#anyway there's teddy's ace story that nobody asked for

[ohblackdiamond]

little t&a (paul/gene, nc-17) (part 10 of 29)

part 1   part 2   part 3   part 4   part 5   part 6   part 7   part 8   part 9   part 10   part 11   part 12   part 13   part 14   part 15   part 16   part 17   part 18   part 19   part 20   part 21  part 22   part 23   part 24    part 25   part 26   part 27   part 28   part 29

Four weeks before KISS gets back on tour, Gene discovers that Paul’s been cursed by a groupie. For the sake of KISS’ finances, Paul’s comfort levels, and Gene’s libido, this crisis must be resolved. Sexswap fic. In this chapter: More shopping, more problems, and Ace and Peter enact their plan.

           The call to Steve Rubell (or rather, his secretary—Steve, apparently, didn't get up any earlier than two in the afternoon) wasn't the only one Gene made that morning. At Paul's urging, Gene called to have clothes sent over from his house, and a handful of standard accessories. He felt a little bare wearing only his skull ring. Paul kept attempting to advise him as he tried to piece together an image- and Studio 54-suitable outfit from memory of what was in his closets. In the end he just settled on an outfit comprised almost entirely out of black leather. A vague step up from his CBGB outfit, at least.

           "You think I should go to another boutique?" Paul asked as soon as he'd hung up. He'd changed into jeans and a low-cut, frilly purple blouse, more of yesterday's purchases. He kept fiddling with the floppy bow in the front, untying and retying it as he spoke, moving it to the side, then the middle. Sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, he looked like a nervous kid, tapping one bare foot against the floor.

           "Not unless you want to."

           "I dunno. Nothing I have is going to pass muster."

           "Didn't you buy a dress?"

           Paul grimaced.

           "It wasn't anything special. Do you know how many people they don't let in to Studio 54, just because of the outfit?"

           "Paul, you know we'll get in."

           "Yeah, we'll get in, but the press is out there every night. There's gonna be pictures, Gene."

           Gene hesitated. Except for when they'd found Carol's old apartment, Paul's mood seemed to improve, at least a little, whenever they'd ventured out. He hadn't seemed to mind getting clothes that much—sure, he'd taken forever about it, but that wasn't abnormal—and he hadn't picked out sackcloth and ashes for himself, either. Minus the bow, the blouse was something Paul probably would've worn in his regular body, even, except Gene would've been greeted with a hell of a lot of chest hair instead of cleavage.

           "I think what you've got on is probably fine."

           "You haven't been over there. It's picky as hell."

           "We're in KISS, we'll get in."

           "I don't want to just get in! I—" Paul shook his head. "God, you don't understand."

           "What's there to understand?"

           "There's getting in and then there's looking good, Gene. Looking like you belong."

           Gene tilted his head.

           "Do you really want to belong at Studio 54?" Gene had heard, from admittedly irreputable sources, that Rubell would hand out coke at the VIP entrance like it was balloons at the carnival. The basement was supposed to hold nothing but orgies. Yeah, Paul liked to dance, and he liked to rub elbows with people outside of KISS' questionable echelon, but he wasn't a drug addict, and he wasn't a heavy sex fiend. Two things that were practically prerequisites for that place.

           "I wanna belong somewhere," Paul said abruptly, and then shook his head, as though he hadn't really realized he was speaking out loud. "I—what I mean is, I don't wanna come off like I'm some chick you yanked off the front row 'cause she showed you her tits."

           "You don't come that cheap, Paul."

           "Oh, shut up. You get it, right? You get it."

           Gene kind of got it. The closest he could come was envisioning going onstage without the makeup. The one protective shield between fantasy and reality. A funhouse mirror it'd be suicide to step away from. It wasn't that they were shittier musicians without a bunch of paint and leather on, any more than Clark Kent stopped being faster than a speeding bullet once he put on his glasses—but it ruined the magic. Flattened the ego.

           He'd known Paul long enough to realize Paul's ego had been flattened since he'd started grammar school, if not before. Album sales and Billboard climbing never seemed to boost it for long. Being stuck in the wrong body for a week had to have killed whatever was left.

"If you wanna get another outfit, then we'll get you another outfit."

           "Yeah?"

           "Yeah."

--

           Three hours later, Paul had another outfit. Gene had half-hoped Paul would let him into the dressing room—why the hell he'd hoped that when Paul kept changing clothes in the bathroom even at home, he didn't know, but he was still disappointed. Paul had stopped at a slightly more upscale place than yesterday, to Gene's distress, and sorted through the dresses with an almost disturbing intenseness. In the end, he'd only picked out a flowy, light blue one that probably hung to about mid-calf (Paul hadn't let him see it on), with draped short sleeves, another bra, and another pair of heels. He hadn't gotten any accessories to go along with it.

           But what surprised Gene was that he didn't immediately head for the checkout counter. Instead, he kept lingering in the lingerie and nightwear section. Gene would have tried not to comment, except he'd had nothing to do but follow Paul around the boutique like the beleaguered boyfriend he wasn't.

           "Do you want a nightie?" He picked a gauzy, lacey pink number off the rack. Paul's face contorted.

           "That's a teddy."

           "A what?"

           "A teddy. It snaps up at the crotch. See?" Paul pointed. Gene was more distracted by the garters dangling off the sides, flicking at them.

           "I thought they were all nighties."

           Paul shook his head. He took a short lavender babydoll-style nightgown off the rack, running a hand down the silky material, mouth pursed like he was actually considering it.

           "Do you like this stuff?"

           "Me?" Gene looked up, evasively, from where he'd been tugging at the garters. Too loaded a question for a completely honest response. "I like what's underneath it."

           Paul bit his lip and hung the lingerie back up.

           "You wanna get it?" Not that Gene was against it, but Paul had seemed like he was dead-set on wearing t-shirts and boxers to bed for the entire duration of the curse, or at least as long as Gene shared a bed with him. Last night couldn't have made that much of an impression on him. "Go ahead, if you want."

           "I owe you over a hundred bucks as it is."

           "Pay me back with a peepshow."

           "Oh, screw you." But he picked the nightgown up again anyway. "It's just insurance."

           "Insurance for what?"

           "For you sticking around in case we don't find Carol tonight."

           "You don't need insurance for that. I'm not going anywhere." Gene reached over, tugging at a lock of Paul's hair on impulse. "Not that I'm talking you out of it."

           Paul snorted and pushed his hand away, but he was smiling. Just a little. It shouldn't have been distracting—it shouldn't have been more distracting than the thought of Paul as he was right now, in nothing but a short, spaghetti-strap nightgown—but in an odd way, it was. Paul wasn't much of a crier, and he wasn't much of a smiler, not even for magazines and interviews. But when he did, it gave a warm, almost sweet cast to his features. Gene tried to dismiss the thought; he knew he'd been with prettier women, easier, prettier women, but the fact remained. Paul's smile had edged into a less innocent territory in the half-second Gene had spent musing, anyway.

           "I knew there had to be some way to keep you from looking at the price tags," he said, handing Gene his whole stack of purchases.

--        

           Last night, when Ace had said he had a plan, he had cocaine and booze bubbling around in his strangely-resilient system. When Peter had believed him, he'd been drunk or close to it.

           Now, parked in front of Paul's place after over an hour of driving, Peter had to admit Ace's plan would've been great for getting answers—if anyone had actually been there. Unfortunately, that didn't appear to be the case once they got in the driveway.

           "His car's gone. I don't think anyone's over." Despite himself, Peter got out of the car. Ace reached for the drink holder, like he'd forgotten he hadn't brought a beer for the road, before he cut off the engine and followed him out. They stepped up to Paul's front porch together, ringing the doorbell and knocking on the door.

           The first time Peter had headed over there, the girl had been really quick to open up. Gene, too.  Peter let out a frustrated breath, waiting a few more seconds before knocking harder. Nothing. He could see through the glass on the door that a couple of the lights were on in the house, but that didn't mean much. Paul would leave a light on all day, even in his hotel room.

           No, nobody was here. The cardboard box resting just by the door proved it. Paul's mail, evidently. Peter picked it up, frowning at the lack of address or postage. Hopefully none of the neighbors had found out who he was and dropped off weird fan crap. He set the box down before turning to Ace.

           "Why the hell did I let you talk me into this? It's not getting us anywhere!"

           Ace just shrugged.

           "He's gotta come home sometime."

           "Sometime could be six hours from now! At least I get paid for waiting around on tour!"

           "Petey…"

           Ace's idle nonchalance was something Peter appreciated most of the time, as stark a contrast as it was to Paul and Gene's control freak tendencies. Ace seemed like he coasted through life, with nothing but alcohol, his Les Paul, and weird stories about aliens propelling him. Peter had let himself get dragged into Ace's weird, wild hairs sometimes, but usually they were at least exciting. Standing in front of Paul's house and hoping he'd show back up was about as thrilling as three KISS board meetings in a row.

           "You know what the smart thing would've been, Ace?"

           "Calling Paul today? I tried."

           "No."

           "Calling Bill?"

           "No."

           "Calling Hilsen?"

           "Fuck, no. Calling the cops."

           Ace blinked, resting an elbow and a hand against the door as he leaned against it.

           "The cops? That's pretty fucking extreme."

           "For one of those—I don't know. They come to the house and check on you if your husband's a wife-beater."

           Ace tilted his head.

           "Social workers? You wanna get a social worker for Paul?"

           "No! No, that's not it!"

           "I bet they'd find joints in there. No good. It'd be like what's happening to Keith Richards. One big fucking disaster." Ace ran a hand through his hair. Looking at him, Peter wasn't sure if he'd showered after last night. Not that Ace was fantastic about hygiene, but… shit, come to think of it, he'd even missed a few spots shaving. He and Ace both would try and ease into pieces of the tour routine before it swallowed them up. All the annoying shit, like shaving everything. Like getting haircuts (the hair dye was reserved for a couple days before) and wandering around in heels again for awhile, like some bizarre version of a wrestler's training regimen. But Ace looked a bit unkempt. Had Gene's behavior affected Ace that badly? Strange.

           "Doubt it. Paul doesn't toke up by himself." Peter groaned. "Y'know what? Forget it. Forget it. If no one shows up in another ten minutes, we're just going home."

           "You gotta be patient."

           "I've been patient! I've been over twice! You're the one that hasn't done anything until now! You said you had a plan—"

           "You ain't gonna like the rest of the plan."

           "C'mon, there is no rest of the plan! We're staking out his house and wasting our time, that's all this is!"

           Ace shifted from where he was leaning against the door, standing up fully, and dug a hand in his back pocket, pulling out his wallet. Peter watched, expecting him to—what, did he have a key to Paul's?—show him something important, but instead all he did was pull out a credit card and hold it out in front of Peter.

           "What's this for?"

           "Don't leave home without it. Right, Pete?" Ace laughed a little, then leaned over, wedging the card between the space between the door and the lock. Peter stared.

           "Come the fuck on, that's breaking and entering! We can't pull this shit!"

           Ace slid the card back out, frowning, and reangled it. He kept talking, as affably as ever, as he pushed it back in, bending the thin plastic as he worked it into the gap.

           "We've gotta find out what's going on somehow, right? A P.I. would do the same thing."

           "Yeah, but you're not a fucking P.I.!"

           "Nope." He seemed like he was making headway. The door was actually starting to yield a bit. Christ. "But if you're right about Gene, he's screwed up everything for everybody."

           "You and your ifs. I know I'm right about him! Why do you keep defending—"

           "'Cause it's weird, Peter! Gene wouldn't hurt him like that. There's something we're missing!"

           Peter opened his mouth to answer, stopped only by the sound of a car pulling up to the driveway. A car he recognized as Paul's. The driver cut off the engine, and as soon as she got out, he recognized her, too—the girl from before. Paul's girl, the one Gene had stolen—and then Gene got out of the passenger's side. Peter jerked at Ace's sleeve, and Ace turned around, not bothering to pull the card out from between the door and the slat, expression as bland and mild as ever at the sight, as the girl scrambled out to the front porch like a bat straight out of hell, shouting something very, very strange.

           "You bastards! You're breaking into my fucking house!"

[sanjuno]

Wildfire AU: Do they ever find out Sabo's still alive? Does he get his memories back? And how is Riot planning to preemptively deal with Blackbeard and/or the Yami Yami fruit?

Eeeeh, *tips hand back and forth* that bit of the plotline is still a bit wobbly, tbh. I mean, at some point Sabo will run into Ace and Luffy, and then there will be tears and hugs galore. When does it happen? I dunno, ask Dragon. When did Dragon first let Sabo leave the Baltigo training facility for a mission? It’ll happen after that but before younger!Ace turns 17. 

Of course, there will be a dramatic moment where Luffy is in danger and Ace almost gets killed and Sabo goes berserk trying to protect them both. Then the memories flood in and it’s coma time for Sabo. And that’s how Wildfire Riot ended up kidnapping a junior member of the Revolutionary Army. Whoops.

Sabo’s kidnapping may or may not coincide with the heist where Riot manages to get his hands on the Yami Yami no Mi. You what a really useful power for a Revolutionary is? The ability to hide things and people in a pocket dimension indefinitely. So. I’m not saying that Luffy accidentally feeds Sabo the Devil Fruit so that “all three of them can be weird” but Luffy definitely feeds Sabo the Devil Fruit. It’s totally an accident.

Anyway once everything calms down a bit after the reunion Riot (who is determinedly Not Thinking about how the Sabo from him timeline might have gotten his memories back after the War of the Best) warns Sabo about Blackbeard and his obsession with the Yami Yami no Mi. Also the fact that Shanks hates the man, and Luffy doesn’t like Teach either. Sabo promises to stay away from Blackbeard.

Of course, Sabo is a deceptive little shit and he has eyes. Sabo can see the pain and guilt and anguish Riot is trying to hide while warning him about Teach. Riot went out of his way to get his hands on the Devil Fruit before Teach could get it. Riot was very thorough in warning Sabo about how vicious Teach is in pursuit of his goals. Sabo may or may not let it “slip” that someone had eaten the Yami Yami no Mi and that person was planning to be on Baltigo in three weeks.

The good news is Sabo’s plan works! Teach tried to kill Sabo for his Devil Fruit Power and there are witnesses from the Whitebeard crew to corroborate Sabo’s story about self defence! Riot is entirely justified in killing Teach to protect his little brother and nobody gets in Riot’s way or gets on his case about it afterwards.

The bad news is Riot proceeds to have a panic attack in the aftermath and can’t handle having any of his little brothers out of his sight for something like a month afterwards. It’s heartbreaking and awkward and Sabo feels like absolute shit for causing the situation that led to this. Marco also feels like shit, because his boyfriend has obviously suffered a lot and is still suffering and Marco never knew about it until Riot was sobbing hysterically in his arms.

Ace and Luffy promptly team up to get even more overprotective of their big brother’s feelings. You think they were clingy before Balitgo? Nah, mates, that was them being low-key. So many bar fights get started after this. So many. Riot’s honour must be defended!

Also the best part is how Riot doesn’t notice anything being different, because Ace and Luffy tend to get up to the worst of their shenanigans behind his back. Everyone else knows that Ace and Luffy can and will and have bit people like some unholy cross between a bulldog and a barracuda, but Ace thinks they’re sweethearts. Total teddy bears, the both of them. Riot’s little brothers are the cutest. How dare you suggest otherwise.