One Day at a time - Roy`s POV - Repost.
A/N: I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t post this - I had a bad night and I just…needed to get this off of my chest.
Trigger warnings: Cutting, self-mutilation, small comment about maybe getting molested by a teacher (?) (at the very least dubious consent), knife play, light bdsm, wax play (is that a thing?)
Prompt: sub!Bianca (I guess) A/N 2: not beta’d. - all mistakes are my own.
A/N 3/Disclaimer - this is a work of fiction - I am in no way insinuating that Roy Haylock or Bianca Del Rio self-mutilates and they obviously don’t condone it either! This is a work of fiction that I wrote because..well I needed it. and I’m sorry again.
I’ve been putting my dick in panty hose for the last 18 years; there is no secret about that and I have been called everything from: a small pent up bottle of rage to sexy and probably worse things by better people.
It doesn’t bother me. Nothing about me working in this industry bothers me.
I admit. There are things however, that I don’t understand: People think that I’ve changed their lives! I don’t see it. I’m a man in a wig! I don’t cure cancer! I am quite thankful and touched that people think that, but a part of me is just-really?
I get letters from fans and gifts with little notes and comments on social media about it and maybe watching me make fun of people is some sort of therapy? I had a woman the other day tell me that she got a cancer diagnosis (ah! I just realized I made that curing cancer comment…crap!)
Anyway, after the show she told me she got this diagnosis and that I was the first thing that made her laugh all week! Can you imagine?
Seriously though if that doesn’t change your way of thinking about something’s then I don’t know what to tell you.
I started to cut again. Maybe I should have started with that.
It started after season six, just after the letters and the chaos started; it’s stupid. It’s dangerous. I know I need to stop.
I started when I was sixteen the first time; I realized that some how slicing across my veins was easier than admitting I was being fucked by my male teacher for a promise of a better grade.
It’s better than alcohol and way better than drugs.
At least if I don’t slice to hard I can still do a show, add another bracelet to my wrist to hide the band-aid. Make my sleeves a little longer to hide the fresh scabs.
Fifteen new cuts adorn my forearms for fifteen new people who sent me letters telling me of their suicide attempts until they discovered drag.
Danny Noreiga knows what it’s like to watch the crimson life fluid be ripped from your veins of your own free will; it’s Danny and I that talk about it. Finds solace in it; knowing what it’s like to stop but still have those moments where it feels like your world is ending if you don’t find a razor and soon. We call each other when we have that feeling and we need it too stop; God I can’t count the number of times that fucking Chola has been my confidant. And I hope, I him.
Three months ago something changed in our relationship. Danny and I. I’m not sure who started it, I’m not sure how, it was probably the vanilla candles Danny was burning because he thought they were pretty, too much talking and that bottle of Johnny Walker Black that seemed to burn our throats just right after a show in bum fuck no where.
Fuck, I admit it.
I kissed the kid.
Not kid. Young man.
Kid makes it sounds like he’s 16 or something and I have two rules “don’t fuck kids” and “don’t fuck the help.”
Danny tastes like how he smells: Ocean salt water and something sweet and spicy all at the same time like he bathed in cinnamon sugar. It’s something so uniquely Daniel Noriega, that it makes sense. Like the way his pink tongue licks his lips and the way her black eyelashes brush just to her cheekbone when they flutter closed.
I can’t help it and I gasp when she pushes me on to the bed – I’m wearing a Courtney Act Tank and my tights still in half drag and too drunk to give a fuck. I rarely have sex when I’m in drag, but there is something about tonight that makes all bets off.
I’m on my back and she pulls a switch blade from the back of his denim cut offs, I knew it was there, he always carries it with her, he has since he was 13, he always has it for protection. Not that I blame him.
Danny slowly slices through the tank I’m wearing; my body seems too offer it to his blade like some sort of material sacrifice. It’s teasing me with its sharpness, scraps of material falls to the floor.
I wait for him to either introduce the knife to my skin or…other sensitive and other vulnerable parts of my body; places where it probably should never go.
Knives are about cold steel meeting warm flesh; in the right hands they can either bring you forth to warm high levels of ecstasy or can stop someone’s life. In Danny’s hands it manages to be a downright tease.
Fuck. It feels so good, something this wrong shouldn’t feel so right, but my hips buck and grind against anything they can reach wile I feel the cold blade against my skin followed by his warm mouth. Knives reduce things to the basic and the simple. It is from there were build.
I know I feel and look vulnerable as I look up at the Chola’s face that’s above me “trust me, I’ll never hurt you.” He whispered and I trust him. I trust him more in that moment more than I will ever trust anyone else and fuck it scares me.
Danny spends hours cutting me slowly out of the layers of panty hose I wear so I don’t have to shave my legs a part of me wants to make sure that I have more pairs with me, but I don’t want to stop.
We’re drunk. This should stop.
He licks my stomach and pours a bit of the hot wax from a candle just where his mouth left and it hurts so good that I can’t actually think; Danny spends another thirty minutes slowly scraping it off.
We spend ours edging each other to orgasm, I’m admittedly not versatile until tonight with him, it seems important and I’m enjoying all those little moans and him on top of me; just the perfect amount of weight.
It’s four in the morning and both of us are sober and kind of exhausted, my skin is covered in a light layer of sweat and I’m breathing heavy.
“I know it’s a little unusual,” Danny tried to explain through heavy breaths “Wow…Sorry you wore me out,” he giggled, “you have all this pain written all over you that you medicate with alcohol and I just…I just wanted to give you something positive to think on. Maybe…maybe you’d think about tonight and not…” he ran his hands over my scars and fresh cuts and tears fall on his cheeks. “You’re not a fuck up, Roy, I know what you’re thinking. You are allowed to say ‘you know what I love you but you need to seek professional help’ you’re allowed to say ‘I’m not equipped to deal with this.” He cried harder and snuggles beside me “You can’t help someone if you’re dead!” he pulls me to the side so my head is on his chest.
I try to look through my little rolodex of hate,’ it’s going to be hard; but…maybe with Danny by my side I can get through this.
One day at a time.
