It's strange, Blake slowly realizes over the next two weeks, dating a celebrity.
For one, she sees Yang everywhere without ever actually seeing her in person - magazine covers, billboards, paparazzi photos. Her pulse skips stones up her throat each time she does and she focuses a second too long, flipping through the cover shoots, crooking her neck and following the posters as they drive by. She sends Yang a picture of her article in Variety and texts, what the fuck, and Yang snaps her one back of a recent feature they'd had in The Fader, says uh, you're telling me.
It's equally as bizarre for Yang, who's used to movie stars, not rock stars - Painting the Town plays over the radio on her drive to a work breakfast one morning and she actually has to pull over, chest expanding with a pride she can't admit to. Every show Blake plays floods her social media with notifications, videos, Instagram stories, Twitter hashtags. Yang admits she scrolls through them all the nights of Blake's shows, likes hearing her commentary in-between songs, likes falling asleep listening to her voice.
"Is that, like, weird?" she adds, though she doesn't seem too nervous about the answer. They're sitting on FaceTime, Blake sprawled out across the bed in her hotel room, Yang stretched out over her own a hundred miles away. It's Blake's birthday, and the extremely expensive bottle of champagne that had mysteriously been delivered to her room is sitting on the dresser. "I've just always found your voice really soothing. I don't know."
Blake plays with the wire of her earbuds shyly, hopes the quality's bad enough that it doesn't give her embarrassment away. "It's not weird," she says. "I think it's cute."
"Oh, you think I'm cute, huh?"
"Shut up." Blake rolls her eyes, rests her chin on the back of her hand to stop her fidgeting. "Honestly, it's not the first word I'd think of, but it's on the list."
Yang tilts her head, shifting onto her elbows as she straightens toward the camera; Blake's got a great view of both her smirk and her cleavage from here, and that's probably exactly what she's going for. "What's the first word?" she asks, blatantly flirtatious.
"Ugh." Blake drops her forehead, hides her face for a moment. Some days she can't believe this is real; it plays like a fever dream, art blending into reality. "Devastatingly sexy," she says into her pillow, picks herself up again.
"That's two words."
"I didn't know you could count."
Yang bursts out laughing, delighted by the jab; she rarely gets it back as good as she gives it, mostly because everyone else is too afraid to try. "Asshole."
Blake grins, legs kicking idly behind her. "What's mine?"
"Hm?"
"My word," she says. "When you think about me."
"I don't think about you," Yang teases. "You're never on my mind."
Oh, but the opposite is true, that's why it's a joke; Blake feels every nerve fire underneath her skin, every flushing vein. You're always on my mind. It should be more frightening than it is, but all Blake unearths is a serene, simple sort of certainty.
"Uh huh," she says, doesn't fall for it. "What is it really?"
Yang only tuts, unable to deny her anything for long. "Belladonna," she says, "as if a single word could sum you up," and even through a pixelated, medium-quality FaceTime call, her open adoration sends Blake's heart running home.
--
Their final show is in Seattle on a Friday night. She's somewhere untethered between the sky and earth, like she's living in the lunar-shadow of the horizon, but it's been two months of being on the road with only a brief reprieve at her own apartment and she's wired, strung-out. She'll miss it, but at the same time, she's moving on. She has much more to look forward to.
There's a sense of pride from the audience: last show of the tour, Sun says into the mic, and they scream so loudly the band has to postpone their intro for several seconds; he glances over at Blake underneath the blinding stage lights and grins.
When she sings Burning the Candle, she's so happy she forgets it ever even hurt.
--
"Blake," Weiss says, catching her the second she walks backstage after the encore, "I actually need to talk to you about something for a minute."
She passes Blake a towel, allowing her to at least wipe the sweat from her forehead; her hair's in a ponytail, coming loose. She tightens it briefly, hates feeling strands sticking to the back of her neck. "Sure," Blake says, too high up for the crash of anxiety.
She runs the towel over her shoulders, under her muscle tee, her neck; she's hot in her black jeans, her boots with silver studs around the heel. Weiss leads her towards her dressing room, knocks once on the door as if checking to make sure it's empty, and then opens it slowly.
Blake's still so keyed from the show it takes her a solid few seconds to process what she's seeing, but when she does--
"Hey," Yang greets easily, grinning at her adorably stunned, blank expression. "Great show tonight."
Blake parts her lips, feels them crack, dry. Her tongue slips out automatically. "Yang?"
Yang's eyes widen; she looks suddenly nervous. "Oh my God," she breathes out. "You, like, know me? This is crazy, I'm such a huge fan--"
The absurdity of the remark overturns the situational confusion; Blake finds her laughter falling, her brain still stuck somewhere in limbo. Yang's here. She's here. "Shut up," she says, steps forward and flings herself into Yang's arms. "What are you doing here?"
Yang's smile softens, wrapping Blake up in an embrace. She doesn't care about sweat, doesn't care that the back of Blake's tank is damp or that her hair's still sticking to her skin - she pulls her close, drops her head to the crook of Blake's neck.
The door shuts softly behind them, and neither of them notice.
"I was bored," Yang says. "I figured you'd be the quickest way to relieve that."
Blake laughs, leans back to look at her, palms her cheeks. Yang's eyes color her the same way the reds and blues criss-cross over the stage, blurring and blending. Touching her, touching her - Blake can't stop her grin unfurling, can't stop her heart bumping around her throat like a waterslide, can't stop herself from kissing her. She brings Yang's mouth down to hers, fingers slipping through her hair, presses impossibly close; she sucks on Yang's bottom lip, lets her tongue swipe, lets her teeth sink. Yang laughs in her throat, low and amused.
"What?" Blake says.
"You really are always horny after a show," Yang says, and kisses her again.
"Whatever." Her body burns heat, salt-like and electric; God, Yang's more gorgeous up-close than she is on any screen, on any red carpet. "What are you actually doing here?"
Yang shifts sheepish. "I missed you," she admits softly, and the entire show Blake's just played can't even compare to the rush of the confession. Blake cups her face in her hands again, thumbs stroking her cheekbones. "Like - it's so corny, and we talked so often, but I really did. Plus I missed your birthday, and it's your last show - I figured my presence would be better than anything I could buy you."
Blake laughs at the egotistic humor, but ultimately the sincerity wins out. "I missed you," she says, too warm and ribboned, and the eye contact they maintain is more like affection than sex. "These were the longest two weeks of my life."
Apparently overcome, Yang touches her lips gently to Blake's forehead. She's the height for it. "Yeah," she says. "I, um - I didn't have my assistant book a hotel or anything. I figured--"
"Duh," Blake cuts her off, lowers her hands to Yang's, fingers twining like thread. "You're coming with me. Now."
--
Weiss speaks to the front desk manager while they wait in the car and he jumps at the chance to serve as escort, allowing them entry through a private door and elevator. Yang's hair is tucked under the hood of her green jacket, and despite the fact that it's midnight, she keeps her sunglasses on; it's not exactly inconspicuous, she says, but you'd be surprised how easily a pair can disguise you. Better to be suspicious than sorry.
Blake's never had these types of privileges, never had to go to these necessary lengths - not yet, anyway - back doors, tinted windows, discretion to the point of iron bars. She feels as if she should be sewing armor into her skin.
But it's not needed when they're alone - Yang pushes her against the back of the door the moment it closes, descends upon her like the wide light at the mouth of a cave, like a raging wildfire in a windstorm; any restraint she'd held at the venue is gone, lips catching Blake's desperately, tongue brushing through her mouth, fingertips anchored into her hips. People always talk about burning with desire, drowning in want - to Blake, it's neither of those things - it's rising, it's consuming, it's so high it implodes and becomes nothing - she's only composed of nerve endings, stripped bare and starved - Yang's hands map her ribcage - she thumbs a nipple through Blake's shirt, a teasing, a spark--
"You're so fucking hot," Yang says against her mouth, kind of like it's destroying her. "Watching you on stage - I love your music, but I almost couldn't wait for it to be over, just so I could touch you."
"If I'd known you were there," Blake murmurs, "I would've let you touch me before I even went on."
Yang grins, tugs on the hem of her shirt. "Too bad it's only the third date," she teases lowly, and captures Blake's bottom lip between hers, scrapes it gently with her teeth. "Guess neither of us will be putting out tonight."
"Shut up," Blake says roughly, her fingers already working the button of Yang's jeans.
--
Yang takes pictures of her awash in dim hotel room lighting, stark white sheets pulled up over her mouth, golden eyes brighter than the reflection of the moon. And then Yang drags the sheet down, reveals her smirk, reveals the peppering of bruises on her collarbone, reveals her chest and each indent of her ribs, her navel, the hint of the curve of her hips. She only watches with a wicked glint in her stare, raises her arms overhead, lets Yang take whatever pictures she wants.
She deletes all of them but one - it's less scandalous, Blake laughing with the back of her hand over her lips, expression half-hidden and secret - but she's content with the knowledge that they were there at all, even for a moment. That they were hers.
--
The band's flight is slightly later in the morning - they leave the bus to make its own journey back - and neither of them had really bothered to unpack to begin with, so there's no early rush. They stretch leisurely in bed, only finding skin, and Blake slips two fingers into her, curls them until she snaps her silence, gasping into the still air. Blake watches her face, the imprints her teeth leave against her bottom lip, eyelashes fluttering. Nobody else gets to see this. Nobody.
They're finally dressed; Blake unzips a small pocket of her backpack. "I want you to have something," she says, presses a guitar pick into Yang's palm. It's a purple Fender, pattern like cut gemstones, shining. "I used this pick the entire tour. I was going to save it as like a - as a reminder. A reminder that we did it, that I made it. But I want you to have it instead."
"Why?" Yang asks, awed, turning it over in her hands. She touches it like a precious metal, something with a weight and a value beyond sentimental.
"Because it's important to me," Blake says, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, loose from her ponytail. "And you're important to me, too."
Yang smiles. The room reads empty and quiet, transitional. They're both so used to leaving and being left. She kisses Blake's forehead again, and Blake thinks it's not so bad, being smaller.
"Oh, baby," she sighs, and Blake rips herself wings, "I adore you."
--
okay so, Yang texts when Blake's flight has landed, proposition
I'm definitely listening...
i have a work dinner tonight but do you want to come over after?
hm...no.
bitch.
;) what's your address and what time
--
Yang lives in the Hills, so it really shouldn't shock Blake how huge her house is. It does anyway.
"Holy shit," Blake says when Yang opens the door, though she's not sure if that's in response to the grandeur or Yang herself. She's wearing a red-and-black flannel with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows over a black tank with the Patrón logo in white, and black denim shorts; she's barefoot, hair wild and loose around her shoulders.
"Same to you," Yang says, who apparently interprets the sentiment to her appearance and not the house. She's definitely right. Nothing compares to Yang; not any millionaire's mansion, not any patch of that brilliant open sky. She crooks a finger, lips in a playful half-grin. "Come here, beautiful."
Anywhere, Blake thinks of saying. I'd go anywhere you asked me to.
It's more modern, like most of the property around her, thickly gated with a strangely large number of windows and an open floor plan. Her infinity pool stretches as if reaching for the ocean on the other side of the skyline. Downtown glitters in the distance, iconic and untouchable, more of a concept than a place they ever actually visit.
"I told you," Yang says, standing beside her on the deck, leaning against the railing. "I don't need ninety percent of this space."
"No," Blake agrees, staring out at the city sprawing beneath them, streets winding like gossamer, lights sparkling as if just a jewelry box, "but God, damn, is the view worth it."
"Yeah," Yang says, looking directly at her with a smile. "It is."
--
Yang slides her flannel off her arms, tosses it over one of her patio lounge chairs, and her tank top starts to follow suit; Blake's torn easily away from the skyline, following the trail of Yang's fingers up her ribcage instead, counting every bone revealed. "What are you doing?"
Yang shoots her a look, mischievous and purposeful. "The spa's on," she says.
Blake's smart enough to pick up the rest; they've seen each other naked too many times for her to fumble over a statement as inconsequential as but I didn't bring a swimsuit. "How convenient."
"It's salt water," Yang adds, stepping out of her shorts, and she's left standing in her underwear in front of Blake. She's not shy about it; she's persuasive. "It feels great on your skin."
"I don't really think I needed much more convincing," Blake says as Yang unhooks her bra, and she tugs her own shirt overhead, "but I'm not getting my hair wet."
"Fine," Yang says, a game she's playing into. She winks. "You look hot with your hair up."
She's right, though - the water feels incredible, almost silky, and Blake sinks into it with her neck resting back against the stone, jets massaging her lower back. Yang's crouched in the middle of it, only her head visible above the water; her own hair's up in a lazy bun.
"I never use this thing enough," she says dreamily, rolling her neck on her shoulders; the heat easily loosens up her muscles. "Every time I do, though, it's like - I could live in it."
"Why don't you?" Blake asks, looking as relaxed as Yang feels. "Use it more?"
"It's not as nice when I'm alone." She shrugs over alone, pretends it bothers her less than it does. "I use it when I have friends over, but we're all so busy - I don't know. My inner circle isn't quite as big as the media makes it out to be."
Bubbles dart between Blake's fingers as she listens; Yang rests a hand against her knee, more for stability purposes than seductive ones. She doesn't seem to mind. "So who's in this inner circle of yours?"
"You."
"And who else?"
"That's it. Just you."
Blake splashes her lightly, laughs. "I thought I was dating a world-famous celebrity," she says drolly, "not some recluse who holes herself up in her twelve-million dollar mansion and watches YouTube videos of my shows on repeat."
Yang's jaw drops in mock-offense; it's not true, but it's such a savage remark that she can't help her denial of it. "Excuse me," she says, slides up and in, catches Blake's mouth in a kiss as if that's proof enough of status; Blake lifts a hand, fingers automatically spreading against her jaw. Yang pulls back, steam rising between them. "My mansion wasn't twelve million dollars. It was twenty."
"Shut up," Blake says, but she's still grinning against Yang's mouth. "You're so stupid."
"I went to Harvard."
"No you didn't. I've read your Wikipedia, Yang. You dropped out of NYU at nineteen for the starring role in Atlas."
"Wait." Yang leans in further away, stares at her oddly, intensely. Blake mirrors the look, stitching hers up in confusion. "You can read?"
Her laughter's more breathless this time, exasperated; she's a collision of aloof and absorbed, not wanting to give herself away so early in the night. Well, Yang's already gone. Blake says, "I hate that I find you so funny."
"Oh, please." Yang kisses her again, but it's difficult to do over her sweeping grin. "You were bored before I came along. Admit it."
She's barely conscious of the fact that they're both naked anymore - there are more important things; the sound of Blake's laughter, the playful tilt of her mouth, the ring of light reflected in her eyes - and there's something freeing about it, skin without sex or expectation.
Blake sighs, but she's still smiling. "Bored is one word for it," she says, lifts a hand, brushes Yang's damp bangs away from her forehead. Her adoration is a little too clear, but it's hard when there's nothing left to hide behind. "I don't know. Guarded, maybe." She wets her lips at the confession. "I feel like - nobody's understood me before you."
"I feel like that, too," Yang admits, offering the agreement before Blake gets the chance for nervousness. "I mean - realistically, like, I know I have friends who understand me, but - it's different with you." She takes Blake's hand in her own, holds it against her cheek; the pressure of her palm is grounding, calming. All of Blake is like that to her; something that ties her to the earth.
"You make me want to tell you everything," Blake murmurs, sinking into her eyes. Yang's slowly drifting closer. "And I think - that makes it easier to feel everything, too."
"Oh?" Yang switches code, goes to mischievous; there's an intensity she's not trying to disperse, only alleviate slightly. "And what're you feeling, Belladonna?"
Blake draws her in again, kisses her nicely - it's an answer - and then kisses her more deeply, tongue slipping across her bottom lip - that's a question. Yang parts her lips, meets her tongue halfway, and now she's aware of skin and sex and expectation, now she's the uncurved edge of a craving - Blake's fingers are in her hair - her hands are on Blake's thighs - Blake whispers, "Turned on."
Oh, what else is new between them; Yang smirks. "Well," she says throatily, trailing up Blake's ribcage like she's taking inventory, fingers spreading, brushing a nipple, "you can fuck me if you want to."
Blake swallows, shudders against her. She says, "I'm thinking of doing something else, actually," and her voice glitters as if drenched in moonlight. "Sit on the edge."
Yang raises an eyebrow, understanding immediately. "Bold," she says, and lifts herself out of the water with the devil resting in the corners of her mouth. She isn't shy. She spreads her legs, leans back on her hands, waits cockily.
"Jesus," Blake says, hands sliding across her skin to her hips, her lower back, and then settling on her knees in the water. It's intoxicating, exhilarating - there's so much wide open space - the Los Angeles skyline glimmers like the lights of flashing cameras - it feels more risky than it is, more exposed. And it's so much hotter.
Yang stares down at her, smirk still in place, but it falls the second Blake's tongue flicks out and flattens. She resists the instinct to tilt her head back and find the stars; she sees too many of those, and nothing compares to Blake's head between her thighs, her mouth working--
She curls one hand against Blake's head gently, lets her lips part and cuts on a gasp; Blake sucks on her clit, smiles at the sound of her name spilled desperately, shamelessly; steam is still rising from her skin, and one of Blake's hands digs into the inside of her thigh, trails up, two fingers slipping straight into her--
"Oh, fuck," Yang breathes out, trembling against the cool night air against her wet skin. Blake fucks her slowly, leisurely, more focused on her tongue. "Blake--"
Blake hums over her clit, and Yang's eyelids flutter shut without control, stars and city lights popping behind them - so far away, too close - her own voice trips out of her mouth, warmer than the steam rising from the water - she knots her fingers through Blake's hair, silky and damp - Blake's laughing, mouth open with her tongue still flat, and Yang hooks a leg around her back, spine arching insistently as she convulses--
She sinks into the water, half onto Blake's lap, shaking deliciously with her body made of fault lines. It's impossible to tell the difference between sweat and salt, and she presses her lips to the indent of Blake's neck, kisses up her jaw, tastes herself on Blake's mouth.
"I've never wanted someone so much," Blake admits, breath ghosting across her lips. "Every time I'm close to you…"
"Well," Yang murmurs, fingers snaking their way between Blake's legs, "at least it's mutual."
--
"So, seriously," Blake says thirty minutes later, nestled in a fluffy white bathrobe of Yang's and driving a spoon into a container of chocolate ice-cream on the marble kitchen counter. The floor's warm beneath her feet; of course it's heated. "It's Hollywood. What do you normally do on a Saturday night? Cocaine?"
Yang snorts into a laugh, the probe unexpected and outrageous. "Yeah, right."
"Heroin?"
"Sometimes."
It's a clear lie, but Blake feels the need to call her out anyway. "Shut up," she says, corner of her mouth rising. "You do not."
"Of course I don't." Yang rewards her with a snicker; she'll let the actual truth slip guiltlessly. "Weed, if I had to pick a drug. And only if Nora's over - her boyfriend Ren's kind of a stoner."
"Lie Ren?" Blake says, and Yang nods, lips wrapped around her own spoon. She forgets about fame when Blake's around, forgets the intrigue of personas dropped. "But you aren't really into it," she interprets.
"Nah." Yang trails over the swirling grey lines in the white marble, sets her elbows between cracks. She's in a similar bathrobe, but it's an almost offensive shade of orange, and she still manages to look good despite contrasting hideously with her own furniture. Blake'll unpack that later. "I know it's like, dumb, because Ruby's twenty-two now, but - I don't know. I still feel like I need to set a good example for her."
"That's not dumb," Blake disagrees mildly, licking the chocolate from her bottom lip. A bead of melting ice-cream starts to crawl down the side of its container, but neither of them make a move to stop it. "I mean, you basically raised her, right? I think it makes sense."
"Yeah," Yang says, her secrets stacking like a library and teetering. She wants to tell Blake everything, too. It'd be a surprise to find a feeling that wasn't mutual between them. "Our dad wasn't a bad father, like at all, but…" she pauses, her tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek. "You know how I told you our mom died?"
"Yeah."
"Ruby's mom died," she reveals, and her spoon clanks as she rests it on the counter. Stains are simple to remove; what they're talking about isn't. "My mom left him after I was born."
Blake blinks at her, expression lurching into disbelief as if she's unable to imagine someone leaving Yang. She sets her own spoon down, following. "Why?"
"She didn't want me, I guess," Yang says, line of her mouth breaking. "I don't know, and he doesn't like talking about her. I can't blame him, but...still. Sometimes it'd be nice to have answers."
"Yeah," Blake says, drops her eyes to the chocolate still melting around the rim. "I know what you mean."
Lines to cross, boundaries to push - Blake speaks like there's been a death in the family, only she's talking about herself, a past version buried somewhere in the unmarked desert who never had a funeral. It's not a time for digging. Yang's more tactful than that.
"Here's a question you can answer," Yang says, nothing about her an act. Blake arcs an eyebrow into a point. "What's your favorite color?"
The echo of her laughter is almost unsettling in such a large, empty space; it's an unexpected question, so simplistic. Sometimes, Yang's found, that's all it takes for drive-ins and breakthroughs: the least amount of resistance. She has a hunch, anyway, but she'd never asked.
"Purple," Blake says, and yep, bingo. She puts the lid back on the ice-cream carton like she's also sealing up their histories. "Yours?"
"Yellow."
"I like that," Blake says fondly, and any lasting weight packs itself up. "It suits you."
"So does yours." Purple. Like the guitar pick. Maybe she'll paint a room, a house, a world. "I realized I'd never asked you that and it's like, basic info. Can't date someone without knowing their favorite color."
Blake's laugh takes on a charm. "Anything else we should know?"
"Oh, plenty," Yang says breezily, drifts around the counter to Blake's side, watches her spine steady and straighten with expectation. The adjustment of her posture - it's something Yang's attuned to through years of training, study; she knows the flight of fear, knows the instinct of danger - and Blake's is always light-footed, always ready to run, always wary of her exits. It's a harsh reminder of her past. Yang thinks of working it out of her, of keeping an open hand instead of a closed fist. She settles on a smile, lifts an arm as if moved by windfall, gently grasps a curl and tucks it behind Blake's ear. "But like I said - you can tell me when you're ready."
It's another thing Blake doesn't expect, that much is clear; she presses her lips together, sun of her irises muting themselves to shadow. Sometimes it's like she's always on the verge of tears. Privately, Yang thinks it might do her some good to cry, but that's a bridge to be built, that's a wall to tear down.
Blake's the one who initiates, kisses her lips with a novelty, another piece in place. She pulls away, her smile still sitting prettily, and fingers the material of Yang's robe.
"This is absolutely atrocious," she says, and Yang tosses back her head and laughs; Blake doesn't use it as a stoppage point, instead regarding it as if an extended hand. Like Yang's laugh is all that's needed to make her brave. The humor twirling in the corner of her mouth fades. "What if I - what if I'm ready now?"
It hangs heavy in the air. "I don't want you to feel pressured," Yang says.
"I know." Blake exhales a breath, knuckles white on the counter. "That's why I want to tell you."
Yang appraises her a moment longer - there's no hint of sympathy, only an encouragement and a depth wrought with concern - before inclining her head, go on.
She ducks her chin slightly, protecting herself from the memory. "His name is Adam Taurus," she begins, slow and cautious like she's afraid he'll manifest from her words alone, some kind of Bloody Mary knockoff. "He...he discovered us. The band, I mean. Maybe six years ago. We were playing at a seedy bar in Brooklyn, and he was on a business trip - he's a pretty high-ranking executive at White Fang." It's a big label, doesn't require any further explanation. Yang merely nods her for her to continue. "He was so...confident. So intelligent, artistic, articulate. He said we had promise, and all we needed to do was refine it, and he could help us do that."
"He gave you a record deal?"
"Not...exactly," she says, runs her tongue over a canine. "His boss - Sienna - didn't quite trust his instincts. It took awhile for him to convince her to let us record even an EP. But by that point--" she looks away, ashamed "--I'd already spent so much time believing him, you know? He'd - he used to tell me how talented I was. How beautiful." She grits her teeth, jaw tight underneath her skin, hearing the words in his voice. "We were so inexperienced, and he - he took it upon himself to correct that. He had us out here, in a city none of us knew, wrapped around his finger." The next sentence comes forced, smile sickened without irony. "It was addicting, you know? Being the center of his attention. He was so powerful. And he wanted me."
Yang reaches out, skims her fingers back and forth across Blake's wrist; it's a gesture that helps tie her to the present. "How long were you with him?"
"Two years." Blake looks like she can barely believe it happened at all. "I was nineteen when he found me. He was twenty-six." She adjusts her weight uncomfortably between feet. Yang's stomach clenches in on itself, revolted. Nineteen, so simple to impress, to manipulate. "Sienna loved our EP, and I just - I fell into it. And suddenly I was living in his highrise in Hollywood, and he was taking me to important dinners to meet important people, and adding his own touch to every song I wrote, every melody. He became - overbearing. I couldn't do anything right. I wasn't working fast enough - I wasn't making his investment worth it."
"Like you were property," Yang spits. She doesn't allow herself a fist, but her bones tremble with the weight of rage. "Blake--"
"Sienna voided our contract," she continues. She's taken on an eerie, detached sort of tone. "I wasn't able to write, or sing, or record. He was always - always so angry at me. I had - so many bruises. And it was always - always my fault."
Bruises, no, that's not--"I thought you said he didn't hit you until you tried to leave."
White-knuckle becomes bone, like skin unpeeling. Her own ghost, manifesting. Blake whispers, "Tried. I tried to leave six months before I actually left."
Yang wraps her arms around Blake's shoulders, crushes her into an embrace, tight against her chest; the radius of an earthquake, the expanding mushroom cloud of a nuclear bomb - there's natural disaster and then there's men, the ruins they leave when they're bored of bloodshed.
"Baby," Yang murmurs brokenly into her ear, face buried in black hair, shaking the way leaves float gently away from trees. "Oh, baby."
"It's okay," Blake says, and she's barely even there. "It's okay. I'm okay now."
It's a lie, Yang knows, but sometimes I'm okay is all people have left.
--
She holds Blake close that night, pressed against soft, cotton sheets, tucked between feather pillows and her down comforter. She smoothes over her own bones, won't touch Blake with a single sharp edge. Blake never cries, but she shivers so violently it's like her body's doing it for her.
Yang kisses her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her lips. "He'll never touch you again," she whispers. "Nobody will. Not unless you want them to. You're allowed that, Blake. You're allowed."
Fingers spread against Yang's neck, thread through blonde hair and curl. "You," she says, clarity and presence making a return. "You. I only want you."
"Okay," Yang says, holding her own tears at bay, her throat in a shipwreck. "Okay. I'm yours."
--
Blake starts to stay the night. She stays a lot of nights. And Yang's assistant gets more and more time off, not that she complains.
The tour's over, Blake says, and all we really have left to do is work on our sophomore album - Beacon Records leaves a lot more room for creativity and opportunity, Blake tells her with a wry smile, and they're incredibly happy with the performance of Menagerie's first album - and that process, Yang learns, is heavily reliant on her anyway. Sun often jokes of visions: flashes of inspiration in lyrics, melodies winding their way around her skull. Music is her blood, he says with a joking grin, and Yang believes him.
"So what's the process like?" she asks one evening when they're working out in Yang's home gym - well, Yang's working out; Blake's lounging around on a yoga mat, drinking Jamba Juice. "And am I distracting you from it?" She wraps her hands around her pull-up bar, feels her muscles flexing, feels Blake's stare even more overpowering. So, the innuendo had a purpose.
Blake releases her straw with a pop, sighs heavily behind her. "Nooo," she drawls sarcastically. "You, the most gorgeous woman alive, sweaty and bench pressing double my weight? Doing fifty push-ups in a row wearing only a sports bra and shorts? How could that possibly be distracting?" She doesn't have a view of Yang's face, but she clicks her tongue disapprovingly at the shit-eating grin she knows must be there, and there's a flunk as if she's just thrown herself backwards on her mat. "I can see your ego expanding, Yang."
"If I don't work out, my trainer's gonna beat my ass," she reasons, chin over the top of the bar. She's a few weeks out from wrapping Magnhild with Nora, some gritty Thor-like feature part of a series of genderbent superhero reboots - she's only supporting, but she plays a character in the same universe from a different set of movies - and her workout regiment doesn't leave a ton of room for error. Fortunately she'd been muscular even prior to the films - she'd been drawn to boxing as a kid, something Tai'd passed down to her.
(Can't wait 'til you're cast in the Fight Club reboot, Blake had jabbed at the revelation. Maybe Rocky. Or what about - what's her name, won the belt or whatever--
I'm gonna stop you there, Yang'd said back. I know you don't know any other boxers, Blake, but it's cute that you try.)
"Ugh," Blake groans. She sounds like she's being tortured. "Nobody has muscle definition like that. Nobody."
Yang manages a breathless laugh in response, but her palms are damp and it's getting harder to keep herself steady - forty, forty-one - her hair's sticking to the back of her neck - forty-four, forty-five - there's definitely a knot in her shoulder from when she'd gone down on Blake in the shower - fifty.
She drops to the floor, stretching languidly, cracking her neck; she turns around, finds Blake with her eyes resolutely shut, stretched out her mat. "What are you doing?" Yang asks, entertained.
"Shut up," she mumbles. "It's shavasana. I'm trying to relax and focus on the parts of my body that aren't incredibly horny for you."
"What parts would those be?" Yang towels her face off. She presses the material against her forehead, spiderwebs threading through the backs of her eyelids. "Like, your internal organs or something? I know it's not your pu--"
"No," Blake interrupts, as if just hearing the word is going to send her feral. Her foot twitches. "My internal organs definitely want you to crush them with your bare hands. I'm trying to focus on like, I don't know, my shoulder blades."
"Nice."
"I'm PMSing," she whines, opening her eyes and shifting up onto her elbows. Her hair drags against the mat. "I'm horny all the time. I want you to rip me in half."
Yang snorts into a laugh, throwing the towel over her shoulder; Blake's hardly so dramatic, and there's an endless amusement to her when she is - but there's also a time and a place, and Yang's not done with her workout yet. Discipline: that's something she's being tested on these days. "Tell me about your process."
"It's not that interesting," Blake grumbles, pushing herself into a cross-legged position as Yang moves to the bike; it's her come-down from a grueling exercise. "It...just comes to me. Usually it's a lyric. Once in awhile, I'll get a melody first, and build the song off of that. But normally I just - a line comes to me, and I write it down, and I expand it. Sometimes it takes me months - sometimes hours. I wrote Burning the Candle in a single afternoon, music and all."
"See, that's incredible," Yang says vehemently, crooking her neck so Blake can read the ferocious sincerity in her eyes. "Almost anyone can have muscle definition, provided they train hard enough in the right ways, and plenty of people can act. But music? Songwriting? Composing? I couldn't do that shit in a million years."
"You make it easy, actually," Blake lets slip dismissively and pauses, jerkily picking up her smoothie and sipping in place of interrogation. Yang lets the bike stall, arms dropping from the handles, mouth curling into a wicked smirk.
She recognizes deflection when she sees it. "I make it easy, huh?" she says, toying with her. Blake's cheeks match the pink of her drink. "Care to expand on that?"
"No."
"Baby."
"Ugh," Blake says, powerless against endearments, but when she finally speaks it's with a carefully-planned calm, thoughtful and discerning. Her eyes slip to the window, the sun setting through a haze. "You...you're inspiring. Just being with you - being here - these are things I...I never would've imagined having, even six months ago. You're - you care about me, and I'm not...not used to knowing what that looks like. But I know now. And it's something I want to write about. Sing about." She keeps her eyes locked on the horizon, lets the light pattern her face. It's always easier telling the truth when you don't have to look directly at it. A blush peppers her cheeks, flushes her neck.
Yang's smile breaks wide and beaming; her blood flutters underneath her skin, her heart with wings. She remembers teasing Blake about a song the night they met, but it'd been distant, more of a dream than a possibility - and now - now it's been two months, and dates have turned into days, nights, mornings; unfamiliarity vanishes like it'd never even been there. Visions, Sun had said. Maybe Yang'd had one, too.
Two months. In March, their schedules hadn't been the most forgiving, but they'd made it work - phone calls, FaceTimes, random surprise visits. It's April, and Yang's never felt at home in her own house until Blake let herself seep into the walls, the carpet, the furniture. Everything's got a story. In the same day, Blake both burns toast to a crisp and absent-mindedly forgets to put a lid on the blender, and it's how Yang learns all kitchens should have a restraining order against her. They watch a movie and Blake falls asleep against her shoulder, legs tucked over her lap; she makes herself small, fits into Yang's body like it's what she was made for. Yang's bed is big and it isn't empty anymore, and one side of it starts to smell like honeysuckle and hyacinth.
Two months, but it feels simultaneously as if it's been seconds, ticking by in lurching flashes and trudging years, complete with tolling bells. Time has a way of slipping out of its order when you're with people you love.
So Yang says, "I accepted the part for Out of Fire."
Blake's gaze snaps back to her, disoriented at the change of topic. "You did?"
"Yeah." She licks her lips, dry. "We start production in a few months."
There's a brief silence until Blake asks, "Why?" as if it's the only question she can think of.
"I can't do what you can," Yang says, slips off the bike. Discipline can come another day. Her ponytail swings over her shoulder, the line of her shoulders sharp and honest as she shrugs them. "I can't...immortalize people unless they're real and I'm acting as them. So I guess this is - the next best thing, or something. My version of it."
Blake blinks, eyelashes casting shadow against her cheekbones; she has a regalness to her that contrasts brilliantly with her current attire, a loose tank top and sweats, Jamba Juice cup still clutched in her hand, and it's one more thing Yang adds to her list of Reasons She Definitely Doesn't Love Blake Belladonna.
She's staring up curiously, watching Yang approach with a cute, confused sort of frown. "What do you mean?"
"The minute you said you liked the book, I knew I'd do it," Yang confesses, slowing to a halt above her. "I thought about - I don't know. Making you proud. Doing justice to something you loved." She holds Blake's stare, doesn't wander. It's easier when you aren't looking directly at the truth, but not nearly as rewarding. "They would've made it with or without me, and you would've seen it regardless. So I - maybe I'm selfish. I wanted it to be me."
The part of her lips, her intake of breath - her irises swallow the sunset, putting it entirely to shame. Blake says suddenly, "I love the way you speak," and her eyebrows raise and lower as if she's surprised herself with the admission. "You're - you're so - it's like you spend so much time thinking about what you're supposed to say, and how you're supposed to say it, that - when you talk to me, you're just - it's so real." Yang drops to mirror her, a similar cross-legged position on the other half of the mat. Hearing other people's perceptions of her isn't new territory, but Blake being the one to do it--
Blake glances down, laughs once, quietly to herself. It's almost reluctant, like there's something she's tapped into against her will. "'Maybe I'm selfish. I wanted it to be me,'" she quotes, voice melodic and raw. "Yang, that's fucking beautiful."
"It's true." Yang doesn't defend, only verifies, and they're on the precipice of something greater. The yoga mat sinks, molds to her weight.
"I know, but I take a lot of words to tell the truth," Blake says, smile crooked. She pushes Yang's damp bangs away from her forehead. "You? You just...say it. Like it's nothing. Sometimes I look at you and I swear I know exactly what you're thinking."
"I believe that," Yang says, elbows resting on her knees, posture slouched. Her lips twist the opposite corner, complementary. "D'you know what I'm thinking right now?"
Blake's pupils dart between her own, line of her mouth growing softer, becoming something flowers bloom from. Her hand falls to the crease of Yang's wrist, her pulse beating in the tips of her fingers. Blake has the heart of a crescent moon, waxing and waning. Yang's the opposite, whole and burning and unobstructed.
"Yeah," Blake murmurs, draws her close for a kiss, mouth caught in a day-night cycle. "But I'll let you tell me that yourself. One day."
--
It's not meant to be secret, in the brutal and unforgiving way that makes it feel like something to be ashamed of rather than protected; she's not hiding Blake from the people close to her, just the rest of the world. But Pyrrha's been on location for a film, and it's not the sort of thing she wants to reveal over text; Ruby's on her own tour, due back in a a few weeks, and she knows but she doesn't know. Doesn't know it's serious, doesn't know Yang's heart is miles away from where she last saw it.
It's hard to go out with friends - Yang and Nora have a week left of filming, and the days are often long, grueling - and Blake has moments where she's so stuck in her own head full of music that she hardly moves, holes herself up in her apartment and writes furiously, gazing out the window as she plays melodies only she can hear. It happens a few times when she's at Yang's, and Yang's learned to hand her a notepad and a pen and watch her scribble. It takes hold of her so relentlessly that all Yang can do is let her ride it out, not that she wants to interrupt anyway - watching Blake work, scratching out choruses and guitar solos and drum lines, is fascinating and addicting. It's like her own personal behind-the-scenes documentary, the making of…, and she can't get enough of the expression on Blake's face - she bites her bottom lip as she thinks, eyebrows knitting together, sometimes tapping her fingers across a page until she finds the right note. Sometimes she sings to herself, and Yang wants to snatch the world from its orbit and say stop, listen.
So it isn't secret. It's just kept out of sight for the moment, clandestine until the right time presents itself.
Blake doesn't mind - she seems comfortable in darkness and behind walls, like there's someone she's still hiding from, which she won't admit to doing even if it's true. Yang doesn't have to make too many leaps to form that conclusion. She'll never forget Blake's voice, stumbling over recounts of her abuse.
And, well - they don't really have a word, either. 'Dating' is what they've gone with, though it's kind of hard to tell what that entails, since it seems like they've jumped straight into exclusivity. Bridges to build, cross, burn. They'll get there.
Her phone vibrates on a Saturday morning. She pulls it out from underneath her pillow, blinks blearily at it; Blake's still sleeping soundly on the other side of the bed, curled up and facing away. She likes to sleep on her side, limbs tucked together; most nights Yang falls asleep wrapped around her body, enveloping her. Safety comes consumed.
Got ur piece back, the text from Coco reads. I can drop it off in an hour if u want.
Her heart jumps up her throat. yes! thanks!!!
U better give me the story when I get there
She smirks at her screen; she'll have the story in flesh and blood, waiting at the door. oh i sure will.
She drops her phone again, stretches out an arm instead, rubs the curve of Blake's spine with a careless hand, cartographs every ridge and river and valley. Blake stirs, draws even further into herself, bone catching against her skin. She's so smooth, unbroken. Yang knows that must be a miracle in itself.
"Feels good," she hums, a sign for Yang to continue. Yang replaces her fingers with her lips, counts every vertebrae, catalogues the fluid way her shoulder blades glide when she turns over, searching for Yang's mouth with her own. Yang's mornings used to be cool and quiet, hard to escape from. Now they're moments she wants to revel in. "You always wake me up early, but it's so nice I can't be mad."
"It's nine."
"I'm a rock star. I sleep in until twelve."
"Oh, right." Yang arranges her expression into stoicism, solemnly pulling back to examine Blake's face. She nods, small frown taking over her lips. "You need your beauty sleep. I see that now."
"Exactly," Blake plays along despite her exhaustion. "I'm like the crypt keeper."
"This is why we have to keep our relationship a secret," Yang says, moving to throw an arm lazily around her waist. Blake's stretched out on her back, sheets barely covering her chest. "I'm dating way below my league."
Her laugh can't quite make it out of her mouth, sticks somewhere in her throat. Yang absolutely worships her; she's never been less insecure about anything. She says, "Wow. I'd better keep you around, then, since I'll never do better."
"Yeah," Yang says, smile blinding like the morning sun, and presses her lips to Blake's cheek. "You'd better, Belladonna."
--
Coco buzzes herself in at the gate, punching in the passcode with a familiar hand. She parks behind Yang's Tesla, steps out of her Mustang with her sunglasses already centered over her eyes; her beret sits skewed, similar to her belt and scarf - every day's a fashion show for her, but that's also the reason she's Yang's stylist. She rings the doorbell restlessly, and she's actually tapping her foot by the time Yang yanks it open a minute later.
"You're hiding something," Coco accuses instantly, jabbing a finger an inch from her nose. Yang merely rolls her eyes, takes the velvet box from Coco's other hand and turns back inside, leaving the door open for her to follow. "This was a very specific, top-secret project. And that pick was, what - twenty-five cents? You got a twenty-five cent guitar pick framed in gold and made into a necklace? I'm not--"
Her rambling cuts off immediately upon entering the kitchen, end of the sentence stalling in her throat - because leaning against the counter, with a steaming mug cupped in her hands and an expression of mild amusement softening her edges, is a girl she's only seen in pictures, YouTube videos of concert performances. It's hard to grasp, even with the proof standing in front of her, but--
Blake Belladonna is wearing a deep purple silk robe, loosely tied at the waist leaving a slit up her thigh, looking haughty and elegant and effortlessly gorgeous; with her black hair tumbling over her shoulders and a bare face, she's easily more alluring than plenty of people Coco styles. Her bones just fit underneath her skin, cheekbones high and curved, jawline sharp without threatening a blade. Her lips are full, red like she's just spent a long time being kissed, and she's wearing a bruise on her neck like a tattoo.
"--Stupid," Coco finishes dumbly, staring at her. She straightens up, raises her sunglasses above her eyes, needing to look without a tint. Yang sets the box on the counter. "Oh my God. Blake? Blake Belladonna?"
"Hi," Blake says, grin curling.
She rounds on Yang. "This is what you've been hiding?" she asks, gesturing incredulously. "Blake Belladonna?"
"Yep," Yang answers cheerfully, ruffling a hand through her hair. She's in a tank top and a pair of sleep shorts, and even though she's supposed to be one of the most beautiful people in the world, Blake's sure giving her a hell of a run for her money. Well, that makes perfect sense. "Blake, this is Coco Adel. She's my friend and stylist."
"Oh my God," Coco repeats, turns back to examine her, and about fifty things actually slot into place at once. "You've been - the two of you - it's yours. This was your guitar pick."
"Unless Yang's dating some other rock star and hoarding her picks," Blake says, raising an eyebrow cockily, "then, yeah, I'm assuming it's mine."
"How long has this been going on?" Coco interrogates, mind running an obstacle course. She's been telling Yang to get a personal life for years, go out with attractive strangers, lower her standards, and now--
"How'd you even know who I was?" Blake asks instead, sipping from her mug.
"Everyone gay knows who you are," Coco dismisses impatiently. Yang tosses Blake a look and smirk she doesn't miss. "Burning the Candle is like, a queer anthem. When you wrote 'I passed a girl on the street with hands that looked softer than her lips, I've been searching for solace in all the wrong places'? That hit deep."
"I told you," Yang says, shrugging when Blake echoes her glance, more exasperated. "And it's been going on for like two months."
"I was wondering why we haven't seen you around lately," Coco says, slips her sunglasses back in place and allows her mouth to twist into a sharp vermouth. She'll get some blackmail out of it. "But this certainly answers that question."
"Yang likes to keep me to herself," Blake tells her seriously, mug still cradled in her hands. "She thinks I'm too hideous to take out in public."
"Yep," Yang says again, just as bright. "I have an image to maintain. Seen out with her? Career suicide."
"Pretty sure I've seen a movie like this before," Coco says, deadpan and dry. There's a lot to take in about the two of them and not nearly enough time. Her first - her only - impression is more conceptual; just the phrase well, duh - of course Blake Belladonna is standing in Yang's kitchen at ten in the morning after waking up in her bed, drinking tea out of a mug she'd bought at a boutique in Paris two years ago. Everything about the scene suits Blake perfectly. They were made with the mirror image of the other in mind.
"So have I," Blake agrees, mocking tilt of her lips. "I think you starred in it, Yang."
"I think that was Pyrrha."
"You're very interchangeable."
"I've heard that from viewers," Yang says with a dejected sigh. Coco snickers at their banter - it's been a long time, but she's seeing it now; Yang's light. Her smile isn't forced, and Coco's probably one of the few people in the world who'd be able to tell if it were. The tension she's so accustomed to harboring, the forced strength she's always using to carry her head high - it's all gone, like it never existed to begin with.
Coco's phone vibrates in her back pocket; she curses under her breath as she pulls it out, interrupting their playful insults. The name on the message alone is enough. "I've gotta go," she says apologetically. "Velvet and I have a client meeting at eleven in Toluca Lake, and it's always hell going over the hill. Blake, it was wonderful to meet you, big fan - if you ever need a stylist, call me."
Blake laughs genuinely. "Likewise," she says, "and will do. Maybe we'll see each other sometime soon, if Yang ever decides I'm pretty enough to leave the house."
"Don't hold your breath." Yang's reply comes immediately, but her smile lends itself to a different story. A picture's worth the words. "Thanks, Coco. I'll let you know what I think."
"Sure thing," she says, tossing a wave over her shoulder as she heads for the door, and it feels like turning her back on something mythical.
--
Blake sets the mug down on the counter, nods to the velvet box. "Open it," she says, side-eyes Yang coyly. "Nice surprise, by the way."
"I couldn't wait any longer," Yang says, lifting the lid, and whistles lowly after a second of comprehension. "Oh, wow. Her contact did a great job."
She sounds appraising, but it's nothing compared to Blake's reaction - her jaw tumbles open like the gold chain the pick is attached to, hanging loosely as Yang lifts it from the box, examining every centimeter. It's finely nestled in its frame, not to subtract from the pick itself but to highlight it. She hadn't elected to punch a hole in it, like Blake would've done - she'd just, apparently, wanted to melt gold around it.
"Jesus, Yang," Blake murmurs, touching it carefully. Real gold. She doesn't even need to ask for that fact to be verified. "You - you didn't have to do this."
"I wanted to," Yang says, and slips it overhead, carefully working her hair out of the way until the metal touches her neck. It comes to rest right at the dip of her cleavage, and already Blake can tell that it'll match ninety percent of Yang's wardrobe. The thought of Yang designing it as something to be worn casually sparks a different kind of emotion; a depth and a seriousness and a future.
Blake cups her face, stands on her toes, brings their mouths together; Yang's hands spread open against her lower back, fingers on either side of her spine. She's reminded of how small she is, but it doesn't feel like a vulnerability anymore, doesn't act like a force that leaves her powerless. They break apart, and she glances down again, takes the pick in her hands, remembers how it felt between her fingers, plucking at her strings.
This, she thinks, is a perfect home for it; sitting on Yang's chest, right above where Blake swears her own heart is beating. They have the same pulse, blood in each other's veins.
Maybe immortalizing someone is easier than they'd thought it to be originally, Blake realizes; maybe it's simpler than a song, more straightforward than a movie. Maybe all you have to do for someone to live forever is love them enough.
--
Yang and Nora's last day of filming comes in a whirlwind, leaves without tears - it's a broad cinematic universe, and the next movie in line is Yang's; they'll all be reunited soon enough. The wrap party's the following night on a Friday; she's allowed a guest, she tells Blake - she'd probably be allowed fifty, if she asked for it - but no excuse good enough presents itself to warrant Blake's presence without suspicion.
"Too many people from the crew I don't know," Yang says with a grimace early in the afternoon, rummaging through her closet wearing only lingerie. "Wrap party pictures always leak somehow."
"It's okay," Blake says, pen in hand, notebook open on her lap. She's burrowing her teeth into her bottom lip, absorbed with her own words. "I haven't seen Sun in awhile - I asked him if he wanted to grab Shake Shack and hang out at my place. I'm going to run through some of these songs with him, see what he thinks."
"I'll drunk-text you," Yang promises, tugging a dress off a hanger. Wrap parties aren't always red carpets; she doesn't really need Coco's help for this one. Makeup and hair, though - Velvet'll be there any minute. "Maybe I'll drunk-sext you, if you're lucky."
There's the telltale twitch of her mouth - Blake can't resist for long, even with her veins encased in music. She looks up, lets her stare linger appreciatively; the toned muscle of Yang's upper back, dimples low on either side of her spine, the curve of her ass. There's inspiration to be gained: I'm getting on my knees / I see God in you, she scrawls across a page, and shuts the notebook with a snap.
"I think I'm gonna get lucky," she says cooly, and the fangs of a demon extend from Yang's answering smile.
--
The venue's boisterous, pulsating, and entirely overwhelming.
Or it would be, if Yang hadn't been to about fifty of them already.
Nora's startlingly ginger hair - and the fact that she's usually the loudest person in the room - make her easy to spot in the crowd. She's over to the right of the bar, Ren at her side (possibly stoned, Yang thinks, but she kind of wishes she were at these parties, too), and chatting amicably with her makeup artist. Yang raises a hand, paints on a smile, waves--
"Yang!" Nora calls immediately, inhaling a breath as if about to run a marathon. She barely excuses herself from the conversation before rushing over, snatching a champagne glass off the tray of a nearby server. "Thank you - sorry--"
"It's been so long," Yang greets sarcastically as Nora nearly trips over herself in her haste. "I came tonight just to see you, Nora."
"Of course you did," Nora says, thrusting the glass into her hand. She looks Yang up and down, beaming; her free hand automatically covers Yang's, wrapped around her clutch. She's a touchy drunk. "You look great."
She'd settled on a fitted, short-sleeved off-white dress - textured with a vine-like pattern, all lace. It dips between her breasts, where her necklace now rests. Her heels are a matching color, strappy with gold bands. "Thanks. And you're standing out, as per usual."
Nora's is a little more vibrant - she likes to have fun, and it shows. She's in pink; it's loose at the waist, frilly, and something no other redhead on the planet could probably get away with. Nora laughs, downs her drink in about a second flat. "No date tonight?" she asks conspiratorially, glancing pointedly at the necklace.
"Nope," Yang says, sipping at her own champagne. "We couldn't think of a good enough excuse, and I can't trust people not to talk."
"Ugh." Nora rewards her explanation with an eye-roll, equally as irritated. She's the type to experience her emotions passionately, even when they aren't entirely hers to feel. "It's hard being in the early stages of that shit. It's like - remember when Pyrrha and Jaune started dating? They were terrified of the sun, I swear."
That's something Yang remembers well, actually; Pyrrha'd spent months agonizing over it, worried about the press with an influence, panicking over Twitter comments. Yang had found it dramatic at the time, somewhat trite - she doesn't think that anymore. She gives the flashback a grimace. "Yeah. Jesus."
Nora frowns at her empty glass. "I don't know why we're drinking champagne," she complains, mindlessly switching subjects. It's something Yang's used to. "Come on, let's hit the bar. Mercury brought Emerald, but they're sitting by the stage, so we can ignore them."
The liquid in her own glass bubbles - Mercury's name makes it taste like poison. "God, he's such an asshole," she grumbles, following Nora back to the bar. Multiple people call to her as they pass, waving and smiling, and she returns each gesture just as kindly. She sips at her drink again, grumbling under her breath. "What is this, the fucking Oscars? I want tequila."
"I'm saying," Nora agrees, patting Ren on the shoulder as she passes him up for alcohol. If they'd just sit, Yang's sure Ren's said a hundred times by now, someone could serve them, but Nora likes to be on her feet. Yang slips him a hello as they walk by. "Let's do shots. I'm getting hammered tonight. We're officially free!"
The lights pulse overhead; the DJ says something into the microphone, and half the theatre yells in response, rolls into a wave. They both ignore it. The bartender looks at them; Nora holds up four fingers and mouths tequila. Yang asks, "What's lined up for you next?"
"I think they're changing the name of it, but it's a story based on that woman who survived after her helicopter crashed in rural Alaska - she like, fought a bear and shit?" Nora pokes her tongue against her cheek. "I bet I could fight a bear and win."
The vibration of Yang's phone and the following snap of her clutch is enough of a distraction for them both; Blake's texted her, all innuendo, something about sending pictures of her dress. "I bet you could," Yang answers inattentively, and Nora peaks over to read.
"Oh, she's feisty," Nora says, grinning. The bartender passes them their shots, and Nora waves a hand again, getting his attention. "Hey," she says, "can you take a video of us?"
"Sure," he says, smiling nicely back. Nora swipes to her camera without opening her phone, passing it to him. She and Yang sprinkle salt on the skin between their thumbs and forefingers, pick up a shot each - limes sit in a bowl in front of them - and then they clink their glasses with matching arcs of their mouths, knocking the shots back without even a trace of a grimace or a hint of a blink. Nora's grin snakes even wider, revealing her teeth; Yang just laughs.
Nora takes her phone back, texts Yang the video. She floats a hundred dollar bill into the tip jar.
"Tell her I love her music," she says, devilish gleam in her eye, "and that I won't let anybody else hit on you tonight."
--
Blake and Sun get a surprising amount done before the texts begin to roll in.
He's working on a riff, sprawled out on the floor with his guitar resting across his stomach; she's sitting at the table with her notepad, reading him chords. The vibration's strong enough to cause an echo against the wood, startling them both out of their focus. Blake picks it up, sees a thumbnail of a video--
"Oh," she says aloud, smiling radiantly, and Sun actually sits up as the sound starts to play, blaring and crackling through her speakers.
It's noisy, dim with flashing lights, but there's no mistaking the sincerity of Yang's smile, no denying the beautiful arch of her neck as she throws her head back, swallowing. The dress - Blake had seen her slip it on before she'd left, but hadn't seen her with her makeup done, her hair curled - she's stunning, breathtaking, and she's Blake's. There's a thousand people in that room, and one day every single one of them will know.
"A party?" Sun asks, plucks at his F. "Who's sending you - oh."
She glances up, flush of her cheeks caught. "Yeah." She clears her throat, note of pride weaving through every word. "It's the wrap party for the movie she's just finished filming."
nora says she loves ur music and that she wont let anyone else hit on my tonight
me*
Blake answers in quick, broad keystrokes, trusting autocorrect with most of the work - something about Sun's knowing stare feels like an intrusion. tell her thanks and that I love her movies. and I appreciate her playing the part of your bodyguard. She pauses, thumbs hovering over the letters. babe, you look incredible.
wish u were here, Yang responds, and Blake can somehow hear the doleful tone, the runaway longing.
me too.
When she sets her phone back down, Sun's sitting with his arms across the top of his guitar, chin resting on top. His smile's so soft and kind that she's momentarily thrown by the sight of him living up to his name. "What?" she asks, unnerved.
"Nothing," he says, eyes flitting back to his guitar. "I'm just happy to see you happy."
She cuts her teeth against the inside of her lip, understanding the weight of perspective. He's been around a long time, and he's seen a lot of her - too much of her - more than she'd wanted anyone to see: bruises, blood, bones beneath her skin. She fights her instinct to be dismissive. She owes him more than that.
"Thanks," is what she settles on, and her smile, as small as it is, plays louder than any song.
--
It's been hours by the time she's pushed over the edge.
It's a remix of some sort, but Yang'd know her voice anywhere.
Nora pops an olive into her mouth, gives her an eyeroll and slips her fingers around Yang's half-finished rosemary margarita. "Oh, get out of here."
"Hm?" Yang says, undeniably focused on the music; there's an expanse of skin on her mind, gold irises alight in fire and deft, long fingers.
"Yang." Nora's sigh exhales so dramatically it's like she's trying to get nominated. "They've cut the cake; you've talked to everyone important. Go see your woman."
Oh, wow, now that's an idea - Yang can't believe she hadn't thought of it herself. "Yes," she agrees, despite it not quite being a sentiment to agree with. "I'm gonna do that."
--
The knock at her door hits heavy, sudden, and almost sends her heart straight into cardiac arrest, flushes shock through her nervous system. It's pushing one in the morning when it comes - she's still up, texting Yang, laughing at the sloppy misspellings and drunken ramblings.
Someone's at my door, she quickly shoots over, and the typing bubble pops up instantly in response.
ya it me, letme in lollllll
She blinks owlishly at her phone, the screen coating her room in a dim blue light. The pieces take a second to fall into place, and then she jolts out of bed, feet nearly skipping against the wood. She swears she's hit with the adrenaline to jerk the knob straight out of its socket.
"Hel-looo," Yang sing-songs as Blake swings it open, looking precisely as drunk as her texts had made her out to be. Her phone's still held in her hand; Blake's name glows across the screen. "How's it goin', gorgeous?"
Her words are all slurred, and her smile tilts with her lopsided center of gravity; she's still wearing her dress from the party, hair drifting messily over her shoulders and spiraling down her back. She's wavering a little on her feet, but nothing alarming. Blake says, undeniably amused, "Well, now it's going great. What are you doing here?"
"I missed you," Yang says matter-of-factly, takes an unsteady step forward and nearly collapses, slotting her arms around Blake's neck. She continues airily into her ear, "The party was fun. You're more fun. So I'm here."
"I can see that," Blake says, swallows a laugh, pats her on the back. The door shuts behind them; Yang contentedly curls strands of black hair around her fingers. "Did anyone see you?"
"Nope," Yang says, popping the 'p'. "I'm stealthy. Also, your security remembers me."
Less likely they remembered her and more likely they recognized her from the giant billboard down the street, but Blake'll let her have it; she seems too proud to shoot down. If anything, she's even more noticeable than usual, cracking six feet in her heels. "Yes, you're the epitome of low-key."
"Yeah, I'm fading into irrelevancy fast." Her spine slowly straightens to an arc under Blake's fingers, and she stands tall again, pausing for playback. "Is that even a word?"
"I think it's just irrelevance," Blake says, and Yang wobbles slightly as she's thrown into a laugh; she's a joke away from a broken ankle. Blake tuts, guides her towards the couch. "Sit down, baby."
"Woah," Yang says, awed and elated, allows herself to be led. Her eyes - lashes heavy, lids smoky and lined - stare up at her, wide and honest. Miraculously, her lipstick's still perfectly in place. "You should call me that more. That - like, my heart's beating."
"I sure hope it is." She bends down, works on undoing the strap of Yang's heels. Yang snorts into laughter, endlessly amused (but mostly drunk). Blake drops the first heel on the floor. "Other foot."
"You're funny, too," Yang tells her like she's worried Blake's unaware of this fact. "You're the funniest person I know. I feel like people don't get that about you."
Blake grins at her, dropping the other heel. "They don't," she says, and scoots up beside her, resting an arm across the back of the couch with a knee crooked flat. Yang's sinking into it, drunk and comfortable, and she's just staring with such untempered affection in her eyes that Blake's nearly struck speechless. "My stand-up routine is for you and you only."
Her face takes on a slant of sudden reverence. "God, you're so beautiful," she says, almost to the point of whiplash. "You're like - you know, when I look at you, I hear your music. Actually, when I hear any music at all, I - I think about you. That's like a sign, right?"
"A sign of what?" Blake doesn't stop the question until a second too late, but resigns herself to the answer in the same breath. If this is the moment Yang chooses to reveal the depth of her emotion, it won't be the worst thing - beautiful - that's Yang, no contest. Sometimes Blake touches her just to prove she's real. Just to prove they both are.
Yang opens her mouth, pauses, and grins too widely to fake any kind of sobriety. She waggles a finger in Blake's direction. "Na-ah-ah," she says, forces her eyebrows into something stern; it doesn't work too well. Relief coats Blake's replying smile, but there's a sliver of disappointment, too. "I'm not saying that word. Not now. I had like, a million cocktails."
"A million, huh?" Blake doesn't even know how to take the charmed expression away from herself.
"Yeah, ballpark estimate." Her smile transitions to a giggle, and she sits up alarmingly fast, tilting towards Blake after apparently misjudging the effort required to do so. "D'you wanna kiss me?"
"You're wearing lipstick," Blake points out, impish. "I don't think it's my shade."
"Oh, even better," Yang says, and cups the right side of Blake's face, drawing her in at an angle; she presses a firm kiss to Blake's left cheek, holds it and releases. Her gaze darts to it, laugh drawn out again. "Perfect," she finishes, delighted with her work.
Blake's brilliant smile only enunciates it, and Yang's giggling travels through the air, contagious. "Take a picture," Blake says, and Yang swipes over to her camera.
She reaches out, glides her fingertips over Blake's cheekbone, up her temple, guides her hair around the shell of her ear. It's tender and slow, and the silence as she does so shifts from a feather to a vault, heavy and pregnant. Her tongue slips between her teeth, scorches her bottom lip. Blake's irises can't stop mimicking the curve of her mouth.
She taps her thumb against the camera button, captures the imprint of her lips against Blake's skin, and when their eyes lock again, Yang's too drunk for an act - she bleeds desire, spills it over her dress like liquid from a broken a glass. Blake thumbs her necklace, smooth beneath its gold outline.
And then Yang murmurs, eroticism coating every word, "I want to see you on your knees."
Blake's already there in her head, bent over and whining. "Um," she responds smartly, and Yang switches to a smirk, sin unraveling from her mouth. She places her hands flat against the cushions, lifts herself up with a grace Blake's positive she shouldn't possess in her current inebriated state - and then she leans in, tucks two fingers underneath Blake's chin, and Blake's thighs tremble on instinct, squeeze together.
"On your knees," Yang repeats, and it's an order Blake'll beg her just to follow.
--
Her elbows shake with the effort it takes to hold herself up, her lower spine snapping into a bow when Yang's fingers hit deep inside of her and curl. She's half-draped over Blake's back, her other hand palming the curve of her ass, breasts pressed against her skin and her mouth sucking and nipping at every shadow of bone. She dips her other hand to Blake's clit occasionally, gets her fingers wet, rubs her. It's never quite enough.
She keeps a steady pace, too slow to accomplish anything except build her to the brink of insanity - that's what torture does to you, makes you crazy - adds a third finger, stretches her, makes her feel full as she clenches down. Yang grins against her spine, darkly amused by her soaked hand.
And then she pulls back, slips her fingers entirely out; Blake almost breaks down and cries, voice a choked whine in her throat. Yang laughs, and it's only when her breath hits skin that Blake realizes where she is. "Fuck," she moans shamelessly, "Yang, fuck--"
Yang's tongue darts out and licks the length of Blake's cunt, thumbs spreading her open, fingers gripping at her thighs; drunk Yang is some kind of prodigy with her tongue, or maybe she'd just never thought to bend Blake over sober. There's a talk they should have - please, Blake imagines saying, fuck me like this any time you want - but she can't even manage language anymore, devolving into moans with her elbows collapsing and her fingers wrapped around her pillow.
She cums almost violently against Yang's mouth, her entire body shattering, bones and veins vibrating until they collide with on another - and then she's dragged down onto her side, rolled onto her back, and Yang slips three fingers straight into her again - a tease for a taste, not a continuation.
"Baby," Yang whispers into her ear, sucking on her drenched fingers between words. "I'm so wet."
Blake sloppily kisses her mouth - filthy, chin still damp - dips her hand between Yang's legs, palm coming away soaked. Not always, she remembers Yang saying the morning after they'd met in response to Blake's service top. Well, she's getting that now.
"You," she says, still breathless, "are the fucking devil."
Yang grasps her wrist, guides her fingers impatiently. "Then you," she says, grinding against Blake's hand, "are lucky to be fucking me."
--
Yang passes out, sleeps in late the next morning with her limbs stretched out in every direction, sex and tequila wafting from her skin. She'll be hungover when she wakes up; she'll shower in Blake's bathroom, leave smelling like Blake's shampoo.
Blake finds a lipstick stain smeared across her pillow, and decides she'll leave it for a day.
--
luce @yangingaround · 15m
anyone see those pics of yang's new necklace from the wrap party…...eyes emoji
oscar winner yang xiao long @yangbang · 14m
Replying to @yangingaround
YES, do you have theories. i mean the bitch never wears jewelry
luce @yangingaround · 12m
Replying to @yangbang
I WISH I DID!!! I'M ACTIVELY OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS
CAM @againwithspring · 10m
Replying to @yangingaround @yangbang
i saw someone else say its one of rubys but idk
oscar winner yang xiao long @yangbang · 9m
Replying to @againwithspring @yangingaround
can i say something controversial…. if that's true, like it's nice i guess? but boring
luce @yangingaround · 8m
Replying to @yangbang @againwithspring
i mean you're right and you should say it
CAM @againwithspring · 7m
Replying to @yangingaround @yangbang
lmao we can always search the tour pics of ruby to see if she uses the same style. i think its just a purple fender
luce @yangingaround · 5m
Replying to @againwithspring @yangbang
cam you goddamn genius
oscar winner yang xiao long @yangbang · now
Replying to @yangingaround @againwithspring
ok i looked for five minutes but every guitar pick ruby uses is red that i can see so like….back to square one
--
The opportunity arises in May. Pyrrha's home from her location shoot, and it's exactly what Nora'd been waiting for to throw a birthday party; it's not complete without you, she'd told Pyrrha lovingly over a call, and Pyrrha'd laughed amicably.
Blake's got five complete songs and six more in various stages of dress (well, she's got a hundred songs, but at the moment only eleven are special enough to release); two can't quite find the right bass line, one's missing a bridge, a different one might swap lead guitar for the keys. She isn't worried; all things considered, she's doing wildly better than she ever thought she would. And some of the nuances will ultimately come to the band's experimentation and knowledge of their own instruments, anyway.
Spring break is what Yang keeps referring to her time off between films, saying it with a flourish and a wink like she's headed to Cabo for a wet t-shirt contest. Out of Fire doesn't pick up for another month and a half; she's starting promotions for a different film until then, a few talk shows and tours. It's one she'd wrapped before she and Blake had even met, and vastly separated from her summer blockbusters, mega-franchises - it's more contained, something Weiss keeps privately swearing she'll be nominated for based on the premise alone.
In May, it's basically summer; Blake's lounging on one of the lawn chairs by the pool, topless for an even tan. Yang thinks of taking a nipple into her mouth, following the valley between her breasts with her lips and down. Blake's hair spills over the chair, forced away from the sweat at the back of her neck, and a pair of Yang's aviators rest on the bridge of her nose.
"Hey," Yang says, feeling hot and covered; she's wearing too many clothes, and she's only in a tank top and shorts. Maybe she's still wired from her workout. (She's not, but one day she'll have to tell the world about this, and she can't have all her stories beginning with 'I was horny and she was hot.')
"Hey," Blake says, tilts her face with a smile. "What's up?"
"Pyrrha's back in town, and Nora's having a birthday party on Saturday," Yang conveys, scrolling through the text. "She's invited you."
Blake slips her sunglasses up, meets Yang's stare with an intrigued excitement. "Really?"
"Yeah." Yang drops her phone, works on tying her hair into a bun; the sun's getting to her. That's what she'll tell herself for now. "She's renting out Delilah. It's near your apartment."
"Oh, yeah. I pass it all the time." The implication of it finally dredges up, heaved from some dark corner. Blake pulls her lips into a pout. "It's in public."
"But," Yang emphasizes, because they're all in the business of secret-keeping and of course Nora's thought this through, "she's invited Weiss and Ruby, too. She really wants you to come - she's dying to meet you, and she thinks it'll be harder to draw lines between the four of us."
It's an explanation that Blake seems touched by, as if she'd never imagined herself as someone to make an effort for. Adam's further away every day, but he's never gone. Yang's always working on his influence. She says hesitantly, "Are you sure?"
"Am I sure about what?"
"Like, do you think that's enough?"
"Oh." Yang rolls her neck on her shoulders, attempting to find the line between what's honest and what's worth taking risks for. She admits, "Yeah. I do. I think - I mean, every girl I get spotted with becomes a rumor at some point, so I won't be surprised if there's a rumor afterward, but I don't think it'll have weight. They'll probably link me to Weiss, too." She actively grimaces at that one.
Her reasoning apparently only needs a momentary consideration. "Okay," Blake agrees simply, smile blossoming; Yang hopes it's a mark of trust. "That'd be fun. It'd be nice to meet your friends."
"Great." She beams at her screen as she texts back, acting as their RSVP. Getting Weiss and Ruby to agree won't be hard - Ruby loves Yang's friends, and Weiss loves - well. Maybe that's too strong a word. Likes, definitely. "Nora's notorious about her guest lists - there probably won't be anyone there she doesn't trust wholeheartedly."
"Isn't she the one who leaked different fake engagement stories to her friends to see who snitched to the press?" Blake sounds both appreciative of the genius and slightly afraid.
"Yep." Yang remembers that week - it'd been a bloodbath. One of her friends from high school, raking in extra money on the side. "Brutal, but it worked."
YESSSSS, Nora replies. TELL HER TO LOOK HOT FOR U!!!!!!
shut up she always looks hot. go harass someone else until saturday
LOVE U!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Blake sighs, stretches her arms overhead, searching for relief in the breeze; it's extremely distracting of a motion, and Yang feels the sun in her throat, draining the water from her body. Blake's ribs extend underneath her skin with every breath; her bikini bottoms are low on her hips, material silky and black.
"Ugh," Yang says to nobody, and the corner of Blake's mouth curls, all cheshire cat and deliberate.
--
Ruby arrives home on Thursday, has a driver pick her up from LAX; she gets in at eight in the morning, and the traffic both ways would've made the trip at least three hours for Yang. Ruby doesn't blame her in the slightest - I can't even drive, she'd said, so it's not like I'm ever gonna pick you up at the airport.
It'd been a running joke, but now - now - Yang stares at Blake's bare back, thinks about her being the one waiting at the curb, wearing a worn-in half-smile with a single hand on the steering wheel. Her heart crushes in on itself at the image, the domesticity. They're not far enough for that kind of imagination - sure, Blake stays over somewhat often, waits for Yang to make her tea in the morning after being banned from touching the appliances, has a toothbrush in her holder - but picking someone up at the airport? That's love. She'll recover that fantasy when it's earned.
Ruby calls when she's in the car, bubbly and vivacious despite the red-eye and and exhaustion. "Yang!" she exclaims into the phone, so shockingly loud that Yang actually winces and Blake grumbles irritatedly from beside her. "I'm on my way, I'm so excited to see you!"
"Yeah, about that," Yang says, careful to keep her voice low and monitored. But Ruby's her sister; the sheepishness shines through. "So, I'm like - I'm not alone."
There's a brief pause, only sounds coming through the speaker those of traffic jams, and then she says, "Oh my God - is Blake there?"
"Yeah."
"That's awesome!" Ruby can't seem to contain herself. "I can't wait to meet her - God, tell her I love Painting the Town. It's so fun."
Blake's mouth flicks at the corners; Yang thumbs her bottom lip, silently telling her caught. "I'll let her know when she's awake. How was the flight?"
Ruby rambles on for another few minutes; she's so easy to talk to - she hates complaining more than ninety-nine percent of people, and every anecdote she drops is overwhelmingly positive. She isn't new to fame, but she often acts like it; it's a mindset Yang thinks more people need to retain. Humbleness.
She hangs up soon after - she's always got people to call, and Yang knows they'll all answer despite the time; that's just who Ruby is, the kind of impact she has - and Blake finally cracks an eye open. "How long do we have?" she asks, drowning in sleep.
"About an hour and a half," Yang says, pulling up her maps app just to double-check. "Oh. Two, actually; there's an accident on the four-oh-five."
"There's always an accident on the four-oh-five."
"True."
Blake shifts closer, curls into Yang's side, fits her head in the crook of her neck; Yang wraps an arm around her automatically. She's worth staying in bed for, and Yang's never found someone to say that about and mean it. "Wake me up in an hour."
"Okay." Blake's hair smells like lavender - she's using Yang's shampoo. She kisses the crown of her head, lingers, thinks of rolling over and pressing her lips to every inch of skin, thinks of reveling in her soul like it's something tangible. "I will."
There's something else that drifts away in the silence, and the both of them hear it but don't say a word.
--
Ruby actually hugs Blake first.
She crushes Blake in her arms, manages to get a breathless, surprised laugh out of it. Blake pats her on the back, startled but amused. "Blake, I'm so excited to meet you - thanks for saving my sister from the life of a spinster or whatever."
"Excuse me," Yang says, but her threat stands no case against Blake's snickering, something Ruby easily pinpoints. She's aware of Yang's habits, and these are entirely new.
"It's nice to meet you, too," Blake says, golden eyes alight in the morning sun as they meet Yang's over Ruby's shoulder. Her smile plays at both corners unevenly; it's how Yang knows it's real. "I've heard a lot about you. I loved your last album."
It's fortunately not a lie - they're in very different genres; Ruby's the epitome of pop, Top-100 hits, songs that make you feel good as you listen to them without the requirement of something deeper. There's a severe lack of those, Blake thinks, and now it's easy to see why Ruby's are so popular - they're not fake. It's genuinely how she feels, what she's interested in.
"Oh, thanks!" Ruby finally pulls away, beaming so brightly it's like she's battery-powered. "Did Yang tell you how much I love Painting the Town? I'm serious. It's just so cool - what a vibe. I love it."
"Thanks," Blake says warmly. "I appreciate it."
Ruby tugs Yang into a hug next; Yang lifts her straight off the ground, squeezes her tightly. Ruby chokes on an inhale, whacking Yang's arm; this is a moment for sibling banter, and Blake gets the feeling that if she weren't there, Ruby'd be in a headlock. But Yang sets her down, safe and sound, and within the instant she's spinning on her heel, finger pointed in Blake's direction.
"Blake Belladonna," Ruby says dramatically, and maybe that's something that runs in the family. "Do we need to have the talk about not breaking my sister's heart?"
Blake stalls in place, attempting to comprehend the abrupt shift in tone and conversation - you always run, she hears Adam's voice in her head, stomach twisting violently - but Ruby slips back in a laugh a second later, unable to hold a joke that long, none the wiser to trauma. "I'm kidding. Can you imagine? I mean like, obviously don't do that, but geez. I'd never. She'd kill me!"
"I'll kill you anyway." Yang rolls her eyes, picks one of Ruby's suitcases up off the doorstep, but the adoration underneath her words is unmistakable. "C'mon, punk. Get your crap inside before it melts out here. I know you've got a chocolate bar stashed somewhere."
Ruby gasps, scrambling for the luggage apparently filled with candy bars; Blake finds Yang's stare and shrugs a shoulder lightly.
I won't, she mouths, and right then it becomes a promise she makes to herself.
--
Weiss can't stop pacing.
"I'm still uncertain," she's saying over and over, echoing with every footfall. They're all tucked in Yang's master bathroom; Weiss is the only one actually dressed, eyeliner faint and tasteful, blush accenting her cheekbones, white hair in a spiraling ponytail. "It seems so risky. Yang, how does your publicist feel about this?"
"Great," Yang answers, untempered and bored as she applies her eyeliner. Her publicist isn't there to control her life decisions, only the narrative surrounding them. "She's well aware, and on the extremely off-chance Blake is asked about, the story she's going with is that Ruby and Blake are friends. They both run in the same industry. It makes sense."
Weiss gnaws on her bottom lip; it pops out of her mouth, red and imprinted. "But what if--"
"Weiss, seriously," Ruby interrupts, "I know it's like, your job to worry about stuff, but it's gonna be fine. Honestly, until they're caught making out, nobody important is gonna believe it anyway."
"That's sadly true," Blake murmurs, coating her lashes until they're thick and full. Yang tosses her a look of agreement in the mirror as if to say Oh, I know. "And even then, they'll probably think we're just close friends."
"They will not." Weiss tuts, picks imaginary lint from her dress - she doesn't seem to know what to do with her hands, finally settling them on her hips. "You're both beautiful, neither of you are in the closet - why wouldn't people assume?"
"I have about six extra years on you there, Weiss," Yang says, running a thumb underneath Blake's bottom lip, fixing the line of her lipstick. "People like their ideas of us. I'll probably break half my fans' hearts when this comes out - they're convinced Pyrrha and I have some secret relationship."
Blake laughs, the sound bouncing around the room. "What about Jaune?"
Yang's applying her own lipstick; they aren't wearing the same shade, but that'll only be a problem later in the night when they're too drunk to fix it. "They think he's her gay beard."
"Oh my God."
The tapping of Weiss's foot is the only thing that alerts them to her continued dissatisfaction. Her stilettos - a grey-silver matching the color of her dress - don't put her at any intimidating height, but do give her a sense of importance. She says, "Fine. I'm letting it go. But just - be careful."
"And you," Blake counters back, "please relax."
Weiss could dehydrate a man with the dryness of her stare, pierced in cynicism. "Oh, I'm sure I'll accomplish that."
They all elect to ignore her; there's only so much they can do to overcome Weiss's danger sense. "Check me," Yang asks one final time, and Blake dulls the sharp points of her eyeliner to a fade - she's beautiful, she's perfect - but her mouth is right there, wickedly red and beckoning, and Blake can't help herself - she captures her lips lightly, careful to keep their hues from blending, and fortunately they remain their rightful colors upon pulling back.
Ruby takes it in with a grin; Weiss watches her watch them, a rising pink to her cheeks as she turns away.
--
Delilah doesn't look like much from the outside: situated on Santa Monica Boulevard, the all-white exterior with a window decal reading the lounge's name hardly speaks to great expectations. The inside, on the other hand, somehow reminds Blake of a speakeasy - the olive velvet couches lining the walls, their counterpart booths in red accenting the paneling interspersed with brick, the industrial lighting fixtures coating it all in a dim, amber glow--
"Holy shit," Nora screams upon greeting them by the square bar in the middle of the room, cocktail glass tucked between her fingers. "You're both so fucking stunning, oh my God, Blake, look at you, oh my God--"
Blake's in a long-sleeved maxi dress, a deep violet with a slit straight up her thigh, near-sheer skirt underneath to cover the view of anything too interesting; the collar cut dips between her breasts, bares only a hint of cleavage. Yang's the opposite, a vision in gold - a tight bodice, a lot of cleavage, straps that lead to an open back, and a hem that stops at mid-thigh. Her hair's left wild, hotly untameable, and her necklace sits where it always does - these days, she rarely leaves the house without it.
"Happy Birthday! Thanks for inviting me," Blake greets just as enthusiastically, caught off-guard by Nora's short stature and blisteringly extroverted personality. There's a charm to her in spite of it, though. "And Weiss, and Ruby."
"It takes a village," Nora tells her seriously. "Have you met Pyrrha yet? She'll die. She used to have a crush on you. She doesn't know yet, right?" she directs at Yang. "That Blake's your girlfriend?"
Blake covers her mouth with her hand; Yang's palm briefly presses against her lower back and away. "How much have you had to drink?" Yang prods accusingly, narrow of her eyes less a threat than it could be. Ah, girlfriend. They haven't really nailed down that label yet, though that's definitely what it is. In all honesty, Blake's not sure what either of them are waiting for.
Nora only laughs in response. "Not enough," she says, and shoves them helpfully towards the bar. "Ask for a Valkyrie."
Weiss and Ruby trail behind after their own hellos, gossiping about the rest of the crowd. Yang laughs at the vision - Weiss's air of importance is so fierce, there's no way she's getting through the night undetected - and Yang signals the bartender for four Valkyries, whatever the hell those are. She passes them around, and Ruby grimaces - she's not the biggest fan of hard liquor, but accepts anyway - and then a photographer taps her on the shoulder, gestures for them all to pose together.
It isn't the slightest bit alarming; he's one of Nora's friends, hired for her personal events. It's her way to both document her nights and control their narrative. Yang slips an arm around Blake's waist, careful to keep aloof, and Ruby tucks into Blake's other side, smile wide and sparkling. The flash goes off - there's a thrill to the illumination of it; she's never been so aware of her fingers - but he seems none the wiser, thanking them before wandering off to shoot other new arrivals.
That's not what renders her stone, metal, other things structural and immovable - it's the fact that it's the first picture of the two of them at a public event, despite the distractions. It's the fact that she's an actress without a poker face, and Blake's there at all because she's somehow become the biggest part of Yang's life.
Blake catches the strange sequence of expressions - there's an astonishment, an incredulity, the space around them and the crowd compressed into nothing but voyeurs - and then Blake's asking, "What is it?"
"People are gonna point to this," Yang whispers breathlessly, lifting her glass to her lips. Her lipstick leaves a mark. "One day, when this - when people know about us, they're gonna point to that picture. And I guess - I guess it just - overwhelmed me."
"You're so far ahead," Blake says, nothing but endeared regardless of it.
"Baby," Yang says, "you have no idea."
--
Pyrrha's seated at a booth in the corner; her red dress nearly blends in with the color of the the walls, her own hair, and she's wrapped up in a conversation with Jaune, martini glass nearly empty in front of her. The olive sits on its skewer, pimento missing. There's an odd, uncomfortable tension between them that Yang spots almost instantly - actors can keep almost anything hidden, except from other actors.
Whatever it is, it dissipates the split second Pyrrha meets her eyes across the room, mouth dropping into a pretty o-shape. Blake's a step behind, rating fast food chains with Ruby, who's declared that they're only allowed to answer based on taste between one to four a.m. - they're currently stuck in a heated debate over Wendy's, though she's not paying attention to the specifics. Weiss seems sickened by the very idea of curly fries.
Pyrrha hasn't noticed the additions. She nearly shoves Jaune out of the booth in her haste to get to Yang; he stands ungracefully, trailing after her in his awkward, lanky way.
And the Pyrrha hits her like a train, flinging her arms around Yang's neck and squeezing. "Look at you!" she squeals, overly enthusiastic - then again, it has been nearly four months. She pulls back, examines her top to bottom. "God, Yang, I missed you to death. You look incredible - how have you--"
Been, Yang guesses is the supposed ending to that question, but Pyrrha catches sight of Blake and the entirety of the English language sinks to the bottom of her skull - she stands solid, her hands wrapped around Yang's shoulders and her expression shorting out like a broken fuse.
The other three haven't noticed, chatting in a half-circle just behind them - they'd clearly been intending to give the reunion its own moment - and Pyrrha leans in close, the stars of Hollywood Boulevard torn up and rotating in her eyes. She whispers, "Yang. Holy shit. Do you know who's behind you?"
Yang's leisurely crawl into a smirk takes far too long for Pyrrha to notice. "You mean the girl talking to Ruby?"
"To--" Pyrrha starts, stops, drops it all. "Wait--"
Yang turns around, reaches out, splays her fingers briefly over Blake's shoulder blade; she looks over immediately, takes the touch as the signal it's meant to be. Yang shifts back to face Pyrrha, smug to the point of predatory, Blake stepping up to her side.
"Hi," Blake says warmly, extending a hand. She's incredible under pressure, under flashing lights and fame. "I'm Blake. I've heard a lot about you."
It's a meeting worthy of documentation - Yang'd whip out her phone and post it to her Instastory if it wouldn't count as self-sabotage - and Pyrrha doesn't seem to know how to do anything but stare, even as she grasps Blake's hand back; maybe the empty glass on the table isn't her first. She says stutteringly, "I - I wish I could say the same," and then startles herself into clarity. "Oh my God, not that I - I know who you are, I just meant that I - wasn't aware of - of your…" she trails off, gaze finally returning to Yang who hears only the sound of a cocking gun. "You bitch."
Yang nearly chokes on her drink, pressing her wrist to her mouth. "Me?" she says, mock-outrage. "You were the one who had to be on location for like ten years--"
"Blake," Pyrrha interrupts, her smile too angelic for the tone of it, "I know we just met - huge fan, by the way - but would you mind if I murdered your girlfriend?"
"I'd never dream of getting between such close friends," she says, smirks at Yang's hanging jaw and redirects her words. There's that label again. "Oh, no, Xiao Long. You're on your own."
"Fair enough," Yang says, playfully disgruntled, and extends her glass. "Hold my - whatever the fuck this is. What's in this? Anybody know?"
"Rum," Jaune chimes in helpfully. "About six different kinds, I think, if the smell is anything to go by. Hi, Blake, it's nice to meet you. Jaune Arc."
It seems to be the icebreaker necessary to spare Yang's life - Ruby follows in with a greeting and an introduction, Weiss at her heels - they grasp hands--
"It's a pleasure," Weiss says, delicate without being breakable. Pyrrha looks somewhat struck by her demeanor, her dress. "I enjoyed your performance in Achilles."
"Thanks," Pyrrha replies, but Yang catches the downward twitch at the corner of her mouth, the miniscule way her eyebrows sink. "The pleasure's all mine."
There's no reason for the expected response to hold such weight. Blake leans against Yang's side and whispers, "What did you say she was? 'Unspecified gay'?"
"Yep."
"I think she's pretty gay."
"Clearly," Yang responds under her breath, and lifts her glass to her mouth, throat constricting around the burn of spiced rum. There are rules to this: not the existence of tension itself, but what to do when it snaps.
In the end, Pyrrha jerks her into another hug and says, you're still a bitch, but I'm happy for you.
--
Aside from the night they'd met, Blake's never been drunk with her.
It shouldn't matter, and it wouldn't, if there weren't memories gnawing at her spinal cord like the imprints of fingerprints, the shattering of glass, and the smell of vodka.
If it weren't a party. If she weren't something being looked at.
She shouldn't do it - Yang deserves better, deserves the benefit of the doubt - but at the same time, she needs to. For her own sanity, peace of mind. She wants her own voice to shut up the demons for once, not dangle blindly from the thread of somebody else's.
Blake's the one who places her fingers on Yang's wrist, stops her mid-order. "Shots," she says, and gets a side-eye in response.
"I thought we were trying to be good," Yang says with a hint of mirth, low as to not be overheard. "Aren't we behaving tonight?"
"No," Blake says, stuns Yang slightly with her cool amusement, her reckless uncovering. "It's a party. I'm bored of all that. Let's see this wild side of yours, Yang."
The way she wraps her tongue around Yang's name - goosebumps prickle underneath her palm, peppering the stretch of Yang's arms as a shiver works through her body. Her irises absorb the color of the light, flash red with every beat of the music. Blake's always known about the danger in her, about the chaos and the anger. What she doesn't know is what it looks like when it's forced out of hiding.
The bartender lays them out in a row. Yang's expression settles darkly, regards her with a type of opening, the clattering of padlocks, bolt cutters on chains. It's villainous, provocative. The glass slips between her fingers, and the liquid glides down her throat without a hint of backlash.
"Belladonna," she says, tongue wetting her lips with a purpose, "you're on."
--
The drunker they get, the closer the room becomes. Filled with hot, compressed air, salt on bodies and glass rims. Darkness leaves them indistinguishable, but they're drawn to corners regardless of it. Weiss and Ruby stick nearby, mingling with Pyrrha and Jaune; that's too many wandering eyes to keep track of, Yang says, covers Blake's body against a wall. I don't care what other people are looking at, unless it's you.
"Yang," Blake murmurs, fingers curled around her shoulders. She's waiting for her own warning bells, her flight instincts, and she isn't finding them. The music kicks in, steady beats and a snapping until the drop, and Blake thinks about finding her thigh and grinding down.
"God, you're beautiful," Yang murmurs, mouth against her ear; the compliment seems to be one of drunk Yang's favorites. She's swaying to the tune, too, susceptible. "I'd fuck you here if we could get away with it."
"Jesus." She's as bold as ever, but they're still in public and definitely on the verge of lines. "Yang--"
"Is this what you wanted?" Her voice sounds like how sex feels, the thick and hot of throbbing pressure. The melody builds, builds, builds; it's not the only thing. "I'm drunk. And I don't care about a single thing in this universe except you."
"Yeah," Blake whispers, needy and restless; she breaks for Yang's lips, kisses her between flashing strobe lights and pounding bass; her heart spikes into her head, drops into her stomach. Safety remains ever-present, even in the midst of threat. She can't stop wanting. "Fuck."
"Careful, sweetheart." There's a fog drifting in the from the ceiling; the coastline rolls between her legs. Yang nips at the shell of her ear; the music picks up again and this time it doesn't stop. "We're supposed to be careful, remember? People are watching."
If anything were going to do it, it'd be that. Her eyelids flutter open; Yang presses her mouth to Blake's jaw, brushes lips before pulling away, tongue soaked with rum. There aren't any signs and none will manifest, because Yang isn't him, and Blake matters more than the impressions of strangers in a crowded room.
"Yang," Blake says softly, fingers toying with the scrunch of fabric at her waist, "if I - if I wanted to leave because I felt - uncomfortable, would you be mad?"
Yang's expression drops from flirtatious to concerned in the span of a lightning strike, worry swallowing her face. She flutters around Blake's face, strokes her thumbs under her eyes as if checking for injury. "Oh, baby, no," she murmurs, devastation to her voice. "No, of course I wouldn't - do you want to go? Get some water, air?"
Even drunk out of her mind, she's the polar opposite of every experience Blake's ever had; she rests her palms against that backs of Yang's hands, cups them and breathes. "No," she says with finality. "I'm okay. I'm just - Adam used to take me to parties, show me off like the next big thing. And I know that's not what you're doing, but…" she trails out, drops her words. It's hard to keep her own inebriated thoughts in order, but Yang's able to catch them, hand them back to her.
"It's nice to hear it said aloud, right?" she finishes quietly, and presses a tender kiss to Blake's mouth. "If you ever feel - feel uncomfortable, or unsafe, or - or anything like that, I want you to tell me, okay? I'm never - I'm - won't be 'mad' at you." She places vicious quotes around the concept without needing to gesture for it. "And it makes me sick that he - that he ever was."
Weiss is staring, lines of her face saturated with distress. They aren't causing a scene - not even close, considering the burlesque dancers strutting across the small stage somewhere behind them - but she's right to; they've definitely been seen, though not by anyone important enough or stupid enough to capture it. Blake inhales unsteadily. "Thanks," she says, kisses Yang again when lights dip, leaving them to shadow. "I - yeah. It's just nice to hear."
Yang softens her anxiety with a gentle smile. "I'd - I'd never do that to you," she says, sighs quietly. "You aren't a - you know - you're not mine. Not like that. Not like you're a thing."
Oh, they're so close; prying boards from windows, knocking out bricks. "Not like that?" she asks, poignant and purposeful, and Yang's eyes dart between her own. "But like something else?"
Will she take the challenge, won't she - sober Yang would've agonized, stubborn against the bait but desperate for the hook - drunk Yang merely offers her a laugh, hair draping her shoulder like a steady rain. There's no fight to her, nothing mimicking denial. Hopeless, Blake reads in her endearment, foreheads bumping together. You're hopeless.
"Blake," Yang says, relinquishes her name with such devotion that she swears it sets her free. "You're in my fucking soul."
--
They leave around two a.m., slipping into black cars in premeditated pairs. Weiss doesn't look at them as she flattens her dress against the backs of her thighs, sliding onto the seat. The paparazzi are waiting where they can - flashes strike, bulbs bursting as Yang's name is called like they're praying to her, though she knows it's anything but.
Her head lolls against the leather seat; Ruby's humming to herself, echo of the song that'd been playing when they'd left. She hasn't said much, but there's something off to her, silence too deliberate to be fueled by distraction.
"Hey," Yang says, forcing her stare to focus. Blake's car disappears from view, but they're headed to the same place. "You okay?"
It's the delayed heavy sigh that nudges Yang's posture straight, more attentive. Ruby says, "Weiss - has feelings for me."
"Duh," Yang says, tactless with her blood doused in alcohol. "She's a bitch to everyone who isn't you."
"She's not a bitch." Ruby rolls her eyes. "She's just guarded."
"Tomato, to-mah-to."
"You're such a dumb drunk," she says, but her lips crook into the signs of a laugh before falling again. "She actually told me. I felt bad letting her down."
Oh, that's actually not where Yang thought this conversation was going; the car hits a bump in the road, jarring her brain back into some semblance of clarity. "Wait," she says, holds out a hand. "You rejected Weiss?"
"Yeah." Ruby shrugs a shoulder half-heartedly. "It's just...not really my thing. Romance. And sex."
Obviously, Yang thinks, like she's known all along and just needed it said aloud to access. "Oh," she says, staring as it all unlocks, a key sliding in and rotating. Her mouth drops open, filled to the brim. "Oh, yeah. Yeah! Okay. Okay. That makes sense. Yeah."
Ruby bursts into laughter, also a little tipsy and comforted by the reaction. "I never really thought I'd have to deal with it," she admits, covering Yang's hand with her own, clasping it tightly. "I feel bad. D'you think I like, broke her heart?"
"Nah," Yang says, more concerned with her sister's comfort than Weiss's feelings. "I think she'll be fine. It's not like - like it's not like you just don't like her, right? You don't like anybody."
"Yeah," Ruby affirms, and there's that smile again, free in its simplicity. "Exactly."
"Great." Yang's head tilts back to the window, grin spreading in response. "Makes my big sister role so much easier."
There's a pressure against her shoulder, red hair soft against her skin. Ruby's head still fits perfectly in the crook of her neck, just as it did when they were kids.
--
They're dropped off in Blake's garage, making the switch. Ruby steels herself, gets in with Weiss, explanations more coherent - they aren't owed, but, Yang knows, Ruby genuinely cherishes Weiss as a friend. She hopes she won't have to kick Weiss's ass.
"Oh, I heard," Blake says, taking her hand in the elevator, body pressed against Yang's chest. She's having a hard time standing straight. "Weiss isn't upset. She's just - confused. Or something."
"We'll get the story another day," Yang says, the elevator dinging as it signals Blake's floor. There are more important things at hand - Blake's hesitance, that's one; boundaries she's kept to herself, that's another. They need to talk.
Blake senses the questions piled on Yang's tongue as if kissing her is enough to get a taste of them; she lets the door close behind them, flicks the lock, and then she buries herself again in Yang's arms. It's always been easier for Blake to tell the truth with her eyes shut.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean to make you worry."
"It's not about that," Yang says, hoping her words aren't as slurred as they sound in her head. "It's about - I don't - I never want to make you feel anything like how - how he made you feel."
"You don't." Her exhale shudders through her chest, makes her seem small and collapsable. "I - I'm not afraid of you. I'm not afraid you'll do what he did, or - or anything I don't want you to do. But I needed to be sure." Her fingers graze skin, one pinky skating under the strap of Yang's dress. Sometimes she just needs to be held. "You're nothing like him, but sometimes I feel like - like I don't know someone until I've seen them out of control."
This is a moment - Blake's drunk and speaking with insinuation. Maybe the leap comes more naturally with Yang's brain so hyper-focused on the blurry edges, the missing corner pieces. "The first time he hit you," Yang murmurs back, touch softer than sunlight against her spine, "was he drunk?"
Blake tongues the right side of her lip, the previous pocket of a cut, inside of her mouth sinking into her teeth and the taste of blood. She remembers the night, but she's drunk and it's almost muted, coated in a hazy film. Remembers the smashing of a vodka bottle, his fingers balled into a fist. "Yeah," she says, safe in the comfort of Yang's arms. "He was - mad. He thought I - thought I flirted with some other guy at a party."
The sigh that exits Yang's mouth battles fury - she pulls away, ashamed of herself and the tension of her wrists. She says, "I'm sorry. I'm trying - I don't want to be angry. But I am. I'm so fucking angry at him." She gently cups Blake's face again, locks their gazes as if trying to convey her sincerity through stare alone. Like it's the one place she knows Blake'll believe the truth. "He - he never should've touched you, Blake. Never. In a million years."
"I know," Blake says, but for Yang it's not enough.
Her face grows adorably frustrated - the intensity of of her blown pupils, not empty like Adam's but the safety of a hiding place; the tender way her fingers curl and glide, leaving space for exits - Blake doesn't want to smile, inappropriate in tone, but she's never felt more secure. "Do you want me to beat his ass?" Yang asks, fiercely passionate, and this is the conclusion she's drunkenly ended up on. "I'll do it. I'll beat his ass. He's just some - some music executive bitch. I'm Yang Xiao Long! Fuck him! I hate him! God!" She tears her arms away, throws them in the air, alcohol dictating all of her theatrical reactions. "Ugh!"
That's the final line; Blake falls over it and lets laughter spill out of her mouth, shoulders shaking and lips splitting into a smile. "I love you," she says, and laughs even more, a tune of delight upon hearing her own admission. She's known all along. They both have. "Yang, I fucking love you. I'm in love with you."
Yang freezes in place, arms back at her sides and her hands open and lax. Her expression reads preciously lost, disarmed and disbelieving; she's just staring, eyes wide and reflecting sunsets and fireflies. She's the most beautiful art Blake's ever seen in her life; she's the most haunting melody Blake's ever heard. She says waveringly, "You - what?"
"Yeah." Blake's cheeks hurt from the stretch of her grin, too wide to cover teeth. "I do."
Yang's silent another moment, neurons firing slowly, processing power absent in her inebriation. "Am I drunk and hallucinating?" she accuses bluntly, and that's all it takes to send Blake back into laughter.
Her apartment sits dark, nothing foreboding hidden in the night, no monster darting into shadow. Now she finds contentment in place of fear. "No," she giggles, steps forward, palms curling against Yang's neck, fingers linking. She drifts Yang's forehead down to hers, bumps them together. "I love you, you drunk moron."
"Oh my God," Yang breathes out, pupils flickering between her eyes. It's almost three months to the day, and they're where they'd started out, standing in Blake's entryway with their bodies close and their limbs tangled, night sky inhaled into the room; there's the unobstructed moon, the glittering stars melting into sea. Los Angeles spirals into its pieces, opaque whirlwind of fracturing color and sound and light. Yang swallows, looks like she's about to speak, and then crashes against Blake's mouth; she kisses in that wild, all-consuming way that leaves no room for doubt of her intention; her thumbs press against Blake's cheeks, fingertips sliding against her scalp, tongue slipping between her lips. She barely has breath, barely remembers the purpose of it. She breaks away, gasping, and murmurs, "I love you."
"I know," Blake says. Her smile's permanently affixed to her face. "I know you do."
"I love you more than any love that has ever existed," she says, an impassioned sentiment obviously built from alcohol yet somehow crafted masterfully. "Blake. I - I know we're both drunk, but I - I could've said this the moment I met you."
"I know," Blake says again, this time with the unfamiliar sting of tears. They're happy; she's not used to those. "I could've, too. Like you're in my soul."
"Like you're in my soul," Yang echoes, keeps falling into her mouth, lipstick breaking from its lines and smearing. It's impossible to get enough - Blake's taking unsteady steps back, finally hitting her couch, hands flying out to hold herself up - Yang descends over her like the sunset closing against the skyline, like a wave striking sand and spraying--
Sex has never felt so much like a symphony, so visionary and vibrant; Yang knows what she likes better than Blake can even put into words, leaving no need for directions. Yang keeps both Blake's dress and heels on, follows the slit with her fingers, dips under the skirt to the lace of her underwear - feels the heat of her through the fabric, the wet - and then she sucks Blake's bottom lip into her mouth, slow and purposeful, teeth scraping across as she releases it only to chase with her tongue, licking through Blake's mouth. She's teasing her - rubbing lightly, forcing the shifting of Blake's hips for friction, blinding anticipation - and then she finds the band, tugs Blake's underwear down her thighs, lets her kick them to the floor.
She's still pressed against the back of the couch, hands gripping the frame - Yang's gaze drops deliberately from her eyes to her mouth, to her chest and down - she spreads the fabric, reveals her cunt, and her throat constricts around a moan when she touches Blake bare, fingers coming away slick. Blake jerks automatically, desperate for circles around her clit, aching for pressure inside of her.
Yang's still in her own dress, and she isn't making any moves to take it off. There's something dirtier about it like this: Yang's clothes are worth thousands of dollars at the very least, and here she is with her thighs damp and guiding Blake's hand beneath, murmuring touch me. Her fingers slide easily inside of Blake at the same time, so wet it's almost embarrassing, and she adds a third, pumps them passive and lazy - Blake whines, frustrated, unable to focus - she's left possessed and devouring, grinding down onto Yang's hand, clit slipping across her thumb.
"I love watching you fuck yourself on me," Yang utters darkly against her ear, annoyingly composed as Blake fights to even stand. "Do you want to cum, baby?"
"Please," she chokes, full and desperate. Nobody brings her as high as Yang does, and definitely never as quickly. She's soaking Yang's palm. "Please."
Yang thrusts her fingers just as Blake sinks down, curls them roughly until Blake throws her head back with her lips parted in a soundless, strangled moan, rubs her clit in turn - dimly, Blake realizes Yang's grinding onto her hand, too, but it's careless, like she's just edging until she can get Blake properly underneath her--
"I want you to cum," Yang whispers with breath like fire. Her skin is melting, so are the walls, everything's slick and made of oil - she swears she's never had an orgasm until Yang, never felt her body rolling and crashing like the ocean, never watched the world caving in with the stars rocksliding - Yang lifts one of her legs by the thigh, and Blake follows the prompt, wrapping it around her waist--
She doesn't even recognize her own moan, too far gone out of her head - she's hearing Yang's breathless gasp like music, convulsing around her fingers - she's cumming so hard she's probably ruined both of their dresses - but Yang doesn't stop, just slows her pace until Blake's eyes aren't rolling back, until she can open them and see, and then--
Yang sucks them into her mouth, one at a time, cum stringing between her fingers and her smirk too wet for her own tongue.
"Bedroom," Blake manages, because she's afraid she might actually pass out, break a heel and disintegrate.
Her dress is tossed haphazardly by her closet; she slips off Yang's with a surprisingly steady hand. Their heels lay discarded by the door. "Lie down," Yang says softly, and Blake does as she's told, shivering in apprehension as Yang's thighs slot into place around either side of her head. She digs the tips of her fingers into Yang's hips immediately, scrapes across her thighs, finally settles on her ass - he tongue flicks out, tastes cum on her clit - her lips glisten, messy and soaked through - and then she licks her from bottom to top, tugging Yang's cunt closer to her mouth, wrapping around her clit and sucking.
Yang gasps above her, one of her hands tangling through Blake's hair and cupping the back of her head - she grinds down, thigh muscles trembling with the effort it's taking to hold herself up, ride Blake's tongue - she's dripping over Blake's nose, chin, but Blake's primal in her senses, devolving to only taste, smell - Yang's so sweet when she's cumming into Blake's mouth, tugging sharply on her hair, moaning and breathless - Blake swallows, wants even more--
Yang makes the move to get off of her, chest heaving, but Blake holds her closer, licks Yang again, hears her choke on her own voice. "Jesus," she murmurs, thighs clenching.
"Please," Blake says from between her legs, breathy and wanton. She doesn't release her grip. "Please. Keep going."
"I," Yang says, inhale unsteady and foreign, "I don't know if I can. Cum again."
She feels Blake's wicked smile against her cunt, lips spreading open, tongue darting inside. "Oh," Blake murmurs, and Yang's entire body strains under her own weight, muscles flexing hard and definitive. "I'll make you."
"Fuck." She's shaking brutally. "Fuck. No. Not like--" she forces a leg out of Blake's grip, and then she's turning around, adjusting on all fours. The image of that alone has Blake soaking the sheets beneath her, and Yang lowers her hips again, spreads Blake's legs apart at the same time. "Like this," she says, and her tongue slips across Blake's clit.
Yang is everywhere, then - inside of her, on top of her, filling up her mouth, her lungs, her heart. She's never known sex to be something so dirty and safe and fun at the same time, so raw and passionate and vulnerable - she knows her own tongue is growing stiff, haphazardly licking wherever she can taste, but Yang keeps her mouth in an o, sucks exactly right where Blake needs her to until she breaks.
It's enough - Blake cumming sends Yang following after, the idea of it hot enough to force her over the edge - and then she's panting heavily, mouth still hovering over Blake's cunt and her breath warm, hands spread against Blake's inner thighs.
She slides off onto her side, unable to move for a moment - the cool air hits the wetness on Blake's chin, lips, cheeks - and then Yang drags herself up, adjusting against the curve of her body.
"Jesus," she says, chest still heaving. "Jesus, fuck."
"That was," Blake says, finds her voice thick and stringing to her throat, "that was - fuck. Fuck."
Yang cups her face, leans in for a sloppy kiss. "I love you," she says, eyelids fluttering open, and the sweet sincerity of the remark is corrupted by the smirk that captures a corner of her mouth. Her fingers scale low, touching Blake like she's playing with her without building her back up. "I love you, and since we've already taken the next step in our, you know, romantic relationship - I'm thinking it's about time we take the next step in this part of our relationship, too."
Her head's hazy, full, consumed by static. She's so exhausted - less drunk, but enough - and Yang's red, swollen lips aren't doing her any favors. She fights the closing of her eyelids, the swell of dark waves threatening to consume her into sleep. "I love you," she says. "What would that be?"
Shade cast by moonlight, other things dark and fleeting - Yang's pitched low, if sin were a color and had a tune. "Have you ever been fucked with a strap-on?"
Her fingers brush Blake's clit as she speaks, and Blake passes out.
--
In the morning, nothing changes with the light.
I love you, is what Blake wakes up to, peppered against her mouth. I love you, I love you.
"You know what I don't love?" Blake says, tugging the blankets over both of their heads. "Hangovers."
"I'll fight the sun for you," Yang says.
"You'd be fighting yourself," Blake responds, and Yang's stunned little blink proves to be too hard for love to resist.
Oh, from that first minute, she thinks, dragging Yang's lips to her own. From that first second. From forever.
--
No pictures from the party itself leak - not in the coming week, anyway - but the paparazzi ones do. There's the expected swell of delighted confusion from all three sets of their followers - Ruby happily answers tweets the second they roll in, all asking Blake? Blake Belladonna? Do you like Menagerie? Did you meet on tour? with five too many emojis and double the exclamation points.
Yang's been following her for awhile; Ruby had started to the day she'd first heard Blake's name, uttered too softly and adoringly to ignore. Weiss Schnee, childhood star turned manager slowly floats up to the surface, though she's discarded somewhat quickly. Cleary the diversion tactic had worked; nobody knows how to couple the foursome, and the press leaves it without speculation.
Blake chimes in here and there, well-crafted and subtly redirective - Yang doesn't say anything at all, though she isn't notorious for being on Twitter in the first place. Instagram's where she lives socially (stalking my tag, Blake snarks, and Yang sticks out her tongue), so it isn't suspicious when she pretends it's passed her by.
They almost make it. Almost.
