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“Ughhhhh…aughghh…OUGHaoahhhh…” Mista moved his legs further apart. “Oh yeah, that's it.”
He eased himself up from his calf stretch and walked over to his bluetooth speaker, turning it on and cranking up the volume. No one else was in the house. He could get the bass pumping.
BEEP. “Connecting to Mista's Poggers iPhone.”
He tapped his phone screen, then moved into position: back arched, arm delicately poised by his forehead.
It was only four beats that he had to stay statue-still, and then:
“I'm not shy, I'll say it; I’ve been picturing you naked.”
He began to slowly move his ass from side-to-side, the rest of his body flowing with the movement. As the verse continued, he continued to sway, sliding his hands towards his knees and spreading them. He could feel himself slipping into the zone.
“Me and your girlfriend playing dress up in my house.”
He squatted low, pussy facing the world, letting his hands shape the air around the music as they saw fit. For the duration of this song, he was beautiful.
“I gave your girlfriend cunnilingus on my couch.”
He was the divine feminine.
“I think she really likes me…”
He was Woman.
*
Trish returned to the base, bags in hand, to hear loud music pounding upstairs. This was not unusual. She had the beginnings of a headache, which was also not unusual. And she planned to go tell the offending person to turn it the fuck down, which was not unusual in the slightest. What was unusual was that Trish knew her number one suspect was out of town on a mission, flying his little magic aeroplane around (the poor town would never know what hit them).
She walked calmly up the stairs, straight up to Mista's bedroom door, and was about to knock loudly when she heard it.
Singing.
“Ooooh, ooohOOOH-OOOH ooooh, oooOOOH-oooh SLUMBER PARTY,” belted a masculine voice over the music. It was not entirely in tune. Trish winced.
Oh, she had to see this.
She quietly twisted the doorknob and cracked open the door.
*
Mista let his muscle memory take over for the remainder of the chorus' choreography, mentally preparing himself for the third verse. It was physically demanding.
“My girl look like Wednesday Addams; Eyes go black when she orgasms.”
He had dropped to the floor (seductively, thank you) and was now crawling on all fours. He was putting his entire soul into this show. His big doe-eyes were half-lidded as he talked dirty to the imaginary camera. He wiggled his ass tantalisingly, just in time for Ashnikko's line about her lover grabbing her butt cheeks. He knew he had cake. He wasn't afraid to show it off.
“Matching pyjama, birthday suits…”
His hands crawled up his torso. Teasing his invisible audience, he tugged up the hem of his crop-top, just high enough to see the bottom of his pecs, but still covering his nipples; he had to leave something to the imagination, after all. He tensed his abs as he shot them a smirk.
Now for his favorite part of the song.
“Spell my name with her tongue like—”
“UH-HAUH,” he moaned, extremely loudly.
Yep. Still got it.
All too soon, the hypnotising song came to an end. He struck his final pose, half-hiding a coy smile behind his hand as the evil cackle faded. The euphoria of a fantastic performance trickled through his body. He grinned widely, then shook himself loose.
The next song came on; although it was a good song, he needed a water break. “Well, time to turn off the music,” he said to himself. He turned around.
He looked at the doorway.
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” smirked Trish, phone held in front of her. “Say hi to the camera, Mr. Pop Star.”
“Noooooooooo,” he cried, head in his hands. “My life is over.”
“I'm once again impressed at your moves—they've even improved since your WAP era. Have you thought about changing careers?”
Mista groaned. “How long were you there?”
“Long enough,” she grinned. “It might take a while to get the image of you shaking your booty out of my head. Especially in that horrifying excuse for shorts you're wearing. Where did you even get cheetah-print hot pants?”
“Hey,” he pouted. “These are silk, thank you very much.”
“I—Guido Mista. You are thirty-eight years old. How have you survived this long without a shred of fashion sense?”
“Like you can talk,” he snarked back.
“Rude?? I'm actually a pop star. Looking good is in my job description.”
Mista looked at her for a moment, face twisted. Then he grew teary. “I know! You've been on tour for so long. I couldn't possibly forget. Come here, you.”
Trish strode towards him, kissed his cheeks, and was subsequently pulled into a big bear hug. She smiled into his chest. “God, it's good to be back. I missed you all,” she sniffed. “Now let me go. You stink.”
“Trish, you know that excuse hasn't worked for twenty years,” he said, though he let loose his grip, putting his hands on her shoulders instead.
“I said it was nostalgic one time.” She rolled her eyes, throwing her hands in the air. “You'll never let it go, will you?”
“Never,” he said. “Anyway, come see what we've done with the place while you were away! Giorno made us spend an entire afternoon last Saturday putting plants in the back garden. We tried to tell him that there wasn't any point, since it's just a safe house, but he wouldn't listen…”
Trish let Mista ramble on, hiding a grin; her distraction tactic had worked. While Mista walked ahead of her down the stairs, she sent a discrete message.
Leone Abbacchio
Trish: 😈
[Attached: 1 Video]
“And while you're here,” yelled Mista over his shoulder, “you promised you'd do my nails!”
“Only because the world didn't do anything to deserve your attempt at a manicure,” she shot back. They both burst into giggles.
It was good to be home.