bartleby said: if different eras of bono were able to come together through some time convergence and have sex with one another, that'd be really really hot.
His shirt is too tight. But that's fine, because that's just the way he likes it, that's how he picked it out. Too tight! And bright green! Larry had looked at him funny and mumbled something to Adam, and even though Adam constantly looks like a smug bastard the snickering was pretty obvious that time.
Edge is okay, because Edge has that huge Village People moustache. Edge is in on the whole thing. Edge looks fucking fantastic inside of a mirrorball.
And although he himself is not a cruiser, it's not generally his style, he does it because of too-tight and bright-green and the mirrorball inside his head, all of the glittery sharp muzik dancing in there in ecstacy.
He's read about the devil, but he never thought the devil might look so good. They spot each other through bright flashing colours of light on the discotheque floor and it's a shock of coming home only with a resonance that coming home never really felt like, because Macphisto has the same broad fucking grin that he's got on below his piss-yellow shades. They stalk each other with all those bodies in between and it's only when the deep bass thump-thump stops for that breath between seconds that they meet, and he brings his hands up and slides them over Macphisto's shiny yellow suit, all lemon-coloured and feeling like bravery.
The devil is here in his hands, and his hands, they are fucking ready.
When he leans in there's a high citrusy smell and he throws his head back and laughs as Macphisto wraps him up in a tight embrace, chest to chest, thigh to thigh and cock to cock. Perfectly trashy in every way as they smile wide and breathe deep and grind against each other, and he leans in and bites into one of Macphisto's horns and scrunches his eyes shut in glee as his teeth scrape into the stuffed fabric. So cheap! So fucking camp!
"I'll tell you what," he rasps, drunk on the smoke and the smell, "I wouldn't change one fucking thing. You're perfect the way you are, you tacky idjit."
Macphisto closes his eyes and his head shakes as he smiles beatifically, pulling away enough to sweep an arcing glittering lemony bow, and when he comes up, Bono pulls him into the mirrorball, hands greedy, and tastes cigarettes and desperate idealism inside his devil mouth.