"I know you're in there," Bea says cheerfully. From the thump of something hitting the door and the faint sliding sound, she's probably sitting with her back to his door, and this retreat was a complete tactical failure. In his defence, Robert didn't have a lot of choice.
"Shut up," he says, totally ruining his hiding place. Not that his room should really count as one, especially not when Bea's right outside the door, but at least there’s still that barrier, thin as it is between them. He doesn't really want to open the door and see the package in her hands.
He does it anyway, because he's not scared, he's just having intense regrets about moving in with her and her bad ideas.
Bea falls backward when he yanks open the door, falling flat on her back on the carpet. She waves the plain brown box at him.
"You agreed to it," Bea sing-songs. "You know you did."
"I was drunk!" Robert says, scowling down at her. "And you were being all hot."
"I know, right?" she says, bobbing her head. "Isn't it great?"
It is, occasionally, great. Well, a lot. But not when she uses it for evil.
"You promised," she says, infinitely smug. "Also, I'm totally telling everyone you backed out, if you do." Not an idle threat. He's pretty much putting off the inevitable here.
"Fuck," he says, stepping backward to sit heavily in his desk chair. "Sure, I guess. Whatever."
Bea's victory arms somehow look even smugger upside down.
Robert doesn't look inside the box. It sits, unwanted, in his closet, getting covered in old socks. He'd get rid of it, but Bea would find out. It's still pretty well covered by the time Bea bounces into his room to ask why he isn't dressed for the party yet.
He makes a face, and covers his eyes with his arm, trying to hide behind his phone. Bea sighs. "It'll be fun," she says. "All of my ideas are good ones, you need to understand this."
"But why can't you wear it instead?" he asks hopelessly.
Apparently this is the world's stupidest question, judging by her face. "That wouldn't be funny." She rolls her eyes at him. "I'll make you look good, I promise."
An even more terrifying prospect.
Ultimately, she doesn't actually insist on the shaving, though she does lie on his bed and wolf-whistle at intervals while he reluctantly unearths the box from under his dirty laundry, and pulls out the joke of a costume. Fuck, there are tights too.
"I don't know if this'll fit," he says, holding it gingerly in the air.
"One way to find out!" she chirps, looking up at him innocently with her chin resting on her hands. Her feet kick gently in the air.
It doesn't fit. At all. It's kind of a relief. He can't go out with his playboy bunny outfit barely pulled up to his pecs, right? And it's her fault, so he didn't even weasel out of it. This is amazing.
Bea scowls. "I'll make it fit," she says terrifyingly, snatching it from his hands.
God, it should be a lot sexier and less weird when a hot girl tells you not to get dressed again, she'll be right back. Robert flops back on his bed and regrets all of the decisions that led him to have an apartment he couldn't lock Bea out of.
It's not like they couldn't bone easily enough when they were only living in the same building. Wasn't that good enough, past-Robert? Why did closer seem better? His dick makes the worst choices.
Bea returns, brandishing two tiny scraps of clothing, before Robert is anywhere near done feeling sorry for himself. "Fixed it."
"That looks more broken to me."
She huffs at him. "Look, it'll fit like this." She tosses the two bits at him. One of them is familiar: the top half of the leotard, cut off raggedly at the bottom. The other is even more familiar, actually: he's fairly sure these panties are Bea's.
"They'll fit," she says, when he waves them dubiously at her. "You have no hips, and they totally fit my giant ass. It'll look less weird when you put it on together."
Bea watches, chin on one hand, as he sullenly drags the two parts of the costume on. It's sort of hot. Not the costume, which is still dumb, but Bea's really intently watching as he pulls on - fuck - her goddamn panties, and it's definitely giving him a bit of a chub.
It doesn't make the underwear fit any better. Bea rolls her eyes again when he points this out.
"Here, let me," she says, getting to her feet and reaching out to fiddle with the top of the bustier. It does come up high enough now, he guesses. Or, as high as it was ever going to get anyway. Bea looks far too pleased with it. "Perfect," she says, grabbing his ass, which doesn't do his semi any good, and he scowls at her toothy grin.
She ignores it. "What did you do with the stockings?"
"Blocked them from my mind," he mumbles, and she cackles, retrieving them from the parcel and handing them to him with a smile.
Robert thinks the stockings are supposed to come up higher, but Bea's not listening to any criticism. "C'mon," she says, dragging him in front of the mirror. "You look fantastic."
He really doesn't. There's a gap between her underwear and the ragged bottom of his joke of a shirt, and it doesn't look like it fits him at all. The ribbon around his neck is choking him. Bea, standing next to him and admiring her handiwork, looks nine million times hotter in her Pens shirt and sloppy jeans, her smile both radiant and infuriating. He makes a face.
"Uh huh, tell me again how much you don't like this," she says, gaze flicking proprietarily down to his dick, which is really goddamn obvious right now.
"You keep groping me," Robert says defensively, and isn't at all charmed by the way she wrinkles her nose when she smiles.
"Yeah," Bea says, her hand resting hot between his unsettlingly exposed shoulder-blades.
"Why don't you have to have a costume?" he grumbles instead of responding.
"I'm doing Hefner, that's like bathrobe, booze, done." She waves a hand dismissively. "You are totally living up to your promise though, I'll admit that."
Bea's costume takes longer than she claims it will, but when she comes out of the bathroom, she’s also drawn on some wrinkles, and her short hair's all powdered with talc, parted on the side like a dude. "Good, right?" she says as she adjusts the collar of what's totally his bathrobe. The leer's pretty perfect, admittedly, but he's not telling her that.
Robert doesn't drink enough that he gets to forget the party, but maybe if he pretends hard enough he can forget both the hysterical laughter, and how knowing everyone sounded when he blamed everything on Bea. He spends a lot of time talking to Sid, who is visibly forcing himself to not stare at Robert's legs in a way that he really appreciates right now. This was a terrible idea.
Bea keeps coming by to hand him drinks. It’s almost like she’s making up for this except that it’s not her liquor, and also she keeps whispering things in his ear that make him blush, her hand warm on his arm, on his back. Everyone looks knowing about this too. Robert’s glass is far too empty.
He's still pretty drunk by the time they're in a cab, giggling all the way home. He lost the choker at some point in the night, and he's got sweats and his coat on over the costume, because otherwise he would literally die in the cold, but he keeps flicking glances at the cabbie, like he might be able to see that Robert's dressed as a playboy bunny through the layers. Bea's sprawled over the rest of the back seat, still looking immensely pleased with herself, even though she's leaving white marks on the headrest.
"Oh my god," she says as they stumble into the apartment. "I can't believe you actually wore that. That was beautiful. You looked amazing." She leans against him, sneaking her hands into his coat. "So good." She nods firmly into his shoulder.
"You made me," he says crankily, moving her to take his coat off.
"But it was good," she says, blinking at him. "Anyway, you're totally into this." The creep of her fingers under the waist of his sweats would be less weird if she wasn't still doing her old man "Hefner" voice. "C'mon, little lady, I know what you want." She squeezes his ass.
Robert laughs helplessly. "God, no, please," he says. "Jesus, I will go down on you for a million years if you never use that voice in bed again."
Bea pouts. "But it's fuuuun," she says, still doing it. Robert winces, putting his coat in the closet. He stretches as he turns back, rolling the kinks out of his shoulders, the discomfort he’s felt all evening. Bea blinks at him, and licks her lips. "Yeah," she says, her voice back to normal, "sure, deal."
He kisses her bowed neck as she toes off her shoes, and she shivers, dragging him by the wrist to the nearest bedroom. "You were saying?" she says, flopping down on Robert's bed, his hideous bathrobe puddling around her. She's still wearing her dress shirt and pants under it, though she undid her collar pretty low at some point in the night and Robert can see the edge of her bra where her sprawl has knocked her shirt askew. He swallows, and she spreads her knees.
"Leave it on," she says, as Robert goes to strip off this stupid costume with his sweats. He makes a face, her panties already halfway down his hips. Her eyes are half lidded as she looks at him, her teeth sharp against her wet lips. "It's hot, I promise. I told you I'd make you look good."
"You're terrible," he mutters, stepping out of his sweats, and she draws him in for a filthy kiss, tongue slipping slickly against his. His dick presses against the elastic of her underwear, and it's only more uncomfortable when Bea reaches down to run her fingers along the hard line of it. Her teeth nip at his lower lip, and he presses her back into the bed, grumbling about how much clothing she's still wearing.
She shrugs out of the robe and starts to unbutton her shirt, but it's taking longer than Robert can bear to wait and he slides down between her legs, taking her pants with him. Bea grins, spreading her thighs wider around his shoulders, and tilts her head like a challenge, chin thrust out.
There's slick wetness already dripping from her curls when Robert bends his head, and Bea's been telling him all night that he looked really fucking hot like that, but she was really drunk, so he didn't quite believe it until now. His dick twitches, tucked uncomfortably in underwear that really does not fit, whatever Bea says, but her fingers thread through his hair, pushing him gently down, and he's happy to go.
His first lick is sloppy, the sharp taste of her along his tongue as his mouth fills with slick. He swallows, tongue still flat against her clit and gulps as Bea's hand presses down harder, urging him on. He said a million years, but it's not going to need to be anything like as long as that: Bea already writhing against him with every suck to her clit, her nails scraping gently against his scalp.
She bucks up into his mouth, grinding against his jaw, and he's still uncomfortable, costume pinching as he bends down to her, but he can nearly forget in the intensity of it, her sharp gasps punctuating the thrust of her hips.
He lifts his head slightly to gasp for breath, and Bea whines, her hand tight in his hair again. She swears when he runs his tongue across her clit again, hissing when he sucks it, and shakes herself to orgasm against the press of his mouth, her thighs squeezing tight around his ears.
"Fuck," she says as they loosen, spreading again, and she sucks in a long breath. She shudders when Robert kisses her clit again, noises in the back of her throat when he runs his fingers lightly along her slit. Bea's insanely, hotly wet and Robert's fingers slip easily into her. She clenches down on them, short, harsh gasps as he rocks in and out of her, his thumb resting lightly on her clit. Her thigh twitches when he kisses it absently, but it's better to lean his cheek against it, watching her hips rock into his hand.
His whole hand's wet by the time she comes again, cunt crushing his fingers as she convulses, curling in on herself almost close enough to kiss him. Her thumb slides across the wetness on his cheek as she pants.
"You still owe me just under a million years of that," she croaks, "but you should totally fuck me now."
His dick jumps as her wet thumb slides between his lips, the taste of her strong in his mouth again. Her underwear is so fucking uncomfortable right now, the head of his dick pinched in the elastic, balls held too tight, too close to him. His sigh of relief as he wiggles them off is not subtle at all, and Bea gets up on her elbows to pout at him.
"I cannot wear them and fuck you," he says firmly. "Cannot."
"Fine," she sighs, and grins. "Keep the rest though?"
"God," he says, which doesn't mean no, and she fucking knows it, damn it all.
Bea runs her fingers down Robert’s chest as he leans across her to get condoms. They dip into where his bustier gaps awkwardly at the top and he wrinkles his nose at her. She kisses it lightly, then down his cheek and onto his mouth, her tongue flickering against his lips. His hips rut down against her thigh as he kisses back, and she grins against his mouth, the squeeze of her hand on his reminding him of the packet he's clutching.
Robert has to go up on his knees to put the condom on, every touch a little much after all that unwanted friction. He hisses when it’s all the way on, his hand tight around the base of his dick, trying not to think about how badly he wants this. Bea watches him contemplatively. "I like the stockings," she says. "Really. I do."
Her toes brush against them as she spreads herself for him, guiding him into her, her knees pulled back, but her smug look morphs into a less complicated pleasure as Robert starts to move. She's still pushy as fuck, legs curled around him, pulling him tighter against her, but her head's thrown back against the pillows, her oddly powdered hair sticking up in spikes, her shirt flapping open even more when she arches her back.
It’s amazing, it’s always amazing, being over the hot, tight push of it seems like it would be the saddest thing in the world, but Bea’s cupping her own tits too, gasping as she rubs over her nipples, and it's possible he's going to die from that instead. He swears, eyes fluttering shut, and when he opens them again, Bea's watching him, her gaze on his chest where the stupid costume is squeezing him as he breathes deeply.
His stomach feels squirmy under her scrutiny, and he pumps his hips again, sliding back into the rhythm that makes both of them gasp.
He can last longer than this, he knows it, but Bea pushes up against him, her ankles crossed behind his ass, speeding him up and he feels himself skate closer to the edge, panting into her neck.
Bea's hand slides down his arm, blunt nails like an electric shock down his nerves, and Robert can feel his thighs trembling as his rhythm goes jerky, hips stuttering to a stop when he comes. Bea purrs against his neck, releasing him so he can pull out and deal with the condom, but dragging him in again as soon as he's done to cuddle, pinning him under one strong leg.
The edge of his bustier is digging into Robert's side. Bea only yawns against his skin when he brings this to her attention. "Looks good though," she points out sleepily.
He's...choosing not to debate that one with her. He still doesn't really agree, but it certainly seems to be doing something for her. He's not thinking about it. Not with her breasts moving softly against him as she breathes deeply, her hand splayed wide across his hip. He's also not wearing this damn thing all night, but Bea's weight on him is kind of convincing for the moment, and he’s fairly sure they’re going to have to move later regardless because he’s not sleeping with Bea’s sneezy cloud of talc.
Besides, what’s the point of the apartment if they can’t abandon the bed with the wet spot when convenient?