By Minim Calibre
Note: Crack Gen Post #2, weeks later. As a warning, when I get something like “Roy Harper / …in drag or otherwise genderfucked” don’t expect plot, or continuity, or sense. Basically, this was me taking ten minutes to shake the sillies out. Outsiders, in that general 11/12 area.
For a couple seconds, he wishes he hadn’t cut off all his hair, but the combination of the clothes and the buzzed head looks kind of good, if he dares to say so himself.
Good enough for his purposes, at least.
Roy pauses, purses the glossy red pout he’s painted on his lips, and digs through the borrowed purse for the stub of black eyeliner he snagged from Grace’s bathroom counter. Just a little more… smudge it a bit… there. Like that. Yeah.
He flutters his lashes at his reflection in the locker room mirror. Scratch the kind of, he’s looking really good. Good enough to eat, and that’s kind of the point.
It takes a while to adjust to the heels, longer to adjust to the short, tight skirt that keeps every movement on the way to the training room clipped and precise. If he does this again, and he’s planning on it, he’ll go for something with pleats instead. When he makes his move, he hears the skirt rip as his thighs close around Dick’s hips. Next time, definitely pleats. Maybe some padding in the front, too.
Or maybe not. Padding would just get in the way. He feels the heat of Dick’s chest through the silky fabric of his shirt, feels the startled intake of breath when he angles his mouth down, pushes his tongue past lips he knows are parting just to ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. Good thing Roy’s made it so that Dick can’t ask and he can’t answer, because all he’d be able to say is that he should have done this sooner. Years ago, before his life came apart and came together. Then Dick’s hands are clawing under his skirt, pushing him closer, moving in ways Roy never dreamed were possible, and he stops thinking; Dick’s touch is like smack multiplied, sending every nerve ending in Roy’s body into overdrive.
Later–much later–he pulls on the borrowed clothes, or what’s left of them. He feels bruised and used and alive, like himself again for the first time in a long time. Dick’s still sitting there, looking shell-shocked by the whole thing. Roy smiles, tosses the ruined shirt over for him to use as a towel.
“Same time next week, Boy Wonder?”
Then he’s gone, not bothering to wait for the answer.