roy’s hesitation, having stored the words, the way to bring it up, in incalculably wrong, meandering, manipulative ways. She needs it out.

Roy grabs a clean laundry basket next to his bedside table, and hikes it up to the bed. He’s leaving in the morning, Adore remembers. For Dublin. Halfway across the world.

“You been hanging out with Sharon again? Don’t join the cult — just rent Witches of Eastwick, and then the Who’s Tommy. You’ll get the gist of it, and trust me, that’s the only preview you’ll want,” Roy says, starting to fold, press, and store clothes in a small, sensible black carry-on.

Fold, press, store.

Adore has a sudden, irrepressible need to make Roy fall apart. He’s such a well-oiled machine — and Bianca is no different. It’s a good business model, with little-to-no repair necessary — just wind him up and send him off to a 60-city tour.

Adore can see he’s letting the slightest bit of tension show in his shoulders and neck, and she wants it gone. He’s a consummate host, an untraceably neat guest, and despite his personality and stage persona (occasionally, though not enough for it to be a habit, Adore has trouble separating the two) he can slip away from any gathering without so much as a slightly woeful drunken goodbye.

But tonight.

Tonight she wants Roy to forget his own name.

“I think you’d like Tommy, actually. You’re in that sex, drugs, rock-n-roll part of your career, yeah? Whatever? It’s great, by the way. Mature. Just stay away from that 27 club. Made for a great song, but —“

Roy’s mix of compliment and social commentary halts.

“What are you doing?”  He’s not accusatory, as Adore strokes two fingers down the back of his neck. Genuinely confused, more like.

Adore keeps silent for a moment, and Roy doesn’t turn around. She uses her middle finger and thumb to glide down the back of his neck, stopping at his shoulders. Yep. That’s tension, all right. Adore’s sure she’s added to it, at this point.

“Not that I’m complaining…”

Adore smirks as Roy bites off his words with a tiny sigh. Both thumbs now spread along his shoulders — just gaging; gathering intel. She loves his skin — it’s impossibly soft, but the further  her thumbs travel, the more she can feel hardened knots beneath the suave exterior. He needs more than a massage. He needs a fucking year-long vacation.

“Do you wanna relax?”

Shit. That’s not how that was supposed to come out — Raja never posed it so tentatively. And yes, Adore is into enthusiastic consent (it’s sexy and necessary, bitch!), but she doesn’t want to sound so unsure of herself.

“Is that a pick-up line you stole from a 10-dollar hooker, Ms. Delano? I don’t think Katya would appreciate her signature move being appropriated without payment.”

“Shut up, I’m serious,” Adore says, along for the ride as Roy’s shoulders shake with laughter.

“Witches and street-walkers, Adore. You sure are serious.”

Adore frowns. Usually, she’d laugh along. But she wants this to go a different route than every other time she’s conceded to Roy’s brushing off anything and everything of real sobriety between them.

“Hey,” she says, hands swiftly dropping from Roy’s shoulders to his hips. “I am.”

Adore draws a breath, then exhales sharply, and sends a shock of energy to Roy’s hips.

A low sound punches out of Roy’s throat, followed quickly by a louder version of that high, indulgent sigh. He shakes out of it with a shiver.

Roy spins around, wrenching out of Adore’s arms.

“What the hell was that, chola?”

Adore smirks.

“Weird things.”

“Don’t try me, bitch. You shuffle all the way over here just to zap me?” Roy turns around, and takes a step back. “Look, I know I call you a child, but most of the time, I don’t mean it.”

“What? No. That wasn’t —“ Adore swallows, sure she’s made a terrible mistake. “I’m not playing.”

Roy looks at her warily, then sits on the bed, crossing his legs almost daintily. He runs his hands across the cream-colored duvet, fingers twitching.

“Then what are you doing?”

Roy’s question is soft, but his eyes are calculating, sweeping over Adore’s features. She stares right back at him, and nearly loses her breath. Roy is so goddamn beautiful — in drag and out. But he’s tired, his posture slumping, and the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth where’s he’s waiting. Waiting for the world to slow down for a second, and waiting for Adore’s answer.

“Listen, I can’t explain it. But I want to help you out,” she finally settles on. “I know you don’t need help, you don’t want it, but…” she trails off, trying to wind her way back to something more convincing.

“Your being here is helping,” Roy says unexpectedly, in that same soft tone he reserves for the after-show; those flickering moments when there’s no jest, no insult. He means it. Adore breathes deeply again, willing herself to press forward under Roy’s admittance.

“Let me…do you trust me?” Adore steps forward, not enough to be crowding Roy, but on the edge of his space.

“On everyday decisions? No.” Roy huffs out a laugh. “But with what matters? Of course. And if you’re asking for permission, I’m giving it to you.”

He ends so softly, Adore might not have heard if she wasn’t listening raptly.

“Ok.”

Adore steps into his space, nudging his legs apart. She leans down, an arm on either side of his torso, and watches as Roy’s eyes close the millisecond before their lips meet.

Yes. Yes. Please.

The kiss is sweet; close-mouthed. Chaste. And Adore has to fight with herself to keep it that way, much as all she wants to do is pin Roy against the bed and cradle his head between her hands.

Reluctantly, she breaks away, moving to sit beside Roy. He stares at her, a swatch of lipstick around his mouth. She considers brushing it away, but something inside her clings to the image, and motions for him to lay down in her lap. He hesitates.

“Could you take this off?” Roy asks, tugging at Adore’s wig. Adore blushes, but complies, unpinning and setting it down on the bedside table. Roy swallows visibly, his mouth ajar for a second, and a rush of heat spreads throughout Adore’s body.

“Lie down.”

Roy does, finally, his legs hanging off the lip of the bed, his head settling in Adore’s lap. He blinks up at her, reaches one hand out to ruffle her real hair, then traces across her cheek before letting his arm fall back.

“I gotta say, Danny, this is not where I thought I’d find myself tonight,” he says, and Adore feels every guise fall away. She’s got no bravado here, in the quiet of the room. The clothes and makeup are still on, and Roy has all but stripped him bare.

“I’ll take care of you, OK?” Adore says.

And Adore knows she’s asking a lot. She’s not just requesting permission — she’s after a certain measure of control, which Roy does not give away easily, if at all. There’s a hitch in Roy’s breathing and then —

“You’d better.”

“Close your eyes,” Adore says, her hands starting to trace along Roy’s collarbones when he accedes.

Adore closes her own eyes, focusing. It only takes a few seconds before that dormant buzz starts up again, prickling in her temples. She inhales, then exhales it down his arms, into her fingertips, to meet Roy.

There.

Roy’s energy is magnificent. It’s so different from Sutan’s — it’s white-hot and quick and unrelentingly powerful, skittering across and under his skin where Sutan’s had been cool and quiet and sinuous. Adore wants to bury herself in it; to let that heat explode through her veins and fill his her to bursting.

Roy is breathing a little bit more quickly, snapping Adore out of her trance. This is for Roy. She’s here to take care of Roy.

“Hey. Relax.”

“Easy for you to say,” Roy snaps, but his words don’t have their usual bite. He’s scared, Adore realizes. Makes sense. It’s one thing to trust Sutan — older, wiser, practically a fucking god. It’s quite another for Roy to let Adore practice something that is, in her own words, unexplainable.

“Listen to me, Bea,” Adore says. “Where do you feel the most tense?”

“Everywhere. I’m a time-bomb,” Roy says shortly, eyes opening. “How is this working, exactly?”

Damn. Adore takes a deep breath, willing himself to remember Sutan’s guidance, the sleepy Thursday morning when he had taken Danny through the motions.

“It’s not just in your hands. It’s in everything you use to create. It’s in your voice. You must have felt that before.”

Her voice. Adore’s a goddamn mermaid. She steadies himself, feeling her energy curling around his throat.

“Listen. Where do you feel the most tense?” Adore repeats, and immediately senses a change in her words. They’re soothing, yet firm; hypnotic even to her own ears.

When Roy’s eyelids flutter, Adore feels a dangerous intoxication start to flow through her.

“Neck,” Roy answers, and Adore does her best to bite back a grin at the surprise that crosses Roy’s face at his own admission. “Shoulders.”

It’s as if, as soon as Adore remembers his voice, the rest of her body wakes itself. Her hands are buzzing as she brings them to the sides of Roy’s neck, stroking her thumbs down. And yes, there it is — a sparking, spinning, bitch of an energy tangle. Adore inhales, gathers the energy, and pushes, willing it to break apart.

“God. What —“ Roy starts to ask, but cuts himself off. His whimper is a fucking narcotic — Danny needs to hear it over and over; needs to feel it vibrating through him along with Roy’s brilliant aura.

And then Roy sighs — a long, drawn-out exhalation that Adore has heard so many times before. In times of scoffing and scorning, but this — Roy sounds like he’s in heaven. Adore has only been party to this particular inflection once before — when Roy’s cock was in Danny’s mouth.

To say that the parallel emboldens Adore would be an understatement.

“Where else, baby?”

“Arms,” Roy answers, slightly incoherent after his little outburst. It’s like he doesn’t know what he’s saying anymore — he’s just following Adore’s voice.

Adore runs her hands down from Roy’s shoulders, lingering on his biceps, because hello, only human here. Roy flexes beneath him, and Adore decides to reward him, her next thrum of energy infused with something a little sharper; more combative.

The groan that escapes Roy is exquisite. Fuck. Adore wants it recorded and played on repeat, wants to make a dirty, plow-me-and-tell-me-I’m-pretty club mix sampling it. She has Bianca del Motherfucking Rio at his mercy. She has Roy Haylock in his lap, Roy’s hips canting upward involuntarily.

Oh. Is this what Danny looked like when Sutan held her; caressed her? She doesn’t know how Sutan didn’t jump her bones right then and there. Roy has fucking transcended, and it’s magnificent. His teeth are digging into his lower lip, his brow furrowed, and his hands are grasping at the duvet, struggling for an anchor.

“And what about your hips, babe?”

Roy merely nods in the affirmative, past talking. Well, that’s a first.

Adore runs a hand down Roy’s torso, skimming close (but not too close) to her pelvis, which Roy squirms at. Surprisingly, the tension around Roy’s hips is the strongest — fritzes and frissons of energy skidding across Adore’s fingernails as she traces small circles. Roy bends his legs to steady himself, bracing against the mattress, and she catches his thighs actually quaking with the effort.

That won’t do. Adore has a flash of inspiration, and OK, maybe this is going off the beaten path, but what the hell. This is magic they’re talking about, not paint-by-numbers.

“Up,” Adore says, pushing Roy off his lap and back toward the headboard. He obeys, but his movements are sluggish, and he stumbles, practically knocking his head when he collapses, his back against the headboard.

When Roy actually gets his bearings and looks at Adore, it’s in pure anticipation. He carries himself like a drunk, eyes half-lidded, mouth slack, and Adore wastes no time crawling to him. She straddles his thighs, placing his hands on Roy’s wrists. Before she can help it, their energy mingles, rattling another groan out of Roy, who thrusts his hips up.

“No — baby, Bea, no,” Adore grunts, trying to contain her own arousal. Roy looks at her with betrayal written in his eyes, but Adore merely maneuvers his hands above him, pressing them to the top of the headboard until he grips it.

“Why?” Roy asks, although his hands are staying tight to the wooden slats. Adore nearly laughs — Roy’s not used to instructions in the bedroom, which somehow makes his whining weirdly endearing.

“I swear, it’ll be worth it,” Adore says, her hands dropping back to his hips. She closes her eyes, focusing on the spiraling network of electricity swimming in her hands, and sends it to fight the thin, white bands and knots she sees criss-crossing over Roy’s lower abdomen.

“Uh, Danny,” Roy gasps. “How?”

This isn’t just torture for you, asshat. Roy is hard against her; thick against her thighs, and he can’t control himself as he bucks into her.Adore thinks back to Sutan’s words, willing them to reappear before she breaks down and just sucks Roy’s dick.

“If you can tell it’s broken down enough, then pull everything back to yourself. If you wear the barrier too thin, there’s no telling when you’ll be able to stop.”

Adore swallows, hard, Sutan’s hands ghosting over hers, guiding her, and she clamps her hands around Roy’s hips. Come.

Energy rushes back up her arms, twists around her biceps, and sinks back behind her shoulder blades. She almost whites-out from the force of Roy’s, which flares brilliantly before dissipating, sinking back to his body gently.

He lets go of the headboard immediately, arms falling to his sides with a muffled thud, and his eyes fly open. Adore doesn’t know when they’d closed again. She’s vaguely aware of him throbbing below her; of her own erection, but more than that she feels full-body-and-soul good. She feels lethargic good, Bea’s fingers running over her scalp good, stretching the muscles she hasn’t used in a long time downright luxurious.

“I have a lot of questions for you,” Roy says, and she feels his words like compliments in an afterglow, warming her skin. She notices she’s still straddling him, and makes to roll off, but his hands stop her, fingers digging into her sides.

“I probably don’t have all the answers,” Adore says honestly, hoping that will be enough.

Roy laughs lowly, shaking his head. His fingers find the cutouts of her shirt, and start to rub circles on her skin.

“You haven’t been hanging out with Sharon, huh? It was Raja.”

Adore’s jaw snaps shut as she processes the second half of Roy’s statement.

“We’ve known each other for a long time, chola. She’s not a very good liar,” Roy says perfunctorily, like of course Raja would tell him about her aura magic. Or use it on him. Fuck.

For some reason, Adore wants to cry. It’s not like she’s Roy’s first friend, first lover, first anything. She’s not entitled to this, but somehow, it’s more intimate than anything she’s ever done. With anyone (and she��s done some pretty revealing shit). No wonder Raja suggested she try to “help” Bianca out. It’s from experience, that’s all —

“Hey, hey. Adore. Come back to me. What’s the matter, pussyfart?” He’s trying to make her feel better, and she wants none of it.

“Nothing. I just don’t know why you’d have questions — you obviously know what’s going on,” Adore snaps. It’s not Roy’s fault — they’re not in any sort of relationship. Adore rolls her eyes at how fucking petty she’s being; how insecure.

“I — I still don’t really. I don’t know how you did that. I don’t know what that was. When Raja tried to explain, I just thought she was speaking metaphorically. But you’re the real deal, aren’t you?” Roy strokes her face, tucking her hair behind her ear with something like reverence.

He’s so fucking gentle with her, and it eats away at Adore. She wants him to hold her like this forever — to ogle her like she’s turned his world upside-down and back again.

“Speaking metaphorically? So she didn’t…?”

“Wasn’t interested,” Roy says, shrugging. “But I trust you. And I still do.You made good on that ‘taking care of me’ promise.” Adore feels heat spread to her chest and cheeks, struggling to find the double meaning behind Roy’s words before giving up and kissing him in a mix of relief and embarrassment. He kisses back, meeting her without ornamentation, but it still drives Adore up the wall when she feels the slightest spark pass between them.

Adore’s panting a little bit when they break for air, but Roy seems to have regained some composure, lipstick-smudged as he may be. Roy pushes at her to get off him, and she scrambles back, falling onto her butt and nearly off the bed before Roy yanks her back to him by a calf and a thigh.

“I guess the most pressing question is: can I make you feel like that?” Roy looms above her, having slotted himself between her legs. He places a hand on her throat, running his thumb along the side of her neck, and she nods breathlessly, though she knows he doesn’t actually need an answer.

“Fuck yes,” she enunciates, and his smile is downright sinful; a portent of what’s to come, she hopes.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook, though,” she hears before he’s fumbling at her pants, shimmying them down her legs. “I need answers. And the assurance that we’re going to do that again.”

“That depends on you,” Adore says, smirking. “You gotta impress me with your magic dick.”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole,” Roy says, even as he ducks to kiss her again. This time, he doesn’t hold back, licking down her throat and ending on a particularly vicious bite above her clavicle.

“You love me,” Adore says through labored breath. When he resurfaces, he grasps her chin in his hand, studying her in a brief moment of gravitas.

“God help me and all your Race chasers,” is all he says, before that beautiful, incessant mouth is on her cock, stopping any intelligible thought.  

—————

Danny wakes up to a note on Roy’s bedside table, next to his wig.

Had to run. Early flight. Coffee’s in the kitchen.

We’re nowhere near finished.

XOXOXOXO

Danny snorts at Roy’s all-caps hugs and kisses, flopping back to snuggle in the sheets. He replays Roy’s mouth on his, Roy’s fingers on him, Roy’s blindingly bright love, Roy, Roy, Roy, before he drifts into a thick, dreamless sleep.