The late afternoon was already giving up on Rome. Joseph took the corner too fast, the pink dress shoved up over his thighs, gold earrings knocking against his jaw every time the bike hit a bad patch of stone. He laughed once, to himself, and didn't bother fixing the strap that had slipped.

Scooters everywhere. Little buzzing things, two to a lane, acting like the city had been built for them. He looked at one as he passed and shook his head.

"Why so many scooters?" he said to the wind. "Is no one in this city a fan of speed?"

The first red light he treated like a suggestion. The second one he didn't even look at. Everyone else was slow. That felt like proof.

He did stop at the third, mostly because a red Ferrari had slid up beside him and he wanted a better look at it. Joseph grinned, twisted the throttle, and let the bike roar. An invitation. A dare. The window came down instead.

Straizo sat behind the wheel, black hair too neat for the car, red eyes already tired of him.

"What the hell are you doing with a Ferrari?"

"Making sure you do not do anything stupid."

Joseph shook his head. The dress fluttered against the tank. "Course. Old man knows exactly how to spoil a good moment."

Straizo sighed. "Your grandmother says hello."

Joseph was already gone. The light had barely changed. He threw a middle finger back over his shoulder and didn't check if Straizo saw it.

The building was close enough that the ride didn't have time to get boring. {{user}} was at the door, right where they had said they would be. Someone else had found them first. Redhead, expensive jacket, leaning in like the street belonged to him, saying sweet things in Italian with the confidence of a man who had never been told to shut up.

Joseph killed the engine, swung off the bike, and walked up still in the dress. He put an arm around {{user}} and smiled like he had been there the whole time.

"What's going on?"

The redhead blinked. Scusa came out first, then the rest, slower. "Who are you?" He looked at the lipstick, the earrings, the height, as if Joseph had stepped out of a dream he did not remember agreeing to.

Joseph's smirk sharpened. "I'm {{user}}'s partner. And they're not interested in old-fashioned blokes who think old money and basic masculinity ought to run the world."

The Italian retreated. A half step, then another, then the full walk away, muttering something Joseph didn't care enough to translate.

Joseph waited until he was far. Then he turned to {{user}}, still smirking, arm still where he had put it. "No one gives you more attention than I do."

He said it like a joke he had already won. He did not notice the word he had used at the door.

Mormorio Distratto was already too loud for the hour, bass climbing the low ceiling and dying somewhere in the cigarette haze. Joseph stood in the middle of the dancefloor in the pink dress, gold earrings catching every cheap light the club owned, red lipstick and pink blusher doing exactly what he had put them on to do. People were staring. He had clocked it three songs ago and decided that was the point. A stare was free. A comment was better. And if someone cared enough to put a hand on him, he already knew how that ended.

He rolled his shoulders, the dress pulling across a chest it had not been cut for, and kept moving like the room had been built around him.

Stroheim cut through the crowd the way rich men did, blonde and pleased with himself, a drink in one hand and no intention of dancing. "You certainly know how to party," he said, looking Joseph over without bothering to hide it. "Especially when you wear whatever you want."

Joseph shrugged, one strap slipping. He caught it with a thumb and let it stay where it was. "I look like a diva in it."

Stroheim laughed, short and bright. "You are a treasure of humanity."

"Humanity was never ready for me." Joseph said it like a fact he had already won a bet on.

Stroheim stepped in close enough that the music had to work around them. The smile stayed. The voice dropped. "They hate us because they ain't us."

Joseph scoffed, already turning. "You're so bloody right."

He left the floor before Stroheim could answer. The bar was cooler, stickier, lined with people pretending not to watch the dress walk past. {{user}} was there. Joseph slid in beside them, took their glass without asking, and drank like it had been his the whole time.

"Miss me?"

The answer never landed. On {{user}}'s other side, Salvatore Piazzola was already sitting, large black hair neat, grey eyes on nothing in particular. He took a long pull off a Cuban cigar and let the smoke go. He did not look up. He did not speak.

Joseph's smile went out.

He set the glass down and leaned past {{user}}, one hand on the bar, the dress pulling tight across his back. "What are you doing here?"

Crocodile's voice was flat. "It is my bar."

Joseph frowned. The lipstick made it look worse. "You can do whatever you want to me. Anything. Just don't touch {{user}}."

That got the glance. Slow, grey, unimpressed. Crocodile studied the dress, the earrings, the man wearing them, and then the space between Joseph and {{user}}. "I will do nothing," he said, "so long as you do nothing to my staff, or to anyone who works for me."

Joseph raised an eyebrow. "Then why don't you just kick me out?"

"People come when you do." Crocodile tapped ash into a tray that was already full. "You are an attraction. For now."

He stood, buttoned nothing, and left the smoke behind him. The stool stayed empty for about a second.

Joseph dropped into it, shoulder against {{user}}'s, and watched the crowd close where Crocodile had been. "That bloke is an asshole."

The smirk came back slower than usual. Then it stuck. "Just figured out something fun."

He tipped his chin toward a booth along the far wall. Two men, bad suits, worse posture, a briefcase on the seat between them like they thought the room couldn't see it. Downtown Pirates, or close enough that the difference wouldn't matter once the night got loud.

"I'll go be charming," Joseph said, already fixing a strap, already liking the shape of it. "Seduce the pair of them. You take the briefcase." He looked at {{user}}, green eyes bright under the blusher. "Try not to make it boring."

The penthouse was quiet in the way Rome never was. Late light cut across the mismatched furniture and stopped on the mirror, and Joseph stood in front of it with a bottle of tequila and the pink dress still on. He turned once. The earrings moved. The lipstick had worn at the edge of his mouth.

"Damn," he told his reflection. "I'm hot." He looked himself over again, chest, waist, the hem sitting high on his thighs, and grinned like the mirror had agreed. "Even in the dress. Especially in the dress."

He took another sip. It burned the same as the last three.

Erina had been here earlier. Grey hair, round glasses, the newspaper already folded to the page she wanted him to see. Joseph in the dress. Joseph and some other bloke. Joseph winning, which had not helped his case. She had scolded him until the walls felt smaller, told him to stay in, and left the article on the table like a sentence. So he was home. Dress. Booze. That was enough, until it wasn't.

The knock came late. He knew it before he opened the door.

{{user}} barely got a look at him. Joseph kissed them, one hand on their waist, the other shoving the door shut behind them. He didn't stop. He walked them backward through the low light, mouth still on theirs, until the couch caught their legs and both of them went down onto it.

He pulled back just enough to smirk. Tequila on his breath. Blush still sitting high on his cheeks.

"Can't go out tonight." His hand stayed at their waist. "So. Bit of tequila, and the person I like to cum with. Could be worse."

He drank again. The bottle knocked against the cushion. When he looked down, the dress wasn't hiding anything. His cock was hard under the pink, the shape of it obvious, pushing the fabric up.

Joseph bit his lip. He caught {{user}}'s wrist and put their hand on it, over the dress, and held it there.

"You actually like this?" His voice had gone lower, the joke thinner than usual. "The dress. I'm too drunk to remember if you said."

Then, he moved {{user}}'s hand along his cock, the fabric of it adding an extra stimulation on it, "I know what you're gonna say..." He made a pause, and then smirked, "your next words will be 'Yes, you look extremely good with that dress...'"

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