Lipstick




I'm still not really clear on what set Blaine off. In the days following Kyle's wedding he seemed perfectly happy to obey my edict that he not leave the palace and visit unsecured areas of the city. Of course, we didn't much leave his room for those days, so I was fairly unconcerned when his comm link rang for the thousandth time and he took a call from yet another acquaintance.

"Kourt, listen, I forgot all about it, but I'm scheduled to appear at a charity benefit show tonight. That was Makir, he wants me to come over and do my sound checks in about an hour. You want to ride along?" Blaine asked as he dug through what he laughingly referred to as his wardrobe. I don't know what to call the thing, but when you have clothes enough to outfit seven large families in high style, it is no longer a wardrobe.

"Where's this benefit?" I asked, calling upon what I knew about the various districts of Kais.

"In Langnastraad. Don't worry, it's not as bad as all that," he replied, dismissing the dangers of that unsavory district out of hand.

"Not that bad? It's a hotbed of crime! It's... it's... unsavory and dangerous and..." I argued.

"It's where I'm going, okay? Don't wear your fucking uniform. You'll stick out like a three-day-dead seagull."

I argued. He ignored me. I reasoned. Silence. I went to my room to get my lightslate to reinforce my point, but when I returned, he was... gone.

Gone. If the Council hears about this, I'm going to be a three-day-dead seagull.



How a man as... flashy and attention-oriented as Bail Blain Garu can disappear into thin air is beyond me. No one saw him leave the palace. No one saw his transport, a racy black custom jobbie known as the Wraithe Spawn, leave the area. How can no one notice the damn thing? He drives like a maniac! It's a public health issue to not see him coming!

The few friends of his I could locate in the immediate vicinity of the palace swore they knew absolutely nothing. Each one advised me to check with some other person, most of whom probably didn't exist (at one point I recognized the name of a fictional character from one of Blaine's comic books). It hardly took a Force probe to determine that they were lying, what with the sideways glances and the gazing at the ground and the outright smirking. I mentally debated the ethics of judiciously applied torture to one particular hair stylist/sculptor/sex worker who giggled behind a fringe of blue fluff. I was acutely aware of time passing by while I chased phantoms around the darkening streets of the capitol city.

Finally I thought to go by that weird restaurant by the beach and corner the Singing Waiter. After some shuffling and blushing on his part, Jules drew me a map on a napkin and headed me into the darkest heart of West Beach. Of course. Where else would he be?

The stars were putting in their glittering appearance by the time I crossed the city via air cab.

I knew I was in trouble when the cabbie refused to deliver me to the door of the nameless club, opting instead to leave me several blocks to the east. I made my way quickly through the early crowds and soon found myself in front of a towering black building with large steel doors protected by large, armed guards. From the sound and look of the place, it was already in full swing by the time I presented myself and my credentials to the muscle-bound guardians of the club.

They exchanged slow smiles over my head and one ushered me inside, elbowing patrons aside as he dragged me into the dark, smoky depths of the cabaret.

At least, I presumed it was a cabaret. Back before I was knighted, Artur gave me a few lessons in how to bring someone down in a crowded place; the pre-sets in the holotrainer room included Wild Party, Rock Concert, Society Benefit, and Cabaret, and this looked the most like that last one. Maybe I should've had a few more lessons.

Through the haze I could make out a stage with blood-red velvet curtains, and a slender woman, crooning into an ancient microphone. Something about her drew my attention as I was pushed down into a front row seat.

Thin shoulder straps held up a glittering red dress that barely showed her well-shaped knees; extremely straight black hair hung just above her shoulders, with bangs cut straight above blue eyes. Red lips, red fingernails, red pointed shoes with extraordinarily high heels, a husky voice, a sad and pretty song about fireflies and regret. I was suddenly shocked to realize that I found her... well, appealing. No, admit it: attractive. What the hell?

She glanced down towards me and offered a sultry smile, one hand drawing a slow line up the front of her sequined gown before she raised her eyes in an obvious signal to the sound booth.

Her song came to an end and there was a pause for the claps and shouts of the crowded room. Then a quick piano beat kicked in and a new energy infused her. Trumpets and backup singers reinforced the defiant message that, after a moment, I realized she was shooting directly at me.

Think. Think. Think. You think, think about it.
You better think, think about what you're trying to do to me
Yeah, think, let your mind go, let yourself be free

Let's go back, let's go back, let's go way on way back when
I didn't even know you, you came to me and too much you wouldn't take
I ain't no psychiatrist, I ain't no doctor with degree
It don't take too much high IQ's to see what you're doing to me

Something about the movement of hip and shoulder caught my mind. I admit, I'm sometimes a little slow on the uptake but this... I should have known the second I laid eyes on the stage. Of course I found her attractive. I'd spent the last few days in bed with her. With him. With Blaine.

Blaine wiggled his fingers at me and lifted his chin in a singularly defiant manner as if to say 'Yeah, I'm talking to YOU, mister.' I don't think I've ever blushed so hard in my entire life, and I'm certain he knew that, too.

Sometimes I think there's very little this prince doesn't know about me.

You better think, think about what you're trying to do to me
Yeah, think, let your mind go, let yourself be free
Oh freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Yeah freedom!
Freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Ooh freedom!

And, of course, he had a point. Until my arrival, I realized, Blaine had lived the most unfettered, unreserved life on the planet. I loved the easy goodwill with which he met the universe, all open sensuality and giving good nature. If I tried to bind this particular exotic bird up, he'd be gone from my life in a flash of color and light too bright to look upon and too swift to follow. His very actions this day told me as much, in no uncertain terms.

There ain't nothing you could ask I could answer you but I won't
I was gonna change, but I'm not, to keep doing things I don't


You better think, think about what you're trying to do to me
Yeah, think, let your mind go, let yourself be free

People walking around everyday, playing games that they can score
And I ain't gonna lose my way, ah, be careful you don't lose yours

So there it was. A very basic deal. Let him have his life and his ways and he'd let me have mine. No more trying to mew him up in any sort of cage or prison, no matter how entertaining the amenities. Take me as I am, or don't take me at all. I frowned down at my fingernails, trying to work out whether or not my job as his protector could adjust to his needs as a person. Trying to work out whether or not I had a choice.

Meanwhile, the object of my thoughts was dancing like a fury, center stage, an easy target for any motivated assassin.

You better think, think about what you're trying to do to me
Yeah, think, let your mind go, let yourself be free

You need me and I need you
Without each other there ain't nothing people can do

Oh freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Yeah freedom!
Freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Ooh freedom!

Of course, there was no choice to be made. Somewhere along the way we have become more than Jedi and Protected. We're lovers now, I feel that. Sarafel once told me that the Jedi way has room for all paths. Watching the Bail as he shimmied and sang, I decided it was high time for some trailblazing.



The song ended to thunderous applause, with not a few whistles and hoots. Blaine bowed deeply and stepped off to stage left then, as the applause continued, returned with a double armload of roses for another bow. Roses? Who the hell had sent my lover roses? As the next act -- a trio of fresh-faced young women in modest dresses and knee-socks -- took the stage, I got up, tripping over the feet of half the front row as I rushed backstage.

Clearly I was expected; there was Kerol, Blaine's assistant, grinning conspiratorially as she waved me back and indicated a door. I knocked.

The door opened on a dressing room: a rack of dresses, a shelf of wigs, a shabbily ornate chair, a lighted mirror, a table covered with little pots of various colors of powder and paint, along with vase upon vase of roses. And there at the door, looking down at me, one painted eyebrow raised, Blaine.

I, classically trained to kill five different ways, three of which leave no trace, stood absolutely struck dumb before the prince, who stood at least four inches taller than the last time I had seen him. The shoes, I thought stupidly, how can he walk in those shoes? A strong hand, nails painted blood red, took mine and pulled me into the room.

"So?"

"I --" I knew what I wanted to say, I had a good answer involving the importance of safety and protection and keeping out of harm's way, and various things like that. I had one a moment ago, anyway. "I --"

"That's what I thought." A smile quirked deep-red painted lips. And then I was pulled in further, the door was shut firmly, a hand was at the nape of my neck, and those lips were on mine.

A hard, deep kiss, tasting of paint and alcohol and the dizzying scent of so many roses, and the pure strangeness of tipping my head back for a kiss from Blaine. I'd always arranged to be a little taller than the prince.

I reached around him then, once I found my head again, to pull him to me, to grind my gurden up against the hardness I could feel there through the dress, to feel for... what? An unfamiliar fastening there at his back confounded my fingers, which suddenly felt entirely unsuited to the task. I felt those lips smile against me then, and then a whisper in my ear, in the husky new version of my lover's voice. "Let me show you."

He stepped back from me then (and how did he kiss like that yet barely smear the lip-paint? There was a secret to that, I was sure of it), face flushed, smile glowing in eyes edged with black, and turned his back. He reached back and nimbly unfastened some sort of hook, then looked back over his shoulder. He had somehow painted each individual eyelash with some thick black substance that made them longer, thicker, and clearly differentiated.

"Take the little metal tab at the top, and pull down."

And I did, and the back of the dress split open, and when Blaine wriggled slightly, it fell to the floor around his red shoes. He smiled an absolutely maddening smile, bent down to pick up the gown, then reached up to hang it, glittering, on the rack.

Gods.

Blaine's body is beautiful, dressed or nude, but I'd never seen it so curiously arrayed. Seeing my expression, he turned slowly, showing off.

Strips of black lace and parabolas of black silk cupped his chest in such a way as to strongly suggest curves I knew very well were not there. Smallclothes of the same black silk, edged in the same lace, barely covered his sex, and made the hemispheres of his ass look somehow rounder -- I think the way the shoes cantilevered the muscles of his legs had something to do with that, too. A belt of black lace circled his slender waist, and ribbons of it traced down through the pants to emerge underneath and support black, translucent... leggings? Tights? His legs somehow looked a mile long, and softly shimmered.

I felt... disarmed. By him, or possibly by the shockingly exotic creature he had turned himself into. It seems I was not the only shape-shifter in the room this night.

He picked up a slender glass from the dressing table, and took a long sip of some sort of green liquid. I noticed a similar, empty glass nearby, marked with a ghost of red lips. Finally, a complete sentence managed to make its way out of my mouth.

"You should have let me taste that for you, it could have been poisoned!"

A slightly skewed smile. "That would be redundant. It's green Chartreuse."

So far, I'd not seen Blaine drink besides wine with dinner, but the slowing down he disliked at most times worked well in this role. He was slightly more languid, loose-limbed, flowing. He seemed at no risk of falling asleep in his clothes, as he'd assured me the least quantity of strong drink could be relied upon to make him do.

He licked the corner of his mouth with a slightly pointed tongue, turned his back to me, bent over, and planted the palms of his hands on the seat of the chair. High-heeled shoes, well-parted, toed in slightly. His ass, covered as it was by a scrap of black silk, was perfectly rounded.

I stood still for one long second, during which I could quite clearly hear the sound of applause outside; the girls must have finished their song. By the time my pants -- black denim, a little too stiff -- hit the ground, I'd made a long, hard, thick cock that ached for the inside of this audacious prince. I pulled down his black silk underclothes a little more roughly than was strictly necessary. One finger between his impossibly long legs found him quite generously oiled. Two fingers, and he pressed back with a wriggle, looked back over his shoulder, and purred, "Fuck me NOW. Hard."

My hands around his slender waist, I plunged into him, and he made a small sound of hungry delight. Gods, he was deliciously hot and tight inside, like a hand fisted strong around me, and he pushed back against my hardest thrusts. I pounded into him, knowing that he could take it, knowing that he wanted it, glad to give it to him. He grunted with each shove, a primal, aching, sound, wanting more. I reached around him and wrapped my hand around his cock, squeezing and pumping in time to the thrusts. His passage tightened around me suddenly, then again and again, as he screamed loud enough (he later told me) to be heard throughout the building. I caught him up in my arms and held him through a moment's surprised tears, his and mine.



I felt incredibly conspicuous, sitting there in a sticky vinyl booth in a round-the-clock restaurant two blocks from the nameless nightclub as the Spare Prince of Eab Nanoorn explained the arcane workings of his favorite breakfast foods.

"See, you have the four kinds of syrup on the table already, and then here's the warm syrup that comes with the pancakes, and you can put on a little of the berry one, and then some of this other one..."

Being a woman for the evening made Blaine even hungrier than usual, to the point where a taste of each of his entrees and side orders was an ample late-night breakfast for me. Pancakes, two kinds of eggs, biscuits, toast, fried bread, assorted fried meats, and fried potatoes: nothing but the best in grease, sugar and starch for my prince. Where he put it, I have no idea; there was no extra room in the red dress, sequins blazing. Possibly he burned it off as soon as it entered his body; the sweet hot coffee he was drinking had him nearly bouncing in his seat.

Blaine's high-heeled red shoes had long since been shed, and were beside us on the booth seat; his feet, glossy red toenails shining through holes in the toes of his stockings, rested on the seat opposite. The black paint had smudged around his eyes in a most charming manner; not much more than the outline of the red paint on his lips remained intact; his black wig, while still very shiny, was just slightly off-center. Now he was attempting to explain the difference between regular and Bejoran waffles; where was the waitress? The explanation required examples.

I was happy to offer a few nods and affirmative sounds in return; his chatter was pleasant, but I was dead-tired, and at that point wouldn't have been much of a defense against anyone looking to abduct the Bail. Eventually Blaine must have noticed my fatigue, as he finished up the last of the strips of fried, salty meat, wiped his face with a napkin (leaving streaks of makeup), tossed a few large bills on the table, and summoned a cab.

"What about the Wraithe Spawn?" I asked as we settled into the dark leather interior of the aircab. "You're just going to leave it where it's parked?" That was the least of my worries, but I could picture his pique if it were stolen, and the chance of that in this neighborhood seemed somewhere near 100%.

A long, loud laugh greeted that remark. "It's in the palace garage, of course! Makir gave me a ride to the club. What did you think?"

"I looked for that damn think for an hour! I can't believe you didn't drive..."

A warm snuggle against my side, and Blaine's head was suddenly on my shoulder as he sleepily replied, "She doesn't drive, of course."

I figure that'll be my part of the act, next time.

-end-



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