and what if I said I wanted a fic where Trixie and Katya decide (or are pushed) to go back to Drag Race for an all stars season and it makes them fall in love
Asked a thousand times, in a thousand ways — “Would you ever return for another season?” — they’d respond first with an incredulous chuckle; then a shake of the head, dangling earrings wobbling against their necks; and a resolute no. In fact, they had both been contacted by production in the last few years: Trixie for All-Winners, Katya for V.S. the World. They were in demand. But they declined, each citing other opportunities they couldn’t renege on. In truth, going back didn’t appeal. Neither was incredibly competitive, so being locked in a room full of acrylic claws and toothed stares made them want to climb out of their skin. Trixie had always had more confidence, comparatively, but even she doubted her own worth between those pink plywood walls. For Katya, the self-doubt could be ruinous. So, it had been a thousand times, in a thousand ways, no.
Then, a year went by without a significant gig. By design, in Trixie’s mind — she’d needed a break after a decade of non-stop grind. Her bones ached. She couldn’t even enjoy the comforts she had secured herself, never home enough to appreciate her furnishings, rarely a moment to reflect on how she’d pulled herself from poverty to prosperity through her own tenacity and talent. It had finally paid off — she spent most of her days out of drag but, still, her brand was at the height of its success — and yet she couldn’t ignore the gnawing, the crawling over her shoulders and the back of her neck and in her skull, that she needed to do more.
Katya had been the one to force her hand, because Katya was the only other person who understood. Who’d been there from the very beginning. Get out of here, she’d said one day in the studio, take a break, a long one. Please. I need you, but I need the you that loves to do this.
Trixie realized, then, that she’d lost the love. The love for drag, for talking about herself, for creating. Somehow, sometime, that had gone on autopilot; her anxiety had been driving for a while. So, she left. Three months turned into six, and even when she eased back in, it was baby steps. The podcast, no drag. DJ-ing in boy clothes. Pre-shot YouTube videos while she toiled away at the makeup company. And then, finally, that spark came back. The itch — no longer for constant work, but for drag. She missed the wigs, the lashes, the heels. Stones and gowns, a challenge of a theme, having to sew a slip dress because that’s all she knew how to make. She caught a random re-run of Season 7, the episode that Katya won for her shitty impression of Merle Ginsberg, and she remembered how silly and stupid and freeing drag felt back then.
And maybe, she realized, going back wouldn’t be so bad. But they’d never have the opportunity. The calls weren’t coming to their phones. Their agents hadn’t heard from production in two years. The world had moved on from the need for Trixie and Katya back on Drag Race, so it didn’t matter if Trixie started to think fondly of it again. That ship hadn’t even been on the horizon for a while.
They got the call a month and a half before the first day of filming.
and what if I said I wanted a fic where Trixie and Katya decide (or are pushed) to go back to Drag Race for an all stars season and it makes them fall in love
dynamics i've been wanting to gif: mabel & honoria - the buccaneers
I know you and I won't get any of this. We won't get any of their world. Not really. Not in a way we deserve, but perhaps if we could be brave, we can make our own world. And maybe... maybe it'll be better.
Her cursor blinks rhythmically in the middle of the coded function, a thin green line appearing and disappearing on the screen that has gone long-unseen by Rosé’s eyes. She is too busy dreaming about the mind-blowing shower sex she had on New Years’ Day. Two days since and in the office, it feels like forever ago that Denali had bent her over under the hot stream of water and fucked her with the very same strap that Rosé had made Denali come with ten times over. She didn’t know that Denali had it in her to top like that, but Rosé has always loved a good surprise.
The air in her office becomes stuffy and too hot. Rosé shifts in her chair, brings her fingers to her mouth to wipe the sweat forming on her top lip, and when she brings it down it doesn’t return to her mouse but lands on her stomach. The fabric of her blouse is rough as she slides her fingers a little lower—
No, she absolutely cannot touch herself at work, but she checks to make sure the door to her office is closed anyway and then huffs an incredulous laugh at herself. It doesn’t help that her normal lunch-and-fuck with Denali was cancelled when Chamilla decided to treat her daughter to a shopping trip during the lunch hour on one of her last days in the city. Rosé swallows last days down and picks up her phone from the desk to text Denali.
I miss your ass.
While she waits for a reply, she returns to the work computer in front of her, darkened from a lack of activity but still with the flashing cursor in the middle of the function. Rosé purses her lips and scrolls through the lines of code already written to try and remember what she was doing before her mind wandered. She can’t figure it out, however, so Rosé deletes a few lines with a sigh and clicks back to her meeting notes to start over. Evidently, the holiday break didn’t give her enough rest to avoid distractions; or maybe the absence of her regularly-scheduled distraction is causing more problems than she is willing to admit.
What the hell is she going to do in four days when Denali is gone?
Her phone buzzes on the desk, and despite her best instincts telling her to ignore the message and keep her focus on work, she knows she can’t resist.
Denali Foxx: I bet you do ;)
Rosé rolls her eyes.
With the message comes a photo of Denali in a dimly-lit dressing room framed by a pink door, her body twisted to give a generous view of her lingerie-clad ass in the mirror while she gazes into the phone. Rosé shivers. She can’t tear her eyes away from the image, even as there is a knock on the door, even as a secretary lets himself in and lays another pile of data on the edge of Rosé’s desk.
“Thank you,” she says half-heartedly when he is on the way out of her office.
The only thing that does bring her away from Denali’s ass is her next message—
Denali Foxx: do you think I could break the internet with this set?
It’s supposed to be flirty, Rosé knows, but she can’t help the uncomfortable turn of her stomach whenever Denali brings up Icy Spicy Princess things anymore. Thankfully, there hasn’t been a stream since the one in her own apartment, so she was able to quietly turn her notifications for Denali’s accounts off without her knowing. Of course Rosé doesn’t want to hear about it; all she wants to hear is Denali telling her how much she wants her, and that she doesn’t need anyone else’s love or praise but Rosé’s. That feeling quickly gives way to guilt, because she knows just how much Denali enjoys being a camgirl, having seen her personality so inhibited on New Year’s Eve and in her parents’ home. Rosé knows her to be her freest on her porn twitter and in her streams — and with Rosé herself. That last part has to count for something, though, just like the look in Denali’s eyes at midnight in the new year has to mean that Rosé’s feelings are not only her own.
Rosé doesn’t respond to Denali. Instead, she returns to her work, finally typing out her code in full. It fails a few times and requires an embarrassing amount of edits, but she thinks it’s a win, all things considered. She hopes that she can get the social media engagement projections to the marketing and graphic design departments by the end of the day, just so she can go home and take a warm bath with a glass of wine perched in her brand-new glass holder for the tub — a Christmas gift courtesy of Jan.
A phone call interrupts that thought.
“How worked up are you?” Denali asks as soon as Rosé gets the phone to her ear, before she can even say hello.
Rosé bites her lip, her worries already melting away, as they always do when she hears Denali’s voice. “Very.”
“I could come see you?”
Rosé hears bags rustling through the phone, the sound of a car door closing. “Nali, you know we can’t do it here.”
“My mom has a stakeholder meeting, should take a few hours,” Denali says. “I could get under your desk…”
The way Denali says it makes it sound so much more enticing than the mental image already is. But Rosé looks at her to-do list on her computer and finds hours more of work staring back at her.
“I wish I could, but I have a lot to get done.”
Denali huffs. “Fine.” Rosé hears her pout loud and clear through the phone. “But I’m going to fuck you at that office one of these days.”
Rosé laughs. “Keep trying, see where that gets you.” It is quiet for a moment. Rosé listens to the street around Denali, the light puffs of her breath, and then the environment getting shut out when Denali walks inside a building. Her doorman greets her. Rosé rests her head in her hand. “How was shopping?”
“Quick, but I’m happy with what I got.” Her keys jangle too near to the microphone for a moment. “Did you like the lingerie set?”
“Of course, but I liked what it was covering more,” Rosé says quietly. “Do I get to see it?”
Denali hums. “I have a photoshoot already scheduled for my first week back in Chicago, and that’ll get posted to OnlyFans a few days after.”
Rosé picks at a stack of sticky-notes and chooses her words carefully. “Quick turn around, huh?”
“It wouldn’t be profitable if it wasn’t,” Denali says, oblivious to the half-heartedness of Rosé’s response. Rosé begins to wish that Denali could sense her feelings better so they wouldn’t pile up until the inevitable day that they burst from Rosé and ruin what she has going with Denali. Though the more reasonable voices in her head tell her that an emotional outburst might be better than whatever they’re doing now, this dancing around feelings like prima ballerinas.
“Hey, Nali?” Rosé chimes. “I’ve gotta head out, get back to this thing I’m working on.”
“Wait, Rosie, are we still on for Sunday?”
“Your last day?” Rosé bites back the waver in her voice. “Of course. But I’ll see you before then, right?”
“Yeah, I’m coming for lunch tomorrow,” Denali says, and then her voice drops a little, gets more coy, “and I’ll make up for missing today. Promise.”
Rosé laughs a little. “All right. See you soon, baby.”
“Bye, Rosie.”
The line ends before Rosé gets to it. She drops her phone on the desk, the clatter echoing around the space. She tries to jump right back to her work, but her gaze drifts to Denali’s empty chair that sits at the corner of her desk. She tries not to hear a countdown clock in the back of her brain.
--
A knock at her door has Rosé almost tripping out of bed, barely awake, before she even realizes it’s seven in the morning. It isn’t normal for her to wake up before ten on a weekend, not even for brunch with Jan and Lagoona, so she knows it isn’t one of them behind her front door expecting her to be awake. She sluggishly leaves her bedroom, stubs her toe on a barstool that she left pulled away from the counter the night before, and the pain wakes her up enough to wonder for a moment whether she should even be opening the door for an apparent stranger this early in the morning.
Still, her sleep-stiff fingers fumble with the lock until the bolt clicks open and she turns the door handle. It cracks barely an inch before Denali bursts through the opening, talking and moving too fast for Rosé to understand.
“Wait, wait, what?” Rosé asks, turning to watch as Denali dumps a large tote bag on her kitchen counter and her coat over the back of a barstool. “How did you get up here? I didn’t buzz you in.”
Denali holds her phone up and points to it like Rosé is stupid. “I have your door code from last week.”
“Right.” Rosé nods a few times, looks around, blinks. “What… what time is it? And what is all that?” She gestures to the bag on the counter. “What are you doing?”
“It’s Sunday,” Denali says, and looks at her expectantly.
Rosé’s heart sinks as the pieces fall into place. “Oh.”
“Did you forget?”
“No, I didn’t forget.” Rosé wishes she had, and wishes she could still. She takes a few steps into the kitchen, closer to Denali. “Just… give me a few minutes, okay? I’m not used to being conscious this early. Your knock almost gave me a heart attack.”
Denali giggles and nods. Rosé wants to kiss her, but she is sure she looks crazy and that her breath is stale from sleep. Instead, she goes to the junk drawer in the island and pulls out a hair tie, tugs her auburn curls into a bun. Next on her list is coffee, so she fires up the machine.
“Want any?” she asks Denali.
“No thanks, I’ve had some already.”
Shocking, Rosé thinks sarcastically. While the coffee brews, she retreats into the bathroom to brush her teeth, trying not to glance at her appearance in the mirror so she doesn’t feel even more self conscious. Fucking Denali, showing up at her apartment before the sun has risen and still looking effortlessly like a tan goddess. She is equally annoyed as she is attracted to her, and thankful for the low-cut black top she is in to show off her breasts. Rosé spits out toothpaste and switches her t-shirt for a white tank top.
The coffee finishes just as she returns to the kitchen. Denali has shifted from her standing position to sit on a barstool, tapping away at her phone. Rosé wonders who she could be texting this early. She takes a mug down from her shelves and brings it to the coffee maker. She hears the barstool shift quietly, and then feet padding across the kitchen.
“So, how do you want to spend your last day in the city?” Rosé asks. She has to concentrate much too hard on the mug to keep from spilling coffee when she feels Denali’s hands on her waist.
Denali leans in close to her ear. “Well, I thought it would start with you fucking me.” Her words and the hot breath from her mouth make Rosé shiver. “Then a late lunch at Raoul’s, and then dancing.”
“Dancing?” Rosé carefully slots the coffee pot back into the machine. “On a Sunday?”
“You don’t wanna dance with me, Rosie?” Her fingers slip under the hem of Rosé’s tank top.
Rosé swallows. “Of course I do. But your flight is early and being out all night dancing sounds like a good way to miss it.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“You’re the one who’s been dying to get back to Chicago.” Rosé’s head falls back on Denali’s shoulder to kiss her neck and the sensitive skin behind her ear. Denali’s fingers glide up and her palms cover her breasts, squeeze, before her fingers tease her nipples. Rosé sucks in a harsh breath, and she catches Denali’s smirk out of the corner of her eye. “Your hands are cold,” she whispers, the lie slipping through her teeth smooth as silk.
Denali pouts. “Warm them for me?”
Rosé grasps Denali’s forearms and gently tugs her hands from beneath her shirt. She kisses her left palm, then her right. Then she turns around and kisses Denali full on the mouth. She backs her two steps to the island and presses her hips tight against hers, trapping Denali’s hands between them. She feels over the curve of Denali’s waist, up her sides and to her neck, and when she grasps the thin edge of Denali’s black tank top she tilts her chin up and kisses a line down her neck to her exposed breasts and back up. Her lips begin to suck, teeth nipping.
Denali’s hands flex against her hips. “If you leave a hickey—”
“What, a subscriber might see?” Rosé almost laughs, and she sucks harder, now more determined to leave her mark. Denali scowls down at her, but it loses its bite when she moans despite herself. Rosé kisses back up her neck gently and cups her jaw to look at her. The look in Denali’s eyes is anything but gentle, and her smile curls in a way that Rosé thinks is a dare. “Come on,” she says, taking a step back and tugging Denali by the fingertips.
They move quickly through the apartment, the route now familiar to Denali after so many hook ups during lunch and all the other times they’ve fucked in Rosé’s bed. When they arrive there, Rosé pushes Denali down onto it and tries not to think that this will be the last time. Instead, she kneels to reach under her mattress for her box of sex toys.
“Take off your clothes, baby,” she huffs. A pair of leggings soar past her head as she pops the lid off of the box, and she laughs under her breath but keeps looking for what she wants, and quickly. Every moment that their skin doesn’t touch feels like a waste of precious time.
She takes out her soft, black brief-style harness and slips it on over her underwear. Then she grabs her favorite strap and pulls it through the o-ring. She stands, and Denali laughs.
“Pink? Really, Rosé?”
Rosé rolls her eyes. “Shut up, or I won’t fuck you with it.”
“Fine. Come here,” Denali says. Rosé steps forward, ready to press Denali into the mattress and fuck her until she can’t see straight, but it’s Denali who grabs her first. She hooks her fingers into the waistband of the briefs, just above Rosé’s ass, wraps her lips around the dildo, and sucks.
Rosé’s mouth falls open. No one has ever done this to her, and to be honest she has never fully understood it — she can’t feel Denali’s lips and tongue, of course, so she shouldn’t be getting any satisfaction from this. But she hears the wet sounds of Denali’s mouth, sees her head bob gently back and forth, and it’s definitely doing something to her. Rosé puts one hand on Denali’s flushed cheek, caressing the pink skin on her cheekbone, and tangles the other in the hair at the back of Denali’s head. Her own hips start to move a little, and she feels Denali’s jaw open more, a low moan grumbling in her throat when Rosé gets rougher.
“Jesus, Denali, you look so fucking pretty.” Her fingers tighten against Denali’s scalp. The more Denali seems to be enjoying it, the more it affects Rosé. She thought that she would be the one in charge, but she’s practically begging when, in a shaky voice, she says, “Baby, let me fuck you, now.”
titsay
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
